Chapter 3

The bright midday sun beamed down on Fakir as he exited the rowhouse. Adjusting his hat, he waited for Alex, who was busy flipping through his notebook, reviewing his lines of notes.

"This case seems solid, Sarge," Alex commented to Fakir, before finally closing the notebook and tucking it away into his pocket. "With Mr. Hickman's account, that makes for a total of four witness testimonies. I can't imagine Pete Luciano would be able to get out of this one," the junior detective remarked, beaming confidently as he followed Fakir down the street to their parked vehicle.

Fakir, however, cast a wary scowl at the junior officer's optimism. "I wouldn't be ready to take this case to the bank just yet, Alex. You need to remember that none of the people in that club actually saw Luciano pull the trigger and kill Danny Boiardo; they only saw Luciano and Boiardo get into a heated argument and that Boiardo spat in Luciano's face. Boiardo leaves, followed by Luciano. Ten minutes later, a busboy taking out the trash finds Boiardo dead by the backdoor, shot in the head. All things point to Pete Luciano, but a good defense attorney can argue the whole thing is circumstantial, and no one ever saw Luciano pull the trigger."

"You have a point there," a deflated Alex breathed a heavy sigh. "But at least we have people who are willing to talk. More often than not, we know there are witnesses, but none of them are willing to come forward!"

Here Fakir nodded. "That is true…" The thought of a red-haired girl flashed through his mind, and an unwitting smile appeared on the usually stoic detective's face. "There are brave people out there who want to do what is right."

A brightly painted sign across the street for a tobacconist and confectioner shop drew Fakir's attention. Patting his breast pocket and finding it empty, he turned to the junior detective while he was unlocking the car and said, "Alex, I'm going to get some cigarettes. I'll be right back."

After his partner nodded, Fakir made his way across the street. Quickly finding what he was looking for, Fakir paid for two packs of Chesterfield cigarettes at the register, and was on his way out when a flash of movement from the back of the shop caught his attention.

Looking closely, Fakir saw that the shop's dimly lit backdoor was open. That in itself was not unusual, as it was a warm day and the tobacconist was likely trying to let some air into the otherwise stuffy store.

But what was unusual were the four short figures hoovering near the door, young boys whose heads were just barely visible around the door jamb. One of them peered in, and after a moment, warily stepped inside. Fakir, who was standing just shy of their line of sight, watched as this lanky boy tiptoed forward, hugging the shadows while his friends watched with silent excitement from outside.

As a cop, Fakir was only too aware of what the young rascals were up to, and stepped in front of the boy just as he reached out his hand toward a packet of chocolate. Fakir's sudden presence made the would-be shoplifter jerk his head up, and Fakir found himself looking into a familiar pair of brown eyes. "Eddie?"

With a cry of alarm, the boys at the door scattered like rabbits.

Eddie Corioli took off running as well, and the commotion drew the attention of the shop owner, who came rushing from the counter, shouting and waving his walking stick in the air, "You little brats! Scram before I break your legs!"

The four boys were certainly in no mood to stick around, and split up in four different directions as soon as they exited the alleyway behind the smoke shop.

Fakir turned toward Eddie's escape path and followed closely behind him, his height and wider stride allowing him to keep pace with the sprightly youngster. The detective called out, "Eddie! Wait!"

Expecting the boy to keep running, Fakir was surprised when the dark-haired boy actually slowed down. Looking over his shoulder at Fakir, he shouted defensively, "I didn't steal anything! You can't arrest me!"

"Attempted theft is still theft," Fakir responded pointedly, but before the boy could take off running again, he quickly added, "But I'm not here to arrest you!"

"Then why are you following me?" Eddie snapped back as they stood staring warily at one another from across the middle of the quiet street.

Fakir pondered for a moment before putting his hands in his pockets, a posture that would make it difficult for him to break into a sprint. In an even voice, he said, "I want to talk to you."

Eddie looked doubtfully at the detective, but seeing Fakir's non-threatening stance and the fact that he was keeping his distance, the boy relaxed a fraction and grumbled petulantly, "About what?"

Good question, Fakir thought to himself as he cleared his throat. Though a part of him was concerned for the boy and what he must have been going through in the aftermath of his father's murder, Fakir was not prepared to come face-to-face with Eddie again so soon after their first meeting.

Deciding sincere honesty was the best option in this situation, Fakir said, "I want to know how you're doing."

Eddie shrugged as he shuffled his feet. "About the same…" He then looked pointedly at Fakir. "What's it to you?"

The corner of Fakir's lips twisted and for a moment he was at a loss for words as many threads of thoughts and emotions weaved through his head.

Sensing Eddie's expectant gaze, an idea came to Fakir. Meeting the boy's eyes, he said, "How about I get you a chocolate bar and we sit and talk for a bit?"

The glower on Eddie's face clearly communicated the child's displeasure, as well as some discomfort, at Fakir's presence. But Fakir's hunch that the boy had a weakness for chocolate—enough that he was willing to commit theft for it—was right on the mark. After a few seconds of internal struggle, Eddie silently nodded his assent.

With that agreement, Fakir turned back to the tobacconist shop and purchased the bar of chocolate Eddie had tried to lift earlier. Breaking off a small piece, Fakir walked back toward where Eddie stood looking at him reproachfully, and handed the portion to him. "Stay here for a minute. I'll give you the rest when I come back around."

As Eddie silently glared at the detective, Fakir dashed back across the street, the partially wrapped piece of chocolate still in hand, and hurried up to the car where Alex was waiting.

