In the Arms of Morpheus

The clouds thundered in the distant skies, the morning hues of burgundy and maroon gently kissed the exposed blue. The sun merely signaled the time of 9am. Stepping into the fresh morning sun from the narrowed brick corridor, J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, sniffled at the sight of the bustling crowds of Market square. As a trolley squelched past, spewing its’ enraged ashen debris, a toll booth could be heard in the distance, two dings, a pause, two more dings. The sounds of voices were amplified, ricocheting off the dark stoned buildings, soft water droplets propelling the rocky exteriors. The square was wide, with many off-shooting streets of varying sizes. The larger ones bustled with motor carriages and trollies. Moderately sized pathways, which dipped and curved throughout the region, were jam-packed with bustling foot traffic, Thousands of mysterious faces traveling to mysterious places. The smaller paths were harder to spot, shady characters decorated the mouths to the dangerous alleys. Edward would fall within the shared classification of a shady character, the slight scar on his face often allotted a swift judgment by strangers.

From one of the smaller, darker, dank, alleys, not unsimilar from the Private Eyes; a small boy would emerge. Head to toe the lad would be covered in dirt and grime; his feet revealed mismatched loafers of varying sizes, the left, a black adult men's penny loafer, would be missing the front quarter, however that clearly did not bother the paperboy. Moving up the small frail framed child's extremely patched overalls, perhaps more patchings than original fabric any longer, hung loosely to his body, beneath a thin yellowed a-shirt crested lowly. Sitting atop the filthy child was an old brown newsboy cap, that was easily the cleanest thing about the young merchant. Sitting idly in an old radio-flyer wagon, which rust had claimed a majority of the old frame, was a pile of mixed papers, clearly dug from the trash. “Liveon, y’dog, gotsta buy m’paper today now, ye’hear?” The eager child, no older than nine grinned, all four of his incisors clearly absent from a recent bout of childhood roughhousing.

Liveon would glance at the kid, the scar decorating the right corner of his lips stretching softly as he genuinely grinned. In the distance a toll booth would chime, two dings, a pause, two more dings. “Y’lil thief, what do you want? Wordtells y’spent the las’dime on sweets. Yer’ an overpriced newsman. Here.” From within his slacks, the man’s firm tough hands would pull out a silver dime. The coin would flip through the air, being caught by the small boy's frail hand. A large pigeon would screech above as the toothless child beamed up at the chiseled Private Eye. Still smiling at the child Liveon would pivot on his heel, tapping his fedora with a smooth melodic click of his cheek. The boy would just watch as the coated man flowed into the aggressive whirlwind of marching men and women about their workday. Like a toiling river, the darker clad business associates would swirl around the grizzled detective, the newsboy would continue about hollering his self-promotions; the paper in his hand dated a week back.

The flow was like a wild rapid. Turning off the main path would be more challenging than mans’ first flight. Though instead of bubbling waters the stream was a mess of cloth, leathers, and cotton, the screams of water replaced by the chatter of man, yelling of salesmen, and bellows of motorcades. In the distance, a toll booth would chime, twice pinged, a pause, twice pinged. A flock of pigeons harvested amongst the crowds of men, screaming in greed as they plummeted for any scrap of potential food. The pavement was caked with trash; mostly a plaster of mud and old newspapers hid the bricked and paved paths almost indistinguishably. J. Edward Liveon, the stoic Private Eye, would keep himself positioned in a constant defensive stride. Hands gently protected his weapons belt, his sharp dark eyes would swiftly profile and register every person he passed near, close enough to be a potential threat. Sweat beaded upon his brow, his gnarled lips would be hard-pressed, the color being pressed out from them only amplifying the intimidating scar. South dock was a treck across the city, however, the trollies heading southbound did not begin for well after twelve more blocks; any trolley passing would be steaming north, its rails sparking and the smog flogging its way forth to contribute to the slowly growing grey hue that would encircle the city by noon.

With a swift turn, Edward would dart off the main walking route down a grim alleyway. Aluminum trash cans would litter the sides and large rodents scurried out of the man's path. Smooth, seamless steps would easily predict a clear path through the entirety of the alleyway. Each step would be one of precision avoiding animals, feces, and piles of trashy debris. As the alley went deeper between two large brick buildings the weakening sun would slowly fade from show. Even at high noon, the central point of this alley was as dark as night. Shadows shifted as Liveon turned corner after corner, the man's dark eyes alight with intelligence as he flamed his path through the damp untaken path. Coming up to a split path Edward would stop, the first signs of hesitation piercing his, previously steadfast, gaze. To the left sat an apparent dead end, a large iron door displayed a perverse image of a neon woman, her left leg would be shifting from one neon bar to another to appear as if it was swaying. To the right were the sounds of a hyper city street; trollies squelched, men spoke, and the toll booths chimed off their sounds, two dings, a pause, two more dings.

