Chapter Nine: A Creature of Habit will Eventually Break,
Part Two: all People can become Dangerous.

The first shipment arrived. Once unloading began from Capricorn shipping, the captain of the vessel and Falcone himself met. It told Holly the seriousness of this deal. This Ra's had Carmine's feathers ruffled enough to take special care. Normally it was just her cutting a cheque after the details had been discussed but this time her boss sat next to her as she tore the paper from the booklet.

"I am very happy we could come to this agreement," Holly made a great effort to sound more enthusiastic than she felt, "Though as usual, please be advised, Mister Horth you are not to cash this at any American bank. When you pick up the next shipment in Bejing you'll be free to withdraw the full amount there." Holly handed over the cheque with five figures printed neatly on it, "As for the other half," she leaned over to a case next to her feet. Hoisted it up and plopped it on the table between them, "as requested in West African Franc's," Holly clicked open the case then swung it around to show him the contents, "and diamonds." This man had always been a real pain in the neck, a true hassle of a person to bribe off. There were easily six figures of funds on the table right now and normally it would take more oddities like a golden flute or some nonsense to woo him. He seemed paler than normal, not even Carmine could do that to this hardened sailor; what had Ra's done?

Holly kept the smile on her face when he reached over and swiped his hand against hers to pull the case, "Good… good. Looks good." He snapped it without hardly so much as a glance.

Even Carmine knew there was something off, "Okay then," a glass of whiskey that had not been touched prior was downed in a second, "Great doing business with you Simon; glad you came to your senses an' maybe we can have smooth sailing from here on out, huh." And he told her she was bad at jokes.

Simon Horth only nodded his head and shot back his own drink. Once Simon left Holly looked at Carmine, "You haven't been to one of these in a long time."

"Like I said the other day, done right."

"Don't trust me?"

"… No, I do. I'm pretty sure there'd be a lot more cash just burnin' in my pockets if ya weren't here. It ain't about you."

"Chinese drug lord got you spooked?"

"Pft," he huffed air like a snort, "Me? Spooked? Please, don't be insulting. I'm Carmine Falcone. My very name invokes fear."

"I was there when you took over for your father, Carmine. So don't bullshit me, things spook you too." The funeral had been rough for everyone involved and she hit Carmine with that reminder in a low blow.

"I ain't." He narrowed his eyes, "What, what's with all the questions anyway? First you're actin' weird at the bar, then you pull that shit gag bout callin' the cops – which is still not funny, and now you're grillin' me about, about what exactly?" He wore his disappointment and anger on his face and in his tone. He was frustrated over something but he was not about to tell her what so she dropped questioning him.

The woman let out a soft sigh, "I'm not grilling you. If you never knew, it is just a lot of stress working for a gang is all." Holly scooped up her phone from the table and checked the weather, however, she'd not heard a reply from him so she looked over.

He gave her a face that spoke it all and added sarcastically, "I'm aware," Carmine shifted in his seat, indicating he wanted to get up soon, "So what, ya want like a vacation or somethin'?"

"Would you give me one and leave the books to… who, Steve?"

He pointed his finger at her, "I thought I told you not to make any more jokes. Fuckin' Steve…" his hand set the drink down and went to his forehead to rub, "can't even tie his own laces right." Shoelace Steve the man, the myth, the not-in-a-good-way wonder who mostly worked with the underground car racket. They both knew the man who tied his shoes with two bows and double-knotted expensive oxfords to turn them into slip on's.

"At least he can count past one hundred without taking a snort of cocaine."

"You know what I've always liked about you Kingsley?" At her silence, he continued, "You're consistent, it's hard to trust the boys when they pick up poor habits such as sampling the product."

"So, you like that I don't do drugs?" She almost laughed and got up from the chair, "You'll be disappointed then."

"You?" He laughed in disbelief, "You actually do somethin' illegal?"

"Illegal?" She smiled as he got out of the chair, "I'm hurt you would think I, an upstanding woman of this community, would be involved in criminal antics."

"Yeah, yeah. Very upstandin'. You know that was a good joke." His eyes rolled and he pushed the door open.

As they left the building the ocean air hit them and a car door was opened by the driver that waited for them. They shuffled in, "I used to know your schedule…" she mused for a moment, "are you heading back to the club?"

"No, not yet."

"If you've got time would you mind dropping me off at Seventh and Woodmans drive?"

