Greeting and salutations readers new and old! I'm back, and I have brought you the latest installment in this sordid tale. So let's jump in. Enjoy, everyone!
Freckle opened the door to the small room in the back of the speakeasy and peeked in. He could discern his cousin's sleeping form laying under the sheets in the bed on the far wall. Calvin took off his hat and stepped into the room. He walked to the bed and looked down on Rocky. The grey cat was laying on his back, a blanket drawn up to his chin. A rivulet of drool ran from the corner of his mouth. Freckle smiled a little. It kind of reminded him of when they were kids.
"Hey, uh…Rocky?" Calvin said softly. Rocky snorted and his eyes opened.
"Oh…Freckle…" The musician greeted tiredly. "Hast thou come to see me to the great beyond?" The orange cat rolled his eyes.
"I don't think you're dying." He replied. "The doctor said it isn't even that bad." Rickaby bit his lip. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
"Not bad?" He yawned. "Not bad? I was only shot like fifteen times."
"You were shot twice." Freckle reminded him.
"Details, cousin…details." Rocky teased.
"And if you ask me, that's twice more than a person ought to be…and I had to lie to mom." Freckle continued.
"About your little booboo?"
"Uh…yeah…ahem…"
"What did you say?" Rocky asked.
"I said a chandelier fell on me." Calvin muttered embarrassedly. Rocky laughed, then winced.
"Alas! What unfair punishment…" He protested. "…it hurts when I laugh. Ugh."
"You…you need your rest, Rocky." Freckle said. "And I gotta go. I'm gonna be late for Mass."
"You still go to church?" Rocky asked in a softer tone.
"Eh…uh…yeah…" Freckle replied. "I'm…you know, a sinner. I still go to…Mass."
"Huh." Rickaby sounded. His lips turned up into a wisecracking smirk. "You the altar boy?" Calvin sighed irritably.
"Bye Rocky. I'll check in when I get back." He stated. Freckle started for the door and paused at the threshold when he heard Rocky vocalizing behind him, mimicking the chanting of a monk.
"Ohhh Patri send me dominoooooos…" He called in a low voice, then giggled. "Ohh lord have mercyyyy I play dominooooos."
"Ughhhh…" Freckled groaned and closed the door behind him.
…
"Yes, operator…get me Cincinnati PLA 2654 please." Mordecai said over the speaker of the pay phone. "Yes…I can wait." He leaned back against the door of the phone booth and inspected the claws of his left hand.
"JNO Fitchner Distributors." A female secretary greeted. "We are closed today, but…"
"Put me through to Mister Butler." Heller stated. "I have a pressing matter."
"Just a minute, sir."
"Of course." A few moments later, a gruff voice answered the phone.
"Who is it?"
"Mister Melvin Butler?" Mordecai asked.
"Yes…who is this?" The voice asked again.
"I am a representative of the Maribel Hotel in Saint Louis. I do believe our companies have enjoyed the goods and services of several mutual persons." There was a short pause.
"Maribel huh? Yeah. Yeah, I've heard of you." Butler said. "How's business?"
"Very much on the upswing." The tuxedo cat answered. "I have called to ask about a former employee of yours. Think of this as providing a reference."
"Oh. Okay…sure. Who is it?"
"Three years ago, you hired a gentleman to…assess the viability of a hostile takeover of a competitor's operations. You remember the consultant?" Another pause.
"Yeah…yeah, I remember him. Tall skinny guy, grey. Wore this big long coat. Real quiet hardcase, that one. He did a real good job too."
"About five-eleven?" Mordecai inquired, "Grim demeanor, yellow eyes?"
"Add 'talks like he had his throat cut', and you got the guy." Butler said.
"Then I see we are in fact describing the same person." Mordecai mused. "And he did an acceptable job during his tenure with you? No problems?"
"Heh. If there were any problem with him, I would say it's that he was too good at his job. His er…consultation left us in charge of two of our major competitors. He uh…did the work of twenty men, if you get what I'm saying. Yes sir. Old Solomon was something else."
"Excuse me, Mister Butler. Did you say Solomon?" Heller asked, his eyes shifting from side to side.
"Yeah. Clarence Solomon. That's your guy, right?" The shipping boss said back.
"Yes. That is him." Mordecai spoke, writing this name down in a small notebook. "By the way, I haven't asked him as of yet. Did Mister Solomon say where he was from?"
"Good God…it's been three years." Butler complained. "Let's see. He mentioned it. Where did…somewhere in Illinois, I think."
