Trinity Universe: Masked Men

[ProfPotts]

January, 1924, New York City

Prologue 1

Editorial written by Robert Kane, & published in the Gotham Globe, January 3rd:

MASKS OR MYTH?

New York, New York; Gotham; the Big Apple.

We live in a city overrun by that lowest form of man: the criminal. There was always a criminal element, naturally, such is the price we pay for living in a modern metropolis; but since the Volstead Act went into effect almost four years ago we have seen the unrelenting rise of so-called ‘organised crime’. By satisfying the public’s thirst (previously the purview of honest establishments & a taxable industry) the criminals have grown richer faster than anyone could have imagined. There are, today, double the drinking establishments in this city than there were before the National Prohibition Act, but violations of that ill-thought-out decree are the least of our concerns. Along with the new riches of the criminal class came bribery & corruption of those in office – from the local beat cop wishing to supplement his meagre $30 a week salary with mob handouts, to the office of Mayor James ‘Jimmy’ Walker himself. A back-hander to ignore a speakeasy quickly becomes a bribe to ignore illegal gambling, prostitution, extortion, arson, & even murder. When the public can’t trust the police to protect them from crime, then who can they trust?

Well, some say there are a few who do work in the interests of the public. They work outside the law, but within the aims of justice. But are these few, these ‘masked men’, a reality, or a modern myth of our urbanised collective consciousness?

For me the trail of the masked men started back in twenty-two. It was an investigation into a series of assaults against both known gangsters & rather shady policemen. Witnesses talked of a man who wore a mask, but appeared devoted to doing the job the police were failing to fulfil. The reports & the rumours grew, & soon a name was attached to this mysterious masked man: ‘the Watchman’ had arrived. He was the first, but soon others followed.

A second masked man, armed only with a gentleman’s cane, & announcing his presence to his prey via an eerie whistle, was reported. Unlike the seemingly down-to-earth realities of the Watchman, this ‘Whistler’ was reported to be more like a character out of a Gothic horror novel, but (if the rumours are to be believed) proved to be as much a champion of justice as his two-fisted peer. It appeared that no district was to be free from these new ‘heroes’, as rumours started to be spread that a hooded man in Chinatown was willing, & able, to single-handedly take on the hatchet-wielding thugs of the Tongs & opium-smugglers. Thus was born the legend of ‘Bai Long’, the ‘White Dragon’. But, does such a man actually exist, or do the rumours owe more to the imaginings of the inscrutable Oriental mind? With such characters it appears that the fine line between reality & myth begins to blur.

But the likes of the Whistler & the White Dragon aren’t the end of it. In dark & smoke-filled speakeasies hardened Irish hoodlums cross themselves & pray for blessings of protection as they exchange stories of the dread female spirit of Celtic legend. Claims are made that the wail of the Banshee, said to bring doom to those who hear it, has been heard in the streets & allies of New York. Are such tales the result of the criminal mindset, cowardly & superstitious as it is? Or, is there more to it than that – is there really something out there with a foreboding wail?

It seems like the rumours & tales aren’t about to cease. Even in the last few weeks this reporter’s heard tell of a slight figure in mask & Stetson able to outdraw & outshoot whole rooms full of mobsters. More idle imaginings, or has a new masked man joined the ranks of the few who strive to protect the fair folk of this city from the evils that lurk within?

Maybe it’s all true, maybe none of it is – but this reporter, for one, will sleep sounder at night with the thought that the Watchman & his peers are out there, looking out for those who can’t protect themselves.

Prologue 2

Headline article of the Gotham Globe, January 4th:

BOWMAN STRIKES AGAIN

Last night Robert Kane, editor of this very broadsheet, became the latest victim of the killer known only as 'the Bowman'. Like previous victims over the past year: District Attorney John Williams, known mobster Harold 'Harry' Henderson, banker Joseph Shuster, & accountant Frederick Knowles; Mr Kane was found with a single broadheaded longbow arrow piercing his neck. Detective Lieutenant Bullock of the NYPD homicide division, in charge of the investigation into the killings, had this to say,

"This guy is obviously a professional, which means normal citizens who keep their noses out of other people's business won't have anything to worry about."

Despite Lt. Bullock's brief statement, sources within the force suggest that the Bowman is a highly skilled contract killer for the mob. The seeming ease at which he penetrates the heaviest of security measures (as in the case of DA Williams), & the uncanny accuracy of aim he exhibits suggest that, once in his sights, no man can remain safe.

For a review of the life & career of Robert Kane turn to page 5...

[Heritage]

Karl Berastro puts down his morning paper and frowns.

This business is no good.

He folds the paper, tucks it under his arm and starts pacing around his small dim study. His cozy apartment is in the rear of the Berastro Theater of Magic on 44th Street, a stone's throw away from the lights of Broadway, though of course they're dim by light of day. Karl's an average looking fellow, in his mid-to-late tweneties, with short brown hair and a pleasant but forgetable face; only when he takes the stage as the Amazing Berastro, Prince of Conjurers, does he really shine.

At length, he pulls a pair of of smoked glasses from his vest pocket, puts them on, and walks deliberatly to his study door. He pauses for a moment, and seems to brace himself for some sort of ordeal.

*It will get easier, in time.*

With a wince, he pulls open the door.

The light! The noise! How do people stand it? He scurries down a short hallway, the paper still under his arm, nodding at a few of the theater crew who've arrived early in preparation for the evening's show. At length, he comes to door and gently knocks.

Polly? If you have a moment, there's something in the Globe I think you should see.

[Prince of Boredom]

An elderly Chinese man walks alone tonight in the warehouse district of Chinatown. He seems to finally reach his goal, as he walks into a small shop simply entitled “Chinese Translations.” As he walks in, the bell sounds, and a blonde-haired, blue-haired young man looks up from his evening meal and says in a slight New York accent, “Good evening, may I help you?” The old man seems confused and replies with a thick Chinese accent, “I’m sorry, I must have entered the wrong establishment. I am looking for Chinese Translations." The young man smiles, walks over to the man and extends his hand, “You have come to the right place, I’m Alex, and rest assured I can translate for you, what do you need?” The old man seems to be calmed by the young man’s smile and calm demeanor, and starts to relax. A look of sadness seems to fall over him, “My wife died some days ago, and I want to write her family in China (he raises his slightly shaking hands) but my hands are old, and can’t write anymore…”

Alex seems truly sympathetic for the man, “Please sir, sit down and tell me what you wish to say,” he sits down behind his desk and brings forth a piece of parchment and inkwell. The old man begins to dictate his message as Alex begins to form the intricate strokes of the Chinese kanji. The old man seems to stare in wonder at the precision and beauty of the calligraphic script that Alex creates.

After some time, Alex completes the old man’s message, rolls up the parchment, ties it with a string and hands it to the old man. As the man reaches for his money, Alex replies, “Please, I have made enough money today, and you have already paid too much. Please take this and try to find peace.”

As the man leaves the store he fails to notice the crumpled newspaper laying on the table with the name ‘The Bowman’ circled. Alex again sits down at his desk, picks up the porcelain bowl of steamed rice and his chopsticks, and calmly finishes his dinner. He then gets up, walks to the door, turns the sign to closed, pulls the shade and locks the door.

Then he walks to the back of the store, and goes through a door in the back which opens into the warehouse he has converted into his private Shaolin temple/dojo. He walks to a wardrobe and begins to don his black kung-fu gee with a beautifully embroidered Chinese white dragon on the back. And finally dons a simple black mask.

