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Chapter Text

Three sisters entered Japantown for the eldest’s business meeting. She kept her blue bag close to her chest. In the cab, silence abounded. Each girl left her words back home, because they thought they’d talk later. The cab stopped, the girls left, and the thoughts came back. They were too little too late; they all knew it. Two had their last things stolen before the night was over. 

It was a rainy day when it began and would be when it ended.

During San Francisco’s downpours, folks came to the Irishwoman’s speakeasy for two reasons: to nurse short plans with a bottle, or to think. The white-haired soldier did both.

Windy rain was hell’s finest invention. The rain shielded God’s eyes and the wind sang Satan’s praises after murders or gang wars. Gales and thunder were saved for the lowest yet. These fell to anyone who wanted too much, who played storms for something to pass the time. She should’ve quit years ago. She told herself after the second round in Singapore’s seas that she’d stop digging. Then it was England’s museums; Korea called her a liar, so here she was, waiting for the pride that comes before the fall. But the games moved her like nothing else. 

“The next round’s on me,” Vestal said.

“Jesus fuck,” Colorado muttered. “Knock, can’t you?”

Vestal knocked on wood and clasped her hands together. “I thought you were dead.”

“Seems to be a common thing nowadays. Thinking. Or, more, the lack of it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I thought I’d see you with someone? Where did she go?”

Colorado closed her eyes. The photo in her breast pocket burned. “Ran off.”

Vestal asked why without any expression. Colorado glared, full of spite.

“Oh, no. Don’t worry if you can’t say. We’ve been friends for a long time, haven’t we?” Something crisp slid between them. Colorado’s eyes stayed closed, so her ears saw Vestal name an idea sweetened with Japantown’s daifuku mochi and soured by innocent danger. God did what God would, Vestal wanted another game. Vestal wasn’t finished. Colorado was.

“Don’t drag me into this.” Colorado cut in. “I got you your pieces yesterday.”

“Your name’s on the ledger already. Prosecutor said it wasn’t enough. … Look, don't be like that, I’m not going to abandon you. …I'm really sorry about Korea, but I need to take care of this girl. I, we don’t choose our mistakes. I understand how you feel.”

Colorado slammed her drink down. “You don’t understand like how I understand. That six shooter - I know it. I bought some stuff from a man. I knew his name. Shit got traced and he’s serving fifteen in your little house on the prairie.” Vestal hmmed. Colorado continued. “I’ve got responsibilities. If your guys get my guys, I’m getting off with more than a slap on the wrist. No fault of mine, but they come after me because they think I'm the mole here. They ask for your hands and then they break them. Hurts like a bastard but hurts more knowing else they’ll just break your back if you complain. So fine, you go out there. You need guns, I’ll get them. But don’t trace them.”

“Alright. I care about you,” Vestal nodded and sighed. “I trust you. I wish I didn't have to ask. I just really need this done right.”

Colorado took the twenty and stood. “Wish I never did it. Don’t find me again.” The storm soon swallowed Colorado’s short hair. Vestal slid another apologetic twenty towards the barkeep and left; Belfast watched her disappear in the mean green rain.

Chapter Text

Twenty years later, Essex drives to the diner and waits. Another car pulls into the lot, and a teen steps out in her Sunday best. The red Corvette waits until the girl enters the establishment, then backs out and leaves. The driver was a blonde woman wearing sunglasses and a cap; Essex scribbles everything she witnessed on a paper pad she slides into her pocket before entering the establishment herself. The diner is busy. Plates click against silverware, sausages sizzle in the kitchen, and songs stream from the jukebox. Blue under the Bud Light neon sign, the girl meekly waits for counter service. Essex flattens the back of her skirt and sidles into a seat next by.

“Hi, Helena.” Essex licks her lips and watches the sun shower outside. Helena absentmindedly follows her gaze, working red stripes out of her cuticles. “Are you alright?”

Helena shakes her head. “I… lost my appeal. When I go back in a couple of weeks, it’ll be for my sentencing. I was wondering if you’re Enterprise? I’ve heard the things you do.”

Essex leans against the counter. “Depends who’s asking. What kind of things?”

“You’re the Sherlock of San Fran, even after parting with the police. You caught the four ringleaders of the Row murders in a week, even though everyone thought they were suicides! You only take cases you’re interested in but turn out to be right most of the time. Your intuition is legendary.” Helena’s voice flows high and strong. “I need you to help me.”

“All right, time to be honest. I… am actually Essex, not Enterprise. But I am a detective.”

“Oh,” Helena utters like she’s made a mistake.

“I’m on your side.” Essex orders pancakes with runny fried eggs and crosses her arms. “I’m under pressure to prosecute, but nothing adds up. I’ve heard you’re related to a robbery in Pacific Heights and I need the goods, but are you flight risk? I do know you hijacked that car-”

“I shouldn’t have taken that Blue Rose job,” Helena admits. “It wasn’t for me.”

“Who gave it to you?” Essex asks, touching her notepad. “Mafia? Triad?”

“I don’t know.” Helena grimaces. “I was never actually part of the robbery. The men didn’t want me to join them. They just needed five machine guns. Someone told them I could give a good sum for M16s - same guy sold me out. I recognized the cops closing in and tried to escape, but I crashed. They’re seeking damages for that.” Helena grins.

“Do you do any honest work?”

Helena says softly, “I used to work in national reconnaissance.” She smiles but it turns sad. “If only there was a radar we could rely on all the time to make people understand why we do the things we do. Then maybe it would have protected me from this mess.”

Essex looks at Helena looking at the bottom of her mug and thinks about Enterprise. Twenty years since her two sisters were murdered, she wants one hungry thing: cold revenge. Everything meant nothing if it didn’t get her closer to that goal. No matter what the police offered to try and entice her into helping them, Enterprise exclusively obsessed over herself. 

Leave the lights on all night. Keep the door locked always. Don’t touch the MRE’s. Don’t ask questions. Small things became big things. Essex felt like a housewife with all the laundry she folded, the meals she cooked, and the messes she cleaned off the linoleum. Three sixty five days a year, three meals a day, immediately the kitchen felt less and less like the small room of her own she dreamed of back at Newport News and become a physical manifestation of their convoluted symbiosis. With every pot of soup and rice, she worried and waited until she wasn't sure what she was doing and finally felt like the idiot she was. Damn that Vestal: Essex never signed up to be an emotional repository, and on day one she made plans to kick Enterprise out of her house.

