Chapter Text
Prologue
A sliver of the moon shone up in the sky as whips of clouds passed over it, illuminating a very faint glow over the abandoned city road. Ray's bar, The Nitty, had only recently closed about half an hour ago, leaving enough time for the late nighters to have staggered away. Not that they should have any reason to seeing as seven years ago a prohibition began across the country. But that didn't stop a series of speakeasies to pop up, hidden away inside barbershops or dry bars by a false floorboard or sliding wall panel to reveal a bustling social zone inside.
But now, at this hour, there was nobody around. The perfect time to escape. no one could see you, no one could stop you. He knew it had been a mistake to go out in the first place, especially when someone wanted you dead. You should've just paid them back, he repeated to himself over and over in his head.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide them from the chilly, mid September air as a subtle sound echoed behind him. Footsteps. Tipping his white gambler down to hide his face, he looked hast the rim and kept walking at a slightly faster pace. Just have to get home, he thought to himself, You'll be safe there.
But the footsteps were approaching, growing louder with each passing second, closer and closer until they just stopped. He shakily inhaled and made a daring move to turn around, to see if the owner of the footsteps had disappeared. If it had all just been a dramatic hoax created by his racing mind.
Unfortunately that was far from the truth.
Face to face he was met with someone he knew all to well. The face he had tried to escape from for what felt like forever. It sure had been a long two months. "I warned you, now it's time to pay your debt," the person had said, eyes blacked out from the moon's shadows.
There was a fait glimmer as the light caught a metal surface that had been pulled out, then a loud crack broke the silence as a gun fired, shooting him dead. The shooter then slid the gun back into their coat pocket and walked away. Finally, the debt had been paid.
Chapter One
"Did you find anything new about the case?" Patrick asked, walking up to his detective partner, Dallon, who was leaning back against his chair, head back and eyes closed. "Dallon?"
The taller mad seemed surprised by his name suddenly being called out and looked over at his partner. "What?" he asked in a drowsy voice.
Patrick shook his head, took a sip from his coffee mug before repeating his question. "Did you find anything more about the case? The one where we're supposed to figure out who killed the Kid?"
"Oh yeah, yeah," Dallon quickly nodded, sitting up straight and stretching out his arms in front of him. "No. His brother was no help. At all."
"Well we do know it happened near The Nitty. Maybe that's a clue?" Patrick shrugged.
"Maybe," Dallon said, looking around to make sure no one was listening in on them, then turned back to Patrick, leaning in closer to him, "I think I may know someone who could help us out there."
"Really? Who?" Patrick asked, a little too loud, causing Spencer, the chief of police, to glance over at them from where he sat at his desk, head hung over a stack of files.
Dallon silently put a finger over his lips to silence the fellow detective before whispering, "Follow me."
Patrick nodded, watched as Dallon slipped on his long, black coat and followed him out of the building. Adjusting his fedora due to the sudden burst of wind, Patrick tried again, "Who are we going to see?"
"You'll see," Dallon answered, looking straight ahead as they walked to his car parked on the side of the street.
The drive only lasted a few minutes, but each minute felt like forever to Patrick as his curiosity bubbled. Wondering who it could be Dallon was talking him to, who was this secret source that no one could know about.
Once the car had finally come to a stop, Patrick stared out the window at the red, brick building across the street. A long, painted sign that read 'The Nitty' in big blocky letters hung above the door and front window. Three bullet holes had made their way through the front door, exposing the dark wooden surface underneath the dusty fern paint. Alcohol may be illegal in these parts, but that didn't stop the bootleggers from making a quick profit.
Stepping inside, Patrick felt the warm sun shining through the window on his face, bring a slight relief from the chilly wind that whispered past him outside. Dust particles became visible in the stuffy atmosphere of the nearly empty bar. Against the wall behind the counter held a long mirror behind a series of shelves that held now empty bottles. "Afternoon boys," a voice sounded from behind the bar. "What can I get for you two?"
"Afternoon, Ray," Dallon returned the greeting, leaning against the bar. The bartender, rather owner of the bar, wore a white button down shirt, sleeves rolled up halfway with a gray vest over the shirt. Looking off at the few stray people in the bar, Dallon returned his gaze to Ray and said so only the tree of them could hear, "Not very thirsty today, perhaps I'll try the clams."
Ray was silent for a quick moment, holding contact with Dallon's blue eyes before giving a nod, "Right this way."
