Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Nine: Lenny

10:06 AM, July 20th, 1899

Lenny kept his intentionally oversized hat covering his face as he entered Saint Denis. He figured they weren't looking for him; the Pinkertons were en route but shouldn't have arrived yet, at least he prayed to dear God not, and he doubted Bronte's confederacy or the police knew about him. Even if they knew about some of the members of the Dutch Van der Linde gang, Lenny was a recent inclusion and probably hadn't amassed enough of a reputation to formulate a clear, universal appearance (some folks from the Blackwater Massacre had sworn he was white, others that he was Mexican). Plus, he didn't have any distinguishing features, like John's scars or Dutch's facial hair and suit (It was why Arthur usually wasn't noticed, no matter how many folks he ran into; he always changed his beard, clothing, and even his weight—made it hard for people to recognize him). Even so, he still kept his gaze down as he rode in along the steaming concrete streets of Saint Denis. He hitched Maggie, his Mustang, in the stables so she, and more importantly the precious brown leather briefcase she carried, wouldn't be swindled by some pickpocket or common thief.

He spent the next few hours dawdling around the city, making sure to stay away from the police, who were rattled and tired, not one having been allowed to sleep since the embarrassment of Micah and John's escape. He started with the saloons first, finding an Irishman in a flat cap who used to work as a hitman for Bronte before losing his nerve. Next, he tried the whorehouse—he didn't have the money to interview each girl one on one, so just said that whoever enlightened him the most would receive ten dollars; he made sure to write down what every one of them said. In the end, he paid a redheaded girl with a French accent who had told him about a certain buck-toothed Italian; she'd then offered herself for another ten bucks, prompting Lenny to bolt out of there as fast as he could.

Thereafter, he'd heard about thieving rascals from the annoyed trapper (he'd lost a Coyote Mountain Hat he'd fashioned to those young, grubby hands) and tricked one into following him down a dark alley, where he jumped the kid, an eight-year-old boy, before threatening him for some information. After a whole day of investigations, Lenny was ready. He went back to the stables, collecting that brown leather bag and opening its contents, revealing Trelawny's black and white Whittemore suit. It hadn't been easy or morally comforting to get the man drunk and slip his pants off last night, but hey, he needed a fancy suit and Trelawny didn't (he was going to Van Horn, for God's sake). He slipped on the shiny wingtip gaiters and the ebony pants before applying the white French dress shirt, blue vest, and midnight-shaded coat.

He'd thought the vesture would be far too baggy, but the outfit fit like a glove. He strolled uptown, passing stores of all kinds, keeping his head down as he walked by Bastille Saloon, hoping the redheaded Frenchwoman didn't see him.

The house was magnificent, even better than Bronte's. Every light was on (even though it was only six o'clock and there was more than enough light provided by the sun) making it glow like a star. He glanced over to see Mayor Lemieux's mansion in all its brilliance; it was way nicer than the photos boasted of it. Three stories connected the perfectly tailored grass and garden (most of the plants were so strangely colored and shaped Lenny suspected they weren't American. Matches with the mayor and his staff) with the patterned dormer protruding from the roof. The first two floors (like Braithwaite Manor) were bedecked with pillars holding the tall, fat house upright and the balcony and front porch were mirrored in an identical circular shape, making the house look like it bore two sly grins stretching across its base. The banisters on the second and third floors were also finished with beautiful acorn-shaped knobs. And on that final balcony stood a dark figure with a sniper rifle.

Here came the hard part. Lenny fell silent, cursing his heart which pounded like a drum. Babum, babum. Babum, babum.

"Hey! Who the fuck are you!" the guard called, finally noticing him. Even from the substantial distance between them, Lenny could hear the gun click, begging to be fired.

Lenny cleared his throat which was hoarse with pale-yellow fear. "That information is a liiiiitle out of your pay grade, my friend!" Lenny said, trying his best to sound confident. I've got a suit. I'm a gentleman. I'm better than this clown. If he so much as sneezes in my direction, I cut him up and feed him to the gators. Scratch that. I pay someone to cut him up and feed him to gators. "I got an appointment with the mayor if you don't mind."

