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Chapter Text

Jack didn't need this. Jack didn't need this at all. Jack didn't need this dickweed detective to come bother him with his dickweed detective bullshit. Jack didn't need him to wave his dickweed little business card in front of his face. Jack didn't need to read the irritatingly shiny embossed green print (P. Sloan and Associates: Private Investigators, it read, in case anyone was curious, which Jack wasn't). Jack didn't need to be interrupted by some amateur gumshoe with some score to settle or point to prove. What Jack needed was for this man to get the fuck out of his office and let him work.

“Listen, Mister. . .”

“Sloan,” Patrick provided, nodding toward the business card.

Jack leaned forward, gripping his pencil quite a bit more tightly than would ever be necessary. “Listen, Mr. Sloan, you must be aware that I am a very busy man. I have got complaints from the lower levels about recent acquisitions not being up to code, I have got an offer for further development in the Narrows that needs to be retooled, I have got accusations of someone cheating at one of my casinos that for some reason they felt needed to be directed at me, I have got a son who needs braces, I have got problems, I have got responsibilities. I have got things to do, and not one of those things revolves around you. I apologize for the inconveniences, but I do not know how my secretary was able to find a time in my schedule for you to make an appointment, because I – sure as God made little shit sandwiches – would not have been able to.”

“Ah, fault's all mine, Mr. Vantas. I should attempt to make this meeting as brief as possible.”

“All due respect, Mister. . . I'm sorry, I've already forgotten.”

“Sloan,” he supplied again, this time not breaking eye contact.

“All due respect, Mr. Sloan, if you had any intention of making this meeting as brief as possible, you wouldn't have made it at all. Now you can either get to your point and try very hard to waste as little of my unspeakably precious time as possible, or you can take your nice white hat and your nice white coat right back out my nice mahogany door and find a nice saguaro cactus and get carnally acquainted.”

Patrick Sloan just smiled and put his business card back in his shirt pocket. “Forgive me if I don't take you up on the offer, Mr. Vantas, but I didn't come here for foliage fornication. My business here involves some kind of rumors I heard regarding an associate of yours by the name of Jack Noir.”

Jack smirked right back into that freak's pathetic excuse for a poker face, knowing it was just barely containing a shit-eating grin. He decided to play along with this asshole's little game of sudoku, or whatever it was that assholes played these days. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Sloan, but I don't think I have an associate by that name.”

“Oh my, I ain't made a mistake, have I?” Sloan asked, raising his eyebrows in the most irritating mockery of pretend feigned sincerity.

Christ in a pair of handcuffs, Jack thought. He'd seen better acting in his kid's class presentations on the four food groups. “I think you may have,” he said. “What was his name again?”

“Jack Noir, Mr. Vantas.”

“Noir, huh. Sounds French. Can't stand the fucking French.”

“That's not a very nice thing to say,” Sloan said, his smirk visibly twitching under the strain of not showing how pathetically proud of himself he was. “I happen to have a very good friend of French descent.”

“Well that's the loveliest goddamn story I have heard all year. Please do type it up for me, I believe I can get you in touch with a publisher and a movie deal. Now I have answered your question, and you have used up fifteen minutes of my work day. Have a good evening, and don't get hit by the door. I'd hate for you to scuff it. Like I said, mahogany.”

“You ain't foolin' me, Jack. I know who you are.”

Here we fucking go. “Enlighten me,” Jack grunted.

Patrick opened up a folder on his lap and let loose with a tile-toothed grin which, as expected, made Jack sick. “Oh, but surely you already know. José Vantas, landowner, casino proprietor, legitimate businessman.”

“This may come as a shock to you, but I assure you I have read my own business card.”

Sloan ignored the comment and continued to thumb through the contents of the folder. “You got your start as a pencil pusher at a pretty cushy, but not very challenging, government job. Governor's aide or some suchlike. Pretty complicated stuff, politics. I ain't never gotten the full handle on it, myself. It all seems pretty standard for a while, but then the governor resigns under somewhat mysterious circumstances and she ain't been in the spotlight since. Suspicious, right? Kinda stuff that would make a lesser guy lay low 'cause of the rumors, but not you, Mr. Vantas. You rose above the odds, came into some money – I know not from where – and moved here about eighteen years ago. Started a cute little family business, Vantas and Sons Real Estate, and began buying up and rebuilding large swaths of the residential and commercial districts. Your investments started making returns, so you thought then was good as any to branch out into the private entertainment business, ain't that right? Opened The Midnight Lounge and Casino and established yourself as one of the wealthiest and most influential fellas around. With your newfound reputation, you decided to actually make a family in your family business, and quietly adopted a kid from India. Named him Carter though, wouldn't want the public to think you folks were too ethnic, right? Just ethnic enough. Today you are the owner of four casinos, including the one under construction at Stilson Bog, in addition to most of the property in the lower west side and the entirety of the Narrows.” He shut the folder and smiled that disgustingly self-loving smile.

Jack pressed a button on his intercom. “Moll?” he said. “Check to see what it costs to commission a book. I think we found an expert candidate for my biographer.” He then turned and stared at Sloan with an expression he hoped the fedoraed freak could feel like a million little Kalashnikov bullets. “We'll be in touch.”

“Oh, but I'm not done, am I, Mr. Noir?” Sloan reached into his briefcase and pulled out another folder. “Little bit more, isn't there? You've got a little bit of a rap sheet, ain't that right, Jack Noir? Jose Vantas, you are also AKA'd as Jack Vantas, right? Which means you're also AKA'd as Jack Noir, and AKA'd as Blackjack Vance, and even AKA'd as Spades Slick, crime boss of the organization colloquially referred to as The Midnight Crew? Not exactly the most difficult problem I've had to figure out in my time, Jack. It ain't no secret that The Midnight Crew been getting into a little bit of a turf war with some of those boys in the nice green suits that work for Lawrence English and Felt Manor for some manner of a long time. And he owns the only serious share in your business competition, so I think you can see where I'm going with this.”

Jack glowered into the pasty white cretin's annoyingly green eyes. Only assholes have green eyes. Any decent human being would have the courtesy to have brown eyes like a normal person. Dear Lord, Jack hated this man. “Congratulations, Encyclopedia Brown. Fuckin' fabulous. I think I have twenty-five cents around here for your work.”

“I ain't here for your money, Mr. Noir.”

“Well I should fucking hope not. What did you come here for? You sure as hell didn't come here to try to bring me in.”

“Didn't I? Believe me, the thought had crossed my mind.”

Jack tried to laugh bitterly, but it came out as a small choking noise. “You wanna bring me in? Shit, I'd like to see you try. Come on, you come in here, waste my time, spout some bullshit anyone can learn from a pickpocket and a copy of Time Magazine, and you wanna bring me in? You ain't got jurisdiction, you're not a cop, you're a private detective. Hell, you're not even a proper detective, you're --” He searched for a word. “You're a fucking problem sleuth, with that sad excuse for a trench coat and that cheap piece of shit you call a fedora. My kid reads books about better private eyes than you, and they still sing in the soprano section.”

Patrick chuckled to himself, which naturally made Jack want to hurl. “Relax, Slick, I came here to offer you a deal.”

“I have no idea what the fuck you'd want from me, but I can sure as shit tell you that there's nothing I'd want from you.”

“Hear me out, Jack.”

“Only if you pick a goddamn name for me and stick with it, you insufferable prick.”

