3035 Cass Avenue

The straight-8 thundered as Bix drove us toward the old Irish district. I had the distinct privilege of sitting in the front passenger seat while Sable and Miss M sat comfortably in the back of the Duesenberg. The roof was deployed, and windows were up to keep the chilled autumn air out. The driver knew this car well despite it being so new. He was able to weave in and out of the lane down the old narrow streets. It was clear that these back streets were designed with carriages in mind, not two-ton behemoths.

"So, Mr. Sable. Who did you say we were meeting again?"

"His name is Edward Hogan, Ethan. He's also called "Jellyroll", but I suggest not saying that to his face. That house on the corner, Bix." Wick said while pointing at a large house on the street corner. It was nothing compared to the Sable estate but was still quite impressive considering the neighborhood was mostly composed of rowhouses and little shacks made of brick. Bix pulled up to the curb and put the car into park. Getting out, the cat flew around to the other side of the car to open my door.

"It's quite alright, sir. I'm not used to being helped."

"It's my job, Mr. Kelly. Now, if you please…" He opened the door and stepped to the side, gesturing for me to step out.

"We'll have to get you acquainted with the etiquette of the higher classes, Ethan." Wick joked. "As I'm sure dear old Atlas could attest, it pays to be wealthy enough to have others to help with daily inconveniences."

"Yes, well, I don't think I'd ever get used to having someone open doors from me. All the same," I stepped out of the car and put my hat on, "thank you, Bix."

Bix then moved on to the rear door, opening it and extending a hand to help Miss M out of her seat with Wick close behind.

"Thank you, my good man. I apologize for having to make you wait around, but our business should be concluded in a couple of hours."

"Of course, Mr. Sable. I will be nearby."

As we approached the house, two large cats stood in our way. One extended a hand, gesturing for us to stop. "And what is your business with Mr. Hogan?"

Before we could respond, the door opened and out stepped a middle-aged cat in dinner attire. "It's quite alright gentlemen, last minute appointment made today. Wick, my friend, come on in!"

"Ladies first, Miss M." Wick swept his hand out and gave her a gentle nudge forward. I followed close behind Sable as he made his way past the two guards. Stepping inside, the home felt… normal. Well, as normal as could be with bodyguards outside. While Wick and Mitzi didn't notice, I had caught subtle movements in the shadows. This Mr. Hogan had plenty of security. Speaking of Hogan, the cat came back into the parlor with a woman about his own age.

"Wick, you remember my wife, Jeannie."

"Of course Mr. Hogan! Enchanted as always, madam."

"It's so nice to have you back, Mr. Sable. And who is your lovely date this evening."

"Ah yes. It is my pleasure to introduce you both to Miss Mitzi May. Atlas May's wife and owner of the Lackadaisy."

Miss M played up her southern charm as the Hogan couple greeted her. "A pleasure, Miss May." Mr. Hogan said while Mrs. Hogan leaned in to greet her with a handshake. "Such beauty and grace!" She complimented Miss M. "It was such a tragedy to lose Atlas. This city would be in better shape if there were more people like him in St. Louis."

"Thank you for such hospitality." Miss M replied with a smile.

"Ah, and you must be the young lad who's in a predicament." Mr. Hogan said as he reached out to shake my hand. I met his hand with mine and grasped it firmly. "The predicament is news to me."

Hogan patted my on the shoulder. "One does not kill a made man without suffering consequences, Mr. Kelly. But no business before dinner, that's the rule of men in our line of work. First let's get to know each other and then I can figure out a way to help you."

A half an hour later and we were nearly done with the evening's feast. Jeannie seemed to roll out all the stops and must have cooked half the known dishes in the world. Well, at least half the dishes known to St. Louis. Quite full and satisfied, I leaned back in my seat and wiped my mouth and whiskers of any remnants of dinner.

"The lad has quite the appetite!" Hogan exclaimed as he finished his food.

"Apologies, but this was delicious. Thank you for such a lovely dinner."

"Of course, dear!" Mrs. Hogan added. "I take it as a compliment when a young gentleman can't put the fork down. Besides, I see your mother taught you well. You hold the cutlery better than most of our guests."

"Which reminds me." Mr. Hogan said. "Wick says you and your sister came to town in May. Where are you from, Ethan?"

"Butte, Montana, sir."

"And what did you do in Montana?"

"I was a miner."

"A miner! No wonder Sable holds you in such high regard. Between his love of rocks and your skill at mining them, you two would make quite the pair in the quarry business."

"I'm afraid I lack several key skills. One of which is knowing business."

"With all due respect lad, that's nonsense. You know business better than you think you do. You have to posses some sort of business acumen to make it in the world of bootlegging. Now then, you and your sister are here. Is the rest of your family going to be joining you soon? Wick also told me you were building a new house."