He led the two detectives to the back room that contained only an old, weathered medicine cabinet that stood only a few inches taller than Dallon. The inside shelves were caked with a fine layer of dust, and spider webs seemed to cling to every corner. A few flat glass bottles lay across the shelves, the dust making it near impossible to read the labels or even tell what colors the bottles are. Very carefully, Ray positioned himself at the end of the cabinet and rolled it to the side, causing the old wheels to create a faint squeaking sound.
Behind the old wooden structure revealed a long, grey stone tunnel illuminated by a string of handing, candle lit lamps casted down from the ceiling. The two detectives stepped inside the tunnel, Patrick watched as the entrance was covered back up, leaving the two in the near darkness. "What is this?" Patrick asked to his partner, although the shorter detective felt as if he knew exactly what he was being led into.
"Just follow me," Dallon said, walking through the shadow covered hallway.
The further down they got, the more the noises grew. The unmistakable sound of social activity; laughing, singing and even a few shouts that could've been from a fight or a call from across the room. "Your source is in an illegal bar?" Patrick asked, turning to Dallon.
"Yeah," Dallon nodded, though it was barely visible in the dim light. "Before I joined with the police, I was involved in some rather... not so legal activities. I guess I could never turn in all my own connections. I'd make far too many enemies that way."
"So you just let everyone run free?" Patrick asked, earning a half shrug from Dallon. "What exactly did you do before you became a detective?"
"Look, Pat, now's not the time to dig into my past," Dallon stated, "Now come on, we're almost there."
At the end of the tunnel illuminated a think, long, yellow cloth that acted as a makeshift door. A sudden wave of clapping and shouting momentarily drowned out their thoughts from the other side of the cloth. Th two detectives exchanged one final glance before pushing the fabric aside and stepped through.
They took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the bright, lively atmosphere. Completely opposite compared to what it was like in the previous bar. The eruption of applause from before was caused due to the establishment's entertainer sashaying herself around on stage. The long, silver and gold fringes at the end of her dress swayed across at her knees as she danced along to the beginning of the song. Stepping up to the microphone, she bent an arm over the top of her head to reveal the long, black silk gloves that went past her elbows before filling the entire speakeasy with song. "That's Victoria," Dallon informed Patrick, motioning towards her and looking for a place to sit. "She's the entertainer here and sure as hell good at getting information out of people."
"Do you speak from personal experience?" Patrick curiously asked.
"Nah," Dallon shook his head, eventually finding a place for them to sit within the forest of occupied round tables.
"Is she your source then?"
"Nope," Dallon simply answered, earning an annoyed huff from Patrick.
He was sick of his partner not letting him in on anything. "Well then who is it?" Patrick demanded.
Dallon silently glanced over at him and said, "You seem tense, maybe you should loosen up a bit. Get yourself a drink."
"No," Patrick shook his head, "I want to know. Tell me."
The taller man sighed and said, "The thing about my source is... you don't just go up to him. You must wait until he appears and you have permission to speak with him."
"Well how long until he appears?" Patrick impatiently asked, crossing his arms.
"Who knows," Dallon shrugged, leaning back on his wooden chair, slowly taking in his surroundings.
A little over two hours they spent sitting at that table. Waiting. During that time, Dallon was faced with a string of questions from Patrick, to which most of them he responded with rather bland answers.
"How long does it take before he usually shows up?"
"Depends."
"How will you know when he arrives?"
"You'll know."
"How many times have you been here before?"
"A lot."
"Will you tell me now what you used to do before you became a detective?"
"Maybe later."
"How come you never spoke of this place before."
"Because it's illegal."
"Are you well known here?"
"Kinda."
However, throughout the two hour waiting period, Dallon did manage to convince Patrick to get a drink, even if it was a small one. "I shouldn't be drinking this," Patrick said, giving a nervous laugh and holding the small glass with both hands, close to his mouth.
"Don't worry, I won't tell," Dallon gave him a tiny reassuring wink before taking a drink of his own.
Over two hours into their wait, around when Patrick finally manged to finish his drink, a large commotion broke out by the front bar. "Let's go check it out," Dallon said, getting up and heading towards the occurrence, a small crowd already forming.
"I told you before, I'm not giving you anything more!" someone shouted.
"Well why not? I have the same right to drink here as everyone else!" another, more slurred voice, angrily shot back.
"Not when you keep skipping out on the bar tab," the first one stated. "Now pay up or get the fuck out!"
Dallon and Patrick had finally managed to weave their way through the crowd of people and were able to see the two causing the conflict. "You see the bartender?" Dallon whispered to Patrick, referring to the man who stood around the same height as Dallon with tanned skin and dark hair that appeared to be a little unkempt due to his constant rushing around behind the bar. A pair of black suspenders and bow-tie were set over a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up part way "His name is Gabe Saporta. Sometimes people around here have been known to call him Ice."
