Hello everyone. I'm back with another instalment, and I'm sure you want to jump right in. Before we do however, I just want to say that whereas the prologue set the scene, this chapter sets the character, so to speak. It's a little dark, and this chapter contains downright murder, so there's that. Also, don't try to classify, pigeon-hole or otherwise figure the main character out. To do so is like staring into the abyss. Enjoy, and remember: I don't own Lackadaisy.
A black Ford Model A sedan pulled to a stop outside of the large new and used furniture store. Coming to a stop along the curb, the car was just one of hundreds on the street that mild Saturday morning. The driver's door opened, and out stepped the assassin. In the light of day, his features were more discernable. Tall and lean, with a dark grey coat, his tail bore darker stripes, giving him the appearance of a cloudy sky at night. He wore a grey three-piece pinstripe suit with a black bow tie, along with his long black overcoat and fedora, from under which his yellow eyes glanced about as he walked. In fact, if one were to watch him long enough, they would notice the strange slow gait, the way his head cocked slightly one way then the other like some predator in the wild, the way his hands stayed at his sides, his fingers brushing the hem of his coat.
He walked up the three concrete steps to the front door of the shop, looked back over his shoulder for a moment, scanning each car on the street for eyes turned his way, then entered. He slowly glanced about at the two customers and the salesman in the furniture store. The clerk noticed him, his eyes widening for a moment. Of all of the gangsters, hoodlums and killers that frequented the front, this one actually scared him. The clerk motioned upstairs with his head, and the assassin simply passed through the room silently, stepping into the freight elevator at the back of the business and hitting the button for the third floor.
The elevator stopped, and the assassin threw open the double gates and stepped out, past the two suited guards, and toward the open door of an office. As he reached the door, a thug wearing a long tan duster stepped around the door and stopped him. The dark-clad gunman raised his arms slightly. The sentinel brushed open the assassin's coat, revealing two 1911s in a brown leather shoulder rig.
"Gonna need those, Jack." The hood with the fluffy light grey coat stated. He reached for one of the pistols, when suddenly the assassin's right hand dropped quickly, the inertia sliding a small rimfire pistol up into his grasp via the modified drawer track strapped to his inner arm. In a heartbeat, the muzzle of the small piece was pressed against the chin of the door guard, who let out a nervous chuckle.
"Oh come on..." An accented voice called from the office. "I told you fuckin' morons not ta' play with that guy!" The guard grinned innocently, raised his hands and stepped back into the office slowly. "Let 'im in!" The assassin stepped into the room, now seemingly ignoring the very presence of the guard who had accosted him. At a large polished desk at the back of the room sat a broad shouldered and slightly overweight cat wearing a bespoke blue three piece. The well turned-out fellow opened his arms in a greeting and laughed.
"I just got word this morning!" He announced happily. "Whole warehouse cleaned out. Coppers say it had to a' been a dozen guys. Said it was a reeeaaal massacre. You really cross your
i's and dot your t's, doncha Frost?" Frost, the assassin was unmoved by the compliment or the reception of his night' work. In fact, the flat expression he bore was seemingly the only one he was capable of.
"I try to be as thorough as possible." He stated in a low, gravely voice that lacked any emotion or accent. His black-striped grey tail flicked almost imperceptibly. "Is your boss satisfied with my services?" The high-ranking gangster behind the desk chuckled yet again.
"Satisfied? Satisfied? I give him the call and told him you went all wild Indian on those Irish putanas and you know what he said?" Frost shook his head slowly, his expression unchanged. "He said 'Best fuckin' news I heard all week, Frankie. Give this guy a nice tip.' Know how hard it is to get a laugh out of the Boss right now?" Frost nodded to the negative again. "This little war is heating up, and we got problem after problem with those punks tryin' to shoulder in on our operations. Maybe what you did'll knock 'em down a few pegs, huh?" Frost said nothing. He was a professional. He only did his job as contracted, and he had no interest in getting into what he saw as politics and posturing. That was for businessmen and fat cats. It had little to do with bags of flesh attached to trigger fingers.
"I'm happy to be of service." Frost said, his monotone showing anything but happiness at the moment. "Is there more work you need done? I would like to collect my payment if not." Frankie, the well-dressed gangster frowned a little.
"Well..." He sighed. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but you gotta get outta town for a while." Frost raised an eyebrow.
"Heat?" He asked stoically.
