A/N: My stories have been getting kind of depression/gruesome lately, so here's a more light-hearted one. There will still be some serious moments. But language and sexual content will be far tamer—actually, it'll be a lot like an old movie! ;)
Warning: *Some* swearing (but not excessive); some racial slurs (because it's the '40s); and references to '40s pop culture that no normal person would recognize.
Enjoy.
Oh, and I don't own "Star Trek: Voyager."
Parts of San Francisco were almost as busy at night as it they were in daylight. Even at one-thirty in the morning, Harry had to weave through a maze of old brick buildings until he was in a disturbingly silent alley, to meet his contacts. He was the first one there. Harry wasn't a guppy (whatever his associates said) but this was the first time he'd arrived in a situation like this alone. If he'd been a smoker he would have lit up a joint to calm himself, but he wasn't. Harry liked to take care of his body. So he merely leaned against the wet brick wall, and dropped his hands into the large pockets of his trench coat, feeling the pistol he'd brought. His fedora did little to protect his face from the misty drizzle that sprinkled San Francisco tonight, but Harry didn't mind. It was kind of relaxing.
A car screeched to a halt in front of the alley, far too loudly. It was a hideous old thing, a black, blockish car from the '30s in dire need of a paint job. When the door flung opened, Harry feared it would break right off. Out of the car hoped a lanky white guy about his own age, with light-colored hair (exactly what color, it was hard to tell in the dim street lights, but Harry guessed brown). The driver was dressed much like Harry, but his coat was a lot rattier, and opened. Underneath, his suspenders were visible over his white shirt—not vest or suit top. He didn't even have a tie. As the guy swaggered up, Harry saw him drop a little bottle into one large coat pocket.
The guy dipped his hat. "Evening, partner."
"'Partner?'" Harry said, keeping his hands in his pockets.
"Just got back from seeing a Western picture, with a breathtaking blonde," the guy bragged.
"Ah."
The other guy looked around the alley. "Are you the man with the bird?"
"No." Harry said. "I work for Indiana. I assume you're the driver of the getaway car?"
"The one and only." The driver dipped his hat again.
Harry noticed a few funny trinkets stuck in the brim of the guy's hat: a Joker card, a little winged U.S. Air Force pin, and a small bird's feather. Harry found himself wishing he'd thought to do something like that with his own hat.
A sound made both men turn towards the opposite end of the alley. The streetlamp was casting the long shadow of a man in a trench coat onto the stone street.
The driver called out, "Hey, Claude Rains! If you're the man with the bird, you can get over here and give it over."
The man who stepped around the corner redefined "ugly." His face was so scared that it almost looked like little more than a bumpy mess. Underneath his bowler hat, clumps of untamed gray hair stuck out. The man's mouth was stretched into something almost resembling a smile, but not the welcoming kind. More of the "I'm about to cut you" kind.
"You're the men Indiana sent?" the gangster asked, in a sneering voice.
"That's right," the driver said. "Kitty Indiana paid me to pick up the bird tonight. I assume Shortie here's got your dough." He thumbed over to Harry, who threw him a look.
"Yeah," Harry rummaged through his pocket and produced a wad of bills. "Here's the cash, from Miss Kitty Indiana herself." He approached the gangster with the money. "Miss Indiana extends her highest thanks to your boss Mickey Kazon for your time, and cooperation."
The gangster reached for the cash, but Harry pulled his hand back.
"Ah-ah-aaah," he extended his free hand. "First, we make sure the bird's genuine."
The gangster reluctantly opened his trench coat, and pulled out a bundle about the size of a football, wrapped in newspapers and string. Harry took the package, and carefully undid the wrapping. The driver leaned over to get a look. Harry had seen photographs of the statue, but seeing it in person was something else. It was a very abstract representation of a falcon in flight. At first glance, one might mistake it for some kind of space ship from a science fiction serial, like Flash Gordon. It was slick and smooth, crafted from silver. The spread wings and tail feathers ended in sharp points, as did the beak. The bird lacked feet, its underbelly flat for sitting on a table or pedestal. The silver bird was covered with tiny stones of red, turquoise, and indigo, forming geometric patterns. Looked like something from Mexico.
The driver whistled. "Looks real to me!"
