The Three Hearts

Jenny

Jenny was determined that her return to New Orleans would take place in the streets rather than sticks, which meant it had been a real pain trying to find somewhere to park a giant, silver spaceship. Of course the spaceship was invisible, but the fact remained that they still had to awkwardly clamber down a fire escape off of a particularly scuzzy rooftop in one of the more uptown parts of the city. A fancier area. Not as fancy as the big, white mansions that crested the fringe just before the land gave way to the swamp and the bayous, but decent. Home to the sort of people Viola O'Hara wouldn't quite be disgusted to bump into. There they were, in the midwinter heat, the temperature still burgeoning on twenty degrees even though it was the end of December.

"This is 1948, then?" Clara asked, hovering close to Jenny but keeping her hand clutched tightly around her umbrella she had to protect from the bright, southern sun. It would be setting soon. As for Jenny herself, all she was carrying was the transdimensional bag Clara had taken with her to work and produced her new scarf from, a scarf which, despite the hot weather down in Louisiana, Jenny still had around her neck.

"Yep. You're looking at prosperous, post-war America, right before the Cold War dug its claws into society," Jenny explained, trying to put a bit of flourish into the things she said. Okay, maybe she was trying to impress Clara, was trying to match up to Clara's travels with the Doctor. But it was hardly a crime for Jenny to want to sweep her girlfriend off her feet. "And all the fancy cars people can afford now the Depression is over," she added as a vintage automobile with a shiny, dark blue body, chrome trimmings, and white-walled tyres drifted past them on the road.

"And you do know where we're going?" Clara asked, glancing around at the old cars, the traffic lights, the grid layout of the streets and all the retro shops.

"Of course I do! I lived here for over ten years. I'm not my dad, I don't just whiz around getting snapshots of different eras. I generally hang about for a bit," Jenny said, then she pointed across the street, dragging Clara by her elbow into the road with her, "We're going over there." Clara seemed very on edge about Jenny just pulling her into the traffic without even looking left or right, and muttered something about 'illegal jaywalking,' but it turned out fine in the end as they approached their destination.

"The Three Hearts?" Clara, perplexed, read the place's name aloud.

"Yep. 'Authentic Irish tavern' it probably says somewhere on it." Jenny looked up at the Three Hearts, Viola's favourite joint.

"But I thought you were getting a coat?" Clara asked. Jenny had explained very little to Clara about what was going on and who they were going to see and how Jenny knew this person, this enigmatic sociopath.

"I am, it's just my… friend… she runs this place. She runs a lot of places, including the tailor's, and this is where she'll be. Probably. I haven't actually been to New Orleans since 1939…" But she knew from the history books that Viola's chokehold on the richer districts of Louisiana wouldn't lapse at all until the 70s. "Just trust me." Clara sighed, but resigned to do just this, as Jenny marched confidently up to the Three Hearts and walked right in. A bell overhead tinkled.

As soon as she entered, Clara carefully closing her sun-blocking umbrella, a huge, burly type of guy sitting at the lonely bar pulled a magnum on her, cocking it immediately. As soon as Clara heard the gun cock she whirled around to see they were being aimed at.

"We're closed," the man said gruffly. Jenny frowned at him. A new bouncer.

"What happened to Joyce?" Jenny asked him. She didn't put her hands up. The man's eyes narrowed.

"Joyce got iced by the Cubans in '44 – who the hell're you? This ain't your type of establishment, lady," he said coolly, "You've got ten seconds til I shoot ya."

"Viola won't be very happy if you shoot her oldest friend," Jenny remarked, "Is she upstairs?"

"The boss doesn't take visitors," the bouncer said, "Not at this hour and not unless they call ahead. 'Specially not a limey."

"Boss of what?" Clara whispered in Jenny's ear. Jenny ignored her; it wouldn't do well to look as though they wee colluding in front of a mobster who didn't know who she was.