"What with that job you pulled last night? Add to that the ruins of that boat full of corpses out in the river...oh, and that state's attorney you iced right out in broad daylight this spring...yeah. Yeah heat. Big time heat."
"The cops can't act without evidence..." Frost started to say.
"Yeah, well our guys on the inside say that they're startin' to link all these big hits of yours. They figure that sombebody's got a real heavy hitter workin' for 'em. We can't risk it."
"I am not your employee." Frost replied.
"You can't risk it." Frankie stated grimly. Frost sighed, showing the first sign of real emotion since he'd entered the building. This was unfortunate. Drake Frost was an independent through and through, but part of him had enjoyed his tenure working for this outfit. They paid well, provided him with quality jobs on a regular basis, and even treated him fairly. The fact that they had the best alcohol in the midwest was an added benefit. If he had to skip town, it would mean finding gainful employment elsewhere, but strategically, it was only a minor setback.
"I will take my payment then." The assassin said. "So not to draw...unwanted attention to your business, I'll pack up and ship out tonight."
"Hold up, Frost." Frankie interjected. He reached into a drawer on his desk and withdrew a stack of bills. He made a show of thumping the band of cash on the desktop a couple of times. "Here's your bread, alright? Two thousand for last night, plus an extra ten percent for being so...thorough." Frost reached for the money, but Frankie pulled it away slightly. "At the very least, let us help you get outta town, huh?"
"I don't take charity, sir." The gunman advised. "I will leave tonight..."
"Oh come on, Frost..." Frankie half-pleaded with him. "After everything you done for us, let us do for you, huh? It's not charity. You need work, right?"
"Man's gotta eat." Frost stated.
"Man's gotta eat, yeah. That's what I say." Frankie agreed. "So check this out. I got a friend of a friend, alright? Down in Saint Louie. A businessman. Word is, he's got a problem with some competitors, eating into his profits."
"Major players?" Frost asked, lightly cocking his head.
"Haha, compared to us? Small fish. Tiny fish." He made a pinching gesture with the claws of his left thumb and index fingers. "Anchovies, know what I'm saying? Heh. But I called around. It'd be a easy job. Local cops wouldn't give a fuck. You can go to Missouri, take care of his little rat problem, and lay low. You know, cool off for a year or two. We might hire you back for a few jobs here and there." Drake's eyes moved back and forth a few times as he processed everything.
"What is the client's name?" He asked.
"Sweet." Frankie replied. He slid the bundle of cash over to Frost. "Runs an outfit called The Marigold down that way. Tell him I sent you, and you're in." The assassin took the money and tucked it into a pocket of his long coat.
"I'll try to remember that." He muttered.
"The rest of your payment is down at Yancie's Garage." Frankie nodded. He held out a hand. "Been a pleasure workin' with you, Frost." Frost stared at his hand for a moment, then slowly took it in an uncomfortable shake. "Best of luck wherever you go."
"My old man always said luck's for bums." Frost stated. Frankie pursed his lips. This assassin had worked for the gang off and on for over a year now, and this was the first time he had heard Frost say anything personal about himself.
"Ah yeah?" The mobster asked. "Your old man waddn't very lucky?" Frost met eyes with him.
"Burnt up in a fire." He said simply, his voice still flat and detached. "Roasted like a duck." With that, he tipped his hat, turned and walked out of the office.
"Yep, this is it..." Yancie announced as he dragged the four-foot long wooden crate from the back room of his garage. Drake stood by his black Model A sedan as the stocky mechanic wrestled the heavy box over. "...they said you'd be coming for it, yessir. Heavy as Hell too. What is it, a coffin?"
"No." Frost answered in a low voice that was almost a growl. "A new tool I needed. Hard to find piece. Let's open it up and get it loaded into my car." The auto mechanic for the gang nodded.
"Alright, have it your way fella." He replied, grabbing a crowbar from a nearby work bench. He stabbed the chisel-end of the pry bar between the lid and the body of the box. "Tools huh? Feels like...ungh!" With a grunt, he pried up on the lid and the nails gave way with a groan. The top fell away, revealing a bed of straw. "...drill press or something..." Drake knelt down and pulled out the layer of protective straw, revealing a huge firearm painted in a dark olive drab color. His eyes trailed down the long, dark green gun barrel, surrounded by its perforated heat shield. The barrel ended in a large blocky receiver, which sported a pistol grip and ring-like trigger on its rearmost panel. The mechanic let out a long whistle of descending pitch.
