The mid September air was already starting to cool, the leaves on the trees beginning to turn colors, the variations slight, not yet the exaggerated difference that would come in October and bring with it the darker mood of death and decay. The heels of Zuko's shoes clicked on the sidewalk, echoing through a silence that should have been filled with the laughter of children and possibly the raised voices of mothers calling for those children to come to bed. The sun was barely down, darkness not quite descended; the brick facades of the houses were already receding into shadow. The night would be overcast, and Zuko flipped up the collar of his long coat to shield the back of his neck against the cool breeze, pulling his hat down a little further on his head.
This was not the way his neighborhood was supposed to be. He and Katara and the children lived on the edges Chicago's Cook County for a reason—it was safe, it was quiet, the schools were good, and it was the perfect mix of city and suburb. They'd searched hard to carve out their piece of heaven, and distaste curled in the pit of Zuko's stomach, making him punch his feet into the ground as he walked. The sound of walking feet doubled, and Zuko slowed his pace, his hand instantly going for the gun in his pocket. It was a dangerous game he was playing, and even though Zuko could feel the power of the weapon in its weight and solidity in his hand, he knew he would be outclassed. When one dealt with mobsters, the mobsters always seemed to have the bigger and better arsenal.
Zuko dealt with the mob nearly every day as a detective on Chicago's police force. Prohibition was still in place, and nine years into the 1918 amendment, it showed no signs of being repealed, and the thirst for alcohol was showing no sign of fading away. Prohibition made those thugs bold, and gave them a new industry to exploit. Where the mob might have watched their backs before, paying special attention to police beats and looking out for cops like Zuko who had it in for them, they used this new found power to taunt the police. Zuko grit his teeth, listening again as footsteps echoed around him.
Not wanting to lead anyone back to his house if he was indeed being followed, Zuko took a longer, meandering route through the neighborhood. He did not look over his shoulder, and he did not slow or quicken his pace. He remained level, the gun ready in his fist because they were determined to wage war, and Zuko was determined to give it back to them. He would not ignore the way doors and windows stood as barriers for families where, previously, those barriers had not existed. He would not ignore the fear Katara relayed to him from her fellow teachers and the other wives she spent time with. He would not ignore the way death had crept its dark fingers into his peaceful neighborhood, making people lock their doors and pull their children in before dark.
Zuko stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and reached into his coat pocket to pull out the engraved cigarette case and matching lighter that Katara had given him for their ninth wedding anniversary. As he lit his cigarette, he waited and listened. Only the sounds of birds and squirrels greeted him; if there had ever been any footsteps, he couldn't hear them any longer, and there were no more signs that he was being followed. He couldn't even hear a stray animal or the sounds of a radio carried through an open window. He exhaled a puff of smoke and watched it float off into the sky. Night had taken on a new character, one that ceased to be a time of day and was now some menacing force that made everyone—not just the women and the children—seek protection. He was to be that protector, and for the past six months, he'd been failing at it. Those echoing footsteps, now and several times in the past months, were a cold reminder of that.
Every night when he caught the train home, Zuko stood at this particular intersection, seven blocks from his house. He came here as a memorial and a reminder, even though it was out of his way. It was a 'T' street, one side lined with nearly identical houses, distinguishable by the artistry of the flower arrangements, or lack thereof, the neatness of their yards, or the color of the fence. Across at one corner was a popular candy counter and drug store with a partial fruit and vegetable stand. Everyone called the old man who owned the store the Cabbage Merchant because of his insistence on cabbage as a miracle food. More houses were across the street from the drug store, some old friends of Katara's living right at the corner. Song, the wife's name was. She'd gone to teaching school with Katara, and they'd ended up moving into the same neighborhood, and even teaching at the same school.
Zuko exhaled a large puff of smoke, staring at the black pavement. Song had young children. Nearly everyone in their neighborhood had children or grandchildren, and that's what made this whole incident so incomprehensible to him. It angered him that they would keep their silence for so long, that they would sweep this incident under their rugs and stamp it down as best they could. What excuses did they give their children for this new, self-imposed curfew? What reason did they give each other for the locked doors and the increased fear? He wondered if they spoke names like "The Mustache" and "Smiling" Aang. He wondered if they spoke of "The Governor," and the Bei Fongs, or if those names were forbidden, left to the police to sort out with little help from them. Zuko exhaled another puff and shook his head.
"Why won't you talk to me?" he muttered angrily into the night, addressing that blank spot in the street, long since cleaned of its gore.