"That is fine." Heller returned. "I have everything I need. Thank you, Mister Butler. Good luck with your business."
"Alright, have a good one." The speaker clicked, and Mordecai hung up the phone. He stared at the page in the notepad for a moment, a list of names he'd found that were used by the assassin. Frost. Clarence Solomon from Illinois. He had told Doctor Walsh that his name was Frederick Griffin from Friendsville Maryland. He'd used the name Everett Wood in Tennessee. Something told Heller that these names weren't just random pseudonyms Frost had plucked from a hat. No, the secretive gunman was far too calculating for that. There was a pattern, and one Heller would have to figure out if he were to find out who he really was. He thought for a moment. Frost would not have given his "real" name to Mitzi.
He didn't want to call her. What semblance of a working relationship they'd enjoyed in the past was dead, as was any particular feelings of amity between them. Not to mention that the widow of his one-time friend would no doubt be suspecting his involvement in the incident in her speakeasy and the subsequent firefight by now. She would be suspicious of him, and Heller didn't blame her. He would be too. Then again, Mordecai Heller was suspicious of everyone. He sighed, dropped a nickel into the slot on the phone and picked up the receiver.
"The Little Daisy Café please."
Mitzi glanced at the clock on the wall of her office on the second floor of the building occupied by her businesses. It read 11:05. She'd slept in this Sunday morning, and who could blame her? The events of the last couple of days ran though her mind. Someone had been sent to kill them, that much was apparent. This Mister Fisher or whoever he was had almost done in Rocky, Freckle and Ivy during the pickup. What was even more terrifying was that he'd been inside her speakeasy only the night before. What if he'd decided to make his move then?
Mitzi knew the risks. One didn't get into this line of work and live in this world this long without accepting the risks and attempting to mitigate them by any means necessary. But this was too close. If they continued to operate, it was likely that they would lose people. It was a matter of time, but Mitzi May tried to hold onto her people for what it was worth. Especially the people she was close to. She walked to the window and stared out with misty eyes. What if? What if Rocky, Ivy and Calvin had been killed last night? Could she forgive herself for that? Could the Lackadaisy even go on afterwards?
She turned back into the room. There was no sense in thinking about what could have happened. Not when there was so much to worry about that was already happening around her. Who had sent Fisher? She narrowed her eyes. Did she really have to ask that question? Who else would have hired a high-dollar assassin to completely annihilate her operation? Asa. It had to be. The telephone on her desk rang, and Mitzi frowned. She picked up the receiver as if it were a serpent.
"Hello?" She said, trying to sound as well-put-together as possible.
"Miss May…" Mordecai greeted. "…it has certainly been a while." She rolled her green eyes.
"It most certainly has, Mister Heller. And can I assume this has something to do with the new acquaintance my people made last evening…" She said, her voice dripping with vitriol.
"Nnnn-yes…as it were…" Mordecai sighed. "Would it be possible to meet somewhere…preferably secluded and private…"
"Given the nature of your new friend, I might feel more at ease if I brought along the entire State Guard."
"Droll madam, but well within the bounds of logic given the current situation." Heller ceded. "This however is a parley underneath the white flag of civility…insomuch as that banner can be trusted."
"Trust is a very expensive commodity in this town right now." Mitzi fired back. "And in very short supply." Mordecai frowned and slumped a little.
"A point we can both agree upon." He muttered. "If you are willing to do so, come to the road underneath the Shaw Avenue Bridge. Two hours. It's the only time I have where it may not look suspicious."
"Oh honey, you're plenty suspicious, but if you're so dead set on this meeting, I will try and be there."
"Very well." Heller breathed. "I hope to see you soon." He hung up the phone.
…
Frost sat at the writing desk, cleaning his twin 1911's. It was a meticulous operation every time. He'd learned early on that powder fouling from the .45 rounds seemed to work its way into every crack and crevice of the pistols, even after firing only a few shots. All of this would have to be painstakingly cleaned away if the weapons were going to be reliable. Only clean guns shoot. Only clean guns save lives.
With both of his primary weapons broken down for maintenance, Frost had a Colt .38 Official Police on the table beside his pile of pistol parts and cleaning supplies. It was this revolver he snatched up, cocked and leveled at the door a split second after someone knocked upon it. Silently, the gunfighter stood and limped the two paces to the door. He pressed himself against the wall to the right of it.
"Who is it?" He asked in a growl.
"Heller." The reply came. Frost threw open the door and snapped the revolver outward, leveling it at his caller's head. It was in fact the bespectacled cat, who simply stared boredly at the assassin. He rolled the pistol upward and thumbed down the hammer.
