The Van Allen Affair: A Metro City Noir Story (M+/M+)
Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2026 5:24 pm
So I finally decided to start posting my noir story. It's set in my normal universe and has connections to TUG that will be revealed in that story's next arc. The character images are AI. Just wanted to get that out in the open in case it bothers people.
Chapter 1: A Real Classy Dame
Metro City. Armpit of America. This place will chew you up and spit you out if you let it. I’ve seen many a bright-eyed Midwesterner venture here seeking fun and fortune and end up going home both broke and broken. Or earn themselves a one-way trip to the bottom of the Tuscarora River. But this is MY city. My home. And I fight for it with everything I got. Even when that means going against the grain. I’ve spent more than a few nights in handcuffs as a “guest” of the city brass. But I’ve also helped them out when they needed it. That’s just how it is in this cesspit.
Crime is all around. From robber barons in boardrooms to punks with knives in the alleys who’d slit their own grandma’s throats for a nickel. But they got one thing in common: an enemy. And that’s me. I’ve been in more scrapes than I care to count. Fisticuffs, blackjacks, even my heater when I need it. I’ve come out on top and I’ve gotten my ass kicked. Had my fair share of escapes from being tied to posts while the building burned down around me. Comes with the job. Comes with the territory. This city is a paltry whore sometimes. She’ll blow on your dice for luck, then laugh and walk away while you’re bleeding out in the street. But someone’s gotta keep her safe. Even against all her own best efforts. And that someone is me.
Who am I? Well sit down, tough guy, and I’ll tell ya. The name’s Mickey O’Rourke. Born in the Gilded Year of 1898. Grandparents came over as kids during the Famine in ’51 from County Cork and settled in to the old Waterford neighborhood by the river. Yeah, the slums. You wanna make somethin’ of it? I was born on my grandma’s kitchen table in our rat trap apartment on Riverfront Drive. Went to school at Sacred Heart, but barely graduated. The nuns said I had a sharp mind, and I was a terror with a football in my hand, but my real education came from the streets. Nothin’ went down in this town without me knowin’ about it. From the time I was in knickers, I had my thumb on the pulse of this godforsaken city. But then Uncle Sam called and I went “Over There.”
Served two years in France and Belgium. Did some time in the trenches. And saw things nobody should see. But mostly I was all over the place. I served as a medic, an MP… hell, I even worked for Intelligence here and there. When they say war is hell, that don’t even cover the half of it. Still got a bit of shrapnel in my leg, ya know. Aches like a bitch when it rains, but that ain’t nothin’ a fifth of scotch can’t fix. Became a cop for a while when I came back Stateside, but that didn’t last too long. The top brass and I didn’t see eye to eye. We still don’t, to tell ya the truth. I don’t trust the higher-ups any further than I can throw ‘em. Still keep in touch with some of the flatfoots, though. It’s helpful in my line of work.
And what’s my line of work, ya ask? Well, I find things. I find out if Mr. Lewis is really working late in the office or if he’s giving another kind of “business” to his secretary. All for the benefit of long-suffering Mrs. Lewis who has an ironclad prenup. I find out why a couple of zeroes are missing from the books at that high-end department store on Hamilton Street and why the manager’s wife has been seen in a new mink. I find things people lost and would be embarrassed if someone else happened to find. I find people… especially when they don’t wanna be found. Got an office on Riverfront. Above the shoemaker. Ya need something found, ya come to me.
Sometimes the work is real easy. Sit in the car and watch people’s movements. Take a few pictures. Transform those pictures into a nice payday. Sometimes the work is not so easy. Grease a few palms with hooch or green paper. A little casual B&E to “liberate” papers that so-and-so doesn’t want the public seeing. Sometimes the work is damn hard. Bust a few heads. Dodge a few bullets. Get the doctor who owes me a favor to set my broken nose again. But it’s what I do. This city needs me. To fight for the little guy who doesn’t have any other place to turn. I end up doing more work for free than I like to admit, but it’s work that needs doing. For the people. MY people.
And not every job is straightforward. It’s rare when they are, to tell ya the truth. And sometimes what you think is just a routine caper turns out to be big enough to shake the whole damn city.
---
It was late and I was in my office alone. Old Agnes who answers the phones had gone home hours ago. I had just gotten my prints back from Irving at the all-night photo store down the street and was poring over the glossy 8x10s. But these weren’t headshots from some wannabe starlet, no sir. I poured myself another fifth of good ole JD and got to looking.
