Morning Schedule

6:45am

Heller awoke just as the sun was rising over St. Louis. It was precisely the same time as a thousand nights before. He didn't need an alarm except for rare occasions, having trained himself for years to be ready for 'work' at the same time each day. Despite being covered in fur, he appeared surprisingly put together even leaving bed. Part of his secret was showering both before and after bedtime. Not only did it keep his fur cleaner, but it kept his bedding as tidy as possible. One quick shower and an intense grooming session with his comb and every hair on his body was in place. Every hair.

7:20am

Despite only owning about three outfits, the Maribel tailor and dry-cleaning service kept his suits in immaculate condition. He could be rolling around in the dirt at 10:30 pm with an unknown assailant and by 9:30 am the next day his suit would be repaired and ready. Too bad the staff couldn't replace what was, too him, a priceless possession. A small, simple leatherbound pair of photos. One photo was a portrait of his mother, the other was him along with his sisters on the stairs of their run-down shack of a home in New York City. It was lost that night he, Moreau, and the Savoys were "ambushed". Still, despite the loss he still looked as sharp as ever.

In fact, the only thing out of place was the burning flesh wound given to him by Serafine. The "protection glyph" was given to him without consent. While he outwardly maintained his cool, calculating persona, inside he had been fearing that the wound might become infected. Thankfully, the marks had scabbed over and while it was still quite visible, the chances of Mordecai suffering from sepsis were now miniscule, hardly more than a papercut. Still, there was lingering pain from the wound and that bothered him to no end.

7:35am

As Mordecai left his suite, the first stop on his daily schedule was the café in the lobby. He always ordered the same thing, and Mordecai was appreciative of the staff who were competent enough to remember his regular meal. It took them long enough and no small amount of reminders on Mordecai's part, but after a year of working for Marigold, the whole process was automatic. Which was good because one thing Mordecai hated was being in a crowded restaurant during the breakfast rush. But being in and out with a to-go bag kept his interactions with the public to a minimum.

The next stop was always the front desk to retrieve his mail. Getting there early, usually before 8 am, was important if Mordecai was to avoid having to wait in line. Occasionally Gary would be on staff and would simply pull his mail out and set it aside for Mordecai to pick up, saving him the trouble of wasting time. More than a clerk, Gary was an assistant manager in the hotel and apparently often volunteered to work the morning shift to ensure that all in the hotel was operating smoothly at the beginning of the day. A quality that Mordecai respected. He knew nothing about the cat except his name, a common theme for the hitman. Luckily, today was Friday and Gary was on the clock, preparing the lobby of the Maribel for a busy weekend. Upon noticing Mordecai, Gary quickly went into the back room to retrieve the mail.

"Good morning, Mr. Heller. Dressed sharp as usual, and punctual as ever."

"Thank you, Gary. Please give my compliments to the staff in the café when you have time, they have managed a full week of having my food ready on time."

"They shall be glad to hear it and are appreciative of the compliment, Mr. Heller. Now then, I assume you are here for your mail?"

"Yes."

"Then here you are. Not much today, I'm afraid. However, a letter did just come in off the postal truck."

Mordecai examined the letter. It was from an unfamiliar address and "Iren" was almost certainly a pseudonym. Still, while holding it up to the light there appeared to be nothing in it except a couple sheets of paper, hardly a threat. "Thank you, Gary, I do hope your day is pleasant."

"Of course, Mr. Heller. And as always, feel free to call me if there is anything you need."

7:55am

Taking the elevator back upstairs, Mordecai stopped at his suite to drop off his mail. Opening the letter, he examined the pages one more time, taking care to only touch the paper with gloved hands in case there was any poison coating what appeared to be note paper. Fortunately, there was nothing to fear as the letter had come from what was proving to be a very important contact.

"Mr. Heller

As requested, I have written out all the information I can provide at this time about Domonic Drago.

If you want it, you'll find the file at the western end of the Chain of Rocks bridge. There is a rock ledge on the south side of the road, the file will be behind a loose rock marked with an "x" carved into the side.