But. Essex’s success is only because of her ties to Enterprise. If the woman leaves, where does that leave Essex? If Big E’s luck is all that’s keeping her relevant in SF City, how can she face her sisters? Limping back home with nine dollars left in her pocket, same way she left?

But. Essex loses her job, and Enterprise’s income becomes their lifeline. It’s painful, but Essex swallows her pride and becomes the private investigator's assistant, collecting pieces of evidence like a summa cum laude criminology major and working the kitchens for information in her free time. Time yields its yesterdays like it gives its tomorrows: generously, if someone gives a good price.

The blue-haired girl is starting to get edgy. “So, do you want those goods I got or not?”

“Sure. Same time tomorrow, Irishwoman’s bar,” Essex says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Text

Three pairs of tuxedo trousers descend the airstair into San Francisco. Two guards flank a short Japanese woman with a deeply suspicious glare. They part the crowd with the color of risk. When they arrive at their destination, one of the guards stays in the limousine while two pairs of trousers depart. They cut through city alleyways until they find a back door. It leads to a grand hall filled with the appropriately dressed. All bow upon the lady’s arrival, and she commands them to sit as she elegantly folds herself into her place at the head of the table. 

On the other end sits Colorado, working her eyes on polished swords and paper screens. Nagato grew near unrecognizable in the fifteen years Colorado first and last saw her in Korea. The lychee pits for eyes were the same, but less love lived around the cheeks. More leg grew, too. This woman wasn’t eager to please. This woman leads a ring for illegal racing, though she doesn’t know that her associates also deal in the art of assassination. That’s where the left hand man comes in. Death is hopskotch compared to this physical, mental, and financial risk. With Vestal gone and her girl gone rogue, all Colorado cares about is how this game of blame ends.

“Thank you all for coming,” Nagato says in accented English. “Let it be known that we appreciate all of your efforts to enlighten our name. We would like to recognize those who have worked tirelessly towards raising our profits…” Colorado waits until her name is called.

“We approve,” Nagato says. “Your work has greatly facilitated our major operations.”

“The honor is all mine,” Colorado says in brusque Japanese. Those in attendance stir, though Nagato betrays no change in emotions. “I look forward to working with you.”

Halfway out the gate Nagato calls after her. “Colorado-san. Walk with me.”

The courtyard opens to wide cobblestone steps, carefully cultivated bonsai, and sakura. Beyond them sigh glittering waters and the occasional bwoo of boats, snck of fishing lines, shh of waves. Nagato’s guard, hand tucked in her jacket, leaves them a few wary paces of privacy.

“Tell me,” Nagato says. “You were dead. What miracle happened here?”

Forty years and clouds of smoke. Who would know where to start?

Colorado grunts. “Chotto matte kudasai.” 

“I can afford to wait,” Nagato says. “I have waited for a long time.”

Colorado closes her eyes. She was young when her daddy took Iwo Jima, but she didn’t know and just did as he told, which meant taking Japanese lessons from the local civilians who wanted the Americans gone as soon as possible. Her eyes were always red, some rare condition that let the blood show and not blue. The Japanese called her a yokai. Yeah, pretty much. “I first met her under the occupation. I told her the army doesn’t kill civilians. Her family surrendered.”

Starving kids littered the streets. She couldn’t avoid them, not when they were on her route to school. It’s easy to be mean when nobody means anything, so she was, and she ignored them and tried to avoid the caves where soldiers kept the war going. 

Fusou opened her eyes. 

Her mother and sister hidden in the caves, she only came out for water at night, which was why when Colorado decided to piss she had one hell of a scare with rattling branches and raspy lungs out at her from the bushes. It would’ve been funnier if it wasn’t so sad. 

Several minutes pass before Colorado finds enough courage to drag on. “I used to think I’d kill every last one of those invaders for what they did to my family. We were at Pearl Harbor. My sisters got hurt. I didn’t know what I’d do without the war. But then I wondered how many other Japanese kids never had anyone tell them it’s okay to surrender, or died before the end, and I can’t begin to think about how they must have felt. I wish I could say Jesus fuck I’m sorry but it wouldn’t do a thing. I won’t say sorry to you either.”

“Why did you leave?” Nagato demands. An edge lowers her soft voice. “Fusou-san was happy with you. She looked at you with such kindness in her eyes. I do not understand why you would choose to leave in the manner you did in Korea. What happened?”

Colorado dropped her cigarette into the ocean. "Ever heard of comfort women?”

Chapter Text

The sky is clear as death. Two seagulls swim through its fields under the thin layer of cotton that draws itself like a curtain over the color. The sky shines so powerfully that when Essex sees it, her eyes water. She glances instead at brown, tiny plump birds in spindly trees that scratch thin black lines through the heavens. February winter set her fingers shivering in their gloves. Its sensation cut sharp under her nails like the knives of an interrogator out for her sins.

Blue rose. Blue rose. Where did she hear that before?

The door opens; Essex gulps at the mess of books and newspapers on her floor. Red thumbtacks and white string pinned together pictures, words, and titles. Several she recognizes from previous cases she’d worked on with her partner: the Japanese-English dictionary from the Pacific Row murders, which let them decipher who was going to die, for what, and why; a bloody Bible that precipitated a church bombing and revealed a religious feud greased by European gangs; a poorly treated, ornate textbook containing all of Shakespeare’s plays and the cipher for a code used in the British gray market’s letters. Faces and places littered her house like leaves in the street. 

Essex unholstered her pistol and padded lightly through the kitchen. Not a stir ran through the house. Nobody else seemed to be home.

Someone burps in the bathroom. Essex puts down her gun and takes off her hat. Rubbing the bridge between her eyes, she opens the door and leans on the hinges.

“You seriously scared me to death,” Essex says.

The white-haired woman mutters, “What evidence have you got today?”

“Talked to a man who knew a man,” Essex says. “Man didn’t know much. You?”

“The killer belongs to a Japantown organization, so I combed through all of the cases we solved that have tangential relations to the yakuza and found that by combining them, I could read hidden messages.” Enterprise puts down her pen, flips over a journal, and reveals an appalling mess of red scribbles. “They’re holding a big race next week. If I find a way in, I might be able to find who ordered the hit.”