Sloan cocked his head. “That ain't no way to treat your company, is it, Jack? Listen, Jack, we do have some service we could provide each other. Me and my associates been having some troubles with a new face that seems to have popped up on the scene. Fancies himself something of a mobster kingpin, I've got to figure. Has his fingers in a lot of pies, has a lot of irons in the fire, that sort of thing. Seems he's got something against some lovely people we know, and we'd like to maybe see him come up short for once. Maybe get him a nice new stripey wardrobe. Or a hemp necklace." He mimed hanging a noose. "We don't know a hell of a lot about him, but the few sources we have only know him as The DMK. Problem is, we can't seem to find him, let alone get leverage to put him behind bars. All we know as he's running some show, drugs of course, maybe kidnappings, but probably more. More than a couple nice people been disappearing, and we think it's him.”

Silence. “So?” Jack asked.

“So my proposal is simple. We've gotta get an angle on DMK. You've got English and his boys breathing down your neck. If you and your friends do me and mine a favor with Mr. DMK, we could graciously return it by bringing the heat down hard on The Felt. Whattaya say?”

There was silence again. Sloan, apparently, was the one who felt he had to break it this time.

“Whattaya say, Jack?” he said again. “We got a deal?”

Jack continued to stare at Sloan for a while, then leaned back in his chair. Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his coat pocket, produced a butterfly knife, and twirled it absently. “The very next thing I am about to say will be enormously important. I do not wish to repeat myself, so I would like you to pay extra special careful attention to my words, all right?”

Sloan started to coolly nod his assent, but was abruptly cut off by Jack's hand gripping his tie and Jack's knife grazing his neck. “Listen here, problem sleuth, we ain't got a deal. We ain't got shit. I ain't helpin' you with your crummy-ass pansy-ass candy-ass wannabe DMK bullshit. And whatever beef I got with Lawrie English and his gang of green-suited fuckfaces is my own damn business. Now you ain't gonna bring me in in your homemade paddywagon, you ain't got shit when it comes to dealing with a proper boss, and you ain't gonna get my assistance on your face-violating nancy rent-a-cop horseshit. Now you are going to go out my door, go down the hall, go down the elevator eight floors, go across the street, and get the fuck out of my nosehairs, do you understand me?”

Sloan looked dead into Jack's eyes without so much as a twitch in his eyebrows. Jack was honestly impressed at the kid's cool under pressure, as much as he hated to find something to admire. “I ain't afraid of you, Slick,” Sloan said.

Jack could tell he meant it, which only served to piss him off even more. “You got guts, douchebag. I'll give you that. But there is a very fine line between being the brave little toaster and being the guy who gets brutally murdered with a butterfly knife. Now either I show you the door, or I show you my stabs. It's your choice, but speaking from personal experience, blood is a bitch to get out of this carpet.”

Patrick grinned. “I'll leave. But I want you to think it over.”

Jack let go and lowered his knife. “I thought it over. The answer's no.”

Sloan stood up and shrugged. “Why don't you sleep on it?” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a card. “Gimme a call if you ever have a. . . a change of heart.”

Jack grudgingly took the card, but paused while holding it. “This is a wallet-sized photo of you posing shirtless.”

Patrick froze for a long moment, his eyes shot wide open in terror. He then quickly snatched the photo back, flustered. “This. . . that's for something else that. . . this was not what I. . . this was not the card I meant to show you.” He looked around anxiously as if about to say something, then threw down his real business card. “I have to go,” Sloan said, and he rushed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Jack stared at the door and stabbed his knife into a legal pad. You can build a city from the ground up, he thought, but there's always gonna be a few toolbags left over.

He decided to write that down. Might look good on that asshole's tombstone.

Chapter Text

Sewers are wonderful hiding places. They might seem a bit cliché thanks to their overuse in literature and film, but secret lairs hidden in sewers provide a number of unique and effective deterrents to interlopers. And as P. Sloan and Associates made their way through the city's sewer system, they became intimately familiar with these, a fact of which the Associates did not hesitate to continuously inform P. Sloan.

“Ah fuck, stepped in shit again,” muttered Richard Dunn, a short, barrel-chested detective a little bit past what most people would consider his prime. “I keep stepping in fucking shit. Fucking shit everywhere, Pat. I'll have to spend a week cleaning these boots. Or maybe I'll burn them. All this shit.”

Patrick Sloan sighed. Dunn was more than handy in a fight, and when it came to heavy lifting, he had no equal. But sometimes he could be a pain in the ass, Sloan thought. And by “sometimes,” Sloan meant all of the times. All of them. “It ain't that hard, Dick. If you watch your step, you won't have to deal with it.”

“Don't call me Dick, asshole,” Dunn growled. “And I can't watch my step. It's fucking dark as shit, and Inspector Imagination here keeps swinging the lantern around instead of keeping it straight ahead.”

“Gracious, there are rats everywhere,” said Peter Inesco, a taller gentleman with a quiet voice and a penchant for daydreaming. He moved the lantern to illuminate a colony of the creatures: tough, mangy city sewer rats that scurried from the light as it reached them.

“Aw hell, he ain't even listenin', Pat."

“I heard you quite well, Richard,” Inesco said softly. “But the rats in this place are a bigger problem than the waste.”

“Maybe to you,” Dunn growled again. It seemed to Sloan that this was his main method of communication, next to profanity. “You don't give a shit what you look like. But me? My wife's gonna flip the fuck out when she sees me covered in all this fucking shit.”

"You should probably use the word 'shit' again, Dick," Sloan said. "It's starting to sound musical."

“With all due respect, waste can be washed off. A rat bite cannot,” Inesco said.

“Now don't tell me you're afraid of rats, Pete,” said Sloan.

“Not the rats themselves, no. But I would rather not contract rabies if I can avoid such a fate.”

The three detectives continued a bit in silence after that. Well, as silent as can be expected when three people are walking through a sewer, one of them constantly squelching into mud or trash or something more horrible and cursing under his breath - and above his breath. After a few minutes, however, the team spotted a narrow crack – about three feet wide and half an inch tall – shining light onto the sewer floor.

“Pete, hand me the lantern, will ya?” Sloan asked, taking it and shining it on the wall. Before them stood a plain, but imposing, metal door.

“This the right place?” Dunn asked.

Sloan examined the door carefully. There were three heavy hinges on this side, but the pins were welded in and could not be removed. The lock was an embedded cylinder, and the handle was a steel rod, crudely but solidly bolted. About an inch above the handle, a small playing card spade was scratched into the metal. Sloan stood up. “This is the place all right.”

“I do hate to bring up this question so late into the evening,” Inesco began, “but how will we get in?”

“Easy. Mr. Dunn here's gonna pick the lock. You brought what I asked you to, right?”

“'Course,” Dunn grunted, shifting the gun slung on his shoulder so he could reach into his pocket and take something out. “I actually always carry a couple of these around. My wife loses them like crazy, it helps to have a few spares.” He held the hairpin to the light, making sure it was in good condition. “'Course I got no idea what you're gonna do once you get in there. From what I hear, these guys are bad news.”

Pat leaned against the door, holding the lantern as Dunn knelt down to pick the lock. “Ah, don't you fellas worry. I'm just gonna go in there, sweet talk them a little. They'll be willing to help us out in no time at all, I guarantee it. You and Inesco will just. . . run interference. In case things don't go as planned.”