-Iren"

Only now was Mordecai beginning to understand the nature of the spirit Serafine worshipped. He was at a crossroads. One path led him to great reward. Money for his family, a job which he excelled at, and a fearsome reputation lay ahead of him, and all Mordecai had to do was sever he remaining ties to Lackadaisy, to Atlas May. Yet the other path called to him from within the deepest parts of his cold soul. Atlas was his mentor, he was like a father to him, pulling his young and eager self out of mortal peril and molding that raw talent into an effective gangster the likes of which St. Louis hadn't seen before. Heck, had things kept going well it wouldn't have been out of the question if Mordecai had one day inherited Atlas May's empire. He was the closest to an heir as Atlas would ever produce.

He had been going back and forth since switching sides. It was a battle which consumed him, his mind pitted against his integrity. Even now he couldn't quite decide, and so Mordecai was stuck at the crossroads. Thankfully, making some key contacts had kept both options open to him so far, and now he had the opportunity to get a big step closer to Atlas' killer. But was it worth the risk?

After committing the information to memory, Mordecai did the prudent thing and eliminated any trace of the letter. He had a small metal wastebasket specifically for this task, and the ashes were easy enough to dispose of by dumping the remnants out the window and into the morning breeze.

8:20am

Arriving ten minutes early at Mr. Sweet's office was standard for Mordecai. Asa would manage the hotel by day, but there were still other matters which required the attention of his shadow. Walking past the two agents stationed outside the door, Mordecai entered the dimly lit room that reeked of cigar smoke. Asa was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life. The best cigars and liquors could be found on the display shelves surrounding his desk.

Asa himself wasn't quite as punctual, though he could be forgiven most of the time as his dual roles in the operation meant he had many late nights and early mornings. Still, the pay he received was handsome, being able to keep up with his expensive habits. Twelve minutes passed before Mr. Sweet entered into his office, noting that his shadow had preceded him. "Good morning, Mr. Heller. Ready to get to work I see."

"Indeed. There are important matters to discuss, so will my colleagues be joining us?"

"Well, they certainly aren't in any hurry. Don't know what goes on in that room, but the bellhops refuse to enter. All the same, these matters do concern them, so they had better—"

Just then the door opened once again, this time allowing Sera and Nico into the office. They took their usual seats off to the side of the room while a single chair remained in front of Asa's desk. Mr. Sweet pulled out a cigar, clipped the end off, and began searching for his lighter. After watching his boss look through drawers for a few seconds, Mordecai rolled his eyes and produced a lighter of his own, sparking a small flame in front of Asa's face.

"Ah, thanks Heller, what would I do without my shadow?"

"Can we begin now?" Mordecai asked, flatly.

"Not quite, we still have one more."

For a couple more minutes, everyone waited. Nico retired the cloth wrapping his forearms while Sera sharpened her dagger, the same one she had carved Mordecai with a fortnight ago. Asa puffed on his cigar, combing through the daily paper. He took notice that one of his suppliers, the Arbogast Funeral Home, had printed an obituary for a local resident who was to be buried on Monday night west of town. Mordecai receded into the shadows of the room, only his glasses and marigold flower giving his presence away.

Finally, the door opened one last time, and limping in was detective Moreau, finally on the mend after a half a week of intensive care. Mordecai took note of the wound, estimating that full recovery would take a month, maybe more. But despite being in his fifties and injured, the detective still walked with determination. "Miss Savoy, gentlemen, apologies for the delay. The nurse insisted I have bandages changed out yet again."

"It's no trouble, detective." Asa replied. "We're happy to see you up and about."

Sitting down with a groan and flinch of pain, Moreau settled himself into the chair in front of Asa's desk. "Let's get started then, shall we?"

"Of course. I suppose we should start with the slayings on Itaska street. Mordecai has already informed me that the operation went well."

"Wi, plezi anpil". Sera added in her native tongue. "We have done right by Maître Carrefour."

"Ah yes, God of the crossroads." Moreau commented. "So that's who you two worship."

"Not so much a who as a what. Dem spirits be interestin' for sure." Nico replied, finishing with his arm wrappings.

"Anyways, I hate to dampen the positive mood, but I don't believe that Mill Street had anything to do with our ambush."

"Explain." Mordecai requested.

"Nico, Sera, did you two see any weapons matching the ones we've been looking for?"

Both shook their heads.

"And did you see a truck matching the one we ran across by the river?"

Again, both shook their heads.

"Finally, Mill Street might have been a small operation, but an old colleague of mine had told me that they didn't get their supply from the river."

