Episode: Launch Time
Warnings/Spoilers: This episode only
Rating: T, mentions of drugs, war, PTSD, alcohol
Word count: 3600
A/N: Thank you to all those who read that first chapter. Here's another one, because I'm having too much fun with this time period.
Side history lesson from last chapter. The blender was invented in 1924. It's well within historical reason that Kowalski could've invented one.
Obviously, I own nothing besides any grammar and historical errors.
It was nighttime in Manhattan. Skipper had put his men through a hard day of training on the rooftop of the Central Park Apartments in the scorching July sun, preparing for the next mission, whatever that would be.
The four of them rested easily in the same bedroom, two bunk beds on either side, with dressers in between a window to the fire escape.
It was a nice apartment. Skipper had bought it some years ago. While they lived on the second floor in a modest two-bedroom apartment, downstairs in the lobby was their main office. The lobby held their office (which had basement access), the apartment lobby, and a tailor's shop in it. Only the residents could rent out the downstairs spaces, which kept the area peaceful. Just how Skipper liked it.
The office itself had a couch, several desks, chairs, and a coffee pot strewn about. Accolades of previous cases and trophies littered the wall. The basement, of course, was Kowalski's domain, where he kept all his experiments. The best part, of course, was the roof top access, whether they got there by climbing all five floors or through the fire escape. They had to share it with their neighbors, but, so far, in the past 4 years, there had been no issues.
Possibly, until now. Their kitchen window creaked open. Skipper's eyes flew open as he heard the clang from the wire trip. His hand was under his pillow to his pistol in an instant, leaping off the top bunk a mere second later. At his commotion, his team followed suit. A quick glance showed Private with a knife, Rico with a machete, and Kowalski with a…pencil? Skipper mentally made a note to deal with that later as he raced across the hall into the kitchen, pistol drawn as he slid into an offensive kneel in the doorway.
"Hold it right there!" he yelled to the figures in the darkness. His team halted behind him, ready for the command, while the dark figures turned away from their ice box.
In the shadowy light coming from the alleyway window, Skipper identified the perpetrators. Julien and Mort from the Ringed Tail were…raiding their food?
Mort was drinking a bottle of milk, and Julien was licking the frosting off his finger from their cake.
"Oh, hello neighbor!" Julien exclaimed. "Do not worry! It is only I, King Julien, borrowing your delicious food!"
"You can't borrow food, Julien," Skipper argued, flicking the light switch and holstering his pistol in his sleep shorts. "That's stealing."
"Potato. Tomato." Julien shrugged. "Many thanks!" Mort had already vanished out the window in their brief conversation, and Julien dove out the window just as quickly.
Skipper groaned. "Kowalski?"
"Judging by the dilated pupils, I'd say high," was Kowalski's input. "I can't say anything about his …accomplice?"
"Who knows with those dumb Doras. They're only a block away. Probably got himself lost."
"Is he ever sober?" Private asked quietly, spinning his blade on his fingertip.
"Great question, Private. I don't think I've ever seen him like it." Skipper clapped his hands together. "Well gentlemen. Back to bed. Calisthenics still start bright and early, at 0500."
The unified muttered groans was music to his ears.
The next morning, the four of them were reviewing some katas on their rooftop. Skipper inhaled loudly, smelling the scent of sweat and pollution rising upwards towards them. Ah, New York City. So peaceful in the chaos.
"Fore!" broke the silence.
"Oye tom," Private muttered, rubbing the back of his head. A golf ball rolled from him to Skipper. A quick glance around the neighboring roofs showed the culprit.
Julien.
"Hello neighbor!" Julien was up on a roof. His own roof? Skipper wasn't sure, but the man was on a roof, practicing his golf drive with far too many golf balls. He swung another one towards Skipper's face, which he caught, and glared at the older man. Where in the world was Maurice? He was convinced Maurice was the only man who could keep Julien under control.
"Skipper," Private said, still rubbing his head, after Kowalski prodded the lump and declared it fine. "We can't do anything. He's got as much right as we do."
Private was right. But Julien was starting to get on Skipper's nerves.
—
Two days later, half of Skipper's team was assembled in their first floor office. Rico and Private were upstairs in the kitchen apartment, presumably making lunch, though from the sounds of it, they could have been sword fighting.
Skipper wasn't paying too much attention, focused on trying to wipe the smirk off of Kowalski's face as they played their fourth game of chess of the day. At least this game had gotten past 12 moves, so Skipper was feeling pretty good.
So intent was he on his next move (bishop to d3), that a loud noise startled his concentration. Their new—expensive—radio had been turned on by none other than Julien.
"When did he even get in here?" Skipper hissed.
"Oh, sorry Skipper!" A British lilt entered the air space. "Maurice asked for some milk to cook with and then…" Private and Rico had followed the three downstairs to the office and looked on at the intruders in dismay. Mort was currently drinking their last milk bottle—no delivery due until next Tuesday.