"I see he's told you a lot…" I said, looking Wick's way. "But sadly, that won't be possible. The rest of my family is gone."

"Oh, you poor thing!" Jeannie exclaimed before holding my hand in hers. "So young, so brave. Coming halfway across the country to start anew."

"Well, in fairness my parents came halfway around the world. I just hope St. Louis will work out better for Riley and myself than Montana did for them."

"And we shall strive to make that hope a reality, lad. But it sounds like you made a mess of things after coming to town."

I looked over at Mitzi for confirmation that it was okay to discuss what happened. She replied with a nod. Taking a deep breath, I explained what happened. "When I came to Lackadaisy, I didn't want to get involved in a gang war. However, the people Miss M had employed were not in a condition to fight off Marigold. On top of that, an old enemy of mine was working for Asa Sweet."

"And yet you lived. How did someone like yourself accomplish this?"

"I did have help, but the short story is I killed a lot of people. I finally got Moreau in the hills above Mr. Sable's old quarry site. Asa and I entered into an agreement for the benefit of us both. He covered our tracks; I clean up loose ends."

"And if that information got out, who would come after you?" Hogan said, leaning in and getting serious.

"Worst case scenario? Al Capone finds out and throws everything he has at me."

"Capone? Well, that certainly is a dangerous situation. But that's not why you're here. You killed Elio Giannola, right? I read it in the paper this morning."

"Yeah…" I looked down in shame. "He hurt my friends and threatened them both. They're eighteen, just kids. I couldn't let that bastard breathe long enough to make good on his promise to kill them."

"Pride and a noble mind are a dangerous combination, lad." The large cat got up from the table. "Jeannie will clear the table, let's give her the space needed to work her magic while we talk in the study."

Taking a seat in a large, wingback chair, I settled into the red velvet while the rotund cat poured us all glasses of wine. "A dark red, my favorite." He said while passing around the glasses.

"So, Ethan, you've killed a made man. Do you know what that is?"

"No, sir."

"A made man is untouchable. He's a lieutenant, an officer in the mafia. It's a cardinal rule of Cosa Nostra. That's what the Sicilians call themselves."

"So what happens when one is killed?"

"Then the killer is marked for death, Mr. Kelly! If Vito Giannola finds out, you killed his nephew then you can bet that you and everyone you love will be dead before Christmas!"

Mitzi looked at me with wide eyes. Even she didn't know it could be this bad.

"I didn't reveal my identity though."

"That's good, and perhaps it will be enough to keep you out of trouble. The Green Ones have been in a feud lately with a group of rivals that split off from them. They call themselves the Russo Gang. Tony Russo was killed last month in Chicago, want to take a guess at who orchestrated that?"

"Giannola?"

"Either him or his right-hand man. Al Palazzola is a shrewd cat, Ethan. A killer."

It's then that I made the connection. "Asa this morning ordered me to assassinate Palazzola when he gets back into town on Friday. He's investigating what happened to Moreau back in June."

"Well, he could certainly be a problem. I hope you have the right tools for the job."

"I've got a 1903 Springfield. If I can see him, I can kill him."

"Not in the middle of the city you won't." Hogan then stood up and walked over to his gun cabinet. He produced an odd-looking rifle of a type I hadn't seen before."

"Do you know what this is, Ethan?"

"No…"

"This is what the police are using these days, and the Green Ones have plenty of them too. It's a Remington Model 8, modified by an outfit in St. Joseph to hold ten rounds of 35-caliber ammunition. It's action is semi-automatic and puts more lead downrange than you could possibly compete with. And it has a nice little party trick that makes it particularly nasty…"

Hogan proceeded to loosen a thumbscrew in the stock. In a matter of seconds he had the gun broken into two pieces, laying them down on the coffee table before me. "It comes apart and can be stored under a trench coat or in a small case under the seat."

"You said the Green Ones have these?"

"You can count on it. Whatever the cops are toting around, the Sicilians have the same or better. You go to bat against Giannola's outfit with that battlefield rifle and you'll be dead in five minutes. I suggest you take this with you tonight and practice with it. Don't kill Palazzola with this though. You'll want to get in close to do that job. But don't worry, Uncle Hogan has just the tool." He reached into the gun cabinet once more and produced a small pistol.

"Savage 1907. Smaller than colt's pistol, but this rare gem still uses 45 caliber bullets. It will put Palazzola down in one shot and you can get out of there without drawing much attention to yourself."

"I thought the idea of this meeting was to convince Ethan not to get involved in a gang war, Mr. Hogan." Mitzi said, gesturing to the guns. "While we appreciate the hardware, how does this help us stay above the fray?"

"Miss May, you are already in the fray. These guns won't bring you peace, but if you use them right then they will help you survive. I wish I could supply you with more, but I signed a pledge to the public years ago that I wouldn't seek war against my rivals."

"Do you miss that life at all?" Mitzi asked.

