Music is playing, the drinks are flowing and everyone has been having a real good time. Tony "The Tiger" Ruggiero sits behind a curtain away from the crowd, as he normally does, presumably entertaining whatever guests that he has back there.
But the service is good, and the place is under his protection, so the cops tend to know not to show up. There has been, however, the rumblings of a rumour about Police Chief Leone sending undercover police officers to meddle in Ruggiero's affairs. Some of Ruggiero's men and patrons have even gone missing in the past couple of days. But surely they'll turn up, right? The police force would not resort to murder. Would they?
This thought may be on everyone's mind as one of the bouncers quietly locks the door. Tonight, it's not the usual crew. Seems like fewer people about than usual, but there's still all the standard entertainment. So why not enjoy yourselves? Sometimes it pays to live every day like it's your last.
I hope you all enjoy Meowselsworth's Speakeasy!
Harold, whilst scribbling down 'almost-working' rhymes at the corner table, chuckles to himself softly. "I'm going to knock them dead with this one" he murmurs as he sheepishly scans the room. He begins to get up from his chair and approach some others; however his bottom doesn't extend 3 inches from his chair before he sits back down. It is not his time just yet.
Geoffrey was bored. He just has finished constructing the last appetizer plate requested. Nobody was ordering more food, and oddly the boss didn't have anywhere he needed Geoffrey to go. He throws a towel over his shoulder while making sure his customary hat is low over his eyes and face.
He pushes open the swinging door leading to the bar and puts the order in the serving window. He rings the bell, but doesn't retreat back into the kitchen. Instead he leans on the bar side of the wait station and casts a lazy eye around the room, a disinterested expression on his face.
The sound of Willard's portable typewriter was just low enough to leave the musical ambience untarnished. Sitting at a table all by his lonesome, anyone closeby could hear himself murmuring to himself as he works, typing line after line of dollar amounts, a catalog of various transactions and other money transfers. Keeping The Tiger's books checked, as always; with a little fudging here and there, the boss would find himself with some extra money in his pockets. And nobody would be any the wiser.
Under ordinary circumstances, the accountant would be doing this work in the relative privacy of his own office, away from prying eyes. There was never much cause for him to interact with any of the boss' other men. Likewise, he usually was not invited to these sorts of occasions. But tonight was different; Willard would have loved to just wrap things up and head home for the night, but one did not refuse an invitation from The Tiger. Still, ever the dedicated worker, Willard made sure to bring the books and typewriter with him. He was never one for leisure anyway.
Kitty sinks onto a bar stool with a sigh, nodding a hello to Geoffrey. She checks the seam on the back of her aching calves with practiced ease, then slips the high heels from her feet, glancing around to be sure none of the bosses are watching.
"'Lo, Geoffrey. Slow night, isn't it? Plenty of people, but things seem... I dunno...off. Might pick up in a bit. Guess I could go work the floor, but it's early. No point bothering Books, there... if ever there was an all work, no play kinda guy, he's it. And that guy in the corner, writing? Writers. Faugh. Notorious cheapskates. Never buy a girl a drink." She sighs again, then notices the appetizer plate ready for the wait staff. "Hey, Geoff, pass me a couple of them goodies, wouldja? We can tell the boss they're to keep me from getting tipsy - not that my drinks ever have much more than water in 'em. But I'm starvin'. C'mon, don't let a girl go hungry, Geoff." She bats big, blue eyes at the cook in a practiced plea.
Geoffrey smirks and pushes the plate towards the young lady without preamble.
"Makin' more will gimme sumtin' ta do, so dun't hold back any more than that lovely figger requires," the sometimes linecook says with a wink.
Harold reaches deep inside him and approaches the girl he has been discreetly eyeing up for some time now. Whilst glancing off his trusty scribble ridden notepad he utters "so I hear your name is kitty, I find you aweful pretty,if it may not be so much trouble, may I rest your hand across my stubble?" Under his breath he lets out a "nailed it!" while he awaits her answer.
Kitty squints at Harold while her brain attempts to parse his... offer? request? accusation? She isn't sure, and a glance at Geoffrey doesn't help.
In situations like this, there is only one surefire, Tiger-approved answer.
"Maybe, but I'm a little dry. And a little short. Join me in a drink, your treat? It might be... worth your while."