He waved his hand like it did not matter to him, "Sure." However, curiosity got to him after they left the docks, "What's at Seventh an' Woodmans drive?"

"Your boys changed the drop point for the first shipment due to that cop friend, Floss or whatever, fucking up the date on a dummy raid. Which is fine, but James Russo's name is on the manifest for those crates, so they planned to go to his butcher shop on Seventh."

"Butcher Ronnie's kid?"

"Yeah."

"Ain't you got history with him?"

"I do."

"You don't trust him." He asked but it did not feel like a question to her.

"I would not be going otherwise."

"… I know the boys give you trouble, Holly, but if they're jeopardizing the business." He made a motion with his hand as if suggesting she could just shoot them.

"You only say that because you know I won't." It was a well-known fact by now among most of the family that Holly Kingsley was squeamish around guns. Sure, she could hold one, inspect it, even have one held barrel end to her head… but fire it or be in the same room when one went off without jumping or vomiting after? That was another matter altogether.

"Maybe, but I trust you'll do what's right for the family."

She understood now, Holly was being set up to feel guilty by what were meant to be kind words of praise. "Yeah." And she fell for them, the guilt at least settled into her chest like a brick.

She was let off at the corner of 7th and Woodmans as asked, the butcher shop only yards away down the sidewalk. Rather than go right in she went across the street to the tiny diner with twenty-four hour waffles that still allowed smoking inside. Of course, only paying customers could smoke. So the woman sat at an off-white table shoved against a half-tile wall and smokey stained glass window with a cup of coffee and a kid-sized waffle covered in rainbow sprinkles. Holly happily inhaled a long drag of a cigarette, filling her lungs with the chemicals until she could not breathe in anymore then she blew it out slowly. Flicking the ash into a tray as she did. She coughed slightly a moment later, after all these years it probably was blackening her lungs and causing damage like all those medical studies showed. Maybe she'd die of lung cancer.

The bad habit calmed her nerves. Made it easier to think, or not think about worries rather. She waited listening to the kitchen sounds behind her, tapping her free hand on an abused pack of unopened cigarettes that sat next to the waffle plate. The plastic was sun-bleached, the box had been nearly all but crushed and if anything inside remained intact the contents were certainly out of date by a decade and then some. Another pack, new and recently bought that week was opened on the other side of the plate. Missing from within three sticks. Her hand lifted the unopened pack and set it on top of the new one, closing the newer pack up then stuffed them both into her jacket.

Her gaze out the window had spied a truck she frequently saw at the docks pull onto 7th long after dusk had fallen then put its hazards on. Holly left money on the table with the untouched food and drink. She stalked across the street, j-walking with the non-existent traffic and went up to the face she recognized coming out of the butcher shop, "Russo."

He squinted at her for a moment, she watched the confusion blossom into recognition on his part, "Hollywood?"

"Kingsley, if you would."

"Whatever. Why you here?" He did not hide his annoyance.

"Well, it's not like I am a vegetarian protesting your shop at eleven at night. I'm here to make sure this gets done." Her voice was dead and her face just as reflective of that. However, her heartbeat was increasing.

"… Oh, hey 'Olly." George's voice came from behind her as he pulled open the truck's back door, giving it an unlatch then fling upwards, "Michael radioed you'd be waiting. Sorry 'bout movin' routes." He knew that James and Holly did not get along ever since she'd gotten him banned from GU property.

"It's fine George." And she knew he hardly spoke with James anymore after that.

"You're really pussy whipped aren't you tubby, first Hollywood now whatever her name, Lucy. You know where to set it." James wiped his hands on his apron, turning away from them with a roll of his eyes to go back inside.

"Fuck crawled up his ass?" George muttered. The bigger man climbed into the back of the truck while another man got out of the driver's seat to come help. She did not know him, but he had a cigarette burn on his forehead above his eyebrow and a real 'eats nails for breakfast' face.

"Probably still hates me for ruining his life." Admitted Holly.

"Nah he fucked himself with that one, can't believe he called Haas a bookie to his face. That grim reaper stare… thought I was gonna bite dust too just bein' in the same room." She could hear him grunt as he said 'room' and something scraped loudly along the truck's floor. The driver who had come to help pull out a ramp from the truck floor to the street, got a dolly after then readied it as they were going to dangerously shove the crate onto it just as it tipped to balance on the edge.

"You handle everything like that?" Holly asked before she thought better than to keep up the conversation.

