Chapter Text
1 - The Littlest Bookie
It's a stiflingly warm summer's day. Mosquitoes buzz about the city in search of fresh blood and the sewers' stink rises into the smoggy air, but neither will stop Mordecai Heller if he has an objective in mind. The young black tomcat is only eleven years old, but he carries himself with confidence and dignity. He's the man of his house - soon to be the primary breadwinner, if today goes according to plan - and dresses in his best knee shorts and sweater vest, disgusting the old, oversized shirt and tie borrowed from his father's wardrobe.
For this to work, he needs to make a good impression.
Approaching his destination, Mordecai pauses across from the launderette to study the exterior, noting it to be rundown. The boy wrinkles his nose, pince-nez angling up as he does so. If a launderette wasn't cliché enough cover for illegality, the farcical attempt to appear legitimate is crumbling around their criminal enterprise sure is. Still, the boy doesn't have much of a choice; he needs money, and a paper round isn't going to cut it for the amount he needs to save.
The black tom is exceptionally intelligent and observant, it's these qualities that have made it abundantly clear his family are in dire straits. With their father recently passed and their mother raising four children, Mordecai knows it's up to him to fill the family coffers. That doesn't mean he isn't afraid of what he's about to do. If anything, he's terrified, both of their rejection or acceptance, not that he'll allow it to show.
He's never met a gangster before, let alone spoken to one. Today, he hopes to be employed by one, a last ditch effort to make ends meet after numerous legal job refusals based on age or cultural discrimination. He hopes the mob will be less inclined to refuse an employee based on such trivial things. All he has to do is remain polite, cordial and decent. Of that, he is sure.
Taking a steadying breath, the boy adjusts his satchel over his shoulder and walks across to the launderette with head held high, a practiced, serious expression plastered onto juvenile lips.
A bell jingles as Mordecai pushes the door open, alerting all in attendance of his arrival. He steps in with purpose, ears held high and chin angled slightly upwards as he similarly surveys the interior. Much like outside, the building is falling into disrepair; chips in plaster and paint, damp climbing the walls and cracked linoleum underfoot. Washers line a wall, none of them operational, all discolored yellow by tobacco.
Three men stare as he allows the door to close behind him, the bell jingling to let him know he can't back out. Mordecai swallows and clutches nervously at his bag strap across his chest, even if his expression stays carefully disinterested. "I've come to see Mr. Fiore," he states, his voice softer than intended. The boy clears his throat and continues. "About the bookkeeper job."
A heartbeat passes. Mordecai feels it throb in his jugular at his throat, a pulse of fear. Sweat gathers on his palms as the three men look between each other, evidently bemused by their tiny guest, before collapsing into raucous laughter. Despite his anxieties, the young cat bristles. He hates being laughed at. "This isn't a joke." He asserts, white-tipped tail whipping behind him with agitation. "I'm here for-"
"We heard ya," one of the men interrupts as he stands, and Mordecai has to physically restrain himself from shrinking away from his towering height. He's above average, and seems to grow by the second approaching the boy with a lit cigarette between thin lips. "Mr. Fiores don't take walk-ins, kid. Best be gettin' home. This ain't no place to play office."
Despite himself, Mordecai takes a step back. Eye level with the man's broad chest, he can see numerous scars etched into the man's flesh, healed wounds that put him near death. Mordecai moves his gaze to the other's eyes and sets his jaw defiantly, clutching his satchel strap with both hands. He won't yield to fear. "It was an open invitation, no date or time being specified. Is that not the definition of a 'walk-in' appointment?"
The larger feline leans down to his level, ash flaking off into Mordecai's oversized, second hand shoes. He's never felt so small. "You gettin' smart with me, boy?" The man snarls, smoke billowing between bared fangs directly into the young tom's face, who wrinkles his nose and leans back slightly. The colossus grabs his tie and drags Mordecai onto the tips of his shoes, close enough to smell his rancid breath. "It's your lucky day; beatin's are free for snot-nosed brats like-"
"Bring him back." Mordecai is already braced for a beating when he's dropped back to his feet unexpectedly. Swaying, slightly off balance, he barely has time to comprehend what just happened before he's swept past a crumbling reception desk to a second room. Within, a large man sits at a small table with a smattering of others, all of them glaring, none of them thinly built. The chubby man raises a brow, then sighs. "Sit 'im down."
Satchel abruptly taken, Mordecai hasn't time to complain as he's thoroughly patted down, rough hands invading every inch of his personal space. He shudders, making the men in attendance laugh, then is finally deposited in an empty chair. As if his humiliation weren't complete, his old satchel is turned upside down and emptied onto the table before it's cast aside like garbage.
Mordecai clutches the edges of his chair, barely keeping his mask in check as his meager belongings are spread out and rifled through by complete strangers. His eyes often dart to the discarded bag resting on the floor a few feet away, just to be sure it's still there. This isn't going well, but he hopes that even if they decide to keep everything else if he's kicked to the curb outside, they'll let him take his father's satchel.
When it's deemed there's nothing dangerous or of value in his belongings, the man at the head of the table leans back and takes a deep drag of a cigar, merciless eyes scanning Mordecai in great detail. For his part the tom stays quiet and tries not to meet the man's eyes, very aware he's just been dropped in front of someone more important than the Jimbo he intended to meet here today.
