Episode: Gone in a Flash
Warnings/Spoilers: This episode only
Rating: T, mentions of drugs, war, alcohol
Word count: 3000
Summary: Humanized! Prohibition era AU. Maurice goes missing after a fight with Julien. It's up to the Black Tuxedos to find him and restore normalcy.
A/N: This was a forgotten project of mine over a decade ago, that I wanted to come back to. In it, I rework aired episode to fit into a human, Prohibition-era setting. Discussion of alcohol, drugs, and war are all fair game. Anything you recognize does not belong to me; anything you don't recognize…well, that might be creative license.
—-
The Black Tuxedos in:
Gone in a Flash
Out of all of Kowalski's odd gadgets he'd invented, Edward Wratten's favorite one had to be the blender. A small countertop electrical item, it had a whirring blade that cut through fruit and could make smoothies or milkshakes, depending on the mood.
"Private!" Jonas Hale, the Skipper of their group, called from the other room. "How's it comin'?"
"Almost done, Skippa!" Private replied cheerfully, turning on their blender. A moment later, he packed up his special smoothies into a basket and the quartet headed out the door to the nearest non-polluted beach. It was a hot summer day, and they had no clients, so Skipper decided they were going to make the most of it.
Private met Skipper and Daniel Rico by the door of their apartment. "Where's Kowalski?" asked Private curiously.
Skipper groaned. "In his lab… as usual." The trio walked down the two flights of steps to their office space at ground level. The lobby was deserted for the weekend. The door was unlocked, and Skipper poked his head through the door. "Kowalski! We're leaving!" he yelled once. A moment later, the unkempt scientist appeared from the attached basement workspace, jacket in hand.
"Wait up!" he hollered, easily catching up with his long legs. Gingerly, he placed his spectacles in his jacket pocket, and the four well-dressed men headed out the door, intent on enjoying the day. However, the day, as usual, had other plans.
"Maurice!" The short, African man in question groaned as he cleaned out another beer glass. Since the Prohibition, business was better than usual, but of course, Julien, his boss, was never satisfied. The Ringed Tail was one of those underworld black market places where you could find anything—quiffs, flappers, bootlegged liquor, dope. You name it, they probably had it. Especially the dope, seeing as Julien was probably permanently bent using it all the time.
"What?" Maurice responded, annoyed. Julien, resident immigrant from Madagascar (or was it Canada?), was in one of his more frustrating moods. Everything that Maurice had done today Julien had either nitpicked on or taken from him—like the sundae he had made.
"Peel me… a banana," the tall, lean, tan man ordered, casually draped over a chair.
"Do it yourself," Maurice muttered, at the end of his rope.
"Excuse me? Did you just tell me—da king"—that was another oddity of Julien. He had this wacked out idea that he was a king. Maurice chalked it up to that Julien had lost his marbles using too much dope and liquor—"to do it myself?" Julien asked, enraged.
Maurice counted to three in his head, weighing the pros and cons of having a satisfying conclusion or enjoying his paycheck. But Julien was making him mad, and with how large his pupils were, he probably wouldn't remember this later. So…
Maurice came out from behind the counter and calmly repeated what he had just said.
Julien leaped off his chair and gripped Maurice. "I am da king!" he shouted, shaking Maurice hard. "You do not question da king!"
Just then, Mort, the small bus boy who had shown up with Julien one day, entered nervously, leaving the back door open. "What's going on?" he squeaked.
The pair ignored him and continued arguing. "I've had it with you!" Maurice exploded, pushing Julien away.
"Do not touch da king!" Julien shouted, shoving Maurice back. Suddenly, a light fixture exploded behind Julien. Neither heard the small "Oopsies" from under the bar counter. Blinded by the light, Maurice and Julien stumbled away from each other and when Julien finally rubbed his eyes from the light spots, Maurice was gone. Only the beer glass with its rag stuck in it remained.
"Maurice is trapped in the bottle!" Mort cried superstitiously. "The light trapped him!"
Julien, of course, accepted that. "See, Maurice?" he said haughtily. "Dis is what you get for questioning your king's power. The sky spirits have decided to punish you. What have you got to say for yourself?" Julien picked up the bottle and tapped at it, looking to see if the bottle—Maurice—had responded. "Fine. I can give you the silenty treatment too." And he went away, to do what Mort didn't know.