Bai Long, the White Dragon of Chinatown walks the streets again tonight…

[ProfPotts]

Introduction

New York City, 1924.

A melting pot of humanity the bustling metropolis is characterised by crowded tenaments & that most American of architectural statements, the skyscraper. Most notable of these is the recently completed Masters Building on the corner of 33rd street & Fifth Avenue which, at 1,454 feet & 102 stories, is the world's tallest building, & a source of pride for all New Yorkers. Johnny Masters himself occupies the 86th floor, with the rest of the building serving as offices for his expanding business empire &, on the lower levels, a hotel & restaurant. Mansions & townhouses of the wealthy complete the picture of modern urban life.

Automobiles have started to crowd the streets, a great majority the 'common man's' Ford Model T, with a few of the more expensive cars for the better off - even an imported vehicle like a powerful Bentley roadster or Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost isn't an overly unusual sight. The subways rumble underground, & the 'L' trains rumble above the streets - occassionally showering sparks from their tracks as they pass by. High in the sky the twice weekly trans-Atlantic, & daily cross-continental, Masters Aviation airship services can be seen gracefully heading into or out of their Long Island airfield; & aeroplanes can been seen on occassion - delivering the mail, or just flying as the playthings of the rich & reckless.

After the dark days of the Great War, prosperity, & it's cynical flipside - greed, are the driving force of the city. Since losing the restrictive corsets & high-collars of yester-year during wartime factory work most women have returned to the home, but not the 'Victorian' fashions they escaped from. Young 'Flappers' even dare to dress in scadalously short knee-length skirts, spike-heeled shoes, & make-up following fashions influenced by, of all things, Parisian street-walkers! Dapper young men sport baggy 'Oxford' trousers to their three-piece suits, & tip their hats & whistle as the flappers pass by. Newly rich millionaires seem to be everywhere, as old world money, old world fashions, & old world morals all go the way of the dinosaurs.

Of course, wealth is created on the backs of the poor. In the ghettos sweat-shop labour is the employment of the day. No-where are the conditions worse than the Manhatten's own garment district, where workers toil in appalling conditions, are charged for needles, thread & other supplies, billed for lockers & chairs, & fined for accidental damage at three times the value of the ruined materials. The average take-home is a mere $10 a week for a family of five or six. Unemployment is low, but still above the national average. There is only one sure-fire way to make a good living in the metropolis...

... Crime has come into it's own. Poverty has given the criminal classes motivation, Prohibition has granted them means, & experience during the Great War has left many of the men who turn to violence for a living with training in required methods. Giuseppe 'Joe the Boss' Masseria - the man reputed to be able to dodge bullets - is the most powerful gangster (&, some say, man) in the city as ruler of the Italian mobs. Others, such as the 'Voodoo Queen' of Harlem, or the mysterious 'Dragon's Coil Tong' of Chinatown are just as dangerous, & the Jewish & Irish gangs are yet another factor to be reckoned with. Perhaps more dangerous still are the up-&-coming mobs unconcerned with old ethnic differences, like the Salvatore 'Charlie Luciano' Lucania & Meyer Lansky mob. The 'Young Turks' deal with crime & violence as a business enterprise, whilst the old 'Moustache Petes' still fight bitter wars over long-forgotten slights. An outside observer would wonder how the local police could cope with all the crime; native New Yorkers quickly realise that a majority of the cops are working hand-in-glove with the very men they're meant to be putting behind bars.

The corner-stone of organised crime is extortion - the so-called 'protection rackets' where threats of violence force average folk to pay a goodly portion of their already low earnings to the hoodlums - the penalties for non-payment ranging from having one's property smashed, to assault, arson, & even murder. A close second is that criminal enterprise seemingly supported by the majority of the population - illegal booze. Be it Arthur 'Dutch Schultz' Flegenheimer's beer, Arnold Rothstein's 'good stuff', William 'Bill' McCoy's 'real McCoy', or even some semi-toxic 'gin' brewed in the bathtub of a local tenament, more hootch flows into the great city than before the Volstead Act. 'Speaks' are everywhere, from the 'clip joint' dives where an unfortunate customer will be slipped a Mickey Finn before being robbed blind, to the quasi-private 'clubs' with up-market furnishings & laid-on entertainment, to the 'glitter palaces' with no expense spared. Hand-in-hand with the drinking comes illegal gambling, prostitution, & anything else that could be classed as a 'service to the community'. Naturally, there is also violence - towards un-co-operative customers, towards rival speakeasies, & between independant operators & the organised gangsters who want their business. Still, in spite of (or perhaps because of) all this, drinking is the fahsionable thing to do - young women even frequent speakeasies on their own, an activity unthought of in past ages!

The clubs are also the places to encounter the latest musical trends. Harlem draws crowds of young white folk with the sounds of jazz, & singers like Cynthia Lewis & Silky Blaze are top-billing in the best shows. Dances are positively filthy by the standards of the past, with the Charleston, Black Bottom, & Shimmy being favourites of the energetic young.

But let us take a moment, & focus on more specific events occuring right now...

[ProfPotts]

The Whistler

Polly? If you have a moment, there's something in the Globe I think you should see.

The dressing-room door is pulled open by a pretty young woman, hair fashionably bobbed & make-up expertly applied, wearing little but a hastily-donned dressing-gown & slippers. She grins at Karl & takes the paper from him, reading the passage he points out,

"What's up boss?.." her Brooklyn accent is grating, although, after some practice, she's learnt to keep the volume down in respect of her boss's 'condition', "... Hey, you're right! Why does that Watchman bum get billing over us? And... where's the mention of Echo, huh? Aren't I good enough to fill their coulmns? Don't I attract enough attention? Maybe I should drive the car nekkid - see if that causes 'em to sit up & take notice..." ::angry

Polly's anger dissipates fast as she remembers something. Speaking in an even quieter tone, she checks to see if anyone's listening ::lookaround , then says,

"Ellen told me that there's something big going down tonight over at the Nightingales club on Mulberry. That's Vito Giovanni's place, & he works for Joe the Boss, so maybe the Whistler - & Echo - should check it out?"

The young lady smiles, & a familiar twinkle lights the corner of her eyes,

"Want me to get the car ready?"

White Dragon

A full moon fights with the bright lights of the city to illuminate the snow-encrusted streets of Chinatown as the White Dragon stalks his prey through the chill January night. Four Tong members, each dressed in a cheap suit & flat cap, & each carrying a wicked-looking hatchet, enter Wong's restaurant across the street from where the Dragon stands concealed in the shadows of an ally. As he thought, old man Wong's refusal to pay the Golden Tiger Tong's demands for protection have resulted in a descision to make an example of the elderly immigrant & his family. The thought crosses the vigillante's mind that those facing crime in other parts of the city don't realise how easy they have it in comparison to Chinatown. The Italians or Jews might have beaten the old man for his lack of co-opertaion, the Tongs will undoubtedly brutally murder him & his wife, & sell their twelve-year-old granddaughter into slavery. The scents from the Wong's excellent cooking reach the Dragon's nostels as he heads towards the building...

The Watchman

The two hoodlums cross the street & head down a darkened ally. 'Shotgun' Murphy in his trenchcoat & flat cap, 'Shamrock' O'Bannon in a more stylish suit & racoon coat. It looked like Terry's tipoff was right on the money. It had only taken a few intimidated low-lifes to confirm that these two were the guys who set that tenament fire in Hells Kitchen last week. Probably meant as a final warning to the building's super, the fire had gotten out of control & had ended up with half a dozen dead - including one six year old girl & her four year old brother. The Watchman's steely gaze fixes the pair through his mask as he silently slips through the snow after them. Word was that tonight they were bringing final payment to the beat cop who'd been paid to 'turn the other way' as they carried out their arson...

