Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in “The Ghosts Beneath the Streets”
Nova Loncastre, 1924
“Park it,” Harvey Turpin said, his voice a gravelly rasp that carried the weight of bad nights and worse mornings. The words slithered out slowly. Deliberate, like a predator savouring the moment before the kill.
Our favourite 1920s PI, living by his mantra: “Drinking, investigating, and solving. Rinse and repeat,” is in a terrible mood. Why? As the omniscient narrator, I know the overall picture, but Harvey, the man he cornered, you and I’ll uncover the details together. Writing is fun! You can check out more of Harvey’s stories at GiovaniCesconetto.substack.com.
The man froze, his breath hitching like a car stalling on a cold morning. Harvey didn’t need to move a muscle; the glint of the pistol resting easy in his hand said everything that needed saying.
“Look, I don’t have much time. Your fault,” Harvey said, sliding the empty pistol back into his holster.
Definition of an empty threat, eh?
“It started on Christmas Eve.” Harvey leaned back in his chair.
Brace yourselves. This flashback will be similar to “Beneath the Gas Mask.”
I was at my office, minding my business, when the door swung open without a knock. The Rat, Runaway Totti, Ironclad, Needle, and Ledger. The five bosses crowd my office like cockroaches looking for crumbs. Their faces were as sour as a glass of spoiled rye. But that was expected, given the recent news and developments, eh?
Harvey is talking about Judge Kearns.
“Well, well. I liked you better when you were three.” My gaze zeroed in on Totti. “And look at you—made it up here without gasping for air. Guess running’s done wonders for your lungs, eh?”
The words hit like a punch. The corners of Ironclad’s mouth twitched. He grabbed Totti by the shoulders, shaking him like a bad habit. “Relax, Totti. We’re all friends here, right?” Ironclad’s voice was smooth, but his grin held a wolf’s edge. “And Harvey’s got a point—running is good for you.”
I sipped my drink. Totti, the once-untouchable lieutenant of Bryan Reynolds, was now a punchline. After his infamous flight, the power vacuum swallowed the whole Reynolds operation. Needle and Ledger had carved up what was left, and Totti slunk back later, brokering an uneasy truce.
Totti began running in the first story I wrote in this universe, “Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator.” And I thought he’d never return. Things change.
Ironclad laid out the situation. “The Judge kept the city safe,” he rumbled, his voice as heavy as a whiskey barrel. “He punished the right kind of bad and let the rest of us work. A good man.”
I nodded slightly. Maybe your definition of a “good man” wouldn’t include Judge Kearns. But he kept the wolves off the stoop and the city in one piece. With him gone, the bosses didn’t like where things were headed. They didn’t belong on the frontlines of war—they belonged in the shadows, pulling strings.
“Harvey, we got a problem. Kearns… he set things up so we could keep our hands clean. The money, the books—none of it ever came back to us. We didn’t have to worry about auditors or badges sniffing around. All because of Charles and Ernie Harlow.”
Ernie Harlow. A name that didn’t ring a bell, and I pride myself on knowing every player in Nova Loncastre worth their salt.
“Harlow’s gone,” Ironclad said. “Vanished after Kearns. At first, we thought he was hiding. Maybe the judge told him to go dark if anything happened. But it’s been too long. Dead drops ain’t been touched. No pickups. No messages. Just silence. And now…” He hesitated, a rare crack in his armour. “We’re thinking he ran. With everything.”
“Harvey,” Ironclad continued. “We need to find Harlow. We need to find our money. But this can’t blow back on us. You’re the only one who can handle this without dragging in too much heat.”
That much was true. Without Kearns, they’d be jailed and prosecuted. They needed a scalpel, not a hammer.
That’s how I found myself hunting for a ghost: Ernie Harlow. The problem was, how do you track down a ghost?
Patience. And care.
I started at Kearns’ mansion and office, not expecting much. Detectives had already picked through his life and work, leaving nothing to help me get closer to Harlow. Back to square one.
“How do you find someone only a handful of people knew existed?” I asked again.
The answer was simple: you stop chasing ghosts and go for what’s real. Kearns and Harlow were gone, but the places were still there.
I worked every dead drop the bosses showed me, moving from alleyways to basements, waiting for anything to happen. The air around those places was as stale as old bread. No one came.