"But what about Maurice?" Mort insisted, gazing up at his king with his large eyes.
"He has gotten what he deserved." And with that, Julien grabbed his boa, swung it around his neck, heading toward the door. "And Mort?"
"Yes King Julien?"
"Clean up dis mess." Julien left with a slam of the door.
Mort gulped. What about Maurice? What if he had caused the sky spirits to be angry with Maurice?
Panicking, Mort ran out the front door. Mason Ford, who lived in the apartment complex almost next door to the Ringed Tail, was in the alley way, having a smoke.
"I say," he said upon seeing Mort. "Why did your boss just leave in a huff?" Mort didn't answer right away, but his large eyes welled up with tears.
"Maurice is gooonnneee!" he wailed finally. Mason almost gagged on his cigarette at the loud declaration.
"Gone?" he repeated skeptically. "Gone where?"
"I don't knooowww!" Mort began to cry.
Mason, looking typically awkward, patted the boy on the shoulder uncomfortably. "There, there. You know, I've heard of this agency—the Black Tuxedos, I believe they're called—they're private dicks and they solve mysteries. Perhaps they can help you find your barkeep."
Mort looked up at Mason, eyes wide with hope. "Would they?" Then a moment later, "Would they reveal the Ringed Tail to the Prohibition agents?" he asked nervously, because he knew Julien would kill him if he brought anyone who would reveal their speakeasy to the agents.
"Why, certainly not," Mason agreed readily, wanting to get out of this odd situation. "Here's their information. I heard they were heading to the beach, or was it the rooftop? Uh, good luck!" He pushed Mort gently away from him and vanished into the apartment. He had done all he could; besides, it wasn't his problem anymore.
Skipper took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trembling as his tense body finally relaxed. He and his boys had skipped the beach, choosing to actually enjoy the smoothies on the roof top. Get the sun at half the price and all that. He glanced sideways to see his team in different stages of lounging. They were the best team he could ever hope for.
Daniel Rico was a dream staff sergeant. He had a good head on his shoulders, and an infinite knowledge and arsenal of weaponry. The mustard gas had taken his voice in the war, and Skipper made sure he could find an honest job after it.
Felek Kowalski was his XO, a college boy, and brilliant scientist. Kowalski always had a plan or a list of options. The man knew something about almost everything, and he spoke Polish fluently. Which was helpful when in Eastern Europe.
Private, though the youngest, was their safecracker and their diplomat. Damsel in distress? Skipper would send Private in to comfort the woman and get out the pertinent information. He had no desire to deal with tears. The four of them had found each other during the joint attack against the Hindenburg Line. They'd kept in touch, and Skipper had offered Private a way to the US after the war. Only last year did he decide to take them up on it, but Skipper thought he didn't regret it, judging from how relaxed he looked right now.
"Say Private, these are top notch. What's your secret?" he asked, interrupting the quiet.
Private, who had been dozing in the sun, looked over at him. "Love sir," he replied deadpan. "I made them with love."
"Love?" Skipper asked skeptically.
"A chemical reaction of the brain," Kowalski explained, stretching like a cat in the sun. "Highly addictive."
Agreeing with that point, Rico gave a loud belch.
"No more love in the smoothies, Private," Skipper ordered as a joke. "The concrete jungle is an elusive mistress who may call us into action at any given moment." Then, Skipper pulled down his fedora over his eyes and proceeded to snore his afternoon away.
Only moments later, Skipper's point was proven by a young ginger haired boy charging straight for them. "Are you the Black Tuxedos?" the boy asked confusedly, seeing as the four men were only wearing white undershirts and pants—Skipper was a firm believer in modesty after all. Their jackets and hats were slung over their lawn chairs.
Skipper almost leaped out of his chair as the question was being asked. "Who wants to know?" he asked suspiciously.
The boy didn't answer, but looked up at Skipper with large brown eyes. "Oh please, you must help Maurice!" he begged pathetically.
Skipper gave an inaudible groan; his team watched him from their chairs, wondering if they were going to get a new mission. "Can't you just call the police?" Skipper asked tiredly, not wanting to get involved. And this had been a good day too.
