Hello again everyone! I'm back with another chapter as promised. I know after that last one, all of my readers have probably been wondering what's going to happen next, so I won't keep you only to say that I don't own Lackadaisy. Enjoy!
Mitzi sat at the bar, her head propped up on her left hand. It was a dull night, like most were these days, and she glanced around her establishment. Most of the regular crowd was here; Miss Minzoku and Maisy were sipping cocktails in the back. That quiet gentleman in the funny hat was smoking a cigarette and leaning against the back wall. What was his name? She tried to keep track of the regulars. Valentine? Vesuvius? Something like that. Winston was over at a corner table, reading a novel as he sipped his drink. The strange girl who usually wore men's clothes was back again, sitting a couple stools away, and tonight she was looking disheveled and drinking whiskey and lemon juice.
"Dear, you keep hangin' round here looking all kinds a bedraggled, I'm gonna have to hire you on." Mitzi said, striking up light conversation. The girl's head jerked over, reminding the speakeasy owner of a crow.
"Who…me?" She squeaked. "I wa…uh…I bluba bluba…thanks and all, you know, but noooo…I don't really…" She made finger quotations. "…join…things."
"I see…" Mitzi smirked. She wheeled about on her barstool to the impeccably-dressed cat next to her. "And how passes your evening, mmhmm…Mister Sable?" The Siamese cat in the expensive suit nearly spat out his drink. He wiped his mouth and chuckled.
"Oh…uh…splendid, madam." He replied. Viktor rolled his eye. Their half-hearted attempts at keeping their little tryst secret was almost as ridiculous as them having it in the first place.
"Well, you might be happy to learn that with any luck, we should be receiving a shipment of goods soon that are…right up your alley." Sable met eyes with her for a moment, a little gesture, then looked away.
"Oh yes? And what might that mean, madam?" He returned.
"Ah, just some lovely bottles of imported bliss." She said with a cunning tone. "And I don't mean from Canada." He made a surprised face.
"Imported you say? What manner of splendid refreshment are we talking, my dear?"
"Well…I hope you enjoy a libation of the Scottish variety." She purred with a smirk. "Or perhaps a little drink from the Cognac region?" He almost dropped his glass.
"My word…real scotch and brandy?" He half-exclaimed. "I could get every bigwig I know in here for that!"
"I was hoping you could, honey." Mitzi said. "I could even bring in some cigars and we could have us a real first-class get-together." She leaned in close. "What do you say?" He cleared his throat.
"You know I'm more than willing to do anything to help…" He said courageously, then retreated into himself a bit. "…as long as…"
"It doesn't look like you're helping."
"Yes...well…" He looked away.
"I know Wick, I know." Mitzi sighed. "The paths we choose always seems to place its unfair burdens on us all, don't it?"
"Well…on the bright side," Wick began, "This shipment you have coming in should provide just the stimulus your business needs."
"I guess." Mitzi shrugged. "Though it'd be nice to get some more customers in here."
"I don't know, madam." Wick teased. "It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday." She giggled.
"Oh, you should have seen the wretched creature poor Ivy dragged in here last night." She commented. "Some…drunken accountant from Iowa. Had a chip on his shoulder the size of the Mississippi and a mouth like a sailor on leave."
"Oh my…" Sable returned, taking a drink from his glass.
"It gets better. He got positively ossified and nearly started a fight with Viktor and half the club." The wealthy businessman raised an eyebrow.
"So sorry I missed out on the fun." He said sarcastically. "I trust nothing came of it."
"Oh, no." Mitzi waved. "When nobody would go a round with him, he lost all his steam and wandered off. People like that are usually all bark and no…"
"Mizzz May! Mizz May!" Ivy cried out, causing the entire bar to look up. She was on Rocky's left side, and Freckle was on his right, helping the injured musician into the speakeasy. "W…we need help. Rocky's been shot! So has Freckle!" Mitzi gasped and jumped off the barstool. Zib, who had been sitting on the edge of the stage, smoking boredly, hopped up and ran to help Ivy with their wounded comrades. He took over from Ivy.
"C'mon kid…let's go over here a minute." He said softly. "Up on the stage where you belong."