I gotta hand it to the old geezer. He was careful. Always meeting her in secluded places and driving around in a car with windows so tinted it was like looking into the Abyss itself. It was tough to get close enough to snap the evidence. I don’t particularly enjoy sitting on tree branches in secluded parks at 2am, but hey, whatever gets the job done. And these babies were slamdunks for my client. A park bench by the river (supposedly) far from prying eyes. A rich old businessman. A leggy blonde with jugs that just didn’t stop. His hand on her… Her hand down his… a kiss here, a nibble there. And then the handcuffs and riding crop came out. Yeah, his soon-to-be ex-wife is gonna be a very rich woman after these puppies get into her hands.
I downed the glass, a little disgusted with myself. I was no fan of cheaters (although after seeing the blonde the guy in me couldn’t help but commiserate a little), but jobs like this felt like a waste of my talents. Sure, they kept the lights on and paid my tab at Paddy’s, but is this the kind of thing I wanted to be doing? The detective equivalent of getting cats out of trees? I poured myself another glass with a labored sigh. That’s when she came in.
She stood in the doorway like the ghost of Cleopatra. Regal. Haughty. And dripping with class. The lowbrow interior of the place must have made her want to wretch, but to her credit she kept it together. The light from my desk lamp cast shadows over her face. Her baby blues sparkled in the small strip of light that passed over them as I stood up.
“Are you Mickey O’Rourke?” she asked, her voice breathy and sultry. I was getting more than a little hot under the collar. For a moment I almost thought it was my birthday. But then I realized she was here on business.
“That I am,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Office closes at six but I’m not one to refuse a lady caller. You look like you’ve got problems that need solving.”
“Indeed I do,” she said, taking a few deliberate steps into the room. “And word is you’re the best.”
I tipped my fedora slightly and smirked. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I do have a reputation to get things done for my clients. Have a seat, ma’am.” I walked around the desk and pulled the chair out for her like a proper gentleman. I got a whiff of her perfume as she glided past me like she was moving in slow motion. Lilacs. And VERY expensive. As she sat, I quickly collected the photos that were spread out on my desk. No need for a lady to be seeing that. Her eyes caught the photos for an instant and she demurely turned her head as I slid them into a folder. A real classy dame, she was.
I walked back around my desk and sat down. “So what seems to be troubling your pretty little head, dollface?” I asked. I picked up the pack of cigarettes from the desk and offered her one before popping one between my own lips. She took it in her slender fingers and held it out, waiting for me to light it. The lighter flame flickered in the semi-dark of the office, casting dancing shadows across both our faces, as I lit us both up. You could cut the sexual tension with a knife.
“My name is Darla Van Allen…” she said.
“…of the Lexington Street Van Allens?” I asked, finishing her sentence. “Your family owns the railroad lines, doesn’t it? Builds all those libraries and museums under WPA contracts?”
“Yes, that’s us,” she said with a sultry chuckle, apparently impressed I kept up on current events. Her family was richer than Midas. The Depression was hitting everyone pretty hard, but some people were hit less hard than others, it seemed.
“So what kind of problem would trouble a golden bird like you so much that you’d come all the way to the slums in the dead of night to seek out a jabroni like me?” I asked, taking a long and deliberate drag.
“It’s my brother,” she said. Her beaded purse jangled as she took out a photo slid it across the desk at me. “Reginald Van Allen, but everybody calls him Reggie.” I picked up the photo. The smiling young man displayed was the kind that mugs like me took an instant dislike to. Cocky. Smarmy. Never worked a day in his life. He was pictured at some big society party, gulping down hooch like Prohibition didn’t just end a few months ago. If I had to wager a bet, I’d say this snapshot was taken before the big repeal anyway.
“What about him?” I asked, sliding the photo back to her.
“He’s… missing,” she said, a hint of genuine concern peeping through her composed tone and visage. “It’s been a few days now.”
“Heh,” I said, taking a gulp of my whiskey. “Probably out on some bender with his rich buddies. You want me to check the cathouses and speakeasies down by the docks? I know them all pretty well.”
My brusqueness seemed to ruffle her a little. I realize I said the wrong thing but you can’t unsay what you said. Me and my big mouth. Always getting me into trouble. Thankfully, she recovered quickly.
“That’s exactly what the police said,” she replied, putting the photo back in her purse. “But I checked with his friends and none of them have seen him, either. And when he does go on one of his… excursions, he’s always back by now. Last time I spoke to him was three nights ago.”
“Three nights, eh?” I said. “Well that’s a bit long even for the wildest of party boys.” I narrow my eyes, taking another sip of my whiskey. “Has… anyone made contact?”
“No,” she said. “And that’s what worries me.”