Perhaps the difference was that he'd seen it. Zuko had held the chalk in his hand as he outlined the child's twisted body, marking the place where he'd been gunned down in a vaguely human outline six months before. That memory haunted Zuko's dreams, the way the head was shattered on the left side, brain and blood seeping onto the pavement, the eye completely gone. The bullet marks were still on the pavement, now little more than grooves in the street. The blood had soaked through the boy's tan shirt around the shoulder, and at the gaping hole in the stomach. Zuko remembered the way his intestines looked. The coroner had to physically put them back inside the boy. The body was still warm when they wheeled it away, and Zuko watched the atmosphere change after that. Everyone had been content to take street cars and trains, to see the city in a leisurely fashion, but now so many husbands were considering cars to ferry their family and create some shield between them and the war that was coming.
Grinding his cigarette stub into the ground with the toe of his shoe, Zuko forced the last of the smoke through his nostrils and continued on his way. In the early days, Zuko could find out whatever he wanted about the child. His name was Lee, but he preferred to be known as The Duke, a name he'd given himself, imagining a life grander than the one he had. His father was a fly boy, taking his aircraft all over the world for the army, and had died in World War I, leaving his mother in Chicago alone and without any family and no money to return to Wyoming. She gave birth to her child, and had raised him on her own, working two factory jobs to keep them housed and fed. She died when The Duke was five, and the boy was taken in by a cousin on his father's side. The Duke was at least moderately well liked at school, and Zuko knew his son, Kurzu, had played with him on several occasions. Kurzu invited The Duke over, and Katara had served them milk and brownies, then sat in the window and watched them play outside. Zuko knew The Duke. The boy lucked out on the school; his cousin lived on the fringes of the school district, and by default, The Duke went to the same school as Zuko's own children.
As far as Zuko was concerned, the most unfortunate thing that could have happened to The Duke was being taken in by his cousin, and indeed, that's what led to the boy's senseless death. Zuko rounded the corner, casting his eyes about at moving shadows as he walked down his block and toward his house. The Duke's benevolent cousin was Haru, "The Moustache," a mobster. Zuko's face settled into a deep scowl. Any child could have a promising future, but not so long as they were stuck under the thumb of the mob. Haru played at being big cheese, but he was nothing compared to bigger gangsters like Smiling Aang, The Governor, and the Bei Fongs. Those were real gangsters with systems and codes of honor and conduct, with enforcers and people to run payroll. They never would have let one of their children be gunned down on the way back from school.
He would spit on them all if he could, those fools who thought they were above the law. He'd held Katara as she cried when she found out about The Duke's murder, her entire body shaking as she clutched at his shirt. They'd struggled for three days with how to tell the children that The Duke would be gone forever, that they wouldn't see or hear from him again. They'd debated how to explain that this murder would affect not only their lives, but the entire neighborhood. At seven, Kurzu was better able to understand that The Duke wouldn't be coming back, but the twins were only five, and this concept was less concrete in their minds. As Zuko and Katara sat on the playroom floor and spoke with their children, Zuko had never hated anyone so much. Not even his own father.
Zuko stopped with his hand on the doorknob to his house. It was locked. He rolled his eyes. Of course it would be; he was the one who badgered Katara about making sure it was always locked. He fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Inside, he took off his hat and coat, hanging them on the coat rack by the front door. He wiped his feet on the mat before stepping onto the newly polished floor. He sighed. Katara was angry with him again. She only got to polishing every piece of wood in the house when she was angry, and the shine was exceptionally glossy, almost to the point of being dangerous. The children would surely be sliding around on it come morning.
"Katara? I'm home."
Zuko took a few tentative steps into the house, aware that the children were probably sleeping and not wanting to make too much noise.
"I'm in the kitchen," came Katara's clipped reply.
She was bent over a stack of papers, essays in the large, unrefined letters of kindergarteners.
"I thought you wouldn't be staying late again," she said without looking up at him, her mouth a thin line of tension.
Zuko shrugged, pulling out a chair and sitting across from her. "I'm sorry, Kitten. I got—"
"Caught up in the office?" Katara rolled her eyes and almost slammed her hands down on the table before realizing it would make too much noise. "Zuko, you've been saying that every night for the past month."
The table was also polished to a high gloss, and Zuko ran his hands over the smooth surface. He could still faintly smell the wax she'd used, no doubt after scrubbing the table several times over. Katara leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed
"There was a raid today on one of The Moustache's properties," Zuko said, pinching his nose. "Of course I had to be there, you know how much this case means to me."