"Why?" Patrick interrupted.
"There could be a few reasons behind it. It could be from his flashy, all white suits. Or maybe from his expert drink making skills," Dallon explained, "But there's the most common theory about how cold he can turn if you leave those bar tabs unpaid. What you're seeing here is just the start. It'll get much worse if that whale keeps cheating him out of the money."
"So is Gabe your source?" he asked.
"Patrick, if Gabe was my source, we could've been sitting at the bar this whole time. So no."
The conflict was still proceeding as they spoke, the angry drunk shouting out a few choice phrases at the bartender who appeared to brush it off as if the words were just another smudge on his finely polished glasses.
But a moment later, the entire bar was casted in silence. Even the band stopped playing. "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan," a voice slowly called from the other end of the bar outside of the crowd. a voice as smooth as honey but could cut like glass. It was so quiet you could even make out the sound of his fingertips drumming against the furnished bar surface. "How many times are you going to interrupt my game with your foolish nonesence? You've been given far too many warnings by my boys h ere. And now, your luck has just struck out. Take him away, do what you must. I don't ever want to see or hear from him again."
"Wait, please no," Ryan tried to scramble away, but was caught by three men. Though they were all shorter than him, it would probably be best not to pick a fight with any.
As the three dragged Ryan away, the crowd resumed their chatting, through it wasn't as loud as it was prior to the fight. Patrick then frantically whispered to Dallon who was looking off in the direction the voice came from, "What are they going to do to him? Should we do something?"
"Probably not," Dallon distantly answered, distracted in his own though, "Follow me."
"Where are we going?" Patrick asked, following after the taller man.
But this time, Dallon didn't respond.
When Dallon stopped, Patrick looked ahead and saw he had good reason to. Sitting against the bar was a man taller than Patrick, but not quite as tall as Dallon. He wore a finely tailored, black suit that appeared as if not a single speck of dirt dared to settle on the fine fabric. Tucked underneath the suit jacket he wore a diagonally stripped tie with the alternating colors of black and the same shade of red as spilled blood. He had one foot propped up on the middle ring of the neighboring bar stool, wearing polished shoes that made the stars in the sky seem dull. Rested upon his head he wore a black trilby, a grey ring of fabric circling the base. It was tipped down just enough to where you could barely make out his brown eyes.
The way he sat, an elbow on the bar and a hand holding up his head made it appear from a glance that he wished to be anywhere else. But as he took another drag from the cigarette in his other hand, looking into his lively eyes, you could tell that was far from the truth. The way he watched over the entire bar, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke made it seem as if he owned the place. And judging by the gold rings placed on the last three fingers of his right hand, he just may.
"Is that... I thought he was dead," Patrick quickly whispered to his partner.
"That's what he wanted you all to think. Had to get you off his trail somehow," Dallon whispered back. Clearing his throat, he said more authoritative, "Brendon."
"What," he answered in a rather bored sounding voice, taking another drag from his cigarette and not bothering to glance over.
"May we have a word with you. In private," Dallon said.
"In private?" Brendon looked up a bit, glancing over this time, "At least buy me a drink first."
When Dallon didn't respond, Brendon sighed, took a drink of the amber colored liquid next to him and said, "Fine. Just wait for my boys to get back."
"No. I said private," Dallon stated.
"And I said wait until my boys get back," Brendon snapped, slamming his drink down against the bar.
"Fine," Dallon snapped back, him and Brendon holding their intense gaze before Brendon turned away to breathe in his ignited cigarette once more.
Patrick alternated his glance between the two, more questions arising. It's obvious that they know each other from somewhere, that there's history between them. But he knew if he asked Dallon about it, he'd only give another 'maybe later' response.
Brendon resumed his silent watch over the bar while Dallon impatiently waited where he stood with arms crossed.
About ten minutes of waiting and Brendon's boys had finally returned. "Alright, now that we're all here," Brendon calmly began, putting out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and rising from his bar stool, "We can head back for that meeting."
Brendon led the way to his back room, his three boys right behind him to set a dividing line between him and the two detectives.
Unlocking the door with a fancy golden key Brendon pulled from his front pants pocket, he lightly nudged the door open and stepped inside, expecting everyone else to follow.
