Chapter Ten: Heebie Jeebies
It was a lovely, summer afternoon where a breeze blew through the streets, cooling skin and tugging at clothes with its caress. Pavement, buildings and parked automobiles alike were bathed in the warm, honey-glow of the sun. Even as people bustled and went about their busy day, they couldn't help but stop once in a while to take a gander at the nearly picture-perfect scenery before them.
But not everyone is privy to such pleasant sights. There are certain locations that the sun's cheery rays will never reach, certain individuals that don't see the light of day out of choice.
Take for example a basement.
There is a stale, acrid smell, a combination of paint thinners, embalming fluid and bleach emanating from everything that could make eyes sting and noses run. It is overwhelming, suffocating to those who are unaccustomed, and mildly irritating to those who have grown used to the odor.
The solitary window built near the room's ceiling had been sealed off with bricks long before the current tenants moved in, much to their delight as they were saved the trouble of having to board it up themselves. With this immovable curtain, the owners saw no reason to remove the metal bars grilling the window, nor the heavy, fist-sized padlock rusting from the dank, damp air of the basement. It even added an extra touch of despair to the already gloomy atmosphere.
If, that is, one could see anything in the meager light of the small bulb hanging overhead.
The weak glow could barely highlight the edges of crates, some still nailed shut, others broken open from a violent scuffle or one too many blows with a crowbar. Peering intently, one could make out long work benches with tools of all sorts ranging from hammers to scalpels lay neatly organized on the surface.
Lining the walls and decorating the room, stopping short of the solid, stone stairwell that led upstairs, were animal carcasses mounted and stuffed to mimic human postures. It was not so much as the gestures and mannerisms that prompted one to question the taxidermist's sense of aesthetics but the fact that most (if not all) had a Frankensteinian flare to them.
A bear, stuffed in mid-curtsy, possessed rabbit ears, elephantine tusks and had three pairs of eyes, and one could almost swear the third pair had an eerily human blue to them. Two blue crows were strangling each other not with feathered wings but rat-like paws and balanced themselves with reptilian feet.
The taxidermy was flawless, as if these misshapen creatures had indeed existed and were preserved in the manner which they had been discovered. One might go so far as to marvel at the skill, if the end products weren't so bizarre.
Amidst the stillness of the room, a head lolled back against a rough, splinter-infested headboard while cold sweat glistened on bare skin. Eyes had rolled to the back of his skull, crimson-stained stubs where fingers should be twitching involuntarily. Wrists were bound in thick leather, strapped tightly to the arm rests and ankles had blood circulation cut-off by the vice-like grip of iron manacles. Ears functioned enough to hear a cheery song, but the mind was too far gone to process the words or understand the melody.
"Over there, over there. Send the word, send the word over there." Chapped lips sang, flashing yellowing teeth every so often. With a bottle of cleaning fluid and a damp rag in hand, he proceeded to clean crusting puss and bits of flesh off the blood-stained, long nose pliers' end.
The singer didn't pause when he detected the sound of the metal scraping against stone and glanced over his shoulder to see the door at the top of the stairwell opened. Wiping methodically at the tool, he continued, "That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming the drums rum tumming everywhere!"
A scented, white kerchief was retrieved from an inner pocket before being pressed against bronzed skin.
"I knew it was a wise decision to leave Virgil at the hotel." Michael chuckled, expensive leather shoes making no sound as he descended into the depths of the darkness. "What would he say if he heard you singing that, Doctor Animo?"
"As if a man of Science would allow one red-neck's opinion of his choice in music affect his work."
Michael quirked an amused golden brow, "Even if said red-neck has the means to fund your studies and experiments for the next decade or so?"
Shoulders shrugged, "So long as his money doesn't complain, I don't see how that will pose a problem to me."
"He's as old fashioned as you are," The blonde explained, blue eyes not having properly adjusted to the dark enough to spot the nasty glare he was being given.
"Do not liken my ethics or my beliefs with those your kind holds." The glint of a scalpel's blade serves as a warning. "Virgil and I may be from the same generation, but I do this for the advancement of Science! Not for profit."
Mike is neither impressed nor intimidated. Under the guise of returning his kerchief to the inner pocket, he undoes the buttons of his blazer just enough to bring the holster strapped to him into view. When Aloysius set the scalpel down back on the table, the younger man approached the bound individual, "And how is our friend today?"
"Useless, like the first night he was brought here. Doesn't know anything we don't already know." The man of Science sneered, thick boots kicking at the chair to add injury to the insult.
