It had been about a few months and the spring air had become crisp and cold to the bone in mid-fall. Director Gresson tapped his foot impatiently as he rubbed his cold hands awaiting his driver to get him. He knew Alice would run late on occasion but this was twenty-three minutes late. Much to the CIA Director's surprise, a Duesenberg Model H rumbled up to the small N-NYC Apartment as he checked his watch. The old car's exterior seemed to cut through the dull darkened skies of the early hours in New-New York City. It was a duct-tape gray on the outside with black accents on the untouched rear and front fenders. It was a relic of time, and the director's ride to work this morning. As the director got in, there was a cup of fresh, hot coffee awaiting him as the city's resident 1920s Private Eye and the newest addition to the CIA Roster, Flat Flanagan, picked him up.
"This is your car?" asked Gresson inquisitively. "Don't take any wooden nickels with me wise guy. I may have been dipped into this dimension, but there ain't no way you could convince me to buy one of your modern-day flivvers." Flat chuckled as he finished speaking. "I wanted something familiar, something that screamed "the Cat's Pajamas", ya know?" The Director nodded as Flat shifted the Model H into first gear, the supercharged 55.6L Drusenburg V-16 engine growled as if to intimidate the other traffic nearby as Flat pulled away from the curb.
Gresson eyes' scanned the interior of the car. The caramel-colored leather seats were as if the car rolled off the factory floor yesterday, the dashboard showed no signs of aging and even smelled of fresh wax, and the smell of rich gasoline fumes seemed to swirl around the car as it idled at a stoplight was enough to get even the most stubborn gearhead a high like no other. However, as the engine rumbled, Gresson started tapping his foot nervously as he looked down at his watch. "Flat, we're gonna be late. You sure this old thing can…" Flat looked over to Director Gresson slowing with a grin. "Listen here you fire extinguisher, flat tire. The Model H is rocking a 55.6 liter V-16 engine. I'll make sure we ain't two owls." As the light changed to green, the Model H sped up onto the freeway. They had a tall task ahead as it was three-thirty in the morning with roll call at four and the drive would take about fifty minutes to make.
As they drove, Gresson went to take a sip of his coffee when Flat pushed down the clutch pedal, shifted the Model H into second gear, and let that massive engine displacement sing. The Director forgot his need for caffeine and gripped the above door handle, otherwise known as the "Oh Shit" handle, as the old Duesenberg roared down the silent freeway. His heart raced as if trying to keep pace with the massive engine. Gresson over to his driver, that Private Eye plucked out of time to see a grin plastered on his face as his foot pushed that accelerator down further and further. The Duesenberg Model H was known to be within CIA Operational Jurisdiction by the local police, so when this speeding gray and black bullet of a car blew by them, they didn't pull out after them. Even so, that didn't stop the Director's heart raced onward like a wild stallion.
By three-forty, the car was blurred at ninety-eight miles per hour as they left the city heading for the CIA Building just outside the city. As the car got off the freeway and rumbled onto the private road, Flat shifted the Model H into third gear and let that motor sing as it pushed up to a hundred and thirty miles per hour. Director Gresson was now frantic. He looked at Flat who was enjoying every second of this. "FLAT! SLOW DOWN! YOU'LL KILL US BOTH!" Screamed Director Gresson, hands firmly clasped onto that handle, knuckles whiter than freshly fallen snow. "Come on, Director! Live a little!" Replied the Private Eye drifting the Model H onto the gated road. As they rolled up to the gate, the tiny dash clock illuminated by radium paint read "Three forty-nine", eleven minutes to spare.
As the Private Eye parked the Model H, the dual exhaust pipes were glowing a deep orange, the smell of heated, once-cold metal filled the air, and so did the shallow breaths of Flat Flanagan as he walked away from his car, a grin permeating across his face. As Director Gresson got out, his legs shook like jello on a dryer. "You… Never drive me again." Flat chuckled as he walked towards the door. "Come on Director. Wouldn't want you to be late now!" Called the gray-eyed Private Eye. The parking lot lights shone down onto his Tan Fedora and Trench Coat as he used his badge to enter the building, completely unphased by the drive to work. Once Gresson regained his strength and had joined Flat inside, several coworkers laughed under their breaths as Gresson's legs shook, still reeling for Flat's "drive to work."
As Gresson took a seat at his desk, Flat was up at the tackboard looking over case files on everything that was going on. In the months that had followed Flat Flanagan's untimely arrival in the 21st Century, several big cases had been shut thanks to their gray-eyed gumshoe. Every case closed was a round of homemade egg-creams at Flanagan's Diner, which Flat had opened up since moving in there. Director Gresson typed up the last pieces of his report on their 20th Century Private Eye for the Langley Brass as P.E Flat and Agent Alyssa Cornell gathered their next file and hopped into Alyssa's Ford Fusion.
"Alright, Flat. It's the same as yesterday. Surveil, record, and report, but nothing more until we know more of this Mob's leadership. Got it?"
"You'll have nothing but bee's knees behavior from me, ma'am."
"Good, that's what I expected to hear." Said Alyssa as the car entered the city. They had been surveilling a mob with ambitions for the White House. These mobsters were far cries from Al-Capone but had the American Public convinced they were what Washington D.C. needed. However, on this day, things were about to get far more interesting than anything the CIA had been anticipating...