Greetings and salutations everyone. I know it's been a while, and trust me when I say I have been inundated with all manner of life's contrivances and was unable to devote any time to this story or anything else for that matter. The weather has been off its nut lately! In the past month, I've been snowed in, froze out, power's gone out, we've had gale-force winds, and now have catastrophic flooding in the area. To make it all the better, we're about to have another snowstorm and deep freeze. But I'm back, and I come bearing a new chapter. So without further ado, enjoy!
The car pulled up behind the Maribel, a nondescript black 1922 Model T they'd stolen from some farmhouse in Illinois. They'd torched the other on an abandoned homestead, and driven this one back to the city. Frost and Serafine got out of the car, carrying the bags of money from the heist, along with their weapons. Drake tossed his Thompson and his carpetbag into the back seat of his own sedan, along with his spare drum magazine and the Auto-5 shotgun he'd liberated from the dead moonshiners. Serafine laughed behind him, and he turned to see her leaned in the window of the stolen car.
"Nico…" The dolled-up Cajun woman said in a casual tone, "…take this hunk a' junk down to th' river an' let it set sail."
"Absoulement…if it makes it that far." The big white cat returned, slapping the driver's side door. "I can't wait to be back a'hind de wheel of somethin' dat travel's faster'n smell, hahaha." He shrugged. "I'll get rid a' this boiler and take a cab back. Don't ya go spend all that money widout me now, sis."
"Mmm…den you better hurry back, before I find myself a bottle a' highbrow alcool an' a débauché poker game."
"Save me un spot at de table." He grinned. "See ya in a few." With that, Nicodeme drove away. She turned to the gunman.
"Well, whaddya waitin' for cher?" She grinned. "Let's go divide da spoils of our plunder."
…
Mordecai sat in the wingback chair, his eyes on the telephone beside him. He raised an eyebrow. There was one more name on the list, one person who might be able to put together all of the pieces of the puzzle Heller had spent the last week collecting. This Frost was an unknown variable, a detriment to the orderly function of his existence, and to the normal operations of The Marigold Gang, the city and as far as he could tell, rationality itself. Nobody was that chaotic, that disturbingly violent. At least nobody with his frustratingly obscure qualities and lack of discernable pedigree.
Frost was akin to something from a fable…some dark-clad gunman out of one of those ridiculous cowboy dime novels some of his associates read on occasion. An enigmatic and dangerous foe, blowing into town from parts unknown…acting as a perfect antithesis for the story's hero. Of course those stories were all based on some modicum of fact, some deadly and probably deranged individual who had won a few altercations by luck or skill with their firearms, and subsequently had legends built up around them, embellished more and more by each tongue until they had achieved some sort of godlike station.
In Frost, Mordecai was reminded of Bad Frank Phillips, the freelance gunfighter, bounty hunter and outright killer from the latter quarter of the last century. A man who struck fear into all he met by way of his reputation, a reputation he himself bolstered with fantastical tales of how many people he had killed, how fast and deadly his prowess with a revolver. All a façade. If Phillips had been so deadly, would he have been shot in a drunken brawl over a woman?
Frost was probably no different, Heller believed, a scoundrel perhaps. Likely some veteran of The Great War with a modicum of ability with a gun, unable to settle down and live a respectable life due to some latent character flaw. A vagabond, a listless thug imbued with the carnal ability to murder, and just enough intelligence to construct a veneer of professionalism and enough craftiness to escape the clutches of the law until now. And now, Mordecai had the opportunity to prove his theory. He reached over and picked up the telephone.
"Ah yes…get me Washington, D.C. W.A.R. 9047." He stated. "Yes, I can hold." He tapped the claws of his left hand rhythmically against the upholstered arm of the chair as the long-distance call was patched through.
"United States Department of War…" A female secretary answered, "…office of ordnance supply. How can I direct your call?"
"The office of Lt. Colonel Abraham J. Wagner." Heller replied.
"One moment." The secretary said. Mordecai snarled boredly.
"Colonel Wagner. Who am I speaking with?" A voice greeted on the other end of the line.
"Never you mind about that formality, Colonel." Heller began. "Is this a private, secure call?"
