*In a 1920's radio voice* Greetings and salutations, dear readers! I'm back, and so is another chapter of the dark noir so many of you are growing to love...or hate. Hard to figure out to tell ya the truth. The comments section is deader than old Abe Lincoln! Haha. *regular voice, which still resounds with a distinct Mid-Atlantic accent* But seriously, here's the next instalment, and this one contains PTSD and Frost being creepy as Hell, so be warned. Enjoy, and remember, I don't own anything but my OC.
Drake sat up in bed to the sound of a freight train roaring past across the street from the boardinghouse. He had both pistols drawn before his eyes even adjusted, and let out a primal growl in the confines of the small room. A moment's time and he realized where he was and what had caused the racket. Another small growl escaped his lips, and he thumbed up the safeties on his pistols and holstered them. Light filtered through the white broadcloth curtains that covered the single small window of the room, and he checked his watch. It was 9am. The gunman's hands were trembling, and Frost swung his legs out of bed, still mentally de-escalating from his violent wake-up alarm. He reached down for the bottle of moonshine and found it, but when he brought it up, it was empty.
"Shit." He stated. Standing, Frost stumbled into the bathroom and caught himself on the sink basin mounted to the wall. A streaked mirror hung over the sink, and he glanced up at the reflection. His right ear twitched, followed by the left side of his mouth. The train continued to rumble past, the brakes shrieking as it slowed. Suddenly the squeal of the brakes changed into another sound, an ominous whistle, rising in pitch. Drake heard the shell explode, and he fell over himself and landed in the enameled bathtub. Another whistle, followed by another nearby explosion, and the emotionless killer jammed his hands against his ears.
"Gah...nghuhhh!" He screamed out. "Incoming...shit...they're...fuck!" The staccato sound of machine gun fire filled his head, and Drake flung himself out of the tub. He looked through the doorway at the room, the bed, his trunk, and the sounds faded. "Nuh...no..." He gasped, and low-crawled into the room, dragging himself across the hardwood floor by his claws. He ripped a bottle from his carpetbag, and threw the cork across the room. He turned it up with a shaking hand and drank half the bottle of whiskey in one fell swoop.
Though he rarely smoked anymore, Frost drew a Camel from a pack in the carpet bag, along with a brass lighter. He hauled himself up in front of the widow, threw open the curtains and slammed the windowpane open. He leaned out the second-floor window and lit the cigarette, blowing out a cloud of smoke. He sucked a mouthful in, and slowly let it out while breathing it into his nostrils, then expelling it all calmly. He could feel his heart rate slowing, and his hands were no longer trembling now. He nodded slowly as he stared down at the street below.
"Them Germans ain't comin'..." He sighed. "You killed 'em all...all of 'em..." He remembered that he had to call the Maribel, to inform his boss and his new partners where he was staying. Remembering his interactions with the gangsters the night before, he didn't look forward to this task, but a deal is a deal. He took a long drag from the cigarette and tossed it down to the sidewalk. His tail twitched, then again. He absentmindedly rubbed his left shoulder, and grimaced a little. "Damn wish I was killin' Germans again..." He muttered. Drake slammed the window shut and turned back into the room.
There was no telephone in his room, and Frost doubted that the profane landlord would allow him to use his own set, so after getting dressed (which consisted of changing into a clean white shirt with subtle grey pinstripes and donning the suit and coat he had drifted into town in, he locked his room and went down to his car. He drove to the Maribel Hotel, parked two blocks down, and walked to the office of his new employer. Without consulting the front desk, he took the elevator up to the top floor, and walked down the hall to the tall mahogany doors.
"Frost for Mister Sweet." He stated to the cat at the door, a different sentry than the one from the night before.
"The boss isn't in." The calico gangster replied. "Check back this evening, eh?"