Banshee

Gliding through the frosty night air, the Banshee alights silently on the roof of the Lower East Side warehouse. Sure enough, a peek over the corner of the roof reveals a gang of men completing the unloading of a shipment of 'grapefruit' off a small fishing boat. The distinctive chink of glass on glass from the wooden crates confirms their real contents as illegal hootch. Soon the boat & her crew vanish back towards the sea. Two of the remaining men start to carry the crates into the warehouse, whilst the other two appear to be keeping watch along the dockside. As one lookout man turns away from the wind to light a cigarette the flare of light from the match reveals the distinctive hooked nose of 'Roman' Salerno, one of Joe the Boss's most brutal enforcers. Banshee realises that the odd shape under the man's long coat must be his infamous baseball bat, used in many a fatal & near-fatal beating delivered to rival speakeasy owners...

Black Lotus

Smoke, mingled with sounds of jazz & merry-making, filter out of the unimposing door that leads to 'Fat Joey' King's 'Black Kat' Harlem club every time it's opened for the adventurous young white folk who've journeyed there to drink, listen to the new sounds, dance, & drink some more. Of course, things weren't as fun for Gloria, the young dancer & hooker who had her face slashed to bloody ribbons by a drunken white customer with a straight-edge razor a few nights back. Alive, but scarred for life, Gloria's tale of woe filtered back to Petey 'Four Eyes', & from him to Black Lotus. Now, at last, patience has paid off - the well-to-do man, in expensive pin-striped suit, racoon coat, & fedora stumbles out of the club, accompanied by one of his similarly-dressed friends. The pair amble down the street, probably heading for another of the clubs in the area, & Black Lotus slips through the shadows behind them...

[Heritage]

"What's up boss?.." her Brooklyn accent is grating, although, after some practice, she's learnt to keep the volume down in respect of her boss's 'condition', "... Hey, you're right! Why does that Watchman bum get billing over us? And... where's the mention of Echo, huh? Aren't I good enough to fill their coulmns? Don't I attract enough attention? Maybe I should drive the car nekkid - see if that causes 'em to sit up & take notice..." ::angry

Karl chuckles softly.

I'm less concerned by the billing than I am by this 'Bowman' fellow mentioned in today's paper -

Then the implications of the 'nekkid' comment sink in, and he goes deep crimson ::blush

Um, well, yes...uh, that might have an, uh, effect.

Karl adjusts his tie, and does his best to regain his composure.

Well, that's something to think about in the future perhaps, but it's rather cold now, don't you think? That might be more of, um, a summer thing.

Polly's anger dissipates fast as she remembers something. Speaking in an even quieter tone, she checks to see if anyone's listening ::lookaround, then says,

"Ellen told me that there's something big going down tonight over at the Nightingales club on Mulberry. That's Vito Giovanni's place, & he works for Joe the Boss, so maybe the Whistler - & Echo - should check it out?"

Karl frowns and nods thoughtfully.

Yes, indeed - as always, Ellen's information is invaluable, and Giovanni is a big fish in this little pond of ours. Yes, I think the Whistler and Echo should definitely make an appearance. I should also place a call to our dear friend, Lt. Spitz, and see if he can shed any light onto this 'Bowman' business.

He looks at his watch and thinks for a moment.

We don't have a show tonight, and Bobby Carlton's act doesn't require much of my attention - the theater should be in good hands with John for the time being.

The young lady smiles, & a familiar twinkle lights the corner of her eyes,

"Want me to get the car ready?"

Karl nods, still lost in thought.

Yes, please do.

He then looks up, a touch of pink in his cheeks.

And, ah, dress warmly ::blush

After Polly slips off to get dressed and ready the car, Karl heads back to his study and picks up the phone.

Hello, operator? Get me the 5th Manhattan police precinct, please. Yes, hello - can I speak with Lt. Spitz, please?

As soon as Spitz picks up, Karl switches to the hollow, funereal tones of the Whistler.

Good evening, Lieutenant. I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I was wondering if you knew anything about this 'Bowman' character. Nasty business.

OOC - John is the theater manager, and Karl's second in command there.

[ezekiel]

The Banshee jumps from the rooftop, slowly gliding towards 'Roman' and drops down a few meters away from him. As he turns the Banshee slowly rises and speaks in an ominous, disembodied voice.

"D'anam don diabhal...I've come for you Roman."

[Prince of Boredom]

Bai Long looks down the street to see if there are any more of the Tong’s waiting in ambush, sighing in disgust at the policemen in the car a block down street, who clearly saw the thugs enter the restaurant and have chosen, or been persuaded, to not interfere.

He stealthily glides his way across the street and enters the sweet-smelling restaurant, “(in Chinese) Are you gentlemen here for dinner? Might I recommend that table in the corner…” Then waits for their inevitable reaction…

[tooho]

The slim figure, just topping five feet by a few inches, pulls the stetson down lower on her head and shifts her shoulders making the black trench coat swirl silently around her thighs. Her brown slanted eyes squint carefully through the black mask, watching the two gentlemen with malice as she carefully stalks her prey. Her long black braid flicks angrily over her shoulder swinging gently over her gun belt caressing the the hand-tooled leather as each step brings her closer to the two men. She waits till they are in an empty section of the street than her voice sings out from the darkness,

In slightly accented english "It is a sign of a weak man that he must destroy that which is given him to use. If you wish to use a razor on flesh, White Dog, try me. You are a weak man and you will pay for the pain you caused. Turn and fight!"

She takes a step forward pushing her jacket back behind her two pistols with practiced ease. The beautiful embroidered lotus shimmers across her back as she shifts her weight and stands firmly on both feet, hand six inches over her guns.

[ProfPotts]

The Whistler:

Well, that's something to think about in the future perhaps, but it's rather cold now, don't you think? That might be more of, um, a summer thing.

Polly nods, as if taking the suggestion seriously,

"Summer it is then...", then giggles & gives her boss a quick peck on the cheek.

As his assistant readies the automobile, the magician places his call...

Good evening, Lieutenant. I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I was wondering if you knew anything about this 'Bowman' character. Nasty business.

"Oh hey," replies Spitzy, the usual mix of tired irritation, concern, with just a touch of trepidation coloring his tones as he realizes to whom he's speaking, "it's you. Yeah, th' 'Bowman' - this one's got us all stumped. Th' boffins at th' university say th' arrows fit a type made t' be fired from a medieval English longbow - so now we've got f'ckin' Robin Hood t' worry about as well as all th' other nuts out there... er... no offense... In any case, it's pretty obvious from his victims that he's some sorta' mob hit man. I dunno', th' reports from th' scenes suggest that he's a better shot with that thing than most professionals are with a rifle, & it's silent & all that - so I guess it ain't as crazy as it seems at first. There ain't much more I can tell ya' at th' moment - give us a while, okay?"

A while later an all-black Packard phaeton automobile glides through the snow-covered streets of the city. At the wheel is an attractive young lady dressed as a chauffeusse - black jodhpurs & uniform jacket, white shirt, & black tie, with shiny black leather riding boots & gauntlets &, of course, a peaked cap - but with the curious addition of a black masque that covers her eyes & upper face & comes to a point over her nose. In the rear of the vehicle, behind smoked glass, is the Whistler...