The boy laughed nervously and looked down at his scuffed up shoes. "I heard that you weren't stool pigeons." The light went on in Skipper's head. The boy was wearing a bus boy outfit. He most likely worked in a bar, which probably sold alcohol, which was illegal. And this boy was asking the Black Tuxedos for help, because, since they didn't work for the police, they weren't obligated to rat out on the speakeasies of New York.
This time, Skipper did give a groan. "All right kid, we'll help." The boy gave a cheerful, oblivious smile to him. "Lead the way." The boy headed off to the street. Skipper grabbed his jacket, put on his shoes, and straightened his pants and hat. "Well boys, there's no rest for the weary."
None of them looked thrilled at having a mission, but they would do it. Speakeasy jobs usually paid well because of the hush money bonus. Skipper had trained the boys well—there were no complaints or lollygagging as they headed toward the speakeasy.
Once inside, Skipper and the others noticed more than one problem. First and foremost, according to the busboy, whose name they had learned was Mort, the barkeep, apparently Maurice, was missing, and secondly, there was a tan man with silver-blond hair talking to a bottle. This, also according to Mort, was "King" Julien, the manager of the Ringed Tail.
"Talking to a beer bottle," Skipper deadpanned upon entering the facility. "This is not normal."
"No, no, no," the man replied, "I am giving him"-he pointed to the bottle-"the shh! treatment."
"The bottle?" Kowalski asked surprised. While he and Skipper questioned the man, Rico and Private wandered around the place, looking for clues.
"Maurice," Julien replied, pointing to the bottle with the dirty rag still in it.
"The bottle," Skipper insisted, annoyed.
"Maur-ice," Julien responded with just as much inflection. "He questioned my kingly authority and now the sky spirits have chosen to punish him by putting him in the bottle." Skipper resisted the urge to slap this man, and then Private came up behind him.
"He's hopped up," he whispered to Skipper, showing him some cocaine leaves and opium. "Don't expect him to be real lucid."
Skipper nodded. "All right boys." All he wanted to do was go back to their lawn chairs and forget this ever happened. "Let's leave the mad man to his madness."
The short leader headed toward the door, but was stopped by Mort. "What is it Sad Eyes?" he asked, using the name he had given to the boy before he had actually learned his real name.
"You have to help get him out!" Mort begged, using his abnormally large eyes to his advantage. "Maurice is really the one who really runs this place. Which is how we pay rent," the boy whispered, knowing if Julien heard, he would have kittens.
The man sighed. "Your brains can't seem to comprende that it's just a bottle. And it is TOO small for a man to be inside of it!"
"Umm, Skipper?" Private asked.
"What, Private?" Skipper replied, his hand already on the knob, Rico and Kowalski right behind him.
"Well, if, obviously, Maurice isn't in the bottle, then where is he?"
No one had a good answer to that one, and Skipper knew he couldn't just leave a helpless boy and a hoary-eyed man without their keeper—who sounded like he was the only one who knew anything. "All right boys. Let's crack this case! Kowalski, options?"
"We could enlist Doris to help," the man suggested hopefully.
"Kowalski, how many times do I have to tell you? No women are allowed on missions!" Skipper stated with finality. "Besides, she only likes you. She doesn't like you-like you."
Kowalski visibly deflated and Rico gave a sympathetic grunt and patted the tall man on the shoulder. When Kowalski was stuck on someone, he was stuck hard.
"Now, look for clues." The four split up, each taking a section of the bar and trying to avoid Julien. Private was behind the bar and managed to find some more of the liquor and drug supply; Kowalski, looking up, found that the light had blown a fuse.
"How did that happen?" he questioned both Julien and Mort. Julien had shrugged, saying the sky spirits had done it, while Mort had given a little "teehee" before fleeing the premises.
Rico had managed to find the icebox and was currently eating its contents. "That might be evidence!" Skipper chastised him, but Rico only gave his psychotic grin and a shrug. Skipper rolled his eyes and glanced down at the wood flooring. By the back door there were scuff marks. "Kowalski? What do you make of this?"
Kowalski came over with his magnifying glass. "Scuff marks. They're too wide for his"—he cocked his head toward Julien—"feet, so they're most likely Maurice's."