The guard got a nice look at Lenny's suit now, and while he was wary of any black man in a fifty-dollar suit, especially with all the shit that had gone down a few nights ago (seriously, Lenny thought, what the hell were they thinking? Shooting cops, breaking into churches, killing mob bosses, hijacking fuckin' trains?! Whole goddamn country probably had their eyes on 'em now) yet still let his gun go slack, and Lenny kept on his trek to the front door. A spell of panic enshrouded him for a moment, the urge to run had never been stronger. What if he was wrong? If this bluff didn't work, the mayor had guards—he'd be caught and tortured, then he'd spill his guts about Shady Belle and every last one of the gang would die. Maybe I should just go back? I ain't no good to anyone dead. His footsteps grew shorter, less sure. They began to shift like he had two right feet, spinning him back around where he came from…

Resolve gripped him then and he kept going, shaking the evil visions away. No! he thought. Not again! Bill might be right. I ain't no gunslinger, but I gotta be good for something. No more hiding. He reached the short but wide steps of the circular porch; the first jaws of the house. Arthur took a goddamn bullet to the chest and kept on bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders, and where was I? Reading. Sitting in my black ass at camp, reading. Thinking I was so smart like I was some kinda house nigger. Hell, I was so good at thinking I didn't even need to come up with ideas, I just needed to stay at camp, doing nothing, letting Arthur do something, cuz he's a workhorse and I'm a thinker. He brought his hand to the threshold, delivering a thunderous knock, one impossible to ignore. Never fucking again.

Shockingly, a French servant opened the door, feigning a polite smile in unbearable agony.

"You don't need to knock so loudly," he spoke, the accent exceptionally prevalent. "How can I help you?"

"Hello, sir," Lenny started, forging his own polite smile, "I'm here with the American Temperance Society, and I'm very interested in talking to the mayor about his policies surrounding the liquid vice."

"He's busy," the manservant said without missing a beat. Lenny wondered how many guys like him came around, asking to meet with the mayor. He took out a booklet and scanned the pages as he spoke. "Come back in, shall we say…" he fizzled off, flipping the pages, "oh. Shoot. We're fully booked. I'm so sorry."

Lenny kept his smile up as the slave with a salary put his booklet (which they both knew was completely blank) away. "Town Hall is down at Harris Square if you want to talk to someone there. I'm sure you'll find someone of authority there who has the time to hear out your noble goals. Perhaps we could have this discussion at a later date. The mayor is very sympathetic to your views…" he said, already closing the door. Lenny shoved his foot just a hair over the frame, hitting the bottom rail and stopping the door from shutting.

" Actually, I have an appointment with the mayor right now," Lenny said, keeping his grin, but adding an edge to it, letting the man know he was getting in one way or another. The servant simply scoffed in reply.

"You have an appointment at six twenty-five? I very much doubt that, you see, the mayor always schedules a half hour at six-thirty for… uh, some time with his family, and I promise, he wouldn't make an appointment this close to that very special fragment of time." He shot Lenny a smug smile before continuing, "So, you understand, you don't have an appointment with him, thank you. Goodbye." He kicked Lenny's toe out of the way, and fully shut the door—at least he would have if Lenny didn't bring both hands out, holding the door ever so slightly ajar. He looked to the servant through the small crack in the doorway bridging them together. "Oh, so the mayor isn't currently in a meeting with someone else? Thank you, you've been very accommodating."

Then he shoved all his weight against the door, knocking the annoying servant aside and completely opening the portal to this new world. It was truly something; Lenny was almost blinded by how much white there was. Checkered white tiles made up the floor, a white spilt staircase led to the second floor, and more white pillars holding those stairs up—white must be real chic. He walked deeper past the archway under the staircase, giving a flabbergasted maid a courteous bow on the way.

"Get out!" the Frenchman yelled, all pretenses lost. "Get out of here right now! You are not worthy to step foot in here, you dirty piece of scum!"

"You don't have very friendly help here, Mr. Lemieux!" Lenny shouted hearing some utterance in response (probably something like who the hell's that?) up the stairs on his right. He saw some guards pouring in from the backyard and hastened his pace up the stairwell, spotting the mayor through a partially opened (white) door and entered.

The mayor looked just as scummy as Lenny imagined: he was balding, yet still gelled his hair to the right, he wore oval glasses that made it look like he was perpetually disinterested, and he sported gray sideburns that had grown into mutton chops, looking like devil horns that budded from his chin instead of his head. Next to him stood a human twig of a man, probably his assistant, his wide eyes bouncing from the mayor to Lenny like a frightened cat.