"This will do." Frost said, his tone almost approving. Almost. "Certainly better than the 1917..." He reached into the box, grabbed the Browning M1919 .30 Caliber Machine Gun and hefted the 30 pound weapon from its box and shoved it toward the mechanic like it were a load of bread. "Load it into my back seat. Move the BAR. I'll grab the tripod. They sent the belts of ammunition with it, didn't they?"
"Um..." The mechanic thought out loud as he took the belt-fed machine gun into his arms.
"It would be in green metal boxes." Frost clarified.
"Oh yeah. There's like four of those in the back." Yancie said, trying to maneuver the machine gun into the backseat of Drake's sedan.
"I'll need those too." The assassin advised. He pointed to his automobile and said in a monotone: "Be careful with that. Don't rip my seats."
"Sure thing, fella." The burly mechanic nodded, rolling his eyes when he turned away. "Whatcha need this thing for anyways?"
"Hunting." Drake stated. He drew a flask from his pocket, unscrewed the lid and drank half the contents in one go.
"The cops gonna have a fit and a half if they see this damned thing." Yancie bemoaned. Drake wiped his mouth and frowned.
"Free country." He growled. "A man can own any gun he wants. It's not stolen." The mechanic let out a chuckle.
"Heh. Yeah, only thing they ever tried to ban is booze, and we see how well that's a' workin' for them, don't we?" Yancie wiped the packing grease from the machine gun onto his dirty grey coveralls. "Be a cold day in Hell before they try to ban guns in this country." Drake didn't laugh or so much as crack a smile. He simply stared at the light brown cat a moment, then drew a pair of ten dollar bills from his pocket and sat them on a cart full of tools.
"Go and grab those ammunition cans." The hired gun ordered. "I'll load the tripod."
The sun was setting as Frost turned South on some packed-earth road, the city of Chicago behind him. He glanced in the sideview mirror to make sure there were no cars tailing him. Satisfied, he turned up a clear pint bottle half-filled with some stout amber liquor of questionable quality. He drank half of what was in the bottle before maneuvering the cork back into the bottle one-handed like a well-seasoned artist. He tossed the bottle into the leather valise on the passenger side of the car's bench seat. Driving to St. Louis would likely take eight hours, maybe more if he kept to side roads and small farm roads less frequented by police. That is, if he even went to St. Louis.
As he drove, Drake thought more about it...why bother with this little job in Missouri? He could drive straight through to Florida, maybe work for some of the outfits starting up down there. There was always Texas, and Texas was real close to Mexico. Alot of guys were hiding out down there. Of course it didn't work out too well down south of the border for Butch Cassidy back in the day. There was always the prospect of going east, to New York. A fella could always disappear there.
He glanced over at the farm he was passing, the tall silo standing like a sentinel in the night, the moonlight gleaming on its metal roof. He averted his eyes, looking back to the road. He still hated farms. His thoughts turned back to his plans for the future, or at least the conceivable near future. There was New Orleans. Drake had only been to New Orleans once. That was back when he was just starting out. It was a twenty-dollar job, but he'd shot a deadbeat in his car for not paying his gambling debts. Then Frost had skipped town. Memphis was definitely off the table. He'd worked for both rival moonshiner factions there, and killed people on both sides. He was sure that both gangs probably still had a price on his head. Not that he really cared. Tennessee was hillbilly Hell anyway. That and lots of people had a price on his head.
He continued driving south through the night, eventually stopping outside of some small speck on the map in southern Illinois with the wishful name of "El Dorado". Running on fumes, Drake pulled his car off the main county road and onto a small farming road just down from an isolated filling station at the junction of two roads. He shut off the engine, and drained the last of the liquid in the bottle. Striking a lighter, he first checked his watch. 4:13. He then reviewed his road map once more, and lingered for a moment over the name of the nearest town.
"El Dorado." He stated dryly, remembering an old poem that seemed oddly appropriate at the moment. "Over the mountains of the moon, down the valley of the shadow..." Frost pawed around in the carpetbag in the backseat floorboard and came up with another bottle. He uncorked it. "Ride...boldly ride, the shade replied, if you seek for El Dorado." With that he took a long swig of the Canadian whiskey, corked the bottle and slid it back into the bag. He then pulled one of his Colt Government 1911's from the valise on the seat next to him, press-checked the slide to ensure a round was chambered, then engaged the weapon's safety. He lay back in the seat, his right hand gripping the pistol, hidden underneath his coat.