“Then what?” Essex says. “You storm the stronghold, guns blazing, like last time?”

“It would be a good setup for a sting operation,” Enterprise says to herself, walking past Essex and picking books off the floor. Enterprise peers outside and closes the curtains before pacing. “If I could prove my theory about the sakura tattoo, I could cut them down for a few more months. The CEO for their front might be here too-” The white-haired woman stops and shakes her head. “But theories shouldn’t be crafted without the proper data. It’s insensible. Facts should turn to fit theories before theories turn to fit facts.”

“I don’t think you’re thinking very clearly right now,” Essex says. “How many hours have you slept? Three? You ought to take better care of yourself, seriously. Wash your hands.”

“Whatever I’m thinking right now, I’m sure you’re thinking it quieter,” Enterprise says.

Unable to tell compliment from complaint, Essex hands her a glass of water.

“I can smell it,” Enterprise says after a long sip. “The game’s afoot. Crime’s common, but logic is rare. There was the Row murders and money. Arizona died because of her stocks; Oklahoma got crippled because of the casino; Miss California was hit because of her financial relationships. But Virginia was shot because she dug too deep. The trail goes thin. If they were struck, why were their sisters struck as well? The Mahan girls? Were their families involved? Or did the yakuza assume something and set out to prove it?”

“I thought it was just a coincidence,” Essex murmurs. “A little thing.”

Enterprise smiles. “To a great mind, little things don’t exist.”

The coffee maker heats up as one woman sits at the table with her miserable water and the second woman takes care of the kitchen. The water boils, and brown liquid drips into the glass pot, slowly and methodically creeping its way to the top. The second woman briskly opens a cupboard, takes out two white mugs, pours coffee into both mugs and slides one to the first woman. Mixing cream and sugar into hers, Essex downs the cup in one go.

Essex sighs. “What’s the plan?”

Two women march out of a busy store and down the sidewalk.

“You know Helena Hands?” The first says, aviators over her eyes.

“Mm. Yeah. The gunrunner.” The second, a blondie, cracks her neck.

“Got something juicy for you: she’s in cahoots with the cops! I saw it with my own eyes! Seems like the detective is on the case! I don’t know what tricks that pair has up their sleeves this time, but if Helena’s washed over there, it seems like they’ve got no good leads right now. Good girl. Pigs sacked her house because Bonnie Dick got caught, but they didn’t find anything.”

“Heh, how did the Busy Bees react?”

“Weird thing is they let her off first with a slap on the wrist. That girl must carry some real valuable goods! I’ve heard she gave a guy thirty machine guns for cheap even though the guy wouldn’t care to throw them away after they were done. Serials got lifted, so they sniffed around and the girl was thrown to the wolves there. Served some time, broke a hand. Seems she’s called Helena Hands because the boss put her hand in a drawer and shut it. Tough stuff!”

“Ahaha… guess it’s to be expected.” The blond girl looks uncomfortable.

“Yup yup! I’ve also heard that the cherry blossom folks are hosting a street race over by the pier this weekend. Most of the bets are up already. Lots of beautiful cars! Really good stuff! My sources tell me that quite the crowd will be there. Are you interested in the scoop?”

The women stop, surreptitiously shake hands, talk more and go their separate ways.

Her entry is the opposite of her escape. The back door beckons her in, and the glittering chandelier eyes her with approval as she trods the carpeted halls. Red carpet whispers against her feet, rustling with a texture in between velvet and nylon, woven in an intricate Native American pattern with zigzags and tassels. The plaster ogees watch her wondrously as she chooses rooms to deliberately poke her head, searching for someone after staying away so long. The manager wears an enticing gold dress in a crimson corner of the casino.

It takes a few seconds. Her eyebrows crook in a mix of emotions before joy settles down. 

“Oh, dang,” Nevada exclaims in a rich, honeyed voice. “You grew out your hair.”

“It’s good to see you again,” Colorado says and is surprised that she means it. 

They hug. Their hands linger on shoulders and wrists until Nevada pulls away to study Colorado’s face more closely, analyzing its curves and new cracks with a critical eye. She puts her hands on her hips and sighs. “Now don’t get me wrong; I like this fancy greenhorn look of yours, but there’s something here about the look in your eye. You want something, don’t you?” 

Colorado breathes hard and puts her hands in her pockets. “Not specifically. I just wanted to talk. I’m cooking some unripe fruits, so I’ve gotta ask some advice from the best chef I know.” Colorado’s eyes go sidelong. “But enough about me. How’s your sister?”

“Girl’s doing alright. Walking around more. Soon she’ll be independent again.”

Colorado nods. “That’s good to hear. I should write her a letter sometime.”

“All alright with me. She’s been bored, so it’d be good entertainment.”

They reminisce about past glories and schoolyard days before Colorado cuts to the chase.

“I’m not asking for any training, but I just wanted to see how you think about this.”

She lays out the idea, piece by piece. Nevada stays silent for a while.

“It’s a plan, that’s for sure,” Nevada chuckles, scratching the side of her head. “But, girl, insurance fraud? Reminds me of the things Vestal did - only that one could’ve cooked up some deuce of a scheme as this. I mean, self-defense is a hell of a weak offense. But where you gonna get the men to do what you want to do? It ain’t gonna be cheap to ask what you’re asking for.”

“I’ve got friends on the inside,” Colorado says.

“What’s the point of all this, though?” Nevada touches Colorado’s shoulder. “Something happen after Singapore? I never forgot the hundreds of thousands of dollars in a briefcase for that fake drug. I thought you’d quit after that crazy surf with the oil guy - never saw you get your part at the end. It was England after that, right? With the museums and the painting of the-”

“I rigged the auction,” Colorado says. “Was in Korea, too, when everything went bad.”

“That explains it,” Nevada nods to herself, retracing their shared history quietly.

“Can I smoke here?” Colorado asks.

“No. I can pour you a sugared rim if you play a round of slots.” Nevada grins. 

“Savvy of you,” Colorado mutters. “Capitalizing on the oral fixation.”

Nevada twirls a shaker. “I’m still here not for nothing honest.”

