Frost awoke at 9am. He checked his watch and let out an angry growl toward himself for sleeping so late, something he rarely allowed himself to do. His head was throbbing, and the first thing he did after checking the time was to grab the bottle on the floor and turn it up, drinking the two ounces of poor-quality whiskey left inside. He thought about that for a moment. He remembered the glasses of whiskey in the speakeasy, drinking his flask in the car, as well as the pint bottle of blackberry wine Serafine had given him. Then there was the glass of expensive bourbon. He looked mournfully at the empty bottle. He'd drank over half a bottle of the stuff when he'd returned to his apartment without realizing it. No wonder his head hurt. He'd drank a third of a gallon of strong booze in one night, not a personal best, but close.

Frost stumbled into the bathroom, holding his head, and turned on the sink. He cupped his hands and drank from them greedily for a few moments, then threw some of the water on his face. Then he stood, staring into the mirror…into his own reflection. There was something he had to do now, the job he had come to this town to do. Destroy Lackadaisy. All of it. All of them…except for the girls, that is. It would start tonight.

The first mark on his list was the orange-haired boy. He was obviously the heavy-hitter of the rival gang, or at least one of them. Removing him from their roster would weaken their ability to fight effectively. If he could not get to the boy right away, then the musician would fill his place. It was a simple gesture. The dumbest and most inept member of a gang was usually the one everyone felt sorry for, the kid, the youngblood. Him being a musician was an added bonus. There was no doubt this was a well-liked and darling member of their gang. Offing him would hurt their morale badly. Killing both of them would be a message the widow May would no doubt take to heart. Yes, it would start tonight. But first, there was something he had to do…

Frost put on a boiler of coffee. He opened the jar of pickled eggs, dug two out with his fingers, and ate them, followed by a piece of hard bread. When the coffee was ready, he poured his large tin cup full of the brew and took a long drink. He could already feel his headache abating as he sat the cup on his desk and picked up the Winchester rifle leaned up beside his Thompson. The gunfighter sat down on the bed and worked the lever, ejecting 5 rounds of 30-06 ammunition onto the blanket. He picked one of the cartridges up. This was a pleasant development. His new weapon utilized the same ammunition as his BAR. Shared ammunition between firearms was always a good thing.

Drake stood and walked to the window. Shouldering the rifle, he pushed the curtains apart enough to get a good sight picture through the gun's four-power Winchester A5 scope. He aimed across the street, back onto the railroad siding where a pair of cats in denim coveralls were coupling two boxcars together. He peered through the sight. At a range he estimated to be 100 yards, Frost could easily see one of the workers as if the tabby-colored man were no more than ten feet away. He hummed to himself, and sat the rifle back down on the bed. He drank the rest of his coffee, dug four boxes of 30-06 ammunition from his trunk, picked up the rifle and left his room.

Frost drove out of the city, into the rolling farmland beyond. He turned onto an unfamiliar dirt road just past a bridge that crossed over a small creek, and followed this for over a mile. He finally came to a wide spot on the side of the road, a small dirt and grass area that overlooked the stream. There he pulled his car off into the grass and turned off the engine. He stepped out of the car with his rifle and a box of cartridges. He loaded the Winchester as he peered off into the woods beyond the creek. He raised the loaded rifle and ratcheted the lever, chambering a round. Looking through the scope, he picked up on a large rock, about fifty yards off. Frost took a breath, exhaled half of it, became stock-still and pulled the trigger.

The rifle bucked against his shoulder, and he saw dirt thrown up beyond the rock. He had overshot. Satisfied that he now had the scope's point-of-aim figured, he chambered another round and fired. A split-second later, a small divot the size of a silver dollar was blown out of the head-sized rock. He racked the action and fired again, hitting the stone again, near the same spot. He realigned his scope, now settling the crosshairs on a tree branch, a limb about the diameter of his wrist as he calculated it. The branch was on an oak tree about 75 yards away. He held about an inch low and squeezed the trigger. The limb shook. His fifth and final round was sent into a fist-sized rock at a little over 50 yards. It bounded into the air and landed with a thud.