The Duke's murder case was important to him, yes, but he didn't strictly need to be there for the raid. Any evidence found would only be tangential to the case he was still working long after nearly every other detective had given up. Another detective, Jet, had been assigned to the raid, but Zuko didn't trust Jet to be entirely honest with the findings. Jet didn't have the best morals on the force, and Zuko suspected he might have ties to Haru. There was very little concrete evidence for this assumption, but Jet knew things he had no business knowing, things not even other police officers detailed to Haru knew, and there was that persistent murmur that they'd been childhood friends, and had remained in contact through the years.
Katara reached across the table, and Zuko took her hand in his, squeezing it tightly. The diamond on her wedding ring pressed against his hand, and he smiled sadly. It had been a promise of his undying love for her, and more recently, though she didn't know it, it had become a symbol of the promise that he would make her tears go away, that their children wouldn't have to look outside with either fear or longing. She didn't understand why he put so much into this case. She didn't understand that it was never about good guys and bad guys. It was about protecting the ones you loved, protecting the young and the innocent, creating and maintaining order in a world that fought so desperately against it.
"I'm terrified for you," Katara said, her voice trembling. "What do you expect me to do if something happens to you? Your children and I need you here."
"And I will be here for you. Just as soon as this matter is straightened out."
"But will it ever?" Katara squeezed his hand, tugging a little to make sure she had his attention. "These guys have scared everyone to death. Just today, Song said she'd seen men stalking around that new jazz club on State who gave her the heebie-jeebies. It's been six months, and nothing's changed. You don't have any leads—"
"I'm on the verge of something."
Zuko pulled his hand away from Katara. It was a sore spot with him that he had little more information on the case than he did when he started. He hadn't hit a road block until he learned that The Mustache took in The Duke. Suddenly, people got amnesia and couldn't remember where they'd been in the late afternoon when cars of gangsters pulled up and started firing on Haru and his entourage when they were taking The Duke home. It wasn't from lack of trying, and Zuko finally had to stop going door to door himself, relegating that task to beat cops in the area, afraid that he might only make matters worse by lashing out in anger.
"That's what I'm afraid of, Zuko." Katara hugged her arms close to her body, refusing to meet his gaze. "I've begged you—"
"And I am careful. As careful as I can be. You won't be a widow, Katara."
"You can't promise that. I talked to your mother today. She's worried about you, too."
Zuko stood from the table and rubbed his temples. He'd been thinking about The Duke and the murder all day, particularly since the raid. He didn't want to keep arguing with Katara. They'd been down that road already, and he didn't even want to broach the subject of his mother. She'd been worried about him since the day he signed up for the police academy. She would have chosen other, safer roads for her son.
"I'm going to bed. You coming up, Kitten?"
"In a minute," she said, trying to smile. "I'll just finish reading through these essays and I'll be up. Are you going to stop by the children's room?"
"Of course." Zuko bent down and kissed Katara's head as he passed her.
Upstairs, the children were tucked obediently into their beds, and Zuko did his best to be as quiet as possible. He frowned as he sat down on the edge of Kurzu's bed first. He needed them to understand that he was doing this for them more than anyone else. The early mornings and late nights would be a thing of the past the moment he found a way to clear the streets. Even though Kurzu liked to say he was a big boy and that he was too old to be babied, Zuko knew he still enjoyed the attention. He stroked Kurzu's hair and whispered a silent promise that soon he wouldn't have to notice the way his classmates avoided certain topics or no longer stayed to play as late as they once did, even if they only lived across the street.
To Khan, he promised that there would be no more refusals to answer questions. There would be no more telling him he had to stay close to home, and that he couldn't just sit in the yard. Zuko bent down to kiss Khan, and the child stirred in his sleep, but didn't wake up. He'd likely tired himself out during the day, and Zuko made another promise that he'd be there more often. He'd take his boys to the park, and they could play the entire day, just daddy and the boys, and they wouldn't have to worry about getting home before dark.
To Ira, Khan's twin and Zuko's little princess, he promised that she wouldn't have to pretend to be brave, and that it could be real. He promised to his little doll that daddy would always protect her and do his best to keep her safe. As he unclipped the bow from her hair and sat it on the bedside table, Ira's eyes opened just a little.
"Daddy," she whispered, smiling. "I tried to wait for you, but mommy made me go to bed."