"Nah," George grunted again, "Just tonight we ain't got the rollers. Vinny needed them for uh… stuff."

"Is that where my fucking rollers went?" The driver swore at George and then helped get the crate onto the dolly. He walked it backwards down the ramp.

"Yeah uh… I said he could borrow em." Sheepishly George shrugged.

"I want them back before we do this again… shit's already hard."

"Sure, sure. I'll pick them up tomorrow afternoon."

She followed just into the front of the store as they went inside to the back, dropping the crate off next to a slab of hanging ribs. The driver went back to the truck, closed the door, and started it up not interested in the details of what happened next. The less he knew the less he could tell the cops if he got caught, she did not mind that kind of personality. George stayed in the shop with Holly after getting James' signature for the 'salt delivery.' Nothing weird about a butcher shop getting two hundred-plus pounds of salt delivered in a wooden crate. It was a little weird but the best they put together on short notice.

"So uh, next time where we goin' boss?" George looked at Holly and it made James mutter under his breath then chop something on the counter violently.

"We've got time to figure that out. I'll inform Michael."

"You gonna inform me too next time you plan to use my name for property purchases or my shop for drops, or you gonna come here after waking me up at three am again?" James wrapped up the meat in parchment then took off his gloves.

"You know the name comes out of a hat that I don't make. And it's not really my fault you did not pick up your phone, Mister Russo, when I called multiple times days prior." They stared each other down and the tension was growing thick.

George coughed, "Uh—"

"I was busy." James retorted with a deadly tone.

"With what? Fucking dusty old sluts again?" Holly bit back. She fed off his anger by mirroring it.

James ripped the butcher's apron over his head and slammed it on the counter in a wad before grabbing up the cleaver and rounding towards her, "You know what. Fuck this. Fuck you," he pointed the blade at her, "I'm tired of pretending like you didn't fuck up my life, like you didn't make my best friends ghost me," he was taking steps closer and Holly's false anger waned. She took a step back, "that lil'Hollywood was just too good for the rest of us." He waved the cleaver around, "Wake up call hunny, none of us 'lowlifes' respect you. None of us even like you."

Holly backed up right into George who was staring at James like he'd gone bonkers. The man probably had, "Man that ain't true…" George softly spoke.

James yelled, "Shut the fuck up George! You fucking left me after you banged this dumb bitch." Holly was not about to correct James that she'd never got around to having sex with George, it did not seem like the time. Instead, she slid to the side and tried to put the big man between herself and that cleaver, "Look, she gonna just use you again too." That knot in her stomach, gut intuition, was screaming at her to run.

"James, come on man. Put the knife down." George started to walk forward with his hands out trying to seem calming, "We're still frien—ahh!" James swatted the air in front of himself nicking Georges palms, "Fuck man!" George curled up his palms trying to stop the bleeding, he was a sissy when it came to his own blood and went a bit pale.

James hissed at George, "We haven't been pals for a long time tubby." Then his attention turned to Holly.

The woman in question remembered a moment she'd forgotten: Meeting Jonathan again at GU and while he had never actually said it, she falsely remembered him saying in that annoyed tone of his, We were never friends, Kingsley. Followed by fake memories of every other person she'd simply been around, that she'd now cut ties with... all of them saying the same thing to her. She knew what not having friends was like. Empathy, nevertheless, was not something useful right now, rather her eyes darted down and her hands snatched the gun from the back of George's trousers. Flipping the safety off.

"The fuck you gonna do, Hollywood? We all know little girl is scared of guns." He insulted and kept walking forward.

She kept backing up until her back pressed against the wall. She held the gun in both hands at chest level and her hands shook. Her heart was racing, and she felt like throwing up. Her breathing had become erratic, and she was close to hyperventilating. Before she knew if she could even pull the trigger or not James had pressed his chest to the gun's barrel. He was pushing her arms back into her own chest and he trapped her against that wall. His cleaver held tensely at his side while his other hand prevented her from running left by slamming his fist next to her head. She jumped and nearly shot the gun by clenching it.

"You know," he said after a long pause, "I can see why George got whipped, you're still kind of hot. Up close at least."

She only swallowed. Her heart was racing wildly and it felt like she was choking on it. Tears were just starting to prick in her eyes.

"I might forgive ya if you get on your knees… I am a bit tired of having dusty old sluts." His head leaned a bit closer to hers, "I like it better when they cry having to choke it down anyway."