Inesco took out his machine pistol and glanced worriedly at Sloan. “Interference?” He glanced down at Dunn, still struggling with the hairpin.

“Relax, Pete, things'll go as planned. You guys just watch the exit and make sure we have a way out. Besides, you know how to handle that gun better than anyone I've ever seen. And I don't know anyone who can take a hit better than Dick. He's our ace in the hole, ain't you, Dick?”

Dunn threw down the bobby pin in disgust and stood up. “Stand back, asshole.” The other two obliged quickly as Dunn swung his machine gun off his back and opened fire. The bullets tore at the door, ripping through the hinges and demolishing the lock. “And don't fucking call me Dick.”

Sloan and Inesco stood agape as Dunn then pulled the door from the wall. “I read you, Ace,” Sloan said as he blinked hard and steeled himself for his entrance. “Stay here, keep guard.”

The door fell over to reveal a large, squarish black room, dimly lit by a few naked bulbs. In the middle of the room was a table covered in papers, playing cards and a large wooden bowl, surrounded by four empty chairs and three gangsters – and one tiny gangster – in matching black suits, looking very aggravated. Sloan strode toward them, hoping that his trench coat was streaming behind him as impressively as he imagined it was. “Well I gotta say, you fellas are improving. It took us a while to find your little club house here. Had to search every sewer entrance for eight blocks. I gotta tell ya boys, I almost broke a sweat. I applaud you.”

One of them – an enormous German-looking brute who looked like he could probably eat Sloan with a side of eggs and biscuits – stood up, cracked his knuckles, and in a rumbling bass voice thundered the question, “What are you doing here?” Actually, it didn't sound like a question at all. It sounded more like the noise artillery makes as it grinds into position.

A lesser man would have soiled his slacks, but thanks to good luck and bad business, Sloan hadn't eaten anything for a couple days, and was therefore less at risk for such a display. He pointed his finger at the man and said, “Shut your pie-hole, Deutch-bag, I'm talking to your boss.” He then turned his attention to the significantly shorter, dark skinned man in the middle holding onto a dagger like it was a stress ball.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jack Noir spat.

“Now that is much more what I wanted to hear, thank you Jack,” Sloan replied, grinning in what he knew Jack would find an infuriating manner. “You are being so much more cooperative today. Sounds like you're finally sleeping all the way through naptime. Your mommy must be very proud. Mind if I have a seat?”

Jack glared at Sloan with a frozen look of solid, unspeakable fury on his face. Sloan decided to take that as permission, plopping down in the chair across from the mobsters and putting his feet on the table. This action made the well-groomed gentleman to the right of Jack twitch.

Sloan winked at him. “How's it goin'?”

The man drew himself to full height and began to very deliberately raise the ass-end of a pool cue up above his head.

“Easy, Droog,” Jack stopped him. “He's not a threat.”

“Droog, huh? Doesn't that come from that book I've seen floating around? What's it called... A Clockwork Orange? Goodness, Jack, I never quite pegged you for the reading type. You're just a little bundle of surprises today, aren't you.”

“I'd ask you,” 'Droog' said slowly, “if you'd like to continue living, please get your flithy, foul footwear the fuck off my furniture.”

Sloan grinned and put his feet down. “See, Jack? See how nicely I comply with him? If you would just ask nicely I could--” He cut off as he looked closely at the wooden bowl. “Is that a bowl of candy? Oh my God, are those licorice scotty dogs? Slick, that is just adorable.”

Jack sputtered. “I’m trying to quit smoking, you intolerable fuckshit.” He pulled the bowl out of Sloan’s hands. “And what the fuck do you even want? What in the name of whorefucking titmice possessed your microscopic brain to deduce that it would be a real ripsnortin’ good time to come down here? I already told you no. I don’t need your help. I don’t want to team up with your little pack of sailor scouts. So unless you came here to give me a million dollars in non-consecutive bills as payment for the privilege of my disdain, you can take your boyfriends and get the fuck out of my life.”

“You son of a bitch!” Dunn shouted from the door.

“That’s not an insult, Ace,” Sloan called out without turning around. “Anybody would be lucky to have me.”

“I can still shoot you, asshole.”

“Duly noted. But I’d prefer if you held off on that for a bit. I haven’t even had a chance to tell these fine gentlemen and their lovely child why we came here.”

The shortest member of the Crew, a diminutive, stocky, round-faced fellow wearing what was for him a rather comically oversized hat, looked nervously at Jack. “What’s he talkin’ ‘bout, boss?”

“He ain’t talking about a damn thing, Deuce,” Jack growled without taking his eyes off of Sloan. “In fact, this motherfucker was just leaving. Boxcars, why don’t you show this gentleman and his associates the way out.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the big one rumbled, as he sidled around the table and advanced on the comparatively insignificant man in the chair.

Sloan couldn’t help but figure that this Boxcars fellow could probably benchpress a Volkswagen. But he stared down the advancing lug until the very last moment.

“Boys!” Sloan called, suddenly moving from his chair and doing a combat roll across the floor. Dunn and Inesco burst into the room, brandishing their guns. Sloan pulled a Thompson from his coat and jumped in front of Boxcars, preparing to fire, but then--

“Not so fast!” cried a voice that was oddly less nervous than before. The pipsqueak mobster had jumped in front of Boxcars, holding a pistol in one hand and something unfamiliar in the other.

“Deuce?” the big guy asked.

“Ya wanna shoot any of us? Ya gotta shoot me first!” Deuce cried.

“I can probably do that real easy,” Sloan said.

“Yeah, but if ya do, everybody dies.”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Dunn grunted.

“Deuce, what the fuck are you talking about?” Jack shouted.

“See this?” he said grinning, waving the device in his left hand. “This is a dead-man’s switch. See, I pulled the pin, so if I let go of this, say, because I’m dead, then the pound and a half of C-4 plastic explosive I got under my hat goes off. Then I die, but you die, those guys die, we all die, the sewer probably collapses, and nobody gets what they came for. So turn around now, cause I’ll do it. I’ve got a hat full of bomb and a head full of crazy.”

There was silence in the room for a moment. Sloan broke it. “Okay,” he said slowly, “Gentlemen. I’m sure we can find a diplomatic solution to all this. What say we all put down our guns, Lollipop Guild here puts the pin back in, and we all talk about this like civilized people.”

“Insulting the man holding the bomb ain’t gonna do you any favors,” Jack muttered.

“Aw, I ain’t insulted, boss!” Deuce said, oddly chipper. “I like the Wizard of Oz.”

“Sloan, I don’t see you leavin’,” Jack said. “I recommend you change that.”

“Well I ain’t leavin’ until you fellas agree to my proposal.”

“Pat, let’s get the fuck outta here,” Dunn hissed.

“Listen to your friend, sleuth-boy,” Jack said. “You don’t wanna die tonight.”

“Don’t I?” Sloan specifically pointed his gun at Deuce. “No money, no family, ain’t eaten in three days? I’m a desperate man, Jack. You boys are the only chance we got at breaking this DMK business, and unless we break it, we ain’t gonna be gettin’ any more cases ever. I’m about the most fucked I can be, and if I can’t end the case -- boys, you better God damn believe I can end us all. So let’s talk.”

“Don’t you fucking do it, Sloan,” Dunn said, his voice trembling slightly. “I ain’t gonna die. Not here. Not tonight.”

“Who’s gonna stop me?”