"Who the hell are you?" Mayor Lemieux asked calmly, the polar opposite of his jittery companion. "I will not have any more appointments right now, I have… some family matters to bang out." He grumbled the next part: "Family matters I've been waiting all day for."

"This won't take a moment," Lenny said, locking the door just as security reached him, blocking them out in the nick of time. The door quaked with a harsh boom… boom!

"Mister mayor, we're being held hostage!" the whiny assistant squealed.

"Quiet up, Jean-Marc," the mayor said, his voice revealing the same level of emotion as his oval-shaped glasses. "What do you want, boy?"

"Oh, it ain't what I want sir, not at all," Lenny started quickly, taking a seat. Boom… boom! Door was practically off its hinges now. "It's what you want. From what I've gathered, you want a town where Angelo Bronte's guys aren't breathing down your neck, extorting you to contribute to his criminal proceedings via intimidation, manipulation, and all the other '-ations'. Can't exactly build a better town when the roots of every problem you got seem to be stemming from one abominable parasite."

Even through the mayor's oval glasses, Lenny could tell he had his attention. "My boys," he continued, talking as fast as he could (boom… boom!), "we got you halfway there, we got Bronte. I can prove this by telling you something your average citizen wouldn't know: the man Guido told the police chief, and by extension, you, who killed Bronte was Dutch Van der Linde, a white man with a Zappa haircut, red, white, and black suit, and a white horse. That check out?"

"P-possibly," the mayor stuttered, at a loss for the opportunity standing before him. Finally, that sturdy white door gave out and Lemieux's guards rushed in, taking Lenny at gunpoint from all sides. Don't matter. I got the fish on the hook.

"Mister mayor, I am truly sorry," the French servant began. "I'll get this filth out of here no—"

"Oh, that's not necessary, Pierre," Lemieux answered before turning to his goons. "Stand down boys, he has an appointment," —he turned back to Pierre—"Regrettably, I'll have to push those family concerns back a bit. Tell her to wait an hour?"

"Mais—" Pierre tried.

"Partir!" the mayor ordered. Reluctantly, the crowd dissipated and the company of three returned. "Sorry about that. Can't be too careful nowadays. You heard about last night?"

"Oh yessir. They gonna be writing books 'bout that night."

Lemieux chuckled, taking off his oval glasses and wiping them with a white handkerchief. "Your boys, weren't they?"

For the first time, Lenny's smile of confidence faded. "They're both out sir. You don't need to worry 'bout them no more."

"I'd hope not," he concluded by placing his glasses back on. "Carry on. You were saying?"

Lenny leaned forward, offering all his attention. "We both know how Bronte's mob functions: there's him,"—Lenny moved a hand high to indicate his status—"Guido Martelli, his right-hand man,"—he lowered his hand again—"and Bronte's three lieutenants,"—once more—"I confess I can't remember their names—they're Italian—"

"Hmm. Don't need to explain. Brutish language," the mayor said in his typical laconic tone.

"So," Lenny continued, "I'll just call 'em: Buck-Tooth, Worn-Knuckles, and Long Hair—"

"Oh, yes. I know who you're talking about. Can't remember their names either."

"They hate each other. Something Bronte wanted to fix before he croaked, but now we can use that. Me and my boys are gonna kill Guido. Without him, the lieutenants will vie for full control—"

"There will be a war in Saint Denis!" the henpecking assistant shrieked. "This is madness!"

"Mr. Lemieux," Lenny started, "we're gonna be here all night if I keep getting interrupted."

"Jean-Marc, quiet now," Lemieux said, cautiously intrigued by Lenny's proposition.

"Thank you. Now, there will be a war, but a controlled one. Pinkertons are on their way—"

"Yes, looking for you," the mayor said, then shoved his hands up at Lenny's cold glare. "Right, right, no interruptions."