Maurice and Julien were possibly eating Skipper's lunch, and the radio kept getting louder!
"Hello neighbor!" Julien hollered over the noise, settling into Skipper's favorite arm chair.
Skipper's hand clenched. The three behind him knew this was not about to end well. "Get. Out." Skipper ordered.
"What was that?" Julien yelled, simultaneously commanding Maurice to turn the volume up on the midday music. Mort swayed in time.
"I said. GET OUT." Skipper bellowed, fingers twitching desperately for the pistol at his hip. He couldn't use it. Not like this. During business hours in their own domain.
Rico quietly pulled the plug out of the wall, ensuing a deafening silence, as a battle of the wills began. Julien stared at Skipper, whose eyes twitched, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He would not yield.
Eventually, Julien twitched and jumped off the chair in an impressively acrobatic display. "Come along Maurice, Mort," he ordered, sauntering out. "These Tuxedos aren't being very neighborly."
"Be a good neighbor!" Mort taunted as they left through the front door, leaving the four men stupefied by what had just happened.
—
"Gentlemen," Skipper began, voice deadly. The same voice the other three knew well, had trusted to lead them through battles, take down the enemy, and get back out alive. Private only hoped that there would not be direct harm to the employees of the Ringed Tail. That definitely was not neighborly.
"We need a day trip."
That definitely ranked up there in things he had never expected Skipper to say. Apparently, Kowalski and Rico agreed with him, judging by the barely perceptible recoil in their stances.
Kowalski was the first to break the silence. "Sir, uh, where are we going?"
"Kowalski, I need options." That was an order not a suggestion. Private could see the gears spinning in Kowalski's head.
"Well, we are limited in range of 1 day travel. Climate?"
"Unspecified."
"Elevation?"
"Unimportant."
Kowalski screwed his eyes shut and turned his head heavenward, as if praying. "Coney Island?" he squeaked, waiting for the inevitable slap.
"Kowalski, I like it! Pack your bags, boys. We're going to the beach."
Skipper left the room, leaving the three of them to stare at each other. "Doesn't he not like the beach?" Private whispered.
"Just the salty ones," Kowalski replied, as Rico added, "Like Denmark."
"Denmark?" Private mouthed, filtering through his memories for anything he could remember about Denmark.
The pair shrugged their shoulders and turned away, leaving Private with the knowledge of a mystery that was not going to be solved any time soon. Skipper didn't like to talk about a lot of things in his past, but, to be fair, neither did the rest of them. The War had taken that out of them.
An hour later, they were "packed" and ready to go. Private was certain he was the only one who brought a bathing costume, but he threw some leftover bread and sun cream into a bag as well, and off they went. They worked their way to the southern tip of Brooklyn using subway, bus, and some good ole fashioned ankling.
The four of them equally hated the subway, but Skipper refused to let them use their flivver, or hail a cab. He called it 'fear management', so they used the new subway systems at every possible opportunity. Private could never quite shake the feeling of slowly being buried alive each time they descended, and neither could the rest of them. He could tell from the way they all walked just a little closer to each other, the way the breath hitched the moment the sunlight was gone from the entrance; the second the train doors slid shut. Their eyes wandered past each train occupant, and Private felt his heart pounding in his ears. It never got better. Kowalski was tapping his thigh; it might have been Morse code, maybe it wasn't. Skipper's hands were deep in his trouser pockets, but he could see the outline of fists clenched, the neck hunched. Rico stood, the calmest in outward appearance, but Private knew he'd seen things. The gases had taken his voice, and maybe part of his mind. Private wasn't sure. Something had happened after Hindenburg; something had switched on or maybe off in the staff sergeant's mind after everything.
"Breathe." Rico leaned in and rasped quietly. Private inhaled quickly and relaxed his posture. He had the bad habit of holding his breath once the doors closed. The good news was he could now hold his breath for quite a while. The bad news was that he had definitely passed out more than once in the subway car after he had moved to Manhattan with the Tuxedos. It was better now. They were better.
They all ignored each other's sighs of relief as they exited the car with the other passengers. They all ignored how their steps hurried just a little to get to the surface, and they all ignored how they pretended nothing had happened at all.
And so, they went on.
—
On the Boardwalk near the beaches, Max O'Malley was setting up for a heist. 16 and hungry, he was picking through trash cans looking for food, while eying the people in the distance. It was simple: bump, catch, slide. His dad had taught him how to pick pocket; he could steal all day from his family at home, but he'd never been successful out in the world.
His pop told him that Coney Island would have wealthy people; told him the subways were good starting places; the man told him a lot of things, mostly that he'd never amount to anything.
"Yo Max."
