During the night, Junior Xiong was most often found in the Kodiak Club itself, drinking in the lounge, strolling through the casino, watching the pit fights, taking his meals in the restaurant. Partly he was watching over his investment, making sure that everything was running smoothly. Partly he was drinking in the energy, savoring the moments, and simultaneously putting his stamp on things, making sure that it was his reputation—his power—that increased with people's experiences. And, partly it was him keeping a weather eye out for anything that might benefit the other side of his business: meetings, conflicts, unusual confluences of events.
But when the guests went home and the doors closed, Junior tended to retreat from the club when he didn't need to give orders about its maintenance and operations that couldn't be covered by the manager. His retreats didn't go far, though; like a lot of London shopkeepers, his home was located upstairs from his business, just on a different scale. If he wasn't in the club's offices, then he could usually be found in his luxurious apartments, virtually a townhouse on the upper stories.
Yang had only been to Junior's private rooms once, and had found them less tastefully but no less expensively decorated than Rose Hall. They didn't have the sense of history that her dad's home had, because Junior's family history didn't leave behind permanent legacies from ten generations on the rivers of two continents. Instead, they were full of luxurious and valuable furnishings that basically punched the visitor in the face with the idea that here was a man of wealth and power.
Probably it was meant to remind Junior of the same thing.
Thinking about Junior's family history, comparing it to her own, might not have been the best idea for Yang. It brought the idea of "why am I here?" from a motive at the back of her thoughts and hauled it up into her conscious mind.
There was no smile at all on her face as she kicked in Junior's office door, sweeping the room with a scattergun. It was empty; if she'd been a competitor after Junior's business records then she'd have found a bonanza, but she had a different agenda. Probably they knew that already and weren't wasting their security on any place she wasn't trying to attack.
That was fine by her. The way she was feeling, the more damage she got to inflict on the way to Junior, the happier she'd be.
She went back up the hall, cautious for ambushes. Yang might have been a blunt instrument, but she wasn't stupid. She knew very well that three or four hatchet men firing down a narrow corridor were pretty certain to be able to shoot her if she just walked up to them like an idiot. So she stuck to the walls, was ready for doors to pop open, and used a lot more care going around any turn than would be expected from a woman who'd simply barged into eight goons and blew them down with brute force.
Oddly, though, she didn't encounter anyone. Instead, she ended up facing the fancy oak double doors that led to Junior's private suite. They seemed to be staring her down, cold and silent. There could be anything behind them, from a bunch of empty rooms (and wouldn't it be as ironic as all heck if he wasn't home?) to a squad of thugs armed to the teeth. She knew the inlaid panels showing a bear rearing over a cowering stag contained peepholes fitted with fisheye lenses that could show the whole corridor, so if there was anyone there, they already knew she was standing outside.
She fished her lighter out of her pocket. Though it was fashionable among ladies of a daring and adventurous disposition to smoke, since it was another example of kicking off the artificial boundaries forced onto a woman's life, Yang didn't indulge in that particular habit. She only kept the device on hand for its utility in starting fires (like she had during the lounge fight), and for one other purpose.
Yang twisted the base of the device a half-turn clockwise to arm the mechanism, struck the light and pitched the lighter down the hall, then ducked behind the nearest corner. Tricky gadgets and multi-function weapons were really more Ruby's thing than Yang's, but she made an exception in this case.
Three seconds after she'd struck the light, the clockwork drove the pins inside into the Dust crystal, fracturing it in a precise way. The explosion blew the double doors off their hinges and into the suite.
Yang stepped out from around the corner she'd taken cover behind and bolted towards the now-open door, scatterguns in her fists to take down any opposition that hadn't been stunned or incapacitated by the blast. There wasn't any sign of anyone, though, no guards who'd been waiting to jump anyone opening the doors or anything else.
"Okay, this is just starting to get annoying," she growled, and began to search the suite. She moved cautiously from room to room, clearing them one by one until she'd finished with the parlor, library, study, private kitchen (if he didn't feel like having food sent up), and bedroom (with bed large enough to sleep a half-dozen; Junior apparently thought highly of himself). She even checked the water closet; there'd been one job where she'd found her quarry cowering in the latrine pit under an outhouse, convinced she'd never be willing to go in after him.
(She hadn't been, but explaining the concepts of "dead or alive" and "shooting fish in a barrel" had made him quite willing to come out on his own. Yang could be a very persuasive speaker when she had to be.)