She hopes that Willard approves, if he is listening, and might report her good work to the boss. Of course, all the boss really cares about is what's in the till at the end of the night.
She smiles brightly at the poet, hoping he is richer than he looks.
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Having been the last customer through the door before it was locked, Corbyn confidently examines his surroundings. The look on his face clearly indicates he is impressed with his new venue.
"Yes, this will do nicely!" He announces to the room. "Nobody would suspect a Speakeasy in the basement of a Funeral Home! Genius to the man who came up with it." He keeps talking to nobody in particular as he makes his way over to the bar. "Just came from MacGuffin's 4 blocks over. There was a police raid not a half hour ago! Bartender shouted the word and everybody started runnun' out of the joint through a secret door hidden in a bookcase. I didn't know that was the code word for "cop's are comin". I just went along with the crowd and luckily enough I got away. There's always a new Speakeasy though. I just followed the signs and found this beautiful establishment. The owner needs to do some work on the secret knock though, it's the same as the one at "The Blind Iguana" down the street. Regardless, I have a powerful thirst!"
"Bartender, What do you have?"
"I can afford no double in exchange for a caressed stubble for my wallet is so dry that I just may cry, but though I may shed a tear it is no case of fear; I am just struck…by you…and it leaves me stuck."
No business here, and if he sticks like glue, I won't do business with anyone else.
Kitty regards the poet for a moment, collecting her thoughts.
"True love's sweet, and I won't knock it,
but few swoon for empty pockets.
Wine and dine me, and we're fine.
To poverty I'm not inclined."
She quirks a half-smile at Geoffrey. "Majored in English Lit, for all the good it did me."
defeated, Harold lets out a sigh, "Kay" he proclaims as he walks to the bar and begs for two drinks, one for him, and one for his fallen friend; self-esteem.
Kitty sighs in her turn as the poet ambles away. "You know, Geoff, sometimes this job is really bleak," she observes quietly (and a bit wistfully) to the cook.
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Jimmy hustles through the doorway. "Sorry I'm late. Ma needed a little extra help."
He scoots smoothly across the not-so-crowded floor and slips behind the bar. He gives a nod and a smile to Geoff and Kitty that says 'I'll be right with you', and frowns at Willard. The look, the movement is so quick as to be nearly imperceptible to those who aren't regulars. He tosses a towel over his vest and shoulder.
Then he turns to the one new paying customer.
... "Bartender, What do you have?"
"Welcome to Tiger's. I'm not sure what we've got fresh today, but last night we got some Haitian rum and Irish whiskey. And a smattering of other liquors. I've got a mellow brown ale, and a couple pilsners on draft. If you don't mind, I'll let you stew on the choices while I catch up with the others. I promise I'll be right back."
The small young man wheels and and slides down the bar toward Harold. He smiles confidentially at the poet. He leans in to whisper, "You look like a man on the outs. I saw you with Kitty there. Don't give up. She's a peach, I'm telling you. A sweet girl who needs someone to get her out of a place like this. I'll tell you what. I'll water your drinks and charge you half price. She'll never know the difference and you'll keep a little change in your pocket. What do you say? What'll you have?"
Jimmy reaches for a whiskey glass and shrugs the towel off his shoulder to begin wiping it. He tips Geoff and Kitty a quick wink.
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"A Smattering sounds exactly like what I need right now. HA! Corbyn doesn't care if he's funny or not to anybody else in the room, he seems to be making quite enough loud fun for himself. "I'll tell you what..." Corbyn pauses quickly as he squints trying to read Jimmy's name tag Jimmy, why dont you fetch me a glass of something very exquisite and overpriced! Don't you worry, i'll be able to afford it. We all know that the best hideaway's have a secret reserve for the upper echelon. Whenever you have time, friend. I plan on being here all night."
Jimmy swivels his head back toward Corbyn. He holds up one finger, and says to Harold, "Think about it. I'll be right back."
He glides smoothly back toward Corbyn. "Something special, sir? I've got something right down here...." He reaches below the bar and comes up with a green bottle, no wrapper. "This is French absinthe, a rare drink appreciated only by a real connoisseur. " His smile droops a little. "A also have an extraordinary brandy favored by more people than the absinthe."
Something in his intonation says that popularity is not a measure of quality.
