Detective Sam Harlow lit a cigarette, the ember casting a faint glow in the dimly lit room. The year was 1944, and the city of New York was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. The war overseas had cast a long shadow over the city, but the streets had their own battles, their own mysteries.
Harlow's eyes narrowed as he looked through the one-way glass at the lineup of suspects. Five men, all wearing trench coats and fedoras, stood under the harsh light, their backs to him. The height markers on the wall behind them ranged from 5'0" to 6'6", but it wasn't their heights that interested him. It was their stories.
The first man, standing at 5'8", was Johnny "The Weasel" Malone. A small-time crook with a penchant for getting into big-time trouble. He had a rap sheet longer than the Brooklyn Bridge, but nothing that screamed mastermind.
Next to him, at 6'0", was Frankie "The Fish" Marconi. A former boxer turned enforcer for the local mob. Frankie had fists like hammers and a temper to match. He was known for his loyalty, but also for his silence. If he knew something, getting it out of him would be like squeezing blood from a stone.
In the middle, at 5'6", was Benny "The Brain" Russo. A sharp dresser with an even sharper mind. Benny was the kind of guy who could talk his way out of anything, and often did. He was a con artist, a grifter, and a man who always seemed to be one step ahead of the law.
Fourth in line, at 6'2", was Louie "The Lip" Lombardi. Louie was a smooth talker, a charmer with a silver tongue. He was the kind of guy who could sell ice to an Eskimo and make them think they got a good deal. But charm only went so far, and Louie had a habit of getting in over his head.
Finally, at 6'4", was Tony "The Tank" DeLuca. A mountain of a man with a reputation for brute force. Tony was the muscle, the guy you called when you needed something done and didn’t care how messy it got. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes.
Harlow took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his head like a ghost. He had a hunch, a gut feeling that one of these men held the key to the mystery that had been plaguing him for weeks. A string of robberies, each more daring than the last, had left the city on edge. The thieves were smart, organized, and always seemed to be one step ahead of the law.
But Harlow knew that every criminal made a mistake eventually. Every mastermind had a flaw. He just had to find it.
He turned to his partner, Detective Jane Carter, who was studying the lineup with the same intensity. "What do you think, Jane?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Jane didn’t take her eyes off the suspects. "I think we’ve got our work cut out for us, Sam. But one of these guys knows something. We just have to figure out who."
Harlow nodded, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. "Let’s get to work."
As the detectives prepared to interrogate the suspects, the city outside continued its restless dance of light and shadow. In the world of noir, nothing was ever as it seemed, and the truth was always just out of reach. But Harlow and Carter were determined to find it, no matter how deep they had to dig.
Five individuals clad in trench coats and hats are positioned in a dimly illuminated room, confronting a wall marked for measuring height, evoking the imagery of a police lineup. The setting exudes a film noir essence, with a solitary overhead light source projecting stark shadows. This is an original noir piece by Bob Orsillo.