"Oh. Frost." A familiar voice said lacklusterly from behind him. Heller. Drake turned to see his handler standing in the hall, his arms folded behind him as if he were trying to maintain at least a little professional decorum. "Yes...Mister Sweet keeps late hours, as you can imagine. He likes to oversee our...nocturnal activities." Drake raised an eyebrow.
"Mm. Most bosses I have worked for kept bankers' hours." He commented icily. Mordecai matched his upturned brow.
"Yes...well we do not operate banks. Or rob them." That last comment was obviously made as a personal jab, but Frost decided to let it go. Mostly.
"Too bad." He returned boredly. "More money to be made in heists than in books." The tuxedo cat narrowed his eyes momentarily.
"You know, a great person once said...a man with no education will steal from a railroad car. If you have a college degree, you can steal the whole railroad." He quoted.
"Yeah...I believe that was the same fella who found out that a bunch of pages full of flowery words were alot better at stopping a .32 caliber bullet."
"Hm." Heller sounded, wrinkling his nose a little. "So...what brings you here this morning?" Frost pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket with something scribbled on it. He handed it to Heller.
"Where I am lodging." He stated. Mordecai opened the paper and glanced at it.
"Ah yes...a slum." He commented. "I will be sure to wash my hands after I fetch you there." Drake smirked.
"Wear a bandana over your face." He said. "There's mold." Mordecai gave him the barest hint of an amused half-smile and a nod of the head.
"I was told to inform you that you will be taking a car ride with myself and the Savoy's tonight. We are to be meeting a potential new supplier."
"Then why do we need four triggermen?" Drake asked. He cocked his head. "Unless Mister Sweet is concerned that this potential ally may be a potential double-dealer...or worse."
"Precisely." Heller said in reply. "Which is why we are opening negotiations from a position of strength. If these new suppliers have any inclination to turn on our operation, having an idea of the consequences of that action will do much to...secure their loyalty."
"Sic vic pacem, para bellum." Frost muttered. Heller stared at him a moment.
"Yes." He mused curiously. "Now, until then, I recommend you familiarize yourself with this city, especially the waterfront areas and this particular neighborhood. Oh, before I forget..." He handed a small stack of 20's to Frost. "Your advance. I suggest you buy some clean clothes. You look like you pilfered a railroad car."
"Go to Hell." Drake stated.
"My point is, we have a healthy supply of stores, shops and restaurants. Get your bearings and come back at nightfall."
"The police..."
"The local police are inept. Half of them are Irish and precisely one-quarter are hayseeds. Most of them drink here, and the rest frequent our competitors. If you ask my opinion of their abilities, none of them could catch so much as a cold if they were standing in a snow-drift."
"Nightfall." Frost repeated stoically. "Now...is that eight PM or is that...civil twilight?"
"Do not...test me, Frost." Heller stated irritably. He had already gleaned some useful information about the newcomer from this meeting. Frost was an early riser, something odd in a hired gun. He also used the phrase 'Sic Vic Pacem, para Bellum', something Mordecai had instantly picked up on, and was rather strange coming from someone who professed to hate education. In a place and situation removed from the threat of danger, Frost had stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, his back straight and his hands folded over his belt buckle. And just now, he had used the term 'civil twilight' in his attempt to be facetious. He felt as though he had just moved his bishop into an advantageous position this early in the game.
"I will return tonight." Frost stated. He turned and started to walk away, then halted, as if he had just remembered something. He turned back to Mordecai. "Is the club downstairs open?"
"It never closes." Heller answered. He noticed the look on the hitman's face. It was almost a look of relief.
Drake slid behind the wheel of his car and sat the small wooden crate on the seat beside him. Without concern for being spotted, he opened the lid of the box and pulled out a pint bottle of whiskey. He bit the cork out and took a long drink. He then drew out his silver flask and refilled it from the bottle, not caring that the flask's contents were now a potluck of assorted liquids. He started the car and pulled out onto the road.