This man whom I have never yet met, speaks to me with such understanding, but who am I if not for rhyme. She turned me down with such volition that I sit here cowarding at the bar. However, if anyone is to take me seriously tonight,
he whispers to himself "I must escape this stink"
before near shouting
"Bartender, I'll have two of your cheapest, strongest drink!"
Harold then attempts to discretely indicate to the bartender that he is wanting to accept the offer that had been provided to him, but wants to keep that a secret.
With the door locked Mike shrugs and joins the gathering crowd at the bar. "I guess there is no need for a doorman with the door locked and no one else allowed in," the large man says with a shrug as he claims a stool.
"Jimmy, the Boss said he wants me here but not on the door tonight, guess that means I can enjoy the bar. A shot and a mug please my good man. Geoffrey, what you cooks have simmering and smelling good on the stove tonight?"
As he waits for his drinks Mike looks about the room, frowning at the small crowd. Not to question the Boss, but why lock the doors tonight, especially if the rumor is true and MaGuffin's was indeed raided, this is the logical spot for that crowd to go. As Mike's mind touches on the thought of the raid his eyes narrow suspiciously as they land on the overly boisterous Corbyn.
Jimmy takes his attention from Harold just long enough to toss a "Sure, Mike. Let me settle these new customers first."
He nods significantly to Harold and hurries down the bar to pour the two drinks. While so engaged, he eyes Corbyn again to see if the absinthe is the man's desire. Getting no immediate response, he returns to Harold.
"That's four bits. I can start a tab if you like." He slides the drinks across the broad mahogany bartop and drops his voice. "Never a good idea to advertise that you're buying a lady cheap drinks. She wants to feel special."
Jimmy eyes Corbyn again while he pulls Mike's beer. With well practiced precision he slides the brimming mug down the bar to the bouncer. A shot quickly follows. "Honey brown, hoppy and rye."
Rick moves over to the bar sliding into a stool and setting his bowler on the bar with a sigh. "Gimme the usual would ya Jimbo? And stick it on my tab." Rick knew some day Tony would probably actually make him pay his tab, or more likely The Tiger would force him to do some kind of job in lieu of pay. Today probably wasn't that day though so that was a worry for future Rick, at least he really hoped it wasn't today, the PI business had been slow and his pockets were very empty.
He looks over at Mike and blinks "Eh? you ain't at the door tonight Mike? Den who's gonna toss me out when I get belligerent?"
"Kitty? Izzat you dollface? What you doin hidin behind this scruffy lookin character?" He says with a nod toward Harold "C'mere so's I can take a look at cha."
He grins toward Harold "No offense meant pal, but I ain't seen Kitty fer a while, an I could shure use a friendly face tonight, an her baby blues grab me a lot harder than yer stubbly mug. I won't be a minute jus to say hi... He furrows his brow at the man "Speakin o' which I ain't think I seen you 'round her before. Name's Rick. Here take my card." Rick slides over a napkin with "Rick Shroder Investigatory Services" and the phone number 742-584-3345 scrawled on it "Ok so I ran outta cards, but you need my services you lemme know... assumin ya gots some dough, no dough ya can find yer cat yerself."
Harold pulls out four bits, all the money he has left.
I have no more money but this bartender has been nothing but kind. I hate to do this but I'm already starting to develop a pretty popular reputation, I don't want them to realize that I'm a joke.
After spending a few seconds writing on his paper, Harold proclaims
"I thank thee bartender, provider of drinks and splendor! For the assist in my inevitable courtship, I award you the highest honour, a writers tip!
Harold gives the bartender four bits and proceeds to tear off a piece of his notepad and hands it over.
Like any real typist, Willard does not need to look down at his work to know that it is coming out right. Even as he continues to mumbles figures, he is able to spare Harold a raised eyebrow. He did not exactly get out of the office much, but even he had a little more tact than that.
A sudden ding informs the accountant that he has just reached the end of the last line on his sheet. Only now does he pull the paper out and check it over. Not for mathematical errors (any of which were purely intentional), but for neatness.
"From the looks of it, the property tax for this establishment has not been paid for the past decade," he reports to no one in particular, adjusting his eyeglasses. "Which has done wonders for our profits, I might add."
Harold acknowledges the presence of Rick through his acceptance of the napkin. He exhales audibly as the words of this stranger has been representative of Harold’s night as a whole.