After explaining the situation to him, Fakir said to his partner, "You go ahead and head on back to the precinct. I'll be over shortly, but I might be a few minutes late for the department meeting at eleven."

"Are you sure you'll be all right, Sarge?" the junior officer glanced down the street at Eddie, who stood with his arms crossed, his brown eyes fixed on the remaining chocolate in Fakir's hand.

Fakir huffed. "Alex, he's a 12-year-old kid. The worst he could do is kick me in the shins if I don't give him the rest of this candy bar."

Hearing this, Alex sighed with resignation. "Well, all right, then—I see what you're trying to do. Just be careful; I'll let the captain know you might run a little late."

"Thank you, Alex," Fakir patted his partner's shoulder.

Alex smiled, and as the car engine came to life, said, "You are a good man, Sarge."

Fakir watched silently as his partner pulled away into traffic. Left to himself, Fakir looked back at Eddie, and he silently hoped that he could live up to his partner's high esteem.

Walking in silence, Fakir and Eddie ambled down the street, passing other children playing under the summer sun. By now, Eddie was on the last morsel of chocolate, and his lips were covered in the sweet brown stuff. Popping the last piece in his mouth, the boy thoroughly licked his lips and fingers clean, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

While Eddie finished the chocolate, Fakir scouted out a shaded and mostly clean staircase in front of a rowhouse. Taking a seat on the top of the short stairs, Fakir motioned for Eddie to join him. Eddie, however, purposefully sat away from him at the foot of the staircase.

Realizing this was a purposeful choice in case the boy needed to make a run for it, Fakir sighed, and asked the first question that came to mind. "So, whose idea was it to sneak into the smoke shop?"

As soon as that question left Fakir's tongue, Eddie stood up, forcing Fakir to hold up his hands and say hurried, "Hold on! What I mean is—uh…!"

Clenching his fists in frustration, this situation was highly unusual for Fakir. Normally, he would have questions prepared in advance before walking into an interview. Furthermore, most of his interviewees were adults. On the rare occasions when Fakir had to speak to children for work, a family member or colleague would be on hand to help move the conversation along.

But today's serendipitous encounter had left the usually composed and prepared detective tongue-tied. Forced to improvise, he had fallen back on his habits as a police officer and had began to question Eddie. Fakir knew however that if he asked one more ill-conceived question, the boy in front of him would bolt.

In an attempt to strike up repartee with the boy, Fakir reflected on his own childhood as he tried to recall what a boy Eddie's age would be interested in. Clearing his throat, Fakir tried to act calm and collected as he explained, "I was just asking because, as a detective, I want to know if I'm dealing with a young Moriarty on my hands."

But to Fakir's utter disappointment, Eddie scrunched his brows and made a face. "Mori-who?"

Scoffing incredulously, Fakir looked askance at the boy. "Moriarty. The Napoleon of crime? Arch nemesis of Sherlock Holmes? Have you never read Doyle's books before?"

Eddie shrugged again, and kicked at a bit of broken pavement with his worn leather shoes. "I'm not into reading; books are boring."

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Fakir had to keep himself from groaning aloud. Feeling as though their conversation had suffered the same fate as Moriarty after his encounter with Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls, Fakir mentally wringed his hands for what to say next.

Luckily for the New York detective, he was saved from this awkward predicament when Eddie unexpectedly sniggered and said, "I don't know who this Moriarty fellow is, but being a 'Napoleon of crime' sounds pretty swell. And I guess that'll make you Detective Fakir Holmes, ain't it?"

Now it was time for Fakir to raise a querying eyebrow. "You remembered my name?"

The corner of Eddie's lips curled up impishly. "I don't know who gave you your name, but it's a pretty memorable one. Not many folks would forget a name that sounds like 'fuc—'"

"Hey!" Fakir barked at Eddie, who visibly flinched at the sharp rebuke. Pointing a finger at the boy, Fakir said ominously, "I may have said I wasn't going to arrest you earlier, but that doesn't mean I won't change my mind."

Seeing he was pushing his luck, Eddie rolled his eyes and gave up his cheeky act. "Ugh! Fine! You left your card with us, remember? And to answer your first question, I was the one who came up with the idea to sneak in while that old mug wasn't looking. Happy now?"

Hearing the undisguised cockiness in Eddie's declaration, Fakir's eyes narrowed. "Did you want the chocolate that badly?"

Eddie shrugged nonchalantly, shifting about on his heels as he kept his gaze on the ground. "Not really. But if I'm gonna run with the boys from Tommy Gaglinano's squad someday, I have to first show 'em what a sharper I am."*

A part of Fakir was intrigued and a little amused by the boy's bravado. After all, no thief with an ounce of common sense would ever openly declare their criminal intent to a police officer! But beyond the youthful brashness, the name of one of the powerful local crime bosses in Eddie's statement sounded off a chorus of alarm bells in Fakir's head.

"Why do you want to run with the Gagliano squad?" Fakir asked, treading carefully.

Eddie tsked derisively, as though the answer was obvious. "The boys in Tommy's squad always dress sharp and have dough in their pockets. I wanted to join up, but they said I was too young and they only let people with 'credentials' into their ranks."

"You sound like you're pretty familiar with people in the Gagliano squad. But the things they're involved in are far more serious than sneaking chocolate from a lame-footed tobacconist," Fakir warned. Catching Eddie's eyes, the detective said with emphasis, "The business they have their hands in can get people killed, just like what happened to your father. This isn't a game, Eddie."