A clearly agitated sigh would pass the man's charmed lips. With muster, J. Edward Liveon would turn left. Marching steadfastly into the iron door, darkness and silence would fill the musty air. The previous sounds of a muffled city and damp corridor were now long gone. After several seconds of standing in a room, devoid of anything, a small light would flash open. In what was seemingly a wall a small hole, large enough for an electric torch and a set of eyes would peer into the darkness. The silence would be disrupted by the clear sounds of synthetic music and women giggling. A weasel-like voice would speak over the wafting sounds of lust. “Liveon, see’t cha’got a motion for my emotions dig? Comin’to partay or hit the south way?”

Edward would scowl back at the flashlight. The current synthetic song being a rather rapid beat, one that would only amplify Liveon’s irritation, through gritted teeth the morally correct Private Eye would respond; a stasis of clear disgust on his tone. “Look y’Weasel faced prick. I don’ take place in your depravity. Open the side paths. I’ain’t wasting more time on Market.”

Weasel would snicker, bright green eyes showing clear the sneer of amusement the grotesque disembodied man had. The beat would slowly change as an electronic voice began repeating a well-abused narcotic in the city. “Tsh’shame mista. Te’gals real’y crave dark’n’gloomy.” The clogged nose voice would jeer in response. Slowly a loud clunk would be heard as a path to the right of the eyespot opened slowly. The darkroom creaked as the wood shifted under the hidden door. A very poorly lit stairwell spiraled down. Soft neon lights illuminated the steps, nothing more. However, speakers, hidden amongst the corners and in the dark spots out of sight, blared heavy synthetic music. Shaking off a slight shudder, J. Edward Liveon, would give a telling glare at Weasel before descending into the narrow, dark, and deafening stairwell.

The beat would be consistent, for what felt like hours Edward circled the steps going deeper and deeper into the earth. The constant synthetic sound of ‘ba-boom ba-boom ba-boom’ repeated on loop. Occasionally a synthetic female voice would pop in breaking the repetition to simply state “girl.” The steps were disgusting. Broken needles, used contraceptives, and old pipes littered the black stone, dusting in and around was of course the occasional burnt-out cigarette. The stairwell reeked of month-old hooch and stale smoke. On occasion a small doorway would pop up on one of the curves, oftentimes sounds of deprecatory actions would moan through the thin wood. After a seeming eternity and a half of the repeating spiral, beat, voice, and occasional moans of sin, Edward would come to a small, dimly lit landing. The music dwindling out behind him as the stairs ended.

Spanning out in front of J. Edward Liveon would be a hollowed-out tunnel, train tracks whispering dead tales from their forgotten places. Tunnels spiraled out in all directions. Graffiti decorated the walls, barrel fires illuminated shadows in the gloom. The clearing couldn’t have been more than 200 yards, with less than 6 fires burning. Around each small fire was a crowd of poorly dressed people. The lower class of the city, forgotten, beaten, and left to suffer in darkness. The scent only worsened, the stale smell of alcohol collided violently with the clear scent of human feces; atop that the smell of blood radiated in the air, the copper tint adding the final flare of ruin to the scene.

Edward’s face would twist in disgust, not at the poor-souls but at the situation, their lives had been forced to succumb to. The chiseled man would softly clear his throat, alerting the crowds to his presence; the normally soft-placed steps of precision clopped out as the well-dressed man began heading towards a southern-facing tunnel. Eyes of the deprived glanced anxiously around as the Private Eye flexed his Rolex and quality trench coat.

The crowds would part ways, for they knew the man who had come down there that day. They knew of the darkness that dwelled within him. The previously kind man on the surface above no longer existed. In the depths of darkness dwelled the demon that the underground knew Liveon as. Unlike the decorated police officers of the city, J. Edward Liveon, showed no mercy to those who challenged him. The dark eyes would glance at several different stains on the walls and floors, their caramel gaze showing clear recognition from what must’ve been the cause of them. The dark man would be unchallenged as he passed through the large abyss of shame. The tracks heading south would be ghastly, however, a single-person handcar would sit deprived of an occupant.

The wind would sway past Edward, engulfing his coat in a billowed rage of prowess. The handcar would squeak with each effortless pump, J. Edward Liveon, pressed into it. A lack of light would encompass everything, beyond the occasional spark of the metal handcar clashing with the old rusty rails, the tunnel was desolate, a void that swallowed Edward whole. The scent of the lost would fade quickly, be it thanks to the speed in which the handcar had, to the gain in distance, or to the wind; which kept the air flushed to Liveon’s face. The tracks would squeak on for seemingly twenty minutes, the rough journey being bountifully smoother than the steps leading up to it.