"Well that won't do, we still have three or four sources we haven't located." The younger man shook his head in disappointment, "It looks like we have to rely on Sublimino to get what we need after all."
"If he can keep his focus on his task and off those harlots' derrieres he might be able to pull it off." Disapproval and distrust etched clear across Aloysius' frown.
Michael was inclined to agree, "He is more interested in spreading his fame more than sticking to his objectives. But so long as he has that gizmo we need him."
"Bah! Just give me a few hours with that thing and I should be able to replicate it with ease." Chapped lips spat.
"You said it yourself Doctor, you tinker with flesh," bronzed hands reach for the scalpel before smoothly slicing a thin, scarlet trail lengthwise along the bound prisoner's exposed sternum, eliciting a strangled screech. "Not gadgets."
Snatching his instrument back from Morningstar, Animo's brows knit together, "The composition of flesh is far more complex than mere cogs and widgets, boy."
"I'm sure it is." Michael chuckled, thoroughly amused at how little it takes to rile the doctor. Turning on his heels, hands in his pockets, he heads towards the door with relaxed strides. At the top of the stairwell he adds absently, "Oh yes, when you're through tinkering feel free to dispose of him however you wish as long as you do nothing to draw attention."
As the door shuts close, Animo picks up a spool of thread together with a large needle and proceeds to stitch the freshly cut wound. Gurgling moans of agony accompany the man of Science while he sings with a most manic grin, "So prepare, say a Prayer. Send the word, send the word to beware."
--
The instant Gwendolyn stepped through the curtain of beads separating the shop front from the speakeasy's interior, a wave of dread washed over her. Standing with her arms akimbo, platinum brow quirked and lavender-painted lips pursed, was the Madame.
"Tennyson, hun, my office. Now." Charmcaster's usual affectionate lilt was audibly missing. With a ring-laden finger, she gestures the red-head to follow her to the small room her cousin had been invited into not too long ago.
Gwendolyn's mind raced, trying to discern why she received such a grim reception from the older woman. Was she tardy? No, she couldn't be and a brief glance at the tables and chairs that have yet to be properly set up confirmed it. And even if she were, it wouldn't be a grave enough offense to warrant being summoned to the Madame's office.
"Close the door, hun." Charmcaster instructed with a deadpan expression as she sat down on the throne-like chair.
Stepping over the line of red dust, Gwen did as she was told and nervously stood at attention. Her anxiety increased when she took in the macabre collection of skulls and bones, imagination running wild with the notion that she might be making a considerable donation to the Madame's collection some time soon.
The seconds slowly ticked by, but Charmcaster looked to be drawing the tense silence for as long as possible. Despite the carefully blank mask of her face, Gwendolyn could tell the platinum-haired woman enjoyed watching her grow antsier by the minute.
Finally, a grin graced the Madame's lips. "Why you're white as a sheet, Tennyson. Can I take it that you respect my authority and aren't planning on undermining me or the joint? Or is it guilt making you jumpy?"
Emerald eyes blinked in confusion, "I beg your pardon?"
"A little birdie told me you were seen entering The Usual, hun." Was Charmcaster's nonchalant response while inspecting her well-manicured nails. "Now, I suppose the lapdog I mean, your cousin, tried his best to keep you in the dark about how we run things in speakeasies. So I'm going to forgive you for your ignorance this one time. Just make sure that-"
"Now wait just a gosh darn a minute," Gwendolyn exclaimed, voice rising, temper flaring.
Charmcaster wasn't completely taken by surprise when the red-head cut in, the Madame did know a bearcat when she saw one. If the older woman wasn't so accustomed with masking her real feelings, it would have taken a great deal of effort to keep a smirk from forming as she listened to Gwen's explanation.
"I had lunch with my cousin and a family friend I haven't seen since I was knee-high and wore pig-tails. What you're accusing me of is all a load of baloney and-"
Two fingers were suddenly pressed against the red-head's lips, effectively silencing her. One minute the Madame was seated and the next she was inches away from Gwendolyn.
"Hun, hush now," Charmcaster whispered, her breath sweet and warm brushing against the younger woman's cheek. The distinct lack of distance between Charmcaster's face and Gwendolyn's could not be ignored, and it made heat bloom throughout Gwen's body in a manner most uncomfortable. "I take good care of my girls, be they greeters, dancers or dealers. So long as they're not double crossing me or stiffing me of dough or blatantly disobeying my orders, what they do on their own time is none of my beeswax.
