Chapter 1: Prohibition
The cool rain fell in a fine mist as the moon shone through gossamer clouds. A lone woman hurried along the street as night fell and darkness ensconced the city. She covered her head with the hood of her couture overcaot. She was at Canal Street and Broadway, and would be soon nearing her destination. Amanda Delacroix could be shunned by her colleagues for the act she was about to commit, but the temptation of late was overwhelming. No one in the fashion industry would expect a supermodel of her caliber to engage in such an indulgence.Amanda made a quick right onto Lespanard Street and walked to the center of the block. She approached an unassuming five story building adjacent to a parking lot. She walked through the parking lot to the left side of the building. There was an unusually narrow grey colored door. She had been told to expect this by her closest friend, Marcus Roth. She knocked hard on the door, the requisite five times in quick succession. A speaker near the door crackled to life. “Finger lickin’”, she heard. Amanda could feel her heart beat with anticipation. She suppressed the shame and guilt associated with the act that has become an abomination in the eyes of most people in the city and the country at large. She replied, “Eat more chicken”. The door creaked open and she hurriedly stepped into the room.
Immediately her olfactory senses were taken to an old, familiar bandwidth as the smell of fried chicken filled the room. There were five tables set around the room, a small kitchen with a kettle for deep frying, and a table, with a green vase, where you would leave a small "donation". The light in the room was low, but all was visible. This was typical of the cluckeasy.
It was five years ago that Mayor Walter Bennings Ronberg put a ban on all fried food, with an emphasis on fried chicken. The city at first thought it was a great idea. He had already demonstrated the health benefits through tough anti-smoking policies; the banning of trans-fat; and the elimination of soft drinks over sixteen ounces.
“This ban will eliminate one of the greatest remaining threats to the health and safety of the citizens of this fine city. We will be a beacon of hope and inspiration to other cities throughout the country. I see an America that is free of fried, greasy, and unhealthy foods. To that end, I have set up a task force that will make certain that all frying equipment and ingredients are confiscated and destroyed. This evil will be eradicated! Those who violate the law will be prosecuted!”
The crowd, on that day five years prior, cheered their Mayor. They felt the power of his words and welcomed this intrusion on their ability to make personal choices. Within moments his words were broadcast across the country. Within months there were calls for a national ban, just like the greatest city in the country passed, on fried foods and sugary beverages.
Democratic Representative Saul Foolstead introduced such a bill and this would be known as the Foolstead Act. This Act forbade the sale or distribution of fried foods and/or the equipment and ingredients with which to prepare them. The penalties for violation of this rule include excessive fines and possible jail time.
Since its passage there have been many high-profile arrests of so - called boot-beekers. These organized crime syndicates would supply the cluckeasy with all it needed to provide customers with their sinful delicacy. The most famous of this ilk, and still a very free man, stepped into the cluckeasy where Amanda was gluttonously enjoying her meal.
A middle-aged man scampered from the kitchen area to greet his notorious guest. He approached him with what could only be called reverence. "Don Monella! Imma so happy to see you!" The middle aged approached his guest and kissed his ring.
"Frankie, it's always good to visit your fine establishment." Salvatore “Sal” Monella was always welcome in any cluckeasy as he was essentially the only supplier with the connections to provide everything needed for a great fried chicken meal. He continued, "My boys are worried that your orders have been slowing down."
"Imma sorry Don Monella, there hasn't been much business since-a 'dey raided Mario's joint in Harlem. The people are a-scared to have-a the chicken."
Three men joined Sal and stood beside and behind him. Sal took off his glasses and pointed and tapped them on Frankie's chest. Frankie felt his heart being to race and beads of sweat slid down his forehead. "Frankie, I've known you for a long time and don't want anything to sully our friendship. Are you sure you haven't been getting your birds from Jack Pardoe?"
Frankie began to shake and put his hands up as if praying, "No Don-aa Monella, I w-w-would never or-or-order from anyone else-a. Who else-a gonna take-a such good care to bring me the best of da boids, and the finest in da oils?"
Sal started at him for a moment then put his glasses back on and laughed. "Frankie, I'm sorry I suspected you, but I've heard rumors on the street of people going to Pardoe. I don't know this cat, but he's from somewhere in Maryland, and he's becoming a pain in my ass!" He looked at Frankie, who seemed relieved, "now, you'll tell me if he tries to contact you, capish?"
Frankie nodded, "Imma call you right away if that son-of-a-bitch-a shows-a his face around here." Sal smiled as best he could and shook Frankie's hand. "Good, and I have a few pounds of fresh chicken on the way for you, and these birds are on me." He turned and began to walk out with his henchman following behind.
Frankie called out, "Thank you so much-a Don Monella, you come-a by any time and I'll make-a you a special-a chicken dinner!"
Though Amanda could hear the bulk of this conversation, she kept her head down as she licked her fingers clean, then mopped them gently with a paper napkin. She rose, dropped another donation in the jar, and began to leave. Frankie smiled at her, "Thank-a you," he whispered. She sheepishly smiled back, and scurried out onto Lespanard, hoping the shame would pass.
Chapter 2: A Young Girl from Baltimore
Amanda Davis, destined to be Delacroix, was born on a sunny spring morning in Mercy Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland on May 7, 2010. She was a slight baby of six pounds and a few ounces. He shocking blue eyes were juxtaposed with a head of jet black hair that was pasted to her head. Sally Davis, Amanda's mother, was sweaty from the agony of child-birth, yet she clutched baby Amanda close to her and whispered, "I haven't a clue what I'm going to do with you." Tears were running down Sally's cheeks as she contemplated this misfortune.
Sally and Mortimer Davis had struggled through life with little to wear and often less to eat. Mortimer was in Salisbury for the past two months working as a journeyman in Frank Pardoe's poultry plants and farms. The conditions were grim, the pay was paltry, and his current job was about to end. The worst part for Mortimer was, at that moment unbeknownst to him, his beloved wife gave birth to their daughter.