Anticipating his statement might touch a nerve, Fakir was not altogether surprised when Eddie spun to face him and exclaimed, "Jesus, do you think I'm stupid? You, Mr. Police Man, go around talking like you know everything, but did you know the only time my old man ever came back with any money was when he hustled? Those were the only times when we all had enough to eat at supper! I don't want Ma and Eli and Angie to sew buttons from sunrise to sunset every single day! I don't want the babies waking up crying at night because they're hungry! The only way for that to happen is for me to do something big one day!"

Finished with his tirade, Eddie stood glaring at Fakir, his face red and nose flaring as he breathed in and out. Fakir studied the furious but earnest expression on Eddie's face. After a pause, the detective said quietly, "You love your family very much, don't you, Eddie?"

Caught off guard by Fakir's candid question, Eddie turned away again. Taking a seat far away from Fakir on the curb, when the boy did speak again, his voice was quiet, barely audible above the background laughter and noise of the street around them. "Pa was a useless bum. He cared more about horse races than making sure we all had enough to eat. But he was still…"

With his back to him, Fakir could not see the boy's expression, but a stifled whimper told Fakir enough of what he was feeling. More loudly, Eddie continued, "Once I've joined the Gaglianos and I get older and tougher, I'm gonna find that tall man who did my old man in and make him pay for it!"

Somewhere nearby a lone cicada began to cry, its sharp wails piercing the calm of an otherwise halcyon afternoon.

Fakir took a deep breath. Eddie's words tugged at memories the dark-haired detective would rather have buried and never looked back on. But Fakir knew only too well what would be in store for Eddie should the boy walk the same path he had taken in life.

As his mind grasped for what to do next, Fakir reached into his pocket and busied himself with retrieving a fresh cigarette. Striking a match, Fakir watched as the match head and wooden stick were set alight by the flame.

The desire for revenge consumed everything in its path. But it did not need to be that way, Fakir told himself as he touched the match to the cigarette. With a swift flick of the wrist, Fakir extinguished the match, its flame now transformed into a trail of cool gray smoke rising from the lit cigarette.

Eddie was a head-strong boy, not unlike himself at that age, Fakir thought wistfully. How could he get through to the boy, when the treacherous riches of the streets spoke far more loudly than any words of caution Fakir could hope to impart to him?

Our circumstances are not so dissimilar. If only he knew… The thought alone seemed to wrap itself around Fakir's throat and choke back his voice.

Even so, Fakir, clearing his throat, persisted to push the words off of his tongue and said, "You don't know this yet, but…you and I have something in common, Eddie."

An impatient Eddie huffed again and looked over his shoulder at Fakir. "Oh yeah? What's that?" he asked, and it was evident from the tone of his voice that the boy was already formulating a sarcastic response to whatever Fakir might say.

Hearing the mocking tilt in Eddie's voice, Fakir faltered. The secret he was about to divulge was something he had never shared with anyone before, and the fear of having his pain and suffering disparaged suddenly dredged up faraway memories of snickering voices pointing and murmuring behind his back.

Fighting the overwhelming urge to dismiss the topic and walk away, Fakir refused to take the easy way out of this situation. For once, he told himself, those painful memories might serve a positive purpose, however small their impact might be.

With that small measure of hope in mind, Fakir took a deep breath and said quietly, "My parents were also killed when I was a kid."

The impish expression on Eddie's face gave way to a look of genuine surprise. When the boy spoke again after a long pause, there was a touch of wariness in his voice. "When you say killed…what do you mean by that?"

Fakir inhaled deeply on the cigarette, then exhaled before he found his voice again. "They were murdered. Two men came and shot them. I was there, but I couldn't see the faces of the people who killed them."

"Were those men ever caught?" Eddie whispered.

Fakir's eyes narrowed and he puffed harshly on his cigarette. "No…"

"Is that why you became a cop?"

Fakir blinked and saw the earnest curiosity in Eddie's expression. "It was, but I did so because it was the only way I could think of to get justice, to find some measure of revenge on the people who killed my folks. For years, it was the only thing I cared about, even when I worked on other cases. But in the end," here Fakir recalled his conversation with Mytho on the rusty banks of the frozen Calumet River, "it was all for naught. The people responsible were long dead.

"In the process of chasing after the murders, I'd pushed away a lot of people…and a lot of people were hurt because of me. It's only after nearly losing someone important to me that I began to realize how blinded I had become."

Another protracted silence fell between Fakir and Eddie. Fakir watched from the top of the staircase as Eddie digested all this, sitting on the concrete curb. Tapping his cigarette against the edge of the stone stairs, Fakir exhaled as the emotional weight that he had unknowingly been carrying since the beginning of their encounter finally began to lift.

"I know you want to be able to do something to help find your father's killer; I've been through that myself," Fakir said, meeting Eddie's gaze. "But if that's all you focus on, then you'll end up losing yourself to that desire. The gangs promise you wealth and power, but for most, those promises end in a life behind bars, or worse. Your mother and your sisters have already lost one person they care about. Don't make them mourn for you as well."

Standing up, Fakir walked down the steps and held his hand out to Eddie. "I promise you, I will do everything I can to find your father's killer. Don't dirty your hands, Eddie. Promise me that."

Eddie's lips scrunched into a grimace as he sat hunched with his arms tucked into his stomach. Just as Fakir thought the boy wasn't going to budge, Eddie untangled his arms and he took Fakir's proffered hand. With a light tug, Fakir pulled the boy to his feet.