“I will,” Dunn said, and he turned his machine gun on Sloan.

Peter Inesco looked horrified. “Richard, you can’t!”

“The hell I can’t, Pete! I got a wife and kid, they ain’t gonna lose me in some half-assed death threat, no sir, not from Pat!”

“Gentlemen!” a voice interrupted. Everyone turned and looked at the meticulously kept man who had finally spoken again. “Everyone put down your weapons. Deuce, put the pin back.”

Deuce stammered. “But-- but Droog!”

“Deuce, put it back now!” Droog shouted. The smaller man flinched and nervously complied.

“What the fuck, Droog?” Jack spat.

“I’m doing the sensible thing, Slick,” he muttered back. Droog then turned to face the detectives. “All right, listen up, whitecoats. The Crew are going to discuss whether or not we’ll help you. In the meantime, you lot are going to go back to your homes and think about what you can do for us if we accept. And then tomorrow, your little leader there, what’s your name?”

“Patrick Sloan.”

“Right. Patrick Sloan, tomorrow night you’re going to come by Diamond Estate and talk to me. We’ll discuss our terms, then run them by and figure out what the hell we’re going to do. But we’re not going to do that here. You got it?”

The room was filled with a tense silence.

“I said you got it?” Droog snarled.

Sloan lowered his tommy gun and put it back in his coat. “Yeah, I got it. That’s about as good as I can hope for. I’ll see you tomorrow, Droogie. Pete? Ace? Let’s go.”

The three detectives backed out of the room.

“There’s a manhole access fifty feet south of here. You can take that," Droog called out to them, absolutely no levity in his voice.

“Got it, thanks,” Sloan called back, absolutely no gratitude in his.

Sloan, Dunn and Inesco found the access right where he had said it would be. Once they finally reached fresh air and solid ground, Dunn shoved Sloan against a shop wall.

“What the hell was that back there?” he roared into Sloan’s face.

“Be more specific,” Sloan replied, keeping his cool.

“That shit about blowing us all up!” Dunn kept roaring, his cool nowhere to be found.

“That wasn’t me. That was the little guy.”

“But you were gonna shoot him, and that was gonna blow us up!”

“I wasn’t gonna shoot him, Ace,” Sloan said, looking straight into Dunn’s eyes. “But I had to make them think I was. Oldest trick in the book. It was a bluff.”

Dunn blinked and cleared his throat, visibly confused.

“I was bluffing. Just like you weren’t gonna shoot me.”

Dunn backed off and looked at the ground. “I. . . uh.” There was a long pause. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He started walking away. Sloan moved off in the other direction.

Inesco followed after Dunn. “You. . . were not actually going to shoot him, right?”

“What difference does it make?” Dunn grumbled without looking up.

“We are a team, Richard,” Inesco replied.

Dunn stomped on a cockroach that scuttled down the street. “Ah hell, Pete. You wouldn’t understand. You ain’t got a family, you don’t know what it’s like to have everything to lose.”

“That’s not true,” Inesco said quietly. “You and Patrick are the closest thing to family that I have.”

Dunn stopped. He looked up at the tall, stringy man next to him for a moment. Then he looked away. “Shit, I’m sorry, Pete.”

“It’s quite all right,” Peter said as the two of them continued walking. They were silent for a good while before Peter spoke up again. “You should know that if it comes to such a moment, I will fight with all the strength I have to protect us.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

“You’re welcome, Richard.”

Dunn laughed gruffly. “You know, you can call me Ace.”

Chapter Text

There were a lot of things that Jack Noir didn’t like.

He didn’t like apples, for instance. He could never chew them enough to swallow, and by that time they lost all their flavor, and the skin always got caught in his teeth, and the whole process was just repulsive. Just repulsive. His right hand man, Paolo Diamante, insisted that maybe he’d like them better if he had a real apple and not those cardboard radishes they sold in cafeterias, but Jack figured he was a goddamn adult and he was fucked if he had to eat some crappy fruit to prove whatever point it was that he needed to make for Diamante to just let him eat an honest-to-fucking-Jeremy steak once in a while.

He also didn’t like greasy-haired Irish detectives that whined like hungry toddlers and wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone. Seriously the incompetent prick needed Jack’s help dealing with a fuckdamn tenderfoot like this DMK pusbucket -- of whom Jack had never heard, thank you, so how big an issue could he be -- and he wanted to take down Lawrie English? Hell, Jack was surprised the detective even knew how to operate wooden door; there was no way he’d be anything but a hindrance. He wasn’t sure if Sloan had actually ever shot a man, or if he just faced crooks so dull he could just jingle his keys at them and they’d surrender. Jack thought about that. He wondered if it would work on Sloan. This thought amused Jack for a while, but he soon looked at the phone and remembered what prompted the extensive internal monologue he had gone off on.

There were two things he didn’t like most of all: giving into sentimentality and ratting out your buddies. Getting sentimental was how you got shot. Ratting out your buddies was also how you got shot. And stabbed. And your face bashed into a door eighty-nine times. Yeah, the only thing Jack hated more than a sob was a squealer. This was largely, but not exclusively, why he instinctively winced as he picked up the phone. Rats and wretches both deserved hell, and here he was, setting out to become both.

The phone rang exactly two and a half times before creating a sound that always made Jack flinch and grit his teeth.

“Felt Manor." A silky, fluid voice rolled out of the receiver like moonlight through the tinted glass windows of a smoke-laden speakeasy at three in the morning. “Lucretia Snow.”

Jack coughed unpleasantly and, in his best effort to sound like he gargled aftershave, greeted the woman on the other end in the only suitable way he knew.

“Evening, Twinkletits. How’re they hanging?”

There was the briefest of silences before the woman answered. “You know,” she purred like a smilodon, “the ability to address me as such without receiving a kerosene enema is a privilege that very few enjoy. And I could lower that number rather easily. I notice the hardware store next to your office is having a clearance sale.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s nice to hear from me too.”

“I wouldn’t even have to get the good stuff, really. It all burns the same.”

“Listen, Snow, I called for a reason.”

“Jack, you old charmer,” she said, the smile on her face somehow audible on the phone, as well as the cobra venom behind it, “I’m ever so sorry that you can’t get to second base with that adorable secretary of yours, but I only just finished scrubbing everything down with bleach and airing out all of my rooms since last time. It’s a process I’d rather not repeat just yet.”

“You’re a riot, Snowy. A literal riot. I’m laughing so hard there is actual looting in the streets. A guffaw just broke a shop window and carried off a brand new radio.”

“She is quite the little cutie though. What was her name again? Molly? I can understand why you keep trying.”

“She ain’t into girls,” Jack warned.

The woman on the other end laughed coolly, a sound that poured into the ears like a long draw on a hookah. “Oh Jack, you and I both know that wouldn’t matter.”

Jack had enough. “Would you shut the fuck up for two minutes, sweetcheeks? Cut the crap, I called for a reason.”

He could practically feel the emotion fade through the phone. “Well, Mr. Slick, if you insist on formalities.” Her voice then turned hard, like a midwinter icicle stabbed through a windshield. “What is your purpose?”

Jack sighed. He hated talking to her like this. But it was necessary, so he chewed a licorice scotty dog and continued. “Listen, Snow, I think we’ll have to end the deal. Something’s come up.”

He waited a couple seconds for her to respond, but she seemed to be waiting for him to continue. So he did.