I took a long drag off my cigarette, considering my options. Rich family. Desperate. Definitely a good payday at the end. Beautiful dame in her moment of need. I’m far from a white knight, but I always had a soft spot for people in a bind. Especially beautiful ones with legs that just won’t quit. But… from what I heard from her, things don’t sound too promising for Junior. Friends don’t know where he is AND no ransom call? My instincts told me he was at the bottom of the river. For a moment I considered telling her that. But no. I can tell she’s genuinely concerned. No sense in scaring her… yet. And if I refuse the case she’ll just find someone else to take it up.
“All right, gorgeous,” I said. “I’ll take your case. But you gotta be prepared if what I find out isn’t pleasant.”
She looked at her shoes for a moment. “I know,” she said softly. “But I’m hoping that it won’t come to that and that you’ll find him safe and sound.”
“Heh,” I said, finishing my whiskey. “Me, too.”
“And don’t worry about the fee,” she said. “I’m not here to negotiate. I’ll pay whatever you charge, no questions asked. I just want my brother back.”
Now THAT was interesting. Her family was definitely good for it, too.
“He’s my baby brother,” she said with a sigh. “He’s totally reckless and drives me crazy, but I love him. I always said his drinking and gambling were going to get him into trouble one day, but he always laughed me off. Please find him.”
She reached out and touched my hand gently. “If you bring him back in one piece, I have other ways of showing my gratitude besides money…” she said, her words trailing off with unspoken meaning.
“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said with a sardonic chuckle. “I gotta find the little bastard first. You got a list of places he likes to hang out? People he talks to?”
“Right here,” she said, retrieving some folded papers from her purse. I took them and she daintily extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray on my desk. I was up before she was, pulling out her chair like a slightly rumpled Casanova. “If you find anything, my number is in those papers. Just say who you are and they’ll patch you right through to me.”
I took her by the hand and walked her out of the office, down the stairs and into the darkened street. Her driver was waiting for her at the curb by a car that cost more than most folks around here made in two years. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” I said, turning on the charm for the benefit of the driver… and who he might tell. “I always come through for my clients. I’ll find your missing… brooch. Don’t fret that pretty head of yours.”
She looked into my eyes and gave a demure, coy smile. The corners of my lips curled up into a tiny smirk that only we could see. She said nothing else, just patted my hand and climbed into the car. The driver closed the door, got in the front, and drove off.
“Mickey Boy,” I said to no one. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Coming Soon: Chapter 2 – My Kind of People
Chapter 1: A Real Classy Dame
Metro City. Armpit of America. This place will chew you up and spit you out if you let it. I’ve seen many a bright-eyed Midwesterner venture here seeking fun and fortune and end up going home both broke and broken. Or earn themselves a one-way trip to the bottom of the Tuscarora River. But this is MY city. My home. And I fight for it with everything I got. Even when that means going against the grain. I’ve spent more than a few nights in handcuffs as a “guest” of the city brass. But I’ve also helped them out when they needed it. That’s just how it is in this cesspit.
Crime is all around. From robber barons in boardrooms to punks with knives in the alleys who’d slit their own grandma’s throats for a nickel. But they got one thing in common: an enemy. And that’s me. I’ve been in more scrapes than I care to count. Fisticuffs, blackjacks, even my heater when I need it. I’ve come out on top and I’ve gotten my ass kicked. Had my fair share of escapes from being tied to posts while the building burned down around me. Comes with the job. Comes with the territory. This city is a paltry whore sometimes. She’ll blow on your dice for luck, then laugh and walk away while you’re bleeding out in the street. But someone’s gotta keep her safe. Even against all her own best efforts. And that someone is me.
Who am I? Well sit down, tough guy, and I’ll tell ya. The name’s Mickey O’Rourke. Born in the Gilded Year of 1898. Grandparents came over as kids during the Famine in ’51 from County Cork and settled in to the old Waterford neighborhood by the river. Yeah, the slums. You wanna make somethin’ of it? I was born on my grandma’s kitchen table in our rat trap apartment on Riverfront Drive. Went to school at Sacred Heart, but barely graduated. The nuns said I had a sharp mind, and I was a terror with a football in my hand, but my real education came from the streets. Nothin’ went down in this town without me knowin’ about it. From the time I was in knickers, I had my thumb on the pulse of this godforsaken city. But then Uncle Sam called and I went “Over There.”