“I apologize that you feel I’m an intrusion, for this I see but one solution. You fall from your throne so tall, to the man who is seen by us all. I feel absolutely no threat from you, your puffed chest is really nothing new.
Harold leans in and whispers in Rick’s ear
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Corbyn swats madly at the air, trying to catch what only appears to be nothing to spectators. He has clearly lost the memory of his request for drink.
"CURSE THESE MAGICAL BUTTERFLIES! The colors, they're beautiful, and their glow trails on for meters at a time, but they're both intrusive and obstructive! How is a gentleman supposed to get intoxicated in good company with all these distractions fluttering about?"
Spinning in circles and tripping over furniture, personnel and customers while trying to catch the air, Corbyn replies to Jimmy's option:
"The Absinthe! And a butterfly net to go along with it! At very least a fly swatter or perhaps a large shoe!"
Rick raises an eyebrow at the rhyming man trying to make sense of him "Sounds like ya musta got a pretty good head start on me pal, I ain't near drunk enough ta understand that." He smirks at Harold "From what I do understand though ya seem a lil too defensive fer someone who ain't feel no threat, and I gotta say a lot too possessive... ain't like she belong to ya." The P.I. shrugs and shakes his head "No need anyway, like I said I jus' wanna minute ta say hi, then ya can have yer conversashun." Which if I know Kitty will last precisely as long as it takes to completely empty your pockets.
"Course ya ain't gotta say hi if ya don't wanna Kitty. I get it, some days I ain't wanna see my ugly mug neither."
He looks over at Corbyn's display and his eyes widen. Is there a gas leak or something in here tonight? Everybody's gone nuts.
A bedraggled individual stumbles through the door, clutching his arm tightly to his side, fresh bandages red with blood. It's obvious he was in a fight. It's obvious he lost. He keeps his eyes on the floor, not even acknowledging the other patrons as he enters. After haltingly making his way to the bar, he lifts his eyes, bloodshot from recent tears and and obvious lack of sleep, and whispers "Something strong?" before collapsing into a barstool and holding his head with his one good hand.
Harold is taken aback from the words permeating from Rick's mouth. While he is only able to understand half of the gibberish that Rick is spewing, the other half is really taking effect on Harold.
What am I doing? I am acting as if I'm the hero and this man is some sort of villain for me to vanquish. His words are strange to me, and he severely lacks rhyme in his speech but he still speaks the truth.
Out of respect for Rick's wishes, Harold speaks without rhyming
"I am dumbfounded by my actions that were performed without proper thinking. You helped me see"
Harold pushes his second drink towards Rick
"Here, this one is on me
pause
"I guess you cannot completely kill the artist"
Harold then notices the beaten man approaching the bar. Harold's eyes widen to almost inhuman size and rushes over to the man.
"Who are you and what can you teach me?! I have never seen stealth such as thee! The door was locked and impenetrable by near most, but you walked through it as if you were a ghost!
Mike stands up as the stranger enters the door, softly cursing under his breath before calling, "Lets call play practice for the night guys. Kitty, would you mind collecting all the props and putting them away?"
Moving toward the door he pauses briefly as he passes Rick and says in a good natured joking manner, "You are used to cleaning yourself up after a good beating, can you look that young man over and make sure he is ok?"
Continuing toward the door he gives Geoffrey and Jimmy a quizzical look, "The Boss locked the door, right? I should have checked the door myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid!!! Mike opens the door, looks around quickly for others before closing and locking the door.
Turning around he looks over the intruder to see if he recognizes him, "You look like you have had a tough night fella. Who suggested you visit our stage?" After a short pause he continues, "Do we know you?"
Jeremy turns around to face them, looking genuinely puzzled and croaks out feebly: "The rune on your door, it said you needed a thief?" seeing their shocked and furious expressions he continues quickly in a softer tone, his voice somehow sounding stronger for its earnestness though still broken and hallow "It faded when I got here. I was... Shadowing poor Osric hoping he would lead me to somewhere safe to rest, maybe score me some change in the process. But I'm intrigued now, you'll have no trouble from me if you stay out of mine." he starts to turn back to his drink when he seems to realize something and says "Jeremy, my name is Jeremy."