A petty part of her wanted to inflict a fair amount of damage on the overdone apartments before she left, just to do something to hurt Junior while she couldn't get to him physically, but she stifled that part with little effort. Even at her angriest, Yang just wasn't the type of person to want to hurt someone behind their back.
She came storming out of the bedroom in frustrated rage, a flame looking for fuel to set alight, and came face-to-face with Junior himself, standing in the shattered doorway to his suite.
"Damn, sunshine, you could've just asked to see me."
He had an indolence about him, a kind of swagger that colored his posture even when standing still. He was in shirtsleeves and vest, with black leather gloves on his hands. Slung over his shoulder was an iron-bound cricket bat.
Rumor had it he'd first picked up such a bat when he was still working the streets as a strong-arm man. It wasn't a bad weapon in any case, designed as it was for clubbing things, the narrow edges perfect for focusing blows to break bones and crack skulls. This one, beyond the iron bands to protect against splintering and breaking, probably had been hollowed out and given a lead core for added weight, making it even more dangerous in Junior's practiced hands.
Despite all that, Yang would have cracked up laughing at the sight if she hadn't been angry enough to tear his arms off.
Junior was flanked by a few more of his goons. Their hands were empty; their boss was one only one openly carrying a weapon, which was the only reason Yang didn't immediately start shooting.
"I didn't want you to think I'd take no for an answer."
He swung the bat off his shoulders and planted the end of it on the corridor floor, resting his hands on the handle like the poses of some of those suits of armor some people liked in medieval-themed décor.
"Yeah, well, you're not doing yourself any favors here. I'm not partial to people who manhandle my staff, break into my house, and set my club on fire. You've cost me a nice piece of change today, sweetheart."
"If that's all you lose today, then you got lucky, Junior. And I'd suggest you remember my name."
His eyes narrowed.
"You're riled up something awful this morning, Xiao Long, and I'd like to know why," he switched to Cantonese. There was only one reason he'd do that, so that the four specimens of English beef flanking him didn't hear what he had to say.
He's willing to talk, Yang realized. That's the only thing that makes sense. And why not? Junior was all about profit and loss; he had a business to run, and staging a minor land war in his own place was just going to cut into his bottom line that much more.
He might even have been bright enough to consider that he and his men might lose to Yang, and what that could mean for his ability to continue breathing.
So of course he'd want to talk. Assuming, of course, that he could do it without losing face in front of his men. He couldn't afford to back down to Yang if he wanted to keep his reputation and their obedience intact.
At least, not if they could understand him doing it.
"It's pretty simple. You pitched into something and it's got my sister on the edge of dying. I'm going to give her a nice little escort to the afterlife if she does."
"Family," he spat. "What, did she lose too much at the tables or something?"
"The Phantom Gentleman threw her off a roof. Oh, and just as a hint? If you don't want trouble, you probably shouldn't be lending out your highly distinctive henchwomen to help commit major crimes, especially ones by a guy who writes to the papers to announce them in advance."
Junior's scowl grew even angrier.
"That bastard? Kill him with my blessing."
Yang's eyebrows went up in surprise.
"Not looking out for your partner?"
"He isn't my partner."
"Again, that's hard to believe when a Scotland Yard inspector was an eyewitness to them being there."
"Do you see the twins here now?"
"I figured they're in hiding since their names and descriptions are in the hands of the police. I didn't expect such a major case of stupid from them, or you."
"I ought to say thank you, then, because I had nothing to do with them being there."
"Yeah, tell me another one." Yang thumbed back the hammers of her left scattergun. It was strictly for effect on the double-action weapon, but it made her point.
"Melanie and Miltia decided that helping a famous Phantom Thief was more romantic and exciting than standing guard at a gaming hell. He made them an offer and those two idiots took it. All I gave him was information on the building, the estate, that kind of thing. I don't get my hands dirty with grunt work, Xiao Long, not any more."
Yang considered this. It was true enough that Junior tended not to get involved as an active participant in anything other than collecting the debts owed to him, or otherwise defending his turf. It was also true that as an information broker details of various security measures of potential targets of interest to others was something he might well assemble, questioning ex-servants and the like.
"So what, you sold him how to get into the place and then he ran off with the Malachites on top of that?"
"That's the size of it." The big man's lip curled. "I'm a businessman now, not a cheap crook."
"I wouldn't call twenty-five thousand pounds cheap."
"Tell me another one. Unless that boy's going to sell it to some collector who wants to stick it in his vault and take it out to gloat over when nobody's around to see, he won't get anything close to full value. He'll have it cut 'til it's unrecognizable, then maybe get ten thousand for the smaller stones."