Served two years in France and Belgium. Did some time in the trenches. And saw things nobody should see. But mostly I was all over the place. I served as a medic, an MP… hell, I even worked for Intelligence here and there. When they say war is hell, that don’t even cover the half of it. Still got a bit of shrapnel in my leg, ya know. Aches like a bitch when it rains, but that ain’t nothin’ a fifth of scotch can’t fix. Became a cop for a while when I came back Stateside, but that didn’t last too long. The top brass and I didn’t see eye to eye. We still don’t, to tell ya the truth. I don’t trust the higher-ups any further than I can throw ‘em. Still keep in touch with some of the flatfoots, though. It’s helpful in my line of work.
And what’s my line of work, ya ask? Well, I find things. I find out if Mr. Lewis is really working late in the office or if he’s giving another kind of “business” to his secretary. All for the benefit of long-suffering Mrs. Lewis who has an ironclad prenup. I find out why a couple of zeroes are missing from the books at that high-end department store on Hamilton Street and why the manager’s wife has been seen in a new mink. I find things people lost and would be embarrassed if someone else happened to find. I find people… especially when they don’t wanna be found. Got an office on Riverfront. Above the shoemaker. Ya need something found, ya come to me.
Sometimes the work is real easy. Sit in the car and watch people’s movements. Take a few pictures. Transform those pictures into a nice payday. Sometimes the work is not so easy. Grease a few palms with hooch or green paper. A little casual B&E to “liberate” papers that so-and-so doesn’t want the public seeing. Sometimes the work is damn hard. Bust a few heads. Dodge a few bullets. Get the doctor who owes me a favor to set my broken nose again. But it’s what I do. This city needs me. To fight for the little guy who doesn’t have any other place to turn. I end up doing more work for free than I like to admit, but it’s work that needs doing. For the people. MY people.
And not every job is straightforward. It’s rare when they are, to tell ya the truth. And sometimes what you think is just a routine caper turns out to be big enough to shake the whole damn city.
---
It was late and I was in my office alone. Old Agnes who answers the phones had gone home hours ago. I had just gotten my prints back from Irving at the all-night photo store down the street and was poring over the glossy 8x10s. But these weren’t headshots from some wannabe starlet, no sir. I poured myself another fifth of good ole JD and got to looking.
I gotta hand it to the old geezer. He was careful. Always meeting her in secluded places and driving around in a car with windows so tinted it was like looking into the Abyss itself. It was tough to get close enough to snap the evidence. I don’t particularly enjoy sitting on tree branches in secluded parks at 2am, but hey, whatever gets the job done. And these babies were slamdunks for my client. A park bench by the river (supposedly) far from prying eyes. A rich old businessman. A leggy blonde with jugs that just didn’t stop. His hand on her… Her hand down his… a kiss here, a nibble there. And then the handcuffs and riding crop came out. Yeah, his soon-to-be ex-wife is gonna be a very rich woman after these puppies get into her hands.
I downed the glass, a little disgusted with myself. I was no fan of cheaters (although after seeing the blonde the guy in me couldn’t help but commiserate a little), but jobs like this felt like a waste of my talents. Sure, they kept the lights on and paid my tab at Paddy’s, but is this the kind of thing I wanted to be doing? The detective equivalent of getting cats out of trees? I poured myself another glass with a labored sigh. That’s when she came in.
She stood in the doorway like the ghost of Cleopatra. Regal. Haughty. And dripping with class. The lowbrow interior of the place must have made her want to wretch, but to her credit she kept it together. The light from my desk lamp cast shadows over her face. Her baby blues sparkled in the small strip of light that passed over them as I stood up.
“Are you Mickey O’Rourke?” she asked, her voice breathy and sultry. I was getting more than a little hot under the collar. For a moment I almost thought it was my birthday. But then I realized she was here on business.
“That I am,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Office closes at six but I’m not one to refuse a lady caller. You look like you’ve got problems that need solving.”
“Indeed I do,” she said, taking a few deliberate steps into the room. “And word is you’re the best.”
I tipped my fedora slightly and smirked. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I do have a reputation to get things done for my clients. Have a seat, ma’am.” I walked around the desk and pulled the chair out for her like a proper gentleman. I got a whiff of her perfume as she glided past me like she was moving in slow motion. Lilacs. And VERY expensive. As she sat, I quickly collected the photos that were spread out on my desk. No need for a lady to be seeing that. Her eyes caught the photos for an instant and she demurely turned her head as I slid them into a folder. A real classy dame, she was.
I walked back around my desk and sat down. “So what seems to be troubling your pretty little head, dollface?” I asked. I picked up the pack of cigarettes from the desk and offered her one before popping one between my own lips. She took it in her slender fingers and held it out, waiting for me to light it. The lighter flame flickered in the semi-dark of the office, casting dancing shadows across both our faces, as I lit us both up. You could cut the sexual tension with a knife.