"Not one bit, Miss May. Back then I was known as "jellyroll", for obvious reasons. I had quite the gang. Us Irishmen ran the streets and made quite the profit on all types of racketeering. But that war with the Rats… well, I lost a lot of good men in the war for the city. There was one in particular that Ethan reminds me of."

"Who?" I asked, leaning into the story.

"His name was Luke Kennedy. He was an artist with this Thompson, but he only painted with red. Most thugs on the street are mere brutes. Lucky to hit anything they were aiming at. But Luke? It didn't matter if you could be five feet from him or five hundred yards, he'd kill you with that gun all the same."

"So what happened to him?" Wick prodded.

"He was gunned down in '22 right in the middle of the war. He was so good that he became the main target of Egan's Rats. Now he's probably buried in some unmarked grave."

"That is unfortunate…" Miss M shook her head. Hogan laughed though.

"Hardly! If Luke Kennedy were around today, he'd likely be working with the Green Ones just like a lot of my former associates. This new war is shaping up to be just as bloody as mine was."

"So how do I win this war?" I asked, confident in my ability to find a path forward.

"The one thing I wish I would have done back in '21 when the last bloodbath started was find some allies. We had managed to keep a good relationship with the Italians, but the Rats were fellow Irishmen and we fought like Greens and Oranges back on the isle. I guess the Italians decided to let us fight to the death and then take over once the dust settled. Still, I could have found allies if I had sought them out."

"Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Honestly, Ethan, I don't know who you can trust these days. There is one possibility though. If you can put Palazzola in the ground, then perhaps Santino would help you out. He's stayed clear of this mess so far, but the man is a strategist and is eager for opportunities."

"Hmm. What do you think, Miss M?" I asked.

Credo in Deum

Smoke filled the air of the small chapel as two cats stood guard outside. The large figure of Vit Giannola stooped low, kneeling at the altar as he lit a candle in front of a picture of Elio. Latin prayers whispered from his lips in hushed tones as he tried to reckon with himself before God. This business was dangerous, no question about it. Yet the attack didn't add up right. Sure, Elio was his nephew. A brat, to be sure, and one who quickly made enemies. The idiot kid never listened to him, but the gall that someone would have to go after Elio was disturbing.

He thought that by chopping the head off the snake it would die quickly, yet the Russo gang still had venom to spare it seemed, and now he'd have to explain to his sister in Cleveland why her boy wasn't coming home for Christmas. Were the Russos really that stupid? Sure, Vito expected some sort of retaliation for killing Tony. But this was completely out of left field. The remaining Russos targeted someone only tangentially involved, and that was the problem. They wasted an opportunity for little gain.

Unless? Maybe his nephew had made one enemy too many? But if that were the case then it would be futile to track down the killer. It could be anyone from a disgruntled former associate to some random thug on the street looking to make a name for himself. Hell, it could even be this "ghost" he's heard stories about! Well, sooner or later the truth will reveal itself. At the moment he had a war to win, and he had given Elio more prayers than that idiot boy deserved.

Standing up, Vito made the sign of the cross. "In the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost…" Bowing before the cross, Vito took his leave. He straightened his suit and stretched out his hand to receive his coat and hat from his waiting bodyguards. Thunder rolled in the distance as a far-off storm pummeled the hay and sorghum fields to the north. One of the body guards opened the door for his boss before getting into the passenger seat next to the driver.

A cat with a similar complexion to Vito sat in the back seat waiting. John pulled the cigar from his lips while offering his brother a light for his own cigar. "I feel for our sister but we both know that kid was rotten. Is it really worth starting a war over Elio?"

"You and I both know we're past the point of starting a war." Vito replied as the tobacco at the end of his cigar began to glow a dark red. He shook his head in disgust. "I should have known getting rid of Tony Russo would bring this on us."

The more cautious brother wasn't completely convinced. "We shouldn't be too hasty. The remaining Russo brothers won't last much longer without Tony. He and Vinny were the brains of the outfit."

"That may be so, but if we sit on our laurels and do nothing then we'll look weak. Besides John, what if you're wrong? What if the Russos pull themselves together? Or worse yet, what if they find allies?"

The silence from John only confirmed Vito's decision to press the attack. "But I also can't shake the feeling that Elio's death wasn't at the hands of the Russo gang."

"Seems pretty cut and dry to me."

"Not quite. There was no strategic value in killing Elio. All they could hope to do by icing our nephew is piss us off. The kid didn't know anything, didn't control anything, had no responsibilities."

"Perhaps he just got on the wrong side of a street rat?"

"The only people who would know the answer to that died next to him in that gin joint. My contacts in the police don't even have a good description let alone a name."

"The 'ghost' then?"

"Maybe. There has been an awful lot of gangsters disappearing or winding up dead."