"Ouch…thanks Zib…mmmff…"Rocky groaned as the bandleader helped him over to the stage. Mitzi took Freckle by the good arm and led him there as well. He sat down on the edge of the platform, and the club's owner and Zib did their best to inspect their wounds. They helped Rocky out of his suit jacket to see the left sleeve of his white shirt completely red with blood. Rocky looked at it and winced. "Ohhh…that's probably not medically sound…nghhh…at least it matches my leg, right Miss M? Hn?" He tried to force a smile, but it was obvious that he was in terrible pain.
"Honey, just relax and try not to be…you for a minute, okay?" Mitzi said calmly. Zib rolled up Rocky's pantleg and looked at the wound on his calf.
"Gonna play hell with your dancing for a couple of weeks, but at least that slug passed through." The skinny orange cat commented. Meanwhile, Mitzi had moved on to Freckle, who sat on the stage looking glum while Ivy held a cloth napkin to his arm.
"You okay, Calvin?" Miss May asked. He looked up sheepishly.
"Yes ma'am." He answered. "I think it's just a scratch." Ivy had tears in her eyes as she slapped his shoulder.
"Just a scratch?! Mister McMurray, you could've been killed!" Ivy squeaked. "Don't you ever do that to me again! Don't you ever get shot again!"
"I…I'll try not to, Ivy…" He muttered. "Geesh…you remind me of my mother."
"Guys always go for a cute lil gal that reminds them of mama." Rocky grinned. His face twisted into a grimace as Zib poured a shot of high-proof alcohol on his leg wound. "Gahhahhh! The medicine's worse than the malady!" By now, they had started drawing a small crowd of onlookers, mainly Viktor, Wick, and the odd girl from the bar. Everyone else nervously went on about their business…and drinking.
"Now, what on earth happened out there?" Mitzi demanded.
"Well we got to the spot the delivery was supposed to be in…" Ivy began, "…and it was down by the river, and I was reeaaal careful about pulling in there, but there was nobody around."
"We started loading up the goods…" Rocky took over. "Which, I must add, we managed to escape with a fair to impressive quantity of, given the circumstances."
"Oh thank goodness!" Wick gushed. Everyone looked at him and he tugged on his collar. "I mean…thank goodness you're alright, Mister Rickaby…eheheh." He turned up his glass and poured the contents down his throat.
"So anyway…" Rocky continued. "We were loading the highbrow giggle water, when all of a sudden…BLAMMO!" Zib sighed, and paused from bandaging up the hyperactive violinist's arm.
"You ever wanna play fiddle again, you'd better keep still." He advised. Rocky grinned.
"Sorry. Anyway Miss M, this considerably menacing gunslinger, like right out of a dime novel starts blaaaazin' away at us.
"We all ducked behind the car…" Ivy added.
"And he attempted to disassemble it to get to us." Freckle sighed. "I thought we were going to our place for sure…"
"He must have expended all of his ammunition for that monstrous elephant gun he was carrying." Rocky continued.
"Wasn't an elephant gun…" Freckle muttered.
"T'was a military cannon!" Rocky exaggerated, making Mitzi place her face in her palm. "A blunderbuss of the repeating variety! He started firing away with a duet of pistols as Wild Bill Hickock of old…"
"And?" Viktor asked in a low voice.
"And…I kind of got shot." Rocky said timidly. "And he would've finished me off , were it not for the valiant actions of our own Miss Pepper, who selflessly shielded me from harm."
"And then Freckle shot at him and we drove away." Ivy summed it up. The room was silent for a moment. All of them reflected on the harrowing events the three young bootleggers had just been through, and the possible meaning behind the apparent ambush.
"Ooo, what's it like being shot?" The tomboyish girl asked as she stared at the wound on Rocky's arm with wide eyes.
"Second most painful experience of my life!" Rocky said proudly. She grinned deviously.
"What was the first, hotsy-totsy?" She waggled her eyebrows.
"Don't you have things to drink and a chair to be in?" Viktor growled reproachfully. She let out a squeak and returned to her spot at the bar. Mitzi shrugged tiredly.
"Well it's obviously clear that this whole kit and kaboodle was just one big setup." She said defeatedly. "That gunman was there to kill all three of you, and it's a wonder you all made it back here in one piece." Her eyelids drooped. "Speakin' of which, can I assume the car…
"One piece." Ivy said quickly.
"Multiple pieces…" Calvin muttered quietly.
"One very ventilated piece." Rocky added.
"Ughhhh…." Mitzi groaned, rubbing her face. "Okay. Zib, I'd appreciate if you took Rocky to the doctor poste haste. And be careful. We don't know who this fella is, or if he's coming after all of us or not."