"Listen. Viola wants to see me. She'll always want to see me. You go upstairs and tell her DeLacey is here," Jenny said, crossing her arms, "And then see she doesn't put you on racket duty for a week for not bringing me up right away. If you shoot me she'll have your head."

"Hold it – didja say DeLacey?"

"That's the name." He holstered his gun, looked a little pale, and then disappeared into a door at the back which Jenny knew led to the upstairs 'VIP' area – though Viola was the only VIP who spent her time in that place. And Jenny, of course. Before she left.

"Holy shit – what's going on?" Clara hissed at her once the new, unknown bouncer was gone.

"Relax, it's fine," Jenny said smoothly, taking the large umbrella out of Clara's hands to put it into the transdimensional bag. She couldn't take an umbrella into a room with Viola, she'd think it was concealing a shotgun, or something.

"Who's 'DeLacey'?"

"I'm DeLacey, obviously," she explained, "Seriously, though, when we get upstairs… be nice?"

"What do you mean be nice? I am nice."

"Look, you're just not everyone's cup of tea, try not to argue with her about morals. In fact, anyone you meet today, don't bring up morals or the 'right thing' or righteous mumbo-jumbo," Jenny implored.

"Righteous mumbo-jum-" Clara's exclamation of confusion and judgement was interrupted by Jenny shushing her as they heard the bouncer's heavy, hurried footsteps coming back down the wooden stairs.

"The boss says you can go right up," he said, even paler than he was before. Viola must have threatened him, Jenny assumed. She was always threatening people. Jenny smiled pleasantly at him as he let them pass, taking his seat up again on the empty bar. Clara seemed uncomfortable. Really, though, Clara was with her, she had nothing to fear when it came to the likes of Viola. Jenny had always been Viola's favourite.

"Why – I do believe my eyes are deceiving me, for it can't possibly be my own DeLacey returning to me after all these years," Viola said in her prissy, Southern drawl, talking like she had just stepped out of Gone With the Wind. She was half being sarcastic, Jenny seeing her sitting in the middle of the room with two more henchmen around her, and a weedier looking man in a fancy pin-striped suit sitting at her table with her. Jenny laughed.

"Maybe they are deceiving you, because I wouldn't really say I was returning," Jenny said, smiling. Viola smiled, too, but couldn't hide her dissatisfaction with Jenny for saying this was not the grand return she wanted it to be. Viola's sharp eyes immediately sought Clara.

"Who's this stranger you drag into my place of business?" she asked coldly.

"Ah – this is Clara," Jenny introduced, "My girlfriend. And Clara, this is Viola O'Hara. She's the head of the Irish mafia in New Orleans." Clara, in all her newfound terror at their company, could not even begin to question Jenny about her shady acquaintances while they were in the same room.

"What's this? A consort? A flame?" Viola asked, "I've never known you have any interest in taking lovers before."

"You haven't known me for a long time," Jenny answered, "May we sit down?" She didn't forget her manners, and most definitely not when Viola was already being off with her because of the not-returning thing.

"You look the same as the day I met you," Viola commented, after assenting that they may, indeed, sit down. Jenny pulled out Clara's chair for her and then sat down herself, on Viola's right, where she had always been. Probably always would be.

"Two-hundred years ago," Jenny said, "I told you. It's been a long time. I left after the war."

"Left to go where?"

"I ran away and joined the circus," Jenny told her the truth, and Viola, blatantly not believing her, laughed, then asked if either of them wanted a drink. "No, thanks," Jenny answered quickly.

"Suit yourself. Conor's never quite managed to recreate your moonshine recipe, anyway – O'Hara-brand whiskey hasn't sold as well since you left," Viola said.

"It's all about technique. I'll write him down some instructions before I leave later, it's the least I can do after you help me," Jenny said. She was telling the truth, she didn't mind copying down her intricate hooch recipe. "Why's this place empty, anyway? At this time?" It was the early evening, they had arrived just before the sunset began to roll in.

"Closed for business this last week," Viola said, "Keeping my customers safe from the likes of Salvatore." Jenny raised her eyebrows.

