Ivory Tower

Chapter One: A Plot is Afoot

"That's the ninth attack this week, boss. Three of our caravans vanished almost as soon as they hit the warehouse district. Same story with the Sicilians." The speaker snorted softly before continuing. "Only people that ain't been hit are Lucky and the Jews."

Seated with great comfort behind a massive table, the 'boss' rubbed his chin in thought. His deep-set eyes roamed across pictures taken at the scene of these attacks. Bite-marks, severed limbs, and apparent suicides didn't add up to your average mob hit. Besides…

"Rothstein ain't an idiot. If he started something like this, it'd only be a matter of time before the entire Bronx was out for his head." His voice was rusty, and he sounded as though he hadn't slept in days. Passing a hand over his shadowed eyes, the capo sighed heavily. "We're gonna send a message to the Brain, get him nervous, see what he tries. You know that speakeasy he owns, run by the dame with the keen chassis?" Upon confirmation, Yale grinned darkly. "Send some of the bulls to go topple that Ivory Tower. That'll get him talking."

Standing on the corner of 49th and Broadway between two bodyguards, The Brain played New York like a well-tuned violin. Bets and debts, information and alcohol, Arnold Rothstein was the man to go to. He'd made his fortune by being smart and knowing more than anyone else in the business. So he knew just how ugly things were getting ever since the attacks started.

Liquor houses were raided all the time, but the police didn't leave dismembered corpses with chunks taken out of them. Mobsters didn't shove Thompsons into a man's mouth before pulling the trigger…usually. Who, or what, could have done such damage to so many armed men with hardly a shot being fired? It was a problem to be pondered and investigated, but the mobster was smart enough to realize he didn't have the luxury of time. Frankie Yale, head of the Genovese family, was out for blood. The Genovese' business had taken a particularly hefty hit, and, if his informant were to be believed, Rothstein was the target of the capo's ire.

Rothstein stepped into Lindy's Restaurant, his usual haunt after the morning's business, and took a seat at the nearest table. Bringing out a handkerchief, he wiped his face before announcing, "We are in some real trouble, Lucky. I know I'm not behind this scrap, and you aren't either, but the rest of New York isn't too happy about our going unscathed, here."

Across from Rothstein sat the man in charge of the largest bootlegging business this side of Chicago. Charles "Lucky" Luciano was one of the richest, and finest-dressed, mobsters of New York. In public, he was never seen without a smile on his face and a doll on each arm. Now, however, his face was grim and his arms empty of company.

"Some of my 'friends' are suggesting that I should leave town before this gets ugly, Arnold. Uglier, I mean. We've got to find somebody to pin this on before Brooklyn goes up in flames…and us with it." Luciano grimaced, his handsome face twisting at the thought of so much lost profit. "And I, for one, am too handsome to burn."

Rothstein leaned back in his chair, chuckling darkly. As he reclined he ran a multitude of plans and possibilities through his head, none of which were likely to end well. His mind struck on a possible solution, and a small smile crept onto his face. He motioned with his right hand, and one of his silent bodyguards stepped away from the door and stood next to him.

"Fetch me the Jap," he said, smile widening into a grin. "If there was one person in this city who could handle this…it'd be him."

Several hours later, Rothstein was enjoying one of Lindy's famous sandwiches while chatting amiably with the other occupants of the busy restaurant. By the time his bodyguard returned and whispered in his ear, Rothstein was busy listening to a middle-aged salesman, mirth written clearly on both of their faces. Rothstein stood up and shook hands with the salesman, saying, "Mr. Berlinger, I hope that you will give my best to your boy when you write him next. Your stories of him always make me laugh, and I needed that. Good day."

Rothstein stepped out onto the street corner again, eyes alighting on the unusual figure standing next to his other bodyguard. He fixed a smile to his face and stepped forward. "Kenta, I'm glad you could make it. Let's step over to the Tower, it'll be quiet there, and I know Delilah won't mind the company."

The short figure nodded, his face invisible beneath a broad hat, and his body hidden under a coat that was far too big for him. They walked for several minutes in silence, both of Rothstein's bodyguards trailing several yards behind them. When they finally arrived at a door secreted in a broad alleyway, Rothstein almost released a sigh of relief. Dealing with Kenta was always awkward, and he had a feeling Delilah could help with that. He opened the door with his own key and led way into the room beyond.

The room was large and dotted with strategically-placed tables. Across from the door stood a bar with the words "The Ivory Tower" on the wall beyond. Off in the corner was a stage for the evening's entertainment, currently bare but for a gleaming off-white curtain and a microphone. Everything was well lit with a warm yellow glow, muting the glare off of the ivory and white accoutrements which made up the decor.