"You mean to tell me that we started a gang war on bad information?" Asa asked directly, smoke curling from his nostrils.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Sweet, I think that's what has happened. Someone has been setting us up to look like fools, which is why this information cannot leave the room. We need to find our actual attackers and dispatch them quietly."

"If you think that's what must be done, then I trust you all will make it so. Now then, what do you suggest we do next?"

"For now, we ought to keep investigating. I'll do what I can from the hotel. The best place to start is going to be with any wayward suppliers in the Defiance area. We may not know the attackers, but no one would be ambushing four Marigold agents and then us for no reason. They must be after the source of your product, Mr. Sweet."

"Who did you have in mind then? You know, to investigate?"

"Two of your agents told me that there was something amiss at the Arbogast funeral home."

"Bobby and Abelard? They've been one of our suppliers since… well since the death of Atlas. They know what would happen if they were selling to the competition."

"And that's precisely why we should immediately go out there to demand information. If we make another mistake like with the Mill Street gang then it's possible your other suppliers will be scared off. We need to find a way to investigate without causing too much of a stir."

Just then, something seemed to click in Asa's head as he opened the paper once more. "Right here might be an option. The Arbogasts are supposed to be burying someone in a cemetery west of town, not far from Sable's new quarry site. What's odd though is that they don't perform services this close to town."

"Well, it has been a busy week for funeral homes, but you are right Mr. Sweet, something doesn't add up."

Asa then looked to his employees. "Mr. Heller, Sera and Nico, I want you three to be watching the cemetery starting Monday. Figure out if there is something odd going on."

"Excellent," Moreau said. "I will send word to my bosses in Chicago to see what they want done about the situation."

Leaving the daily briefing, Serafine had a suspicion that all wasn't as her boss and their detective perceived. Specifically, there was something about Mordecai which bothered her. She could never tell with him exactly what he was thinking or feeling, which was odd because she could normally read a man like an open book. She had even tried to find information on the cat through Maître Carrefour, yet her visions were hazy and full of mystery that went well beyond what she was used to.

In the months they had been working together, Mordecai didn't seem emotionally attached to, well, anything. It was a bit unnerving. She'd seen him do some terrifying things and yet, nothing. No hint of remorse, but also no pleasure. He seemed to do his work with the same level of emotion as a butcher cutting up a hog. Yet in her experience, Serafine never met someone completely devoid of feelings or passion. That had been on her mind a lot over the past few months but was especially prominent since he had been invited into her faith.

While that had been nagging at her for quite some time, lately it seemed that there was more going on. Mordecai was competent, very competent. And yet a jewel thief had managed been killed long before any valuable information could be found, and now they had all been led into an ambush by information that Mordecai himself had vetted. Something wasn't adding up…

The Vaskos

Meanwhile in Quincy, Alena was sitting in the kitchen. She could hardly believe that her father had returned after so long. Several years had passed since she had last seen Viktor, and the reunion hadn't gone as well as one would hope. The poor teenager was upstairs as the arguing continued for hours. Eventually things calmed down and her parents seemed to reach a temporary truce of sorts, but that was two days ago. They had hardly exchanged a word in the meantime. Checking in on her mother, Maria, it was apparent that she was trying to distract herself from the return of her wandering husband. She was reading the paper in the parlor of the house.

Outside, Viktor sat on the steps overlooking the yard. Had he made a mistake? Should he go back to St. Louis and be useful in some fashion? He understood the frustration of his wife. When he had left years ago, it was supposed to only be for a few weeks. Weeks turned into months, and months quickly became years. Sure, he had sent correspondence and made sure enough of his pay went to supporting his family that they wouldn't want for food, shelter, or heat. Yet in his absence so much had happened. His daughter had grown up, his wife had apparently been growing bitter about having to raise their child alone. Yet by all accounts she had remained faithful, something Viktor was certainly grateful for. But was he still worthy of that loyalty? Was he worthy to be a husband, a father?

"Dad?" A voice called softly from behind him, breaking Viktor away from his thoughts.

"Vhat is it, Alena?" He replied with an unusual gentleness.

"Can I sit with you?"

"Of course. Come, sit." Viktor patted the step next to him. Alena approached with some hesitancy, something Viktor noticed immediately. But she did end up sitting next to her father.