Satisfied with his new weapon's capability, Frost walked back to his car, sat the rifle in the backseat, climbed in and drove off. He returned to the boarding house, where he went up to his room and slung his BAR over his right shoulder. The bag of spare magazines for the weapon went over his left. He stuffed three 20 round Thompson mags into the left pocket of his long coat, and he picked up the submachine gun, holding it by the grip as he exited his room. One of the apartment's tenants happened to be on his way out of his own door, when he glanced over to see the walking armory coming down the hallway.

"God…daaammmn…" The skinny cat in the flat cap squeaked, pressing himself up against the wall to let Frost pass by. The gunman halted, and slowly turned his head toward the young man. "Ho boy! You have yoself a good daaay, sir." The neighbor said with a nod, and retreated back into his room. Frost ignored the jittery cat and walked down the stairs, deposited his weapons into the back of his car and pulled out of the lot.

He entered the Maribel, got a room number from the frost desk agent, and took the elevator to the top floor. He took a left as he stepped off the lift, walked partway down the hall, stopped at a door and began pounding steadily on it with his right fist. He knew the occupant of the room was no doubt already very awake by his first knock, and had anticipated it when the door swung open, revealing a half-dressed Mordecai Heller pointing a 1911 at Frost's head. The tuxedo cat snarled and lowered his pistol.

"Frost." He said irritably. "And to what dubious pleasure do I owe this early wake up call? You do know that most normal and well-adjusted people sleep at least six to eight hours of each day, correct?"

You know the people…over at the Lackadaisy." Frost said, making a statement instead of a question. Heller yawned.

"Yes. I do. Why? He asked suspiciously.

"Do they ever steal your shipments? Raid your suppliers…anything like that?" The mercenary asked. Mordecai adjusted his glasses.

"Yes…in fact they do. On both points." The answer came. "They have, several times over, made it a point to purloin our shipments of alcohol, and have on one occasion even stolen a supplier who deemed it wise to switch sides after promising an alliance."

"How do they know where your pickup points are?" Drake queried.

"They are not quite as foolish as Mister Sweet makes them out to be." Heller stated. "Clumsy and reprehensibly bungling as they may be when carrying out their plunders, their planning and intelligence is quite astute."

"I want you to plan a shipment for tonight." Drake instructed. Heller raised an eyebrow. "Have some of your people cache a few boxes of merchandise at a desolate spot. Put the word out, where they can hear of it…that Marigold is picking it up at 3am. I will take care of the rest."

"Hmm. A clever play, but how are you certain they will take the bait? Mordecai queried.

"Easy. I was there. Their liquor selection was limited. Very limited. Make it a shipment of good stuff. Glenlivet…Hennessy. Make it good. High end. Make sure they get the message, and they'll climb over each other to get to it."

"And where would you want the shipment placed?"

"By the river…so it looks like a real shipment. Give me open ground, a good field of fire. I need trees…foliage on the edge. You're a scholar, a real professor. You know what I need."

"Hm." Heller mused. "Bait them in with low-hanging fruit and ambush them. Not a terribly clever plan, but what it lacks in subtlety, it more than makes up for in simplicity."

"Ahh." Drake growled. "That is the closest thing to a compliment I think I'll ever get from you, Heller. I will take it."

"It sounds as though this needs to be done as soon as practicable."

"If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." Drake stated in a low voice. Mordecai's lip turned up just a little.

"If the assassination could trammel up the consequence, and catch with his surcease success, that but this blow might be the be-all and the end-all here…" Heller added. He cocked his head. "MacBeth…act one, scene seven. A fitting and proper reference should you make good on your strategy. It's funny. I never would have imagined you to be an admirer of the classics."

"Man's gotta do something with the time on his hands." Frost replied. "Read Ambrose Bierce. He's better." Heller gave a sardonic twitch of his lip.

"Ah yes, a mad, coarse, drunken war veteran with a flair for the overdramatic. I can see why you'd find his works so appealing."

"Fuck you." Frost returned with a cold intonation.