"Now, Kevin is less forgiving. He's more likely to give you a fat lip first before asking. And excuses, no matter how on the level they are, just don't cut it with him. I'm doing you a favor, hun, letting you of easy rather than giving you a taste of what you could get if you don't stay away from Pride and out of his turf."
Gwen stepped back, the heels of her shoes stopping short of the line of dust that matched the color of her cheeks, indignation burning clear in her eyes. "I hardly think I matter enough to Kevin that he'd be concerned where I spend my time."
It wasn't certain if the smug, knowing look on Charmcaster's face affirmed her statement or contradicted it. Regardless, it annoyed Gwendolyn, but what truly disconcerted her was the fact that the red-head partly wanted the expression to be the nay-saying sort.
Pushing that last thought out of her mind, she asked the Madame "Was this warning all you wanted to see me about?"
"That and to make sure you know we're in for a flux of deadbeats tonight." The older woman shrugged, sauntering back to her seat. "I don't want you believing every sob-story that comes outta these bozo's lips. Your fingers are supposed to make us rich, not them."
Unpainted lips pursed at the allegation of being gullible, eliciting a chuckle that hinted at the claim's verity from the Madame. Gwendolyn decided it was best not to press the matter any further, deciding instead to focus on proving to her employer that neither she nor Kevin had any cause to suspect her of anything.
Without further ado, the young woman motioned to leave, only to have Charmcaster absently add "If you find yourself in way over your head, hun, just call for Fingers. He'll help straighten things out."
Gwendolyn did not particularly like the sinister smirk on the platinum-haired woman's face, nor the foreboding sense of dread forming in her stomach.
--
A young man sat in the small dressing room he was crammed in along with eight other musicians. From the moment he walked in, he hadn't had a moment to himself. Not when he was unpacking his saxophone, polishing it, assembling it and warming up by playing a few notes together with the other musicians.
And certainly not when the door burst open and a large, muscle-bound man in a sharp suit barked out one word: "Vamoose!"
No one questioned him or his orders, they knew whom he worked for and gathering their instruments, they began to file out the door. They were all let out, except for the sax player. Who, when trying to walk past a certain, dark-haired, russet-eyed individual, was stopped when a heavy hand came down onto his shoulder.
He was pushed back into the room, forced down onto a chair as the last of the musicians exited. Three other men walked in, broad of shoulders and large of fists. They too were dressed in well tailored garments but that was the extent of their polish. Their words, crude and vulgar, their tone of voice threatening and brusque.
"Long time no see, Albright," Kevin greeted, removing the fedora from atop his head.
"W-what brings you here, sir?" the young musician stammered.
"What? Can't a guy pay a visit to his favorite Tin-Pan Alley star?" Kevin almost sounded genuine if his shrug and the smirk didn't exude so much cocky arrogance.
"Th-that's mighty kind of you, sir." Nervous fingers drummed along the neck of the saxophone, beads of sweat trickling down his temple, following the curve of his cheeks towards his thick, prominent lips.
"Hey, don't sweat it." Kevin waved in dismissal.
"I gotta get on the stage soon, sir, can I help you with anything?" Albright wisely refrained from saying what was on his mind lest he ends up encouraging what it is he's trying to avoid.
Kevin grinned, "You always did catch on quick."
"Yeah," one of the men accompanying Kevin snorted, "For a ni-" he wasn't given the chance to finish the derogatory slur as his employer promptly smashed his elbow into the man's face. Expletives flew from bloodied lips, but he received no sympathy from anyone in the room.
"Never use that word in front of me," Kevin explained darkly, "It ain't gonna get nothing done and just makes things worse. Ain't that right, Albright?"
The musician swallowed, nodding. "If this is about Cooper, I, I don't know much, sir. Except that iffin' you ever catch wind of his whereabouts, I'll be short one less friend."
Kevin glowered, "You're not gonna make me have to take you for a ride, am I?"
"Begging your pardons, sir, but Cooper knew you'd be here to see me sooner or later. So he just upped and vanished on me, sir. But it ain't much of a secret, how he and his is getting their palms all greased up by a new comer."
Russet eyes narrowed, "Give me something to work with about this new comer."
"The cat keeps things under wraps, sir. Ain't got much to go on except that he's getting his money from down south. The old-fashioned south." He spat out the words in disgust, anger flickering in his eyes as briefly as a flash of lightning before clouding over in with careful secrecy. "I really gotta warm up for the show, sir."