"Right." Skipper nodded. "And?" he asked, knowing Kowalski had more information.
"The scuff marks show a struggle, which was broken off. I believe when the light's fuse exploded, it temporarily blinded Maurice, causing him to trip over the rug by the door. Rico!"
"Yeah?" Rico asked, coming over to Kowalski.
"Stand there," Kowalski ordered, pointing to the location where the scuff marks were. He then pushed the large man, who stumbled, but caught himself easily before he fell. "Aha!" Using his clipboard, Kowalski calculated some more variables and then looked out the door, seeing the place where garbage was picked up. An empty can was there and he went to investigate. "Skipper, look." The other three joined him. "Blood."
"Well, that explains what happened to Maurice," Skipper said, glaring at the can. "Now, the question is, how do we get him back? Kowalski, where does this area dump its garbage?"
Kowalski looked down at his clipboard and flipped through its pages. "There's a dumping ground on the border of New Jersey. It's about a half hour away driving."
"Right. Let's go." And with that, Skipper marched out of there, his men right behind him.
An hour later (they had managed to waste a half by letting Kowalski drive), they arrived at the dumping ground. "Ahh, the garden state," Skipper deadpanned with a long sniff. "All right men, spread out. We'll search this dump high and low until we find the man."
"Skipper!" Private called from a hill of trash. "I found him!"
"Excelente!" Skipper made his way up to where the two men were standing. "You're Maurice?"
"Yeah," the older, portly man replied. "What do you want? And were you sent by Mort or Julien?"
Skipper nodded in assent, while Private stated happily, "We're here to rescue you!"
"Rescue?" Maurice repeated. "I don't want to be rescued!"
"Why not?" Kowalski asked incredulous. "This place is neither sanitary, nor a good place to make a home."
Maurice ignored the tall man. "I've had it with Julien! He's been a royal pain in my neck for too long! 'Gimme dis' and 'gimme dat'. I've had it!" He kicked a can for emphasis. "This place is nice. Peaceful. And full of food."
Skipper just stared at him. "Kowalski," he ordered, "reason with him."
"Ah reason." Kowalski rubbed his chin. "You do realize that you'll be dead by morning if you stay here, right?"
"Say what?" Maurice looked at Kowalski in shock. "Look, I'm no pushover; you won't convince me that easily."
"It's true," Kowalski replied calmly. "There's probably at least one gang who claims this area as their territory, and if they find you, well, you're gonna be taking a one-way trip." Maurice gulped. He got the picture.
"Fine. I'll go back." He sighed. "It's better than being dead."
"That's the spirit!" Skipper slapped him on the back. "Now, we'll get Kowalski to look at your head wound and then everything will be just dandy."
It was evening when they made it back to the Ringed Tail. Maurice was fine; the blood Kowalski had found had only been a flesh wound from where Maurice had stumbled backward into the can, which knocked him unconscious. The men assumed that the trash man had picked up the trash, along with Maurice, and only thought that the man was yet another dead body from the gang wars—a typical goof who didn't want to get involved. Now all they had to do was deliver Maurice to the Ringed Tail and hope they would get something for their troubles.
Skipper opened the door to find Julien in a chalk circle chanting incantations to the bottle. He blinked. "Umm, Julien?"
"Shh!" The man in question ordered. "I must be praying to the sky spirits to release Maurice from his prison!"
"Is he ever not hopped up?" Skipper directed the question to Maurice.
"Nope," Maurice replied calmly, pushing his way past Skipper into the room. "Julien," he said in greeting.
"Maurice!" Julien turned and grasped his friend. "I have missed you my big friend! The sky spirits have listened and returned you from your cage!"
Skipper pinched his forehead with his fingers. "Why don't you tell him what really happened?" Skipper suggested.
"Rule Number One: Don't argue with him. Number Two: Can I offer you guys some drinks?"
"No thanks." Skipper turned down the offer and headed back out the door. "Private, whip up another batch of them love smoothies. I need to unwind." It was just another day in New York.
Finis
A/N: I took some creative liberties with waste management services here. NYC did have public sector garbage management by 1895 and designated street sweepers. There are currently landfills/waste management companies in New Jersey, so I decided they could very well exist back then too.