"What've you done to Sal?"

"Haven't done a damned thing!" Viola protested, "Not initially. Lucky you showed up today, of all the times. There's been a few misdeeds recently."

"I'm not going after Big Sal," Jenny said firmly, "I'm not whacking someone for you, Viola, and especially not a don. I only came here to get a new coat."

"All the way to Louisiana for a coat?" Viola asked, amused by Jenny's quaintness.

"Wasn't as far a journey as you think it was," Jenny said, being cryptic. Viola wasn't going to ask her about her trip, anyway. She only cared about herself and what she could get out of a situation.

"Ha! Isn't she funny?" Viola said to the weedy man who was her only other company. Viola turned to Jenny and said, "This mook here's name is Eduardo Mancini. He's just here while Mahoney has some words with his wife, Francesca. Eddie," Viola spoke to him again, "This darling is Jenny DeLacey. You've heard of DeLacey, haven't you?" Eduardo Mancini was trembling and sweaty. And, most importantly, Italian. Jenny knew Mahoney, one of Viola's most-prized enforcers.

"Didn't suppose you had an Englishwoman for your right-hand," Mancini muttered.

"And I didn't suppose you thought you had a right to speak while you're in my charitable company."

"What the hell's charitable about keeping me locked up in your goddamn pub while one of your micks tortures my wife!?" he exclaimed. Both of the bodyguards behind Viola drew pistols on him.

"Johnny, you take Eddie here downstairs and wash his mouth out. I won't have that kind of filth at my dining table," Viola ordered one of them, and he silently did as she asked, dragging a protesting Eddie Mancini out and down the stairs towards the bar. Jenny thought to herself that she really ought to have left Clara at home despite her asking to come… Viola snapped back to herself like she hadn't just ordered Mancini to be brutalised in her cellar.

"Who is he?" Jenny asked.

"He's a Scarpelli, one of Sal's accountants. He's going to open his heart to us and spill the details on Sal's fronts," Viola explained. Clara, all the while, said not a word, just listened, and occasionally looked at Jenny. Jenny was trying not to meet her gaze, though, lest she succumb to the judgement within. No doubt Clara thought she was looking at a stranger as this meeting took place, as Jenny didn't take any steps to try and prevent Viola's efforts to make Mancini talk. "So. You're after a coat?"

"Yeah. And I'm not interested in getting dragged into whatever's going on between you and Sal," Jenny said. Unsurprisingly, she'd probably just walked right into the middle of a mob dispute. She wondered what had started it, but the causes of these gang wars were usually quickly forgotten, buried underneath dozens of criminal corpses. "I'll teach Conor how to brew the moonshine, and you make me a coat. And give me Josephine." Viola laughed.

"That's not going to work for me," Viola said, "You're going to do something else for me, because there's something that only you can help me with. Requires your special area of expertise. And no doubt, if you've really been away for two centuries, you'll know a whole lot more about it than you did the last time I saw you."

"What is it, then?"

"I'm not telling you a thing until I get the word that this girl of yours can be trusted." Jenny glanced round at Clara. "She looks mighty confused."

"I trust Clara more than I've ever trusted you," Jenny remarked, then asked Clara softly, "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" she hissed back, the first words she had spoken in Viola's presence. She was never normally so quiet. Jenny had warned her that Viola was a horrible person.

"You ought to let the girl speak," Viola said.

"I'm not stopping her from speaking," Jenny quipped, "Presumably she just doesn't want to talk to you." The one bodyguard left in the room made a reach for his gun again, but Viola held up a hand to stop him, and then laughed.

"How'd you meet Jenny?" Viola asked Clara.

"Uh… I, erm…" she frowned, "I'm not sure I remember… oh, you came to Coal Hill and pretended to be an inspector." That had been a long time ago. Jenny had met Danny Pink, in fact. She had been the one to break the news of the parallel universes to Ravenwood.

"Clara's a teacher," Jenny added.