"Still hardly cheap."
"I clear twice that just from the club each year, and that buys me a hell of a lot more than the money. I might be in for a cut of the take on jobs like this, but that's it."
"Then if that's the case, you'd have no problems with telling me exactly who the Phantom is and everything you know about him."
Junior smirked at her.
"No problem whatsoever."
Yang uncocked the scattergun, as purely symbolic a gesture as cocking it had been in the first place, then lowered her arms, still wary for any move on the part of Junior or his thugs. Junior, though, seemed inclined to carry on with what he'd been saying.
"Go on, get out of here," he switched back to English. "The lady and I have business to discuss." He waved the goons back towards the stairs. "And tell Brown we're going to have a little talk about how we handle visitors when I get done, get it?"
"Yes sir. Uh, are you sure you don't want a couple of us to stick around?"
"You mean, maybe I got confused about what I meant when I told you to leave?"
"Right, sir." They scuttled for the stairs like oversized black ants.
"Now, you mind putting those guns away and letting me into my own home, sweetheart?"
Yang gritted her teeth at "sweetheart," but swung the guns back into their retracted position. One-on-one with Junior and his bat, it wasn't like she figured she'd need them.
"Fine, if they scare you," she said, stepping out of his way. He marched through the foyer and towards the sitting room.
"You want a drink?"
"Isn't it a little early for that?"
"Most of my good liquor downstairs got spilled or set on fire. I figure I'd better drink it now before it all goes to waste." He suited actions to words, pouring two fingers of Scotch into a tumbler, adding soda water from the gasogene, and knocking back the whole thing in one shot. He then poured himself a second, identical drink and turned back to Yang. "So let me get this straight. You're after everything I've got about the Phantom Gentleman."
"Right."
"So you can go make him a phantom for real over what he did to your sister."
"I told you all this already. Why are we going through it again? Too much booze making you lose your memory?"
"Don't take that tone with me!" he roared, rounding on her, the index finger of the hand holding the drink stabbing in her direction. "You're in a bloody poor position right now, blondie. Breaking and entering, assault, arson, attempted murder, and that's assuming you somehow walk out of here alive. You want to talk business, we talk business, but don't think you can just come in here, try to push me around, and walk out again safe and happy."
"And don't think you can hold out on me," she shot back. "If your hatchet men hadn't tried to put me out the hard way, we could have had a civilized chat without me having to damage them or your place." That overlooked the fact that she'd punched out the guard at the front door, but it wasn't like Yang was in a friendly and reasonable mood.
Their eyes locked, neither one of them willing to budge an inch, before it was Junior who again found a way to ease the tension without losing face.
"Fine." He drank off half of the second Scotch-and-soda. "I don't pay them to think and with Melanie and Miltia gone they're all too eager to prove they ought to be the new head dog. You're mad, I'm mad. But let's not get out of hand when we're both after the same guy."
"You sold him the information."
"About the house, yeah. Not about your sister. I didn't even know she'd be there. It's not like that geezer to invite over house-guests even when he isn't expecting a robbery."
Yang realized then that despite his usually reliable ear to the ground, Junior didn't know that Ruby was a huntress in training. Since they were happy to keep it that way, she didn't correct his assumption.
"So unless you're going to go after the guy who made him his cane," Junior continued, "tailored his coat, and sold him those cigars he smokes, realize that I'm not your problem and let's get down to it. We both want him dead, so why get in each other's way? You're more likely to pull it off than any of the usual talent for hire."
For a moment, Yang felt faintly sickened by the comparison to a hired assassin. She was a huntress, not a gunfighter. She chased wanted criminals with a bounty on their heads or a posted reward for their capture, not random victims that unscrupulous people wanted dead. In fact, she worked hard to make sure that she brought those criminals back alive whenever possible, even when the bounty didn't require it.
Only for a moment, though. The image of Ruby lying bandaged, comatose, and helpless in her hospital bed snuffed it out. She didn't have time for pangs of conscience.
"So let's have it." She didn't have time, either, to butt heads with Junior like a couple of rutting stags. Her being female made it plain how stupid she was being to get sucked into something that could be described with those kind of analogies.
"His name's Roman Torchwick. His Gentleman Thief routine is corny, but he comes by it honestly. His mother was Margaret Greenvale, who ran off with the gamekeeper's son the week before she was going up to London for her debut. Apparently it was the scandal of the Season thirty-five years ago. Her family disowned her, but she had money of her own from a great-aunt on her mother's side. The family tried to break that trust, they were so mad at her, but the aunt had had good lawyers draft it."
