+J.M.J.+

A Slaying Song Tonight

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

Some very difficult action writing (to give it the most sanitary name) in this chapter. It was as hard to write as it might be for some of you to read, but half a bar of Lindt's chocolate raspberry put me into a proper state of sugar shock (that could also explain the very strange ending).

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. Oh, and that is NOT a typo in the title of the chapter down there; that is how it is written in the last line of the second verse of "Jingle, Bells", one of the inspirations for this little bit of nastiness. One last thing: I'm actually pro-fruitcake (yum! You don't like fruitcake? You send me yours!), but I can understand those who don't like it.

IV: Then We Got Up-Sot

Maguire kept his head level, his eyes slitted, gaze dropped without tilting his head, maintaining as ordinary a look as possible to avoid blowing his cover. Someone would get suspicious if they saw him eying the tracks in the snow.

The tracks paused at a toy store window, then moved on. Maguire followed their trail, turning a corner of a street which gradually led into a section of town where a plump little princess didn't belong, past speakeasies and dance halls and other such dens.

He found her toddling past a tearoom which formed a front for the cathouse upstairs. He felt for the .38 under his coat. Guide her toward the alleyway...good girl…

The poppet turned around, facing him, looking up at him, tears on her fat little face. Oh, don't start manning the pumps, kid…

"Oh, uncle Harlen!" she cried, running up to him. Good god, she's adopted me already! he thought, clenching his teeth.

He caught her by the top of her head and held her off. "There you are, Princess," he said, keeping a casual tone. "What were you doing, running off like that? Don't you know there's dragons out here?" He steered her down an alleyway, into a narrow side passage between two buildings.

"Are you taking me back home?" she asked, less teary now.

"You'll be out of this place soon," he said, his hand on the stock of the .38. "I'll take care of you."

The starlight reflected off the crusty snow covering the cinders on the ground. He let go of Angelica's hand and drew out the .38, keeping it low, close to his thigh. He let her get ahead a ways, to keep himself clean.

"Don't let me go," she whined, starting to turn around.

"It's okay: I'm right behind you."

"What if a dragon comes?"

Good god, now he'd have to continue the fairy tale. "If one sneaks up behind, he'll have to get by me first. But if one's stupid enough to come at us from the front, we can both see him. Just don't turn around: the ones that come up behind are scarier than the ones that come from the front."

"I won't be scared."

"Oh ho, they're so frightful to look at, you couldn't help screaming, and that only makes them stronger."

He aimed for the little white back of her neck, right at the base of her skull. For some odd reason, he suddenly remembered the Christmas when he was ten, when someone had thrown a brick through one of the windows of the church just before midnight Mass started, spraying red glass over the nativity scene off to one side on the altar, especially in the manger… He shook his head to clear it, then fingered the trigger, lining up the muzzle with the center of her spine. Hope you like spending Christmas in heaven with the angels, kid…

The gun cracked once. Angelica jolted and fell flat on her face. Easy…it would happen so fast, she wouldn't even feel it. Mortal wounds give no pain.

Something squawked. Was she still alive? He aimed again. No…the doll.

Ma-ma.

Such a small sound, but it nearly made him jump out of his shoes even as he put the piece back inside his coat and fumbled with his camera case. This wouldn't be as easy a picture as he thought.

More memories…his kid sister Emma getting a doll one Christmas; he was thirteen; she was eight. The doll got smashed somehow on Christmas afternoon, and he happened to be near Emma. Pa was roaring drunk already and leveled the blame on young Harley, grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him out to the woodshed where he beat him within an inch of his life. Ma had done nothing, especially when Pa topped of the punishment by groping him…

Maguire clenched his eyes and shook his head to clear it. Focused once more, he loaded a flash bulb, peered into the viewfinder and lined up the camera. Smile, Princess.

He hit the shutter button. Another flash, another shot. Done.

He broke down the camera and packed it away. He remembered his words to Bridie. He decided to ease the blow for her by taking her to Ender's Hotel, get her a drink, break the news to her, then when she broke down, he'd do his best to console her, use his charms, get her upstairs, make her forget about Angelica…

He took an alternate route back to the spot where he'd met Bridie, more circuitous. He ended up tripping on a large crate that had an occupant. He took care of that, in case he had a witness. Christmas carnage: a murder and a 'suicide'. The vagrant would be found with his own hands around his neck…

He found Bridie waiting where they had parted.

"As you can see, I didn't find her," Bridie said, trying to sound flippant, but sounding concerned instead.

"She's gone," Maguire replied, his empty hand lifted slightly. The look on Bridie's face made him quickly change his plans.

"You okay? Your face is as pale as if you'd seen a ghost."

"The cold does that to me. Used to kill me on the farm where I grew up."

"I would imagine," she said, eying him up and down again. "Didn't they feed you? You're so thin you'd blow away in a strong wind if it weren't for that equipment you're toting."

"Too many kids and not enough food to go around," he said with a shrug.

"Most women would say you need someone cooking for you regularly, but I'm not one of them. I like 'em thin."

"Listen to you, you shameless hussy!" he teased. "Flirting with a strange man when your charge is wandering in a city where she's likely to come to harm."

"This isn't the first time she's run off on me like this," she said. She glanced around and leaned closer to him, her lips close to his ear. "Don't tell a soul, but her pop works for Capone. I've got my own ties too, so nobody's likely to get her, unless they're really dumb. Or suicidal."

"Those things come in handy at times, I suppose," he said. "And I bet that's where you get a lot of ideas for your stories."

"And that's why my uncle doesn't approve, either. I'll keep looking for her. Sorry to trouble you."

"It was a pleasure," he said, shrugging and giving her a smile.

An hour after Maguire got back to his flat, Nitti sent a messenger up to drop off the cut for the job. For the first time in the four years since he started working for Capone's second in command, Maguire looked at it as blood money.

When midnight Mass was in progress at St. Joseph's close to his apartment, he snuck into the back of the church and dropped the nine hundred into the collection box. Let the parish see it as a Christmas miracle…

Another first his life: he was reluctant to develop his own prints. It took a couple slugs of whiskey before he could get up the courage to set to work on it.

As he lifted the prints from the rinse pan in his darkroom, he distinctly heard someone knock on the outer hall door. He jolted, knocking a can of chemicals to the floor. He cursed under his breath. Who in hell was this?!

He lifted the corner of the curtain and went out. He almost threw the curtain aside and kicked the door open, deliberately ruining his work, but he restrained himself.

When he opened the front door, the caller had already left, probably that kid down the hall who was always banging on people's doors, thinking he was funny, starting early getting onto Santa's bad list next year…

He looked down. A package wrapped in green tissue paper lay at his feet. He picked it up and unwrapped it to find a heavy paraffin-paper wrapped object.

He undid the waxy paper and uncovered a fruitcake and a note.

Thanks for helping me look for Angelica; here's a little something for your trouble.

Bridie R.

P.s. Just between you and I, has anyone ever told you how dashing you look, even when you're armed?

"I don't need this crap," he snarled. He threw the fruitcake.

It bounced off the opposite wall of the hall. Before he could dodge or duck, the heavy block of flour, sugar and candied fruit hit him on the chin with a resounding bonk! As he fell over backwards, he realized he'd just decked himself with the fruitcake.

The End

Afterword:

All right, that's enough of that. I hope you all enjoyed this: anyone who has ever had to babysit a berserk kid will relate to this fic I'm sure, and some of you probably have wanted to have your enemies bumped off by as cold and practiced a hand as Maguire's. Constructive criticism gently put will be accepted. Evil laughter will be joined in with. Flames will be used to light the bonfire my family has at New Year's Eve.