Clapping the musician on the back, Kevin nods, "Go on out and knock 'em dead."
Albright nodded vigorously, "You ain't gotta tell me twice."
The fedora was back on Kevin's head when he and his men disappeared from the dressing room.
In hushed tones, the man who had his face smashed in asked "If it's so easy to make him spill the beans on his pal Cooper, what makes you think won't turn stoolie on us?"
Rocky provided the explanation, "Because he knows no one but us will take his word seriously."
"It also helps that we got the only copy of the file the fuzz had on him. The one that they conveniently lost, along with those they had of you guys." Kevin chuckled as they climbed into the car.
"Where to now, boss?" Sparks asked, hands on the wheel, eager to zip off to their next destination.
Kevin knew which of his connections he was to visit next, "Back to our joint."
--
There was something about the clean texture of a freshly opened deck of cards, the sharp snap they make when shuffled, the smooth way they glide over felt that is calming to Gwen. Her fingers act on their own accord, lost to the rhythmic pace of cutting, shuffling and dealing. Idly she chatters with the few people who stray over to her table, small talk that make no impact on either party, things that neither will remember or care to afterwards.
Every so often, some of the other girls will grace her station with their presence, particularly to show off the decoration on their arms, namely men either zozzled beyond reason (making them easy pickings for a game or two) or old enough to be their grandfather.
"Better luck next time, gents." The red-head stated, mimicking the way the other girls spoke as she revealed her hand. And she uses the term gents very loosely, considering the sort of words that are uttered when they practically shove the chips at Gwen.
The other girls coo to their losing patron, make promises of consoling them if they were still generous enough to buy them a drink. The flappers exchange sly winks with each other, tossing their head back in mad fits of giggles, body language making as much innuendo as physically possible.
At that thought her eyes cannot help but wander towards the booths where Rojo and a few other girls sat with Sublimino who was making himself comfortable on the athletic woman's lap. The usually surly flapper was all smiles, as if absolutely riveted by the conversation she was having with the blonde entertainer.
Her fingers would fiddle with the diminutive man's wiry hair and playfully pull at his bottle-rimmed glasses. The rust-haired flapper seemed to be making up for her less-than-welcoming attitude from nights past.
Charmcaster was flitting from one cluster to another, appearing then disappear just as quickly, a will 'o the wisp, as if her presence had been little more than one's imagination. But the scent of her perfume, the lilt of her laughter, the light feathery touches, they linger in the back of people's mind as a solid testament to her name.
Once or twice, Gwendolyn swore she saw the Madame on the dance floor, bare feet moving in time with the music, hips swaying seductively, beckoning to everyone whose eye she had drawn that like her girls she could be had.
For the right price.
It was an offer several of the patrons wished to take up, but only a select few could even come close to making an acceptable bid. The Madame's painted lips cracked a smile, colored lids fluttering coyly as she offered her silk-smooth hand to a gaunt gentleman whose pale, leathery skin was stretched taut across his bones.
From the corner of her eye, Gwendolyn watched as the pair slipped away to disappear into the backrooms.
If the red-head was uncomfortable with the hedonistic on-goings, she managed to conceal it behind a warm smile, a good-natured laugh. She focused her thoughts on her job, keeping an eye out for any potential cheaters, studying for any tell-tale signs that might indicate whether she was to deal a winner or a bust. The steady flow of people coming to her table kept her distracted enough from noticing Kevin was no where to be seen.
Until, that is, the aforementioned individual made a beeline for her table and forcibly relieved the current high-roller of his seat.
No one dared complain.
"Hey there." Kevin greets, velvet of voice, confident of manner.
"You'll have to wait for the next hand if you plan on joining," Gwen responded, far more aloof than she intended, Charmcaster's warning had apparently had more of an effect than she thought.
The mischievous gleam in his eye shone as he signaled to the other players that it was in their best interest that he be left alone with Gwen.
Clinking of chips being gathered and the quick shuffles of retreating feet were the response made.
He propped his elbows against the felt surface of the table, chin resting on the back of his hand, "And how's my girl doing?"
"Who exactly are you talking about?" She asked neither coy nor sharp. Gwen was keeping herself in a careful neutral despite the butterflies taking flight in her stomach.
"Who else but Charmcaster," He tells her, brow quirking in amusement at the sudden rigidity of Gwen's shoulders.
There was a pause before the shake of her head, "You're something else, Mister Levin. Charmcaster's currently predisposed in one of the backrooms. Now if you would so kindly let me do my job?"