A worker circles the perimeter of a large stadium, sits down, and cracks open a six-pack. The woman quickly consumes each can and belches, wrinkling her nose but otherwise not complaining about the cheap free beer. She methodically eats a bag of chips and debates whether to work through an entire package of wienerwurst before the call comes. 

“How’s Caesar?” She initiates. The answer makes her shrug. “Yeah. I’m outside- the hell do you mean?” The woman scowls. “It’s Scharnhorst. Get me my team. …What?” Her eyebrows sink. She snorts. “…I've had enough of your bullshit.” The woman hangs up.

Wiping her face with her cotton sleeve, picking at the corner of her sleep-crusted eye, it’s a good Californian day to idle about, but the wicked never rest long. She recognizes the clack of heels in a flash. 

“Hey!” Scharnhorst calls to the footsteps, which pause at her accent. “You the client?”

“Depends who’s asking,” the pale-skinned tall woman answers deliberately.

“Don’t talk like a shitbag,” Scharnhorst stands in a stretch that shows off the sinew of her arms and the delicious strength of her neck. “You know my name already. What do you need?”

“Have you heard of the Watatsumi shrine?” The second woman says.

“Abandoned shack of wood? I know it. You want me to paint the house?”

“Well,” came quickly. “There’s a pest problem. I’d like you to take care of it.”

Scharnhorst shrugs. “Hm. What kind? We’ve had a lot of rats recently by the port.”

“Congratulations. I’m looking to clear a couple rooms of cockroaches and fire ants.”

The German relaxes and smiles. “What a challenge! Glad to take that off your hands.”

Colorado and Scharnhorst firmly shake hands, and Scharnhorst puts in an inner pocket the cash bound with two rubber bands. They walk off as strangers would aside from the hunger, renewed, on the first woman’s face and the grin, refreshed, on the second’s.

“You did what? ” Essex nearly shouts at her boss, a tall, self-assured chief who barely budges as the former supplies a steady stream of indignation. “I know I need to prosecute, but with the information she gave me that I gave you, you've been able to deduce where the robbers are going to strike next, and she still won’t get a plea deal? Is there some sort of information I’ve not been made aware of? I see no reason to time her arraignment like this!”

“Calm down, honey,” N.J. simpers. “Look, don’t’cha think you’re overreacting? All I did was get some legal consultants in, and nobody’s gotta let the law run out from under them while I’m here. The girls over there are still working out a plea deal, so just take a deep breath and walk around a little, okay? I’ve gotta take care of this thing and I’ll be right back.”

“Are you withholding evidence from me?” Essex says bluntly, putting off N.J.’s escape. “There are holes in the files you gave me and Enty’s thinking of tying them together herself. I’d rather not get into it, but I can’t stop her if you don’t give me full context.”

Jersey crosses her arms and looks at Essex. “You requested this specific case over my advice. If you can’t handle the assignment you wanted, I don’t think withheld files are to blame.”

“I’m sorry,” Essex says and looks down at the black dragon-painted shoes. “Alright.”

Satisfied, Chief N.J. pulls Essex into a hug and pats her on the back. “Aww. I really don’t mean to make you feel bad - you ever feel like you’ve got too much on your plate, just tell me, okay? I’ve got to be on my way now, honey. Good luck.” N.J. nods, smiles, and leaves.

The radiator’s buzz fills several seconds of silence; the clock slowly ticks towards one. In a fit of rage, Essex kicks the legs of her chair with a crack. It toddles over. She stumbles against the cabinet, clutching and rubbing her ankle, face contorted in annoyance. 

“I’m so tired of this,” Essex mumbles. 

Someone opens the door. “You alright? Heard something fall over.”

“I’m okay. It’s just, I’ve been stuck on this case, and I don’t know what I’m missing.”

Fighting Mary snorts. “Have you tried asking Enterprise?”

Essex shoots her a far sharper look than appropriate. “I'd rather not. I need to figure this one out myself.”

“Woah, okay. Calm down. Explain the situation to me then.” Mary spins the chair right side up and tosses herself front into it, crossing her arms over the back of the chair and leaning forward with an eager glint in her eyes. “Don’t go Sherlock Holmes on me, you hear? Now. Start from the beginning and be clear about it.”

So she tells her.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Kure, Hiroshima, the highway stretches in a long golden strip that winds up and over the docks like a ribbon of molten steel. Its rich history sits in full display with sharp white dots that beam off the bones of boats and shine off the sad mist in the snowy sky. Twenty years ago a stout Japanese woman stood reeling on the docks, mindful of the whipping sea that churned like milk in boiling pots, and she guided a plump glossy thing attached to the bloody tip of her hook and sinker. The fish was carefully slipped off and, with a quick and merciful crack, fell into a blue bucket beside her big black boots.

The woman was religious, so she prayed after her last catch to eight million gods before cleaning up and walking back to a small, decrepit wooden shack by the beach. 

It was haunted. All the villagers knew it: spirits screamed up storms on that side of the beach, but even after the worst bouts of shrieking, sighing, and shaking, the woman still rebuilt her shed every year after troublesome year. The spirits were kind, at first. Helpful, at first. Nice, in the way strangers are, then friends, before they shucked her aside. The town wanted to help, but their help soon turned mean and nasty. To its credit, the town was only dissuaded after the spirits began speaking to them in dreams. The woman did not seem to be bothered, or perhaps she felt entitled to having others experience the same curse laid upon her, so it was her blessedness, or at least spirituality, that made it so such an unaffected, unrepentant belief angered the settlers into pooling together a stirred-up, self-righteous pity which crowded out the buxom woman living by herself in a rundown outhouse by the sea and labeled her other. 

She was spirited away because one of her friend’s friends was stationed in Okinawa - he flew cargo to and from the South Vietnamese during the start of that war. Some time later, Fusou stepped onto the carpets of the San Francisco International Airport, marveled at its size, and waited to be picked up. Her friend’s friends were polite, left them alone, and let them talk. 

As Fusou acclimated to California’s sunny weather, bright people, and light folks, her friend took calls, went on trips, and earned good money. It was like this: Fusou, a smart woman, quickly understood the nature of her friend’s work and began helping out. It wasn’t difficult with the types of schemes they pulled, small-scale strikes that involved more acting than bureaucracy. It was efficient to provide tips here and there, play plus-one, and pamper the rich, until it wasn’t.

