A/N: Thank Foss for this. A present for being such great readers.

Part 5

"We're about twenty minutes away," the taxi driver said looking over his shoulder at me in the back seat. I'd asked him to give me a warning before we arrived at the theater so I could go over the layout in my head one last time. Front door, behind the stage, near the stage on the left, halfway in on the right, I repeated the locations of the exits under my breath, for what must have been the hundredth time. My ears popped as we ascended into the mountains of the Poconos just across the New York State border.

It had been four days since Britt had come to visit me at the office and four days since the visitor in Artie's car. I'd run down the stairs to Celine, literally half-cocked, unsure of what I was going to do when I got there. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, the man in the car had taken care of deciding what was going to happen next. As I exited the building I felt a sharp blow to my shoulder, not enough to hurt me badly, but certainly enough to make me reconsider my haste in approaching the car. The revolver was snatched from my hand.

When I turned, I faced the most imposing looking human I'd seen outside of the nickel movie theater. Dressed neatly in a black and white pinstripe suit, complete with a well-boxed fedora, he stood at least four heads taller than me and had nearly four boxing weight classes advantage. The jagged scar that ran across his right cheek and forehead broke up the monotony of his single broad eyebrow. It seemed a bit theatric, if you ask me, but it did add to the general mood I felt he was trying to project.

"Get in the car," he grunted, his croak barely decipherable even in the calm quiet October night air.

"You mispronounced 'please'." He responded with another blow to my already smarting shoulder with his hammock-sized fist. "Ah! What gives?" I forgave him his accent and moved towards the car. Ever the gentleman, he opened the rear-passenger door for me. A strong cherry-tinged scent of cigar smoke emanated from within.

"And you're Miss Santana Lopez," a voice with a distinct Brooklyn accent came from the front seat as I slid across Celine's rear bench. The occupant didn't turn around to face me, but instead addressed me by looking in the rear view mirror. His dark black hair was slicked tightly against his head and what little I could see of his clothes suggested he'd parted with a pretty penny to have them tailored. Despite the manner of our introduction, his demeanor, voice and brown eyes seemed almost jovial.

"And I'm Miss Santana Lopez. How did you know?"

"Your reputation precedes you, Miss Lopez," Mr. Brooklyn replied, his cigar flaring orange in the dark interior of the car.

"So then you've probably heard I have office hours. Why don't you give my secretary a call and we'll talk on Monday?" I moved my hand to the door. The Fedora'd gentleman outside leaned down; his face framed in the car window, and shook his head.

"It'll be worth your time to extend your office hours, just this once. Or do I gotta be a blonde in a tight red dress for that?" Mr. Brooklyn chuckled hoarsely,

"What do you want?"

"I wanna hire you. You're the absolute best investigator in the biz, said so on the record," Mr. Brooklyn said, taking a drag on his cigar. I rolled my eyes now regretting my courtroom bon mots.

"Hire me for what? Brainpower? Your current company seems a little underwhelming in that department. No offense." I smiled at Mr. Fedora through the window, hoping Celine's new soft top was somewhat soundproof.

"None take. None taken. A good leader knows how to be objective about his crew. Mr. Strando makes up for what he lacks in wit with his remarkable anatomical prowess. He can name and break all 27 bones in the human hand. Ask him, knows 'em by heart. He's learning ribs, too. Want a demonstration?"

"Maybe next time, during office hours," I replied, rubbing my shoulder.

"Good, Miss Lopez. Now let's get down to business. I think you're just the person to help me out with a problem I've been having for quite a while now."

"I'll need a $250 retainer and daily expenses," I answered, hoping that if I wasn't going to have a say in the clients I took on I might at least get paid for my work.

"I have a feeling you'll do this for a much lower fee, Miss Lopez."

"You underestimate my love of fine evening gowns. Do you know how much I spend to look this good when I get clobbered?"

"I can tell you who gave you that scar on your head, who framed your blonde girlfriend, and who shot your partner. How's that for incentive, Miss Lopez?" Mr. Brooklyn intoned.

I leaned back in my seat. "I'm listening."

Twenty minutes later and a new cigar smoked by each of us, I extended my hand to the front seat and shook the surprisingly soft yet firm hand of Mr. Brooklyn.

The cab driver opened the door in front of the Kellerman Theater, a rather large two story faux log cabin building in an otherwise unassuming mountain resort. The marquee shouted 'Rodgers and Hammerstein's Carousel!' in foot high red letters. Front door, behind the stage, near the stage on the left, halfway in on the right; I repeated the layout of the exits and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The lobby was wide and shallow, running the length of the front of the building. There were four hostess stands spaced evenly across the hall, each in front a red velvet curtain with yellow rope tassels. The sign above each said, 'Theater' in ornate gold script. It was early afternoon and I didn't see or hear a soul stirring.