The Tower could easily seat 100 people comfortably, but several tables were always left empty, to be moved later to form a dance-floor. Soon the speakeasy would be filled with the sound of many happy customers, but for now the room was silent and empty.

A small hallway in the back lead to the restrooms and an office, and it was from this hallway that perfection stepped.

Delilah James was not a flapper: she would have none of the sandals and short skirts, and she loathed the bobbed hairstyle so beloved by their kind. Her dress was conservative, her hair long and lustrous, gleaming scarlet in the light of her club. Her disregard for modern fashion may have had something to do with the way her body in no way resembled a light-pole. Delilah was all smooth curve and sensuous arch, and the way she moved accented this unabashedly.

"Mr. Rothstein, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Her voice was lyrical and soft in a way that soothed nerves and softened tensions. The soft remainder of what must have once been a British accent lingered over each syllable. She stalked closer to the men, meeting each man's gaze in turn as she stopped in front on them.

Arnold Rothstein paused to collect himself before saying, "As always, it is wonderful to see you again, Delilah. I was hoping to speak with Kenta," here he gestured toward the still-shrouded figure, "on a matter of some urgency and privacy. Your club came to mind as the perfect place to discuss this matter, as it could involve you, as well."

Delilah's eyes never left Kenta's shrouded face as she nodded, motioning with her left hand. "Anthony, would you be so kind as to take the coats of these gentlemen? Then we can meet in my office." Immediately, a young man in a white shirt-and-tie came up from behind the bar and walked over to collect hats, coats, and canes. When he finally came to Kenta, he found that the short figure had yet to move.

"Sir, may I take your coat for you?" The barman asked politely, glancing over at Delilah and Rothstein for guidance.

Slowly, as if it were made of cement instead of fabric, Kenta removed the cover from his head, revealing a dark head of hair, cropped short and close to his scalp. Delilah's sharp gaze noticed the remnants of a strange haircut. His features spoke of an obvious Asian background, but his skin was white and unhealthy-looking. Several small wrinkles about the eyes and lips gave indications as to his age, but it was his eyes that entranced those around him. Black as his hair, they were like rings of some dark stone adorning an alabaster statue, and showed almost as much emotion.

The coat came off soon after, revealing an ancient brown suit, fifty years out of fashion. The brown abomination hid his physique well, and Delilah gleaned no more information from it. Her nose told her, however, that the suit smelled nothing like mothballs or cedar, meaning it hadn't been in storage recently. She caught the scent of saltwater and something else, something flowery and very, very faint.

Her eyes roved back to his own, gray matching obsidian. "As this is your first time here, I would like to welcome you to The Ivory Tower, Mr. …?" She paused, waiting.

"Kenta will do, Miss James." He spoke for the first time as he bowed slightly, from the waist. His voice was quiet and calm, neither smooth nor rough. Even his accent was soft, not the jarring grammar and stilted dialogue expected of most immigrants.

"Kenta." Delilah finished, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. She turned and began walking back toward the hallway from which she had emerged. "If you gentlemen will follow me?"

Rothstein grinned slyly and mouthed 'gladly' to one of his guards before striding after her. Kenta followed silently, nodding to Anthony. Anthony, for his part, was too busy struggling to lift Kenta's coat to notice.

Stepping into her office Delilah immediately offered the padded seat behind her desk to Rothstein. He declined, and as Delilah sat he motioned his guards to stay outside. Once Kenta had stepped in, he closed the door and they both took a chair before the desk.

Rothstein sighed, glancing around the room. The walls were devoid of portraits, mirrors, or any other decoration. The only decorations stood upon the mantle above the fireplace: two pictures, both of the Ivory Tower's opening day, when he gave her the job as manager. The good memory helped to counter his growing nervousness as he settled further into his chair.

"I'm sorry I couldn't visit on a happier occasion, my dear." He looked to Delilah as he said this, smiling briefly before nodding toward Kenta. "It's business this time, not pleasure. Though if all goes well, you may have a pleasant surprise coming your way."

"I'm sure you both know about the situation New York is in, now?" Delilah's graceful nod and Kenta's continued stare prompted him to continue. "With so many hits in such a small time, bosses and capos are getting trigger-happy. More trigger-happy than usual, I guess." He snorted. "And every one of them is pointing a gun at me and Lucky, seeing as how we're the only ones not getting hit by these operations."

Kenta made a noise somewhere between a cough and a grunt, and Rothstein took his meaning.