(There are no paper trails after the riots. There are documents for the handover of a business with no address, no employees, and no number. There are signatures in unmatched penmanship of untraceable names and undetectable origin. There is nothing else of note.  

Japantown is right across the highway from Chinatown, and the triads there are serious about their drug distribution. Protective rackets aside, there’s no good endings to joining a gang. You become their weapons, they send you to fight, and you die for nothing. Ghosts haunt San Francisco; that is for certain. Even now, it changes all the time; new people come, old people die, time passes, buildings morph, new things arise, and old ones stay around.)

The conmen got conned, strings were pulled, noisy people went quiet, but, “whatever that compulsive Robin Hood vigilante-shit task force did, it made all the Asian gangs scatter.” 

“Back up,” Mary says. “Who the hell you get all this shit from? Helena?”

“Of course not,” Essex says. “Enty has her people. They talk to me.”

“What kind of people business are you going on about?”

“They talk, I think. That’s all there is to it.”

Mary makes a face and gestures for her to continue. “Alright. So the Jap gets arrested.”

“You weren’t listening to anything I said,” Essex says. “For all I know she evaporated after some flight to Tokyo. Stopover from San Francisco to the Philippines, either Manila or Cebu. E could’ve been there for all I know. I was in Drugs back then, so I knew about all the triad stuff. But anyway. Helena won’t tell me any more than that,” Essex scratches her nose. “Doesn’t want to be seen as a snitch. I know I have three options to make her talk: tell her who sold her out, but change the who to the people she’s selling, the people she’s buying, or the people she’s arming. But she’s not stupid, and to be honest, I seriously feel kind of bad for doing this all to her.”

“Who asked?” Mary says.

“Excuse me?”

“Did she ask for the deal, or did you?”

“She did, but-”

“Look into my eyes: Helena is the only one doing Helena over, and that’s that.”

Essex pauses, purses her mouth, and provides a short nod. “So as I was saying, E’s thinking that a sting operation might finally help her find the murderers from that night long ago, and I still have no clue what, who, or where Blue Rose is. I’ve half a mind to play along.”

“I think you’re being disappointed by the wrong case,” Mary concludes dryly. “Drive your partner around, see what you find. Two heads are better than one. It’s probably gonna be more helpful than some dead Japanese haunting our shores.” 

Helena was stubborn. No matter what they asked, she steadfastly said, “No comment.”

She knew her rights. They caught her ferrying machine guns, because she shouldn’t have trusted a cop she thought she could. Though it wasn’t her first time, she knew her way around, and they would let her go after. Just carrying didn’t mean much time; it was mostly her record that was making prosecutors cream their pants. At least it wasn’t the Russians this time.

The short woman still had time to make some calls on the payphone. She could count with both hands the people that wanted to hear from her, and she had some long stories to tell.

First, she called her lift to the restaurant. This was straightforward with nothing to note.

Next, she called her most recent client, but ran into a dial tone. 

A few other numbers had the same result.

Then, she tried another number, and someone picked up.

“Hi,” she said. “How’s Sumeru?” 

She paused. “I left my scarf there. … Nice to meet you. I’m Helena. Hm? I’m fine, thank you for asking. I’ve just been a little distracted. … Ah… mhm. Well, I’ve been wondering. Recently I’ve noticed some spare parts lying around my house. I wonder, why is that? Then I remember I read a book about Trayastrimsa-Heaven, and I thought, oh, this must be a sign. … I’m sorry, I think you should hear me out for a little longer. I’m only going to say this one time: you can’t hide from me. I’m not a very relaxed person, and I’m sorry about that, but it’s hard to be in this business, and it’s much harder when you’re not careful. … I know. Now, when I saw some of yours arrested and shot dead in that third robbery in the news recently, I thought of you and wanted to offer my condolences. … Please don’t be like that. … hm… yes… mhm. I used to think that my greatest weakness was how much I relied on my reconnaissance to understand how people like you work. Now, I’m glad that it helps others. Sayonara .”

She hung up, slotted another few coins into the telephone booth, and called again.

“How’s the weather, Belfast?”

“Devil’s invention. Reminds me of my days on the Thames.”

“We do need it, with the drought and all. Did anyone ask for me?”

“Miss Essex waited at the counter for several hours until it was dark.”

“How unfortunate. If you see her again, tell her I said hi.” Helena paused and wet her lips. A line was forming outside her booth, and she was keenly aware of the minutes she had left. “I’d like to ask you for a small favor, Belfast. Would you like to go first or should I?”

“We have been acquaintances long enough that I believe you shall pay me back well.” 

“Thank you very much. I’ve always been anxious about my capabilities, but hearing you say that makes me happy. If you can, I’d like you to keep my family out of this, no matter what might come of me. My sisters have been doing very well on their own, very honest work, and I’m proud of them, and I think they deserve to be left alone for that. Now I’m aware that there’s going to be some races today, that someone important will be watching the cars speed around the ring near the beach, and that the detective’s boss will be there too.”

“I understand. An old partner of mine has been going around collecting friends recently. She is sitting at my counter with eggs. Right now she is checking her pocketbook. She was released a few weeks ago, and not well off, but suddenly she wants to buy plane tickets. Now recently I have heard that she has also been looking into home renovation, so I visited a friend of mine who does carpentry on the side who could affirm such rumors, but hit a dead end.”

Helena smiled, her tongue tasting rubber. “Really.”

The voice tilted downward. “I digress. I shall keep my end of the bargain, with a word of advice: behave yourself. I have caught word of ungentlemanly behavior on your part. Though it is nothing to me or my masters, I know of parties who might consider this a mark on your credit score.” It paused. “Your rewards will be delivered shortly. Have a good night.” It hung up.

The short woman stood in the booth listening to the clamor of the wind and the cars rushing by until hard knocking broke into her trance like a bear breaking into a cabin. She rubbed her eyes and took her time before opening the door and coming eye to eye with a stout woman who made a great effort to peer in the space behind her.

“Some of us have people we really need to talk to, you know,” the latter said sourly.

Helena fielded a tiny grimace. “Sorry. I was calling my poor sick little sister.”

The other’s face immediately made an ‘o’. “How is she doing?”