George was silent until that point, "James, stop makin a scene man." He was cradling his hands the best he could but there was still blood seeping from them down his arms.

"Shut the hell up tubby! It's not like two are together anymore, and I think it's high time the fucking bookie learned her place. On her fucking knees sucking my dick until I tell her to stop."

Holly glared even as her shoulders trembled, "F… fuck off James." Her voice was so small.

He whispered in her ear, "No one to save you this time."

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

She did not hear the first one, did not feel the way the gun's slide pushed back into her chest on the second, she could not see through blinding tears in her vision. It was like the blue-tinted world shattered into a menacing red. Blood red. James coughed up a pool of blood that ran over her face and her eyes closed tightly shut. Her finger was about to squeeze the trigger again when the dead weight of James was ripped away before collapsing onto her. She could not hear what George was saying, only the roar of her heartbeat. And all that hyperventilating caught up with her. She couldn't breathe. Had she shot herself by mistake? The gun had been pointed at an upward angle. Holly dropped the firearm then she too dropped to the floor, the hands that found their way to her shoulder were met with violence from her. She tore away from their touch yet they came back to wipe at the blood on her face - she swatted them. Wiping her face on her sleeve.

The first thing she saw would be another dead body to haunt her dreams.

Just a Small Delay

Jonathan had already shown up in the narrows at a little run-down apartment building that sat on top of some market that sold fish during the mornings. Apparently, the market was one of the drop points many thugs in this city used for large deliveries. He certainly would be changing the location after tonight. Not only did it reek of fish and something akin to gym socks the place was simply too exposed. Even in the narrows people would notice a truck delivering to the market after hours. Jonathan was just thankful that cops were terrified of the place.

However, as the clock ticked on past the appointed time, still no sign of the delivery. He tapped his finger on the frame of the balcony door. Could use them if they actually show up as test subjects. He pushed the invasive thought into the far reaches of his mind with a long drawn-out sigh. While he had begun human trials, using his compound on anyone willy-nilly was asking for trouble right now. Like magic the moment Jonathan wanted to turn to leave he spotted headlights and heard the low rumble of a van rolling down the street in first gear echoing against the tightly packed buildings. The truck bounced at every pothole making squeaking noises and metal groaning. Once it was parked two men got out; a third smaller individual with an oversized coat stayed in the tiny middle seat. Their head was just stuffed in their hands, Jonathan passed it off as probably a new hire not cut out for the work. He did pity, in the loosest terms, the fellows that worked under 'The Ruthless Roman,' Falcone.

The second crate of the evening was far smaller than the one going to Ra's other men. Though it was still brought in with some trouble. One man that looked like his mother made love to a bulldog was pulling hard on a dolly, doing most of the heavy lifting while the Philsbury Dough boy could not seem to find a place to put his bandaged hands on it without hissing at the pain it caused him.

Logically the first thing out of Jonathan's mouth was, "Did you run into trouble?" It was a valid excuse for their tardiness, though it did not excuse them in his mind as it meant danger could come knocking.

"Uh... nah, nah," The tubby one lied. It was obvious, "Well... yeah a bit," he held up his hands. They were wrapped in corner store gauze, Jonathan could see the fresh blood that had soaked through. Likely from shallow wounds or he'd not be able to move them nor curl them without severe agony as he was doing, "not cops though, droppin' off that first crate an it... fell."

"What are you five?" The bulldog with a burn mark slapped the back of George's head before addressing Jonathan, "We'd a civil dispute with the first drop, it was taken care of. Ya can talk to the boss in the truck if you want 'bout it." Though that was very vague at least he did not attempt to lie.

Jonathan only stared. Boss in the truck? The little welp who was drowning in likely tubby's coat and was holding their head in their hands as if all life had come crashing down upon their shoulders or they ate a bad plate of seafood? It certainly was not Carmine. Was the bulldog goon either trying to pass the blame or make Jonathan feel better about the situation? He was unsure as thugs fighting among themselves was never a good sign. He was, however, debating listening to that invasive thought from before. Do it. The fat one will surely scream in baritone. His hand came up under his glasses to rub between his eyes, pinching the spot with his eyes closed for a moment, "Put it over there." His other hand pointed to the space that could hardly be called a kitchen.

They did so thankfully without talking further and they left in the same silence. Only the rumble of the truck growing distant and the pestering thought that he should have asked for a crowbar once he spied the crate was nailed shut.