With a cry of agony, the handcar would come to a sudden stop. A single glowing lantern, dwindling on the last of its oiled life, would hang adjacent rusted handles, which pulled themselves together by what appeared to be sheer force of will to make a truly ancient ladder. Murky green liquid dripped down support beams, puddling in a depthless puddle at the very base of the ladder. The rusted monstrosity of a by-gone era peered endlessly from above, the shadowed lantern barely stretching ten feet into the dark abyss above. Edward would shuffle his shoulders, stretching only ever so slightly, before grasping the rusty iron handles.

Ascension, elevation, upward scaling, a renewal of axis. The ladder would carry J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, forward for tens of minutes. A soft beat would form as he climbed. Hand, foot, hand, foot. Each duo would clink twice; right side, clink-clink, slight pause, left side, clink-clink. The Penny Loafers shifting with every motion, clearly not created for such strenuous activity. Eventually, the darkness would begin to break away to the soft orange hue of an electric lamp. Climbing up through an exposed hole in the floorboards of a building Liveon would slowly expose himself to the non-existent occupants of the abode.

The room was gentle in its humbleness. A single door sat nestled ever so sinisterly in the far-most left corner, a mere 10 steps away. A wooden stool, circular and solid, sat in the right corner, beneath it happened to be a box full of rolled-up reading materials. Beyond that was the humble floor lamp and the hole in the ground, a small wooden cover sat propped to the wall, not serving its only true purpose of preventing unwelcome guests. With little effort Edward would glide across the room, positioning himself at the door. Listening through the thin abstract wood, Liveon would hear the heavy plodding of an approaching man.

The door would slowly open, in the darkness from outside a burly man would walk in, a magazine with a rather revealing woman holding the gruff man's attention. A single cigar fumed from large chapped lips. Jean overalls were the only thing that covered his body, the orange lamp danced amongst his shaved head. With a soft thud, the man's body would smack to the floor. Rolling his shoulders Edward would shuffle the body into a corner, laying the incapacitated man gently on the humble stool as if he fell asleep on guard.

Through the same sinister door, Edward would slink his way forth. Gently ascending steps into a slightly larger room. The greyness from the storm and smog which consistently circled the city illuminated through to large glass-paned windows. A small table with a cup of coffee sat center placed in the room, and to the left wall, a small coffee bar hosted an array of coffee pots and cups. A door, propped open, led out into a large warehouse. A second door affectionately hugged the windows, on it large red letters spelled out ‘EXIT.’ Edward would turn right heading outside.

Rain; soft, gentle, caressing, the docks always had rain. Especially the gloomy south docks. A single phone booth sat across a stretched-out lot. Motorcars spotted the cement but beyond that, the rain held precedent as the only other potentially sentient entity outside. Gliding seamlessly across the lot, J. Edward Liveon, Private eye, would open the phone booth. The Booth would chime twice at the door being opened and again chime twice at the door being closed. Crouching Edward would remove one of the elegantly placed pennies in his loafers and enter it into the payphone. The spinning dial would receive a number that Edward’s hands had clearly spun an uncountable amount of times before. Clearing his throat, Edward would lift the phone to his ear, hearing it ring on a double offbeat twice before being answered.

Speaking with the voice of an angel, Sallie could be mustered stating the rehearsed answering line that she had a thousand times prior. Liveon would wait for her to finish before responding, “Sallie, dear, listen now. I’m at south dock, the Moriad’boys had a’man on guard’see. Never been like that prior’hun. I need you to get m’profile journal, find the information for the front they named the’business here; and get me a distraction. Something big, lie if’ye’gotta. Thanks’ y’minx.” Edward wouldn’t wait for a response from Sallie regarding the request. His face registered an unprecedented level of trust, as he hung up the phone.

The rain fell in sheets, soft, muting, existent in all forms of reality. Moisture pooled on the man's brow and caught itself in the whiskers of his five o’clock shadow. Looming across from the booth the large dark warehouse spoke of deeds better left buried, as a shiver sprawled its way across Liveon’s spine. The soft pink scar, which forced a permanent smirk on the chiseled face, would twitch ever so slightly. Not only did the spectral of the present haunt him, but the ghosts of his past were also alive and well within those tin walls.

The soft double ding of the phone booth chiming its song, twice for when the door opened, twice for when the door closed; as J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, strolled towards the sprawling compound.