Frank left the warehouse that day without giving Senator Manchester a response. He wasn't saying no, but at the same time he needed time to think about it. Alvin didn't take offence to that and was actually pleased to see that Frank was seriously considering his offer. Frank also wanted time to check over what Alvin had said, to confirm that his story and reason for meeting was legit. It took only a short time at the library computer to confirm the most important part of it. Alvin's son had been gunned down in a drive by, just as the Senator had explained. A gang of Columbians, very similar to the ones that Frank had been scouting, were moving in on the east coast which is turf the usually belonged to the Irish. Rather than just read about it, Frank made an effort to dig deeper, visiting the Irish pub that was the target of the shooting. He took a seat inside, ordered a pint and a few pounds of wings and just got a feel for the place. When the waitress returned with his food, he then asked the big question. "I'm sorry to bring this up, wasn't there a shooting here a few weeks ago?"
"Yeah, but I wasn't on duty." The waitress replied. "Thankfully it was my day off."
"How many people were actually killed?" Frank asked.
"The paper said two, but in actual fact it was three." The waitress replied. "One of them lasted about a week in the hospital before finally kicking the bucket."
"I don't mean to pry," Frank started. "Wasn't one of them was a young man who was just walking by?"
"That part was wrong too." The waitress replied. "All three were in here when they were shot. The one you're talking about was sitting near the window, having a drink and waiting for a date."
"Thank you." Frank said as he finally let the girl go back to work.
Frank was about four wings into his meal when a big, burly Irishman strolled up to his table. "Ya think people would have learned their lesson when the ol' cat passed away."
"What happened to the cat?" Frank asked.
"He got gutted for being fucking curious!" the big man answered.
"That's a shame." Frank answered. "They're such calm and gentle creatures."
The Irishman seemed to be in no mood for small talk as he went for what seemed to be a switchblade that was in his back pocket. Frank responded by reaching into his own coat and pulling out a mini-Mack 10 that was modified and fully automatic. The man had the knife raised above his head, but Frank had the barrel of the silenced uzi like weapon already jabbed into his belly. It was then when the big man understood his enormous mistake: he had brought a knife to a gunfight.
The bar was not packed so most of the people who were there were regulars, and were not shocked by the appearance of a gun. But before the incident escalated any further, an older man who looked to be in his seventies, stood up and came between them. "Now, now boys." He said as he patted the big man on the shoulder. "We don't need any trouble here. Get back to your stool Jimmy."
It was more of an order than a kind suggestion, and Jimmy replied but putting the knife away. "Yes, Sir." He calmly said before walking back to his stool.
The old man turned to Frank and cracked a small smile. "We've already had one major shooting here this year. We're tryin' hard not to have another."
Frank had no intention of causing trouble, so he lowered the Mack and eventually put it back behind his coat. "I know. That's why I'm here."
The old man took a seat at his table. "Are you a cop?"
"I used to be." Frank said as he grinned himself. It was easy to tell that he used to be a flat footer.
"Feds?" the old man guessed.
"D.E.A." Frank replied.
"We're not that much in the drug business." The old man confessed. Frank could tell by his candour that he was the big boss and this was his bar. "Just some weed, and we never sell to kids."
"I was aware of that." Frank confessed. "Those Columbians were upset because you don't let anyone sell to the kids."
"Not in my friggin' town." The old man coldly chided back. "The kids are off limits. What decisions they make when they're adults is a different matter."
"What happened to the Columbians?" Frank asked. He was under the impression that this wasn't the kind of crowd that likely wouldn't respond to someone shooting up their bar.
"We're still mulling it over." The old man confessed.
"I would recommend doing nothing." Frank suggested. It was actually more of an order than a kind suggestion. "I'm going to take care of those punks."
The old man was a little taken back but the suggestion. "And this is something you're experienced in handling Mr…"
"Castle." Frank replied as he put down his pint. "Frank Castle."
Frank could tell by the old man's eyes, which had widened a bit since revealing his name that he knew. Every mobster in the country knew who Frank Castle was: the ex-D.E.A agent whose family was slaughtered by the cartel. The most notorious vigilante in the country, a wanted man in over twenty states for killing hundreds of criminals across the country. Normally when you hear this man's name, death usually followed. For the old man, life was flashing before his eyes. "You're the punisher." He softly said.
Frank cracked a grin and tossed a chicken bone back into his bowl. "These are really good wings."
"Thank you." Was pretty much all the old man could muster to say. Suddenly he was remembering the automatic hand cannon Frank had pulled out mere minutes ago.
"This is more of a fact finding mission." Frank explained as he polished off his pint. "You guys are not on my radar. For a criminal enterprise, you run a straight ship here and I appreciate that."
"Thank you." The old man said as he waved to the waitress. "Another pint for my friend here, and put it on my tab. I'll have a whiskey. Make it a double." The waitress returned a few minutes later with the drinks and the old man drained his shot in seconds. "What about the Columbians?"
Frank took a sip from his refreshed pint. "They're not going to be anyone's problem very soon."
The old man took a deep breath. Frank could tell he had literally been scared straight by his visit. Good reason to keep his operation as clean as it's been for the last few decades. "Thank you for not causing and trouble. One shooting is one too many in my books."
"That shooting is why I'm here." Frank confessed. "I'm going to make sure those punks get what they having coming to them."
"And what's that?" the old man asked.
"Punishment."