Frost awoke and stared blankly at the ceiling for a few minutes. His hand flopped down beside the bed, to the bottle there, and he turned it up and drank a couple swallows of Canadian whiskey as he did every morning. Climbing out of bed and testing his injured leg by slowly putting weight on it, the gunfighter grunted, satisfied that it was healing decently. He checked the chambers of his 1911's religiously before putting on a pot of coffee and washed his face in the bathroom sink. As he stared at his reflection in the mirror afterwards, he began to think.

Taking down Lackadaisy might not be so difficult if he took his time. The unprofessional ones, the chaotic and desperate types, those were always the hardest ones to deal with. Professionals, especially in the bootlegging game were predictable. They always kept the same hours, used the same locations and vehicles, and frequented the same places. You could track them, learn their ways and ambush them easily. Just by watching them for a week, one could just about predict what they were going to do, when and where they were going to do it, and who they were going to do it with. Not so with amateurs and those on their last legs.

Still, he had plenty to go on. Frost knew where the speakeasy was and how to get inside. He knew the business May used as a front. He had now met at least five of their gang. Five if you didn't count the layabout band from their little gin joint. If there were more deliverymen, shooters or enforcers in The Lackadaisy crew, he hadn't yet seen them. The thought that the handful of clumsy and almost buffoonish gangsters was the totality of their crew had crossed his mind. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made, but the less sensical all of this seemed to be.

The Lackadaisy seemed to be near to breathing its last. Most high-level organizations Frost had worked for in the past only focused on real competition, the ones fighting for control of a city, multi-million dollar suppliers and fleets of vehicles. What could Lackadaisy be costing Sweet in losses? A hundred a week? In Chicago, New York…even Cleveland, a small-time bootlegging outfit like Lackadaisy wouldn't even be on the radar. Maybe at best they'd be a minor club to be negotiated with for a few extra dimes, at the worst as an insignificant bunch of idiots to be left alone to get rounded up in a raid or driven to rot on the vine. Then it had to be personal. But what could Mitzi May and her mob done to Sweet to piss him off so badly? Or what were they attracting?

That was it, he meditated. It wasn't that the people from Lackadaisy were any real threat to Sweet's operation, it was that they were obviously attracting the notice of someone in power. Probably the fucking screws in the treasury department. Sweet was trying to keep his business proceedings swept under the rug, no doubt to establish some kind of liquor-route supremacy over the St. Louis area at the behest of his superiors. A nexus of incoming booze. That would explain the liquor in the Marigold Room, where they boasted Jamaican rum, tequila from Mexico, Irish whiskey, and moonshine from New Orleans and Eastern Kentucky. These people were threatening all of that by having the revenuers investigating the city. No doubt Sweet's bosses were on his back, wires hot with messages to get rid of the small-time hoods or it would be his head on a fucking pike.

Frost sighed and turned back to his room. He sat on the bed and stared at the coffeepot, waiting on it to boil. He needed to eat if he were to regain strength and heal properly. That's what the doctors had said back in France when he'd taken a kraut bullet to the shoulder. Frost dug around in his tin of pilot bread and pulled out two of the hard palm-sized crackers. He grabbed the hunk of salt pork he'd purchased and carved a quarter-inch slab from it and sandwiched it between the two pieces of hard bread. He took a bite, chomping down on the solid bread and tough meat with the voracity of a bear trap. The coffeepot made gurgling, bubbling sounds, and he chewed on the mass of dry, salty food as he watched it. Finally, chawing away on his second bite, Frost poured a cup of coffee, threw in a handful of sugar and a dollop of whiskey and took a long drink, washing the hardtack and pork down.

Frost knew he had to put his plan into motion and quickly. Once you have the enemy routed, you have to keep pursuing and hitting him, or else he just might turn around and shoot back. The gunman finished his meager breakfast, grabbed some money from his bag, tied his bowtie and threw on his coat and hat. He hobbled down the stairs and out the door of the boarding house. He made a low grunt. Heller and the Savoy's were far too familiar with his current abode now. He would have to fix that. Fortunately, it factored into his plans.