"Your vocabularic range and social grace are quite charming." Mordecai sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Remember to extend your pinkie when you shoot a guy in the head." Frost shot back. "You gotta be…proper when you do it. Bait my trap. I'll be in position at nightfall. Stay out of my way." Frost said, and turned to walk away. Heller watched him leave, then turned back into his well-kept hotel suite.

"Consider it done, Frost." He muttered. The underdressed gangster and hatchetman glanced over at a stack of papers on a polished wooden table. Some were newspaper clippings describing various murders, robberies and assassinations. Others were small squares of paper bearing such information as Frost's license plate number, his car's serial number, and notes on his appearance, demeanor and ambidexterity.

He picked up a typed sheet and looked it over with a supercilious expression. The page bore a list of names with corresponding telephone numbers. They were the names of crime bosses, hitmen and high-level gagsters. Some were corrupt police captains and bought and paid for officials in several cities. Several of the names had already been neatly crossed through with a pen. His eyes moved down the list until he stopped at a particular one, lingering over it for a moment. It read;

Lt. Colonel Abraham J. Wagner-Wash. DC-WAR 9047

"Yes…you busy yourself taking care of Mister Sweet's little problem while I find out who you really are…" He muttered.

The three cats worked diligently, unloading four large wooden crates from a flatbed truck. From the treeline, Frost watched them with little interest, only occasionally looking their way as he sat 100 yards away in a small clump of trees. The gunman leaned back against the elm tree behind him and continued dabbing and wiping at the Winchester rifle in his lap with an oily rag like an artist putting final touches on a magnum opus. He checked his watch. It was coming up on 6pm. It would be getting dark soon. Good. Drake heard the truck's engine start and he peered through the foliage as the Marigold's vehicle pulled away, leaving the crates sitting in the field by the river. He picked up a brown leather bandolier sporting 20 rounds of 30-06, and threw it across his left shoulder.

They would be coming soon. Perhaps they would wait a couple hours after nightfall to make their move. It would be the logical move if they intended on using the dark to their advantage, but wanting to nab the shipment before any of the Marigold gang could get there, as per the fictitious plan. Frost drew a potato from a small tan haversack and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. The blade snapped open, and he started slowly slicing off chunks of the potato with the knife and popping them into his mouth.

The darkness crept in, and the isolated riverside glen became deathly quiet. At 8:00, the moon began to appear. Almost full, it slowly rose until by ten, it bathed the open field in a subtle, pale sheen, making the tall grass appear silver, like a sea of slender sword blades stabbing up from the earth. He had counted on this. Having consulted a copy of the Agricultural Almanac and listening to the weather report on a radio in the Maribel lobby, Frost was content in the knowledge that it would be a cloudless night, with just enough moonlight for his rifle's scope to be effective. He felt his hands starting to shake, and took a long drink of whiskey from his flask.

At 10pm on the dot, he heard a vehicle approach. Frost rolled to his stomach and low-crawled through the bushes, his rifle in both hands, until he had a good vantage point from which to see the boxes in the distance. He saw headlights, a car turning off the road some three hundred yards away, heading down the embankment. His right leg was slowly drawn up slightly, and he propped his upper body up with his elbows, assuming a prone firing position. Frost's right thumb unhurriedly drew back the hammer on the Winchester from half-cock, back until it clicked on its rearmost position.

Through the dim light of the moon, he could identify the vehicle as most likely a Model A sedan. It stopped fifty yards from the crates, and sat there, idling for a full minute. Then it began to creep closer, as if the driver were being cautious in approaching the scene. The car was approaching head-on, and he imagined that a shot through the windshield and into the driver would be entirely conceivable. Still, it was better to wait, to have all of the vehicle's occupants outside of the car before the shooting started. The car came to a stop, less than a rod from the wooden crates. The rear driver's side door flew open, and a figure hopped out dramatically and twirled about.

"Oh what a beautiful evening 'tis…" The cat in the wide-brimmed blue hat enunciated. "…heh, for mischief and tricksy things…" Frost looked through his scope at the grey cat in the foppish blue suit. This had to be the musician.