"Alright, to wrap it up, I need someone to clear my name. Lucky's, too. You've helped us before, and you know I pay well. I'll pay your usual fee, including a daily rate of $1000 cash, if you'll take the job and work with Delilah, here." Rothstein smirked as he said this, catching the redhead's expression out of the corner of his eye.

He nodded toward Delilah. "She can fill you in on where she needs you. I will need you to stay here in the Tower when you're not pursuing a lead, so it's best if you two get acquainted." Now his eyes locked on to Kenta's with great intensity.

"Do you accept?"

Not far down the street from the Ivory Tower, a limousine pulled up to the curb. One gentleman stepped out of the back, straightening his suit and smoothing back his dark hair. He looked to be in his early thirties, with a narrow frame and a hawk-like gaze. His eyes passed briefly over the few passers-by before fixing on the building in front on him.

Twenty years ago, this had no doubt been a sturdy warehouse, a credit to its architect. Now, however, it was falling apart, the bricks graying and crumbling all along the front. The man snorted as he observed the small pile of foot-high letters lying on the curb before the door. The sign above that door, the source of those letters, read "Bureau of Inv sti ati n" in more black, foot-high letters.

He stepped to the door, kicking the fallen word out of his path, and knocked roughly. The door, which had stood proudly for two decades, finally gave up the ghost and slowly, creakily, fell backward into the room beyond. It smashed into the ground with a mighty boom, followed by a moment of silence, as if out of respect for the beleaguered portal.

A thick Scottish brogue shattered that silence. "Dammit, I knew that door was on its way out! Somebody go put the damn thing back in its place before we get another damn cat in here!" By some cosmic coincidence, this sentence was punctuated by a loud meow from nearby.

The man outside growled softly before stepping irately the building, his stride stiff and angry. He walked briskly through the room beyond the doorway, brushing past whoever had been sent to fix the door. Stalking down rows of random paraphernalia on shelves, he barged through a thin curtain into a large, cluttered 'office' formed by a combination of filing-cabinets and piles of paperwork.

The only occupant of the 'office' was a gray-bearded older gentleman who turned with a mixture of confusion and annoyance toward his new visitor. His expression flickered from annoyed to furious to cheery in the blink of an eye, and he stood to extend a hand.

"Mr. Hoover. It's a pleasure to have you up here, sir. I'll try not to take up too much of your time, but as you can see…" The old man was cut off when his visitor slashed a hand sharply through the air.

"Mr. Eire, I did not come here to listen to you jaw about how terrible things are for your department. I came to let you know that its days are numbered, and so are yours in this Bureau." Hoover bared his teeth as he spoke, savoring the words and their harsh effect.

"I have tolerated your 'Paranormal Crime Division' for a full year as a personal favor to President Coolidge." Hoover grimaced briefly before a triumphant sneer replaced the expression. "I have made a deal with the President for your head: if you don't solve a single, rational crime within your Department's purview during the next three months, I can shut you down with his approval."

The sneer widened. "Three months after June 7th, actually. There must have been some mix up with the paperwork. Terribly sorry about that, but as you can see…" he waved his hand toward the cluttered mess that was the older man's office.

With that, J. Edgar Hoover turned on his heel and marched out through the door and straight back into his limousine, which quickly drove away. His mocking laughter filled the decrepit warehouse, the only sign that he'd been there at all beyond the sound of shattering dreams and the creaking of a falling door.

Robert 'Bob' Eire, Head of the Paranormal Crime Division, slowly sank down into his leather chair. When Hoover had taken over as the sixth head of the BI, Eire had high hopes that the younger man would look favorably on his Division. He'd dreamed of expanding into his own Bureau, even given it a name. But now the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense looked like a fool's dream, shot down by a young, jealous tinhorn.

Eire was shaken from his ever-sinking thoughts by a polite knock on his 'office door'. "Come on in," he called, trying and failing to steady his voice.

A head of messy brown hair poked around the curtain at the front of his workspace. Eire smiled as he recognized his favorite employee, Flynn O'Connell. Flynn stood a little over six feet tall, and his wiry frame concealed muscles more appropriate on a boxer than a BI investigator. He walked with a cane and dressed in a simple suit during business hours. His face, now twisted in sympathy for his boss' plight, normally held a small, peaceful smile.

Flynn stepped closer to his boss, taking a seat on some paperwork across from the old man.

"Is there anything I can do to help, Bob?" he asked, tilting his head to the side in query.

Eire smiled softly. He glanced up to meet Flynn's eyes, trying to convey calmness and certainty. "I'll find a way to make all of this work out, my boy. You mark my words, this will all blow over soon enough." He frowned again when he noticed how Flynn avoided meeting his eyes, instead staring at a spot somewhere between them in a mildly disquieting fashion. Then again, Flynn always did that, so Bob tried not to take offense.