Harry momentarily pocketed the cash for the gangster, and fished out a quarter, which he tapped gently against the bird. A distinctive ring echoed through the alley.
"That's silver!" the driver confirmed.
"If you please." The gangster held out his hand.
Harry put away the coin, and handed the guy his money. The gangster stuck the money inside his coat, fumbling around for a few seconds, as if he was having trouble fitting it into his inner pocket. Then, suddenly, his hand came back out, with a pistol.
"And now, I'll be taking back that bird."
Harry's driver offered a short laugh, sticking his hands on his hips, inside his coat. "Am I going deaf…" and then he whipped out a gun of his own, "…or are you actually trying to double-cross Kitty Indiana?"
In the time the driver had distracted the gangster, Harry had drawn his own pistol. "Two against one," Harry warned, "I think you'd better just be grateful for what you were paid, and get lost."
"Two against one?" the gangster scoffed. "No, Chinaman. I think it's more like…two against six."
And as he was speaking, five more men stepped into the alley, weapons drawn. Two had Tommy guns.
"Well," Harry's driver laughed. "If you put it like that…"
He suddenly swiped the bird from Harry, and swaggered over to the gangster, who proudly held out his free hand again. But instead of giving the bird over, he used it to smack the gangster's gun out of his hand. Harry winced as the driver let the statue clatter to the stone street, so he could use both hands to pull the gangster into a hostage position, his gun trained on his head.
"Now beat it, all of you, or he dies." The driver warned. "Ah—!" he cocked his gun, stopping the other gangsters from going for the bird on the ground.
Harry quickly scooped up the bird with one hand. "What's more important," he looked each gangster in the eye. "Your friend…or this lump of tin?"
Everyone was silenced, for just a few seconds.
The gangsters exchanged very subtle, but noticeable, glances. The one being held hostage by the driver suddenly widened his eyes in terror. Harry saw the driver squint his eyes shut, and swear silently.
The driver hurled his hostage into the gangsters, grabbed Harry's sleeve, and yanked him down the alley and back to the car, while the shooting broke out. Harry managed to pull the car door shut before any bullets got in, but both men had to press themselves flat down against the seat almost immediately, as bullets began passing through the glass windows. The driver stepped on the gas, and they took off with another deafening screech.
"Take my gun!" the driver yelled, as they tore down the road.
"What?" Harry was holding his own pistol in both hands, the bird trapped between his knees on the seat. "I've got—"
"Use both!" the driver shouted, his eyes stuck fiercely to the road. "I'm driving!"
Harry was about to ask how five men on foot would catch up to a car anyhow, but was cut off by the sound of more shattering glass. Their enemies were behind them now, in a Volkswagen Beetle. And two of them still had Tommys.
Shit.
Harry didn't even bother rolling any windows down. He just spun in his seat and began shooting through the back windshield, with a gun in each hand, until it shattered away completely. He was doing most of his aiming with his right hand, the gun in his left just shooting randomly in their general direction. The entire time, his driver was taking the car all around the road, swerving in and out sharply, as if he was trying to drive like a maniac. It made Harry dizzy, and his stomach was getting upset. He blinked, trying to focus. Harry managed to get one guy in the head, letting his machine-gun clattering onto the road. But that was it.
"Don't aim for the drivers," his new friend yelled. "Aim for the tires!"
Harry opened his mouth to ask the guy to repeat himself, but had to duck to avoid another round of bullets from the remaining Tommy gun. After returning a few shots, Harry yelled, "Aim for the 'highers'?"
"TIRES!" the driver hollered. "SHOOT THEIR TIRES! ON THEIR CAR!"
Harry understood, tried to take aim, and found he couldn't, from this position. He frantically rolled down the window, and stuck his head and hand out, aiming at the wheels of the other car. Before he even got a shot, they swerved out of the way. And suddenly, Harry understood why his friend was driving the way he was. He had to make their tires' movements impossible to predict for their attackers, in order to keep the car moving. The remaining guy with a Tommy gun was now showering the street behind them with bullets, trying to take out their back wheels. His friend was managing to keep their car just ahead of the spray of lead.
They turned onto a main road, causing pedestrians to step back off the street, gasping or screaming. After few more sharp corners, Harry finally thought he had a shot at one of the enemies' tires…and neither of his guns would shoot.