Frost awoke a little after 7. After performing his necessaries in some farmer's field, he returned to his car. The filling station would likely be open soon. His stomach rumbled, and the assassin growled. When had he last eaten? Oh yeah, that baloney sandwich he'd had for lunch yesterday. Hunger, like sleep was an annoyance, a distraction. Both were best staved off quickly and efficiently. He'd learned that at Aisne when sleep had to be seized in between Artillery bombardments and probing assaults. He reached back and threw a wool blanket over the machine gun in the backseat. He withdrew his right hand and stared at it for a few moments, noticing the slight tremor in his fingers, the occasional twitches.
"Damnit..." He muttered, and dug out the new bottle. He uncorked it and drank a long gulp of whiskey, the way he started most of his mornings. Then he sat in silence, his hands on the steering wheel for a few minutes. A vehicle came down the road, and Drake instinctively slid his right hand down to the bag beside him. The auto passed by, an old Model T truck with high wooden sides. Some hayseed in a beat up hat and bib coveralls threw his hand up as he drove past. Drake just gave a slight nod. He started his car and pulled out onto the main road.
The station was a typical roadside affair; a pair of gas pumps out front, and a small storefront offering a small selection of foodstuffs, drinks and oil. Frost pulled his car up to the first pump, and watched as a scruffy, half-matted hick exited the small building. He wore a flat cap and a denim jacket and pants. The stocky tabby-colored pump jockey looked so much like the driver of the truck that Drake immediately assumed that they were probably cousins. Probably related in more ways than one too. Oh how he hated farms...
"Howdy. Fill 'er up guy?" The attendant asked.
"Yeah. Full tank." Drake stated. "And check the radiator and the tires. I have a long drive yet."
"Sure thing. Where ya goin' if you don't mind me askin'?" The gas station worker asked.
"A long way." Frost answered. "And I do. You have food…"
"Uh yeah, sure." The pump jockey answered, slightly taken aback. "Help yourself buddy. May's in there. She'll get ya some vittles why sure. I'll tally you up when you're done." Frost stepped out of his car and tipped his fedora.
"Obliged." He said, and walked into the small shop. The smell of fresh coffee hit his nose as soon as he walked in. His yellow eyes scanned the walls and the shelves for anything useful.
"Oh hi hon, you needin' something?" A matronly-looking cat with pale grey fur greeted from behind the counter. Frost grabbed a half-gallon jar of pickled eggs from atop a barrel and walked to the counter.
"Coffee." He said simply.
"Sure sweetie. You like milk, sugar...I have some of that new powdered stuff, but..."
"Black." He elucidated. He glanced over at the selection of cups hanging by the small counter, and pulled a huge tin cup from the hook. "This will do." May, the storekeep and cook, raised an eyebrow.
"Well my my, somebody needs one heck of a pick me up this mornin', huh?" She teased. She pointed at the large jar. "I take it you love you a pickled egg."
"No." Drake replied, not making eye contact. "I just eat when I'm hungry." May frowned. She could tell something was bothering this gentleman, and though it wasn't her place to pry, she hated seeing anyone feeling gloomy.
"Well tell you what, sweetie pie, I just put on a rasher of bacon. How's about I throw a few strips on a biscuit for the road. Free of charge for buying an entire pot of coffee." She pointed to the massive tin cup and giggled.
"Sure." Drake said, unfazed. "And I still need the eggs."
"Alrighty sir, that'll be three dollars and fifty five cents for the gas, the eggs and the coffee." The attendant announced as Drake sat in his car. The assassin proceeded to eat the entire bacon biscuit sandwich in two bites, then turned up the cup and drank two full swallows of the scalding hot coffee, making the denim-clad cat's eyes widen. He then retrieved his bottle, dumped a dram of whiskey into the brew and threw the booze back into its bag. Then without an ounce of pomp, Frost pulled a five dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the attendant.
"Keep the change." The gunman stated, started his car, somehow put it in gear while holding the coffee in his right hand, and drove off in a cloud of dust.
He turned due west now, burning through the morning and the miles. He passed through Saline and Benton in two hours, and had just entered Perry County when he glanced in his sideview mirror to see a motorbike on his tail. Drake frowned. It was a highway patrolman. He felt his right hand twitch. He chided himself for taking the bigger road. The police might recognize him. Oh well, it couldn't be helped now. He knew the drill. There was only one way to handle situations like this...