Max turned to see Tony walking up to him. Italian leather shoes and new pinstripe suit, Tony was the epitome of Boardwalk success. The young man was working his way to becoming a gambling legend, and his pick-pocketing skills were extraordinary. No one ever suspected him because of how well he dressed. Tony could get away with murder.
"Do I look a little, I don't know. Do my pockets look a little full to you?"
Max growled, scanning the man's breast and pants pockets. They were full of cash and probably a few expensive rocks.
"I mean, look at these rings. Look at how easy they slide off." He twirled three loose rings on his left hand, letting the gold and tiny studded diamonds catch the light.
Max eyed all of it greedily.
"Tell you what," Tony said, "I'm just gonna stand here. If you can get anything off of me, I'll let you keep it. Whaddya say?"
Max didn't think twice. He launched himself at the man, aiming for the right pant pocket. If he could run and slide, he'd have a wallet and be gone before anyone would be the wiser.
His hand reached the pocket, now just slide between the pieces of fabric, and… His hand was brutally yanked upward. Before he knew it, he was on the ground, cradling an overextended wrist. He should've known better.
"Hah! Go chase yourself, you scaly wannabe. You've never pickpocketed anyone. Never have, never will!" Tony put his hands in his pockets and sauntered away, not looking back.
Max sat on the ground and moaned. "I wish I could make some dough. Somehow."
He saw four men approaching in the distance. Maybe Max was going about this wrong. Maybe he needed a con.
—
Meanwhile, back in Manhattan, Julien decided his own radio wasn't good enough. "We need another one, Maurice. I cannot be sharing my radio with the downstairs!"
Maurice groaned. Their current juke box played tunes when their speak easy was open. Previously it lived in their apartment upstairs, but he'd had to move it after their business took off. And now, Julien wasn't content to listen to it downstairs. No, he had to have two.
If the money he made brewing wasn't so good, he'd have left this fool a long time ago. But, dough was rolling thanks to Julien's unusual talents at stealing, lying, and overall connections with NYPD that Maurice could brew his hooch with relative ease and peace. Mort got all of his fancy juices and other supplies. Business was good. Maurice was slowly putting money into the stock market and some overseas accounts. One of these days, he'd retire disgustingly rich.
But, unfortunately, today was not that day.
"Radios aren't exactly easy to come by," Maurice deadpanned.
"Hmmm, but Maurice, we can borrow from our nice neighbors!"
"Borrow?" Maurice repeated, looking at Mort who shrugged nervously.
"From the Tuxedos! Theirs is very nice!"
"From them?!" Maurice shouted. "Are you out of your mind? They're ex-military, all four of them. Who knows what they'll do to you if you get caught."
"Then we. Won't. Get. Caught." Julien leaned in, and Maurice found himself on the receiving end of a devious grin.
"All right." Maurice shrugged finally. "But it's your funeral. Not mine."
Julien merely laughed and the trio headed out the door and down the street.
He knocked and let himself in. "Hellooo? Neighbors? It is I, King Julien! I am here to borrow your radio. If you are fine with it, say nothing!"
The three listened to his words echo around the empty office. Maurice wondered why they left the door unlocked when no one responded.
"Excellent!" Julien clapped his hands and scampered to the floor radio, draping himself across it. "Come! Let's take it back."
"Uh." Maurice frowned. "That thing is Big. And heavy." And expensive, he thought. There was no way it was going to be easy to get this thing out without suspicion. This was a bad idea.
Julien eyed Mort, the smallest of the three of them. "Since I am King, I should not have to lift the heavy things. Therefore!"
Mort, bless his heart, knew his role. "I like heavy lifting!"
Maurice sighed. This was not going to end well.
—
Kowalski, being of pale Polish ancestry, was not a fan of the sun. How Private, also of pale British ancestry, lit up at the opportunity to go to the beach—not even a real, natural beach mind you—was beyond him.
Kowalski wasn't thrilled, but Skipper appeared to be relaxing as they strolled the Boardwalk people watching, so that was a good sign. Women ran past in bathing costumes, short enough that his mother would be embarrassed for him. To see that much leg was indecent! he could hear her lecture.
They headed towards the games and carnival. Skipper looked like he was debating on playing one of those dart throwing games. Obviously rigged, Kowalski quickly noted, judging by the angle of the board and the 5 degree curvature on the darts' flight path. He'd have to compensate.
He opened his mouth to tell Skipper just that when he bumped into a woman who was falling backward into him. They were in a busy crossroads. "Pardon me, ma'am," Kowalski said, pushing her gently up and away from him to help her regain her balance.
The woman snatched up her purse that had fallen at some point and screamed. "Thief! Dirty bohunk!" Kowalski's eyes widened and he took another step back, hands out in front.