"You, you were away for so long. Why?"

"It… is complicated." Viktor explained. "My job, it was dangerous, I worked alone to keep family out of danger."

"So you didn't abandon us?"

"Vhat? Of course not! Where did you get silly idea?"

"Well, you hadn't come back. Mom was worried for a while if you'd ever return, but then she started being more… cold, when your name came up."

"I should not have stayed away so long."

Alena looked out at the backyard, remembering a lot of great days and nights playing back there or hanging out with her friends from school. But her father wasn't in many of them. "I missed you…" She said quietly.

"I… I am sorry, my daughter. Perhaps if it is too much then I should go back to—"

"No! Please, dad. Don't leave again. I want you to be here with us!" Alena grabbed her father, holding him as tight as she could. Viktor was surprised at how strong of a reaction that suggestion was, but it was clear that it would be an even bigger mistake to go away.

"Okay, Alena. I won't go." He said, holding his little girl next to him just like he used to. Lackadaisy would have to find a path without him, at least for a while.

Fix-It Freckle

Back in St. Louis, Freckle was doing one his many tasks while employed by Mitzi. But as Rocky would call it, this was more… humble. In Viktor's absence, there was a certain elderly cat who was getting to the point where she couldn't be completely trusted to get things fixed on her own. Not that Freckle as complaining. The boy was certainly happy to be of use, and working on various things around the small home was a nice change of pace. If he couldn't be a police officer, then perhaps a handyman was the right trade? Jesus was a carpenter, after all, so surely his mother would approve.

But that was precisely the problem. Freckle couldn't shake the desire to be… more. And while being a hired gun was certainly dangerous work, it felt great to let loose! And yet there was still that nagging voice in his head. "This is a sin! What would mom think? How can you be a respectable member of society if you also have a body count? Why do you follow your cousin into messes like this?" The voice just kept at it. Is this what a conscious is like? Most days the urge to explode could be suppressed, but when given the power of a weapon there was little stopping it.

Freckle was realizing though that even if he couldn't stop the urge to be a violent thug, there were certain ways it could be focused. That rainy night when he and Rocky ambushed the agents was an example. It was either kill or be killed in that moment, the time to turn back would have been earlier outside his house. So what did he do? Freckle focused himself on the two people who could kill him and Rocky. Another example that Freckle replayed in his head was the other day with Ivy in the field. There was no one around to impress, not even her. Ivy just asked him to try and hit those bottles, and even though the rifle felt like it was as heavy as a cannon he was still able to get three hits in three shots. Only when the boys showed up did his anxiety kick in and he choked.

Was that the lesson Ethan was trying to impart? Focus the anger, the rage, the urge to let it all fly out like some scary tempest? Freckle decided that was a question that could only be answered when he next saw the Lackadaisy's resident rifleman. For the moment, it was time to clean up the tools and call it an afternoon. Light bulbs changed, sink fixed… again, cabinet door back on hinges, and a couple gross items removed from the fridge when Mrs. Bapka wasn't looking before the mold could spread to the rest of the perishables.

Speaking of the miniscule woman was not trying to give Freckle a fish sandwich. "Tu, sendvič. Jest'! Jest'!" While he accepted the extra tip gracefully, the moment Bapka went about doing something else he was sure to double check the contents of this gift. Thankfully she had opened a fresh can this time. So with tools back where they should be, a full stomach, and cleaned hands, Freckle bid his elderly client a good day before double-checking Viktor's apartment. He saw that Rocky's car was out front, and the door was unlocked.

Stepping inside, Ethan was standing there, apparently snooping around. "Ethan?"

I almost jumped out of my skin, spinning quick as lightning to see Freckle there right behind me. "Jesus, McMurray, don't do that. I'm liable to start swinging when people sneak up on me."

"Oh… sorry." He said, head hanging low. I was starting to recognize that young Calvin sometimes needed some reassurance that he wasn't screwing anything up.

"Hey now, don't be like that Calvin. My reaction isn't your fault."

"Really? Because anytime I walk up behind mom, and she has that reaction it's a five-minute lecture on manners…" He replied.

"Well, I'm certainly not your mother. But even so, I'm surprised that's how she'd react to something so small. Though I suppose I shouldn't jump to any conclusions, I've only met her once so far and something tells me that keeping interactions to a minimum would be in everyone's best interest. Yours, Rocky's, and mine."

