The Silver Beetle Blues: 1920s Gangster RP

[mauve]

The Silver Beetle was the place to be on a Saturday night, and tonight was no exception. The place was packed wall to wall.

For being a modified basement, the Silver Beetle was quite impressive. A long glass mirror etched in a mixture of art-deco geometric shapes and lotus blossoms hung behind the bar, which was a dark cherry-colored wood. Scattered around the bar were larger tables, each lit by a candle and decorated with a floral arrangement.

The dance floor dominated the center of the room, reaching up to the semi-circular bandstand on the back wall. The pseudo-Egyptian theme prevailed throughout the entire establishment, from the decorations on the bandstand to the large vases holding potted plants that lined either wall. The speakeasy’s owner didn’t particularly care for the decorating scheme, but ever since archaeologists cracked open Tut’s tomb in 1923, the mysterious land of Egypt became a huge moneymaker. And Arthur MacCauley liked making money.

Across the dance floor, directly opposite the bar, were the card tables. Gambling was profitable for Art, so there were always several tables up and running. Booze and betting seemed to go well together. And judging by the crowds, no one seemed to notice that half the games were rigged.

In the corner by the bandstand, at his favorite table, sat Arthur MacCauley himself. He was the owner of the Silver Beetle, and probably one of the most powerful men in Chicago. If this affected his perception of himself, he didn’t show it. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, one hand curled around a martini on the tabletop and the other resting on a silver-headed cane at his side. His fingers tapped against the martini in time to the music, his wedding ring clinking a steady beat on the glass as he did.

“Hallo Art!” Two young patrons pushed past his table on their way to the dance floor, waving at Art as they passed. He flashed a smile and raised a hand in salute.

“Max, Lydia. Good to see you again.” While he was here, Arthur was everybody’s friend. MacCauley the Mob Boss became MacCauley the Charming Host as soon as the Beetle’s doors opened. Only his employees and his rivals knew that other side of him, and quite frankly, he preferred to keep it that way. Better for business.

“The place is packed, MacCauley! How do you do it?” A middle-aged man, leaning rather drunkenly on the bar behind Art, raised his glass in salute. Art let out a laugh.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I must be doin’ something right, huh?” He raised his martini in response, although he didn’t drink. The man at the bar shrugged.

“A bit too much so if you ask me! You’re lookin’ a bit understaffed,” The man was looking at the crowds as he spoke, missing the momentary shadow that fell on Art’s face. It passed as quickly as it came.

“Seems like it, doesn’t it. They’ll have me up there serving drinks next, I promise you,” Art replied with forced joviality. “Nah, it’s nothing serious. Just some bad luck. Two of my waiters are out with the flu.” He nodded towards the bandstand. “My bassist took the season off to go play at some dive in Florida. He’ll be back come hurricane season, I promise you. And Irene, y’know, the brunette who sings and plays ukulele, she ran off with some Romeo to San Francisco.” He shrugged helplessly. “Best of luck to her, I guess. And Sally, my lead singer, has been out sick. Probably caught laryngitis or something.”

The drunk laughed.

“Hey, at least that’s the worst of your problems, right? Thank god for that!” He patted Art on the shoulder and stumbled off into the crowd, whiskey in hand. Art frowned, his mood suddenly ruined.

“The worst of my problems.” he grunted under his breath. He threw back his head and downed the rest of his martini. “Damn drunks.”