He drove to the neighborhood of the rival speakeasy, and even ventured so far as to travel past the Little Daisy Café twice as he studied the buildings in the vicinity. Finally, he spotted what looked like his best bet: a large six-story structure across the street and a door down. It looked to be a mercantile and hardware store, and Frost had no doubt that like most of the businesses in these downtown areas, the top floors had rooms to let.

He drove down the side street and into the alley behind the imposing building, so as not to be spotted by his targets. He entered through a back entrance, and found himself in a large space filled with lumber, barrels of nails and stacks of shingles. He moved through the rows of building supplies, coming to the more orderly front of the building, where shelves of plumbing parts and tools reigned. He finally came to a long counter at the front of the store, where an older cat with broad shoulders and graying hair was just finishing a transaction. He smiled as Frost stepped up.

"Mornin' sir." The clerk greeting with a slight Irish brogue. "What can I 'elp you with today?"

"I was told that this place had rooms for rent." Frost stated. "By the week."

"Aye. There's a couple a' vacant flats up there." The clerk nodded, thrusting his thumb toward the ceiling. "You live around here?"

"No." The gunman answered. "Just in town. Just today. I'm a salesman…just in Saint Louis for a couple of weeks. Need a small room, something that doesn't cost too much."

"Sure. You'll wanna speak with Archie. He's the one who manages this buildin'. I can get 'im on the line for ya if you'd like." Drake nodded.

"One more thing." He added. "This city. It seems a little…rough. Lot of…miscreants out there. I was thinking about purchasing a firearm."

"Of course, a fella travelin' around makin' sales, I'm sure ya carry money on ya. This town can be a wee bit dangerous. We 'ave a few quality firearms we carry, would ya like to see them?"

"I'd be obliged." Frost replied. The clerk led him to another counter, this one a glass display case which housed a small selection of handguns.

"Have it in mind what yer lookin' for?" The older cat asked. Drake pointed at something in the case.

"That little one there. That Iver Johnson. The one with the short barrel. That would be a good pistol to keep in my pocket." The clerk sat the revolver on the counter. "Think I want something bigger, too. Something for my car. That Colt there. Is that a .45?"

"Ya know yer guns. Aye. It's a 1917, uses .45 auto on the clips."

"Guess I'll take both of them." Frost declared. "Need a couple boxes of shells for the peashooter too. Box for the .45 and some of the clips." The clerk promptly filled his order. Drake handed the shopkeep a 20 dollar bill and told him to keep the change. He waited while the building's manager was called and after some discussion, with the old clerk being the middle man, Frost paid 15 dollars in advance for a room on the fourth floor overlooking the street. He rented the apartment for two weeks.

"Alrighty sir. Just need yer name now." The clerk said, digging a pen out of a pocket on his apron and fishing out a small notepad. Frost thought of his conversation with Heller the day before. The shifty bastard was onto him, and he knew it. Frost had to use a name he had never used, and almost smirked at the irony when he drew from one of the highfalutin cat's own smart remarks.

"John…John Alastair." He stated. The other cat wrote this down.

"Right. Alright…you're good to go. Ah yeah, lemme get you the key." Frost watched him go to a drawer behind the first counter and rummage around, finally pulling out a key on a stamped brass fob. He returned and handed the key off. "Rooms up there. I'm sure ye can find it. Oh, and enjoy your purchase. Don't ya go robbin' no banks now." He let out a laugh.

"I certainly won't do that now." Frost agreed.

The room was a modest apartment, about twelve by sixteen feet, with a washroom and toilet off to the side. The bed didn't have a mattress on it, but this was of no concern to the stoical gunfighter. He walked to the window overlooking the street and parted the white curtains just a bit with his right hand, just enough to peer out. He looked down across the street at the café. This would be a good vantage point by which to watch their comings and goings. It would also make a good place to lay low should something go south between himself and his employers. It wouldn't be the first time he'd kept several residences at once.

His cover of being a salesman would more than explain his coming and going at odd hours, and was a mask he'd worn several times before. The place was almost perfect for his strategy. Now all he had to do was stock it. This took a trip to a local market, where he bought some tinned meats, pilot bread and pickled eggs, and a visit to a pawnbroker, where he was able to purchase a used double-barreled shotgun for 10 dollars.