She smiled. “She said fuck you and your high horse too.”

The short woman pushed by and back onto the cold San Francisco streets.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Essex signals a right turn as Enterprise, sitting shotgun, scrutinizes a paper map that absorbs nearly the entirety of the front of the car. The map, unlike the book from earlier, is pristine but for a single red mark that traces through the streets to an X on the map. Through the windshield there is an abandoned lot before the sea.

“Seems so.”

Gravel crunches beneath the tires as Essex parks. They get out of the car and walk to the pier, the sea lapping hypnotically at the legs of old docks. There is a lone girl with a large white bow in her hair and half her face covered by a large blue scarf standing to the side of the closest restaurant. Enterprise shoots a glance at Essex, who returns with a self-satisfied eyebrow raise. They split; Enterprise turns to the sidewalk, while Essex continues down the pier towards the little girl, who brightens immediately and, after a short conversation, leads Essex off the road. 

They enter a large ring. Voices become more apparent as do the clink of coins and cards as lights bounce off the edges of their faces. A car’s rev booms throughout the arena. 

Heeled boots walk across the rows and up the stairs of the stadium seating, and after a rich moment, two pairs of velvet loafers follow a distance behind. The heels tread up the incline between the seats and stoop to check for something on the bottom of a sole before rising briskly through the hall leading to the bathroom and, after a right turn, the hallway between several pairs of storage rooms. A small crowd mills around the bathroom, but as the heels travel further down the hall, they grow thinner until there is nothing but the linoleum, fluorescent lights, and shadowy reflection on the walls, empty glass frames where movie posters used to be. The clicking heels stop by a water fountain to turn towards their pursuers.

“What do you need?” Essex asks.

The two girls look at each other. One meows, “W-we were asked to find you.”

“We do not intend to cause any harm,” the other says. “My lady desires your presence.”

Essex shifts her weight back and forth. “Um. If it’s alright to ask, what’s her name?”

“The Guardian Fox, Lady Nagato of Kure, member of the Big Seven Sakura,” the gray-haired woman recites.

Meanwhile, Enterprise crosses several streets, muttering names and signs to herself. Abruptly she breaks into a run, haphazardly sewing and cutting through wet alleyways. It starts to rain. Finally Enterprise runs straight across the grass in the way of a white 1970 Mitsubishi Colt that squeals against the asphalt as it forcefully brakes, tires branding the turnpike. The two Japanese women behind the windshield stare at the American. The brunette gestures wildly. They get out of the car. The brunette gets into the driver's seat. The white haired driver walks carefully towards Enterprise; she looks on the verge of telling an amusing rumor at all times. Enterprise stands stiffly, eyes narrowed but with a degree of interest only the abnormally curious can display. 

“So you are the Enterprise who has put my seniors so on edge?” The white haired woman tucks her hair behind her ear and bows slightly. “How very troublesome~ I am called Shoukaku.”

Enterprise points at the brunette. “Is that your sister?”

Shoukaku claps and crosses her arms. “You are a very, very smart girl.”

“You were outside my house. How did you find me?” Enterprise says. Shoukaku nods.

“I saw you chasing cars far earlier. I recognized you.” Shoukaku giggles. “Yes, the Grey Ghost, the greatest detective of our time. I was warned about you. Ah, you are confused, like a little child, and we are close to the same age. It seems I have run ahead. I should introduce myself: I became the flagship of our operations here when my poor senpai went and got themselves killed the other day. While I have gotten much more done than they did back then, it is very strange that my superiors have constantly glossed my deeds over in favor of the honor my senpai have brought to the corporation, but my my, I wonder if it was really so deserved when they got caught in such a terribly embarrassing manner. Oh no, I am getting ahead of myself again~ Now, let me reintroduce myself: I am Shoukaku, scapegoat of the Sakura. How do they say it in English? I hope we can work together.” Enterprise is closely watching the brunette now with a twenty-two milliliter on the dashboard pointed straight at her. The brunette smiles wholeheartedly and makes a peace sign.

“Who would be warning you about me?” Enterprise whispers. “Who?”

“Hmm.” Shoukaku taps her head. “How surprisingly modest.”

“I… don’t think I am.” Enterprise’s eyes narrow.

“I must disagree.”

“Do you know anything about the Blue Rose?” Enterprise steps back.

Shoukaku walks forward slowly. The car follows. “I did not kill those people in the Pacific Row murders, Miss Enterprise. But I have heard what my senpai said about them, and to them, even though that was when I was a little girl. And if you call your partner and the cops as I see you trying to do under your jacket, I will promise that you will never know what they said.”

The tall American bites her lip and straightens. “It’s a good deal you’re offering. But if this happens, I can’t ensure no one else will die.”

“But you will not understand how they died. Is that a result?” Shoukaku smiles sweetly. “Well, I am always telling my sister if she causes too much trouble for the police and the ace, I will only give her tempura for dinner. I am telling you too that you have acquired quite a number of followers everywhere. How wonderful!” Shoukaku sighs. “Let us go for a drive.”

It is not a request.

Nevada shuffles the cards once more. Sixty seven chips sit on Colorado’s side of the table as she idly flips a jack, the hard edge of the playing card scratching her pale thumb soothingly.

“She’s not coming,” Colorado says. “I guess it’s to be expected. Stays in a bigger hotel.”

The phone rings and Nevada picks up with a hushed voice. Colorado busies herself with people-watching but quickly loses interest as the faces blur before her. It is twenty years ago, and she mans a corner of the casino, playing with a stout Japanese woman with a sweet smile whenever she wins (most of the time) and a tiny but proud pout when she loses (just a few). Her sister trips and falls in the background, and Colorado’s sisters (mostly Maryland) chat up guys in the bar for a good spar outside or, at least, a funny story later. Where did the time go?

Kawakaze and another girl walk in with Essex in tow, and Colorado quits.

Yamashiro blinks. The seats are empty where one wasn't before.

Two Japanese women and Essex sit at the bar. The hostess slides the latter a daiquiri. It comes with a sugared rim and tastes just as bitterly sweet. After a long while Essex takes a sip: lime, pineapple, something tropical; she politely asks for the drink’s name.

“Great Pretender,” the Native American announces, winks, and adds a white syrup from another container that looks too similar to what she put in Essex’s to the next batch of drinks.