"I'll tell you what, my boy. Why don't you head on down to the Tower and have something to drink for the both of us?" He winked roguishly at the younger man. "I think that young Sara is working tonight, and I know Miss Delilah is always happy to have you down there."

Flynn blushed and chuckled. "Well, if that's an order, boss… I'll be on my way." He shook hands with the old Scot and stepped out into the warehouse, pausing to pull the curtain back over the office's entrance.

Bob sighed as he turned back to his desk. His eyes widened, and he set his teeth as he glared at the lump of gray fuzz in the middle of his paperwork. He reached out a hand, which was promptly licked by the gray puddle, causing him to pull his hand back and chuckle. Jaw relaxing, Bob settled down to pet the kitten on his desk, the soft rumble soothing the day's cares away.

"You may be a mangy fleabag, Jinxy, but you always know just what to do to cheer us up." The kitten yawned at him before curling up to better enjoy the old man's attention.

Flynn walked briskly down the sidewalk toward the Tower, cane clicking on every other step. He paused to tip his hat as a gaggle of young flappers passed by him, then crossed into the alleyway which held the Tower's front door. He took a deep breath, straightened his suit, and knocked on the heavy door. One tap, a brief pause, and then three more taps.

The slot at eye-level opened, and the man behind the door grunted in recognition. The sound of several locks sliding open signaled permission to enter, and Flynn nodded to the bouncer as he stepped into the club. As he walked over to his traditional table next to the corner, he noticed three things.

First, that he was among the first guests at the Tower tonight. Not unusual, as it was barely past six o'clock.

Second, that Delilah was on stage, warming up her voice before starting the evening's entertainment. He paused to listen, enjoying Delilah's smoky singing voice before looking back toward the door.

There was a new coat-rack, currently bearing an absurdly wide hat and a large coat, standing next to Clark the bouncer. As he watched, Clark turned and said something to it, paused for a moment as if listening, then chuckled. Flynn's keen investigative skills detected something wrong with this situation. Either Clark had gone insane –a possibility, but the man was usually solid as a rock– or the coat-rack was actually a person standing very still. A person dressed in ridiculous, but very obscuring, clothing: Flynn marked it down as suspicious activity, and then ordered a whisky. He was here to sit back and relax, perhaps get a little drunk, and then, and only then, would he get back to his day-job.

Delilah finished her warm-up just as the first wave of patrons came crashing into the speakeasy. Soon the room was abuzz with conversation and the sound of drinks being ordered.

Flynn soon found himself with three young ladies at his table, eager to discuss anything and everything with the handsome man.

At the door, Kenta merely rolled his eyes beneath his wide hat. He memorized faces and names, occasionally asking for clarification from Clark. The bouncer usually included a story with each patron's name, and soon he and Kenta were chuckling together after each new patron.

After everyone had ordered their first set of drinks, the patrons turned as one toward the stage. Delilah smiled charmingly, seeming to catch everyone's eye as she ran her gaze over her audience. Then, she began to sing.

If her speaking voice was soothing, then her singing voice was entrapping. Every low note brought a tear to the eye, and every high note brought a smile to a face. The band behind her was silent: this was her show, and they couldn't bring themselves to play even if they had to. Her glorious song travelled from love to loss, beauty to tragedy, and by the time she finished there wasn't a dry eye in the room. Everyone motioned for more of their drinks in silence, before gradually conversation began to pick back up.

At the door, however, two sets of dry eyes took turns looking out into the alley. Clark and Kenta heard the coming of many footsteps, and Clark's experienced ears caught the sound of something wooden being dropped followed by muffled cursing. He motioned toward Anthony, who paused in the middle of fixing a drink, reached down behind the counter and held something above his head for all to see.

The sharp rapping of wood on metal filled the bar as the words "Open up! This is a raid!" echoed throughout the speakeasy.

A/N

Whew, three exams later and I'm still in one piece. Didn't quite make my goal on this chapter, though. I'm aiming for 5,000 words per chapter, give or take. Let me know if this is too few, or too many, eh?

Anyway, the three main characters have showed up, and hints have been dropped as to what they are. The Dresdenverse has a vast multitude of champions, and Kenta, Flynn, and Delilah run the gamut of them. Special mention for anyone who guesses correctly via review or PM.

Anyway, I'll try to keep up with my publishing schedule. Feel free to PM me with questions, comments, concerns, conundrums, or comedy routines.

Vale te!

PS - Any experienced authors: I need help formatting these things into shorter lines. Right now it looks like my last research paper, not a book!