He drove back to his apartment and promptly loaded his trunk with most of his weaponry there. Frost planned on leaving some things behind for his protection, namely his new double-barrel, the .32 Iver Johnson revolver and the Colt 1917. All of his cooking equipment could remain here as well, rendering him able to live perfectly well at both residences. The rest would go to his new room above the hardware store. At least for the time being.

He took his trunk, with his Dunrite bulletproof vest packed inside, along with the groceries he had purchased to the new address, and used the elevator to get the heavy box up to the fourth floor. With everything he needed to operate out of the room in place, he felt a little better about his situation. Save that now, his leg was throbbing from the exertion of the day. He checked his watch. It was now 2pm. He dragged a chair from the small dining table of the apartment to the window, and sat down, propping his injured leg upon the bedframe as he sat looking out the window. He took a drink from his flask as he watched the people coming and going on the street below, focusing most of his attention on the Little Daisy Café.

At a little after 3, he saw someone leave the building. It was a skinny orange cat wearing a red vest and pants, with a matching fedora. Frost remembered seeing this one on the stage in the speakeasy. He was likely in the club's band. Now Mitzi came out, and the two seemed to be sharing an intense conversation about something, judging by how May was gesturing and the way the musician kept shrugging and slumping his shoulders. The cat in red gave a dismissive wave and lit a cigarette before walking away, up the street. Mitzi stood there for some time, watching him depart, looking crestfallen. She finally turned and went back into her business. Frost cocked his head.

...

"Zib…honey, just listen to me." Mitzi said defensively as she followed Zibowski up the stairs of the speakeasy.

"Assassins…losing suppliers…I think I listened enough. I'm gonna blow for a few hours. Figure all this out." The orange cat muttered.

"Everything's gonna be alright…we jus have to…" He turned around and huffed.

"Yeah…we just have to get blown down by somebody's goon squad…" Zib interjected. "Or sit here and waste away to nothin'. Face the facts, Mary. We're already behind the eight-ball. This little song and dance is about to get us real broke and reeaaal dead. Hell…I can do that to myself…on my own." He turned back and peeked through the small hole in the secret entrance/exit before opening the door hidden behind the shelf in the shop.

"You can't be serious though…Zib…" Mitzi called, following him into the small restaurant. Ivy stood behind the counter, watching the exchange. "After all we've been through…after all the work we've put into this place…"

"Last I checked, you're the one that put all the work into it. We were all just along for the ride. C'mon Mitz…it's more than just about losin' the place. Think about them kids, and what could happen to them. And Sy and JJ…Viktor…all of us if you keep this up. Big price to pay for wantin' to be the big cheese."

"I'm not…" Mitzi squeaked. She sniffed. "Ugh. I'm not trying to be the big cheese. I'm trying to hold onto what's mine. Mine and yours and Viktor's. Ivy over there…everybody's got a stake in this place succeedin'."

"Naw." Zib returned. "You got a stake in it. At least in holding onto those memories. And that's all it's about. The rest of us…we just work here." With that, he pushed open the door and walked out onto the sidewalk.

"Goddamnit, Zib!" Mitzi growled, charging out of the café after him. "You quitting? Is that what you're tryin' to say, cause if it is, you'd might as well spit it out!" He spun around and shrugged.

"What do you think I've been trying to talk you into doing for a year now?" He returned.

"I can't just give up on everything! I thought we was all a family…"

"Family watches out for each other." Zib pointed out, his voice dipped to a nihilistic drawl. "They don't let their poor, mixed-up kid eat a couple of slugs, then brush it off like a skinned knee." He sighed. "Opportunism doesn't look good on you, Mary. Never did. I'll be back tonight sometime." Mitzi watched him walk away, then turned back into the Little Daisy.

"Is everything okay?" Ivy asked in a nervous tone. She absentmindedly tugged at the hem of her yellow dress. Mitzi wiped her eyes.

"Yeah…yeah, it's all okay honey." She lied, putting on her best face. "Zib's just a bit on edge over everything going on around here right now. Can't say I blame him too much, honestly. You step in something like this, you can end up tracking it everywhere you go."

"You mean that scary killer guy." The teenager said. The older cat scoffed and shook her head.

"Yeah, I mean that big old scary killer guy." She replied. "Kinda surprised you were willing to work today, what with that dime store John Wesley Hardin stalkin' about."