Seeing the poetic pauper's attention distracted by newcomers, Kitty saunters over to an open spot near Rick. Flicking the PI's tie, she favors him with a tiny half-smile. "'Lo, Rick," she purrs in her smokiest voice, "Surprised to see you here tonight." Her eyes flick to the locked door, the odd strangers, and the accountant who--weirdly--uses a typewriter to keep the books. "Strange night, isn't it?" she whispers to Rick, then continues more loudly. "Just sayin' hi, there's no point my spending time with you. You're either broke or planning to spend all your dough on hooch anyway, as usual. Besides," she taps the glass the poet left the PI, "Looks like you're doing a better job tonight for Tony than I am. I gotta watch out. You might replace me." She drops a quick wink at Jimmy to let him know she's working the room and see if he's spotted any prospects for her, then watches the antics of Corbyn, blue eyes wide.
What the heck do they cut the drinks at MacGuffins with, gasoline?
Willard lowers his report, uncertain of who he had been reading it off to to begin with. Tony certainly seemed too distracted to pay him any mind, and the rest of fellows present did not seem very interested in business. And, as a glance at Corbyn and Jeremy indicates, at least two of them were insane. He scratches the bridge of his nose, contemplating their strangeness. Huh. They must be European.
"Oh, bartender?" the accountant calls out to Jimmy, finally finding that he was indeed parched. "Some soda water, if you would."
Rick moves over to the bar sliding into a stool and setting his bowler on the bar with a sigh. "Gimme the usual would ya Jimbo? And stick it on my tab." Rick knew some day Tony would probably actually make him pay ....
"Right, Rick." Knowing Rick would probably steer toward Kitty, Jimmy quickly pours the drink and intercepts Rick in mid stride. The gumshoe needn't slow a hair as the drink is pressed into his hand.
Harold pulls out four bits, all the money he has left.
...
After spending a few seconds writing on his paper, Harold proclaims
"I thank thee bartender, provider of drinks and splendor! For the assist in my inevitable courtship, I award you the highest honour, a writers tip!
Harold gives the bartender four bits and proceeds to tear off a piece of his notepad and hands it over.
"I hope you know the ponies," Jimmy smiles as he palms the note.
Corbyn swats madly at the air, trying to catch what only appears to be nothing to spectators. He has clearly lost the memory of his request for drink.
"CURSE THESE MAGICAL BUTTERFLIES! The colors, they're beautiful, and their glow trails on for meters at a time, but they're both intrusive and obstructive! How is a gentleman supposed to get intoxicated in good company with all these distractions fluttering about?"
Spinning in circles and tripping over furniture, personnel and customers while trying to catch the air, Corbyn replies to Jimmy's option:
"The Absinthe! And a butterfly net to go along with it! At very least a fly swatter or perhaps a large shoe!"
Jimmy retrieves the green bottle from under the bar and a tall narrow flute from the rack above. He pours a generous measure and offers it over a towel-draped arm to the eccentric Corbyn. Then he steps back to observe the man's reaction.
A bedraggled individual stumbles through the door, clutching his arm tightly to his side, fresh bandages red with blood. ... After haltingly making his way to the bar, he lifts his eyes, bloodshot from recent tears and and obvious lack of sleep, and whispers "Something strong?" before collapsing into a barstool and holding his head with his one good hand.
...
Harold then notices the beaten man approaching the bar. Harold's eyes widen to almost inhuman size and rushes over to the man.
"Who are you and what can you teach me?! I have never seen stealth such as thee! The door was locked and impenetrable by near most, but you walked through it as if you were a ghost!
Jimmy's voyeuristic reverie is broken by the appearance of Jeremy. He tears his attention from Corbin and scoops a clean towel off the pile under the bar's long mirror.
Jimmy nods a quick assent to Mike's question. "I thought I was the last one in." Armed with towels, he starts rounding the bar....
Continuing toward the door he gives Geoffrey and Jimmy a quizzical look, "The Boss locked the door, right? I should have checked the door myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid!!! Mike opens the door, looks around quickly for others before closing and locking the door.
Turning around he looks over the intruder to see if he recognizes him, "You look like you have had a tough night fella. Who suggested you visit our stage?" After a short pause he continues, "Do we know you?"
