Author's note: back again! Much earlier, this time, too, since I had written this chapter a couple of months before I finished the previous one. Anyway, I loved writing it, but boy, was it hard. I did lots of research in Aussie beer, slang and whatnot and got to use a little bit here (yay!). There's a couple of "translations" at the page bottom, by the way :D

Disclaimer: While I suppose I own Dick Kowalski and his mook Averell, I don't own any of the other characters who appear in this chapter. Good thing, too, because even though Captain Boomerang is rather awesome in his own particular way, I really don't want to claim responsibility for him – he is something of a smarmy bastard :D

Everybody Comes To Harry's

CROSSROADS

When George 'Digger' Harkness, aka Captain Boomerang, pushed the door of the bar – happier than he'd care to admit to be out of the snow and the wet, bitter cold – he was early. Bit unusual, but that was all right. Plenty of time to order a lager and hang around, trying to think up a solution to the spring catch on the small steel boomerang he was working on. That glitch had to be corrected if he wanted to use it against the Flash. Now there was a hard customer, all right.

The bar wasn't half bad to wait around in, too. Not only was it warm (as warm as bloody Missouri could get in the middle of February, anyway), the music was pleasant and unobtrusive, and the pretty little thing who did the waitressing had some curves in the right places.

Never mind that she glared at him non-stop since he'd said something about that to her a couple of days ago. American girls were a stuck-up lot, he decided, not taking his chances tonight. Shrugging it off (and especially not pursuing the matter further) meant he had no trouble with Harry, and the last thing he wanted was trouble with a publican who, unlike many of his American counterparts, understood exactly what he meant when he ordered a pot of Vic and could actually provide him with a pint.

Man like that was a tribute to his profession.

He sipped a bit of his lager with a grin, savouring the subtle flavour – despite its name, Victoria Bitter was not that bitter – the fruity aroma and all the crap publicists liked to slap on a bottle. It was bloody good, a little piece of the mother country, and even though the mother country meant a lot of unpleasant business as far as he was concerned, it was still Oz. That meant something.

Plus the taste was just exactly what lager should be. American beer had nothing on it.

It was five to eight when he glanced at the clock and started to wonder if this was such a great idea after all. He'd only agreed because he happened to suggest it. Maybe it had been one of those times when he should've kept his big mouth shut.

Pity he never could spot those moments till it was too late.

A cold draft blew in as the door opened, letting in a few flakes of snow and two blokes who headed for Digger's table as soon as they spotted him.

"I take it you're Kowalski," he said, not rising from his seat and eyeing the man from head to toe. Hard features, harder eyes, average frame – maybe the reason for the broad-shouldered flunky who lurked behind him – and something cold and calculating on his face. The kind of bloke you want to stay away from as long as possible, because he might be clever as hell, but he'll have no qualms whatsoever leaving you behind with a knife in your back if it meant saving his hide.

Richard Kowalski nodded, his eyes not leaving Digger's face, brushing snow off his shoulders. "They're late."

"Not yet, mate, you're five minutes early," he corrected, thoroughly enjoying the way the giant mook was looking this way and that uncertainly, as though unsure of whether to sit down or not. "'Ere, you gonna stand there till they get here, or d'you want to get a beer?"

Kowalski shrugged, and sat down, gesturing to the big guy to do the same. When the waitress came round to take their orders, he said casually, "I'll have the same thing he's having."

Digger raised an eyebrow with a smirk. "You sure? This is Aussie lager, mate. Heavy stuff."

The stare he got in return had a 'Why-Don't-You-Mind-Your-Damn-Business' quality to it.

"I'll take my chances."

The pretty waitress strode off to the bar with an order for two Victoria Bitters, and it gave Digger the opportunity to sneak a glance at a nicely rounded arse under the apron before returning to the business at hand. "You remember the terms?"

Kowalski opened his coat slightly, showing empty pockets. "No weapons, like we agreed. Averell, show the man."

The newly-named Averell stood up and emptied every pocket he seemed to have. While this extensive search turned out used paper hankies, bits of string, a paper clip or two and a couple of empty cartridges, it became obvious he didn't have any weapon. But Digger suspected that he wouldn't need any if the situation called for it.

He had his usual boomerangs up his sleeve and inside his jacket, but no need advertising that. He was only here as the neutral party after all. Anyway, no harm in being prepared.

The door opened again, and Kowalski's attention shifted from Digger to the newcomers.