"Pretended to be a school inspector? A relationship based on subterfuge! I love it. That's all I expect from you." Viola didn't care that Jenny was dating another woman, even though this was the 1940s. As long as people made her a profit, they could sleep with whomever they liked; it made no odds to Viola.

"Anyway, what's this special business you want me to take care of?"

"I need you to put that cleverness of yours to good use and solve some recent crimes," Viola said, "I was going to send O'Reilly from the Seventh Precinct, had Seamus holding the scene for him and everything, but now you've shown up. I'd like to have my best eyes on it. That being your eyes, of course. They're unusual, anyway."

"Unusual?"

"I haven't seen any photographs, but Eddie Mancini tells me the bodies have been turned into some sort of substance. I'm foggy on the details. You apprehend whoever this killer is, and you'll have your coat and you'll have your Josephine." That wasn't what Jenny thought Viola was going to ask her. "It's in the alley off Parker Street, next to the pawnbrokers."

"That's not exactly close."

"These incidents are of a particular… importance, shall we say, in the city recently. You can borrow my new car to get to and fro. Discretion is advised, though – I know how you can be in cars. Give her the keys," she ordered the bouncer.

"We ain't got no keys."

"I told Johnny this morning to stop by Sullivan's and get me some keys for the Porsche."

"Aye, and then you went and nabbed Mancini."

"Fine. You're on fifty percent this week. You're lucky DeLacey doesn't need keys to drive a car." Clara looked questioningly and coldly at Jenny now, Jenny who managed a sheepish, slightly guilty smile in response. "I should warn you, though, the car's hot. Parked around back. Shouldn't cause you any bother if you keep it in my territory, though."

"Right," Jenny said.

"Best you two be going," Viola then said, "Since you're on my time, now. Payment in cloth. Oh – you have a piece though?"

"Always," Jenny answered stiffly, drawing a revolver out of the back of her jeans with her good hand (she had been wearing driving gloves this whole time so as not to betray to Viola the poor state of her broken thumb) to show her. She didn't even look at Clara when she did this. Viola smiled.

"Off with the pair of you, then," Viola said, and Jenny stood up quickly, lest she get shot. Viola wasn't beyond shooting people in non-lethal places if they didn't do what she asked fast enough. Clara, broiling with a thousand different emotions Jenny was, most definitely, going to be subjected to as soon as they were relatively alone, followed suit. "The officers are on my payroll, they'll let you walk right in and have a look yourselves. Oh, and, Jenny?"

"Yes?"

"Are you sure about her?" Viola asked quietly, nodding at Clara.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"She's English," Viola pointed out. When Viola had known Jenny, Jenny, despite her accent, had never stepped foot in England. This Viola knew, because Viola knew everything of Jenny's short past up until she turned seven.

"Well, that's… a fair point. But I look past her English-ness. I love her."

"Don't scratch my Porsche," Viola ordered, then she finally let Jenny and Clara leave, Jenny purposely avoiding her girlfriend's gaze the whole time, nodding at the large bouncer sitting at the bar as she went past and left the Three Hearts through the front door.

"What the hell!?" Clara demanded straight away, Jenny just walking on to go around to the back of the tavern where this Porsche was allegedly waiting. "Jenny! You're carrying a gun!? When did you pick that up!?"

"I keep this revolver on the ship," Jenny answered stiffly. The Porsche, a Porsche 356, was pretty hard to miss sitting in the back lot among a bunch of old trucks and coupés. The thing was a bright, shining red, with just two doors and white-walled tyres. She wondered who Viola stole it from. "That's a nice car, don't you think?"

"I don't know anything about bloody cars, and it's probably stolen."

"It is stolen, she said it was hot," Jenny said.

"Oh, great. Let's just drive a stolen car. And since when didn't you need keys?"

"I know how to pick locks and hotwire," Jenny admitted, trying to be nonchalant about these sordid talents of hers.

"Holy shit, Jen, it's like I don't even know you! Carrying a gun this whole time!"