"Do you…always have to recite poetry when we go out at night?" Another male voice asked. Frost could now see someone else getting out of the car. It was the orange-haired boy, dressed in a white shirt and green vest.

"Freckle, dear Freckle…" The musician returned playfully, a grin on his face. "All the world would be in love with night…and pay no worship to the garish sun."

"Yeah…well…I don't think I'm falling in love with the night…at least anytime soon…" The one called Freckle said apprehensively. "It's kind of creepy out here." He looked about nervously. "Come on Rocky, let's just get the alcoholic bev…the stuff and go." Frost looked up over his scope. These two were the hardened thugs his employer wanted eliminated? They seemed more like a couple of dumb kids stealing candy from a grocer. Still, a job is a job. He lined up the crosshairs on the one called Freckle.

"Yeah, you don't have to turn everything into an excuse for a song and dance number…" A familiar female voice added. He saw Ivy Pepper's head enter the circle of his scope.

"Shit…" Frost mouthed. This would complicate things.

"I, Miss Pepper…" Rocky countered, "…have the artistic duty to immortalize the vibrant moments of life in sonnet and song…to slay the twin Abbadons of the mind, Routine and Monotony with the sword of revelry…" He paused and grinned again. "Oh, and the shield of unconventionality."

"You certainly are that…" Ivy agreed. "Now why don't you make yourself useful and give us a hand with these boxes?" The three of them walked over to the crates, Freckle carrying a crowbar. The orange-coated cat pried the lid off of the nearest, and immediately, Rocky held his hands to his face in delight.

"Oh rapture!" He gushed. "The fables were true!"

"I…don't think underground rumors count as…fables…" Freckle pointed out as Rocky pulled a bottle of Glenlivet from the case and hugged it to his chest.

"Oh happy day! We have single-handedly pulled the Lackadaisy from the precipice of disaster with this shipment!" Rocky continued on. "Miss M's gonna be so delighted…" Drake narrowed his eyes on hearing that. Precipice of disaster? These people were talking as though the speakeasy was on the verge of closing or something. "Unfurl the flag and fire up the boilers, ladies and gentlemen, because we're back in business!"

"Or at least we will be when you put this stuff in the car…" Ivy deadpanned. Rocky laughed, and grabbed an armload of bottles. He carried them to the trunk on the back of the red sedan and placed them inside as Freckle opened another crate and retrieved four bottles of cognac. Ivy did the same, and as they took these to the back of the car. Frost took a deep breath, and pulled the rifle's butt in tightly to his shoulder. He could take them both, but he would first have to disable the car to prevent one or the other from escaping. The sedan was parked facing his position, at a slight angle to the left. He took aim on the driver's side front tire and squeezed the trigger.

"Whawasthat?!" Ivy cried out as a gunshot rang out. The front tire of the car deflated. Frost fired again, and the rear tire popped. The three bootleggers dropped the bottles they were holding, except for Rocky, who still had a bottle grasped in each hand, as they scrambled around to the passenger side of the car. The hidden gunman now stood up, and fired three shots in one-second intervals, putting all three rounds into the radiator of the car. Steam billowed out and water began to pour from underneath the front of the automobile.

"Where are they?!" Freckle gasped. "Oh no…nonono…this isn't good…where are they?" Frost reloaded the rifle, adeptly pressing round after round into the top of the receiver, then closing the bolt before bringing the rifle back up to his shoulder. He took aim again and fired two more rounds into the radiator of the car just for good measure. He then shot out both headlights, and sent a round through the windshield that passed through the car and shattered the back passenger window, sending a shower of glass onto the three terrified young criminals. The shooting stopped.

"Miss Pepper…we could use some of your driving prowess right now…" Rocky panted. Ivy, trembling with fear, opened the passenger-side door, and started to slither in, when the glass above her exploded as another shot rang out. She yelped and dove back to the ground, Freckle throwing himself on top of her. Another well-placed shot blew out the front passenger-side tire, and Frost stepped from the treeline and began topping off his rifle with two cartridges from his bandolier. Rocky popped his head up for a brief second and peeked through the broken windows of the car before ducking back down again, just as a round passed over his head.