Willard lowers his report, uncertain of who he had been reading it off to to begin with. Tony certainly seemed too distracted to pay him any mind, and the rest of fellows present did not seem very interested in business. And, as a glance at Corbyn and Jeremy indicates, at least two of them were insane. He scratches the bridge of his nose, contemplating their strangeness. Huh. They must be European.
"Oh, bartender?" the accountant calls out to Jimmy, finally finding that he was indeed parched. "Some soda water, if you would."
"Geoff, can you help Willard?"
Jimmy arrives at Jeremy's side and offers him a towel. "Here, put pressure on that to stop the bleeding."
Jeremy nods to Jimmy and accepts the towel with mumbled thanks.
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Jimmy retrieves the green bottle from under the bar and a tall narrow flute from the rack above. He pours a generous measure and offers it over a towel-draped arm to the eccentric Corbyn. Then he steps back to observe the man's reaction.
Corbyn attempts to leap straight up with one arm outstretched and madly clasps his hand in an attempt to catch whatever bizarre creature he's chasing. His massive weight does little to overcome the gravity in the room and his exaggerated movements only result in a little hop off the ground before plummeting back down onto his round belly right in front of the bar. With wide eyes he slowly spreads his fingers just a bit to examine his catch, and then closes them in a tight yet gentle fashion only a second later before darting to his feet. Reaching onto his coat pocket he pulls out a finely crafted wooden box and places whatever is in his hand carefully inside, closes the lid and secures the latch.
Corbyn places the box on the bar between himself and Jimmy and reaches into his breast pocket to retrieve his wallet. He hands toward Jimmy an assortment of large crumpled bills and a mix of loose change to pay for his drink.
"The Blue Butterflies make a powerful Jackalope aphrodisiac you know. This little guy is going to add a nice bit of change to my already impressive fortunes, and The Green Fairy is my reward!"
With that, Corbyn smiles and calmly takes a large sip from his glass and lights a cigar.
Kitty's arched eyebrows rise even higher at the sight of the wad of cash the newcomer flashes.
"I was gonna work that guy, but it doesn't look like Jimmy needs any help from me," she whispers to the private dick.
"Hey tanks pally." Rick says accepting the drink from Harold.
With a smile towards Kitty the PI nods "Well I hadda drop a case, but Tony said dis was 'portant. I ain't 'bout ta say no, not wit the tab I run up." He smirks towards her as she teases about replacing her "Well sleuthin's been kinda slow, maybe I oughta consider bein a bar girl. But don't worry doll, Ol' Rick knows better'n ta compete wit ya, or keep ya when yer werkin."
He leans in closer to add in a whisper
Looking towards his drink, which was already ready for him by the time he hit the stool, Rick nods towards the bartender "Tanks Jimmy, on da ball as always"
Turning his attention to the beat up newcomer Rick slips off his stool at Mike's request "Course Mike, I'll take a look. The Gumshoe joins Jimmy as he offers the towel to Jeremy. "I ain't no docter but I seen my fair share 'o maulin's... most people ain't come to da Tiger's place pre-mauled though. Well lemme take a look friend? How bad izzit? Catch any blades 'r bullets?"
Jeremy turns to Rick with a sigh, before realization dawns on his face and he starts explaining in a dead monotone, words clipped and procedural "Left arm. Knife. Half inch deep, maybe more. Hit major veins, but no arteries, hence it bleeding through my dressing. The bleeding is bad, it might need stitches. We got clean needles here?" unseen to most he slips several cloth bundles into the pockets of Rick's coat, whispering:
Rushing into the room, with a sideways glance at the nights festivities already underway. Marlene moves over to Jimmy behind the bar, "Sorry, I'm late. Something came up, ya'll know how it is." The habitually late server says, brushing her curls behind her ears with a self-conscious shrug.
She quickly grabs a tray of glasses from behind the bar and moves to a nearby empty table to clean it before a reprimand arrives.
There is a commotion in the back room, the surprised cry of the person the regulars might recognize as Dominic, a good friend and booze supplier to Tony. There's the sound of a struggle, the smashing of glass and a couple of snaps. For just a moment, there is silence.
"That's just GRRRRRRRRREAT!" roars The Tiger, as he enters the room holding the mangled and bloodied corpse of his friend. His hands are covered in blood, and his tie is slightly undone. A couple of buttons popped when the mountain of a man killed the booze runners with his bare hands.
