New chapter! I hope you enjoy it. I don't really have any notes for this one. If you have any questions, or something isn't clear, feel free to PM me about it! I don't own Baccano or Supernatural and never will.

The room was fairly silent, only the tapping of keys being pressed on Sam's laptop interrupting the otherwise tranquil atmosphere. He would search, fingers pounding the keyboard, eyes scanning the text on the bright screen. Article after article he poured over, engulfing whatever information he could find. Train accidents. Murders. Robberies. However, he found nothing that was like the massacre aboard the train. What information he could find on this specific incidence was very vague and useless. He hoped his brother was having more luck than he was.

It had been decided that the boys would split up, Sam staying in their seedy motel room to research any incidents that had happened prior to this one, and Dean going to the morgue in his FBI persona to look at the bodies and gather info on the victims. Sam's search seemed fruitless. His mouse pointer scrolled over the final link on the page, a connection to an old newspaper run out of New York, the Daily Days.

Sam clicked the link, not expecting much as his hopes of finding anything relevant had already been dashed, and cringed at the websites shoddy design. However, two words in the headline immediately caught his eyes: train massacre. The full headline read, "Train massacre aboard the Flying Pussyfoot leaves many dead or wounded". Licking his lips, hope now restored, he scrolled down to read the article to find only a blank page. Cursing under his breath, he realized the only text was a small fine print at the bottom that read, "If you would like to know about the events of 1931, please visit the Daily Days offices." There was also an address listed. Sam quickly jotted down the address on a piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket.

Just as he closed the window, the motel door opened and his brother walked in. Immediately loosening his tie, Dean let out a huff, his haggard expression telling Sam that it was worse than they had feared. The elder brother collapsed one of the beds and gave Sam a brooding look. "You know, in my years doing this job, I've seen some serious shit but…" He trailed off, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "But that was just terrible. Those bodies, they were torn apart. Skin ripped off in huge chunks. I've never seen anything like that. Whatever did this…well I have no idea what could have possibly done it."

Sam cleared his throat, unused to seeing his brother shook up like that. "Did you get any info that could help us figure it out?"

"The thing is…they're still working on identifying some of the bodies. I got the family info on the ones they did ID but… I mean I guess we can go talk to those families. But, the families weren't there when it happened so I don't know what good that would do us."

"Well, if it is some kind of spirit, a very vengeful one at that, then one of the families might have known someone that died. We should cover all our bases, you know? I dug up something. There was some kind of train massacre in the 1930s on a train called the Flying Pussyfoot."

"I'm sorry," Dean said, chuckling a bit. "What was that name again?"

Sam gave him a withering look, his immaturity never ceasing to amaze the younger brother. "The Flying Pussyfoot. Anyway, the article was blocked out, but the website said if we wanted to know more we could go to their offices, which are here in New York. I've got the address. It seems like it could be worth checking up on."

Dean nodded. "Alright, we'll do that. Then, we can start sifting through this list of family members and go see if they can tell us anything. Hopefully there's some connection with the uh…Flying Pussyfoot." He chucked a bit, shaking his head. "I couldn't even make that one up." Clearing his throat, he returned to seriousness. "But I don't think there's gonna be anything we can learn from the families."

"Won't know unless we try, Dean," Sam said. He stood up and closed his laptop. "Could still be a vengeful spirit."

"When have you ever seen a ghost do that?" Dean asked, standing up and straightening his tie. "I think we're probably looking at something else entirely, maybe something we've never seen before."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I don't know. You said something similar happened in the '30s. Maybe it's some kind of ancient god that requires a sacrifice every seventy to eighty years. I don't know. I just don't think we should be looking for a ghost."

"You're probably right," Sam said. It wasn't that Sam didn't trust his brother's judgement, there was just something off about this case. They had never worked a case before where Sam couldn't find some type of information about whatever they were hunting. And if a massacre of this proportion had happened before, there should be more information on it. Whatever happened aboard the Flying Pussyfoot all those years ago had to be connected to this somehow. He just hoped they could find that connection before whatever this thing was got away for another seventy years.