“My name is Darla Van Allen…” she said.
“…of the Lexington Street Van Allens?” I asked, finishing her sentence. “Your family owns the railroad lines, doesn’t it? Builds all those libraries and museums under WPA contracts?”
“Yes, that’s us,” she said with a sultry chuckle, apparently impressed I kept up on current events. Her family was richer than Midas. The Depression was hitting everyone pretty hard, but some people were hit less hard than others, it seemed.
“So what kind of problem would trouble a golden bird like you so much that you’d come all the way to the slums in the dead of night to seek out a jabroni like me?” I asked, taking a long and deliberate drag.
“It’s my brother,” she said. Her beaded purse jangled as she took out a photo slid it across the desk at me. “Reginald Van Allen, but everybody calls him Reggie.” I picked up the photo. The smiling young man displayed was the kind that mugs like me took an instant dislike to. Cocky. Smarmy. Never worked a day in his life. He was pictured at some big society party, gulping down hooch like Prohibition didn’t just end a few months ago. If I had to wager a bet, I’d say this snapshot was taken before the big repeal anyway.
“What about him?” I asked, sliding the photo back to her.
“He’s… missing,” she said, a hint of genuine concern peeping through her composed tone and visage. “It’s been a few days now.”
“Heh,” I said, taking a gulp of my whiskey. “Probably out on some bender with his rich buddies. You want me to check the cathouses and speakeasies down by the docks? I know them all pretty well.”
My brusqueness seemed to ruffle her a little. I realize I said the wrong thing but you can’t unsay what you said. Me and my big mouth. Always getting me into trouble. Thankfully, she recovered quickly.
“That’s exactly what the police said,” she replied, putting the photo back in her purse. “But I checked with his friends and none of them have seen him, either. And when he does go on one of his… excursions, he’s always back by now. Last time I spoke to him was three nights ago.”
“Three nights, eh?” I said. “Well that’s a bit long even for the wildest of party boys.” I narrow my eyes, taking another sip of my whiskey. “Has… anyone made contact?”
“No,” she said. “And that’s what worries me.”
I took a long drag off my cigarette, considering my options. Rich family. Desperate. Definitely a good payday at the end. Beautiful dame in her moment of need. I’m far from a white knight, but I always had a soft spot for people in a bind. Especially beautiful ones with legs that just won’t quit. But… from what I heard from her, things don’t sound too promising for Junior. Friends don’t know where he is AND no ransom call? My instincts told me he was at the bottom of the river. For a moment I considered telling her that. But no. I can tell she’s genuinely concerned. No sense in scaring her… yet. And if I refuse the case she’ll just find someone else to take it up.
“All right, gorgeous,” I said. “I’ll take your case. But you gotta be prepared if what I find out isn’t pleasant.”
She looked at her shoes for a moment. “I know,” she said softly. “But I’m hoping that it won’t come to that and that you’ll find him safe and sound.”
“Heh,” I said, finishing my whiskey. “Me, too.”
“And don’t worry about the fee,” she said. “I’m not here to negotiate. I’ll pay whatever you charge, no questions asked. I just want my brother back.”
Now THAT was interesting. Her family was definitely good for it, too.
“He’s my baby brother,” she said with a sigh. “He’s totally reckless and drives me crazy, but I love him. I always said his drinking and gambling were going to get him into trouble one day, but he always laughed me off. Please find him.”
She reached out and touched my hand gently. “If you bring him back in one piece, I have other ways of showing my gratitude besides money…” she said, her words trailing off with unspoken meaning.
“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said with a sardonic chuckle. “I gotta find the little bastard first. You got a list of places he likes to hang out? People he talks to?”
“Right here,” she said, retrieving some folded papers from her purse. I took them and she daintily extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray on my desk. I was up before she was, pulling out her chair like a slightly rumpled Casanova. “If you find anything, my number is in those papers. Just say who you are and they’ll patch you right through to me.”
I took her by the hand and walked her out of the office, down the stairs and into the darkened street. Her driver was waiting for her at the curb by a car that cost more than most folks around here made in two years. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” I said, turning on the charm for the benefit of the driver… and who he might tell. “I always come through for my clients. I’ll find your missing… brooch. Don’t fret that pretty head of yours.”
She looked into my eyes and gave a demure, coy smile. The corners of my lips curled up into a tiny smirk that only we could see. She said nothing else, just patted my hand and climbed into the car. The driver closed the door, got in the front, and drove off.
“Mickey Boy,” I said to no one. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Coming Soon: Chapter 2 – My Kind of People