The sudden formality of her speech does not go undetected to the dark-haired man, and he cannot help but break into a wily grin. "Sure, but just so's you know," he rises, turning his back to the young woman while he heads for the Madame's whereabouts, "The only way you could be my girl is if you wanted to."
It took every ounce of will power to keep Kevin from glancing over his shoulder to see the look on the red-head's face. He would later learn, from one of the busboys, that Gwen seemed more confused than pleased by his statement.
With Kevin's departure, the other players returned to finish their game, with two exceptions. The first was an older man dressed in worn clothes that only emphasized his lanky frame. The sleeves were frayed, patches clumsily sewn where the elbow and knees of his suit should have been. Disheveled hair hid his eyes, his unkempt beard and mustache surrounded the ugly twist of his mouth. Such a shabby appearance, coupled with his unusual complexion, it was a wonder he was granted entrance.
But it was not Gwen's place to judge, her own apparel was dowdy, frumpy when compared to the glitzy rhinestone-covered dresses of the other girls.
Hovering a few feet behind the scruffy newcomer was the bodyguard Fingers. It was difficult to miss the man whose suit seemed hard-pressed in keeping him clothed, the suspicious, distrusting look on his face even more so.
"So which will it be gents, Blackjack or Poker? I'm feeling generous tonight so you can take your pick." Gwendolyn offered, folding the cards lengthwise just enough to spring them back and forth between her hands.
"Poker." The poorly groomed individual declared, not bothering to make a consensus with the other players. He didn't so much as glance at his competitors, instead mumbling beneath his breath and reaching into his pocket every so often.
When no one objected, the red-head dealt them their hands. Under Charmcaster's instructions, she soon had every man cleaned out. And as normal, those who lost would wander elsewhere, trying their luck in something else.
Save, that is, for the muttering man.
"Another hand!" He hissed, despite the fact his meager stack of chips were long gone.
"You'll have to bet something first," Gwen explained, ignoring the strange chill that made its way up her spine.
A snarl and a hand slammed down forcibly onto the felt. The appendage retracted, revealing a small brooch shaped like a dragonfly. It looked tacky, costume jewelry at best, a cheap three-for-one toy at worst.
"I'm sorry but you'll have to turn that into chips," Gwen pushed the brooch towards the man.
"Listen, you tramp, I've been playing here long before you ever showed your stuck up face in this joint!" he snarled, slipping the brooch back into his pocket before pointing an accusing, knobby finger inches away from Gwen's face. "I know what I can or can't do!"
And suddenly the lights were eclipsed as Fingers loomed over the man. "Been waiting all night for you to make a dumb move, Clancy." The bodyguard grinned.
"Applesauce." The man squeaked, "Hey, I ain't done nothing but put this tramp in her place."
The disheveled man felt meaty digits encase his nape, winced visibly at the tightening grip on the base of his head. His legs began to kick wildly when the soles of his feet could no longer feel the surface of the floor.
Wordlessly, Gwen watched as Fingers lifted Clancy up and off the ground by the scruff of his neck. "You looked like you were gonna hit her. Charmcaster don't like it when people try to rough up her girls. And a certain someone likes it even less."
"W-what are you going to do with him?" Gwen asked, a lump forming in her throat.
"Don't worry your pretty lil' head over it," Fingers laughed.
Clancy's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, desperately trying to free himself from the larger man's clutches. Still holding Clancy aloft, Fingers headed for the backroom where they both disappeared, leaving an upturned stool as the only proof either man had been present.
Gwen found herself feeling very cold.
--
Author's Notes:
Apologies for the time it took to update (and a short one at that!). I had a major writer's block for this chapter, not to mention gotten eaten alive by a combination of work, HM:IoH and Viva Piñata. How playing something as cheerful as Viva Piñata led to me writing this, I have no clue. But reading Jojo's Bizarre Adventure on the side did help me at least start writing. The chapter's a bit darker than I intended, but not dark enough to warrant an M rating. I think.
I like Animo, I really do, the fact his first name's Aloysius is just love. I still wanted to keep true to his mad scientist shtick but since this ain't the 21st century or Steampunk, I went with taxidermy (another word I love, even if it is a cruel thing to practice).
The next update will probably be in late October. Yes, I am sadly not quite alight with the flame of inspiration to write more anytime soon. As always, comments and criticisms are highly welcomed. If you notice any glaring plot-holes or have issues with the way I interpret the characters, just let me know.