After driving through the crowded streets for several hours, the boys finally found the address they were looking for. The place was an unimpressive hole in the wall, or so it appeared from the outside. A small, weather-beaten sign announced it as the Daily Days offices. Sam peered through the stained windows, picking up movement from inside. Dean crossed his arms, looking up at the sign then shaking his head.

"This is a waste of time," he muttered. "Look at this place. It's probably been here since the twenties. Come on, let's go back to the car, alright?"

"No," Sam said, grabbing his brother's arm. "If it has been here that long that means it was around when the other incident happened. I mean, if that website is anything to go by, they know something. And we need to find out what. It's our only lead, man."

Dean relented, then pushed his way through the front doors and into the crowded room. The atmosphere was almost lively, people bustling about every which way. The sounds of keys being pressed, papers rustling, and people talking above the din of other sounds. The brothers stood, watching the hectic scene, everyone ignoring the two suit clad men. Finally, a young blonde woman appeared from another door, smiling genially.

"Hey, ya," she said, brushing the short, choppy hair out of her eyes. "Welcome to the Daily Days. What can I do you for?"

"We're looking for some information," Dean said, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing his fake ID. "We're from the FBI, looking into the incident aboard that train a few days ago. My partner and I found mention of a similar incident back in 1931. Where would we need to look to get information on that?"

"Ah," she said, leaning back slightly. "You're talking about the Flying Pussyfoot, right?" She boosted herself up on the desk, leaning forward slightly. "See, those records have been sealed since 1931. Feds didn't want that information out there or something. It was too gruesome. But if you were really FBI agents you would know that, wouldn't you?"

"Well, we…"

"Uh…"

She held up her hand. "I'm not mad you're pretending to be agents. Really, I could care less. So I'll make you a deal, okay boys? You tell me why you're really looking into the Flying Pussyfoot and I'll tell you what happened on board that train."

"You're," Sam said, shaking his head with a bit of bewildered amusement. "You're an information broker? Aren't you?"

"That's right," she affirmed.

"I thought that was a dying profession," he said, crossing his arms.

"Well, it some places it is. But we've been operating since before anybody in New York can remember and we ain't planning on going up in smoke now." She slid off the counter and stuck her hand out. "So, we got a deal or not, pretty boy?"

Before Sam could shake her hand, Dean pushed it out of the way. "We would tell you, but you wouldn't believe us. So what else can we do to get that information?"

"See the thing is, I know things you boys probably wouldn't believe. So there isn't much you can say that would shock me or anyone working at this fine establishment. And, the thing is, we don't really care about anything except collecting as much information as possible, so nothing you two can offer is of any value to me. The way I see it, you got yourselves a choice to make. Either tell me what I want to know, or don't. What do ya say, huh?"

Dean looked over at Sam for a minute, then nodded, reaching out and shaking her hand. "Deal. But," he crossed his arms. "Do you have a backroom or something? It's not something we want advertised."

"Yeah," she said. "Of course, boys." She sauntered off, walking through a door to her right. The Winchesters looked at each other for a moment, then followed her, neither quite knowing what to expect.

The Gandor family had always been ready to adapt to changes in the social atmosphere. First acting as bootleggers during prohibition, the Family had to survive the decriminalization of liquor, the founding of the FBI, and the new political landscape that made it even harder to operate under the radar. They had been bootleggers, ran underground casinos, and now they laundered ridiculous amounts of money from the companies and politicians they claimed to support. People knew of the infamous family but no one had ever gotten close enough to even throw a wrench in the works.

Even with the success of his Family, Luck had never wanted the task of heading up the organization. There was no doubt that he was a good boss, but he still found himself wondering if things would have been different if he'd never accepted the job of running the family. His brothers looked to him for their orders, even after all these years. There was no questioning his leadership; he was the leader of the Gandor Family, plain and simple.

Luck sat at his desk, a stack of untouched paperwork in front of him. Instead, his eyes scanned the newspaper in front of him, the inked words jumping out at him. "Over forty bodies found." "Police are stumped." "Whoever or whatever did this was a monster." He made a disgusted sound, deep in his throat and threw the paper to the side. Claire had better had a good reason for doing all that.