"What can I…do for you…" Frost muttered, and returned to his chair at the desk, where he began cleaning the pistols again. Mordecai glanced over his shoulder at his work.
"I do appreciate someone who believes in the cleanliness of their arms." He commented. "I did wonder…why two pistols?"
"Sixteen rounds are better than eight." Frost replied tersely as he swabbed a barrel with an oily patch.
"Indeed. The question however remains as to whether you utilize one at a time, or both weapons simultaneously."
"Depends." The hired gun answered, holding the now-clean barrel up to the ceiling and peering through it. "On how…hairy the mess I am in."
"Truly…" Heller said, cocking his head. "I find it far better to use only one pistol at a time. Attempting to operate two reduces accuracy and simply wastes ammunition." Frost slid the barrel into the slide, followed by the recoil spring and guide rod.
"That's your shortcoming. Not mine." He stated, finishing the reassembly of the pistol's slide and fitting back onto the frame.
"Hm."
"You come to talk guns…or to do me in?" Frost asked as he started reassembling the second pistol. "I don't appear to be holding…aces and eights." He took a short break to fish a picked egg from the jar with his grimy fingers and stuck it into his mouth whole. He chewed a few times and swallowed as Heller took a glance about at his apartment. It was mostly firearms and rot.
"Your living conditions are atrocious."
"Go to Hell."
"I actually came to discuss the details of last night." Mordecai responded. "As I understand it, you managed to wound two of the Lackadaisy's number, as well as disabling their car."
"That's what I said." Frost nodded. He completed the second pistol. "Hit the musician a couple of times. He was singing his swan song…before the girl jumped in got in my way. The boy got one in the arm. You know, when he was trying to make me look like a sieve." Mordecai nodded. "Their sedan…well it's missing a few things."
"Namely?"
"Oh…just tires, glass, lamps...left their radiator fluid behind. Along with a couple quarts of oil."
"It will take them some time to repair the damages." Heller thought out-loud.
"Yeah. Time and money." The gunfighter agreed. "Money they don't have. Don't think they're doing too well. Their little saloon was understocked. I heard them talking at the river. I think they're broke." He loaded his pistols and slipped them into the shoulder rig hanging on the back of the chair. "The car cost more than the stuff they got away with. Doctor bills too. Till I can get to them, this is at least economic attrition."
"You have a plan to deal with them?" Mordecai asked. "Mister Sweet wants them eliminated as quickly as possible."
"Working on it. Don't worry." Frost grumbled. "I'll be quick. Clean. Get them out of your way. That way Sweet can finish nabbing all the suppliers."
"What?"
"Heh. You think I'm ignorant. Cute. Mister Sweet wouldn't be so worried about a…ah…bunch of little kids stealing pennies from his pockets…unless he had a bottom line himself. Nah. I've done this before. Stripped the land bare…so a fella could…" He made the motion of scattering something on the floor. "…grow himself a garden patch. Sweet's a middle-man. Higher-ups on his back. Wanting this place. Don't know why. Don't give a damn. I do my job."
"And you do it well." Heller said, rethinking his strategy. "From what I glean, you quite well cleared out vast swaths of your employer's enemies in Chicago." The gunman said nothing. "I must be off. There are business matters I must attend to. I thought I would stop by this wretched excuse for a hovel to check in on you. Do you require anything while you are convalescing?" Frost sighed.
"More whiskey." He stated. "I would be obliged."
"It would be a negligible trouble." Heller replied. "I will have you a few bottles by tonight." Frost nodded a gratitude. "By the way, before I go, I was curious…Frost…is that your name, or a sobriquet borne of your egregiously outgoing personality?"
"It's Frost." Mordecai waited tensely for the answer. "Drake Frost."
"Drake…I would have envisioned you as more of a John…or at least an Alastair." Heller deadpanned.
"Maybe in another life." Frost shrugged. "Don't you have someplace to be?"
"Of course. You will have your whiskey tonight. Do stay off that leg."
…..
Mordecai stood next to the bridge support, just out of view of the small dirt road that ran underneath the overpass. An old truck pulled up, and he peeked out from around the stone pillar to see a familiar light-brown cat driving. He came out of hiding and walked to the truck, opening the passenger-side door and climbing in.
"Good afternoon, Miss May." He greeted coldly. She sniffed.
"Mister Heller." She replied just as tersely. He looked around the interior of the truck.