"Pinkertons are on their way," Lenny picked up, "and with Cornwall's sizeable investments in Saint Denis, you can convince him to order those agents to aid in policing the chaos. Imagine how much fifty trained and fully armed men can help your police department, a fully unified police department no less. After all, all the mob's spending money is tied up in Lemoyne National Bank and no single lieutenant will be able to possess it until they're done fightin' for it; can't bribe coppers when you got no loose change. There will be casualties, make no mistake, but when the dust settles, organized crime in this town will be over; every major head will be dead or arrested—"

"The mafia's been here before us! It doesn't just 'end' you—"

"God in heaven, can I finish?!" Lenny shouted before settling back down. God, this idiot is irritating me. "From there, with the muscle of the police and four dozen private agents who are only bound by loose laws, you can pick whichever lieutenant is left alive—if there's more than one, kill 'em, can't have competition—and break him. Bend him. Torture him. Make him your straw man. Your puppet. Then you can control organized crime, not indefinitely, but for a good stretch of time. Think of all the good you can do in that stretch of time. When you don't bow to the mob, but the mob bows to you."

Silence followed. What else could? As the minutes clicked by, Lemieux finally mustered up a response. "And what do you want then? In return? There's always a catch."

"You can't be seriously considering this? It's crazy; think of all those who'd die!" Jean-Marc argued.

"You put the word on the street," Lenny answered, "tonight. That the Dutch Van der Linde Gang is gonna hit the Lemoyne National Bank in a few days. Get 'em scared. I want Guido to move some of that money to another spot. When the war goes down, everyone will be going for the bank, where hundreds of thousands of dollars will be; but I want a small little (although of course still very, very big) deposit I can pick off amidst the confusion—"

"With all the agents, police, and gangsters distracted," the mayor said, laughing. "You're good, kid. Want my job?"

"You can't be serious!" Jean-Marc butted in, ruining the mood. "Do you—"

"Jean-Marc! Down boy!" Lemieux bellowed, and Jean-Marc took a few steps away, hiding off in the corner, defeated. "The only problem I see here, mister…"

"Summers."

"Mr. Summers. Is that I don't really need you, do I? I could just hire an assassin now that you've given me this lovely tip. Do things that way. Didn't think about that, did you?"

"Thought about it," Lenny said, "The reasons are twofold why I'd advise against it."

"Shoot." "Firstly, if Guido's killed in the night by some mystery man, you think they won't dig into it, look for the culprit? Someone will talk, your house ain't that clean. We do it, they assume it's a revenge play. They go after us, not you. Secondly, there's us. Heard of the Blackwater Massacre of late?"

"Rings a bell."

"Help us with this, and we're gone. Resist, and we'll make an enemy of you. Trust me: you don't want an enemy of us."

"So, reason two is blackmail?"

"No. A reminder that might makes right. So do what's right."

The mayor stood up, walking around his brown office (only part of the damn house that wasn't white), caressing the shelves and shelves of multicolored books he owned.

"Je t'en supplie—" Jean-Marc whispered.

"Fermez-la." Finally, Henri Lemieux sighed. "Jean-Marc, go downstairs. Tell her to wait two hours. We have details to hash out."

2:12 AM, July 21th, 1899

Lenny felt unadulterated joy when he got out of that office, a small part due to getting away from the snide glance of Jean-Marc. Holier-than-thou prick. Mostly, though it was pride. He thought of what Arthur would tell him in his deep yet soothing voice if he was still here: lookee here, boys, kid's using his brain. 'Bout the only damn one I imagine. Lenny Summers smiled.

The mayor joined him out in the hallway, calling something to Pierre in French.

"I like you boy, see a bit of myself in you…"

"Thank you, sir," Lenny said, keeping cool, not wanting the man to see how plaudit he was.

"But make no mistake: you fuck me, and I will ruin you," Henri said, looking younger, like he could snap Lenny's skinny neck with one hand.

"Sword cuts two ways… sir," Lenny affirmed, keeping his eyes locked on Lemieux's, not backing down. Then Pierre arrived up the stairs to distract his opponent from the staring contest.

"Pierre! She still here?"

"Yes, mister mayor. Shall I send her up?" Pierre asked, knowing the answer but still needing his master's permission.

"Yes," he said, suddenly energetic and giddy. Like when he stared down Lenny, he seemed younger, yet for a different reason. An obvious reason. "But keep her here for a few minutes. I want to freshen up in my room." Pierre retreated downstairs with a bow, glaring at Lenny before he vanished.

"Family matters?" Lenn retorted smartly.

"Ohhh, yes. Of the most paramount sort," Mayor Lemieux finished before bolting across the hall to a room on the other side of the hall, the door echoing with a fast slam!

Lenny heard her footsteps on the stairs, slow and patient. Click, click. High heels. Lenny figured it was time to exit stage right, and he readied himself to hop down the stairs and disappear into the warm evening air—until he collided with her at the zenith of the stairway and felt his breath sink to his stomach like a brick.