"Ohhhhhhh…" Ivy breathed. "I know who it was." They all stared at her. "It was uh…"
"Oh spit it out, honey." Miss May sighed.
"It was Mister Fisher." The teenage girl said. The speakeasy owner stared blankly at her. "Y…you remember…the guy from…last night."
"I do remember the guy from last night." Mitzi replied, an edge of irritation to her normally calm voice. "Which means this Mister Fisher might just be somebody that's been sent after one or all of us. And that don't bode well. It don't bode well at all."
Frost limped into the lobby of the Maribel Hotel, his rifle concealed beneath his long black coat. The gunfighter's pant leg was dark with blood, and he left a trail of crimson droplets in his wake as he made his way across the tile floor. He went straight to the elevator, stepped in and hit the button for the top floor. He slowly and quietly hobbled off the lift and to the door leading to Sweet's office, his tail twitching slightly. The cat at the door gave him a shocked look and let him in.
Asa Sweet stood, looking out the window of his office at the lights of Saint Louis at night. Mordecai was by his side as they talked about new suppliers and profit margins. Sweet let out a low chuckle and took a puff from his ever-present cigar. The door to the office swung open, loosely banging against the wall. The crime boss and his lieutenant spun about to see what the intrusion was about and froze, their faces betraying their bewilderment at the sight before them.
Frost stepped into the room, a canvas strap tied about the upper thigh of the assassin's right leg. Said pant leg was drenched in blood, blood that now dripped down onto the hardwood floor beneath him. The gunman slowly took his Winchester from beneath his coat and leaned it against the wall by the door. It was now that they could see the dime-sized holes in his long trench coat, four in the fabric by his legs, one on his right sleeve near his shoulder, and another on his chest. His vest bore two distinct holes in the pinstripe material. Even his black fedora had a hole in the crown. The apparent immortality of this mysterious cat from Chicago didn't stop there though. A rivulet of blood ran down the right side of his face, matting his fur there, and creating a wide claret streak that ran down into his collar.
"They got away." Frost stated apathetically. "Shot themselves clear. The boy…Freckle he's called…steady hand with a chopper. Reminds me of McGurn. Helluva time."
"You let them get away?" Mordecai replied. "You knew where they were going to be and had the element of surprise. How then do you rationalize a skilled triggerman such as yourself failing so miserably?" Frost fixed the tuxedo cat with a glower for a few silent moments.
"Didn't say it was a complete failure." He finally replied. "Hit the musician at least three times. He's gonna be down for a while…if he lives. Barked the red-haired boy too. Barked him good. Shot up their car. Probably on the side of the road somewhere."
"You were supposed to kill them." Sweet growled.
"Didn't know they had a Thompson sir." Frost replied. "The boy. He went from sniveling coward to sturmtruppen in no time flat. Good thing I wore my Dunrite. Don't worry. I will get them. Make them pay…with accrued interest…for putting a bullet in me."
"You do know you're bleeding." Heller stated dryly. Frost cocked his head.
"Yeah. Like I said, they scratched my leg." He replied. Heller raised an eyebrow.
"In all actuality, I was referring to your head." At that, Frost wiped his right temple with his hand, and stared at the blood on his fingers. He looked back, as if balefully leering through miles and walls at the culprits, then turned back.
"Are you…" Asa began, unsure of how to handle the situation. "You need a doctor or…somethin'?" Frost lazily raised a finger in a point toward them.
"Don't carve my epitaph yet. I'm going to get them. I just need a couple days." Drake stated. Sweet nodded. He went to his desk, pulled out a small stack of twenties and tossed them onto the desktop.
"Get yourself cleaned up. Have that leg looked at. And your head…you look like Hell. Good work shooting them up like that, Frost." The gunfighter took the money and stuck it in his pocket. "They'll be hiding in their hole after this."
"Make it easier to find them." Frost agreed. "I'll let you know something." He picked up his rifle and tucked it under his coat and left the office. Walking toward the elevator, Frost had just reached the door to the Savoy's room when it opened, revealing Nico on his way out of the suite. The tall white cat in the green vest and red bandanna stopped and looked the gun-for-hire up and down before letting out a low whistle.
"Daammn boy…what'n da Hell happened a' you?" He commented. Frost paused and glanced his way.
"Heavy opposition." He answered stoically. "I caught a round. They caught a few." Nicodeme Savoy chuckled.