"I'm not that scared…" Ivy explained. "I mean yeah, it's a little scary, but what's really peculiar is that I don't think he wants to hurt me."

"What do you mean?" Mitzi asked curiously.

"Well when we were getting shot at, he called out to me and told me to walk away and let him have Rocky and Freckle." Ivy said, relating her part in the incident. "Then when he was getting ready to shoot Rocky, and I jumped in front of him, Mister Fisher froze like a statue. He told me to move, and I wouldn't. He acted like he didn't want to hurt me."

"Now that's interesting…"

"Yeah. Maybe it's because helped him fix his car." Ivy postulated. "Or because I'm a girl…"

"Some of these professional killers have a code…or so I read." Mitzi sighed. "Hell, some of them's probably got more morals than people like us do. This guy's a stone-cold killer, but that might be a blessing in disguise. They usually don't hurt innocent people…and they generally don't like to make a big scene." She started for the hidden door.

"B…but what happened at that pickup…that was a pretty big scene." Ivy countered. Mitzi scoffed again and looked back over her shoulder.

"Be glad you was in the middle of nowhere." She stated. "If you all was in a crowd, poor Rocky wouldn't have seen it coming."

Mitzi entered the speakeasy and just stood there at the entrance, gazing longingly at the cavernous room. All of this, from the crystal chandeliers to the stage, down to the doilies on the tables had been a labor of love. She and Atlas had built this place from the ground up. A legacy. An empire. It had taken her somewhere, out of squalor, out of mediocrity. It had given her a life she adored, and in turn she had given a living and a home to those she cared about. She couldn't just abandon it like a rat on a sinking ship. No, if this ship went down, she would be at the helm.

"Oh. Miss M." Viktor said, coming in through the service tunnel at the back, no doubt from the hatch leading to the alley above. "Did not know you were here. I was yust fixing on truck."

"Hello Viktor…" She greeted. Mitzi walked to a table and plopped down in one of the chairs. "Care to sit with me a while…before we open? I could use some friendly company right now." The big cat let out a small sigh. He could see the troubled look on her face.

"Sure. Let me get drinks."

...

Frost thought about the exchange he had witnessed from his perch high up in the building across the street. Was the owner of the speakeasy arguing with her band about their current situation? Was the musician trying to resign in fear? He could use this. In a well-thought-out ploy to hopefully strike fear into the rival gang, Frost took a magazine from his valise, and popped out four cartridges into his palm. He pulled his stiletto knife and began to work.

As the city grew dark, Frost finally left the apartment. He took his car around the block from the Little Daisy Café, parked it and got out, slipping through a narrow alley and working his way to the alleyway behind the speakeasy. He found the rear of the building, where an open garage revealed a truck, likely what The Lackadaisy crew used for deliveries, parked inside. Frost cautiously approached, making sure the coast was clear. He just needed a couple of minutes, and he would be done.

"So you think we're in a tight spot we can't wiggle ourselves out of too, huh?" Mitzi sighed, finishing her third drink. "Am I the only one 'round here with a modicum of optimism?"

"Optimism not good shield against bullet." The Slavic bartended replied. "You want my opinion? Either close club and move…somewhere away far…like Tahiti…"

"Or?" Mitzi fished. Viktor sighed.

"Or find way to blow head off assassin first." He stated. "Do to them what they want to do to you. But we no have the guns or the people to do that. Think of Tahiti."

"I'm not packing up the club and going to Tahiti." Mitzi said defiantly. "We need to have a meeting tonight and figure out what we can do." Viktor nodded.

"Fine. I go lock up garage. Then I get ready for customers…what customers we have left." With that, he stood and walked away, back into the tunnel at the back of the cave. She stood and straightened her red dress, and started making sure everything on the tables was perfect for the night. A few minutes later, Viktor returned, a deep scowl etched onto his face. He was holding something in his right fist. "Now I kill assassin myself…I just fixed that truck…" He growled.

"Viktor…honey, what's wrong?" Mitzi asked in a hushed tone. He slammed something down on the table she was standing by.

"All four tires…flat!" He roared. "Fuel tank has hole. It is pissing out gasoline like no tomorrow. And I find THIS!" he removed his hand to reveal four pistol cartridges laying on the table. Mitzi picked one up. Something was engraved on it, carved roughly into the brass casing. She squinted in the dim red glow of the club's lights. It read 'Freckle'.