A guy dressed like an Eskimo and a guy in a fire suit. Come to think of it, the association was pretty funny.

They went by the monikers of Captain Cold and Heatwave, but Digger had worked with them a couple of times, and this had been enough to learn that their actual names were Len Snart and Mick Rory, respectively. They worked with a third guy who called himself the Weather Wizard (why had he needed the alliteration bonus in his work name was anyone's guess since 'Mark Mardon' was already a good one) and called themselves the Rogues.

Everyone else called them 'the Flash's rogues gallery', a fact that annoyed the hell out of them.

Still, they were the only other 'costumed villains' in Central City – and probably in the whole Midwest, since most of the others hailed from Metropolis or Gotham – and as such, Digger felt a kinship of sorts with them. Especially given that the Flash seemed to take it upon himself to stop them whenever they tried something. Having a cheerfully grinning speedster constantly on your case could really wear a bloke down.

They did get some respect, however, because in the three or four years or so since the city first heard of guys in costume playing cops and robbers, they had pulled some good stunts when the Flash had failed to either show up or stop them, on their own as well as together. It was also a well-known fact that, should one of them run into nasty business, the others would turn up and give a hand if a hand was needed.

The guys might dress in bright colours and go by funny names, but they were professionals, and they were efficient. And most of all, they were fiercely loyal.

One thing you learned quickly in Central City – and Digger himself had, ever since he had got here last year – you did not mess with the Rogues.

This was the reason of his presence here, as well as Kowalski and his bodyguard. As he understood it, Rory used to work for the Keystone drug lord, but he'd called it quits a few years back and moved over to Central where he had become Heatwave. As it turned out, one of his old colleagues had just got out of prison and claimed that not only was Rory responsible for putting him there, but that he also knew what had happened to a rather important supply of coke that they were supposed to intercept and bring back.

According to Rory, neither claim was true. This hadn't stopped Kowalski from sending guys after him to 'persuade' him to tell them the truth, especially about the bit about the coke and its current whereabouts. Mostly, Digger suspected, they were just after good old payback.

After the third attempt, Rory had finally told Snart and Mardon that Kowalski was after his blood. Digger had been sitting at the very next table during the conversation, and had suggested a non-violent meeting in a neutral place, with himself as the referee.

Exactly how charged he had been when he had come up with that suggestion, he couldn't even remember.

Since then, there had been two more 'persuasion' attempts on Rory, which had resulted in Kowalski's man landing in the hospital for a bad case of frostbite in suspiciously specific places on top of the now usual burns, and Kowalski accepting a temporary truce and a meeting at Harry's. Apparently, one his lieutenants had objected, arguing that the Van Buren Bridge that linked the twin cities was a more neutral choice for a meeting, but Kowalski had called him a silly bastard and stated that they were less likely to freeze their asses off in a bar.

Things like that got around fast.

So Digger was stuck with the thankless job of keeping everyone alive. This meant two things: no weapons – Cold showed his empty holster and Rory had left his flame-thrower gun thing at home – and beer. Lots of beer. And possibly those little special bottles that he only opened for special occasions.

Snart and Rory ordered the same thing Kowalski and Averell (was that his first name? Last name?) were having – suspicious, no doubt – sat down, and glared. They didn't even have to take off the blue glasses and the yellow goggles.

Well. Aren't we off to a nice start.

"So, Rory," Kowalski began, his tone colder than the weather outside, "I hear you've been making a name for yourself. But seriously… 'Heatwave'? Was that the best you could come up with?"

Rory looked positively frozen – his lips were still tinged with blue and he seemed to have a hard time controlling shivers – but his burning glare could be felt from behind the goggles. "Did you cross the river just to snark at me? Because you could have sent someone to do that for you. Oh, wait," he added with a thin, mocking smile, "you did. How're the guys, by the way?"

It was Kowalski's turn to shoot him a dirty – or rather, dirtier – look. He took a hearty swig from his mug, his eyes not leaving Rory.

The waitress chose that particular moment to bring the two pints of lager. She took in the four men who glowered fiercely at each other, bristling, and her eyebrow went up.

"Anything I can help you with, gentlemen?" she asked, her voice halfway between caution and warning. Digger gave her his best grin. The one that, for some reason, left people thinking he was a smarmy bastard.

"Just bring us five more Vics, love. Don't worry, we all know the rules here."