"It is…"
"Very well. I am merely a representative of one of many organizations with whom you have conducted business in the past."
"Mm. What manner of business?" The Army officer asked suspiciously.
"The disposal of surplus military equipment." Mordecai replied. "And I assure you that the transactions conducted in previous years have been most economically satisfactory for all parties involved."
"I see…I see…" Wagner muttered. "And may I conclude sir, that you wish to place an order for a quantity of the surplus we have coming up for auction?" Heller paused. This was a gamble. He had requested permission from Mister Sweet to purchase some more weapons the night before. This had been of course on the pretense that with their operation on the verge of expanding, they would need more muscle, and by that extension, more guns. Sweet had complied.
"Certainly…a small order will suffice."
"And what exactly do you need, sir?" The Colonel inquired.
"Hmm. Someone who places business first…I do enjoy a professional conversation." Mordecai commented. "Very well. We should like four brooms, 2 long bars and a dozen ponies. How much would that be?"
"Small order." Colonel Wagner commented. "Where is this going?"
"Saint Louis." Heller stated.
"Ah. That will cost you three-thousand with delivery." The corrupt Military officer said. "Sure you don't need anything else sir?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do." Mordecai replied. "I have some names, possibly of former soldiers who took part in the last conflict. I would like to know more about them, and would pay you an additional two-hundred should you be able to provide me with that information."
"I may be able to provide you with that information. And what exactly do you need to know about these fine servicemen?"
"Everything. Where they were born, where they live, their military record, everything." Mordecai explained. "I need physical descriptions of them, down to their shoe size and eye color."
"I…I am not going to ask what you will do with that information…" Wagner muttered. "It will be done. What are the names?" Mordecai Heller smirked.
…..
"Oh my…my my my…" Serafine cooed, looking at the three piles of money on the table before them. "Two thousand an' change…each. Dats what I call a good day!"
"It was a decent job." Frost stated. He turned up his glass of whiskey sour and drained it in one gulp. Serafine stared at him incredulously as he poured a couple ounces of bourbon into the tumbler. He'd already drank three shots of rum and the whiskey sour, on top of the half a bottle of Canadian he'd had in the car. She still hadn't gotten over how much this cat could drink and still function. How much did somebody have to drink to develop that kind of tolerance? Or maybe he was just always extremely drunk and just lived that way.
"Mm…maybe we should do dis again sometime cher…whaddya say?" She said with a sly grin.
"No." He answered. "When my job is finished, I am going to leave." He drained the glass. "I'm leaving this fucking city. These fucking crazy people. All you little fucking guttersnipes…wrestling for crumbs…" He poured another glass of whiskey as Serafine huffed and furrowed her eyebrows irritably.
"Pour l'amour de la baise! Jes what in th' Hell you got against me anyways, Frost?!" She demanded. He drank half the glass and sat it down, then raked his stack of money toward himself.
"You are reckless." He grumbled apathetically. "Blood drunk. Unprofessional. Probably screwy."
"I know what the hell I'm doin'." She growled. "An' I've stayed above ground this long."
"Broken watch is right…twice a day." He muttered, and stood, stuffing the money into his pockets. Serafine bolted to her feet and squared with the gunman, staring up into his eyes with a barely-restrained ferocity. "Are you sure…you want to do what it is…you're thinking about doing…" He said in a low advisory tone.
"Ya know Frost…" She began, "…there's times I don't get you. You could've yelled at me, argued when I thought you was a haint or a shadowman, an' you didn't. Lotta guys'd try an' raise their hand on a lady for sayin' some a the things I've said a you, but you ain't. You give me a fun box for Boudreaux…you came back when I was pinned down by them coppers." She huffed. "Then you turn right around and act like you no give two shits about nuthin' and nobody." Frost stood there, a bored look on his face. He blinked, and started to walk around her.
"Nuh-uh." She protested, moving to block his escape. "I seen some real hard-boiled droppers in my life. You de real deal, Frost. I ain't gonna lie, I'm carryin' a torch somethin' fierce for the only guy I ever met that could kill me. Damnit, I'm torn between having the curse on ya and wantin' to kiss them big frowny lips. Now after us getting' shot at together, I think you owe it to me to tell me what your problem is."