She let out a big yawn, and Zuko pulled the blankets tighter around her. For his ferocious little Ira, who wanted to take a bite out of the world, Zuko would make sure it didn't bite back.
"That's ok, doll," Zuko whispered to her. "I'll be here in the morning."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
Satisfied, Ira closed her eyes again and drifted back to sleep. Zuko closed the door softly behind him as he slipped from the children's room and began heading down the hall to his and Katara's bedroom. Zuko stopped with his hand on the doorknob and sighed deeply. For the past week, Zuko had been quietly investigating a lead on a possible motive for the attack. At first, he hadn't been sure whether it was more lead or hunch, but after seeing the raid that afternoon, Zuko was convinced that it firmly planted this little whisper in the field of lead.
Through hidden channels built up and carefully maintained through ten years as a police officer, and the help of an informant on the street and one behind bars, Zuko learned that Smiling Aang was beginning to get bored with his own territory. The city had been enjoying a rather peaceful lull without much confrontation between the cops and the mobsters. Aang's crime family was older than anything Haru could ever hope to create, passed down from father to son, tied by blood through several generations. In contrast, Haru's father, Tyro, had 'inherited' a rather young mob, founded only three generations before, when it landed in Chicago. The last leader had no surviving children, and since Tyro was like a son to this dying old man, he'd left everything, such as it was, to Tyro.
But Aang… His gang was nearly spotless; the wealth was flaunted in abundance, and the only legitimate business he had was an accounting firm, but everyone knew who supplied the liquor at downtown dinner clubs and dance halls. Their mob justice was dealt swiftly and secretly, and the Chicago River was likely littered with those who'd gotten on either his or his father, Gyatso's bad side. They never would have let loose tongues wag like Haru did, leading to this raid; no, this big cheese would smile in your face as he gouged your eyes out with a rusty butter knife, telling you that he was karma, and people always got what they deserved. Smiling Aang looked like little more than a kid, and got his nickname from a brilliant, friendly smile, but that only made things worse when calculating grey eyes looked at you and dealt judgment. If he was getting greedy, then he would attempt to negotiate for what he wanted. If rumors were true, and it was this gang who'd so blatantly opened fire on The Mustache and his allies, then Zuko had better do his best to put them all behind bars before more people died.
That raid at the warehouse proved that Haru was getting ready for a war. He had tommy guns and handguns galore, and bullets enough to outfit an army. There was a fleet of cars with thick glass, and canes and umbrellas with knives in the handles. They were intending to be armed no matter where they went, and that thought had scared Zuko more than he would ever admit to anyone. More than the sheer volume of weapons they'd found, it was the implication that had Zuko taking deep breaths to calm his speeding heart.
No matter how impressive this hoard looked, it was nothing compared to the hoard that the more experienced, better funded, more dangerous, and more respected Smiling Aang would have. That man screamed old money, and the moment Gyatso finally keeled over for good, Smiling Aang would have even more. If this man with the golden smile was preparing for a war, the best thing Zuko could do for his family would be to get them somewhere far away.
But he wouldn't run; if he ran, that would be letting them win, letting them see that they still had the power. If everyone ran, who would be left to put those thugs in their place? The war hadn't started yet, and there was still a chance he could make a difference. They might run to get away from The Mustache and Smiling Aang, but there would always be others like them. Zuko, and the city of Chicago, needed to make a stand.
Welcome, one and all to my very first AU! This is a gift fic for AnnaAza for being my first ever 100th review. Honestly, I never thought I'd ever write anything that would be so popular, or that my fics would be liked by so many people. AnnaAza requested an AU, and 1920s Chicago and mobsters immediately jumped into my head. Let me say that Haru was always going to be a gangster because I could name him The Moustache :D Coming up with the mob names was fun.
I decided to cast Aang as a 'villain' simply because it was the opposite of everything he is in the show. I had this image of him in my mind as a real sinister fellow, and to aid in that interpretation, I wanted him to keep some of his Air Nomad beliefs, though they'd necessarily be twisted around for narrative purposes. Toph became a mob princess because it seemed right. *shrugs* Sometimes I just go with how I feel. Technically, Jet should be the leader of the gang, but he wanted to be a cop, so that's what he was...or is he? Dun dun dunnnnn... No, he's a cop.
A small note: everyone's aged up quite a bit (Zuko's 34), with the exception of The Duke. He was always going to be the little boy that got murdered. This is going to be a short fic, and it'll be an interesting ride for all of us. Hope this is good for you, AnnaAza!