"Well bon…ain't dat a net sum good?" The Cajun boxer-turned-gangster grinned.
"Yes. But they escaped. Barely." Frost admitted. "The boy is good with a gun afterall…"
"I coulda told you dat, mon ami. Dat lil' sumbitch is crazy as a boweled owl when he pops off. Kinda like you…widdout da charm." Nico grinned.
"I was going to kill them." Frost stated. "Now I'm going to kill them worse."
"Hahaa. Only a demon like you could kill a man deader'n dead." Nico laughed. "Need you some l' assistance wit dat?"
"No." The gunman replied. His eyes flicked away and he huffed a defeated sigh. "But I could use a ride. Back to my quarters." When Nicodeme laughed, Frost was expecting the big cat to make a joke at his expense, but was surprised with his answer.
"Why sho, spooky. I was headin' out anyways. I gotta go break some guy's face for the boss. Come on, I'll give you a lift, chose sûre." Frost nodded.
"Obliged." His mind recounted the evening before. "Miss Savoy coming?"
"Non, she's stayin' in tonight." Nico replied, closing the door. They started down the hall. "She's all kinds a' pissed about somethin'." Frost said nothing. He guessed that the crazy woman was angry about him spurning her advances. "Dat leg looks real bad. Maybe you should see a doctor."
"Not necessary." Frost growled. "Just get me back to my room. I'll sew it shut." They got into the elevator.
"Okay, but dat dere bullet-hole's gonna get awful rotten. We got a doctor here dat fixes around on any Marigold member dat gets scraped up. Don't want that leg t' have to be hacked off wid a saw, do ya, spooky?" Frost looked down at his bleeding appendage.
"No." he said quietly. "That would be a fucking inconvenience."
Nicodeme drove to a house on the East Side of the city and parked on the curb. The Savoy brother left to take care of his nosebreaking business, and Frost walked up on onto the wide porch. He used the knocker on the heavy wooden front door to pound a few times. The lights came on upstairs, then the lights at the front of the house. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged cat in silk pajamas and a dressing-robe.
"Yes, yes, what can I do for you?" The house's occupant asked, looking the gunfighter up and down.
"I come by way of the Maribel." Frost stated, echoing the line Savoy had told him to deliver. "I am a beneficiary." The doctor took a look around the porch.
"Come in sir, come in." He said, ushering the mercenary into his parlor. He had Drake take a seat on a wooden chair by the fireplace. "I'm Doctor Walsh. Now…oh gracious…you got yourself into quite the scrap, didn't you, sir?"
"Yeah." Frost answered simply. The doctor pulled a black medical bag closer and dug through it. He retrieved a mall probe and a pair of hemostats.
"Well, I need to make sure the slug is not still in there." Walsh explained. "I can administer morphine…or chloroform if you'd like…"
"No." Frost declined. "No dope. Whiskey if you have it."
"Suit yourself, fella." The doctor shrugged. He pulled a brown pint-sized medicine bottle from his large bag. "This should do it. 80% ethyl alcohol…" He leaned in closer with a small smirk. "Medical moonshine, ya know?" Frost took the bottle, uncorked it and drank the entire contents. Doctor Walsh shrugged again and got to work.
He found nothing in the wound. The bullet had fortunately passed cleanly through Frost's thigh, and missed the femur, leaving only a jagged hole thorough the muscle and flesh. Walsh cleaned the entry and exit wounds, first with water, and then with alcohol. He drew out a needle and a roll of silk thread, and expertly stitched up the wound, Frost not making a sound the entire time. Ten minutes later, he was wrapping a bandage around the gunman's thigh. He then inspected the wound on the silent and sullen cat's head. A round had grazed him, just below the base of his right ear, removing some hair and cutting a clean gash in the skin. Once again, the doctor debrided and cleaned it with alcohol before applying a bandage. He finally sat back and wiped his brow.
"Alright, you should be good to go now." Doctor Walsh declared. "Just try to stay off that leg for a couple of weeks and let it heal right." He received a small nod in reply. "What's your name by the way? I never seen you around here before, and I know most of Sweet's guys." Frost's eyes flicked to the right, then back to the doctor.
"Griffin." He answered. "Frederick Griffin…from Friendsville Maryland."
Nico returned after his job was finished to find Frost standing beside the road near the doctor's house, leaning against a tree. He pulled up to the curb, and the assassin climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. Savoy put the car in gear and started the drive to the boarding house on the shadier side of town. They drove in silence for a few minutes, and finally Nico spoke up.