Essex realizes something.

Nagato walks in. Kawakaze rises to take her jacket. Nevada slides them two more drinks - Yamashiro refuses one - and after Kawakaze drinks first from the glasses, Nagato downs the entire concoction in three steady gulps. Nagato takes out the slim skewer and slides off the green olives one by one, swallowing the pits. An hour passes. They are scheduled to leave; Yamashiro is the designated driver. Nagato and Kawakaze begin nodding off on the car ride to the airport. They drive down the highway, then exit, u-turn, and exit again to a recently constructed hotel.

Yamashiro ushers her clients into the inn, apologizing profusely in her way that there was a closure, they must rest, etcetera. Inside the inn, which smells like fresh wood and looks exactly like what Fusou built in the house she shared twenty years ago, a white receptionist with an eyepatch directs them to a room, avoiding parts of the walls that are still unpainted.

Nagato and Kawakaze sleep there the entire night, blissfully unaware of anything else but the sound of the ocean, the shimmer of bygone days, and the smell of sausage.

“Where’s Watson?” Jersey says exasperatedly. Mary looks up from her computer.

“Oh, she went over to do some work with Holmes.”

Jersey takes out a jar of honey and adds it to her coffee, a somewhat knowing smile plastered on her face. “That heroine is going to wear me out. Dont’cha need to do that now, of all times? I don’t suppose you know where they went? Why they need to leave now, anyway?”

“Don’t you know them better than I do?” Mary rolls her eyes.

“I’ve known that heroine for ten years and while we’ve got a lot to thank her for, I can’t say that I know her at all.” Jersey groans ruefully and melodramatically, flipping her hair. “I do have to say, honey, we’re a little too understaffed for my taste. At this point, Enty’s pure offensive power is why I let her do what she likes to do. And she’s a smart girl, that’s for sure, but sometimes I just can’t help but wonder, why don’t’cha try to be a good one for once?”

“I think you’re underestimating Essex,” Mary shrugs. “Just saying, she shot a man.”

“Being in dogfights does that to ya,” Jersey perks up. “I knew a girl once-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mary waves it off. “I’m saying, trust them more.”

Maya is dead.

Shoukaku knows; Zuikaku knows. They didn’t pull the trigger, but they saw who did, and they know why. They walk into the Irishwoman’s diner, almost empty but for the waitresses: a couple of young teenagers, one with blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair that seems pink in the cloudy light, the other with wide hazel eyes and a long blonde ponytail. Enterprise follows.

“Three beers, please,” Shoukaku sits down gracefully. The slight indentation of a pistol against the inside of her kimono belt makes a sound against the counter. Zuikaku sits as well, an assortment of blades sneakily placed in the curve of hair and the back of her kimono.

Enterprise stares at the motes of dust on the counter. A slight trembling has begun to overtake her on the inside, so minute that she doesn’t notice it until it begins pouring rain.

Zuikaku sits on Enterprise’s right, Shoukaku on her left, closer to the exit. The last says, “Now, your fan said you are the Sherlock Holmes of San Francisco? I see the advertisements all over Japantown. I would like to play a game.” Shoukaku lays a pack of American playing cards.

Enterprise looks at it and back at Shoukaku for a long time. “Alright, cards.”

“We play blackjack. Every time you win, I tell you things as long as I am interested. If either of us win four times, I will give you a choice, and it will be the last you see of us.”

“I assume you’re going to try and kill me,” Enterprise says acidly. “What, is this a Study in Scarlet? I’m a good shot, and I’ve got luck. Poison me? Lots of geniuses tried that before. Very original of you. What makes you think you can overpower me in a fight?”

“ Iranai ,” Shoukaku says. “You’ll play. You like playing games with people. Now, when I win four, I will give you this-” Shoukaku takes out two identical opaque vials. “One has a nerve agent, and the other something you like. We will both open it at the same time. I will not cheat or coerce you into anything you do not want to do. That is where the simplicity of this game lies.”

Grinning, Enterprise shifts in her seat, an interested, concentrated strength in her voice. “So this is what you did to the Pacific Row victims? You gave them a choice? That’s not how I saw it. That was bloody murder, and you’re all complicit, every last one of you.”

Zuikaku mutters something in acerbic Japanese, and Shoukaku softly shushes her. “You have a lot of maturing to do, Grey Ghost. Take your time and consider your options.”

“This isn’t a game. It’s pure luck.”

“You’re Lucky E,” Zuikaku says. “Prove it.”

Enterprise inclines her head, and the game begins. Shoukaku flips the cards and gives Enterprise a ten of spades and an ace of clubs, which Enterprise presents immediately against Shoukaku’s ten of diamonds.

“Your sister was involved in certain negotiations with my senpai very, very long ago,” Shoukaku says. She gives Enterprise another ace and a jack, both of hearts, which Enterprise shows again against Shoukaku’s eight of hearts.

“It was something to do with Blue Rose.” Enterprise says.

“Correct.” Shoukaku flips two more cards. Enterprise is given a queen of clubs and two of spades. She stays, and the dealer is busted with a hand of two of hearts, ten of diamonds, four of clubs, and ten of hearts. “From what I heard, it seemed like it was over an energy source.”

Equipped with a seven of hearts, Shoukaku hands Enterprise a king of hearts and nine of clubs. Enterprise stays. Shoukaku grins and reveals her hand: seven of hearts, two of diamonds, two of clubs, and jack of spades. Enterprise shrugs and takes two more cards - four of clubs and nine of spades. Shoukaku shuffles the deck and reveals an ace of hearts. Enterprise hits for a jack of hearts, and Shoukaku giggles again. Enterprise licks her lips in anticipation.

Now with a three of diamonds, Shoukaku deals Enterprise a six of diamonds and ten of spades, and Enterprise stays. Shoukaku shakes her head and reveals her own hand: three of diamonds, two of diamonds, six of spades, and eight of spades. Zuikaku shakes her head.

“Let’s play,” Enterprise insists.

Shoukaku slides the American a two and ace of spades, flipping over her own four of spades. Enterprise hits and draws a jack of hearts. She bites her lip and stays. Shoukaku sighs, flipping over her own cards: four of spades, two, king, and nine of clubs. “My senpai desperately wanted to get ahead of the people, so they made an offer your sister accepted.”

