I apologise for the delay in getting this chapter up. Blame it on a combination of writer's block, the temporary loss of half the chapter, and upcoming school exams. Sorry for the wait, and hope you enjoy!
Willoughby H. Maverick, proprietor of the small tobacco shop on the corner of Seawall and Lancing, was, to say the least, a singular soul. Nearly seventy years old, he had been running his business since the tender age of sixteen, then under the guidance of his father, the shop's founder. It was estimated that in those decades over one thousand sounds of tobacco had passed over his wooden counter to be received by people of all backgrounds and social positions. Maverick tobacco was favoured by many rich and poor alike.
Often people would ask Mr Maverick why he did not move his store away from the slummy waterfront area and into the city's higher end. They asked why he did not charge higher prices for his tobacco, which was always on demand and none too easy to make. When faced with these inquiries, however, the old shopkeeper would merely shrug and say that he did fine the way he was, and if any of those snobby rich folk with their swanky ways wanted to buy something, they could get off their large posteriors and take their fancy-schmancy cars down here, but he certainly wasn't going to make the poorer souls walk all the way up to some high end part of town just for his smokes.
But the good of his needier customers came only secondary; Willoughby Maverick had an ulterior motive for remaining near the waterfront. In his lifetime he had built up a secondary business, which provided him with an income almost equal to that he made selling tobacco. So many different specimens of people passed over the dirty threshold, people from all walks of life, and all would drop a word or two to him as they did business. And Mr Maverick had a better memory than most. All those little words, collected and analysed, added up to make an invaluable set of information, and a large amount of this information concerned the local criminal organisations. Then he would sell this information to any of his customers willing to pay the price for it.
Some thought that he should fear this line of business: criminals, especially powerful ones, did not like being crossed, and those who meddled with their affairs could easily wind up dead. But Mr Maverick, when confronted with such a warning, would simply shrug it off. No one would ever risk killing him for mere revenge - not when he could give them as much information to him as that which he sold against him.
His reputation as a fountain of waterfront intelligence had spread across the city, as a result sending many flocking to him to learn something about someone else. There was only one kind of person he never sold *these* goods to - a policeman. And in his lifetime Willoughby Maverick had gained a special skills in deciphering the cops from the ordinary folks.
So, on one particular day, when two young men pushed open the door to his little store and wanted to talk with him, he was not surprised. They looked a little unkempt, and rather hungry, too, their eyes filled with a curious look of desperation they attempted to disguise.
The elder one was a tallish fellow, late twenties, Maverick guessed. He had a greasy, unkind look about him and he talked in a low, rasping tenor. He began inquiries about local activity almost immediately, and the old tobacconist would have suspected him of being a cop, had it not been for his companion. The other man hardly merited the title, for he looked to be somewhere in his teens. And if there was one thing the police force didn't do, it was to drag civilian kids into dangerous operations. So Maverick put his suspicions out of his mind, and gave the man what he wanted to know in exchange for the fifteen dollars deposited on his counter.
"So I hear there's a real hot racket runs around here," began the older of the young men.
"Maybe. How would you know?" Maverick replied, not entirely trusting.
"Met a couple of guys few weeks back. Names Pierce and Jocko. They mentioned something about it."
"How much you willing to cough up?" Money was always the question in dealings such as these.
"Ain't got more than five," the man said gruffly, shoving a grungy hand in his pocket. The shopkeeper snorted on derision.
"Sorry, no deal. Twenty minimum."
"Make it ten?" bargained the man.
"Fifteen and you got yourself a deal."
"Agreed. So what's the scoop?" The young man leaned in closer on the counter, almost secretively, while Maverick rattled off everything he knew about the subject.
"Sure, there's a gang operates round here, under some guy calling himself the Big Boss. Don't know what he looks like, though, and I don't know where his headquarters is, save that it's somewhere near the waterfront. If you wanna get in with him you'll have to find it, and even then it's a risk."
"That all you can give me for fifteen!?" The man was clearly irritated, but his anger only made Maverick laugh.
"Afraid so!"
The customer tried again. 'What if I were to ask ya if ya knew anyone by the name of Benson?"
"I'd say take a right when you leave the shop, follow the street all the way down to Fish Lane, then head down to the waterfront." It was a private joke, and as he said it the tobacconist smiled a feral smile as the young man fumed.
"What kind of a dumb answer is that?"
"Do what I tell you, son, before you insult my intelligence."
The man snorted, tossing the fifteen dollars on the counter as he stormed out, silent young companion in tow. But despite the angrily hasty retreat of the two, Maverick carefully noted that they followed his directions.
"Fat lot of good that was," Davy muttered, sullenly kicking at a rock as they walked along. "That old fellah barely told us any more than we already knew. I'm beginning to think I should be talking after all."
"Cool it, babe," replied Micky, without anger. "We already discussed that. Besides," he added with a grin. "You're doing a wonderful job of playing mute!" At that, Davy's mood seemed to break a little and he swung playfully at his taller friend.
"Knock it off!" But he was smiling.
"Gee, I wonder who this Benson fellah is," Micky remarked thoughtfully, beginning a new topic. "Any guesses?"
"Probably some other flunky," replied Davy, noncommittally. "You?"
"Oh, I think he's -" Micky began, but he got no further, cut off by Davy's sudden, surprised tones.
"You're wrong. Whatever you were about to say - you're wrong. We both are."