"Oh my life, look," Jenny said, drawing out the revolver again and then flicking it so that the cylinder opened to reveal six empty chambers, "It's not even loaded. It's a scare tactic, I do it all the time. It usually works, unless someone knows my tricks, like Iveanne the other day. I wouldn't just shoot somebody. Listen, I'll explain in the fancy car." She got her sonic screwdriver out of her pocket and opened it that way, Clara getting into the passenger side.

"You never told me that you work for the mob," Clara said, Jenny starting the car.

"It's never come up! And it's worked, past tense."

"You're working for them now."

"So are you. To solve some murders, anyway. It's not like she's tried to get me to kill anybody."

"Would you have done?" Clara asked as Jenny messily drove out from behind the Three Hearts, praying Viola was telling the truth about it being safe to drive the Porsche around Irish territory.

"No! Of course not!" Jenny said, "I've never killed anybody while living in New Orleans."

"Who was the bloke she's torturing in the cellar?"

"Eduardo Mancini, she told us. One of Big Sal's accountants."

"Yeah. Who's this Sal?"

"Salvatore Scarpelli, the don of the Italian mob," Jenny explained, "Sounds like Viola's got into one with them."

"And how, exactly, do you know the leader of the mob? How do you get so entangled with organised crime?"

"She wasn't the leader of the mob when I met her. Her dad was rich, see, owned this very upmarket tailor's in New Orleans, just called O'Hara's, except then her dad died and left the shop to her. Except Ferguson, the leader of the Irish mob at the time, wanted to take over her business and use it as a front for a speakeasy. But she wouldn't rollover on them," Jenny explained as she drove them towards Parker Street, "He sent some goons to kill her and she ended up running away from them all the way out into the swamp – which was where I'd been living for five years, making money by selling game. Mostly alligators. I can make these killer alligator meatballs; I'll have to cook them for you someday…

"Anyway, I… dealt with the one who was chasing her. Shot him in his wrist, and his hand, so he couldn't fire his gun. Shot the hat off his head to show him how good my aim is, and he ran off. After that, Viola sort of, adopted me. Took me out of the swamp and tried to make me into some sort of Southern belle for a while, but I mostly brewed moonshine for her and hung about in her house protecting her from make-believe assassins. She's got a head for business. She eventually managed to stage a coup – which I had nothing to do with – to kill Ferguson and take control of the Irish mob. That was in '35. In '39 I left and came to Britain to help in the war effort. Six years later I left Earth outright. I haven't seen Viola at all since I was twenty-two – the age I look, in fact. Although, she did wire me money when I lived in Berlin in the 1960s.

"And as for the stolen car, Clara – you have met my father. He steals everything and everyone knows it. Horrible thief. It's a victimless crime, anyway."

"…Who's Josephine?" Clara asked eventually, calming down somewhat after Jenny explained her dealings with the mob weren't quite as dark as Viola had made it sound.

"My old hunting rifle."

"Do they all have names?"

"No, this revolver doesn't," Jenny said, driving a little too fast than would probably be recommended, "I don't think my plasma blaster I stole from Koltn does, either, come to think of it. This is the revolver I stole from the Ukrainian who broke my thumb, in Chernobyl. You can name it, if you want."

"Me name it?"

"Yeah, sure? Why not? You are my girlfriend. Wait – you still are, aren't you? You're not going to dump me because I know people in the mob?"

"I'm just shocked about it, that's all…" Clara sighed.

"In all fairness, you could have been doing all sorts of shady things with Ashildr for however long you were travelling with her."

"But I don't remember doing anything shady," Clara grumbled, "You should name it Aphra."

"Afro?"

"No, Aphra. As in Aphra Behn."

"As in who?"

"The playwright! As far as female playwrights go, she gets barely any notoriety. And it's a nice name."

"How are you spelling this?"

"A-P-H-R-A."

"Well… alright. You're right, it's nice. The revolver shall henceforth be known as Aphra, and I'll call her as such whenever I club someone over the head with her."

"Wonderful."