“There’s this asshole, a private eye by the name of Patrick Sloan. He’s got two other jerks in his band of boy sleuths, and they came to me for help. They need the Crew to help them take down some upstart I never heard of. In return, they wanna help us take down the Felt.”

He paused again. This time, she responded. “And?”

“And I told him to go fuck a cactus.”

“But?” she asked.

“But Droog wants to do it.”

A pause. “Paolo.”

“Diamonds,” he corrected.

“I know,” she responded.

“Look, I don’t know why he’s doing this. Maybe it’s a power grab, maybe he’s still bitter about. . . well you know.”

“Diamonds Droog doesn’t get bitter,” she said. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“That’s right, you don’t. I know him better than anybody. But I lived with him for years and even I still don’t really know a damn thing about the guy. I don’t know why, but he thinks that with the three new bozos, we’d have a chance at taking you guys down, which means our little arrangement’s gonna have to go. This is gonna happen, and happen soon, whether I want it to or not. So I better goddamn want it.”

They were both quiet for a long time. She broke the moment, her words surprisingly small and soft. “Are you going to kill me, Spades?”

“No, sweetheart,” he mumbled, “I ain’t gonna kill you. That’s why I called. I need you to get the fuck outta there. Leave town. Go somewhere. Anywhere, I don’t care. I don’t have to be able to find you. Hell, it’s probably better if I can’t. Just go.”

Her voice was suddenly hard and direct again. “You’re going to have to kill me, Slick.”

Jack scoffed. “I ain’t gonna kill you, I just said that!”

“No, but you have to. That’s how it is. That’s how it’s going to be. You have to kill me, Spades Slick, and you know it.”

“Bullshit, Snow. I ain’t gotta do nothin’.”

“This is not negotiable,” she said, sounding sharper than a shogun’s blade. “And before you get the wrong idea, I am not going to kill you. I don’t even want to.”

“Bullshit,” Jack spat again.

“Oh, I want to maim you. Make you hurt. Tear your limbs off, gouge your eyes out, of course. But I don’t really want to kill you, Slick. But you, on the other hand, are going to have to kill me. You won’t win this battle unless you do. There just isn’t another way.”

Jack was furious that she’d say that. She knew that he didn’t want their arrangement to end, and he knew that she didn’t either. “You rancid bitch,” he growled. “I hope you die.”

“Yes, well, that’s the plan,” she said, sounding like a hacksaw on dried bones. “I’ll see you soon, I suppose.” She hung up.

Jack sat impossibly still for a couple moments before slamming the receiver down. That woman was the worst thing that ever happened to him. All of a sudden it seemed like he didn’t give half a shit if she died. If she wanted to shuffle off the mortal coil so badly, fine. Jack didn’t want to be the one to throw the switch, but circumstances is what circumstances is and he’d be damned if he’d let that impossibly gorgeous ugly old hag get in the way.

The phone rang. He picked it up. “What?!”

“I won’t tell anyone, by the way. You can rest easy. Good night, Spades Slick.”

The line went completely dead after that. Jack hung up and tried to dial again, but nothing happened. He shouted obscenities at the worthless receiver for a few minutes, then decided to do the only thing that would ease his mind.

Go outside and find himself somebody to stab.

Chapter Text

Patrick Sloan was one of the top private eyes in the city. He was the sort of guy who knew how to ask the sort of questions that would upset a certain sort of person and please a different sort, and he never shied away from a brawl or a business negotiation gone sour that required his special brand of diplomatic flair. It wasn’t long ago that his services sold like hotcakes, the compensation adequate for even a few pro-bono jobs here and there, or some spur of the moment interior decorating, or a few minor fiascoes involving the old wooden door to his office that he’d rather not dwell on.

But that was then. This, rather unfortunately, was now. Or at least as now as now can get while still having been in the past tense. And now was certainly not the most ideal now that Sloan could imagine. His ideal now featured a phone ringing off the hook with cases and one or two hearty dinners every night. The actual now featured an unemployed detective who had to hock various parts of his phone for rent money and sneak into the dumpster behind Mariano’s from time to time.

Sloan had to face the facts: business had dried up. He hadn’t had a paying gig in weeks. Or maybe it was months -- Sloan had no way of checking ever since he sold his calendar for a box of old chicken wings. But even a seasoned facts-facer like Sloan had to admit, it was unsettling the way it had happened.

Not long ago, it had been business as usual, nothing but skittish beauties needing protection from some overentitled hulk of an ex-boyfriend, or small business owners asking for information on shifty-looking potential partners, or weeping housewives wondering why their husbands didn’t come home last night. Business as usual, that is, until one client vanished off the face of the map. Sloan beat himself up about it for a couple days, but he chalked it up to sloppiness. He’d just have to work harder and be more careful when it came to the lives of his clients. From a moral standpoint, he might as well be responsible for their deaths. And from a financial standpoint, he’d lose out on however much they were going to pay him. This was a fluke, he thought; he’d be damned if he’d ever let it happen again.

But it did.

In fact, it kept happening. Every time someone would come to him with a case, they’d go missing within a few days, never to be heard from again. Sloan could hardly believe it. He tried everything to stop it, to find out what was going on. But every lead turned up a very dead end.

The only breakthrough he could get came from his neighbor down the hall, an easily distracted but highly imaginative younger detective named Peter Inesco. Sloan had worked with Inesco before, and the two of them had a very strong mutual respect these days. Sloan envied the way Inesco could reach dead accurate conclusions from the sparsest and most unrelated information, an abstract thinker able to see connections that even the cops or the feds could have missed. And Inesco admired Sloan’s dedication and focus, the way he could shake down a perp or saunter into the middle of a firefight without once losing his nerve.

Inesco had heard rumors on the street of a new face in town. It wasn’t much: a whisper here, a robbery there, a couple hundred from assorted bank accounts gone missing, never so much as to raise much suspicion, and never from anyone who would care too terribly. But the pieces came together for him one evening as he accompanied his friend Richard “Ace” Dunn on a drug sting. Inesco and Dunn worked together frequently, especially in situations that required a healthy mix of both brains and brawn.

The bust started out like any other, money passed hands, words were exchanged, discussion got a little heated, and creative mediation took place. In the heat of the moment, when Dunn was otherwise occupied with instructing a suspect on the finer points of his fist, Inesco managed to remove himself from the bulk of the soiree and located a hidden supply that his informants hadn’t mentioned. After the suspect graciously acquiesced to Dunn’s five-tier argument, Dunn helped Inesco take the drugs back and inspect them.

In this respect, it was almost a stroke of luck that Sloan was short on cash. Unable to afford rent for both an office and an apartment, Sloan had taken to turning his desk into a fort and holing up there for shuteye. That night, Sloan was woken by the clattering of Dunn and Inesco -- well, mostly Dunn -- carrying the shipment back to the office down the hall. In a flash, Sloan was out of his fort, under his hat, and into the hallway to sniff around for clues.

Turns out the search was fruitful. With the three of them examining the drugs, they found a wealth of useful information. Nothing clearly marking anyone, but enough to give a codename and a few ideas. A little more digging around, a few payments for information here and there, and the detectives knew everything they were likely to learn on their own about the new, mysterious mobster kingpin known as The DMK.

Which, admittedly, wasn't a hell of a lot.

Realizing there was nothing for it without asking for help, it was with some personal reservations -- and more than a little dissension from the others -- that Patrick Sloan decided to call in some outside muscle.