"Yeah." John concurred. "I heard it all started when Marigold got into a tangle with once of their suppliers."

"That would have been an awful lot of people dead over some booze. One of my guys on the inside of the force said the death count was over two dozen."

"My god, who could do that?"

Vito shook his head. "It was probably an explosion or a gas attack. No one's that good."

"Then perhaps the ghost is just a figment of the imagination? It's no secret that this summer has been bloody."

"Maybe, but if we let this guy walk away then he'll come back to take out someone more important. We'll have to trace our nephew's steps that day, figure out if he pissed anyone off enough that they'd kill him. But before that happens, we had better meet up with Al. He's bringing in extra help from Capone's outfit. I guess this guy knows the city well, and if there is a ghost haunting us, he'll find the guy."

The Shadow Returns

While Vito put the cigar back in his mouth for another draw, in a room with a single light another cigar pulled away from the lips of Pasquale Santino as he scanned a map of St. Louis while charting out all the recent violence in the city. Standing up to stretch, Santino held the cigar in his mouth while chewing on the end.

"Anyone else in the papers today, Fresina?" He asked, looking up from his work.

"Vito's nephew got iced last night." Carmelo replied, pulling out an article in today's paper. "Elio was by all accounts a real piece of work, but I didn't expect to see his name in the A-section."

Santino leaned back and rubbed his chin in thought. "You think it was the Russo gang?"

"I'm partial to the belief that our city's "ghost" killed him. It makes for a good tale to tell around the fireplace when the snow starts to fly."

"A ghost, huh? If that's the case, then this guy has the most notches in his pistol. Has he gone after one of ours?"

"Not yet, it would seem your strategy to sit back and observe at a distance has been successful of keeping us out of the war."

"I think our time on the sidelines is coming to an end, my friend. The Green Ones have dealt a blow to the Russos and they may well have just retaliated in kind. Yet no one gang has enough manpower or bullets to rid this city of Giannola's influence. That gives us a golden opportunity to make some new friends."

Fresina checked the time on his golden pocket watch before leaning back in the lounge chair near the window of the office and pouring himself a glass of fine wine. "And what friends do you have in mind, oh valiant leader?"

Santino smiled, "the little guys. If we can bring the smaller outfits who have a problem with Giannola's gang all under one roof, then we'd be commanding an army across the whole of Saint Louis."

Scanning the map of the city once more, his finger glided over to one of the more prominent "little guys" with some level of power and influence. "How about the Marigold Room?"

A scoff from the shadows drew the attention of both bosses. "Ah yes, I recall you have some history with Asa Sweet, don't you Heller?

Mordecai stepped out of the shadows and looked over the map as if it were a chessboard. Pieces moved in his mind to locations of strategic importance, forming a noose around the Green Ones that could be tightened to the point that their enemies would choke out. He looked up and adjusted his glasses. "Asa is not a fan of Giannola, but he is a manager for Capone's operations here in St. Louis. Even asking him would tip his hand."

"So no Marigold. Well that's disappointing. Who else might there be?"

"Much of the competition has already been wiped out. It's also been three months since I was last in the city. Besides the Russos we may have some success recruiting individuals. Former members of old and dead factions looking for work or someone to fight."

"We should recruit this "ghost" everyone keeps talking about." Fresina added, sipping from his glass. Santino scoffed. "Sure, let's go find some make-believe apparition. We need to be more sensible than that, Carmelo."

"The ghost is quite real." Mordecai rebuffed. "But I doubt he'd want any involvement in this. I also doubt he is responsible for so many killings. There's no pattern to them from what I can see and many of the supposed victims of this assassin don't have the same indicators. Manner of death, who they knew, what they planned to do, many of them are different.

"That's the problem with legends, they get too big and obscure the truth. Well, if you say he's not likely to join then we had better start elsewhere for now."

Santino scratched out a list of former associates and possible allies to recruit. He handed the list off to Mordecai, who left the room without another word. In his small apartment overlooking the city, Heller could make out the glow of the Marigold in the distance. He was one hill over, so close and yet undetected. It had been a long summer working for Joe Aiello. Though some were hesitant to let a stranger into their outfit, Aiello had a simple philosophy that Mordecai could appreciate. The enemy of an enemy is a friend, or so the saying went. Mordecai had parted ways with Asa Sweet, and Al Capone by extension. Taking that train to Chicago gave him the head start needed to go underground and after three months of silence Aiello saw fit to find a proper use for his new tool. Now Mordecai had one task at hand, make a path for Aiello to take St. Louis from Capone, thus depriving the boss' chief rival of access to the gulf.

Mordecai had one more task at hand. The task. The motivation for getting involved in this mess to begin with. At least this time he wouldn't need to hide it from his bosses. Interrogating Drago had been useful, but the killer of Atlas May was still in the city somewhere, and now Mordecai had the resources to find the one responsible.