It was her. The redheaded Frenchwoman; she was as beautiful as ever, with cherry lips, dark illusive eyes, and cute freckles planted all over her smooth face. And as for her figure? We'll call it exceedingly shapely and leave it at that. Especially in that tight red dress that paired brilliantly with her hair and lips.

"Well, hello there, stranger," she greeted, still clinging to his shoulders. His reaction was trepidation, and he went on autopilot, shoving her into the wall opposite him. "Ow!" she exclaimed, not really in any major pain, but not really too pleased by his treatment of her. "Not of friendly stalk, I see."

"I-I-I'm sorry, ma'am," Lenny stuttered. "H-he'll be ready for you in a moment."

"I know."

"Ah. Well… I should be gone." He tried to pass by her and get the hell out of dodge as fast as he could, but she grabbed his arm, holding him back.

"Running away from me, again, are you?" she pouted. "Why? Do I scare you?"

"N-no, ma'am. I—"

"Not ma'am. Céline," she said, her accent accentuating the music of the words. "Y'know, I've had some men run out me, but never as fast as you."

Lenny felt the hot blood creep into his face as he blushed. "Sorry…"

"Usually when I make such a proposal, they run in the opposite direction…" She slid closer to him, so slowly he didn't notice until they were a breath away. "Offer's still good, y'know. Although since you insulted my virtue, the price has gone up. Twenty bucks."

"W-w-what offer?" he whimpered, playing the fool.

"You know." She smiled. "Usually, this"—she motioned towards the mayor's quarters—"is done in a half hour or so. A half hour. Twenty bucks." She danced her fingers across his panting chest. "And I won't tell anyone you're a virgin."

"I-I-I can't." Her lips were a hair away now.

"Yes, you can," she urged. "All men can. In my experience, it's when you're most alive. Just twenty—"

"Have you ever been in love?"

Her eyes jounced with surprise. They fell too, becoming gloomy. "Once or twice."

"Me too. Once, I mean. Sorry,"—he pulled her hand off his chest—"it wasn't when I met you."

Her smile retreated and she understood, turning away from him. "Okay. I'll… just get going now," she said, strutting down to the mayor's bedroom. "But hear a good whore out: fall out of love as soon as you can. Fuck. Drink. Be merry. Only way to live!"

She opened the door and Lenny heard music he couldn't understand before it slammed in his face. He trotted down the stairs and exited the backyard, looking up at the pastel yellow crescent moon, and thought of Jenny. Sweet pretty Jenny. Sweet Jenny who loved to sing. Sweet Jenny who I loved so dearly. And sweet Jenny who never knew. And oh, how Lenny Summers lamented her with tears that warm spring night.

Who doesn't love Lenny?

Wanted to give Jenny a little callout here, too.

Yeah... I really doubt a whole chapter about politics was what everyone saw coming.

Some of you guys might find this boring, but I think it's really neat. Has that ever existed in history before: a man controlling all the legitimate operations within a city (through his mayoral position) and all the illegitimate operations (through puppeteering the head of the mob)?

Feel free to comment on how realistic this scenario seemed, but I don't think it's too far of a stretch. The mob's higher ups, the Don and Underboss are taken out, leaving no heirs to offer legitimate successors, leaving the Capos (lieutenants) at ends with each other, each wanting to claim the mob for himself, therefore starting a civil war within Bronte's operation (plus, unless I'm mistaken, Bronte's gang is the only one present in Saint Denis, meaning no rival mob can rise up to force Bronte's men to band together). Then Pinkertons show up, giving the police force enough firepower to get things back in order, arresting those responsible for the carnage and killing most of them too (the cops mighta been in Bronte's pocket, but now he's dead and a gang war isn't something they can look the other way on). After all this bloodshed, the mayor, backed by the police and Pinkertons takes one Capo and allows him the Don, killing the other two. The mayor would allow the mob to exist under his control because too much money is generated for it not to; someone else would rise to power eventually, maybe someone worse than Bronte. This way, the power vacuum remains filled, but the mayor, backed by the Pinkertons, will keep the remaining Capo in line, preventing any major crimes from occurring. Obviously, this won't be sustainable forever (especially considering a major cog is the Pinkertons who'd help the mayor keep mob dissenters in line, and who also won't be there forever).