"Bank's closed." He stated. "I don't chase skirts. I don't care how you feel. You must be crazy…wanting to go around with a dead guy."
"I already figured that you ain't from the otherside…" She interjected.
"But I am dead." He replied coldly. "So are you. Minute you kill your first person, you die with them. Only difference…you and me…people like us…we're still walkin' around. Like some of your Hoodoo stuff. I'll get mine. Maybe. You'll get yours. You run with me, you'll get yours a lot quicker." Her expression softened a bit.
"You musta seen a whooolle lotta death to get you this way." She said gently.
"Yeah." He agreed. "Now I'm gonna take the air. Got work to do. Let me alone." He started to walk past her, when Serafine grabbed him by the lapels. She drew herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. He just stared blankly at her.
"Now get the Hell outta here, shadowman." She growled. "Fore I break your nose." He turned and left the room. He started toward the elevator when he heard a voice behind him.
"Ah yes, Frost." Heller greeted coldly. "I was looking for you, in fact."
"Really…" The gunfighter replied. He slowly turned to face the gang's lieutenant. "That good…or bad?"
"Just making certain that last night's job went smoothly." Heller offered.
"Yeah." Frost answered. "I think they got the message."
"I do appreciate efficiency." The tuxedo cat returned. He narrowed his eyes. "The three of you did not return until recently. I trust there were no complications along the way…"
No…" The gunman responded. "Just a long night. Had to ditch the car. Spent the night in Illinois. Just got back an hour ago." Mordecai gave him a look that most poker players could only hope to mimic.
"Quite. You didn't happen to spend the night in the small town of Centralia by chance, did you?"
"Greenville."
"Oh. Then you three, by unhappy accident and mere vicissitude of orienteering seem to have missed the bank robbery that occurred earlier this morning." Mordecai stated. Now it was Frost's turn to appear stoical and inscrutable.
"Somebody robbed a bank." He said. "Here? Too bad. Could have…given them some advice."
"Do not presume to play the fool. I know you had something to do with that bank that was held up and extorted in Illinois, Frost."
"Oh yeah…prove it." Frost challenged. "I have someplace to be…a job to do."
"I wonder what Serafine would say should I ask her about this little concern…" Heller said knowingly.
"Probably what I told you." Frost answered. "Probably be more vile about it. She's tired. Going to bed. Know how a gal gets when you disturb their beauty sleep." Mordecai raised an eyebrow.
"Funny you just exited her suite. One may even assume that there's something untoward happening betwixt the two of you." He ventured. Frost leaned in more closely, making the other cat recoil slightly.
"Now who's playing the fool, Heller…" He replied, and cocked his head. "Don't go…starting gossip now. Like an old biddy. Should know better." He gave a sardonic half-smile, and reached in, adjusting Mordecai's marigold boutonniere. "I'm going to work. Punching the time clock. Abyssinia, Henry." With that, he turned and stalked off, leaving Heller to readjust the flower on his lapel and dust off his suit.
Frost was initially going to drive to the boardinghouse, but decided instead to spend the night in the room above the hardware store. He didn't like the idea of Heller or the Savoy's barging in on him, and he needed to observe the Lackadaisy joint a little more anyway. If he played his cards right, he reasoned, he could get rid of the rival bootleggers, get paid, and be out of town within a week. He pulled in behind the large building, tossed a blanket over the guns on the backseat, picked up his carpetbag and went up to his room.
He dropped down in the chair by the window and propped his leg up on the radiator. There was a dull throb in his thigh, and he growled at the injury as if he could frighten it away. The gunman picked up a bottle of whiskey from the floor, started to take a drink, then sat it down. Instead, he went to the bathroom, filled his tin cup with water from the tap and drank down half of it. He resumed his position in the chair by the window and proceeded to munch on a piece of pilot bread, washing it down with the rest of the water.
Frost whiled away the evening by watching the café across the street. He watched as Ivy closed the restaurant around 5pm. Around six, that bulldike socialist girl came by, and was allowed to enter the door. A few minutes later, a cat in a well-worn suit did the same. He couldn't help but shake his head at how obvious and amateurish their entire outfit was. It was a thousand wonders they hadn't been raided so far. He ate another piece of pilot bread, and took a swig of whiskey.