She walked off, still stealing a glance over her shoulder from time to time.

The two parties relaxed imperceptibly. Round one was over, and nobody had lost yet.

"What rules?" said Averell, sounding nonplussed. Snart gestured with his gloved thumb to a sign on the wall, his eyes still staring straight in front of him.

"No powers. No funny business. And don't hog the damn bathroom."

"'Powers'?" Kowalski snorted. "You guys make me laugh. You have weapons – yeah, and powerful weapons too, I hear that this Weather Wizard's gear is pretty nasty – but it's not like you have powers. I heard about a guy in Gotham who can turn into clay. But you lot? Without your guns and your magic wands, you're nothing."

Snart's eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't exactly say that," he drawled, his voice dangerously low. "Still, I'd at least follow the other two if I were you. Especially the bit about the bathroom." He drank from his mug and raised an eyebrow. "That's good stuff. What is it?"

"Aussie lager," Digger supplied, starting on his second. "Best in the world. So – ya obviously didn't come all the way from Keystone for pleasantries, eh, mate? Best to settle it now so we can all enjoy our beer like it deserves to be enjoyed."

"All right." Kowalski leaned forward, his eyes boring into Rory's. "McKenna got out a couple of weeks ago. Remember him? You were supposed to back him up for that deal near Hawthorne Road. Instead you came back saying the cops had gotten him and you wanted to quit. Well, guess what he's told me?"

Rory shrugged, drinking his lager slowly.

"That you knocked him out and left him there for the cops to find, along with a potential customer and two pounds of his best snow. And that you split with the rest of the dope. So, you tell me – who should I believe?"

"Believe McKenna, for all I care," Rory replied, outwardly calm but gradually looking less and less cold, as though anger warmed him up by the minute. "He's a bastard. Not to mention a first-class paranoid one, at that. I quit, isn't that enough for you?"

"No," Kowalski said flatly, finishing his lager just as the waitress brought five more mugs. "I want to hear you say you stabbed us in the back before you up and waltzed off to Central. I want to hear you admit you chickened out of a well-paid job and ran away like a goddamn coward. But mostly," he added, leaning on the table with a small, unpleasant smile, "I want to know what you did with my two pounds of dope."

Rory made a disgusted face. "I didn't keep it, if that's what you mean," he spat. "Didn't sell it, either. I wanted to make my own money."

Digger stifled a yawn. This was getting boring. On the other hand, it was rather entertaining to see Averell shrink away unnoticeably from his employer, who was now very close to sneering.

On the other side of the table, Snart was watching intently, his own face inscrutable.

"Anyway," Rory continued, unruffled, "I was done working for ya. If you want to call me a coward, do it to my face – don't send muscle to try to scare stuff out of me. But I know what I'm worth." The thin smile resurfaced. "The last two guys you sent – they were your best shot, weren't they?"

"Of course not," Kowalski said with supreme disdain. "You're not worth that."

"But, Boss, you said Davis was the best for that kinda work," Averell pointed out almost shyly – and it was a sight, to see this sheer mass of muscles try to take up as little space as possible. "It's a good thing that he was the best, too, because otherwise it would've been bad…"

"Shut up, Averell," Kowalski snapped as Rory smirked.

"Look… Dick. You can keep sending your thugs after me, and I can keep roasting 'em till they get enough, but in the end it's your call. As far as I'm concerned, you're of the past. Off the roll. Been there, done that, bought the Combines T-shirt. I don't bother you in Keystone, you don't bother me in Central. Sounds fair?"

If Kowalski's face was any way to judge, it sure didn't. "Not nearly. Not by a long shot, actually. 'That your last offer?"

"I don't remember making an offer. More like a gentlemen's agreement. I stay off your turf, you stay off mine."

The two of them were back in full glare mode, but it didn't carry the same weight it had when Rory and Snart had come in. Neither Snart nor Averell was adding their own to the glowering contest, for one, Snart leaning against the back of his seat with his arms crossed and a small smirk playing on his lips, and Averell looking unsure and glancing from his boss to the latter's former employee as though waiting for an instruction.

As far as Digger was concerned, it meant one thing.

"Right, so that's settled, then. Hey, look at what I got there – betcha never tasted this. Five empty glasses please, sweetie."

…Home-made Aussie rotgut. Right out from old Pa Wentworth's moonshine shed in Korumburra.

So far, it had never failed to lighten a conversation.