"Very…utilitarian vehicle you have."
"I would have brought the car…" Mitzi began in a sarcastic tone. "…you know, save that your lovely associate divested it of all usable parts." He started to speak. "Not to mention that he almost divested me of three of my people." She added, raising an eyebrow knowingly.
"Yes…I am aware." Heller muttered, adjusting his glasses out of habit.
"I'm sure you are." Mitzi said darkly. "And this little war your employer has started has I think…nearly reached the apex of its stupidity. Now, do you care to admit that it was in fact Asa who sent Mister Fisher to assassinate me and my people."
"Fisher?" Mordecai returned. "Is that the name he used?"
"Beside the point, but yes. He introduced himself as Edwin Fisher. That was right before he attempted to start a fight in my establishment, and only the day before he tried to shoot up those kids."
"Sorry." Mordecai said. "I did not mean to digress from the point of conversation. And yes, if I feigned ignorance of what happened, I would be remiss. But I was not the one who hired that gentleman. In fact, and for what it's worth, I attempted to caution Mister Sweet against employing an outsider. As per the usual, my protests fell on deaf ears."
"Who is he?" Mitzi asked. Heller hesitated. "You came all the way out here to meet with me, the least you can do is tell me who I'm up against, honey." The black and white cat huffed.
"That, I do not know. At least insofar. He utilizes pseudonyms so it seems, and he appears to be a mercenary from points unknown. A professional assassin of some acclaim on the dark stage of criminal proceedings."
"Oh…" Mitzi breathed. She batted her eyes in surprise.
"Yes…and before you concoct any ideas about you and your cadre of back-number lay abouts engaging in battle with him, you should know…"
"I'm listening."
"He vacated a warehouse full of gunmen in Chicago and murdered a prosecuting attorney before he came to Saint Louis." Mordecai described. "The latter in broad daylight. I also have it on good faith that he has been involved in several successful bank robberies, a handful of murders and at least two gang wars. I personally witnessed your Mister Fisher execute a police officer using a machine rifle two nights ago."
Mitzi tried to speak, but her throat felt like it was constricted. Her hands trembled, and she gripped the steering wheel tightly to keep Mordecai from noticing. This Fisher was no mere thug sent after them, no errand boy with a gun who would pop holes in the furniture and run off when shot at. The cat he described was something she'd only read about in the papers. A heavy hitter who worked for anyone with the bread to pay for his services. She knew they existed, but the fact that Asa had hired a cold-blooded killer like him to come after her sent a shiver down her spine.
"Then…what do you suggest I do?" She finally asked.
"You know what I would advise you to do." Mordecai said in a low voice.
"I'm not closing The Lackadaisy."
"You and I both know the inevitable end of this narrative should you make good on that declaration." Heller stated coldly. "It is not going to be you who is going to perish. He has orders to that effect, you are welcome." Mitzi narrowed her eyes hatefully at Mordecai. "But I have no doubt that he can and will obliterate everything and everyone you hold dear." Mitzi accidentally let a whimper of fear out, and Heller averted his eyes.
"Then I suggest…" She began in a voice that rippled with emotion, "…that you go ahead an' you pick what side you wanna be on. Because my dander's up, honey. And no…I'm not runnin' from this boogeyman that pompous ass done unleashed. You tell your lil' thug that he's welcome to drop on by…anytime he wants. We'll have ourselves a good old fashioned corpse and cartridge occasion." Mordecai was silent. He'd rarely seen her this fired up before, and it was always a fearsome sight. "And once that little bugbear's done and taken care of, I just may go with Colonel Colt by my side and plant a couple…ideas in Asa's empty head." Heller could see the hint of tears in her green eyes, and the way her hands were trembling. He reached for the door handle.
"We may not be friends anymore…" He offered, and shoved the truck's door open with a rusty groan. "…but I would not gain any enjoyment from seeing you attend another funeral." He climbed out of the truck and shut the door, then stood there, his left hand on the rim of the door, his eyes downcast. "Take care of yourself, Miss May."
"And you…Mister Heller."
It looks like Mordecai is playing detective, and uncovering some rather interesting things about Frost, poor Mitzi is almost at her wits' end, Frost is bitter and twisted as ever, and Rocky is...still Rocky. Gotta love him for that. I know this was a very dialogue-heavy chapter, and many of you aren't into that kind of thing If you're bored, don't worry. That's all I will say. I'll be back in a couple of day with the next chapter, so until then, fav and review, and drop me a PM if you'd like. Till our next installment, as always, so long and goodnight!