... Turning a corner on the way to Mulberry street, the whistling phantom of the metropolis hears the sounds of a woman screaming - only to be quickly muffled - coming from no more than a block away. Echo, oblivious to such minute details, fails to slow the pace of her driving...

Banshee:

"D'anam don diabhal...I've come for you Roman."

At the sudden arrival of the apparition the men carrying the packing crates simply drop them & flee. The two lookouts appear to be made of (slightly) sterner stuff, but still Roman's friend stands gaping stupidly as the targeted man himself backs nervously away from his tormentor, apparently forgetting the bat under his coat in his fear... ::nervous

... there's a quick flash of crimson across the night-shrouded sea-mist as Banshee's claws rake Salerno's throat, & the gangster drops to his knees - a pitiful gurgle escaping his lips as he pathetically clutches at the warm blood spurting from his neck. A moment later the man's eye's roll up to whites & he collapses sideways, hitting the dock with a heavy 'thud!'. Soon the corpse that was once Roman Salerno is surrounded by an expanding sticky pool of it's own blood.

The second lookout appears staggered by the swift & brutal execution ::blink , but quickly starts to back away & babble as the female avenger turns her attentions his way. Holding his hands up for mercy as he staggers back, heedless, towards the water his words stream out,

"Please lady, not me, not me! I didn't do nothin'! I'm just small-time, see?! I'm only here 'cos it was a rush shipment for the big meeting at..." ::nervous

SPLASH!

The hood tips backwards & hits the icy water below...

White Dragon:

The familiar red & gold tablecloths & carved wooden fittings of Wong's restaurant meet the hooded man as he enters behind the Tongs. The few customers are all sitting deathly still, trying to not grab the attention of the men with axes, whilst old man Wong, robed as usual, is backing away from them towards the rear wall, a look of horror in his eyes...

“(in Chinese) Are you gentlemen here for dinner? Might I recommend that table in the corner…”

The men spin at the clear & powerful voice, the customers hold their collective breath, & a small trace of hope finds it's ways into the eyes of one old immigrant. As if on cue the Tong members approach White Dragon, wicked blades hefted in hands, & cruel sneers etched on faces - moving & circling to surround the long hooded figure. One voices their reply to the Dragon's comments,

"(also in Chinese) Only a fool chooses to face the claws of the Golden Tiger alone..."

As one, the men charge...

Black Lotus:

"It is a sign of a weak man that he must destroy that which is given him to use. If you wish to use a razor on flesh, White Dog, try me. You are a weak man and you will pay for the pain you caused. Turn and fight!"

The two men turn. One - Gloria's assailant - seems the worse for drink, & his lips curl into an unpleasant grimace as he casts his eyes over the shapely figure before him. Reaching into his coat pocket he draws a straight razor & snaps it open with a well-practiced flick of the wrist. His graveled voice grates as he takes a step closer,

"If y'all want t' play, girly..."

The man's friend places a restraining hand on his shoulder as he speaks, a forced edge to his calm tones,

"Gibson, don't. We don't have the time. The Dutchman will have our heads if we're late to the Nightingales meeting..." his eyes glance towards Black Lotus &, unlike his friend's, take in the weaponry rather than the figure, "... & I think she's serious..."

The man with the razor shrugs off his friend's hand & takes another step forward,

"This won't take long. Beside, ya' heard her - she wants it... They all want it..." ::devil

Obviously uncomfortable with the situation, the man's sober friend still moves his hand slowly to his pocket - & the revolver concealed within - as his eyes carefully watch the slight woman's reactions to his friend's advance...

The Viking:

"No!" the academic rushes to grab the foaming mug away from his unusual guest's lips. Seeing the anger rise in the Norseman's face he hastens to explain, "Ulf' - that's not beer - it's shaving foam... You, er, you wouldn't like it..."

Seeing his friend shrug & calm as quickly as his temper rose, the scholar quickly completes shaving, then turns his attentions back to his own - & his guest's - tuxedoes. After some considerable struggling Dr Kettle steps back & appears satisfied with his efforts at presentability,

"Right then - off for a drink. Now remember, this isn't strictly legal you understand - but it's a silly law, & you wanted to see our culture, so just this once..." ::wink

A half hour later & the battered Model T skids & slides across the snow as it ponderously approaches the club - & the associated promise of beer! Dr Kettle peers through his own glasses & the windscreen, rubbing mist away with the sleeve of his tux every few seconds, & swearing as he battles to control the low-velocity vehicle. Suddenly his passenger's wilderness-honed ears prick up - the unmistakable sound of a maiden in trouble nearby! At Ulfmund's prompting the good Doctor skids the car to a halt, as the larger, younger, man reaches for the pile of furs, leather & worked metal he insisted on bringing along. The academic can do little but watch in a fascinated stupor ::blink as a genuine Viking warrior bounds from his automobile & paces quickly across the snow - seemingly unimpeded by the winter environment, & leaving hardly a single track in his wake.

Down a narrow ally & around a corner & Ufmund comes face to face with a pair of 'modern' warriors accosting a young flaxen-haired maiden - their attempts at pillage all too clear from her ripped attire & the tears freely staining her rosy cheeks. At the Viking's appearance the two men double-take ::blink ::blink , & one utters strange words outside of the vocabulary the Doctor has yet imparted. But some languages are indeed universal - & Ulfmund recognizes all too well the dagger each man holds, & the violent intent in their eyes...

[Archer21]

Bellowing a challenge in his native tongue, Ulfmund's hands snake behind him, drawing the twin blades strapped to the back of his waist.

Moving swiftly forward, he tries to close the gap and strike before they can harm the woman.

[tooho]

Lotus, smiles grimly, undaunted by the shining metal though she watches the assailant carefully, marking the friends words.

"It does you justice that you try to aid a friend, White Devil, but he is lost to you already."

Swirling in place and drawing her guns, the Black Lotus attempts to disarm the assailant by shooting him in the center of his palm, while the men are distracted by her advance.

[Heritage]

Polly nods, as if taking the suggestion seriously,

"Summer it is then...", then giggles & gives her boss a quick peck on the cheek.

After she's gone, Karl gently rubs his cheek and sighs ::wub

As his assistant readies the automobile, the magician places his call...

"Oh hey," replies Spitzy, the usual mix of tired irritation, concern, with just a touch of trepidation coloring his tones as he realizes to whom he's speaking, "it's you. Yeah, th' 'Bowman' - this one's got us all stumped. Th' boffins at th' university say th' arrows fit a type made t' be fired from a medieval English longbow - so now we've got f'ckin' Robin Hood t' worry about as well as all th' other nuts out there... er... no offense... In any case, it's pretty obvious from his victims that he's some sorta' mob hit man. I dunno', th' reports from th' scenes suggest that he's a better shot with that thing than most professionals are with a rifle, & it's silent & all that - so I guess it ain't as crazy as it seems at first. There ain't much more I can tell ya' at th' moment - give us a while, okay?"

The Whistler laughs, a distrubing noise, but in this case almost friendly.

No offense taken, Lieutenant. I have every confidence that you and your men will yield more clues to this man's identity; I myself am curious as to why the unfortunate Mister Kane was marked for death. I'll leave you to your work, as I must tend to mine.

After hanging up the phone, Karl steps into a small closet, which drops down through the floor...