Four pairs of eyes with expressions ranging from mildly interested to downright hostile followed his careful movements as he poured each of them a small glass, taking great pains not to spill one drop. It always impressed Yanks when the liquid burned through the wood of the table, generally in a bad way. It gave them the wrong ideas.

They turned up their noses at tasting something that made smoke when it touched a hard surface, go figure why.

Four pairs of eyes stared at him as he took the first gulp, savouring the fire in his throat and grinning widely.

This took him back. Way back. To when he'd been just another snotty larrikin with grubby, knobbly knees, running in the dust with his mates, practising throwing boomerangs and nicking stuff.

When he didn't drop dead, Kowalski and Averell on one side and Snart and Rory on the other each took their glass and emptied it. In one gulp. Digger blinked. They were off their bloody nut, the lot of them.

Of course, the most interesting part was always what happened after the first glass, so he certainly intended to stick around for that.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Kowalski's eyes opened wider than Digger thought humanly possible. Rory's face quickly gained back colours as he half-opened his mouth in a silent scream, and finally Averell abruptly slid off his seat and under the table without a sound.

Only Snart appeared more or less unaffected. "Mick?" he asked, his voice a little too even to be entirely natural. "You look, uh… You don't look so cold anymore."

"That's because I'm not," Rory hissed, pulling off his goggles and tugging on his collar to let off some of the heat. His normally pale face was pink, with a deeper red colour on his cheeks. "Christ, Boomer, what's in that stuff?"

"Apples," Digger replied quickly, before correcting with a grin, "Well, mainly apples."

Kowalski's eyes still looked about to pop out of their sockets, but he breathed deeply and said in a funny sort of voice, "Beet, too, I'll bet."

"Yup."

"'S what I thought."

The first surprise was gradually fading, and Kowalski, Snart and Rory were now eyeing Digger's bottle warily, caution vying with interest. Nobody was rolling on the floor with his mouth on fire – technically, Averell was on the floor, but in a boneless slump rather than a burning agony – so Digger took it as a good omen.

"I knew a Polish girl," he said, cheerfully pouring another round, "who used to drink that stuff for breakfast. Mostly it's bloke turps, though."

"Yeah," chimed Kowalski, funny voice still in full gear. "Brutal stuff you got there, ya gotta admit. Odd, too."

Rory took another gulp despite the fact that his eyes were watering, as though he couldn't quite believe it. "Definitely apples," he said vaguely. "You can taste the… Yeah. Apples."

"You know what?" asked Snart, who was halfway through his second glass but – Digger noted with amused curiosity – whose diction still remained clear. He raised it into the light and stared into the liquid. "Reminds me of that barn we hid in first time we worked with Mardon. Train job was a spectacular failure, but the moonshine was good. Red barn near Parkville, wasn't it?"

"Don't like red," Rory muttered, eyelids drooping. He managed to open his mouth, blink, and utter, "Aw crap…" before his head hit the table with a thud.

Digger took his glass from him before he smashed head first into it, and glanced sideways to Kowalski, who seemed to make a point of drinking at the exact same speed as Snart. Who gave a small smirk.

"So. You gonna do as he said? Or do you want to bulk-order mooks to Central City General?"

"I don't remember agreeing to this particular arrangement," Kowalski snapped, suddenly back to business – although his voice still had something strangled about it. "Rory took something that was mine. McKenna may be a useless piece of shit but Rory's not getting off stealing from me and sending the guy in jail. If I'd known then, I wouldn't've let him leave."

Snart emptied his glass in one gulp – Digger raised an eyebrow – and leaned in with a cold stare made downright chilling by the abrupt disappearance of his (however unfriendly) little smile.

"Yeah. Well. He left. He left for reasons of his own, and he'll give 'em to you someday if he wants to. But that deal was off in the first place 'cause your man wanted to sell the dope to a guy who deals in schools to little kiddies. Mick objected, decked him, left him, and dumped the package in the Missouri river. Oh, and that McKenna guy actually wanted to keep the money and tell you the cops busted the deal and took the drug – maybe you'll want to ask him about that."

Kowalski's face was one ugly picture, and Digger was ready to bet anything that his little Aussie moonshine had little to do with it. It did, however, probably have something to do with him trying not to splutter and cough when he downed his second glass.

"Rory worked for me," he snarled, his face a flaming red. "On my terms. He never had any goddamn moral dilemma protecting a candyman, and you wanna make me believe he suddenly grew a conscience and quit?"