"You really think you can find who did this to my old man?" Eddie asked skeptically, to which Fakir gave a curt nod.

Pulling his hand back to his side, Eddie seemed to consider something as he chewed on his lower lip. "When you came by last time…you asked us if there was anything we thought could be useful. Well, the man who came to see Pops, after you left I remembered something about him." Here, Eddie looked up at Fakir and said, "He had a lisp."

"A lisp?" Fakir echoed, his heart beginning to beat rapidly. "Was it a pronounced lisp?"

"Kinda," Eddie shrugged his shoulders again. "I heard him talk for a little bit, but when I thought about it, I realized I couldn't remember some of the words he'd said because he wasn't pronouncing them right…"

"I see…"

Fakir considered this new piece of information. With no other identifying information about Marco's possible killer except for his gender and height, this latest description wouldn't go far to revealing the suspect's identity. But it's a start, Fakir told himself.

To Eddie, he said, "I'm having a meeting with my supervisor later today. I'll be sure to let him and others on the force know about this new piece of information."

With that said, Fakir checked his watch and only then did he realize what time it was. He cursed under his breath, "Damn it! It's already 11:25!" The detective shook his head and started to walk away, "Sorry, I have to run. I'm running late for that meeting!"

As Fakir jogged away, the boy cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Don't forget our promise! You got that, Detective Fakir?"

Startled by Eddie's voice, a brief smile flashed across Fakir's lips. Turning to look back briefly at the boy, Fakir hollered back, "I won't forget!" before sprinting off back towards the precinct.

By the time Fakir made it back to the 53rd precinct, the department meeting had already ended. Inside Charon's office, the captain looked up at a breathless and sweating Fakir appeared at his door.

"Sorry I'm late, Charon," Fakir gasped as the captain waved him into the office and closed the door behind them.

"Goodness, Fakir, did you run all the way here?" Charon poured a cup of water from a glass decanter and handed it to Fakir, who accepted it gratefully before gulping it down.

"Alex has already updated me on the Boiardo case." Returning to his seat behind his desk, Charon asked, "He said you ran into Marco Corioli's son and stayed to talk with the boy. How is he doing?"

"Angry and frustrated, but understandably so, given what had happened to his father," Fakir leaned forward and placed the cup on the desk.

Charon nodded somberly. "He was the last person in his family to see Marco alive. I imagine it must be hard for the boy."

"It also seems that Eddie, like a lot of boys in his neighborhood, aspired to join a gang when he's older," Fakir added. "But I think I managed—or at least, I hope I did—to change his mind."

"Is that right?" Here Charon raised his eyebrows, intrigued. "What did you tell him? I've always found it very hard to get through to boys like him, as they tend to be very stubborn and distrustful of anything the police say."

"I…" Fakir paused.

Though the captain knew of Fakir's connection to the Corvo's via Mytho, Fakir had no desire to divulge the rest of his personal history with the Corvo clan. Even though the case was now closed following Domenico Corvo's demise, Fakir's complicated past with that organization might put his standing within the Homicide division at risk.

So Fakir answered, "I…just had a chat with him and I think I've talked him out of going down that road." Hoping to move the topic away from him and back to the case, Fakir said, "Also, he gave me an additional description for the perp who was last seen with Marco: the man has a lisp."

"I see…" Charon tapped the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully, and Fakir breathed a silent sigh of relief that the captain had shifted his focus. "That's not terribly much more information than what we started out with, but it is a very distinctive trait. It wouldn't hurt to ask the patrol officers in the area to see if anyone recalls a tall fellow with a lisp." Shifting his eyes from his fingers back to Fakir, the captain said more softly, "What about the threat against yourself and Miss Stannus? Has your contact gotten back to you yet?"

Fakir frowned and shook his head. "I've been keeping a closer eye on Duck, and am watching my own back more carefully as well. But truthfully, I don't think there is much we can do at this point except to be vigilant."

Charon nodded. "As ever, that is all we can do for many things. Nonetheless, good work, Fakir."

"Thank you, Charon," Fakir answered and began to rise from his seat. "Hopefully this new detail about the suspect will prove useful for the case."

Charon blinked, then chuckled, confusing Fakir. "Oh, I wasn't referring to the new detail you got from that boy. What I meant was…" Here Charon paused and sighed softly. "You've changed, Fakir."

Furrowing his brows, the dark-haired detective looked quizzingly at his mentor. "What do you mean?"

Motioning for Fakir to sit, the captain smiled wistfully at the baffled young man before him. "You took the time to talk to a boy who was upset over his father's death and was headed down a dark path, and set him back on the straight and narrow. It may sound a bit harsh, but I believe that is something the old you, just a year prior, would never have taken the time to do."

Fakir shifted in his chair, feeling at once uneasy and embarrassed. For the second time that day, the detective was left at a loss for words. "It's…part of my duty," he answered simply.

Charon closed his eyes, and with a fatherly smile on his lips, nodded. "It is our duty to protect and serve the people, but today you've gone above and beyond that. You've grown, Fakir, and dare I say, have changed for the better."

Fakir did not know what to say in response to this unexpected praise from Charon. Muttering a hurried thanks, Fakir left the captain's office.

Yet the effect of Charon's words lingered. As he went about the remainder of his day, Fakir found himself making his way through his tasks with a renewed sense of focus and vigor. By the time the clock was a quarter to five, Fakir had finished most of the paperwork for the day.