"How old are ya, kid?" The man asks, drawing green eyes up to his face. The feline across from him is overweight but well groomed; pristine suit and tie, hair slicked back, large jowls flapping almost comically with each word as he leans across the table to study his guest. The buttons of his suit jacket straining beneath him, he seems more curious than threatening, and doesn't wait for Mordecai to answer. "Twelve, thirteen? Skipping school to be here?"
This man's tone might be kind, but Mordecai isn't convinced he's in any less danger than already perceived. At least he's being given a moment to explain. "Fifteen," he lies, knowing confidence in his assertion makes it seem more real. Under the table, his tail wraps around a calf anxiously. "And I found myself more in need of a job than an education."
"There's plenty honest work you can do," Fiores seems to tire of the conversation immediately and leaning back, motions for one of his men. The same henchman who manhandled Mordecai into the back room doesn't hesitate to grab a bicep and haul the tom back to his feet, sharp claws digging into soft skin. The boss waves him to the door with his cigar. "See him out."
Plans crumbling before he's even had an opportunity to sell himself, Mordecai struggles against the hold, grimacing as claws dig into his flesh. Even as those claws break the skin, he grits his teeth to manage the pain and rips his arm free of the grasp. Warm blood oozes onto his shirt, but he doesn't look away from Fiores' gaze, leaning across the table in an attempt to be taken seriously. "I don't care what it entails or what I must do to gain your trust; I need this job."
He won't go home without something. His family needs him to step up, and everywhere else has already said no; this is his last chance at an actual profession, even if it's criminal.
The room falls silent, every eye on Mr. Fiore as he looks the young tomcat up and down, taking in his juvenile clothes all the way to his adult expression. It's difficult to tell if the boy is telling the truth about his age, but in that moment, even the underboss can't deny he looks hellbent on getting the position. He drags on his cigar. "What's your name, boy?"
"Elijah," the kid lies effortlessly. He created a fake name for this enterprise, just in case. The last thing he wants is for his family to suffer the consequences of his actions; this whole endeavor is supposed to make their lives easier, not harder. "Elijah Katz."
The underboss smiles cruelly. "A Jewish boy," he states, as if he solved a tricky puzzle made solely for his amusement. Mordecai scowls, his brows knitting together between sharp eyes. Fiore only laughs and sucks on his cigar, the stinking stick almost spent, adding more smog to the room. "Now it all makes sense; you can't get a decent job, so you crawl into my domain instead. Strange, how life works, ain't it?"
He extinguishes his cigar and leans back in his seat, hands entwined on his bulbous stomach. "You take a hundred bets of fifty cents a race, five races a day," Fiores begins without warning, smile fading as fast as it came. "Cashing out one twenty-to-one win with a twenty percent broker's fee, tell me my takings. Two minutes, Katz. Go."
As soon as the numbers start flowing, Mordecai is breaking them down, calculating far more than the underboss asked. It's an easy to follow calculation for a boy of his intelligence and in the time it takes for a lackey to clear a space in front of him and place down a pen and paper, he has the answer off the top of his head.
"Two dollar brokerage on a ten dollar win," he states a final calculation out loud, making eye contact with Fiores, holding it to communicate confidence. He doesn't make mistakes in his calculations. "You take two-fifty, but pay out eight after brokerage. Two hundred and forty two total takings."
Numerous sets of eyes blink in surprise. The room is silent, except for the frantic scribblings of a single lackey on paper, working through calculations. Mordecai counts the seconds silently, mostly to ground himself; this situation is incredibly surreal for the boy who just last year, was more concerned with finishing War and Peace over summer break.
"Holy shit." Mordecai flinches slightly at the curse as the guy sits back and stares at his calculations. Mr Fiores picks up the paper and reads it, following the mathematics through, then lowers it back to the table to meet the kid's gaze again. His smile comes back, a wide, greedy grin that becomes a chuckle. The underlings just continue to stare, even as the boss motions for Mordecai to sit once more.
"Seems you're a prodigy, Katz," Fiores states as he gingerly takes his seat, perching on the edge with his hands on his knees. The underboss waves vaguely towards his satchel, and the man who'd been looming behind Mordecai the entire exchange fetches it, even stuffing his possessions back inside. "I'll let Jimbo know he's got a new bookie. Meet him at the tracks tomorrow, but wear a suit, not this… schoolboy look."
His satchel returned mostly unharmed and given a job, the tuxedo cat expected to feel more elated. Instead, as he gets to his feet and awkwardly thanks the men still staring at him like a circus performer, he feels uneasy. "Thank you for the opportunity," he says as he takes a step towards the door. He needs to leave this room, be away from these people; it's getting hard to breathe. "I won't let you down-"
"A suit," the man insists as Mordecai nods and backs out of the room.
Moments later, he's back on the street in the scalding hot sun, mosquitos buzzing around his ears. There he pauses, satchel squeezed to his torso as its owner stares at the dark cobbles underfoot, battling an anxious wave of nausea more powerful than any he's felt before. His knees are weak, body tired, yet he can't pinpoint a cause. It's as if every fiber of his being is rejecting the deal he just struck, regardless of what Mordecai needs to achieve.
He takes a deep breath, swallows and straightens, exhaling as he slings his satchel over his shoulder, then forces the uncomfortable emotional reactions deep down into his gut. Mordecai didn't have a choice, so he decides he'll flourish in this dangerous environment. For the sake of his mother and sisters, he has to.