It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten since the day before, something that would have to be rectified if he were to be in passable condition for the night's work. He made a mental note to stop somewhere to fill his stomach, and to buy some groceries and supplies for his room to keep his going out in public to a minimum. When he spied an out-of-the-way restaurant that looked practically empty, he whipped his car over to the curb, got out and went into the eatery.
The place looked like a house had been converted to a small restaurant, and only had three tables in the dining room. It was a dimly lit joint, and that suited his needs just fine. Without waiting for a hostess or waiter, he simply took a seat at the table in the corner, sitting with his back to the wall, facing the door. A young female cat, wearing a floral-print dress spotted him from the back, and came over to his table with a notepad and a paper menu in hand.
"Hi mister. Welcome to the McCall's Family restaurant." She greeted cheerfully. She placed the menu in front of Drake, and he eyed it for only a few moments. "Here's what we have. You can take all the time you need to..."
"Hash." He stated in his emotionless gravelly tone. "Boiled cabbage. Biscuit." He handed the paper back to the young waitress. "And alot of coffee." She looked a bit confused, both by the customer's standoffish demeanor, as well as by his strange order, but she nevertheless carried on, writing it all down.
"Coming right up, sir." She said with a smile.
The plate was placed in front of Frost, and without hesitation, he simply used his fork and spoon to scoop large gobs of the hash and cabbage, often mixed together, into his mouth, barely chewing the food before swallowing. In half a minute, with the stunned young waitress watching, he had cleaned his plate. He ripped his biscuit in half and used it to sop up whatever grease and juiced remained on the plate before eating this too in only a few bites. Finished with the solids of his meal, Frost turned up his large cup of hot black coffee and chugged it down in a matter of seconds. Then he wiped his mouth on a napkin, stood, threw a five dollar bill onto the table, easily ten times what the meal was worth, and walked out.
Drake was starting to get into his car when he saw the clothing store across the street. He opened the drivers' side door, sighed, and slammed it. Looking down at his wrinkled, almost threadbare trousers, he decided that as much as he hated to admit it, Heller was right; it was about time to change the oil in his suit.
"Good day sir!" The well-dressed tabby greeted as Drake walked into the shop. The assassin glanced around at the stacks of shirts on displays, the suited mannequins, and the racks of shoes on the wall to the right. "Anything I can help a well-turned out gentleman such as yourself find today?"
"I need to buy a new suit…" Frost answered. "This one has become oily rags." The shop's owner, a middle-aged tailor, pursed his lips. He'd never had a customer refer to their clothing that way before.
"Oh...certainly sir. I have this lovely lounge suit over here..." He motioned toward an off-white linen suit on a nearby mannequin. Drake paid little attention. "Of course...you are one for more somber palettes, of course sir. I do have a brand new Brooks Brothers sack suit in a lightweight charcoal merino..."
"That one." Frost said, pointing to a dark grey three-piece with lighter grey pinstripes adorning a dummy in the corner. The owner narrowed his eyes a little. It was almost identical to the suit the customer was wearing now. He shrugged. Some people knew what they liked.
"That one is a...decent suit, sir...but it is more of an off-the rack sort of affair. It may be just a little baggy on your frame. If you'd like though, I can take your measurements and adjust it to..."
"No. It is fine." Drake countered. "How much?" The owner checked the tag.
"Oh, this one is a steal at thirty-five dollars." He immediately had two twenties leveled at him.
Frost threw his new suit into the backseat of the car, on top of the wool blanket concealing the small armory there. He spent the next two hours driving the small dirt roads near the river, filling up his car at a gas station, and driving the roads again. He finally turned back into town, and drove down an unfamiliar street. Spotting a market, he stopped again.
After buying a small gasoline stove, a coffee percolator, a few groceries and some assorted odds and ends, Drake continued to drive throughout the eastern side of Saint Louis. As he climbed a hill on the outskirts of town, there was an audible pop, followed by a loud hiss, and his car was engulfed in a cloud of white vapor. He crested the hill, popped the car into neutral, shut off the engine, and let the Ford sedan coast to the bottom of the hill. There he sat in silence for a few seconds. He had told that hick at the filling station to check his radiator. His lip twitched. He hated farmers so badly...