Snart shrugged. "You believe what you want."

Then, in one quick motion, he reached across the table and grabbed Kowalski by the collar. Before the guy could strike back – or even register, Digger suspected – he said in the same low, cold voice, "But believe this: you come after one of us, I come after you. You get personal, we get personal back. Got it? So you and your goons stay the hell out of Central."

He released Kowalski and sat back down, his eyes still locked on him. Kowalski looked an interesting combination of dumbstruck, terminally furious, and dutifully hammered.

"You – you – stay out of – do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

Len Snart put his right hand on the table. There was a small cold gun in it.

"Do you?" he asked evenly.

Kowalski's jaw hit the table. Digger swore under his breath and instinctively reached for one of his smaller boomerangs up his sleeve.

"You brought – we said no weapons!"

"And you've been sending your men after mine for two weeks," Snart retorted, his gun steady in his hand. "How dumb do you think I am?"

Kowalski stared at him. It was exactly the right occasion for a 'if looks could kill' remark, but Digger wisely kept his mouth shut for once. Because if looks could kill… this one would have been a mass-destruction weapon.

Snart stood up slowly, but still sure-footedly, and pocketed his weapon. "So. I think this meeting's over. Agreed?"

When Kowalski got on his feet, he was considerably less steady and seemed well aware of it.

"This isn't over."

"Yeah it is. You're a businessman – it so happens that this 'business' of yours is rather despicable, but to each his own – and you know how bad it is for business when you get distracted. And we provide good distraction here in Central. Just ask the Flash."

He was just standing there with his hands in his pockets, not looking particularly threatening –nothing specific, rather – but Digger didn't put away his boomerang. It might have been due to the fact that he was smiling – a small, smug, crooked kind of smile. No way a guy who smiled like that could be harmless.

Kowalski seemed to think so, too, because he crossed his arms against his chest and spoke with as much dignity he could muster while blinking and swaying imperceptibly.

"Let's say I agree to this. I leave Rory alone. What'll you do?"

The slight smirk didn't slip. "To you? Not a damn thing. We don't play in the same league."

For a moment it looked like a stalemate, neither opponent backing down. The silence and the tension dragged on.

Kowalski finally nodded. Then he backed away to the bar to call a cab, still not breaking eye contact. Only now did Digger discreetly remove his hand from his boomerang. Maybe this could go down peacefully, after all.

When he was certain the bloke was out of earshot, he took another gulp from his glass and looked up at Snart.

"One 'Captain' to the other… That's one bloody good act you've got there, mate."

Snart was still standing – though leaning against the seat in a would-be casual manner – but his eyes had gone a bit glassy.

"What?" he muttered, his voice thicker than it had been barely a few seconds ago.

Digger grinned. Aussie moonshine… Never ceased to amaze him.

"You'd pull that kind of stunt for Mardon, too?"

"Well, yeah. Gotta stick together. Help each other out. Nobody's gonna do that for us if we don't."

"Right." Pretty sound reasoning, as far as Digger was concerned. There was only one problem: Captain Boomerang stuck his neck out for nobody.

Then again, those guys sure didn't look like 'nobody'.

Maybe it was worth a shot after all.

"You guys got something planned in the near future?"

"Go home and sleep for a week?" Snart suggested dryly, still watching Kowalski wait at the bar for his cab. Digger snorted.

"Besides that."

Snart stared him up and down, and bleary-eyed as he was, the appraising stare was still remarkably sharp. After a little while he said slowly, "We might have something in the works. But if you're gonna be a part of that, you're going all the way. No backing down at the last minute."

"Spiffy. Do I get to wear a nice badge, too?"

This should probably have got him more than just a deadpan stare, but Snart didn't say anything. Instead, his eyes followed Kowalski as he went to pick up Averell with some difficulty and walked out the door. The candyman returned the glare before he stepped out into the snow.

"Is he gone?" Snart asked. Digger peered out the door, saw the cab drive away, and nodded.

Snart replied flatly, "Good."

Then – his expression not shifting one bit – he slowly keeled over, stiff as a board.

Digger barely had time to catch him by the hood of his parka before he slammed to the floor nose first, swearing under his breath. The bloke was heavier than he looked. He should have seen it coming, though – when all was said and done, those Yanks were all a bunch of bloody Cadburies.