The inside of the room held a very faint smoky aroma, a mixture of cigarettes, cigars, and the few gold colored candles scatted about. A poker table was set up in the middle of the room, the cards all lay face down with money and an assortment of colored poker chips were stacked in the middle. A long, wooden personal bar was rested against the side wall. One half held glasses of all sizes crowding the shelves while the other half held alcohol bottles that included brands that were more common on the bottom and some more rare or even never heard of way at the top. A long, narrow mirror about a foot in width divided the two sections. The cabinets below were securely locked to keep whatever treasures inside hidden.
A dark, wooden desk with an overly large red, leather chair rested by the wall facing the door. A short stack of papers were filed on top a brown, leather briefcase. An empty glass that held only the remains of melted ice cubes lay rested on a cork coaster placed near the brass desk lamp. A few fountain pens were scattered about the surface as well as a few knick knacks he'd collected through his days. along the wall facing the bar lay an elegant leather sofa that matched the chair behind the desk. An elaborate grandfather clock towered in the corner near the foot of the couch, casting a faint ticking sound throughout the room.
"Sit, sit," Brendon waved a hand around the room, taking a seat in the chair behind the desk, leaning back.
Patrick was about to head for the sofa but Dallon pulled him back and whispered, "I suggest you don't sit there."
"Frank, would you get me some ice please," Brendon asked, raising his glass to the side for the one called Frank to take it, then asked the detectives, "You two want anything?"
"No thanks, we just want to ask a few questions," Patrick shook his head.
"Fair enough," Brendon shrugged, receiving back his glass from Frank. "Oh, Patrick I assume? These are my boys, Frank, Joe, and Andy. Don't mess with them, they'll fuck you up."
"Oh, um... nice to meet you," Patrick quietly said, giving them a tiny wave to where they all sat around the poker table.
"Anyways, down to business," Brendon said, gathering everyone's attention and placing a half empty bottle onto the wooden surface from a drawer under the desk. "I believe you two wanted to talk to me about something. Speak up now before I get bored and kick you out."
"We need information about the Kid's murder, you wouldn't happen to know anything, would you?" Dallon asked.
"Ah, the Kid," Brendon looked down at his glass as he poured the dark amber liquor in with the ice, "Should've known that's why you'd come to me. I mean, why else would you come visit these days."
Brendon paused for a moment while he placed the glass bottle back in it's previous location and pulled back his sleeves a bit, revealing the seven tally marks that were tattooed on his left wrist. All the lines were black except for the fifth and sixth tallies which were marked in red. Anyone who knew of Brendon, knew what they represented.
Back when the previous leader of Brendon's mob was in reign, the old mobster was known to be stingy and trigger happy. Always taking advantage of everyone and killing people off for the smallest reasons That was until Brendon decided to take a stand for everyone. With his boys at his side, he marched into the previous mobster's office, said 'It's my turn to take control' then shot him right in the head and continued his speech saying 'And I'll be doing it right'. That had resulted in Brendon's first kill. From that point on, Brendon wanted to make sure each time that he brought someone's life to an end, it would be from a good reason.
"How much do you already know?" Brendon asked, picking up his glass and raising it to his lips.
"Honestly, not very much," Patrick admitted with a small sigh.
"Hm, too bad. Cause sometimes the information you're looking for is right under your nose. Maybe you should try looking deeper into something more closer to you," Brendon spoke slowly, gradually shifting his gaze between the two detectives.
"We're not here for your riddles," Dallon said, shooting him a glare, "Tell us what we want to know."
"And what would that be again?" Brendon asked, tilting his head to the side, playing dumb.
"Do you know who the killer is?" Patrick nicely asked.
Brendon was silent for a moment as he kept switching his stare between Dallon and Patrick before shaking his head a little and said, "Sorry, I just can't get over the height difference between you two. But to your question, Patrick. You could say that I perhaps know who the killer is maybe. But then again, what would I know."
"How do we know that you're not the killer?" Dallon asked, a bit impatient.
Brendon made a small laugh from this question and said, "Oh Dally, I think we both know that's not the case."
"Is there anything else that you know?" Patrick tried again, watching as the mobster fiddled with a pen on his desk.
"There's a lot of things I know, that's for sure," Brendon glanced up at them, swirling his drink around, causing the ice cubes to clank against the polished glass. "But there's one thing I'll let you in on; and that's the fact that fire and ice don't always mix."
Patrick opened his mouth, about to ask what he meant by that. But before the smaller detective could get anything out, Andy stood up and escorted the two out of the hazy room.
Before the door could be completely slammed in their faces, Dallon whispered something to Andy and appeared to hand him something hidden away in the inside pocket of his long coat. Patrick tried to see what it was that he had given Andy, but Dallon blocked the way, then the door had been fully closed.