A while later an all-black Packard phaeton automobile glides through the snow-covered streets of the city. At the wheel is an attractive young lady dressed as a chauffeusse - black jodhpurs & uniform jacket, white shirt, & black tie, with shiny black leather riding boots & gauntlets &, of course, a peaked cap - but with the curious addition of a black masque that covers her eyes & upper face & comes to a point over her nose. In the rear of the vehicle, behind smoked glass, is the Whistler...

The Whistler! That striking spectre of the night! His upper face is obscured by a pale white opera mask, with dark inset lenses that turn his eyes to pits of inky black. Dressed in impeccable eveningwear, he leans forward onto a dark wooden cane topped with a heavy silver gargoyle's head; his chin resting on his clasped hands, he appears to be lost in some reverie.

... Turning a corner on the way to Mulberry street, the whistling phantom of the metropolis hears the sounds of a woman screaming - only to be quickly muffled - coming from no more than a block away. Echo, oblivious to such minute details, fails to slow the pace of her driving...

Snapping out of his trance-like state, the Whistler cries out.

Echo, stop the car! A woman is in trouble!

The moment the car comes to a halt, he's out the door, a broad-brimmed hat obscuring much of his face, his red-lined opera cape swirling in the chill night air.

Come quickly! I may well need your assitance!

[Prince of Boredom]

"(also in Chinese) Only a fool chooses to face the claws of the Golden Tiger alone..."

As one, the men charge...

(as his first action) The White Dragon calmly waits for the agressors to charge, his hands folded behind his back...

As the first comes within range he quickly and effortlessly kicks him with a front-side kick, his form a testament to the term martial art. He then spins and delivers a spinning roundhouse kick to the second attacker. Again facing his opponents, he delivers a left jab to his third opponent, and finally a right handed punch to the fourth assailant.

(for his additional action he will go fully defensive)

[ezekiel]

The second lookout appears staggered by the swift & brutal execution  , but quickly starts to back away & babble as the female avenger turns her attentions his way. Holding his hands up for mercy as he staggers back, heedless, towards the water his words stream out,

"Please lady, not me, not me! I didn't do nothin'! I'm just small-time, see?! I'm only here 'cos it was a rush shipment for the big meeting at..." 

SPLASH!

The hood tips backwards & hits the icy water below...

The Banshee approaches the edge of the pier and looks at the man struggling below.

"Múchadh is bá ort..." ("You can drown for all I care." Literally: Smothering and drowning on you...)

Banshee walks back to Roman and drags him by his collar to the warehouse, sitting him by the outside wall. Grabbing a cloth in the man's pocket, she dips it in his blood and starts scrawling on the wall above him. Seemingly satisfied, she drops the cloth in Roman's lap and starts climbing the wall to the top of the warehouse. Soon a frightful keening cry can be heard, alerting the city that someone, somewhere...has died.

[ProfPotts]

Ulfmund:

The Viking's blades flash light cold lightning! One buries itself deep in the centre of the first man's chest, the other slices out - cleanly severing the second man's head from his shoulders ::blink ! Unusually there is no blood from the wounds, as the chill blades freeze as they cut. Two bodies slump into the snow...

The Whistler:

Spirinting down the alley, with Echo close behind, The Whistler hears a manly yell in an unusual tongue, then stops short of the corner as a man's severed head - frozen at the stump - bounces off the wall & thuds into the snow! ::crazy Echo lets out a little scream...

Rounding the corner the masked man comes face to face with a truely unique scene - a man aparantly dressed like a Viking [description please, Ulfund!] stands - a drawn long dagger in each hand, with two dead bodies at his feet: the former owner of the displaced cranium, & another man - slumped face down in the snow. An obviously terrified blonde woman, who's clothes are ripped & torn, cowers on the ground... ::nervous

Black Lotus:

"It does you justice that you try to aid a friend, White Devil, but he is lost to you already."

The razor-wielding man rushes forward - but Black Lotus is much quicker. Her guns are in her hands instantly, & a single shot rings out through the chill night air of Harlem. Gibson drops to his kees, clutching his ruining hand with a look of surprise & fear on his face ::blink ::nervous - the razor lays a few feet away in the snow. His friend begins to haul a revolver from his pocket - but to Black Lotus it's almost as if the man was moving in slow-motion - she has time to react first [if she wants to].

White Dragon:

White Dragon's first kick connects solidly with the first Tong's stomach - sending him crumpling to the ground, unconscious. The powerful spin-kick catches the second man under his chin, before any of them can react - he's lifted off his feet & crashes heavily across one of the tables - causing the woman sitting there to scream as the table splits in two & food flies everywhere! Two down.

Ducking a hastily aimed axe-swing, White Dragon comes up with a jab - catching the other remaining thug with a glancing blow to the jaw, but not laying him out. A punch with his right finds the axe-swinger's solar plexus: he doubles over before toppling lazily to one side.

Three men drop in less than three seconds. The final Tong standing swings a powerful overhead axe-blow at the hooded warrior - White Dradon side-steps the obvious attack with almost embarrassing ease. The axe cleaves in two the table that was behind where its target was standing. By now rather flustered, the hatchet-man tugs his weapon from where it's embedded in the floor & spins to again face the White Dragon...

Banshee:

Arnold Epstein grabs the reciever from the ringing phone & places it to his ear, lifting the main phone to his lips,

"Epstein Talent Agency, who's call'... Oh hi Cyn', great to hear from ya', dollface! Tonight? Well, I've always got slots open for you, babe, you know that! What? Again? I tell ya' - it's not good for a beautiful girl like you ta' be so interested in gangsters - those guys are dangerous, I keep tellin' ya' that. Oh, alright... Well, the big party tonight is over at Nightingales - yeah, that's right, Vito's place. Sure I can get you in - it's the gettin' out part I ain't too sure about. Yeah, yeah, I know - you can take care of yourself. Have it your way. I'll make the call - turn up whenever ya' like. Vito ain't gonna' turn away a star like you!"

Placing the phone back on his desk the agent sighed, then lit up a cigarette. It really wasn't any good for a talent like her to be wasting her time with hoodlums - no matter how glamourous they may seem. Still, Vito always payed well... Shrugging he reached for the phone again,

"Operator? Put me through to Giovanni's Restaurant on Mulberry."

[tooho]

His friend begins to haul a revolver from his pocket - but to Black Lotus it's almost as if the man was moving in slow-motion - she has time to react first [if she wants to]

Lotus quickly makes a choice. Aiming for the friend's shoulder, she tries for disabling shot. "Leave him to me and I won't have to hurt you further. Continue and they'll be mourning you by morning, White Devil. I know not your crimes, I've no reason to judge you."

She waits patiently for the man's decision keeping her attention on both. A small smile curves her lips at the dandy's moans over his ruined hand.

[Archer21]

Flicking the blades clean, droplets of blood spatter the snow. The man is indeed dressed like a northern warrior of old. A burnished conical helmet tops his head, the noseguard hanging from its brow helps conceal his face. Kneeling, he quickly wipes the knives on the headless corpse's clothing. The movement opens his thick, furred cloak to expose a studded leather chestplate, and hide breeches. His boots seem to be made of the same thick fur as the cloak, braided leather strips wrapping around his calves to secure the footwear.

His keen ears had heard Echo's small scream, yet he ignores the strangely dressed pair until he has completed cleaning his weapons. Slowly standing, he pivots slighty so he can watch the Echo and the Whistler, and still speak to the woman he just saved. Concentrating, he tries to speak clearly. "Maiden, you are safe, now. Kettles take you home in carriage." Without looking, he points to the end of the alley where his companion is waiting by the car. Even with his effort, it's obvious his English is labored, the pronunciation thick.