"What the Hell?" She remarked, her voice shaking a little. She picked up the next one. This one had 'Viktor' carved into it. The next was emblazoned with 'Rocky'. She picked up the fourth and final bullet and turned it over in her palm. Sure enough, she saw her own name carved into the round. "A…bullet with my name on it…" She breathed, trying to sound anything but terrified. "Well now…that's a clear-cut message if I ever did see one…"

Frost entered his room in the boarding house and switched on the light. He'd brought his Thompson out of the car to make up for his lack of better armament in the room. He sat the weapon up against the head of the bed and took off his coat. It had been a productive day, and he hoped that his message to the struggling band of rumrunners would be loud and clear. Maybe they would leave town now, and disappear into the depths of obscurity. Maybe then he wouldn't have to do anything more than to report that they were gone, collect a little money and blow out of town. Maybe. He scoffed. Unlikely. He grabbed a piece of hard bread from its tin and munched on it, washing it down with a cup of cold coffee.

"Rocky?" Mitzi called softly, opening the door to the small room that had been converted into a makeshift recovery ward for the injured musician. She found him sitting up slightly in bed, irritably trying to turn the page of a book with one hand. He looked over and grinned.

"Oh. Hi Miss M." He greeted. "I'd stand up to engage in a proper greeting for your ladyship, but my poor tattered remains will not allow it, alas." She giggled a little at his overly-dramatic antics and walked into the room.

"Is everything alright here?" She asked. "Do you need anything?"

"Pancakes?" He asked sincerely.

"Honey, it's 8:30 at night. Where am I supposed to get pancakes?" She answered.

"Oh…" Rocky sighed sadly. "Well another glass of water will do." She nodded. "Everything okay, Miss M? You seem…lost in your thoughts?" Mitzi sighed and sat down on the edge of his bed.

"Rocky…" She began softly. "You know how dangerous this life can be…"

"Yes'm." He nodded eagerly. "And far more invigorating than any other occupation I've had."

"So you aren't troubled by the thought that every time you go out, you might not ever come back?" She asked. His expression fell a bit.

"I mean…of course." He answered. "But that's…sort of what makes it so thrilling…you know, having to be on my toes all the time." He let out a low laugh. "Though this time, I'm afraid I zigged when I very well should have zagged."

"Honey…"

"I know, I know…" He muttered. "Truth be, Miss M…I do have a fear. Not for myself, you know. But I don't wanna let you down. Never-ever, not in a thousand years. Hell, I would rather faceplant into a thousand needles than to let something happen to you or this place." He rubbed his injured arm softly, staring at the bedsheets. "Sorry I didn't nab all that intoxicating treasure and almost got murderlated there. I've messed up a lot of things, but this isn't gonna be one of 'em." Mitzi gave a sad smile and sighed. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Honey, things are a little perilous right now." She said. "I'll admit that…what with the damned mercenary Asa hired skulking around…but we're gonna get through it and everything's gonna be fine." She paused and looked away. "You think…it's gonna be alright, Rocky?" He glanced back over and a small smirk crossed his face.

"Miss M…I know things are gonna be aces." He replied. She smiled and pat his back.

"That's what I like to hear, honey. And as for letting me down, you couldn't if you tried. You're one of the best things that's ever happened to this place. And to me, personally. I'm just worried about you. And everyone else here." She rolled her eyes. "As much as I love this place, if something were to happen to you all, I'd be lost without you. So you just focus on getting better, and we'll deal with this thug."

"You bet." Rocky said. "I'm feeling better already."

"Think you can attend a little meeting?" She inquired. "Amongst all of us? I want to discuss how we're gonna handle this situation."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world!" Rocky grinned. "Ow…just one teensy, tiny thing might make me feel better though." Mitzi rolled her eyes again.

"And what might that be?" She asked knowingly. He gave her an overexaggerated pouty face.

"Pancakes?"

It appears that everyone is plotting and planning. And Frost has essentially fired a shot over their bow twice now. Even worse, it appears that the tenacious triggermen has practically gone rogue, and it operating with little oversight from Sweet and Mordecai. Don't worry, I'm...I'm sure it'll all be fiiiiine. Tune in next time, loyal readers.