"Hey. You get that leg taken care of alright?" He asked.
"Yes." Frost replied without taking his eyes off the road ahead.
"Ya know…when this job a' yours is all done, you should think about joinin' up wid us." Nicodeme offered. "Me and Serafine…we was talkin' about dat yesterday. You're on Hell of a triggerman. Born ta' riase Hell, wouldn't ya?"
"Born for something." Frost answered indifferently. "She already asked me. Serafine." Nico frowned.
"Ah yeah? An' what did ya tell 'er?"
"I said no." Frost stated. "I work alone."
"Ahhh…je vois. Now I know why sis is so énervé. She got a thang for you, I think, Frost."
"I know."
"I'll talk to her." Nico stated in a low voice.
"Thank you." They pulled up in front of the apartment building, and Frost stepped out of the car. He retrieved his lever action rifle from the back seat, and shot Nico a nod.
"Ey, been meanin' to ask." The tall white cat called before the gunman could close the door. "It true…what all de guys in The Marigold Gang's been sayin' about you?"
"What are they saying?" Frost asked dryly.
"They're tellin' all kinds of tales about you, Frost. You killin' some big judge up in Chicagoland, blowin' up a damn ship and des trucs fous…" Frost just stared blankly at him. Nico smirked. "Pers'naly, I like de un 'bout you killin' a whole gang in one night."
"They tell you that one, did they?" Frost said. "Did they mention the part with me chopping up the guy with the machine gun?" Nico laughed and winked.
"Ahh…my favorite part." He replied jokingly. Frost cocked his head.
"You uh…you know better than to believe everything you hear." He stated. "Thanks for the ride." He closed the door.
Frost limped up the steps to his room. He went inside and locked the door. He fell heavily onto the bed and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, turning it up and drinking several gulps before he was done. His leg hurt like Hell, and his chest felt like someone had hit him in the ribs with a hammer. He slipped out of his coat and removed his shoulder holster and belt of magazine pouches, then took off the Dunrite bulletproof vest. Holding it up to the light to get a better look, he could see the two .45 slugs that had been caught by the steel strips sewn inside the garment. Frost sat the vest down on the floor and took off his bowtie and white shirt. He stood and limped to the bathroom sink. Using an old rag, he began to wash the blood off of his face and neck.
Satisfied that he'd gotten most of it, Frost gripped the sink basin with both hands and stared at his reflection. The spots where the vest had stopped the bullets were throbbing, and it made him cast a glance at the small, round scar on his left shoulder. His eyes traced down his reflection to the two-inch scar on his abdomen, just below his ribs. That one had been close. Very close. Closer than tonight had been. Barely.
He turned back into the room, took another drink from the bottle and sat on his bed. So much had gone south tonight. Frost cursed under his breath. He had his BAR and a perfectly good Thompson in his car, and had left them in favor of the marksman rifle. Then again, he had underestimated the resolve and the abilities of his enemy. The musician, the one they called Rocky, was quick. He seemed to have a good survival instinct. Freckle was maniacal once he'd picked up the chopper. Maybe not maniacal, he thought. The boy was probably just protecting his friends. A person does a lot of crazy things to protect their friends. Like taking bullets for them…
There was nothing he could do now. Tomorrow was Sunday, and the Marigold room would be closed, and their rivals over at The Lackadaisy would likely be taking the Sabbath off as well. He thought it almost funny…folks were willing to murder each other for liquor, and break the law by running illicit booze halls, but they took Sunday off. It reminded him of his childhood. He could expect a good beating any day of the week but Sunday. His father wanted to do the Christian thing, after all. He got chicken on Sunday. Frost liked chicken.
He lay back on the bed. Tomorrow, he decided, he would remain here in bed. As much as the gunfighter hated to admit it, it would take a few days before he healed up and got his strength back for another fight. There were guns to clean and magazines to be loaded anyway, and he would have to work out another strategy by which to eliminate his boss' competitors. This thought swirled inside his head, along with the familiar smells of gunpowder and blood that still clung to him. That, and the sensation of having been shot. That was a native feeling for certain.
I hope you all enjoyed seeing more of Frost than just as killing machine. I'll try to have the next chapter up soon. Until then, I would appreciate any and all feedback you could give me in the Reviews section, or just drop a line to say you love it or hate it. Until our next installment my loyal reader, this concludes our broadcast day. So long and goodnight!