He sniffs with disdain and holds his hand out to drop Dominic to the ground, holding a bloodied deputy badge in the others. He shakes his head and sits down in one of the chairs, gesturing for his tabby cat to jump up on his lap, which it obediently does. He leans forward with menace as he looks to the folks gathered there, his presence commanding attention even beyond what his entrance would cause. "Let me tell you how my day is going..."
The Tiger pauses for emphasis as his eyes catch those of each person in the room. He holds his hand in front of the cat, letting the tabby lick the blood off. "So I get a message this morning, saying that tonight, Chief Leone's guys are going to be hitting us tonight. I laugh at first, 'cause they've tried this before. But then I hear, three of my people are actually undercover and out for our crew's blood. Well, I couldn't believe it, but Dominic here... he slipped up. So he got ripped up."
Once the cat is done with the licking, Tony draws a handkerchief and starts cleaning his hands of blood a bit more thoroughly. "But turns out, these folks realized I was going to be checking for badges tonight, and they were ordered to get rid of them. Swallow 'em if they have to!"
He tosses the badge onto Dominic's twisted body. "And swallow 'em they did. Now, you folks here tonight, you're the ones I've narrowed it down to. My lawyer said to just pump you all full of lead from a tommy gun and leave it at that. That's the only way to be sure of it..."
The Tiger grimaces at that idea and shakes his head, "I know most of you would kill for me. And I know most of you would die for me. So I think," He pulls a switchblade from his pocket and puts it on the table, "that I'll let you sort it out. I trust my people to be more clever than any dirty cops. Be careful, though, these two folks they have left are the best they have. They call them The Silencer, and The Dirty Sleuth. I'm gonna head to the back for a second. I'm the prime target here, so if anyone heads through that curtain after me, the cover charge is your head."
"Dominic wuz a copper? Well ain't dat a slap inna face." He shakes his head "Well guess dat makes sense why Tony said it wuz so 'portant, he musta figured he could rely on my 'vestigation skills ta ferret out dem dirty pigs."
He looks towards Jeremy who's still bleeding "Ya better get it straight kid, I ain't no inspector, I'mma PI."
He waves towards Mike "Hey Mike, I ain't find no badge, but this Gus is packin more heat den Florida." Rick stops Jeremy from shoving any more bundles into his pockets and removes the ones already pushed in there. "Deal wit dis Joker's arsenal will ya? Ad do ya got a first aid kit? Ain't no sense lettin 'im bleed ta death 'til we're sure he'sa cop."
Looking to the late coming waitress he asks "Marly good ta see ya... wish it were under betta cercumstances. Don't suppose ya got a sewin kit on ya?"
Kitty cringes back as Tony's wrath explodes across the room, clinging to Geoffrey for support, one manicured hand across her mouth. When the boss leaves, she watches Rick take charge, still stunned by the sudden violence.
"I thought Dominick was an honest bootlegger," she breathes, "He's a cop? And he was one of Tony's best friends! No wonder the boss is furious."
She leans across the bar to whisper to Jimmy and Marlene.
Harold is visibly upset about the events that have just transpired.
Flustered he begins scurrying all around the room shouting
"I assumed all of you were decent hardworking criminals, but now my certainty is minimal. If any of ya'll are cops, I beg you to stop, or my wrath will be downright biblical!"
Mike reaches over the bar and grabs the small first aid kit and throws it to Rick. "Yeah, I can take all that and keep it safe," Mike says as he starts collecting the various weapons.
As he stows the various weapons in a large storage chest off to the side of the bar, Mike can be heard mumbling under is breath, "Damn you Dominick, I should have known you were a snitch, anyone who cheers for the Boston Braves don't know how to pick the right team." After everything is stowed away he closes and locks the trunk before putting the key in his vest pocket.
Jimmy is visibly shocked by Tiger's spectacle. Leaving Jeremy with a towel, he staggers behind the bar and down to the regular's end, while muttering, "I heard Mr Ruggiero played rough, but we've never had anything like that happen inside the club before. Blessed saints save us all."
Reaching his knot of comrades in hospitality, he listens to Kitty before replying," I don't know any of them. Maybe they're here for the boss. Maybe they're just unlucky."
"I can't believe this."