Still, I kept watching. Kearns was too sharp to let Harlow handle the pickups personally; that’d be inviting trouble. No, it had to be a network. I imagined the setup: decoys, misdirection, layers of insulation to keep anyone from following the money back to Harlow.
It made sense. It had to make sense.
Except, nobody showed up. I watched the drops for days, expecting at least one curious fool. But the streets were empty, and the wind howled as if it knew more than I did. Whatever system Kearns and Harlow had fell apart when the Judge hit the floor.
I was back to square one, staring at the same question, but only this time, the answer felt farther away than ever.
But the gears started turning. You can’t trust people. Someone would peak, someone would tell when squeezed; three keep a secret when two are dead. If you can’t trust people, and if nothing is moving topside, maybe the game is being played by only one person. Below.
Bootleggers loved their tunnels—dark, winding veins beneath the city, built for moving hooch where no cop or rival could follow. But the tunnels here were too neat—workmanship that didn’t scream “underworld.”
It hit me like a slap: the bosses didn’t build these tunnels; the city did. They were once rail lines from Nova Loncastre’s ambitious past. When Prohibition hit, the city adapted—booze became a profitable commodity. Someone had the idea to repurpose them, turning them into arteries for the bosses’ operations while keeping everything quiet and controlled.
And Kearns? He wasn’t just along for the ride. Keeping the city quiet and safe by having his fingers all over this. I’d bet my last bottle of moonshine he helped carve out these routes, deciding who got what and where. Playing the bosses off each other while they thought they were running the show. They weren’t pulling the strings—they were the puppets. Useful idiots in a game Kearns designed.
But that raised the question: if Kearns knew the tunnels so well, who’s to say he didn’t keep a few secrets of his own? Private passages, hidden routes only he and his inner circle knew about. A place to stash a ghost.
I put my theory to the test. I hit one of the dead drops again, but this time, I didn’t watch from the shadows. I looked below. And wouldn’t you know it? A hatch.
Now, here we are. I’ve spent hours trudging through these tunnels, chasing shadows and whispers. The bosses gave me a week to find Harlow. Told me if I came up empty, I’d be the next body swinging in the wind. Money makes them impatient. Desperate. Deadly.
Harvey’s foul mood stems from the pressure to find Harlow and threats from the bosses. Hours spent walking the tunnels only worsened his mood. Flashback is over. Back to the present.
“Lucky for both of us, I don’t plan on dying. So let’s get moving, Harlow.”
Harlow’s smile started slow, tugging at the corners of his lips like a gambler holding a winning hand. Then it broke wide, spilling into chuckles that swelled into full-throated laughter.
Harvey’s hand tightened on the grip of his gun on the holster, his knuckles pale as bone. He’d seen men laugh in the face of death before. But this wasn’t that. Harlow’s laughter was bright and clean. The kind you’d expect to hear from a kid chasing a kite, not a man with the shadow of five bosses looming over him.
It took Harlow a full minute to choke it down. “How can someone so sharp be so blind?” he asked. “How does the great Harvey Turpin miss the punchline when it’s staring him in the face?”
Harvey hated the idea that Harlow knew something he didn’t.
The gun came up. “Talk.”
The grin faded from Harlow’s face, but the spark in his eyes didn’t die. “You never wondered why they need the money by tonight?”
“The date doesn’t mean anything.” Harvey’s words came out hard, deliberate.
Harlow’s smile returned, smaller but sharper. “Maybe you’re not as clever as Kearns thought.”
The barrel pressed into Harlow’s chest. “I’m done with riddles. Talk.”
“You solved Kearns’ murder, didn’t you? Found out that Mayor Langston and Crown Counsel Al Hawthorne are in it together because Al needs the spotlight?”
Harvey nodded.
“But you didn’t wonder why the Premier pulled out of the premiership race, did you? He had the Maple Manor in sight, and the lame duck sitting there wouldn’t stand a chance against him. Why quit?”
The words hit Harvey like a gut punch. After it was over, Harvey never considered a case: drinking, investigating, and solving. Rinse and repeat.
“Stop stalling. Start talking.”
“Think, Harvey.”
“The Premier knows something,” Harvey muttered.
“And Kearns got too close,” Harlow replied.
“Do you know what it is?”
“Why do you think the bosses are eager to see me? They need their money back, Harvey. Tonight.” Harlow chuckled. “The bosses need the money because they’re going legit, Harvey.”