“This is a bad fucking idea, Sloan,” Dunn had told him the evening after they paid a visit to the Midnight Crew headquarters.

“I agree,” Sloan replied.

“Then why the fuck are we doin’ it?”

“Because, Ace,” Sloan said as he started pacing around Inesco’s desk, which was covered in files and photos. “Because we ain’t got options. Because a lot of innocent people are gonna keep dying unless we do something about this and because we can’t do anything about this on our own. The only hope we got of cracking open this case and bringing down The DMK comes, unfortunately, with hiring the Midnight Crew.”

“I understand that Patrick,” Inesco said softly.

Sloan grinned. “Ah, see? That’s what I like to hear, Petey.”

“But,” Inesco interrupted as politely as possible, “it’s still a bad idea.”

Sloan rolled his eyes. “Well of course it’s a bad idea. But I already said we don’t got a choice.”

“And I already said I understand that.”

“Then what are we doing standing around here repeating ourselves for?”

“I wish to be clear,” Inesco began. “this is a dangerous course of action. We may have no other choice, but we cannot take this lightly. We have already taken incredibly risky steps, but tonight, you take the riskiest yet.”

Sloan laughed. “You kiddin’ me? Compared to storming an underground bunker, rigged to blow, with guns blazin’, an evening cookout at Diamond Estate will be a walk in the park. A walk in the park that ends in a cookout.” He laughed at his own joke. “See? Piece of cake.”

But Inesco did not look anything but serious. “No, Patrick.”

“Why not?”

“I have a very bad feeling.”

Sloan smirked. “You’re a regular scientist with answers like that.”

“His bad feelings never been wrong before,” Dunn butted in.

Sloan thought about that and sighed. “Well you’ve got a point there, Ace. Okay, Pete. Tell me more.”

Inesco cleared his throat. “This Paolo Diamante -- Diamonds Droog, I believe they call him?” Inesco shuffled through a few files. “Have you read any of this? Didn’t you get an awful sense from him? He worries me.”

“Well of course he worries you, Pete,” Sloan said. “He’s a bad guy. Bad guys ain’t supposed to exactly give you the warm fuzzies.”

“It’s more specific than that,” Inesco said, undeterred. “You were there, didn’t you see? That Diamonds Droog has a lean, hungry look about him. Quite simply, I just don’t trust him.”

“I don’t trust any of them, Pete.” Sloan put on his jacket. “They’re mobsters. You can’t trust a mobster as far as you can throw ‘im. But if this man knows a way as we can take down the DMK, I’m going to listen to the things he has to say.” Sloan put on his hat and moved to the door. “Now, unless there’s anything else we can say that hasn’t already been said, I think I’m gonna head down to my criminal dinner date. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Patrick,” Inesco called after him. Sloan stopped and turned to face him. “Just be careful. There’s a lot we don’t know about these people. There’s a lot we don’t know about this man.”

“Well we’re lucky I’m so charismatic, then,” Sloan said, flashing a grin as he turned to go. “There’s a lot you can learn just by asking.”

Chapter Text

Patrick Sloan was right: there's a lot you could learn about Paolo Diamante just by asking.

If you asked the workers at the casinos he ran, you'd learn that he ran the tightest ships in the metaphorical fleet that was the Nevada Gaming Commission. He knew every one of the dealers, cooks, and janitors, not just by name, but also by birth date and cigarette brand and favorite drink and most-watched sports team. Within a couple weeks he'd know the names of the pets of every new hire, and he'd completely change the menu of the restaurant if he had to account for the food allergies of the busboys. They'd tell you that Paolo Diamante knew that if you respect your workers, they'll respect you. But that wouldn't exactly mean he was a teddy bear. If you were good to Paolo Diamante, he was good to you. But if you mouthed off to him, or sulked around on the clock, or tried to steal something, your ass was gravy. His employees respected him, but, by God, he struck an unholy fear in them too.

If you asked the suppliers and contractors that stocked his shelves and furnished his floors, you'd learn not to take his business lightly. There wasn't a tougher negotiator in the country, they knew, but you'd be the envy of any industry to be able to do business with Paolo Diamante. If you tried to haggle on a contract, they'd tell you, you'd end up almost offering to pay him. What Broadway was to actors, a contract with Vantas and Son signed by Paolo Diamante was to dice manufacturers and slot machine providers.

If you asked his boss, Jose Vantas, he'd tell you to go shove a baseball bat up your asshole.

If you asked Aradia, his daughter, you might get beaten up by muscular gentlemen in Italian leather blazers. From this you'd learn two things. First, that Paolo Diamante was fabulously wealthy, providing the finest clothing, education and protection for his daughter, a sweet young lady around the age of 13, and providing both incredibly expensive tailored suits for her bodyguards as well as their hand-to-hand combat training with Israeli special forces. And second, you'd learn that he was fiercely protective of his dear progeny, a lesson that you would do well never to forget.

And if you asked the man himself, you would not learn a great deal. Because when it came to the important things, Sloan was wrong: there's a lot you couldn't learn about Paolo Diamante by asking. You wouldn't learn how he became a business associate of José Vantas, and thus how the same Jack Noir made him a member of the Midnight Crew. You wouldn't learn why he no longer lived with the man, nor would you learn that it was largely unrelated to their respective gains in wealth. You wouldn’t learn who his daughter’s mother was, nor would you be permitted to speculate. You wouldn't learn about his affair with Candice M. Crocker, the police commissioner for their fair city. And even if you did, you would certainly never learn that that neither of them felt particularly emotionally invested in it, even though, as you'd be just as sure to never find out, the sex was fantastic. It goes without saying that you'd never know that his morning began with him waking up at her condominium and concluded with him setting two dollars on her nightstand to pay for the pack of cigarettes he took from her shirt drawer while dressing.

But perhaps, Sloan thought, breezing into the front door of Diamond Estate, there were other ways of finding things out. If you cannot learn from asking, you can still, with patience and tact and a little bit of luck, learn a lot from the questions Paolo Diamante asks you. Which was why, as the butler led Sloan into the billiard room, Diamante's first question struck him with a particular and peculiar note of interest.

“Do you know how to play eight-ball pool, Mr. Sloan?” Diamante asked.

Sloan cocked an eyebrow and grinned, his favorite introductory face. “I take it introductions are a moot point, then?”

Diamante nodded to the butler. “That will be all, Arthour,” he said, and the butler left the room. “Surely, in your days working the mean streets in a city like this, one that knows a little too well how to keep its own secrets locked tight away, you must have sometime or another found yourself in a pool hall, looking for clues from some lowlife sleazeball who worked his life low playing sleaze with a cueball. A man like you certainly spent a few times or two in the less certainly reputable parts of this certainly unreputable town. Really, I doubt you could make much of a career as a private dick if you didn’t pick up a thing or two from a fool or two and learn about pool. So my question stands, Mr. Patrick Sloan,” Diamante said, retrieving pool cues and balls from an expensive and expansive rack firmly attached the wall, “Do you know how to play eight-ball pool?”

Sloan took his cue as it was offered and tested its weight. Its color was a rich matte black, with the diamonds of a set of playing cards engraved and filled in with a lustrous red enamel. “Well, t'be entirely honest, Mr. Paolo Diamante, the places I usually frequented shot more of the straight variety. Way's I understand it, eight-ball's a little bit of a different game, ruleswise.”

