Indeed, Rocky and Freckle were busy; business was, to some surprise, good. There were more patrons in that one night than there had been in a whole week a couple of weeks ago. Maybe it was down to the new furniture, maybe it was due to the new alcohol, maybe it was just luck, but business seemed to be good enough to be making a profit again. Freckle came back into work, seeing as there wasn't really a chance for him to be caught anymore, and he took up the job of holding down the bar and retrieving drinks for people. Mitzi thought it was a good idea, seeing as how he didn't have anything specific to do and how he would wear a suit, in contrast to Viktor. And despite the nervousness that Freckle often felt, and the awkwardness that sometimes arose in conversation, he was still a better conversationalist with patrons than Viktor was.

The band played, with more or less warm reception. Although, it was obvious to those in the Lackadaisy's payroll, bar Freckle, that it wasn't the same— Zib was still absent, of course. Mitzi hadn't forgotten, but the obvious evidence of his absence brought it back to the forefront of her mind; Zib was still in jail. If business continued to be good, and the threat of a raid or additional arrests really was over, then Mitzi was to try and do something about that. Perhaps she ought to post bail; it would seem that she had the money now.

That night ended without a hitch. And a few more nights that were, in comparison to business last month, overwhelmingly successful. Access to the storeroom meant Mordecai could be locked up again, which put Mitzi at ease— no possibility of Mordecai escaping while Rocky watched over him. And everyone had jobs, jobs which they fulfilled well. Viktor wasn't exactly in perfect health now, but he, as he attested himself, was well enough to do the rum-running. All in all, Mitzi considered something of a miracle that things were as good as they were now. And, it meant that Mitzi could finally resolve another situation. Lackadaisy had been in operation again for four nights now, and Mitzi had gathered enough money to be able to pay off her loan.

A quick trip to Wick's, driven by Rocky, Mitzi had with her all of the money she had promised back to Wick— in cash. The car pulled to a stop at the front of the mansion. Mitzi opened the passenger side door and began to exit. As did Rocky. "Oh, Rocky, stay right there, won't you? I'll just be a moment," Mitzi instructed, stopping Rocky in his movement.

"Oh, of course, Miss M.," Rocky smiled, shutting the door and sitting back down. Mitzi walked up to the front door.

It was only a moment before she was let in, seemed to be one of the house staff. Regardless, an unfamiliar face. Upon asking where Wick was, they led her to a room a bit deeper into the house. They stopped outside the door and said that he was on the phone. And with that, they went back to their business.

Mitzi pushed the door, already ajar, open, slowly. She could hear Wick, just as described, on the phone. "—per share?" Wick was focused, but seemed to be just barely smiling, "Okay, and how many shares now?" Pause. "Alright, signal to the board that I think it's time for a stock split, then. Got it? I propose a two-for-one." Mitzi slipped into the room some, envelope in hand. Wick noticed her out of the corner of her eye and quickly turned his head. "Of course I know the consequences it might have," he continued, staring right at Mitzi.

He paused, and Mitzi waited for him to put his hand over the receiver and say something, but he continued. "What's the projected value next quarter?" Wick waved, brow ever-so-slightly furrowed, holding up his index finger for her to wait, and he gestured for her to step outside. But, Mitzi simply stepped forward and dropped the envelope onto the desk Wick was at. Wick was confused and turned away from Mitzi to investigate. He began to open it. "And investor confidence is high, still?" he continued, unbothered.

Looking inside, his eyes widened a bit, and he hesitated. "Ethel, I need you to hold on just a minute, I've got someone here in my office." He put his hand over the receiver and quietly whispered aside, "What's this?"

"You know what this is," Mitzi stated.

"You're paying back the loan?"

"Mhm. Interest included."

Wick seemed a bit astounded. "Already? And, well, at all? I'm surprised, Mitzi. You must be running a tight ship over there."

"Of course." Mitzi turned to leave. "And consider stopping by at some point," she smiled, before disappearing past the threshold, leaving Wick with his investment repaid. And with that, she left the house, returned to the car, and got back home. In and out. That was off of her shoulders.

And in a different place in the city, Dominic was drinking some recently brewed coffee, sitting in his office. No information had come in from Calvin yet, although he was still patiently waiting. But in the meantime, he hoped to cement his suspicions and possible gain some more useful information. He'd personally had Zib kept in the holding cell the whole time, hoping that he would get the information needed for a warrant, then could properly question him for evidence, viable in court. But now, he was cashing Zib's usefulness in, since he might need him to even get to court in the first place. He'd taken some time to come up with some lies and some exaggerations to coax Zib into telling him what he knew; he hadn't divulged anything before. If there was one thing Dom could say about him, it was that he could keep his lips sealed, to a fault, perhaps.