Not willing to let an opportunity to walk Duck home slip by, Fakir stuffed the last few pieces of notes and documents into a manila envelope to finish them at home. With envelope in hand, he left the precinct and made his way to C Street.

As he neared the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop, Fakir paused to look for any children out and about, especially one particularly noisy child with mint-green hair. Finding the coast clear this time, he peered into the store. Inside, he saw that Duck and her coworkers were in the process of closing up the shop.

As he stood watching, Lillie began walking towards the door with a dustpan and broom in hand. Having no desire to face Duck's loquacious friend again any time soon, Fakir quickly turned around and looked for someplace to hide. Seeing the shop next door was still open, without thinking, Fakir ducked in just as Lillie opened the door of the pointe shoe shop to empty the dustpan on the curbside.

Fakir took a deep breath at the close call, then blinked as he realized the shop he had stepped into was none other than the Stein Jewelry Store. Scanning the shop for a small, chatty child, Fakir snapped around when a quiet voice behind him said, "Zurab is napping upstairs right now."

Fakir's eyes came to rest on Edel, who sat with a small book in her lap behind a counter at the far end of the shop. Catching the shop owner's enigmatic smile, Fakir cleared his throat awkwardly, before giving a noncommittal nod.

Looking back through the shop door's glass pane, Fakir saw Duck was now helping Lillie with the cleaning, and it did not look like any of the girls were ready to leave for the day just yet. Guess I'll just have to wait here for a little longer, then.

Fakir glanced around the interior of the store, shuffling the manila envelope in his hand. Though he had walked past Edel's store a number of times in the past year, this was the first time he'd actually stepped inside her shop. Small crystal lamps hung from the ceiling, while dark wood display cabinets filled with neatly arranged trinkets and jewelry were organized in an arc around the front entrance.

Idly, Fakir perused the displays around him, his shoes whispering on the solid wood floorboards. Unlike other jewelry stores, the items in each cabinet were an eclectic mix of styles, shapes, and prices. A deep green jadeite bracelet from Asia was paired next to an austere silver and emerald Victorian ring, which in turn rested next to a fanciful art nouveau necklace studded with small cuts of olive-colored peridot. The only overarching theme, Fakir realized, was that the items appeared to be arranged by color and hue, like a rainbow that spanned one end of the room to the other.

Fakir's eyes crossed the gallery and his eyes alighted on a case which held the various crimson and vermilion shaded jewels. Beyond the rubies, garnets, and topazes that vied for one's attention, Fakir's gaze paused on a simple oval pendant. The stone's color was a vivid blood-red, but its lucent quality lent it a brightness and warmth that reminded Fakir of the setting sun.

His mind drifted to another crimson pendant, one that Duck had worn the night they attended the opera together, which Fakir later learned had belonged to Duck's late mother. It was a beautifully crafted piece, and though Duck did not consider it hers to wear, Fakir thought it suited her well, as it had her mother before her.

"That pendant is made from carnelian, a stone that symbolizes courage and hope."

Fakir jerked back and found Edel standing calmly on the other side of the display case. "Um, I-I was just…" Fakir stammered, but Edel opened the back of the display case and deftly took out the pendant from its box. Laying it in her palm, she held it over the glass case and Fakir could see that the stone was fastened at one end with a polished brass chain.

Edel watched as Fakir examined the necklace, then asked softly, "Would you like to hold it?"

Before Fakir could answer, the shop owner held out the necklace to him and Fakir allowed her to gently lower the pendant onto his outstretched palm. Unsure of what he ought to do with the object now in his hands, Fakir gingerly picked up the stone between his thumb and index finger, and was surprised by how cool and soothing it felt to the touch despite the warm glow it gave off.

The aura of this necklace rekindled a memory from some months ago, as Fakir and Duck were about to set out on their way back from Chicago. As they waited to board their carriage, the train conductor who was checking their ticket looked at them quizzingly.

"No luggage or suitcases, sir, miss?"

Fakir and Duck had looked at each other. Given the way they'd each arrived in the city, the two of them only had the clothes on their back and some scant belongings in their coat pockets.

"No," Fakir responded curtly and plucked the tickets from the conductor's hands. Duck smiled apologetically at the man as they entered their carriage.

Once they've found their seats, Duck sat down and chided her companion, "You didn't have to be so rude to that man, Fakir!"

"He's the sort of person who wants to be tipped for moving bags for people. He only asked us that because he realized he can't make any money off of us," Fakir replied gruffly as he removed his coat.

Duck sighed loudly in exasperation and let the matter drop. But the subject at hand reminded Fakir of something, and after taking his seat next to Duck, he said to her, "Speaking of luggage, did you ever receive the box of your mother's belongings?"

The topic startled Duck, who stammered for a moment before she said, "Huh? Oh! Um, yes…I did…"

"That's good," Fakir turned his blushing face away from Duck and pretended to inspect their train tickets. "The people packing your belongs didn't look very reliable, so I asked the Marshalls to give those items to you personally, since they're important to you. I'm guessing they're with the rest of your belongings, then?"

With his head turned away from her, Fakir did not see the pensive look in Duck's eyes resulting from his question. "Um…actually…" Duck paused, as her dark-haired neighbor finally noticed the hesitation in her voice and turned his face back towards her. "I had the pendant with me, but…I lost it at some point during my time in Chicago. It must've fallen out of my pocket, or I misplaced it or something…" Duck finished weakly.

Fakir's eyes widened, speechless for a moment, before he muttered, "Is that so…That's too bad, then."