"What?" Micky swung his head sharply round to look at his shorter friend, but stopped midway in surprise, finally realising what had made Davy say that. Then he let a short burst of laughter, partly because of the unexpected development before their eyes, and partly at his own self for not seeing what had been right in front of his eyes.
"Well who would have expected that?" He asked with a grin, as Davy let out a long low whistle.
Beside the street on which they walked, an old railroad goods station stretched track upon track almost to the water. However, looming between the last line of track and the sea was an old abandoned warehouse, along the dirty side of which ran a name in flaking paint:
Benson and Co., Lumber Transport
"Davy, babe," Micky cried, excitedly. "This is a better lead than before! It's probably the gang's hideout! Peter and Mike could be in there!"
Davy, however, was neither as sure nor as enthusiastic as the drummer. "Slow down, man, we don't need to be jumping to conclusions. That might be the hideout. For all we know, it could just be another meeting place, or even just a coincidence."
"A coincidence? C'mon, Davy, what are the chances? It's probably connected in some way! Let's go check it out, at least."
"Okay," said the English boy, though he did not sound completely convinced. "But let's be careful."
"Of course," smiled Micky, obligingly. "And remember, if we meet anyone, let me do the talking, okay?"
"Right," Davy sighed, then added in a half-mumble: "How could I forget!"
Together they picked their way across the hundred-odd metres of railroad track, careful in case of oncoming trains - for while the warehouse was abandoned, the rails of the goods station was still in some use. They soon reached the other side, where the dirty aluminium wall rose tall above them.
"I suppose we should look for the door then, eh?" Davy said, quietly, for the very size of the building had reminded him of the sheer magnitude of the task he and Micky were trying to accomplish and he suddenly felt very small and impotent. Apparently Micky was having similar feelings, for it was a moment before he answered.
"Yeah."
Silently they began to work their way around the large warehouse, looking for an entrance.
Peter looked much better after a few hours' sleep, Mike decided as he watched his friend dozing on the opposite cot. He had not ever managed to get the Aspirin – upon asking, the guard had only laughed – but at least the bassist seemed in much less pain than he had been during their interview with Mr K.
Mike had gotten over his initial shock at finding his crooked former employer still hanging around LA, and still more at having discovered that he was married to the Big Woman. She, as far as he knew, was still in prison, and even if she managed to escape, Mike had no reason to fear her. Her husband hated her far too much to allow her to live if she escaped, but part of the Texan was almost sorry about that. Their parting, when she and her two cronies were being led away by the cops, had not been unfriendly.
But he had bigger things to worry about than Bessie Kowalski. For the first time since their capture, Mike began to notice just how ravenously hungry he was. He knew Peter was starving too, though his friend had not said it. He did not need too; Mike was his roommate and one of his best friends and they had been hungry many times – enough to know when each other were hungry. Vaguely Mike wondered if their captors even intended to feed them at all, considering that they would be dead by the end of the week.
Dead! The meaning of the word had barely begun to hit home with the boy. He didn't want to die. He didn't want Peter to die. What was dying, anyway? What happened after? Mike had never been religious, but he had always thought it impossible for something as intricate and deep as the human soul to just cease to exist after life had left the body. Of course, there was always the chance of rescue, but that seemed further away with every passing minute. The odd thing was that the more certain Mike became of not being rescued, the more desperate he became for escape.
Where were Micky and Davy? What had happened since he and Peter had been captured. Was Micky alright? Or was he as Peter had originally suspected – dead? No, Mike reminded himself sharply. Don't think of that.
How was Davy? The youngest member of the band would be worried sick about them, and Mike hoped desperately, for all their sakes, that Micky was alight. Davy would need Micky if the worst happened – he would need it even if it did not! As hot-headed as Davy was and as strong as he liked to appear, Mike knew his friend desperately needed support in situations like this.
Mike's reverie was broken by a double interruption: Peter's awakening and a solid knock on the door, which swung open less than a moment later. As Peter blinked and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, Mike stood up and crossed to him, taking a protective stance beside his friend in case the intruders should wish them harm.
But his worries were unfounded – the man who entered was bearing nothing but a tray carrying two bowls of some sort of stew. It looked far from appetising, but at least it was food, and on the plus side it was still steaming. He placed the tray on the small rickety table in between the beds, while behind him the guard pointed his gun at the two boys to deter them from trying to run for freedom while the door was open.
Mike tried the stew tentatively, and grimaced. It was truly dreadful. The guard saw his expression and let out a short, halting laugh.
"See, Vaughan? I told you your cooking stank!"
"It's not my fault! Nobody else ever volunteers! But," he added, in a more conspiratorial tone. "Words has it there's a couple new guys being interviewed by the Boss. Maybe one of them can cook instead."
" That'll be a relief. However their cooking is, it can't be worse than yours!"
"Aw, shuddup. I didn't ask for your opinion," Vaughan snarled. Then he swung on Mike and Peter, suddenly. "But don't you kids get to comfortable, y'hear? 'Cuz Charlie's askin' the boss for permission to have a little fun with you before George gets here." Mike's eyes widened in alarm, and Peter gulped. Vaughan and the guard only laughed all the harder at their obvious fear.
When they finished crowing, the two men left the room. The door slammed with a bang and the boys heard the lock click back into place, and the boys were once again alone. They sat almost motionless, tense and silent, until Peter suddenly spoke up, his voice filled with fear.
"Do you think there's a way out of this, Mike?"
But Mike could not give him an answer.