Switching back to his native language, he bellows to the doctor. "Healer! Take the flaxen-haired woman to safety, there are others I may need to do battle with."

The twin long knives glint in the moonlight as he turns to face Whistler and Echo.

Faintly, runes of ancient origin can be seen on the thick spines of the scramseaxes. "Fight?", he asks curiously.

[Heritage]

Spirinting down the alley, with Echo close behind, The Whistler hears a manly yell in an unusual tongue, then stops short of the corner as a man's severed head - frozen at the stump - bounces off the wall & thuds into the snow!  Echo lets out a little scream...

The Whsitler almost screams himself! However, he does not; he must always be strong...for Polly. ::wub

Rounding the corner the masked man comes face to face with a truely unique scene - a man aparantly dressed like a Viking stands - a drawn long dagger in each hand, with two dead bodies at his feet: the former owner of the displaced cranium, & another man - slumped face down in the snow. An obviously terrified blonde woman, who's clothes are ripped & torn, cowers on the ground...

Stopping dead in his tracks, the Whistler freezes, trying to take in every detail of the scene - he has learned that it unwise to judge a warrior's actions until you know all the facts. He puts out a hand to steady Echo, but he still grips his fighting cane tightly, his face unreadable behind the mask. He whispers softy,

Easy there, girl - let's figure this all out.

Flicking the blades clean, droplets of blood spatter the snow. The man is indeed dressed like a northern warrior of old. A burnished conical helmet tops his head, the noseguard hanging from its brow helps conceal his face. Kneeling, he quickly wipes the knives on the headless corpse's clothing. The movement opens his thick, furred cloak to expose a studded leather chestplate, and hide breeches. His boots seem to be made of the same thick fur as the cloak, braided leather strips wrapping around his calves to secure the footwear.

His keen ears had heard Echo's small scream, yet he ignores the strangely dressed pair until he has completed cleaning his weapons. Slowly standing, he pivots slighty so he can watch the Echo and the Whistler, and still speak to the woman he just saved. Concentrating, he tries to speak clearly. "Maiden, you are safe, now. Kettles take you home in carriage." Without looking, he points to the end of the alley where his companion is waiting by the car. Even with his effort, it's obvious his English is labored, the pronunciation thick.

Switching back to his native language, he bellows to the doctor. "Healer! Take the flaxen-haired woman to safety, there are others I may need to do battle with."

The twin long knives glint in the moonlight as he turns to face Whistler and Echo.

Faintly, runes of ancient origin can be seen on the thick spines of the scramseaxes. "Fight?",he asks curiously.

The Whistler slowly shakes his head and lowers his cane, his right arm still warding Echo.

No - I will not fight you, warrior. I can tell by your concern for the young woman that you are no cold-blooded killer, though your skill with the blade is indeed...impressive. Though our weapons and methods may be different-

He deftly spins his cane in graceful arcs, then tucks it under his arm.

I believe our fight is the same.

The Whistler tips his hat.

They call me the Whistler, and this is Echo. What do they call you, friend?

[Archer21]

No - I will not fight you, warrior. I can tell by your concern for the young woman that you are no cold-blooded killer, though your skill with the blade is indeed...impressive. Though our weapons and methods may be different-

He deftly spins his cane in graceful arcs, then tucks it under his arm.

I believe our fight is the same.

The stranger grunts. Nodding, he sheathes his weapons behind his back. Crossing his arms, he takes a moment to process more carefully what the man just said. Standing there, in the snow, he seems unconcerned by the cold. Considering his answer, he slowly says, "Kettles calls me Viking. Not right, but good for now." With another grunt, he curtly nods and turns to leave.

[Prince of Boredom]

Three men drop in less than three seconds. The final Tong standing swings a powerful overhead axe-blow at the hooded warrior - White Dradon side-steps the obvious attack with almost embarrassing ease. The axe cleaves in two the table that was behind where its target was standing. By now rather flustered, the hatchet-man tugs his weapon from where it's embedded in the floor & spins to again face the White Dragon...

Bai Long looks at the man and waits for him to swing the hatchet. As he does so he attempts to dodge to the side, and grab the weapon arm in an armbar, effectively disabling his ability to attack with the weapon.

assuming all goes to plan... he turns the thug to face Mr. Wong, "I would suggest that you apologize to Mr. Wong here, and agree to pay all of these damages you've caused...They say that dragons seldom show mercy.. you should take it when it is given..."

[Asbjørn]

The Watchman

The two hoodlums cross the street & head down a darkened ally. 'Shotgun' Murphy in his trenchcoat & flat cap, 'Shamrock' O'Bannon in a more stylish suit & racoon coat. It looked like Terry's tipoff was right on the money. It had only taken a few intimidated low-lifes to confirm that these two were the guys who set that tenament fire in Hells Kitchen last week. Probably meant as a final warning to the building's super, the fire had gotten out of control & had ended up with half a dozen dead - including one six year old girl & her four year old brother. The Watchman's steely gaze fixes the pair through his mask as he silently slips through the snow after them. Word was that tonight they were bringing final payment to the beat cop who'd been paid to 'turn the other way' as they carried out their arson...

With his collar raised against the wind and the hat pulled low to shield his eyes from the snow, the Watchman keeps his distance and lets the two criminals lead him down the alley.

Damn this weather! And here I was thinking I might get some photographic evidence for once... ::rolleyes

He shrugs slightly and cracks the knuckles of his gloved hands.

Doesn't matter. The only thing that decides if small fish like this cop go to trial is how many friends they have. But at least I can give him a lesson and maybe make him an example to the rest of his department... ::sly

Seeing the two thugs come to a halt he hides in the alley shadows and waits.

[ProfPotts]

Black Lotus:

A second shot rings out - the second man's revolver thuds to the snow as a neat bullet hole pierces his shoulder, & the vital nerves within, & his whole arm goes limp. The man lets out a cry of pain through gritted teeth as his left hand comes up to clasp the wound...

"Leave him to me and I won't have to hurt you further. Continue and they'll be mourning you by morning, White Devil. I know not your crimes, I've no reason to judge you."

The man's eyes flicker to where his friend is kneeling, then back to Black Lotus. Taking a step backwards he whispers through gritted teeth,

"This isn't over, girl..." then turns & flees...

Still clutching his ruined hand, the man on his knees starts to struggle to his feet, swearing as he does so, & staring at Lotus with eyes full of anger & hate...

Viking & Whistler:

Easy there, girl - let's figure this all out.

Echo skids to a halt behind her boss, eyes ready to pop out of her skull at the sights before them ::shocked but, at Whistler's comments, stays back, & keeps quiet.

"Healer! Take the flaxen-haired woman to safety, there are others I may need to do battle with."

The Whister hears the sound of a car door slamming from the far end of the ally. Soon enough a thin middle-aged man, with steel-rimmed glasses & rather wild white hair, dressed in an evening suit, comes jogging / sliding through the snow. As he approaches he says,

"Look, I've told you before - 'doctor' means 'healer', but can also mean 'scholar' - I'm an archaeologist not a GP..." ::rolleyes

Dr Kettles trails off as he surveys the scene, his look a mix of shock & detached academic interest,

"My... It looks like you decapitated that one with a single blow! Incredible! Is there some special technique that your people..."