"Damn it." He announced, and stepped out of his car. He grabbed the side panel of the hood and lifted it, grunting and leaping back as a cloud of hot steam billowed forth. This was a bothersome course of events, and one he didn't appreciate very much. It would help if he were good with engines. He sighed. It would be good if he were good with anything except a gun...
He glanced up the road. A car was approaching. It looked like some jalopy. As it drew nearer, the driver blew the electric horn. Frost leaned against the driver's door, pretending to cross his arms. In fact, he slid his hands into his coat to rest his fingers on the grips of his Colt Governments. The Model T slowed, and Drake could now see that it was driven by a young girl, likely still in her teens. She stopped beside him on the road, and he quickly took in her appearance. She had brown fur and yellow eyes. Her dark brown hair was cut in one of those ridiculous flapper bobs. She was wearing a sweater and a tweed newsie cap.
"Um...you alright there mister?" The girl asked. "Looks like your car is a...little overheated."
"As is my temper." Frost added. The girl giggled.
"Oh...tell me about it. This old tin lizzy...seems like it wants to live in the garage, I mean, I do try to do some of the work myself, but then I get busy and have to get my friend to fix it, but I guess that's just the cost of having four wheels, right?"
"My car is broken." Drake stated. She gave him a funny look.
"Don't you know how to fix a radiator hose?" She asked. He blinked slowly.
"If I did, I wouldn't be sitting beside the road talking to somebody's little sister." Drake replied stoically. She giggled again.
"Wowee...you kind of remind me of my friend Viktor." She snickered. "I bet you're a real popular fella at parties, aren't you?" She could tell this businessman-looking guy was getting annoyed, and she let out a sigh. "Alright, I can help you fix it." She hopped out of the older car and grabbed some tools from behind the seat. "You're lucky I know how to handle just this situation."
"Oh really?" Frost asked, now trying to be less confrontational, but still not in the mood for small-talk.
"Yepper. I had to fix the radiator on my boss's car not to long ago." She explained. He watched as the young woman took off her hat and fanned some of the steam away so she could see what she was doing. She took a rag and opened the radiator cap. "Then again, I did kind of...sort of drive it through the fence, and me and my friends were um...uh...eheheh...in a really big hurry, so I improvised."
"You were out driving your friends around...in your boss's car." Frost clarified. "And you wrecked it. Did you get fired?"
"Hm?" The girl sounded, looking over from where she was trimming off the ruptured section of hose with a pocket knife. "Nope! I fixed it up good as new! Couldn't even tell it had a scratch on it." She grinned, far too wide for someone telling the truth, then she went back to work.
"Lovely." Drake muttered. He reached in the window, grabbed his bottle, and pulled it out. He took a long drink, which the girl saw.
"You...may wanna be more careful about doing that in public." She advised. She gave him a devious smile, with playful shifty eyes. "Don't want the fuzz to get ya. You know, da bulls. The coppers..."
"I know the coppers." He answered blandly and took another drink.
"Sooo...what do you do?" The girl asked as she worked. Drake leaned back against his car.
"I...I'm an accountant." He said. "I balance accounts."
"Pshh. That sounds like a crummy job. No offense." She commented, splicing the radiator hose with a section she had behind her seat.
"None taken." Drake replied.
"Well, if you want a more...private place to drink, I miiighht know of a joint." Frost's right eyebrow went up. As far as he knew, there were only two operations in town, Sweet's and his competitor.
"Do tell." He said. "I just got here. Last night. Don't know any…spots in town." He drained the bottle and waggled it. "Brought my own juice."
"Aaaaand done." She announced, and made a show of rubbing her hands together dramatically. "Just gotta top it off with some water, and you can drive it to the moon."