"Yeah…" Duck nodded. From her sad but thoughtful expression at the time, Fakir wondered if Duck was still processing the loss of such a precious object.

The thought of getting her another pendant had crossed his mind, but Fakir knew it would be impossible to replace a deeply sentimental item like that. Still, as he stood holding the simple but sublime carnelian pendant in his hand, Fakir wondered if a new pendant, if only a little, would help Duck to move on from her feelings of loss.

Across from him, Edel watched as Fakir silently contemplated his thoughts. "A long, long time ago," the pale shopkeeper began, "carnelian stones were worn as amulets by warriors to give them courage and resolve. Its color also resembles the sun, and it is said wearing such a stone facilitates new beginnings and fuels hope in the hearts of men."

"A new beginning…" Fakir repeated softly, his fingers stroking the stone. Though he had never been one for mysticism or any of the hocus-pocus spiel people now were so fond of, a small part of him wondered if it would not hurt to entrust some of his hopes to this stone.

But before Fakir could contemplate his thoughts any further, a familiar figure outside the jewelry shop window made Fakir look up. It was Duck, completely oblivious to his presence in Edel's shop, waving goodbye to her friend, before proceeding to walk away.

Hurriedly turning back to Edel, Fakir began to hand the pendant back to her as he blurted out, "I need to go! Can you—"

"I will keep it in the backroom for you," Edel said simply with a knowing smile.

Giving the shopkeeper a quick nod of gratitude, Fakir pulled open the shop door, and after quickly checking to make sure Duck's friends were not nearby, rushed to catch up with Duck down the street.

Hearing hurried footsteps behind her, Duck spun around and her blue eyes grew wide with surprise when she saw who it was. "Oh! Fakir!" The unexpected sight of her neighbor sent a flutter through Duck's stomach and her pulse quickened.

It had been a few days since Pique's teasing had opened Duck's eyes to the possibility that her stoic friend and neighbor might harbor romantic feelings for her, but in that time, Duck was no closer to diagnosing the nature of her own feelings.

Luckily for her, Fakir's frenetic work schedule and subsequent continued absences allowed her to push the thought to the back of her mind as she went about her daily tasks. But now, with him suddenly standing in front of her again, Duck found herself unsure of what to say or how to act.

For heaven's sakes, it's not like anything has changed between us! Duck told herself sternly as Fakir seemed to notice her uncharacteristically quiet manners. Just act the way you usually do around him!

Pushing a smile to her face, Duck did her best to not let the quiver in her chest show, but it was to no avail, as Fakir watched her closely after taking notice of the slight tremor in her voice. "Er, you managed to leave early today? Have things slowed down a bit at the precinct, then?"

"I still have a few things to get done," Fakir held up the envelope, "But these shouldn't take long. Overall though, things have slowed down a little in the last two weeks. It's been mostly desk work, with a few interviews and meetings scattered here and there.

"What about you?" his eyes turned back to Duck, and the red-haired girl wished for not the last time that her neighbor wasn't so darn perceptive. "You seem a little out of sorts today. Did something happen?"

"Um, no…not really…" Duck sputtered. She couldn't very well tell him she thought he had a crush on her—not if she didn't want to die from sheer embarrassment, of course!

Still, it would be nice to know one way or another, Duck thought bashfully, but the idea of an open confession reminded her of something else.

"Actually, something interesting did happen!" Duck's words made Fakir's brows shoot up in alarm, but any concern he might have held back was dispelled by her next sentence. "My employer, Mr. Kotin, now has a girlfriend!"

The clouds masking Duck's expression cleared somewhat as she recalled the look of profound joy and happiness on the mustachioed man's face when he came into the shop the day after his evening with destiny.

Smiling now, Duck continued, "He'd been head-over-heels for a lady named Anna Belykh, and over dinner last week, he confessed his feelings to her. Turns out she also likes him, so she reciprocates his feelings! We were all on tenterhooks for him, because if she'd rejected him, I'm sure his heart would've been completely broken!"

"Oh…well, good for him," the detective mumbled. As much as he was glad this "interesting event" was nothing more hazardous than the romantic endeavors of Duck's employer, Fakir found himself feeling a pang of envy for the man's fortune in love.

With a shrug of annoyance, Fakir pushed those thoughts aside. The motion of Duck's swaying braid caught the detective's eye and he said to her, "I remember your friends were talking about getting new haircuts for your birthday. Are you going through with it?"

Duck's lips twisted into a pensive frown as they crossed a street, walking side-by-side. "Me? I don't think I will, to be honest. I've always had long hair, and I have fond memories of Ma brushing my hair before school each morning. The thought of cutting it all off makes me feel sad and uneasy. But Pique and Lillie are really excited about getting new hairdos, so I'm certain they will go through with it." Maybe it was the comfort of an old routine as they traced a familiar path home, but Duck found herself feeling more at ease and less self-conscious the longer she spoke with Fakir.

The questions and uncertainties that had nagged at her receded into the background, and though her heartbeat still fluttered in her chest, there was now a happy excitement in her voice as she recounted, "Pique asked around, but all of the hair salons around here refused to cut bobbed hair. But Lillie came up with the idea to ask the local barber shops if they would be willing to do it instead!