"So what were you doing in here? I thought we were only supposed to make sure no one had broken in or stolen anything?"

"I am doing that, Freckle… mostly. I started seeing these photos on the wall and got curious. This one here had Viktor's whole unit in the picture. They must have just graduated from basic."

Freckle looked up at the photo, noting that the big man was a lot skinnier a decade ago, and had both eyes. While no one would call him handsome, there was no doubt that Viktor was man among men. "Wow. Did you know any of them?"

"No. This was a unit under the 79th. They arrived in France before I had even been drafted."

"You were in the 77th, right?"

"Yeah…" I didn't even register when or where Freckle might have heard that. I certainly didn't like to broadcast it to the world, but at this point most people in the Lackadaisy had heard it. Heck, maybe I had mentioned it a while ago and just forgot?

"So how close were those two divisions?"

"I guess at times we weren't that far from each other. Ten miles in Missouri and ten miles in France feel completely different."

I took one last look at the photo before donning my hat. "I suppose we better go. Everything is in order here and I'm sure Rocky is getting bored waiting in the car."

To the contrary, Rocky seemed most content to be catching up on sleep. Ever since he got a more comfortable bed than the back of the car to call home it was like all that pent up exhaustion hit him at once. I didn't mind it though. As much as Rocky had grown on me, it was nice to have some peace and quiet. "What's with Rocky?" Calvin asked. I smiled and held up a small bottle of that medicine. "Can't give him too much, but I suppose being exhausted, nursing a head-wound, and all this stuff I can't pronounce in his medicine would have this effect."

"Oh!" He replied, Freckle's eyes widened in realization that Rocky probably wasn't completely himself.

"Turns out the stuff wears off after a few hours. He should be good to go by evening. But in the mean time I suppose I should drive, huh?"

Rocky didn't wake up until I turned the engine over, and from then on, he seemed content to watch everything pass by us in the car.

"Ethan, could I ask you a question?" Freckle said, turning to me as I got into top gear.

"Go for it."

"How do you handle it?"

"Handle what?"

"Being able to use a gun? Ivy told me that night you were trailing her outside of Defiance that when those men threatened her you seemed to come out of the shadows. She said you were like a ghost."

"Ah jeez, I hope that didn't scare her. But what does that have to do with—"

"Well, you must have been calm, right? How do you do it?"

I, of course, knew the truth. I could shoot two men in cold blood because it wasn't exactly the first time. But that was something I didn't want to openly admit. That part of me had to remain buried in the past. "The ghost." It was indeed a legend, a myth, an exaggeration, but not a lie. Ivy had only seen a brief glimpse of that.

"Experience, Freckle. Eventually you'll get there too." It wasn't an outright lie because Freckle was certain to get better with practice, but I prayed no one would have to do what I had done, let alone some teenager who had not yet been royally screwed by life. At least that answer seemed to satisfy him.

"Now I got a question for you, McMurray." I started after a minute of silence in the car, Rocky only half-listening to our conversation anyway.

"Is being a cop what you really want? Or is that just what you were told to want?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I've always fancied being a farmer, maybe a rancher. Having that freedom and fresh air was a beautiful dream when you're down in a mine. But Dad decided that as the eldest son I'd follow him into the mining industry. Point is, what we do in life isn't always what we want, but it's often what others have decided we should want."

"I- It's been my dream. But lately I don't know. Some of the cops at the academy seemed a little… shady."

"Shady like a criminal?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Because, my young friend, that's the way of things. We had a lot of cops in Butte. Very few of them were trustworthy. Most were in the pockets of rich men, and they had one job, keep us in line. Of course, I won't presume to know what you want, but in case you get the feeling again that being a cop means you'd be a good boy, just remember that the police and the street gangs are closer to each other than our leaders want to admit."

I then turned the corner onto our side-street, the sign over the café glowing in the afternoon sun. It had been an eventful day, running errands like our job titles stated. But soon we would be working under the light of the moon and handling all the foul deeds which usually occur after dark. The Lackadaisy crew would be on the streets, and for the first time in a while that thought might just scare some of the competition. Maybe Rocky seemed to be on another planet and Freckle was crunched up against me because a bee flew in the window.