The words hit like a body blow, but Harvey didn’t flinch. The pieces began to fall into place. “The Prime Minister’s ending Prohibition. Winning reelection with it.”
“Bingo!”
“Montague got wind of it. That’s why he pulled out of the premiership race. He doesn’t have a chance. So he stays put, which forces Al’s hands. He has to make a deal with Langston, which isn’t going anywhere because the premier isn’t going anywhere. They off Kearns, who was too much of the old guard, and set Al as the new Judge. Meanwhile, they keep the bosses in line by promising them a piece of the future—legal liquor, real estate, and a monopoly before anyone else can get their ducks in a row. But they need the money to make the buy. Stock the warehouse. Clean up the joints. Turn the speakeasies into soda fountains and jazz clubs. Family-friendly fronts for the same old racket.”
“You’re sharper than you look, Harvey,” Harlow said, his tone dripping with admiration.
“But Langston and Al gave them a deadline, and I’m willing to bet the deadline ends tomorrow. If you knew all that, why didn’t you run with the money?”
“And go where? You don’t outrun a man like Ironclad.”
Harvey wasn’t buying it. “What about Kearns? I get not wanting a gang war, but he could’ve put the fear of God into them. Why let them kill him?”
A silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating. Then, it clicked.
“They were going to kill him anyway,” Harvey said slowly, the realization twisting his gut. “The end of Prohibition means the end of the old Nova Loncastre. Kearns was the old guard. They’re cleaning the house.”
“Bingo.”
“O’Keeffe!”
Harlow watched Harvey with pity. “You’re wasting your breath. You think the bosses sent you after me just because of the money? Nah. They needed you out of the way. The city’s cops are stretched thin—holiday shifts, crowds, and drunks filling the streets. Your pal was an easy mark with you out of the way.”
Harvey’s heart thudded like a war drum. O’Keeffe had been his partner back in the day, the one cop he could trust. His first instinct was to bolt—find the chief, warn him. But Harlow’s words hung in the air, cold and heavy. It was too late for O’Keeffe. He was likely already gone. And Harvey? He wasn’t far behind on the hit list.
The realization burned worse than the moonshine in his flask. Kearns. O’Keeffe. Him—relics of an era being buried by the new guard.
“Kearns told you to warn me.”
Harlow nodded. “He knew what was coming. Knew they’d snuff him out the moment he got too close. So he set the pieces on the board, hoping someone would finish the game.”
“He gave his life for the city.”
“Yeah,” Harlow said. “But not in the way you’d think. Kearns knew Nova Loncastre didn’t need him or O’Keefe, but Harvey Turpin.”
Harvey leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Kearns. O’Keeffe. Nova Loncastre itself. All gone or going, swallowed by the shifting tides of power. He pulled his flask from his coat and took a long pull.
“If O’Keeffe had gone after the Langston and Al because of Kearns, would’ve made a difference?”
Harlow exhaled. “Not a damn bit. Cases like the death of a judge in the hands of the mayor and the crown counsel don’t break wide open overnight. Kearns knew it’d take time to build something airtight. O’Keeffe didn’t have that kind of time. None of us do.”
Harvey took another sip, then another.
Harlow shifted in his feet, his jaw tightening with unease. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped the flask again, his sips turning slower and lazier.
“Kearns told me you’d solve the case. Said you’d find a way to save both our necks. But all I see is you sitting there, drinking yourself into oblivion. You giving up, Harvey?”
Harvey chuckled, low and rough, a sound like gravel under boots. “Kearns didn’t tell you about me, did he?”
Harlow shook his head.
“Drinking, investigating, and solving. Rinse and repeat.” Harvey said. “That’s the routine. This time’s no different. I found you, cracked the case, uncovered a plot so big it makes us all look small. Now, I’m just mourning. Mourning the end of the job, the end of two good men, and the end of this city.”
Harlow paced the room, his frustration boiling over. “And what? You’re just gonna sit here while the bosses hunt us down?”
Harvey grinned a lopsided thing that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You think we’re safe here?” Harlow asked.
“They’ve been after you since November and didn’t find you. One more day won’t make a lick of difference, especially now that they think I’m running the show. Tomorrow, I’ll start saving our asses.”
Drinking, investigating, and solving.
Rinse and repeat.
My initial idea was to have Harvey on the run from Nova Loncastre, but as I wrote, I realized he’d never flee. He’d stay and fight—after a drink, of course! Harvey Turpin will return in 2025!