"I'm out of bullets!" Harry screamed.
"Good timing," the driver said, taking them towards a dark tunnel. "Listen, when I say three, we both roll out! Don't forget the bird!"
"What?"
"Trust me! When I say—Get the bird!"
Harry looked at his useless guns, and quickly dropped them and scooped up the statue.
"On the count of three. One…"
They shot into the tunnel, which was pitch-black—no lights. Harry couldn't see his hands gripping the silver statue in front of him.
"THREE!"
Harry suddenly felt a kick in his side, and he smacked into his door. He fumbled with the knob, and tumbled out onto the rock-hard street. He heard the car roar down the tunnel without them. Seconds later, he heard another engine scream past. Harry was in too much pain to stand. The arm he'd landed on was in agony, and the statue had stabbed him in the chest. Well, maybe "stabbed" was an exaggeration. But it had definitely pierced skin, and torn his shirt.
He felt hands on him, pulling him to his feet.
"You okay?"
Harry groaned. "Well I ain't dead."
"Which is probably more than can be said for our pals over there."
Harry nervously followed the driver down the dark tunnel. After who knew how long, they finally saw the stars again. Harry almost waltzed right out of the tunnel, but his friend blocked him with his arm.
"Wait." The guy carefully led Harry against the wall, and they crawled to the edge of the tunnel. "Look."
Harry looked…down. The tunnel was a bridge, and the bridge was incomplete. In the middle of construction. In the water below, both cars were sinking, and a few of the gangsters were floundering in the water. A few of them.
"I think we should go back the way we came." The driver advised.
Harry moved his head to nod in agreement. But as he dipped his head back down, his supper, too, decided to leave the way it had come. Harry barfed for what seemed like a good half a minute, finally finishing with his new friend patting him on the back.
"Come on."
Harry let the guy lead him blindly back through the tunnel. Before they exited back into the city, Harry tucked the statue under his trench coat, and tied it shut. The trek back through the city was almost as terrifying as the car chase, with all the people at pay phones, and police cars already arriving at the scene.
The driver took Harry home to his tiny old apartment. After locking and bolting the door, he pulled his bottle of whiskey out of his coat, and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard.
"No offense, but you seem new to this business," the guy said, pouring Harry his drink.
"I have been a little sheltered, I guess." Harry admitted. "Spending half your teenage-hood in an internment camp will do that to you."
"You're Japanese?" the guy joined him at the table, and began pouring his own drink. "I was gonna guess Korean, or maybe Chinese."
"That too." Harry said. "My family's a little complicated." The whiskey didn't taste great, but Harry forced himself to take another gulp. "God, I hope my parents never find out about this. Especially my mother. It would kill her." He stared out the widow, at the starry sky and the city lights. "She wanted me to play the clarinet. I wanted me to play the clarinet! Or at least work in a garage or something. But who's gonna hire a Jap with no experience."
"Kitty Indiana?" the guy suggested.
Harry nodded. "Kitty Indiana. She hired me the day she met me at her club, as a repairman and gunner. My qualifications being—and I quote—'Why not.'"
The guy slammed his empty glass onto the table, and followed it with a short belch. "Beautiful story."
Harry stared, unimpressed with the guy's response.
The driver suddenly leaned forward, extending his hand to Harry. "Tommy Chicago."
Harry had to crack a grin, because he used the same corny kind of alias. "Harry Kimitsu."
"That was awesome!" Naomi Wildman exclaimed, staring bug-eyed at the little screen.
Naomi was in Engineering, watching the events of Holodeck 1 play out on wall panel. She was one of a small crowd around the little screen, which included her mother, the Doctor, Icheb, and Ensign Vorik. Behind them, crewmen worked to repair the warp core, which had gone dead, leaving the entire Engineering room unusually dark. But to Naomi, that just made the showing all the better.
"It is not awesome." Samantha Wildman shot her daughter a look. "The safety protocols are off! They could've been killed!"
"They may still be killed," Vorik warned. "If we don't find a way to free them from this program."
"Or at least restore their memories." Icheb added.
"Is this like that time we were all trapped in World War II France?" Naomi asked, looking up at her mother.
Naomi really had no idea what was going on right now.