The Doc again trails off as he remembers the 'flaxan-haired woman'. With a rather sheepish looks he mutters,

"Oh - right..." then offers his hand to the young lady. With a glance towards Whistler & Echo, then a quizzical raised eyebrow to the Viking, the older man escorts the confused & shocked woman back towards his car. As he goes Whistler overhears his comments,

"Come on, my dear, we'll take you to Nightingales - we were just heading there ourselves - & it looks to me like you could use a stiff drink... Um... purely for medicinal purposes, of course... We'll get you cleaned up & sorted out in a jiffy."

White Dragon:

The Tong's attack is all too predictable - Bai Long's sidestep & joint lock is executed with a perfection born of many, many, long hours of practice. He turns the thug to face the elderly restaurant owner...

"I would suggest that you apologize to Mr. Wong here, and agree to pay all of these damages you've caused...They say that dragons seldom show mercy.. you should take it when it is given..."

It takes a little extra pressure on the joint lock, but the Tong soldier quickly yelps, then babbles an apology & promise of restitution as fast as he can!

Once White Dragon has dealt with the three downed, & one standing, Tongs as he sees fit, a cheer goes up from the customers & staff! Mr Wong bows low & thanks the hooded warrior. Then, as her husband hurries to tidy the broken furniture & spilt food away, Mrs Wong calls White Dragon to one side, & whispers quietly,

"I know not if this will be of use to you, honourable Dragon, but it seems that it may be right to tell you: my niece, Mei Mei - a headstrong young woman who is too in-love with the decadent culture of this new world - is... 'seeing'... a man named Vito Giovanni who runs a restaurant, & illegal bar, called Nightingales on Mulberry street. She mentioned to me that there was a big meeting of many criminals - the gangsters the foolish girl thinks are so dashing & romantic - there tonight. I didn't know who to tell, but if anyone would know what to do, it must be you."

The Watchman:

As the Watchman observes, Shotgun & Shamrock are approached by a policeman. As the figure walks into the moonlight the Watchman recognises senior patrolman Denny Fitzpatrick - a slightly portly man in his mid-thirties with a reputation for liking to bust a few heads along his patrol route every now & then. Officer Fitzpatrick continuously spins & catches his police billy club on the end of it's strap, spin - catch - spin - catch - as he grins at the two hoodlums,

"An' what brings a couple o' fine fella's such as your good selves t' my neck o' th' woods on such a fine winter's evenin' then, boys?" Fitzpatrick's Irish accent carries clearly to the Watchman's place of concealment.

Shamrock smiles, glances about, then pulls a slightly crumpled brown paper envelope from his inside coat pocket, handing it to Officer Fitzpatrick. The policeman opens the package & quickly thumbs through the banknotes within, grins even wider, then slips it into the pocket of his own uniform coat. Shamrock nods then speaks - his own accent much more local than the officer's,

"Okay - if that's all in order - then are you sure your people are clear on tonight's deal?"

The cop nods,

"O'course, lad: no police near th' Nightingales club, lest we spook th' guests at th' big meetin'. Don't you be worrying about our end o' things - you just make sure th' payment's on time." ::wink

[tooho]

"This isn't over, girl..." then turns & flees...

"I suspect not." she says softly as she turns slightly to face the struggling man.

Still clutching his ruined hand, the man on his knees starts to struggle to his feet, swearing as he does so, & staring at Lotus with eyes full of anger & hate...

Her eyes twitch at the language, but she only eyes him cooly. "You are angry? Oh, now, you can not handle it when pain is given to you? But you asked for it, Devil. You walk about arrogant and assured of your right to inflict pain on the weaker around you. Surely you are strong enough to withstand it yourself?"

She sights his razor and begins in a cajoling voice. "Don't forget your weapon. You want to slice me to ribbons as well, do you not? Or are you chicken? But then I forget sometimes, white men have little concept of honor and justice. You may just wish to flee like a mangy dog."

She pushes him verbally, angrily, almost as if she would welcome the pain he wants to inflict, and she waits. She can not shoot an unarmed man; he must pick up his weapon. She waits for an excuse to shoot his other hand, tense and almost antsy to finish the game she started all the while smiling with dark humor.

[Heritage]

The stranger grunts. Nodding, he sheathes his weapons behind his back. Crossing his arms, he takes a moment to process more carefully what the man just said. Standing there, in the snow, he seems unconcerned by the cold. Considering his answer, he slowly says, "Kettles calls me Viking. Not right, but good for now." With another grunt, he curtly nods and turns to leave.

The Whistler moves to stop him, but then-

[He] hears the sound of a car door slamming from the far end of the ally. Soon enough a thin middle-aged man, with steel-rimmed glasses & rather wild white hair, dressed in an evening suit, comes jogging / sliding through the snow. As he approaches he says,

"Look, I've told you before - 'doctor' means 'healer', but can also mean 'scholar' - I'm an archaeologist not a GP..." 

Dr Kettles trails off as he surveys the scene, his look a mix of shock & detached academic interest,

"My... It looks like you decapitated that one with a single blow! Incredible! Is there some special technique that your people..."

The Doc again trails off as he remembers the 'flaxan-haired woman'. With a rather sheepish looks he mutters,

"Oh - right..." then offers his hand to the young lady. With a glance towards Whistler & Echo, then a quizzical raised eyebrow to the Viking, the older man escorts the confused & shocked woman back towards his car.

The Whistler tips his hat to the elderly gentleman, as if they just happened upon each other during a Sunday morning stroll.

Doctor.

As he goes Whistler overhears his comments,

"Come on, my dear, we'll take you to Nightingales - we were just heading there ourselves - & it looks to me like you could use a stiff drink... Um... purely for medicinal purposes, of course... We'll get you cleaned up & sorted out in a jiffy."

Whistler stands still with his hands on his cane, the gently falling snow lightly dusting the shoulders of his opera cape. After the unusual assortment of characters is halfway down the alley, he speaks.

Well well well - a night of revelations and further mysteries. It does indeed look like the little gathering at Nightingales will be the social event of the season, and we certainly don't want to be late, or else our new Viking friend will have beheaded all the really interesting hoodlums.

He brushes off the snow, tosses and catches his cane, and turns back towards the Packard.

Come, Echo -

He stops suddenly, and swings back towards the bloody thugs; in a flash, he's going through their pockets, looking for anything of import. When he's satisfied, he rises from the corpses and indicates the way back to the car with a flourish of his hand.

To Nightingales!

[Asbjørn]

"O'course, lad: no police near th' Nightingales club, lest we spook th' guests at th' big meetin'. Don't you be worrying about our end o' things - you just make sure th' payment's on time." ::wink

As the dirty cop speaks, the Watchman unbuttons the top button of his jacket and draws one of his pistols. With the unmistakeable sound of a gun being cocked he steps into the moonlit alley. His face is hidden in shadow at first, but his voice carries all the menace he needs to cow these thugs.

"Well, well, well... Shotgun and Shamrock. And patrolman Fitzpatrick. Got yourself a new, expensive mistress, I see...?" ::sly

He walks closer as he speaks, his steel grey eyes taking in the scene.

"Drop your guns, boys. Keep your hands where I can see'em, and don't do anything stupid. You might not live to regret it..."

[Prince of Boredom]

"I know not if this will be of use to you, honourable Dragon, but it seems that it may be right to tell you: my niece, Mei Mei - a headstrong young woman who is too in-love with the decadent culture of this new world - is... 'seeing'... a man named Vito Giovanni who runs a restaurant, & illegal bar, called Nightingales on Mulberry street. She mentioned to me that there was a big meeting of many criminals - the gangsters the foolish girl thinks are so dashing & romantic - there tonight. I didn't know who to tell, but if anyone would know what to do, it must be you."