I pushed aside the red velvet curtain leading into the theater on the right most side of the lobby and was greeted by the strong smell of greasepaint. I stepped into the darkened theater and touched the back of a red upholstered seat in the back row. Front, behind the stage, on the left, halfway in on the right, I turned my head visually confirming each exit. Each was exactly where the architectural drawings Mr. Brooklyn had given me said they would be. Wide thick carpet covered aisles divided the three rows of red seats. I walked slowly along the right wall, emerging from under the balcony overhang to see a large dimmed chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. I paused on the perimeter of the arc of light cast by the chandelier. Front, behind the stage, left of stage, halfway in on the right, I reached my hand out to confirm the presence of a door behind the dark tapestry-like curtains covering the walls.

As I took a deep breath and repeated my exit door mantra again, the lights were turned up on the stage, revealing an ornately decorated red, white, and gold carousel, complete with energetically galloping horses of many colors impaled on peppermint stick poles. A light brown haired man walked out to the center of the stage holding a clipboard, hung a dark jacket on the saddle horn of one of the carousel horses, and began to flip pages on the clipboard. The man was dressed in a dark brown pair of pants, a green and white striped shirt, and a dark vest. If I remembered correctly, that was the costume of Billy Bigelow, the carousel barker lead character of Carousel. I stepped from the aisle into the row of seats, and into the light of the chandelier. I cleared my throat.

The brown haired man glanced up, a blank look on his face, then back at his papers. It must have taken a second to register that I was not the person he had expected to disregard. His head snapped back up, the look on his face annoyed. I took mental account of how many steps it would take me to reach the door.

"You're not supposed to be in here. Rehearsals are private," he said taking two steps towards the front of the stage.

"Mr. Remington? I'll only take a few moments of your time," I replied. Walking towards the center of the room, still in the row of seats parallel with the exit door.

"I don't sign autographs until after the show. You'll have to come back then." He turned his back as if he'd had the last word and fully expected that was the last he'd see of me. He sat down on the edge of carousel and continued looking at the pages of his clipboard.

"Let's try this again," I said standing in the center aisle of the theater. "Mr. Anderson, Mr. Blaine Anderson? I need a few seconds of your time."

He looked up slowly from his notepad. He pointed at me with his chin, demanding, "Who are you?"

"Me," I answered, "I'm nobody, but the people I work with are pretty important people and they'd like a word with you."

I saw Blaine Anderson slide closer to the dark jacket he'd hung on one of the horses as he'd come in. "Who do you work for?" he asked.

"Come now, Mr. Anderson, how could your forget the man you stole forty large from? Remember, the train? That accident outside Chicago? Those big bags of money that went missing?"

"Rick the Stick? You work for him?" I saw Mr. Anderson's hand reach into the inside pocket of the jacket.

"With, I'm working with him," I said, taking a half step forward.

Blaine Anderson jumped to his feet and I saw the glint off the shiny barrel of a Colt Super .38. Silly of him to hang on to it. "Stay right there! I've got a gun. Don't move!" I stood stock-still, raising both palms to face him. "Throw your gun on the ground where I can see it!" He yelled, running one hand through his dyed hair.

"I prefer not to carry a gun. It's false courage that convinces you to get into situations you know you shouldn't," I answered.

"Well good for you. Come to front where I can see you. Sit down," he commanded. I sat down in the row closest to the stage, again counting the steps to the nearest exit door. "If you don't have a gun, I don't have to answer your questions and I get away. Again."

"Oh, I love this! Is this the part where you twirl your moustache?" I asked, mimicking the motions with my fingers. Somewhere on the floor back in my office, the angel I'd knocked off my shoulder was shaking her head.

"You're funny, I'll give you that. You sure you want your last words to be a joke?" Mr. Anderson expression changed from a smile to sneer as he raised the gun and pointed it at me, finger on the trigger.

I could've sworn I heard the creak of his finger squeezing the trigger when a shot rang out and Mr. Anderson's arm jerked backwards, dropping the gun. He yelped and clamped a hand on his shoulder, looking incredulously from me to the balcony.

"Sorry about that," I began, standing up, "I should have clarified. I don't carry a gun, but I do make a point of traveling with acquaintances that do." I waved back at the balcony, "Thank you, Mr. Strando. May I have a moment more before the anatomy lessons begin?" I took the grunt I heard as assent. I saw two other men standing next to Strando, their guns trained on Anderson. Anderson made a start at running for the side stage, but a bullet kicking up a bit of the wooden stage floor near his feet halted him quickly.

"Mr. Anderson, I have few questions for you. I understand stealing the money, I mean you and Sebastian were lowly pullman porters hauling bags full of fancy clothes, jewels, and money in and out of the train for movie stars and mobsters. They wouldn't really miss a few baubles here or a few thousand dollars there. I get that. But why'd you decide to cut your cousin out of the deal?"