A week ago, Tom Paris had announced that he'd been working on a new holonovel, one based on the American 1940s. It wasn't a War program, though. It was set shortly after the War, focusing on private-eye detectives, social issues, pop culture, the repercussions of WWII, and especially the Mafia. Tom had declared the program finished just that night, and invited the senior staff (his closets clique of friends) to try the program out right after dinner. It was not unusual for the entire senior staff to have get-togethers like that, for birthday parties or promotions or other celebrations, and Voyager hadn't been in any serious trouble for almost a month now (a record, perhaps). So Janeway let Tom talk all nine of them into giving it a shot.
Naomi had been in her quarters, working on a painting for Ensign Jenkins' art class. Inspired by Paris's current film-noir craze, Naomi had been doing a picture of a 1920s flapper girl, eagerly daydreaming about when it would be her turn to get into that new program. Without a doubt, she'd be dragging Icheb along. What she wouldn't give to have Mezoti and the twins back on board, so they could come too…
And then, suddenly, her mother—who'd been on the couch reading some Ktarian fantasy classic—was called to the bridge, for an emergency. Naomi had waited patiently in her quarters, trying to focus on her picture, but ultimately had to give up. She'd had the computer locate her mother, and met everyone up in Engineering, coming in just when "Tommy Chicago" and "Harry Kimitsu" were meeting in that alley. At first, Naomi had thought that this was all part of Tom's program, and that the rest of the ship was being invited to watch the Senior Staff play it out, like a performance. But the concerned voices of her mother, Icheb, and the other officers had begun to hint otherwise.
"Are they stuck in a killer holodeck program again?" Naomi asked her mother, exasperated.
Sam looked at Naomi, almost shamefully. "Naomi, I keep forgetting that you're half-Ktarian. You're not gonna be a little girl much longer, are you." Sam looked over at the Doctor. "Well you were there, Doc. You can probably explain it better than I can."
The Doctor's eyebrows bobbed, as he considered how to sum it up. "Very well, where to begin. The senior staff entered the holodeck, where Mr. Paris decided to show off his knowledge of the Twentieth Century again (as opposed to just letting us just find out for ourselves by playing the program). Everyone probably would have fallen asleep, if they hadn't been rendered unconscious by the chandelier first."
"The chandelier?" Naomi repeated.
"We were standing in a theater lobby of some sort. Mr. Kim noticed it first. Mr. Paris said that he thought the program must be malfunctioning. I saw plasma bursts emit from the chandelier and strike each member of the senior staff except myself. I tried to get to the captain, but I was transferred out back to sickbay before I could. Apparently whoever planned this didn't want me involved."
"Nor the safety protocols." Vorik reminded everyone.
"We can't get in," Samantha's eyes were fixed on the screen, where Tom and Harry were now laughing over their drinks. "They can't get out, we can't communicate with them, and from the looks of it, none of them have any memory of who they really are."
"It is like France, then." Naomi said.
"France?" Icheb gave her an inquiring look.
"France." Naomi said. "You've read the database Icheb, you know about the time the Hirogen took over the ship, and trapped a bunch of us on the holodeck. Mom and I thought we were Jews, and we were hiding in Neelix's attic. I was too young to really understand the politics of it. I just remember being so scared, because my friend got sent to a camp—not a real friend, but you know, in the program—and then, suddenly, we hear this weird language out the window, and I thought it sounded like Scandinavian or something—but instead there's a bunch of Klingons in the street, chopping up Nazis with bat'leths! I didn't remember what a Klingon was at the time, but it was still really cool. The whole thing just feels like a big weird dream now."
"A bad dream." Sam said, cutting her off. "Let's figure out how to get our senior officers out of this one."
The Doctor popped one eyebrow. "Back to work, then, I suppose…"
A/N: The name "Kitty Indiana" is inspired by Texas Guinan (a female club owner arrested several times during the 1920s for serving booze), and Panama Smith (a fictional character based off Guinan, played by Gladys Geroge, featured in the 1939 movie "The Roaring Twenties"). Incidentally, it seems that "Next Generation's" saloon keeper Guinan must be named after Texas Guinan!
Kimitsu is a city in Japan. In this holoprogram, players will have their places of origin altered slightly, to better fit with the social issues of the 1940s. ;)