"Argh…our chances are looking grim…" He breathed in a panicked tone. "There's a guy coming…and he doesn't look like a salesman. Okay guys and gals, I suggest we hedge our bets on making tracks in…that direction." He motioned back toward the road, two hundred yards away. Freckle and Ivy followed his gesture.

"We won't make that…" Freckle exclaimed. "…there's no way we could make that." Another report from the rifle.

"Well…uh…" Ivy quaked, her voice wavering. "M…maybe he's out of b…bullets." Just then, a rifle shot echoed through the silence and the sound of a round slapping against the car made them all jump. Rocky's eyes darted over to the small jagged hole in the door panel near his head.

"Begorra, that was close…" The lyricist gasped.

"Freckle…" Ivy whimpered, tears in her eyes. Another shot impacted the car and she squeaked. Calvin wrapped his arms around her.

"It's okay…it's okay…" He said. "Ohhhhh…it's not…it's really not…" A shot broke the rear glass. Frost reloaded, and now standing thirty yards from his targets' car, he rapid fired, shooting as fast as he could crank the lever of the rifle. In three seconds, he had put five more rounds toward the vehicle, intentionally sending them through the voids where the windows had once been. He loaded his last five rounds into the Winchester and shrugged off the bandolier, letting it fall to the ground. He started march-firing, holding the rifle at his hip and pulling the trigger every time his left heel touched the ground. When he was twenty yards from the car, the gunman fired the last round from his rifle. It was immediately placed on the ground, and he drew his twin Colt Governments as he came back up.

"We could use your talents right now, cousin." Rocky advised. "Before we all end up looking like your mother's cherry cobbler."

"N…no I…I don't…" Freckle stammered. Rocky opened the back door of the car, and slid a violin case from under the seat.

"Hurry it up, Freckle…" The neurotic musician egged, opening the case and sliding it over to his younger relative. "I don't think he's gonna wait."

"B…but…" Calvin tried to protest. He heard Ivy sob, and stared at the contents of the case. He let out a growl.

"Come out…come out…" A low, hollow voice called gently. "…wherever you are…" Rocky's ears laid flat, and he ventured another glance through the broken side window above him. As soon as he poked his head up, Frost saw the movement and snapped off a quartet of .45 caliber rounds that barely missed the top of Rocky's head.

"Who is it? Who is it?" Ivy whimpered. Rocky had his back to the door of the car, holding his chest and breathing heavily.

"Some shadowy fella…dressed in black…" He panted. "Never seen 'im before in my life. Ohhhh…don't want to see him right before my untimely death either…"

"Ivy…" Frost called. The young woman's head perked up at her name, her eyes wide with fear. Freckle shot her a terrified glance as he paused in digging through the violin case.

"Who…wha…whaddya want?" She said back timidly.

"Come out." The gunman commanded.

"Unghh!" She whined, now frozen completely with fear.

"What d…did I d…do?" She stammered. "What do you want from me, mister?"

"Nothing." Frost replied. "Not you. Walk away. Let me have these two, and you can leave." That terrified her even more. It sounded like the devil was trying to make a bargain with her for the lives of her friends. She didn't want anything to happen to Rocky, and the thought of Freckle being hurt or killed was far too horrifying to think of. She let out a high-pitched keening sound.

"Okay…okay…idea time." Rocky said quickly. "I'll distract him. Use my lightning speed and ghostly stealth to my advantage. Thataway you have time to get the drop on him, Freckle." Calvin gave him a nod. "Alright. Here goes nothing…"

Rocky Rickaby leapt up and bolted from the car. He made it only six feet from the bumper before a round fired from Frost's right-hand pistol caught him in the left leg. He instinctively jerked backwards, his intuition and flexibility saving his life as the gunman fired twice more, one bullet barely skimming the top of his head, and the other punching a hole through the meat of his left arm. Rocky let out a cry and fell to his back, clutching his injured arm. He looked to see the dark figure of the shooter, silhouetted against the moonlit trees and inky sky. The poet in him couldn't help but recognize the dark beauty, the perfect, wonderful terribleness of the picture. Rocky winced as the figure, standing twenty feet away, aimed his pistols.