“Of course, of course,” Diamante nodded with a satisfied smile. “Well since English's boys fancy themselves to be the best pool hall proprietors in town, maybe you will indulge me if I take some time to familiarize you with their game, hm?”

“By all means, Diamonds Droog,” Sloan said, pointing at the table with the cue in his hands, “show me how these boys break.”

Diamante strode around the table, a surface of dark crimson velvet cased in mirror-polished ebony. As the immaculately dressed man approached, Sloan could not help but notice a number of the unique features of Diamante's cuestick. He made a series of mental notes – the way its green and gold color scheme matched nothing else in Diamond Estate's otherwise cohesive billiard room, the fact that it was clearly not the same cuestick that Diamante had used to threaten him back in their scuffle in the sewers, and most importantly the ornately carved gilt rams head that crowned its broad end. Tempting as it was to comment, Sloan knew that this cue held a clue or some tip that Diamante wouldn’t let slip.
“Could you please remove the rack?” Diamante asked, brushing past Sloan in a manner that would make a less confident man uncomfortable.

But Sloan was anything but a less confident man and carried on with trademark nonchalance.

“Of course, allow me,” he said easily, but as he reached down to pick up the triangular wooden frame that held the pool balls in place, he noticed that something was not quite right. A certain familiar weight was no longer present in his jacket.

“I do hope you'll forgive my forwardness,” Diamante said, “but I'd prefer if we conducted this interview without pointed interruption.”

Sloan looked up to see the well-dressed man displaying a pair of Sloan's trusty throwing knives. The deftness of Diamante's pickpocketing impressed Sloan almost as much as his pun. “Well,” Sloan said with a smirk, “They did tell me you were a rather disarming fella.”

Diamante smirked back while he weighed the throwing knives in his hands. “I'm sure they told you lots of things. Tell me,” he said, pausing for a brief moment to cast the knives into a dartboard behind him, “did you learn anything useful?”

If Sloan was intimidated – and he was, just a little bit – he didn't let it show. “I think you were going to explain eight-ball pool,” he said, looking the other man dead in the eyes.

“Of course,” Diamante said. His expression did not change as he rubbed chalk onto the tip of his cue. “Since there's a little more nuance to the rules of eight than the rules of straight, I'll start with the basics. There are four different types of balls you need to pay attention to.” He walked to the other side of the table and picked up a plain white ball. “The first is this, the cue ball, which you are familiar with. This ball hits the others, tells them where to go, what to do. When the game starts, you have it in hand, yours to move anywhere within the area called the 'kitchen'. If the opponent hits it in a pocket, it's called a scratch, and you likewise get it in hand. You following me?”

Sloan nodded, “Not too different from straight so far.”

“No, not so far,” Diamante said as he placed the cue ball about a foot diagonal from the left pocket, “though you get much less control over the cue ball here. The next two types of balls are the solids and the stripes. Solids are the balls numbered one through seven, stripes are nine through fifteen. Straight only cares about the numbers, calling each one as you hit it in, but there's a different purpose to these numbers here.”

Diamante carefully lined up his shot and let the cue ball loose at the tightly packed balls, striking the second ball on the left side. The force of the impact sent the balls careening around the table, and the blue colored two ball entered the left side pocket. “Since I got that ball in, I get to go again,” Diamante said. “Once a player has hit in a solid or a stripe, the player aims for those balls and those balls only. Six, right corner,” he called, and expertly fired the green six ball into the right corner pocket.

“You still have to call?” Sloan asked. “Thought you said that was a straight pool thing.”

A smile played on Diamante's lips as he strode to line up his shot on the other side of the table. “It depends on the house rules,” he said, pulling up his cue to chalk it again. “I prefer to play that way. Keeps me sharp. Three, left side.” He shot at the red three and connected, but it caromed off the rail just shy of the intended pocket. “Well, can't make them all. It's your turn.”

Sloan had been distracted by examining the knives in the dartboard. The impacts were spaced rather far apart; he chuckled, almost disappointed by the fact that they weren't both in the bulls-eye. But on closer inspection, one indeed was in the bullseye. What was more, the other was straight in the middle of the 20 Triple Score. There was no doubt in his mind that this was not just a lucky toss.

Diamante cleared his throat. “Mr. Sloan, I'm not trying your patience, I trust?”

Sloan turned with a graciously humble grin. “Not at all, Mr. Diamante.” He took up his cue and moved to find his shot. “I was just admiring your handiwork. Now I've gotta hit from nine to fifteen, right?”

“That's right, Mr. Sloan. The ones with the stripes.”

“Excellent, sounds good.” He spotted the blue-striped ten ball sitting rather fat and sassy, as he thought, not far from the right side pocket. A simple shot in his mind, but as he set up, he found he could not keep his cue stick still. Though he willed his hands to keep still, two days without nicotine had done something of a number on him.

“Oh, forgive me, where are my manners?” Diamante asked. He strode over to an end table and lifted a long silver case. “Can I offer you a cigarette?”

“No thanks, don't smoke,” Sloan lied through grit teeth, and he took his shot, accidentally nicking the top of the cue ball and sending it not even a paltry eight inches.

“Of course you do, Mr. Sloan,” Diamante said. “I'm no stranger to nicotine shakes myself. Have a cigarette.”

Sloan grunted, staring distastefully at the immobile cue ball. “Maybe I'm quitting.” He heard the distinct snapping hiss of a match being thumbed as Diamante lit a cigarette for himself.

“Or maybe you can't afford even the cheap stuff – say, the kind that come in those paper boxes like the one that was in your pocket.” Diamante displayed a crumpled package that Sloan distinctly remembered stashing in his coat alongside his trusty knives. “Of course, you wouldn't want to owe me anything you didn't offer on your own terms, proud and stubborn and Irish as you are, so you'd naturally refuse anything I'd give you. So let me assure you, I'm offering this gratis, no repayment required. Ever.” He extended the case again. “Go on, have a smoke.”

After a moment's hesitation, Sloan decided there was no point in arguing and helped himself. “Appreciate it. Got a light?” Diamante handed Sloan a match, which he struck against the heel of his shoe. “You know, it's a shame really,” he said as he took an enormously refreshing drag and felt his old self returning, “that you're not on our side more often. You figured me out pretty good. Between the way you did that and your throwing arm,” he nodded at the dartboard, “you'd make a real deadeye detective. Could use a fella like you. Ever consider changing professions?”

Diamante laughed coldly. Sloan doubted he knew any other way of laughing. “To be entirely honest,” he said, sizing up Sloan's disheveled clothing and grimy appearance, “I think I can live a little more comfortably with my current income. I appreciate the offer, though. The law has its uses. Right now, I think, we have a game to finish. Though I feel I should let you savor your cigarette as much as you can.”

“It's not a problem, Mr. Diamante, I can play.”

“No, Mr. Sloan, you enjoy your Winston. I've got a better idea.” He tugged on a small bell rope, and his butler opened the door. “Arthour,” Diamante began, “could you tell Aradia that her father would like her to join us in the billiard room?”

Arthour bowed and almost trotted off down the hall, returning shortly with the young woman that Sloan recognized as Diamante's daughter. “Will that be all, sir?” the butler asked, and upon a nod of assent he placidly exited, closing the door behind him.

“Mr. Sloan, allow me to introduce my daughter, Aradia,” Diamante began. “Aradia, this is Mr. Sloan.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sloan!” Aradia said with an enthusiastic curtsy.