Frost spied a small side road just as the motorcycle cop turned on his siren. It seemed rutted out and overgrown with fresh grass, as if nobody had used the lane in months. Perfect. Drake downshifted and slowed, pulling casually onto the narrow road and stopping finally when the road curved around a hillock. The cop stopped his bike behind the car. Frost slowly reached down and wrapped his fingers around something under the seat.
Sergeant Millet of the Illinois State Highway Patrol had noticed the sedan driving a little too fast for his taste as it crossed over the county line. It was likely the same six and seven...some dumb kid, thinking he was a bigshot in his daddy's new car, probably needed a stern lecture on road safety and a written warning. Maybe it was some moonshiner, and he'd get to make the poor bastard water the grass with his hootch before he took him in. The officer pivoted his kickstand down and stepped off the large Harley Davidson motorbike. He stood beside it for a moment, letting the driver see him and hopefully giving the vehicle's operator time to think up some comical excuse for his speed.
The brown and white coated officer stepped forward, his eyes locked on the driver. It was a male, wearing what looked like a nice black coat and fedora. The driver's left hand was on the wheel, and Sergeant Millet saw him shake his head slowly, seemingly in disgust. Millet smirked a little. He decided to announce himself as he made it to the rear driver's side door.
"Highway Patrol." He said. "How are you today sir? I noticed you were going a little..." As soon as he stepped up to the rolled-down driver's window, he saw the twin barrels of a sawn-off shotgun slide up over the door frame, pointed right at him. "No!"
Frost fired both barrels of the shotgun into the cop's chest. The officer immediately made a 'huk' sound as he fell backwards into the grass beside the road. Drake slowly opened the door and stepped out, sliding the shotgun's lock to the right with his thumb. He flicked the barrels open, the spent casings popping into the cabin of his car. His eyes were on the fallen officer as he slid two more shells in at once and flicked the barrels shut. Now he was standing over the cop, who had blood pooling around him. Frost looked both directions, ensuring they were alone.
"Wait...wai..." Millet choked out, but was interrupted by two loads of buckshot being fired into his head. Frost knelt down, pulled the officer's .38 Colt Police Positive revolver from its holster and tucked it into his belt. He stood and walked back to the motorbike. The officer had a shotgun in a scabbard on the bike, and Frost pulled it from the leather case and examined it. A Winchester 1897. The heatshield and the bayonet lug underneath the magazine tube revealed that it was the military model. Worth keeping. He pushed the bike over into the weeds and let it topple over, then deposited the two firearms into the backseat of his sedan. He hopped in, closed the door and jerked the stick into reverse.
Once back on the road, Frost drove for five miles, his hands, his right foot and occasionally his eyelids the only things about him that didn't seem like a statue carved of granite. Finally, he pulled off on a small dirt road, opened his door and vomited. He stayed hanging half in/half out of his car for a solid minute, until he was sure it was over. Then he sat up straight, slammed the door, gripped the steering wheel tightly and took a deep breath.
"Fuck." He said aloud. He reached back, grabbed the whiskey, his hands shaking, and turned up the bottle. Three gulps in, he stoppered the bottle, and tossed it into the back. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel. "FUCK!" He shouted. He took a few breaths to calm himself. Frost cleared his throat, popped the car into reverse and backed out onto the main road.
That night, just after sunset, he came to a junction. He stopped the car on the small country road, and stepped out of his car, staggering slightly with the amount of alcohol he'd consumed on the road since the incident with the cop. The road split, one going straight, the other curving southward. A simple hand-painted wooden sign at the intersection read "St. Louis" with an arrow pointing to the straight road, with the intersecting sign above it reading "Cairo". Drake drained the bottle in his hand as he stared at the sign. He knelt down, placed the bottle on the road and spun it. It slowed and finally stopped with the mouth of the bottle pointed toward the bridge in the distance. He nodded defeatedly.
"Saint Louis it is." He muttered. He climbed back into the car, put it into gear and drove toward the Mississippi river.
So now we know Frost...or at least as well as anybody could possibly know him and still be above ground, I suppose. And it looks like he's headed to our favorite city. Which means he's likely to cross paths with some of our favorite characters soon. Hoo boy. Lackadaisy has its dark and twisted moments (I'm picturing Mordecai with a hatchet), but Frost...we'll just have to see how it goes, huh? I'll have the next chapter up in a week or so. So until then, this concludes our broadcast day. See you in the next installment. So long and goodnight ladies and gentlemen.