Around 8pm, as the sun set and the street turned dark, Frost saw Ivy leave the establishment, dressed in a yellow dress and a black jumper, and start down the sidewalk. From his lofty vantage point, the gunfighter could see her side of the street better than she herself could. He spotted the pair of ruffians, concealed in the shadows, just inside an alleyway she was approaching. His right eyebrow raised. One of the hooligans peeked out from around the corner and then nudged his accomplice.
Frost cocked his head. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. He didn't want to interfere. Hell, if the two goons did something to the girl, it would be another blow to his employer's enemies. Still, it didn't sit right with him. Killing gangsters and assassins was one thing. A fella hurting some kid? That was unprofessional. Messy. Still, it wasn't he who was doing it. He watched as she walked closer to the alley, blissfully unaware of the danger she was in. She had fixed his car. His ear twitched. She was sweet. Then his tail.
"Fuck." He sighed.
Ivy walked down the dark sidewalk, humming to herself. The gentle melody of "Come Josephine in my Flying Machine" drifted from her lips as she walked, imagining herself piloting an aeroplane. She'd have to do that someday. It looked like fun. Her mind turned to her important mission. Mister Jenkins had asked to be informed if the club was going to be open tonight. Since he only lived three blocks down from the speakeasy, Ivy had volunteered to run down the street and fetch him. She wasn't too concerned about venturing down the sidewalk this time of evening. It was usually a safe neighborhood.
She came to an alley, when all of a sudden, she felt a hand close over her mouth. Ivy tried to let out a scream, but only managed a defiant squeak as an arm wrapped around her chest and she felt herself being dragged into the alley. She was roughly thrown to the ground. She hopped to her feet and started to run, only to find herself looking up into the face of a large, disheveled cat in a blue shirt and flat cap. She took a step back, and bumped into something akin to a mountain. Ivy looked upwards to see another unpleasant-looking cat in a beat-up old fedora glaring down at her. He flicked open a knife, and her eyes crossed as she watched the blade glinting in front of her face.
"Go ahead an' scream, girlie." The cat with the knife growled menacingly. "It'll be the last sound you ever make." Ivy let out a hushed whimper.
"Wh…what do you want?" She quaked.
"Lets start with any cabbage you got on you." The other cat sneered, stepping closer. She could see the butt of a revolver tucked into the front of his pants, and her eyes widened.
"Oh I…um…c…cabbage?" She stammered.
"Cabbage!" The first cat declared. "Money, you dizzy broad!" She clamped her eyes shut.
"Y…yeah, sure pal." She said, and pulled five dollar bills from her purse. The second cat grabbed it from her hand. She dug around in her purse and pulled out a small fistful of change. The cat with the knife used his free hand to slap the coins out of her hand, sending them to the ground.
"That's it?!" He asked. "Lil' flapper like you…thought you'd have at least a ten on you."
"Oh well…guess we'll have to extract payment another way." The cat with the gun replied. Ivy squeaked again.
"L…listen fellas…okay…" She trembled. "I got friends…" The cat with the knife grabbed her by the hair and held the blade to her throat.
"Yeah, you got friends?" He returned darkly. "Bet you got big tough friends…you play in the sandbox together, you and your friends?"
"Please." Ivy managed to get out.
"Bet those pearls are worth something." Revolver cat said with a grin. "Hand 'em over."
"Takes a reeeaaaal tough nut to slap a kid around." A voice growled from the entrance of the alley. "Must not have the…sand to stick up an old lady." The cat with the knife turned to face the newcomer, his knife held at the ready.
"Get outta here, pal." He called. "You don't want any of this party."
"Maybe I do…" Frost replied, stepping slowly into the alleyway. His left eye twitched. "Maybe I want to teach a couple of…ugly, rotten…two-bit punk cowards…how to dance." Ivy's eyes widened.
"Wh…Mister Fisher?" She gasped.