That was what he told Harry when he came over, angry and a little alarmed to see two of his most regular customers out for the count – and possibly a little bit curious as to exactly what had knocked them out as well, because, as he pointed out to Digger, those two weren't exactly lightweights.

Digger showed him the bottle. Harry spent five minutes making him swear over and over again that he would never, ever bring that stuff in his establishment again.

He thought of Victoria Bitter, and swore as many times as Harry asked him to.

In the end, he got himself a chair in the back room and watched his two unconscious 'colleagues' where he and Harry had put them both on an old, sagging seat, knowing they would wake up a few hours later with the grandmother of all hangovers.

As he sat there finishing his glass, the dimmed sounds of faint music and conversation seeping through the door, Digger reflected on the evening and how it had played out. The almost 'job' offer in particular stuck in his mind.

He had never asked for a job – this sort of job, anyway – before. He had never even wanted to. Work alone, that's what he did. But something in the months he'd spent working Central City had changed a bit of that view, and he suspected it had a lot to do with Snart and Rory's attitudes tonight.

They might be a grand total of three 'Rogues', but they were tighter than any group Digger had encountered before. Mardon hadn't shown up at all and had barely been mentioned, but if Kowalski intended to start any trouble again after this, Digger knew Keystone City was in for the meanest, most precise storms of its history. And his men would no doubt get tired of the 'fire and ice' routine before he did.

They were only three – two of whom had showed up – but they stood up to one of the most powerful drug lord of the Twin Cities. And they did so with complete ease and confidence, knowing that they had the power to afford it.

Strength in numbers was not an illogical approach; it was only natural that 'costumed criminals', as the papers called them, tended to band together.

But in this particular case, there was something else – something different from logic – that kept whispering in Digger's mind that maybe, possibly maybe, there could be something there that could work.

You couldn't buy loyalty like that. Not with all the billions in all the banks in the world.

But you could work for it, and earn it. Possibly use it as a shield if necessary, too.

"I stick my neck out for nobody," he muttered to no-one in particular, only half-trying to sound convincing and failing anyway. It was a good thing, really, that he usually kept such a loose grip on his principles. Because working with these blokes may very well prove worth letting go of that particular one.

That is – Digger's slight smirk slipped a bit – if they even wanted to have anything to do with him after tonight's show. Unless they just cut to the chase and killed him.

Not my fault if the bloody Yanks can't handle real stuff, is it.

I had fun with the Aussie slang, but boy, I hope the research was worth it! It's one thing to write in a foreign language in a dialect that seems to have taken up quarters in your inner ear (as some British English idioms and American English appears to have where I'm concerned) but I don't know that much about how Australian English sounds and sings and rolls, so I apologise to any Aussies out there /:o) I'll work harder next time, mates ;o)

That said, a little glossary (found all the words on an appendix in the Wiktionary entry for Australian English, if you're interested):
*"charged" means drunk. Meant to use "blotto" at some point ('cause it"s such a fun word) but ended up not. The Australian must have about as many words for "drunk" as the British have, and believe me, that's saying something.
* a "larrikin", according to the Wiktionary, is "a person who is rebellious, non conformist and/or anti–authoritarian" and/or "Someone with an amused, irreverent, mocking attitude to authority and the norms of propriety." The way I see it, Digger might have been one as a kid, and I think he'd like to think he still is, but he's a bit too cynical and smarmy to be one. Funnily enough, discovering that word made me love Australians more – a larrikin sounds so much like a Gavroche :D
*"turps"is any kind of alcohol. Almost put "piss" (works too) but didn't seem nearly as funny.
* a "Cadbury" is someone who gets drunk very quickly (the name comes from the shortbread). English/Irish/Australian beers do have considerably more alcohol in them than your average Bud, by the way, but Digger's rotgut takes the cake :D

Couple of references here too – Discworld fans will know where the "mostly apples" comes from, but the main idea of a summit meeting with funny/heavy moonshine actually comes from a 1960s French gangster (dark) comedy called Les Tontons Flingueurs, which you've probably never heard of, but is one of the most remembered (and fun) films in France. The language barrier is such a drag sometimes :S By the way, Kowalski and Averell are both named them after French cartoons and/or comics characters as a wink and a nod – both sympathetic, too. Do they ring a bell for you? :o)

Next up: Mark Mardon wasn't sure whether he had killed his brother or not. What he knew for certain was that he planned to drink like there was no tomorrow, and he sure as hell had not expected company.