Piper P.O.V

The entire neighborhood either attended Beckendorf's funeral or dropped by at the reception to give their condolences. They placed flowers on his coffin which rested by the altar of the church, under his and Silena's wedding photograph and a plaque which read "Charles John Henry Beckendorf: 1905-1930."
A/N John Henry is an African-American folk hero. His legend says that he worked on the railroad, hammering a steel drill into rocks, and won a contest again a steam-powered hammer, only to die of heart failure afterwards. He is used as a symbol of human strength, endurance, and dignity which has been appropriated by both the labor movement and the civil rights movement.
Beckendorf didn't have any family in New York. He had been born in Georgia to dirt poor sharecroppers, who left him orphaned early in life. At age twenty, he left Georgia and moved north. In New York, he was well liked and respected by his neighbors, who were now all mourning his death.
During the funeral service, Silena dabbed her eyes with a black piping trimmed handkerchief.

Her mascara and black kohl eyeliner ran down her cheek. Inky drops of makeup stained both her pale cheeks and the snowy fabric of her hankie. Clarisse Rodriguez and I held her hand the entire time.
The three of us wore black dresses and cloche hats as was appropriate for mourning.

Silena's cloche was draped with a crepe veil. Mine had its brim turned back a little.

"The Lord is my shepherd," a woman named Nyssa, a neighbor, and friend of the Beckendorfs, read from the Bible on the lectern, "I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."
The preacher spoke of a heaven for those who had faith and trusted in the Lord. This world with all it's hardships, cruelty, and injustice was only temporary but we could expect to go to a better world if we did our best to live a good life. If we allowed the Lord to be our shepherd, he will lead us through the Valley of the Shadow of Death to the Green Pastures.
I wanted to believe that Beckendorf was in this better place. If such a place did exist, he deserved to go there.
"How are you?" I whispered to Silena.
"I've been better," she whimpered. Mascara and kohl tears ran down her cheek. She put a hand on her still flat stomach to remind herself that she still had a reason to live.

Will P.O.V

The newspapers were all talking about the shooting of a mechanic at the garage. Nico usual kept me in the dark about the intricacies of the New York mob scene but I knew enough to get that this shooting had something to do with the Olympian/Titan feud. The garage was in Olympian territory. This whole thing could potentially start a full-out gang war and I was afraid the Nico would be caught up in it.
Nico asked me to meet him for lunch at a deli near the hospital where I had a summer internship. I found him sitting at a table by the window, sipping the lethally strong coffee he liked.
"I'm going to get something to eat. You hungry?"
"No," Nico replied.
I ordered my usual pastrami on rye with a sour pickle and a bottle of celery tonic.

"Did you hear about that shooting?" I said as I sat down in the chair across from him.
"Of course I have," he responded.
"The papers said that the shooter was looking for someone named Jason Grace, who works for the Olympians. Do you know him?"
"Sort of. He's a bootlegger who provides booze for the Olympian speakeasies."
"It also said that the shooter was a Titan."
"Yeah, Caligula German. What a bastard."
I took his hand in mine.
"I'm afraid things are going to get ugly...just, be careful."
"Will, mio caro."
He batted his big brown eyes at me.
"I'm serious, Nico."
"If my family goes to war with the Titans, I'll be involved whether I like it or not. It's how my world works."
"Do you think it will lead to war?"
"Gods, I hope not."

Rachel P.O.V

The headquarters of the New York Sun was in an office building on Eighth Avenue. I sat behind a black lacquered desk in the lobby with gold designs on it. Above me were arched, Roman style ceilings painted in different shades of yellow. Navy blue chairs were scattered all over the pale green marble floor.

A tall, gangly young man approached the desk. He had pale, colorless skin and hair which was just as anemic.
"How's the loveliest secretary in all of New York?" he said, flashing me a smarmy grin which he seemed to think was charming.
"What do you want, Octavian?" I replied.
"Do you think your boss would see me today?"
"I'm sorry, he's completely booked."
"He'd clear his schedule if he knew that I have the scoop of the summer."
"You do?"
I raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"The papers have all been talking about the shooting of Charles Beckendorf. He was shot by a gunman associated with the Titans in Olympian territory. A young man named Jason Grace is at the heart of this tragedy: Beckendorf told the police that the gunman had asked about Grace, who is a known Olympian. And why would the Titans want Grace dead?"
"Beats me."
"I've been talking to some of my sources: the Ramirez-Arellano Sisters, who were the officers on the scene. Officer Reyna Ramirez-Arellano earlier discovered that Atlas Titan's mistress was having an affair with Jason Grace. This story has it all: scandal, intrigue, and a potential gang war and I'm going to be the one to break it to the world."
"So that's what's important to you? Not getting justice for an innocent man?"
My conversation with Octavian was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.
"Hello," I said into the receiver, "New York Sun, Apollo Phoebus's office."
It was Aeolus, the Sun's usual weather reporter, calling to cancel his two o'clock appointment. I had to erase his name from Apollo's schedule.
"So there's now an opening?" Octavian asked, giving me another smug grin.
"I can pencil you in for two o'clock."
"See you then."
He gave me a wink before walking away.
Ass, I thought. But then, you didn't get to be one of the top reporters on staff at the Sun without being an ass.

My lunch break was from twelve thirty to one thirty, so I was back in time to show Octavian into Apollo's office. The office was a round room done up in orange and gold tinted wood with a starburst pattern on the floor.

Apollo was sitting behind his semicircular desk, framed by a window shaped like the rising sun.

He was sipping from a tumbler of scotch, smoking a cigar, and reading an issue of Photoplay with a picture of Claudette Colbert on the cover.
"Mr. Phoebus," I said walking in, "Your two o'clock is here."
"Send him in, Rachel," he replied, not looking up from a publicity still of Gary Cooper that he seemed particularly interested in.
I showed Octavian in. Apollo stood up to greet him. They shook hands and Octavian took a seat in one of the semicircular chairs.
"Drink? Cigar?" Apollo asked Octavian.
"Both please."
"Scotch or bourbon?"
"Scotch."
Apollo poured the drinks while Octavian lit himself a cigar. I left them alone to discuss business as they drank and smoked.
"We're going to be the first paper in the city to run the story," I heard Octavian say from behind the door of Apollo's office, "Think of it, the senseless tragedy of Charles Beckendorf's death was only because of some floozy's fickleness and some mobster's jealousy and the poor man didn't even have anything to do with it. The public will go crazy for it."
"Good work, Auger," Apollo replied, "We'll run the story in tomorrow's edition."

Octavian's story made the front page the next day under the headline: "Mobster's Mistress Behind Gangland Shooting."

A/N my story is now trending at #12 in "Prohibition"