“Same to you, little lady,” Sloan said, doffing his hat with a sweeping bow.

“I like your hat!”

“You have good taste,” he replied with a grin. “You must get that from your father.” He noticed that her facial features were strikingly Eastern in appearance, in contrast with Diamante's darker Italian complexion. “Though I take it you get your looks from your mother, huh?”

Diamante smoothly changed the subject. “Aradia, did you finish your homework today?”

“Absolutely did, Daddy!” she said, beaming. “We only had five chapters left, so I went ahead and finished the book anyway.”

Sloan couldn't help but notice there was the slightest hint of genuine warmth in Diamante's smile. “Atta girl,” her father said. He turned to Sloan. “Aradia's the top student in her class. She's getting offers from top universities all over the nation.”

“Gonna be a college girl, huh?” Sloan asked. “Gonna study to follow in your daddy's footsteps, I bet?”

The girl's laugh was light and friendly, a far cry from her father's. “And spend all day at the company going through boring paper work? Yuck! No thanks!” she said, throwing her arms around her father. “No offense, Daddy, but you know I've always wanted to be an archeologist!”

“Of course you have, Aradia,” Diamante said, smiling. “That's why she's going to study at Crosbetopolis University. Best archeology program in the world.”

“To be sure, to be sure, I know exactly what you mean,” Sloan agreed, not at all sure or knowing what he meant.

“Well I'm sure we can catch up later,” Diamante said, turning to his daughter, his arm around her shoulders. “For now, I was wondering if you wanted to help us out. Mr. Sloan and I were just having a friendly game of pool, but his arm seems to have a bit of a cramp. Perhaps you would take his place?”

Aradia's face lit up even more. “Ooh, could I?” She turned to Sloan. “You wouldn't mind, would you?”

Sloan winked and made an audible click. “Not at all, little lady. Knock yourself out.”

“Ooh, ooh, could I borrow your hat?” she asked. “I bet I'd look like a real pool shark!”

“Now Aradia, what did I tell you?” Diamante reprimanded. “Be respectful to our guests, sweetheart.”

“No, no, it's a great idea! She’s being real nice. Some people don’t care for the hat, but the girl has an eye,” Sloan said, and he carefully plopped his fedora right on top of the girl's head. “Doesn't look half bad on you, does it? Here,” he said, and he shifted the hat to tilt to one side. “There y'are. Looks like a regular lady Bogey, don't she?”
Aradia giggled. Diamante glared at Sloan, though his expression instantly changed to fondness when Aradia looked at him expectantly. “Spitting image,” he said. “Why don't you go first? You're stripes, sweetie.” Aradia went to line up her shot and Diamante's expression turned hard again.

The game went on, Diamante picking off solid after solid, his daughter just as accurate with the stripes. In the end, the only ball left on the table was the black eight ball.

“One moment, sweetie,” Diamante said, stopping the game, “I have something to explain to our guest. I hope you noticed that we never took a shot at the eight, Mr. Sloan?”

“I believe that thought did cross my mind,” Sloan replied, curious as to his host's intent.

“Good, you should take note of that. This is the most important rule,” he said, looking Sloan dead in the face, “that you never shoot the eight ball until the very end. If you try to knock off number eight before you've finished the rest of the plan, the jig is up.”

Sloan caught his meaning. “And how do I know which one's number eight?”

“Well, I could say that it's black,” Diamante told him, not breaking eye contact, “but there are other ways. Believe me, Mr. Sloan, when the time comes, you'll know which one is number eight. Easy way to remember it's like this: eight's a snowman, and when everything melts, the snowman's always the last to go, isn't it?”

“That's right,” Sloan said, “it is.”

“Then that's how you'll remember,” Diamante said. “Leave the snowman for the very last.”

Aradia looked from one man to the other, the meaning apparently lost on her. “Um, Daddy, can I shoot now?”

Diamante and Sloan stared each other down for a little bit more, then Diamante nodded and turned to his daughter. “Of course, sweetie. You make this shot, and you can use my Winchester in the shooting range tonight.”

Aradia bounced happily. “Really? Ooh, that one's my favorite!”

“But only if you are extremely careful with it and let Arthour supervise the whole time, understood?”

“Understood!”

“All right, sweetheart, go for the right corner pocket.”

“Yes sir!” the girl cried, and fired the eight ball right into the indicated pocket. She jumped up and down and hugged her father. “Good game, Daddy! Thanks for the hat, Mr. Sloan!” She handed Sloan his hat. “It was nice to meet you! Have a good night!” She rang the bell and waited for the butler to come in.

“Arthour,” Diamante said, “take Aradia to the shooting range and let her use the Winchester. Remind her to be careful.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door closed behind them, and Diamante gestured to the plush leather chairs on the other side of the room. “Maybe you’d like to have a drink and discuss what we just learned?”

Sloan cleared his throat. “Little girl like that shoots a rifle?”

Diamante nodded gravely. “If anything should happen, my daughter must be able to take care of herself. You didn't think I'd leave it all up to bodyguards, did you? In the end, if you want to take action, you can’t rely on anybody but yourself. I teach my girl to take care of her own problems.”

Sloan looked at the door again. “You don’t say,” Sloan said, softly trailing off. There was a great deal of meaning in those words, Sloan sensed. He got the feeling that Diamante was flaunting something in front of him, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what. He decided to file that away for later, and he turned back to Diamante. “Yeah, a drink sounds real nice. After you.”

The two men sat down in the luxurious seats. Sloan unconsciously stroked the leather while he watched Diamante pour them each a finger of scotch. There was a great deal nagging on his mind.

Diamante looked at him severely as he handed him a glass. “I know you have questions, Mr. Sloan. You said it yourself that I can read you pretty well, and you’ve got a veritable Bauhaus standard of clarity about your confusion. Ask away.”

Sloan nodded gravely. “So I get that English has fifteen enforcers. Knew that already, but now I see why. Though if you ask me, it’s a little bit silly.”

“The four of us have an affinity for playing cards, Mr. Sloan,” Diamante said. “Are you telling me you judge us too? Believe me, a theme might seem like a gimmick, but it inspires an almost familial familiarity. The Felt is a tight-knit bunch, and all of them share Lawrie’s distaste for disloyalty. It’s the sort of operation that you can only do with a combination of fear and love. And after all, Lawrie can ensure that they know he owns them when he gives them a number and takes away their name.”

Sloan mulled all of that over. It was almost frightening, when he thought about it. But it wasn’t what truly bothered him about this business. “I suppose that makes sense,” Sloan conceded. “I guess what I can’t work my head around is what's so special about number eight?”

One corner of Diamante's mouth curled up ever so slightly in a smile. “That's not important. What's important is that you play with the Crew, you play in my house, and you play by house rules. And our rules are that no matter what happens, you leave the Snowman alone until you get the say-so. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Sloan looked him in the eyes again. “Whatever you say, I'm happy to agree with. Don't got much options.” He stuck out his hand. “That mean we got a deal?”

Diamante took his hand and gripped it. “That means we got a deal. Bring your boys to the hideout. Midnight, three days from now. We'll lay out the plans and deal out the hands.”

The detective grinned darkly. “You sure? You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men.”

The mobster glared back. “Mice and men, hmm?” He let out a small laugh, devoid of any mirth. “Mr. Sloan, I hope you will eventually realize that I am a little more than either of those.”