"The way she went about it was quite ingenious, too! She'd found a card printed with pictures of bob haircut styles, and this past weekend showed it to all of the neighboring barbershops until she found a barber who was willing to give it a go. She and Pique were so excited, they spent all of yesterday and part of today discussing which hairstyle they should get!"*

"I don't see why she had to go to such lengths, though. I mean," Fakir paused to rephrase his comment, "it's just a haircut. I don't understand why some people are so upset over how other people wear their hair. Honestly, it's none of their business."

"Mmm," Duck touched her lips thoughtfully, "Long hair has been the norm for girls for as long as anyone can remember, right? So, I guess for a lot of people it's unexpected and shocking to see women with really short hair."

Duck's blue eyes drifted back to Fakir and to his own lengthy hair. "What about you, Fakir? To be honest, I was really surprised when I realized you were a cop, because I'd never seen a cop—or any man, actually—with long hair before," she said sheepishly. "Did anyone ever give you grief over your hair?"

Fakir groaned as they climbed the stairs of the tenement building towards the floor they shared with one another. "Yeah, when I first joined up, there were a few senior officers who took issues with my appearance. But lucky for me, Charon openly expressed his desire for me to join the force, and that seemed to shut them up, publicly at least. Most of those old fogies have since retired, and even if someone still had a problem with it, it doesn't matter to me."

Touching the base of his ponytail, Fakir scowled, "But during the summer when it's hot and humid, it can be a real nuisance. At night especially, it's like having a Persian cat curled up around your neck when you sleep."

This description drew a burst of laughter from Duck as they stopped in front of their respective apartment doors. "I know the feeling! When I try to turn around in bed and end up pulling on my hair, that's when I know I need to dig out the scissors and trim my hair. Even so, I can't imagine myself with short hair," Duck lightly stroked her braid. "Pique and Lillie will probably tease me for keeping my hair, especially since the whole idea was to do something special for my birthday!"

Next to her, Fakir shrugged, "Short hair isn't for everyone. You shouldn't force yourself to do something you're not comfortable with."

Hearing this, Duck smiled a little. "I know…" she said, turning to him. "But you know, Fakir," Duck paused as she regarded his features, "I think you would look really good with short hair! It would suit you!"

This unexpected statement sent a wave of heat up Fakir's face as his face rapidly turned red. Remarkably, for the third time that day, the detective found himself at a loss for what to say.

Seeing his wide-eyed reaction, it was only then that the implications of her words dawned on Duck. Oh, no! Why did I say that?! He's going to think I'm being weird—or worse, that I'm being rude! she thought in a panic as her heart pounded.

Waving her hands frantically around, she sputtered, "S-Sorry! N-Never mind what I just said! You look fine the way you are now! Really!"

"It's fine, idiot…" Fakir managed to find his voice and mumbled quietly, "…there's nothing to apologize for."

Duck's hands stopped their frenetic movement and she blinked at him, watching his expression carefully. "R-Really?" Her gaze dropped down to stare at the worn wooden floor. "That's good…"

As an awkward silence descended between them, Fakir turned away and busied himself with unlocking his apartment door. Before opening his door, he stole a glance at Duck and found her still standing with her hands clutched worriedly in front of her chest.

Maybe it was his imagination, but ever since the last time they spoke in front of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop a few days ago, Duck seemed to be behaving a little differently around him. She was stuttering far more than usual, which Fakir had learned was a sure sign she was flustered.

But why would she become flustered around him all of a sudden? It wasn't as though anything had changed between them.

…Or had it?

The corner of Fakir's lips tugged downward at that thought. You're reading too much into this, he chastised himself.

Deciding Duck's change in behavior was most likely due to being stressed by this whole hair affair, Fakir cleared his throat loudly, which succeeded in getting Duck's attention. "Just because everyone else is doing something doesn't mean you have to fall in line too, Duck," he said, and watched as the girl's eyes timidly met his.

The uncharacteristic shyness in her eyes made his stomach flutter, but Fakir pressed on and continued evenly, "I think you look fine the way you are. It doesn't matter what other people do or think; do what you feel is right."

Feeling the rush of heat from earlier creeping up his shirt collar again, Fakir knew he couldn't maintain his calm and collected façade in front of Duck for much longer. Turning around sharply, he hurriedly said, "Um, that's my opinion anyway…goodnight, then."

Duck opened her mouth to speak, but by then Fakir's door had closed. Sighing softly, she dug into her purse for her key, but as she stepped inside her apartment, Duck found that the pressure inside her chest had eased and she felt calmer than before.

Even though there were still many questions floating around in her head, Fakir's reassurance had helped to calm some of her anxieties. This would've been unthinkable less than a year ago, when Fakir first bulldozed his way into her life.

It's funny that the reason I'm so flustered is because of Fakir, but he's the one who ends up reassuring me, Duck sighed at the irony of the situation she had found herself in.

But as inexplicable as all this was, Duck found herself smiling once again. I'll have to break the news to Pique and Lillie tomorrow. I just hope they won't be too disappointed that I'm not cutting my hair…

The rapid "ta-ta-ta-ta" sound of the typewriter fell silent as Fakir leaned back and stretched his arms above his head.

Outside, the summer sun hanging low on the horizon as a lazy breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying with it the sound of lively jazz music. Hearing the slight crackle in the melody, Fakir briefly wondered if one of the neighbors had recently purchased a new radio before turning his attention back to the rolled sheet of paper on his Smith Corona typewriter.

Hitting the return lever, Fakir reread the last sentence he'd transcribed. Satisfied, he twisted the platen knob to release the transcript and placed the sheet of paper at the top of a stack of finished documents.