"Not going to the moon." Frost said. "I may drive it to this watering hole of yours." The teenager now had a jug of water and was pouring it into the radiator of Drake's car.
"Swell! I mean, I'd love to tell ya, but I have to be careful of who I let in, you know? We have to filter the clientele...make sure they're all on the up and up. Never know who's a rat...an undercover copper you know?" Frost blinked so slowly, it almost looked like a reptile.
"You read too many dime novels." He said in his monotone. "Do I look like a police officer?" She looked him up and down for a moment.
"Nnno, you like like a drunk accountant." She finally answered. "What's your name?"
"Fisher...Edwin A. Fisher." Frost stated. "From Sioux City...Iowa."
"Well, you're not the kinda guy who blabs everything he knows to every…what am I saying…" She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "You sound like you wouldn't tell a doctor which bone's broken." Frost didn't say a word. "You said you're new here. What do you know about this city so far?"
"I don't know anything about Saint Louis." He rumbled. "I don't know who the mayor is. I don't know what is at the end of this road. I know where I work. I know where I bought food. I know a little girl who works on cars. This city smells like somebody's wet fucking dog…" He looked up and stared at the sky. "I think it might rain tomorrow." The girl blinked a few times.
"Sheesh. Maybe you should lay off the giggle water there, Mister Fisher." She said. "Anyway, my name's Ivy. I work at the Little Daisy café." Drake's eyes slowly moved from the clouds to the girl's face. Little Daisy…Lackadaisy. Sometimes, life is funny.
"You work in a café that serves alcoholic drinks…"
"Nonono…" Ivy explained. "There's The Little Daisy, then we also have a club somewhere…close by. It's a reeeaaal nice place. We have a swing band and everything." She smiled. "Would you like to come by?" Frost cocked his head slowly, as if he were contemplating the question.
"Perhaps I will." He replied.
"Swell!" Ivy chirped. "I mean…you can come by The Little Daisy this evening and Miss…er…my boss can talk to you and see if you can join."
"I have work this evening." Drake replied flatly. "I will come by tomorrow evening. What time?"
"Six?"
"I will come by The Little Daisy at six PM tomorrow and speak to your boss. Maybe I can join your club. Maybe I can drink somewhere the…coppers…won't harass me."
"Great!" Ivy said cheerfully. Frost walked to the open hood of his car and looked at the patched radiator hose.
"Thank you for tinkering my car, Miss Ivy." He said. "I will pay you for your assistance."
"Oh no, that's not necessary." She replied, climbing into her own vehicle. "Glad to be of help." She shut the door and started the engine. "I'll see you tomorrow then! You be careful with that coffin varnish now, Mister Fisher." Frost raised his hand limply in a parting wave as she drove away, then he closed his hood and went back to the driver's side door. He tossed his now-empty bottle onto the seat and slid in behind the wheel. By the time he'd started the car, his mind was already forming a strategy of how to deal with Sweet's rival. He would let Ivy live…unless she did something stupid.
Was that or was that not one of the most nerve-wracking interaction there? I know some of you were terrified for poor Ivy. Now it's even worse, as Frost has just been invited to The Lackadaisy. I mean, one of my beta-readers said this guy reminded them of Anton Chigurh from "No Country for Old Men, whilst it has also been postulated (fairly accurately) that he probably speaks like Tom Hardy's gravelly, almost nonlexic Max in "Fury Road" or Christopher Walken's character Hickey in "Last Man Standing" (In actuality, a reference I used for Frost's model). I attempted to get an artwork of Frost up as the cover art, but I'm not sure if it loaded properly. Could be a problem with the file size, or my PC misbehaving. Let me know if you can see it or not. I will try to have the next chapter up in a few days, give or take. I have a good deal of filming to do for YouTube (Doctor Drake's Exhibition of the Bizarre, if you want to look it up), and I'll try to remain as loyal to me readers here as I am to my subs there. Until then, so long and goodnight!