“Ahead of what?” Enterprise laces her fingers. “The war was over by then.”

“Wars never end. They merely change forms.” Shoukaku hands her two more cards: seven of diamonds and queen of spades. Enterprise busts Shoukaku with seven and nine of clubs, and a ten of diamonds. “My senpai were very interested in finding ways to get out of economic trouble at home, but they knew the Japanese were not in a good place here.”

“They wanted to sell more drugs, guns, and fraudulent CDs?” Enterprise presses. “Did they continue dealing in prostitution, human trafficking, and robberies?”

“We don’t have such a wide range of interests,” Shoukaku says wryly. “Even girls like us have a sense of honor, which I’m sure you of all people should try to understand.”

Enterprise takes two more cards, an eight and three of hearts against Shoukaku’s eight of spades. Enterprise hits for another six of spades and stays, forcing Shoukaku into revealing her six of spades and jack of diamonds - a bust. Shoukaku grins. “I know some of us do deal in select robberies to make more money, but it is not our main source of revenue, which is selling cars.”

“If Yorktown gave you her research, then you would be able to make them fuel efficient-”

“Making them cheaper to produce, among other things. Your sister was one of a kind.”

Flipping over a jack of hearts, Shoukaku hands Enterprise four of diamonds and six of spades. Enterprise decisively hits for king of spades and stays, losing the interest of Shoukaku, who slowly reveals her five and king of hearts. It is a bust. Enterprise eyes the vials. One is closer to Shoukaku than the other. She reaches for- 

Shots ring out. Shoukaku recoils, clutching her neck. All hell breaks loose.

Several weeks ago, before driving to the diner, Essex collided with Colorado in the street. 

“Sorry. Um, I wanted to ask you some questions about the robbery,” Essex asserted.

Colorado didn’t talk for a while. Essex followed her stare and saw a small plane crossing the skies in the distance, punching a hole through a large, fluffy cloud. Unable to grasp the weight behind Colorado’s dead glare and tired of the sun soaking the top of her head, Essex took a step forward and opened her umbrella, casting the two of them in shadow.

“You’re Enterprise’s friend.” Colorado finally stated. “You want to help her?”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Essex said in a voice so tired even Colorado looked at her.

“Did you know that I was alive at the same time as Amelia Earhart?” Colorado hummed in dry understanding. “A great woman she was. Disappeared over the Pacific. No records, no remains. Nobody knows where her body is. Poor planning, worse execution, some said. I think some people fear too much and put that fear onto those who aren’t scared. Each of us may be indispensable, but as times change, it seems like the new planes and things have become really powerful. I still remember being on battleships and hearing the roar of their guns.”

Essex nodded. “You were in the Navy?”

Colorado shrugged. “Mhm. And you were in Cuba, under JFK.”

“…That’s true,” Essex said. “Though a few of my siblings served longer than me. Couple of them are still flying in Vietnam right now. I still remember being by the harbor…”

Colorado smirked.

“We’ve met before,” Essex muttered. They stopped by a payphone, the outside of which was recently varnished. Essex’s eyes darted minutely back and forth, recounting how much of what she knew was by her own choice and how much was due to the influence of others. 

“If it matters, it wasn’t personal,” Colorado said. “You just happened to be there.”

Two soldiers stood nonsensically out in the rain. One sighed deeply.

“I won’t get in your way,” Essex said. “Please don’t get in mine.”

“No problem.” Colorado lit up a smoke. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find your own way soon enough. Nothing ever changes in this town but time and the people who live and die. It's no business of mine, but try to be who stays around and not the ones who up and disappear.”

“I will,” Essex says quietly.

Backlit by the lamppost, Essex reloads her six-shooter and walks unflinchingly forward, even as the Japanese brunette whips out her partner’s and her own silenced pistols and fires back in a torrent of lead. A bullet grazes her cheek. Essex raises her arms straight ahead of her and shoots: one, two, three-four times. The first two miss, the third breaks glass, and the last hits the white-haired woman in the back, blooming into a full red rose. Enterprise takes cover behind the counter. The waitresses take out their own arms - machine guns - and unload on their customers. 

It quiets. Two bodies are slumped over the seat and the floor, alongside several casings.

Essex nods at the two girls, who wave tentatively back. They have no name tags. Essex takes her partner by the hand and hoists her up.

“Terrible weather. What’s that you’re holding?”

“The answer,” Enterprise says. Essex scratches her head.

“We should get away from the crime scene,” Essex says. “Come on.”

As they reach the end of the block, Enterprise starts to laugh, and Essex nudges her with an elbow. Enterprise keeps laughing. Essex begins giggling as well. They devolve into gasps and wheezes until both women begin smacking each other on the back and shoulders. 

Enterprise calms first. “I never realized how much my sister cared about others until I read her reports and reread her letters about life she sent back home to us. Both of my sisters were so kind. I guess that’s just what it was. We were just caught up in that kindness.”

“Hmm,” Essex says. “There are a lot of people who think they can use kindness to further their own goals, but it doesn’t end up to be the case. Legally speaking, I mean.”

“Yeah. At the end of that power,” Enterprise reaches up a hand to block the sun breaking through the clouds, “she just wanted to make sure me and my little sister had a good life.”

“What was Blue Rose in the end, anyway?” Essex asks.

“It was her pen name. She left a lot of clues for us to follow, didn’t she?”

“Well then,” Essex says, “I hope you found what you wanted to find.” 

Enterprise sighs. “Let’s go home. Can you make poached eggs?”

“You depend on me too much,” Essex huffs. She does anyway.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened to that gunrunner girl,” Colorado says.

“Thank you. Now, I really must say, the execution of your plan seemed rather poor. Setting up all of this business… have you really achieved everything you were looking to achieve?”

“That blue rose thing isn’t really my concern,” Colorado says. “Just a researcher who wanted to give away her work. I’m no Vestal, I can’t keep track of everyone who helped. That’s your job. I set the shrine up again like you asked. Why did you let her see me?”

“She’s a shrine maiden. It was appropriate... Looks as though I have customers I must attend to. It was a pleasure working with you.”

Belfast walks away. Colorado watches.

Planes may disappear, and people may vanish; the rain will continue to rise and fall.