"Take a bunk, Ivy." Frost stated coldly. "Scram. The grownups gotta little talking to do." He cocked his head at the knife-wielding thug as he stood inches from the taller, bigger cat' face. "Don't we…shithead?"
The knife-wielding thug let out an angry roar and stabbed forward with his switchblade. Frost let the blade harmlessly stab into the outer pinstripe material of his armored vest, then delivered a solid punch to the big guy's jaw. To the would-be mugger, it felt like a sledgehammer had impacted his face. Frost kneed the thug in the groin, and drew back his right fist, the faintest gleam emanating from the brass knuckles he wore. He began to hammer blow after blow into the cat's head until the miscreant went down on his knees. Frost drew back one last time and swung downward, the blow making a sickening crack that reverberated through the alley. He now turned his attention to the second hoodlum.
"Gah…you wait your turn." The hood growled, slinging Ivy into a pile of discarded wooden crates and refuse piled against the wall. Frost walked calmly toward him as he drew his revolver. A moment too late. Frost deflected the cat's right arm, and trapped it in his left armpit before delivering a headbutt to the taller attacker's face. As soon as the guy's head rocked back, Frost snapped a punch with his brass knuckles to his throat. A blow to the nose sent his head back again, followed by another solid punch to the throat. The thug let out choking sounds and dropped his revolver, his free hand going to his throat. Frost took this opening and jacked him several times in the ribs with his metal-shrouded fist. He felt bone crack, and swept the cat off his feet, landing him on his back on the ground. Two more blows to the face and a final one to the throat, and the hood stopped moving.
"You motherfucker…" The first thug bellowed, recovering just enough to make another go of it. He ran at Frost, his knife held high in a stabbing grip. The gunman stoically let his stab downwards, blocked the guy's right hand with his left forearm, and delivered a crushing blow to his windpipe. Stunning his opponent, Frost twisted the cat's arm around behind him, tore the knife from his grasp and stabbed it through the mugger's hand and into his lower back, pinning his hand in place. He then grabbed the cat by the right ear and rapped heavily on the side of his head, temple and face with the brass knuckles. Then with a small growl of exertion, he spun around the thug, twisted his left arm back and rammed him face-first into the brick wall of the alley. Not satisfied with the damage, he took the back of the criminal's head and planted his face firmly into the wall a second time. With a faint gurgling sound, the hood slumped to the ground.
Ivy watched all of this with a sense of horror commingled with fascination. What this impossibly terrifying assassin had done a couple nights before was extreme enough. And that was with guns. Now, she was watching this guy, who was actively trying to kill her friends and associates, taking these two armed robbers apart like they were made of paper. Who was he? And why did he save her? Ivy's mind was a blur of confusion and fear as the menacing figure finished the second thug and now turned toward her. She backed up into the pile of refuse she was still laying in, trying to melt into the detritus and disappear. He stopped, only a few feet away, looking down on her.
"D…don't kill me…" She whimpered. "Please…"
"I'm not after you." Frost stated. He glanced down to see the folded bills the mugger had taken from her. He picked them up and handed them back to the teenager. "Wanted you dead…woulda killed you already. After your colleagues." Ivy stared up at him for a moment, then slowly took the money from his hand. He reached down and grabbed her arm and pulled the young woman to her feet. "Run off. Beat it." He said. "Before your pardon gets…revoked."
"Um…thanks…" Ivy muttered, backing away from the gunman. "…you know, for…saving me."
"Yeah." Frost replied unemotionally, not even looking her way. She stopped, just short of the end of the alley.
"Do you…have to k…to go after my friends?" She asked softly.
"Yeah…I do." He answered. Her ears flattened.
"Wh…why?" She squeaked. "What'd we do to you?"
"Nothing." He said. "Nothing personal. Business. It's my job…to kill your…friends."
"Can we…what if we paid you not to…"
"You can't afford me." He advised in his low voice.
"Oh…well…why don't you want to kill me?"
"You're not on the list, kid." He growled. "Theirs or mine. Best you stay that way. Walk away. Don't go to the speakeasy anymore."