"Good for her. So this Torchwick's family had money."
"Right. He's an Eton-and-Oxford man, though he got sent down in his second year for a gambling scandal. Keeping his hands off other people's property seems to be a problem for him."
"So is he doing this for the money, or some weird thrill he gets out of it?"
"You ask me? Both." He took another drink. "When a guy goes to the trouble of putting on a big show like that, he's got something to prove to somebody. You know what I mean, thumbing his nose at the snooty toffs that kicked out his mother or short-sheeted his bed at school and all that rot. If he was just in it for the money, he'd be a lot less fancy about it."
That was, except for the change in topic, almost the same logic Jaune had used to explain why he thought Torchwick didn't work for anybody else. Both men looked at in the same way: pure professional thieves didn't play around acting like a character out of the penny dreadfuls. Even if he was using the tactic to manipulate and distract, it still made things too complicated. In Yang's experience, complicated plans were almost guaranteed to go wrong sooner or later, one reason why her preferred strategy was "walk in and hit stuff."
"Don't get me wrong, though; he likes the cash. No way he's one of those freaks who's got a little museum in their attic full of stuff they can't show anyone else for fear they'll get arrested. No, you ask me, Torchwick's going to turn that ruby into plain old pounds sterling like I said. He'll have a gemcutter all lined up to do the work, and before you ask, no, I didn't do that for him."
"Though I'm sure you could have."
"For the right price I'll put you in touch with anyone or anything you want." He tossed off the last of his drink and set the tumbler down with a thump.
"Good, then tell me how I can find Roman Torchwick."
"He's got a house in Westminster, something he inherited from his mother."
"His parents are dead, then?"
Junior nodded.
"A few years back. The way I heard it, he had more than a few rows with them after he was drummed out of university, but they never cut him off. Probably didn't want to repeat what her parents did to her."
"How do you find out this stuff?"
"C'mon, blondie, that's just society gossip. All you need is to talk to any half-decent society reporter and they'll give you all the dirt you could want."
Yang supposed that made sense. And the Kodiak Club's clientele was just the type that could provide Junior with all the scandal-broth he'd need for a trade.
"So I don't need to worry about tripping over any other family members, then."
"Nope."
"Good. I'd hate to have to explain to them what I'm doing to their son. So what's the address?"
"I'll get it for you."
He walked over to a writing desk that was next to a tall, narrow latticed window. The diamond-shaped latticework helped to hide the fact that the view was of a brick wall six feet away. He took a slim book bound in black leather out of the center drawer, flipped through the pages for a bit, and finally stopped to write something down on a slip of memo paper. "Here you go."
She walked over and took the slip.
"19 St. Augustine's, Westminster," she read at once, figuring that things happened to small pieces of paper in the course of a busy day. She tucked it away in a pocket.
"Give him hell," Junior said, then added smugly, "And by the way, sweetheart, if you happen to see the Malachite twins, tell the dumb bitches that even if they get out of this alive and out of prison, I'm not taking them back even if they come crawling to me on their knees."
Yang rolled her eyes.
"I'm not your messenger girl, Junior. Besides, if they're smart enough not to get caught, they're smart enough to know you're not the forgiving sort."
He scowled at her.
"You think pulling an attitude with me is going to get you anywhere after you trashed my place and took out half my men, you'd better think again. Now unless you've got something else, you'd better clear out of here before I lose my temper."
"Actually, there are a couple of things. First, you may not be Torchwick's boss, but you still sold him the information and you still plan on collecting your share of the take if he gets away from me."
"And the second thing?"
Her right fist came up like a thunderbolt, smashing full into his jaw and sending him flying back to crash into the wall. An overdone oil painting in a gilt frame showing naked, frolicking goddesses from some Greek myth or another fell off at the impact and bounced off his chest as he slumped to the floor.
"My name's not 'sweetheart.'"
Then, just in case his message of "have a little talk about how we handle visitors" when he dismissed the goons was code for "set up an ambush for when she comes down" (again, he wasn't the forgiving sort), Yang picked up the desk chair and smashed through the window, shattering the glass and latticework. She clambered out, dangling from the sill to shorten the drop, and let herself fall to the alleyway below. Yang wasn't usually one to take the back way out to avoid a fight, but she didn't have time to dance with Junior's hatchet men any more. After all, she had a social call to pay on a member of the gentry, and it just wouldn't do to be late.
~X X X~
A/N: I didn't pull Roman's address out of a hat, or make it up. Bonus points to anyone who knows what obscure bit of video-game trivia it references!