A light knock sounded on the door, causing him to look up. He leaned back in his seat with a sigh. "Come in," he instructed, regarding the suit clad man that entered. He quickly walked over to the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. Behind him, a mammoth of a man followed, body blocking the doorway completely. His brothers, Keith and Berga.

"We got news, Luck," Keith said, moving aside for his brother to stand beside him.

"Our contact up at the morgue said there was Fed snooping around," Berga interjected. "Asking questions about the bodies. Then, one of my guys called a minute ago and said he saw two Feds going into the Daily Days offices."

Luck sighed, rubbing his eyes with a groan. "Alright, he sure they were Feds?"

"Yeah," Berga said. "He said they showed IDs at the front. That's when he got out of there."

"Okay, get Claire on the phone. I want him in here as soon as possible." The youngest brother stood up from behind his desk. "I'm going to call Firo and give the Martillos a heads up." He walked around the desk and picked up the phone from the corner of his desk. Sitting on the edge he began to dial and his brothers made a hasty exit to follow his orders.

The line rang for a moment before a familiar voice sounded a greeting. "Hey, what's up?"

"Firo," he said, letting his lips pull up in a small smile despite himself and the situation. Even in the worst times of their lives, he had always been able to depend on his best friend. Besides his brothers, there was no one he was closer to. "We have a problem…"

Firo had certainly made a name for himself. He had become the youngest member of the Martillo Family back in 1930. He had also devoured the man who made the Grand Panacea that made them all immortal in the first place. Now, he had risen in the ranks to be the Don of the Family, replacing Don Martillo who retired several years ago, even though he was also immortal. The Martillos were mostly legitmate now, except for the gambling rings they ran, though and the assistance they gave to the Gandors with their ploys every now and again. The Families had always been on friendly terms, able to call on each other in a pinch.

"Yeah, I heard about the train incident," Firo said, voice drifting over the line. "That have anything to do with you guys."

"Yeah," Luck said. "But, the problem's bigger now. My guys say there's been some Feds poking around at the morgue and the Daily Days. I'd start watching your back if I were you. We'll be doing the same."

"Alright, thanks for the heads up, Luck."

"You're welcome, Firo."

"Hey, you should come over for dinner sometime soon. Ennis was just saying the other day that we haven't seen you or your brother's in what seems like forever."

"I'll be sure to do that once this whole business calms down. I have to go. I'll talk to you later." He hung up the phone, shaking his head in amusement. It had been about two years since he'd sat down to dinner with his friend. The world was so hectic now. But it wasn't like he didn't have all the time in the world.

"How's the little sprout doing?" another voice chimed in, making Luck look over at the door. He must have slipped in while Luck was on the phone. Claire always had been a sneaky man, able to fade into the background. However, Luck knew him well enough that this didn't surprise him at all.

"He's fine, of course," he responded. "But there is a problem."

"Yeah, the Feds. I heard." Claire pushed away from the wall he was leaning on and picked up one of the crystalline structures that decorated his bookshelves. "So, you want me to take 'em out or something?"

"No, I don't want any more killing coming from you for a long time," Luck said, agitation in his voice.

Claire looked at him, raising his eyebrows. "Alright, so what'd you call me in for?"

"You should probably get out of the city. Hop on another train and get the hell out of here, alright?" Luck walked over and took the bauble out his hand and replaced it on the shelf. "If there's one thing I don't want to happen it's the Feds getting their hands on you."

"Like they'd ever be able to get their hands on me." Claire smiled, chuckling a bit. "I have a better idea, okay? Hear me out. I'm not going to kill them. But I'll keep an eye on them for you. I'm probably better than whatever contacts Keith and Berga have, right? So that way, you'll know exactly what they're up to, and I'll have something to keep me busy and out of your hair."

"No, that's not what I want…" Luck trailed up as Claire simply walked around him to the window. Shoving it open he slipped out, disappearing from his view.

Luck waked over, looking down at the pavement a couple stories down, shaking his head. There was no sign of Claire anywhere. To this day, he was the only person who didn't listen to him. But, it had always been that way. Closing the window, he collapsed back into his seat, staring at the still untouched pile of paperwork. He felt like he hadn't accomplished one damn thing that day.

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