"No!" Ivy cried out, clutching her fists at her side. "I don't care how big and utterly terrifying you are, mister! I won't leave my friends!" She panted, tears welling up in her yellow eyes. "You wanna kill them, you'll have to do me too, ya hear me?" Frost sighed and shook his head.
"Pity. Go then. Tell your boss I'm coming. I'm coming…real soon. Tell her…everyone will die." He advised in a dark tone that sent shivers down Ivy's spine. Her fur and tail puffed out from the palpable danger in his voice. "Next time I…pay your little club a visit…my advice to you…duck." His head turned toward her, his pale-yellow eyes picking up enough ambient light to glow slightly in the darkness of the alley. "Duck…and pray…" Ivy let out a gasp and ran as fast as she could back to the club. Frost stepped out onto the sidewalk and watched her bolt back into The Lackadaisy before crossing the street and returning to his own room.
Ivy slammed the door of The Little Daisy Café, locked both the door latch and the knob, and hurried down the stairs to the speakeasy below. She ran past a confused Horatio, and into the club. The scared teenager hurried to the bar, hopped up on a barstool, and buried her head in her hands, releasing a round of pent-up sobs and whimpers.
"So what's the matter with you, toots?" The androgynous anarchist girl asked from a couple seats away.
"Ohmygosh…guy's gonna…two maniacs…almost died." Ivy panted.
"Two maniacs?" The tomboy repeated like it was a weather report. "Yowza. They still there?"
"Nonono, they're dead!" Ivy groaned emotionally, tears in her eyes.
"Hot dog, Sheba…so what's the problem?" The other girl shrugged and took a drink of her gin and tonic.
"Ivy…sweetheart, what's wrong?!" Mitzi exclaimed, rushing over. She threw an arm over the girl's shoulders as Viktor leaned over the counter, an angry expression on his face.
"Who I need to break?" He growled.
"N…nobody…" Ivy returned. "I saw him. Mister Fisher. He was in an alley…just up the road."
"I go break him." Viktor nodded.
"No!" Ivy shouted. "Don't you go out there! Stay away from him! It was…it…"
"What happened?" Mitzi implored.
"These two guys…" Ivy began, "…they grabbed me and pulled me into the alley. They robbed me and…I dunno what they were up to, but I know it was gonna be bad." She sniffed. "Then blammo, outta nowhere, Mister Fishers shows up. He mopped the floor with those guys...like I'm pretty sure they're dead right now." Mitzi's eyes darted from side to side as she took all of this in, her mind turning.
"Go on, sweetie." She urged.
"Well…one of those thugs had a knife, and the other one had a gun. Fisher didn't care. He took 'em apart with his bare hands. Then, he said he wasn't there to kill me, but he's gonna kill everybody here." Ivy started breathing harder, and Viktor placed a glass of water before her. "He said he's coming…like really soon."
"Good." Viktor stated bitterly. "Let him come. I make him red spot on floor." Ivy let out a choked cry.
"You don't understand!" She exclaimed. "He's like…one of those tank things. You didn't see him. He's a monster or something, and nobody can beat him!" The tomboy at the bar slurped her beverage loudly and looked over.
"So…he's gonna kill everybody here?" She asked.
"No…just us, I think." Ivy muttered.
"Okay." The gal in men's clothes shrugged and started drinking again.
"You like face where it is?" Viktor asked menacingly.
"Yeah, sure." She answered.
"Then stay out private conversation." The bartender uttered. Her blue eyes widened for a moment.
"Don't gotta tell me twice, big guy." She acquiesced, and shrank in her seat, pretending to ignore everything around her.
"So he saved your life, then sent you back here to tell us all this?" Mitzi clarified.
"I guess so." Ivy sighed. "Ohhhh…what a week it's been…"
"Come on Ivy…" Mitzi sighed, "I think we all need to have a talk."
Curiouser and curiouser...Frost saved Ivy. But he certainly has designs on obliterating the Lackadaisy. Like a tempest brewing in the offing, things are beginning to point toward a tumultuous time to come. So what do you think will happen? And what was with our antagonistic anti-villain's sudden act of heroism? Let me know what you think in the reviews! I'll try to have another chapter up in a week or so, depending on how inclement the weather is here. So until then loyal readers, so long and good night!