Blaine Anderson looked up at me, his face red and full of rage. "I didn't cut him out! He got greedy! He got loose with his share and started leaving it on every roulette table in Metropolis. Then he started trying to blackmail me, threatening to put Nelson's crew on my tail! If it weren't for me he'd have been in the streets a long time ago! Penniless!" The veins in Anderson's neck and forehead throbbed and he paused to wipe his mouth after spitting out his words.

"So you killed him, made it look like he was you, and framed your wife?" I asked, seeing Mr. Strando lumbering down the aisle of theater towards the stage. I pulled a cigarette out of the case inside my trenchcoat pocket and lit it.

"Britt was never going to be convicted. No one would believe she did it. I knew she'd be fine. She wanted out of our marriage as badly as I did," Blaine sat down on the edge of the stage, blood dripping from the hand over his wound.

"A divorce seems easier."

"She forgives me doesn't she?" Blaine asked sincerely.

"You'll have to ask her that yourself." I turned to leave, brushing shoulder to elbow with Mr. Strando in the aisle. "One last thing, why'd you shoot my partner?"

"Your partner?" Blaine asked frowning at me.

"Yeah, Artie. Cute fellow, wears bowties, glasses. He was following you the night of the murder."

"Who?" Blaine said, being lifted by his arm to his feet by Mr. Strando, who'd now mounted the stage.

"See the way I figure it, you had it out with Sebastian at your apartment and you either killed him there or just knocked him unconscious. Either way you stuffed him in the steamer trunk and brought him to the Soirées Noires so you could stage the murder scene. Where'd Artie come in?"

Blaine's frown gave way to a relieved expression, "I remember now, cane right?" I nodded. "He came up behind me and tried to help me with the trunk. I said no, but he insisted. He made me drop it. Sebastian was just knocked out and groaned. And well, loose ends..." Blaine made the shape of a gun with his fingers and fired, smiling.

I gritted my teeth and took a drag on my cigarette. As I turned to leave, I called over my shoulder, "Mr. Strando? How many bones in the human skull?"

"Twenty." The words rang out distinctly from the stage.

"Take it from the top then, Mr. Strando," I said and pushed my way through the red velvet curtain back out to the foyer of the theater.

I stepped out into the cool mountain air and looked left and right for my missing yellow cab. I heard the muted beep of a horn and turned to see a hand extend from the rear passenger window of a green Cadillac Fleetwood across the street, beckoning me. I shoved my hand in my trouser pockets and approached. As I crossed the street my fingers caught a scrap of paper in my pocket. I pulled it out and recognized Artie's note from that night in the hospital; 'B', for Blaine Anderson. He'd been trying to tell me who shot him.

I reached the car, the dark-tinted window had been rolled back up, permitting me only to see the brown eyes of Mr. Rick 'The Stick' Nelson. Until Blaine Anderson had shouted it out today, I'd made a point of trying not to learn anything about my new client.

"Very nice working with you, Miss Lopez. You know, I could use a clever person like you. I often have-"

"Let's get one thing clear. I gave Anderson to you to see him get eaten, not to see you get fed*. This was a one time deal. If you need a detective in the future I can give you the name of several qualified professionals."

[Nuit Sur Les Champs-Elysees (take 1) | Miles Davis]

I turned and headed towards what I guessed was the main drag of this little town. I had on my favorite pair of spectators, warm wool trousers and a cigarette case full of smokes. I took a deep inhale and turned up the collar on my trenchcoat, Seemed like a good day for a walk.

*stolen from "Brick" Focus Features 2005

Epilogue

Beneath the glitz and glamour of Metropolis there's dirt and deceit, just like any other big city. There's a dark reality most are lucky never ever touches their everyday lives. It's an unlucky joe who gets dragged kicking and screaming into the underbelly of Metropolis. If he survives, he counts his blessings and tries to convince himself it was all just a dream, a nightmare, poor sucker. The people who see the truth of Lady Metropolis get used to her wicked ways. They learn to ignore it or they find a way to cash in. But there's a handful that's different, those who see the bad and refuse to ignore it or join in. Call us modern day Don Quixotes, jousting at windmills. Call us crazy fools for fighting a losing battle. Call us quick though, we may not last much longer.

A/N: Gaaaaah! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. It was a blast! I loved reading your thoughts as we went. I hope it was a fun ride. I have something very special for you...stay tuned.

Thank you NEMO- this was all your brilliant idea.

Thank you, Blueashke- me write good thanks of you.

Thank you, Nayabenelux and MonkeyRats for the support you guise are so great!

Thank you to my Nayshen and Snixx.

Thank you, Ms Atomic.

Most of all, thank you, Foss. You are everything.