He took his mug, stood up, and walked out of the office, taking his chair with him. Passing the threshold, he turned around, pulled the chair in front of the holding cell's bars, and sat down. It was nearly empty in the building, with most of the officers off on patrol or dealing with cases. There was only one here, who was engrossed in a magazine of some kind. Dominic still hadn't garnered the attention of Zib, who was reading a book. Drago had lent it to him. He had been, and would be, staying there for many days; it only seemed right to give him a bit of entertainment. It was a copy of Moby Dick, one of the few books Dom had had on hand when he'd offered. Seemed like a good read, at least, compared to the drab articles and dry catalogues he had in his office.

Dominic pulled himself closer to the bars, and clinked the bottom of his mug against the bar, angling it towards him. "Zib," Dom said.

Zib looked up, over the pages of the book. He then returned to the book. "Well hello, Dominic."

"You know, I've got a few questions to ask you."

Zib looked over the book, annoyed. "Is that so?"

"Yes. And it would be—"

"You know, Dom, I've got a few questions of my own." Zib sat up, setting the book down next to him, closed. He was alone in the holding cell now, with both Virgil and the other, unrelated cellmate having been gone for quite a while. "When are you planning on letting me go?"

"Now, we're still waiting on bureaucracy to work its magic and for you to get a court da—"

"No, not that. Of course I'm still being kept in the legal system. But I was supposed to be moved to a city jail. Right when I was about to be moved, you pulled aside that officer and, well, for some reason, he decided to let me be." Zib stood up and meandered over towards the bars. "I'd prefer to not be in jail at all, of course, but I'd still rather be in an actual jail than in this place. The only thing I've got to occupy myself is this book." He held up the book. "And it's great and all, sure— a literary masterpiece, but I've read this damn thing two times now. I'm on my third." He threw the book back onto the bed. "So I guess my question is really 'why aren't you letting me leave?'"

"Questioning. You haven't cooperated."

"Oh, so you make the rules here? The officers just listen to you and your bogus charges?"

"Not bogus. Yesterday, I got photographs of the speakeasy." Here were the lies.

"Mhm, yeah. Alright. And I work at a speakeasy," Zib remarked.

"I've got evidence of the secret entrances. Both in the garage and in the café. The hatch and the shelf." Zib subtly blanched. Now he had him. "The underground speakeasy. And I've got a warrant for arrest on several heads. Including a few notable names: Dorian Zibowski and Mitzi May, among others." He'd done research, through the state files and through logs in every system he could get his hands on, and he'd found something approaching Zib's weak point.

"Secret entrances? Ha, I don't know any," Zib swallowed, "secret entrances."

"Tomorrow, some officers and I march into the Little Daisy and we arrest everyone involved in this operation. And your sentence becomes much longer, Zib."

"...How much longer?" Indeed, he had him.

"Don't know. That's up for the jury to decide. But, ballpark, I'd say five years. Could be more. Could be less. But it certainly doesn't help your case that you've already dodged a judge." Dom leaned back, sipping coffee. "But, I've got something here for you, Zib. You see, I can hardly blame you for what's happened here. From what I've learned in my investigations, you are and have been, truly, a sax player, and nothing more illegal. I can't have you tried for what your colleague, Ms. May, has done here in St. Louis. You just went along with the flow, along with your bandmate, and ended up in over your head. And you just kept going along, despite whatever objections you might have had. You aren't to blame here."

"That is, of course," Dom got to his point, "if you can help out our case. If you answer my questions, instead of insisting that there's no speakeasy, like before, then perhaps I can cut you a deal. I can strike you off of the files. Put in a note that you were innocent, not involved in any way, and keep you from the bootlegging charges. Maybe put in a good word for your trial for missing that other court date. And perhaps a good word for your bandmates— even Mitzi."

Zib was silent. Coming to terms with the reality that was confronting him. The false reality, of course, which was perpetrated by optimistic thinking on Dom's part, lying about what had transpired. It wasn't like Zib could fact-check him, as it were. "...Can I see the warrant?" Maybe he could try.

"You want to see it?" Zib nodded. "Can't. It's with the officers on patrol already. They're ready to go make a few arrests when I'm ready."

"Then can I see the photographs?" Zib was getting skeptical now.

"In the evidence locker. Not possible either."

"How do I know you're telling the truth? At all?"

A hard question. One that Dom didn't, and couldn't, have the answer to. But he had a way to get around having to answer it. "Well then," Dom stood up, mug in hand, "I guess I tried. Should have known you would keep your lips shut." Dom began to walk towards his office, dragging the chair with him.

"Woah, hold on!" Zib shouted, jerking towards the bars, hands up. "I'll do it, I'll answer questions, Dominic."

Dominic, safely facing away from Zib, smiled, before, blank expression, turning back, sitting in his chair again, and speaking again, "Alright then. Maybe I was wrong." He took out a small notepad and pencil from his pocket. "What, to the best of your knowledge, was the Lackadaisy doing in the weeks before your arrest?" He had him.