"What? Ma'am, I-" Before he could formulate a defense, he felt Rico grab the back of his collar and break out into a run. Suddenly Kowalski was following a red-headed kid and Private. Rico was practically pushing Kowalski forward, and he knew without looking that Skipper was taking up the rear.
"In here!" the kid yelled, and through a tent flap they went. Kowalski pushed through the striped fabric to see the inside of a storage tent. Crates and pieces of furniture lay unused, with packing hay scattered around. In short, nothing out of the ordinary.
"What is going on?" Kowalski hollered, regaining his breath. "Who are you and what was just happened?"
"Yes exactly," Skipper said, commandeering the front yet again to glare down at the skinny kid. "Who are you?"
"W-w-well," the kid stuttered, almost trying to fold in on himself. At the last second he stood firmly and glared back at Skipper. "I'm Max. And that woman called your friend"—he pointed at Kowalski—"a thief. I hang out around here a lot. I knew it was gonna get bad, and there was going to be a big mess of it all. So I told ya to run. And here we are!"
"Hmm." Skipper looked thoughtful, but Kowalski was glad.
"Thank you," he said, "You're right. That wouldn't have ended well." He was Polish. Born and raised in New York, but his accent was still there from his mother, God rest her soul. He couldn't hide it, usually didn't try to. It was a part of who he was as much as his lanky frame and brain.
He spun as he felt hands on the back of his jacket, but it was just Max dusting him off. How thoughtful!
"It was very kind of you to help us like that," Private added.
"Uh-huh." Rico agreed.
"Yeah well," Max looked sheepish. "Just doing a good deed."
"A good deed. Did you hear that Kowalski?" Skipper said. "This young man is on his way to becoming a fine citizen." He slapped the kid on the back so hard he winced. "Keep up the good work. Rico, gift him."
Rico came up to the kid who stared at the larger man wide-eyed. "Hmmm." Rico said, before opening his jacket to present the kid with a fine watch. "Tell good time."
Max looked bug-eyed at the gift. "Wow…No one's ever gotten me a gift before…"
"Come on guys," Skipper said, already done with this situation. "Let's get out of here before we get accused of more petty robbery. Maybe we can help our other…neighbors…be better citizens too. Have a good one Max!" Skipper opened up the tent flap and led the men out.
Kowalski followed Rico and saw Private had stopped in front of Max. Curious, Kowalski slowed, trying to overhear. Something about a "bloody awful" and "hiring". Kowalski raised an eyebrow, trying to look casual as Private sped up to catch up with them as they headed back to the Boardwalk.
"I told him the nice man at the fish market in China Town was hiring," he told Kowalski brightly. "He looked like he'd fit in there."
"You're right he does!" Kowalski agreed. "Good work, Private."
The four of them headed off towards the Brooklyn substation, satisfied by their day's proceedings. Kowalski was ready to head back to his basement and work on his latest experiment.
—-
This was going about as well as Maurice expected. Having flat out refused to put his finger prints on the radio (Who knew what those Tuxedos had. He'd been in the business long enough to know to always wear gloves.), Maurice and Julien were content to watch Mort attempt to lift, carry, and drag the floor radio out of the front door and down the sidewalk.
It never failed to amaze him how many people chose not to see this play out. Somehow Mort had gotten thing (remarkably unscratched) into the side alley, but he (both? All of them?) failed to realize that their apartment was two roof tops across and a fire escape up.
They'd have to go back out and down the main street. Before Maurice could remind them of that fact, they heard a commotion from the lobby they'd just left.
The Tuxedos were back.
"Where's the radio!" He heard Skipper holler through the apartment. Maurice turned to see Julien take off, sprinting down the block. Mort panicked, unmoving.
Maurice grabbed Mort by the back of the collar, flinging him up onto the fire escape. He grabbed the ladder and swung himself up, pushing Mort up the escape and rolling onto the roof, safely out of sight.
"Ooh that was close!" Mort cried.
"Shush." Maurice ordered, peaking over the edge, listening to sounds of Skipper having a tantrum as the four approached the alley, inspecting their precious radio.
"Kowalski, who was in our house? Who took our radio? I need options, man, options!"
"Skipper, we don't know. I don't know." He heard Kowalski mumbling, paper on a note book. "Uhh…"
"Let's get out of here," Maurice whispered to Mort, who nodded rapidly. The two of them crawled to the other side of the roof and took the escape down before they made their way back to the Ringed Tail.
Just another day in Manhattan. Maurice still had a lot to do before they opened tonight. But maybe Julien would be done 'borrowing' things. For now.
Fin
1920s Glossary of Terms (in order of appearance)
Dumb Dora - a stupid person
Flivver - Ford car. Often used by cops
Speakeasy - Undercover bar. A very popular establishment during the Prohibition era.
Hooch - bootleg liquor
Go chase yourself - get lost, beat it, scram
Dough - money
Bohunk - derogatory term for someone of Eastern European ancestry