These will be ready for Charon to review tomorrow, Fakir thought as he stood up and straightened the pile into an orderly stack before putting them into the manila envelope along with the original handwritten notes. His work done for the day, the detective sighed and massaged his sore shoulders.

As the upbeat jazz music continued to waft in, Fakir walked up to the window and leaned against the sill. Lighting another cigarette, he puffed it a few times before settling in to enjoy a quiet moment of repose on an otherwise hectic day.

With the cigarette on his lips, and a free hand tapping lightly to the beat of the music, Fakir shifted his mind from police paperwork to his fellow policemen as he recalled the unexpected praise from Charon and Alex earlier today.

You are a good man, Sarge.

You've grown, Fakir, and dare I say, have changed for the better.

Above him, the first pinpricks of starlight in the evening sky appeared. Scarcely a year ago, Fakir doubted he would have had the leisure to sit around and indulge in self-introspection, as his mind was wholly consumed by the Corvo case. Like a bloodhound, he was always on the lookout for new leads and burying his nose in his work, with nary a thought for anything else.

But meeting Duck had changed all that. Fakir's green eyes turned from the heavens above to the earthly domain of his neighbor's window. Though her curtains were drawn, a soft, fond gaze nevertheless found its way to Fakir's eyes.

In the distance, the last rays of sunlight lit a fading corner of the sky a fiery red. The rich vermillion hue called to mind the pendant Fakir saw earlier today.

That pendant is made from carnelian, a stone that symbolizes courage and hope…

Fakir's expression sobered as he rubbed at his neck, the tips of his fingers touching an edge of the scar tissue that covered his back.

Though those hideous scars would be with him forever, Fakir reminded himself he had made the conscious decision to stop letting his painful memories cloud his thoughts and color his judgment. His conversation with Eddie today was a small step forward in that direction. Though Fakir does not know what lies ahead, a small crimson light inside of him guided and reassured him that that future will be brighter than the dark past that he had left behind.

As the music on the wind faded, the now silent breeze caressed Fakir's skin, shifting stray strands of hair from his bangs onto his face. Lifting his hand from his scar, Fakir brushed his hair aside, and as his fingers ran down the length of his ponytail, Duck's voice from earlier that day came to mind.

I think you'd look really good with short hair! It would suit you!

Fakir's hand let go of his hair before he left the window. Setting aside the cigarette, he found the shaving mirror and undid the tie that held his hair back. Fakir then ran both hands down the length of his hair, pulling them back as much as possible. With a hand holding down his hair, Fakir picked up the mirror and examined his reflection.

Tilting his head to the left, then to the right, he wondered if this was would he would look like if he had shorter hair. Though pulling his hair back wasn't a perfect facsimile for short hair, Fakir could see himself looking sharper, and probably more authoritative as well.

Maybe then kids like Eddie and Zurab will actually show some respect, Fakir thought sardonically.

Loosening his grip, Fakir contemplated the long ebony locks that fell over his shoulders. Much like Duck, who'd worn her hair at its current length since childhood, Fakir had worn his hair long since his parents' death. Unlike Duck, whose long, auburn tresses served as a cherished connection to her mother, Fakir's hair was a cover for the scars he carried, a shield to keep the world from prying and pitying him almost literally behind his back.

But like so many aspects of his past, those whispered gossip and words of pity were behind him now, too. Perhaps the best way to make a clean break with the past was with a physical change, one that Fakir had control over—and with Duck's unexpected reassurance, one that he now felt comfortable initiating.

His mind made up, Fakir wondered what Duck's reaction would be when she saw him next, humming a chord of jazz he had heard on the wind with a small, impish grin on his face.

A/N

*"Sharper" as a noun means someone who is a shrewd swindler.

*Tommy Gagliano was a real-life New York City gangster active in the Bronx in the first half of the 20th century. He was a member of the Lucchese crime family, which was established in the 1920's by the Sicilian-born gangster, Gaetano Reina. The Lucchese family was infamously involved in heroin smuggling via the French Connection (a scheme which later gave its name to the synonymous book and movie) from the 1930's to the 1970's. Many Lucchese members were arrested in the 1990's and 2000's but the gang is still very much active in the present day.

*It's a bit unimaginable nowadays that a hairdresser would refuse to cut a female customer's hair, but in the 1920s, having short bobbed hair was considered very shocking, even scandalous. Some hairdressers refused to cut it because of a personal moral principle, while others refused because they were not used to cutting hair that short and simply didn't trust themselves to do a good job. As such, many flappers turned to barbers, who were far more familiar and comfortable cutting short hair for their bobbed cuts. But barbers, who traditionally catered to a male clientele, were initially at a loss for the numerous unfamiliar hairstyles requested by the influx of female clients. In response to this, the National Hairdressers' Association released a printed card in 1924 with different bobbed hair styles for women to take to their barber. The title of the card is the somewhat exasperated sounding, "If you Must Do It Show This to Your Barber".

I know Fakir smokes like a chimney in this fic, but this was not unusual for men in the 1920s. In that era the per person consumption of cigarettes among adults was around 1,000 a year. By the 1963 this number was 4,345 a year, and more than half of all men and about a third of all women in the United States smoked. We now know that smoking is terrible for your health (and I say this as someone whose uncle underwent triple bypass surgery after having smoked for most of his adult life), but the health risks were not known back in the early part of the 20th century when smoking was very much a part of popular culture.

As ever, a big "Thank you!" to Tomoyo Ichijouji for her assistance proofreading and editing this story!