"Don't hurt him!" Ivy's voice cried out. She dove from behind the car and on top of Rocky, shielding his body with her own. "Please no. Pleasepleaseplease…" Frost hesitated for a moment, and his hands shook for a brief instant. He felt a lump rise in his throat, but jerked his head, clearing these distracting emotions from his mind.

"Get out…of the way…" He growled. Ivy's ears perked up. She stared through the darkness at the figure who had just unleashed such a cannonade upon them, and her voice hitched.

"M…Mister Fisher?" She quaked.

"Move." He said grimly.

"Wh…why are you doing this?" She asked. "I don't understand."

"Go Ivy…" Rocky said. "…don't sacrifice yourself for me…after everything…I don't deserve it…" Frost felt his resolve waver. What the Hell was he doing out here? These weren't gangsters, at least the kind he spent his life in the presence of. These were poseurs, young men and girls trying to be gangsters. He once again shoved those thoughts down deep and buried them under a pile of duty and dark detritus. They were steal thieves and criminals, and he had a job to do. His grip tightened on his pistols and he lined up his sights. He could make the shot. He could hit the musician, despite the girl…

"ARGGHHHA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAA!" Freckle exploded, laughing maniacally as he leapt up on the hood of the car and opened fire with his Thompson submachine gun. Frost felt two rounds impact his bullet-proofed vest, and felt the tugs of a couple more passing through his coat before his instinct kicked in, and he dove forward, tucking into a roll and coming up shooting. Calvin snarled viciously and let himself fall from the car, dropping to a kneeling position before popping up and firing through the blow-out windows.

Frost was at an impasse. Where had the chopper come from, and was this the same guy who moments before seemed on the verge of a nihilistic collapse? Now the boy had the machine gun and the cover, and Frost was in the open with the lesser weapons. He growled under his breath and rolled to his left, avoiding a stream of bullets that traced the ground behind him like a Singer sewing machine. He dove into a depression in the ground, and quickly reloaded his pistols.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go!" Ivy screamed as Freckle started his mad fusillade. She dragged Rocky to his feet and shoving him to the car and into the backseat. She jumped in through the passenger-side door and squirmed into position behind the wheel. "Please work, please work…" She stomped the starter button, and the engine made a grinding noise. She pulled the throttle halfway out and tried again. The engine miraculously chugged to life.

Frost rose to kneeling and fired at Freckle, who was now shooting from his position behind the back of the car. Three of the gunfighter's rounds pinged off of the D pillar near his face. Ivy dropped the car into reverse, and Freckle hopped upon the running board. She floored the accelerator, and the car limped backwards, clacking and knocking noises emanating from the shot-up engine compartment. Frost fired four more times, one round skittering across the roof and cutting a gash in Freckle's right bicep. He let out a scream and fired again at Frost, who suddenly felt a round tear into his right thigh.

"Damnation…" He breathed, and dropped back into the cavity, firing blindly in the direction of the retreating automobile. He ran dry, reloaded, and popped back up. By now, Ivy had turned the car around, and it was speeding off as fast as three flat tires and a shot-up motor would allow. Frost aimed at the car, now nearly a hundred yards away and he alternated fire from his pistols until he had emptied both. He reloaded and watched as the Ford sedan disappeared into the night. "Not bad, kid…" He took a step and his leg almost buckled.

"Fuck…" He hissed. The 1911's were jammed back into their holsters, and Frost limped over and retrieved his rifle, his bandolier and his hat. He stumbled back into the trees, and heavily sat down on a log. He unfastened the strap from the old military haversack he'd brought along, and tied it around the top of his thigh, cinching it tight. Then he stood and trudged off toward civilization.

And so the first contact has been made, and it looks like The Lackadaisy crew managed to escape mostly intact. Barely. If it hadn't been for Ivy, Rocky would have been a goner for sure. What will happen now that Frost has drawn first blood? Tune in next time to find out! I will return with the next chapter soon, so until then, so long and goodnight!