"You have done the right thing. I will go to this place and rescue your daughter from these evil people. Your daughter will be safe..."

With that, the White Dragon bows to Mr. and Mrs. Wong and heads out into the night, making his way to 'Nightingales' as quickly as possible...

[Archer21]

Following the doctor and woman to the car, Ulfmund clambers into the back seat, leaving the front for their new passenger. Seeing his hastily removed tuxedo now neatly folded on the rear seat, he reaches forward to tap Kettle's shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. I will re-dress myself. Please, proceed to this drinking hall."

Before the good doctor can say anything to stop him, the Norseman squirms out of his original clothing. Cloak, breastplate, boots, and breeches all fly off at a record pace, surely causing the recently rescued maiden's eyes to bulge as she looks in the rear-view mirror. Lean and well-muscled, the blond warrior's body carries it's share of battle scars.

Unaccustomed to anything like a tuxedo, it takes him a bit longer to figure out the series of buttons and the awkward suspenders. Finally putting on his polished shoes, he manages to finish dressing just as they arrive at Nightingale's.

The long knives disappear under his fancy coat in a redesigned pair of scabbards designed after shoulder holsters. Opening the door, he bounds out as the doctor and woman also exit. Seeing the tattered and torn dress on her, he reaches back inside the vehicle, snatching the long overcoat the archeologist had given him earlier. Without a word, he wraps it around her shoulders, nodding at her. "Keep.", he says in English.

Unworried by the cold, he does notice a draft at his neck. Collar hanging open, he smacks his forehead, and fetches the bowtie in his pocket. Grumbling, he struggles to put it back on properly.

[ProfPotts]

Black Lotus:

"Don't forget your weapon. You want to slice me to ribbons as well, do you not? Or are you chicken? But then I forget sometimes, white men have little concept of honor and justice. You may just wish to flee like a mangy dog."

The man's pain completes the transformation to rage as his face screws up in a mask of anger,

"I'm gonna' show you your place, b!tch!" he spits - then lunges for his blade with his left hand (the combination of rage & alcohol fogging his mind enough that he forgets about his companion's discarded gun). As usual, Lotus is ready for him as he does so...

Whistler, Viking, & White Dragon:

Come, Echo - To Nightingales!

"Thank you, my friend. I will re-dress myself. Please, proceed to this drinking hall."

"You have done the right thing. I will go to this place and rescue your niece from these evil people. Your niece will be safe..."

Nightingales on Mulberry street in the heart of Little Italy is one of the more up-market speakeasies - a proper club for (the loosely defined) 'members' only, with drinking, gambling, entertainment, & a thin veneer of respectability that the better-off clientele seem to like so much. The club proper, although no real secret, is located behind Giovanni's Restaurant - since even with the usual weekly bribes, the police need some sort of excuse as to why they haven't shut the place down...

Whilst the costumed crimefighters observe the fashionable crowds entering the fancy Italian restaurant from the shadows, noting the two large 'waiters' on the door checking 'coats' (&, more to the point, guns...), & perhaps even venturing to the ally at the rear of the building to note where the kitchens throw out the garbage, & the wrought-iron fire escape leads towards the roof; Doc Kettles & friends stroll in through the front door. The waiters give the trio a quick look over (recognizing that the gentlemen's suits appear to suggest that they have at least some money to spend within), & allow them to pass. Kettles then asks the head waiter if the party can be seated 'in the enchanted grotto' - the well-known code-phrase used to gain entrance to the club. The matre-d' nods, leading the small group past the few people actually dining at the restaurant towards the back wall, where he pulls aside a drape, revealing a heavy-looking metal door. A special sequence of knocks results in bolts being drawn & the door being opened from within. The Doc, the Viking, & their (still rather stunned) guest then descend a steep & narrow flight of steps, past more muscle-bound 'waiters', & finally emerge into the smoke, music, & laughter filled Nightingales club.

The first area seen when entering the club is the main bar room - the bar itself is on the right & surrounded by keen drinkers. On the left three steps descend to a lower, semi-circular, floor in front of the stage, where customers sit at tables cheering & applauding the chorus-line act that is currently being performed. Across the bar room from the entrance a few steps lead up to an opening, beyond which is a thriving casino - with black jack, craps, & all the other classic (& illegal) games of chance one may care to try one's hand at.

Nightingales is decorated in a style vaguely-reminiscent of certain European palaces. The high ceiling is white 'sculpted' plaster & fittings, with crystal chandeliers, the walls are painted with cherubs & Venus-type figures in a classical style, & the cream carpets are quite plush. The railings by the steps & general fittings are polished brass. Waitresses in dress shirts & tails, &, shockingly, little else save for seamed black stockings & high-heeled shoes, serve drinks whilst cigarette girls carry their trays of goods between the tables, trying to sell their wares & avoid the grasping hands of the merry male customers. Here & there men in pinstriped suits keep an eye on both the customers & the staff...

Watchman:

"Well, well, well... Shotgun and Shamrock. And patrolman Fitzpatrick. Got yourself a new, expensive mistress, I see...?"

The two hoods spin round, reaching for weapons, as the policeman's eyes widen in surprise,

"J-hesus, Mary & J-hosef! 'Tis th' Watchman himself, as I live & breathe!" exclaims the cop.

"Drop your guns, boys. Keep your hands where I can see'em, and don't do anything stupid. You might not live to regret it..."

The hoods exchange worried looks, obviously shaken by the famed vigillante's sudden appearance, but confidence in their superior numbers & own innate brutish skills proves to be more than their common-sense can handle - from under Shotgun's coat comes his signature weapon - a sawn-off 'whippet'-styled double barrel shotgun. Shamrock pulls a hefty looking .45 automatic. Patrolman Fitzpatrick seems to prefer the better part of valor, turns tail, & heads off down the ally! The Watchman's intimidating presence, however, has thrown the two gangsters off enough that he can act before they get to fire...

[tooho]

Lotus again aims for the center of his hand, hoping to destroy the means with which he hurt so many women. And smiles genuinely as she fires.

"Tsk, tsk. That makes two. Care to even the score, Devil?" She waves negligently at his bloodied hands. "Ewww. Looks painful. You should see a doctor about those wounds. We wouldn't wish you to expire, now would we? Hurry now, I think I would like a peek at Nightingales, but if you hold me up, I'll be quite put out with you." ::rolleyes

She stands negligently to the side, acting as though she's not waiting to shoot that last shot, the final shot. Her eyes smile with the energy only youth has, as she watches the struggling man make his decision. ::sly

[Asbjørn]

The hoods exchange worried looks, obviously shaken by the famed vigillante's sudden appearance, but confidence in their superior numbers & own innate brutish skills proves to be more than their common-sense can handle - from under Shotgun's coat comes his signature weapon - a sawn-off 'whippet'-styled double barrel shotgun. Shamrock pulls a hefty looking .45 automatic. Patrolman Fitzpatrick seems to prefer the better part of valor, turns tail, & heads off down the ally! The Watchman's intimidating presence, however, has thrown the two gangsters off enough that he can act before they get to fire...

Prepared for the appearance of Shotgun's weapon of choice, the Watchman quickly but calmly squeezes the trigger and shoots the gangster square in the chest. If he has time to pull that off before Shamrock gets his gun up and ready, he'll level the pistol on the second thug and give him one more chance. If things happen too fast for another threat, he'll shoot Shamrock as well.

[split for two actions either way (firearms/firearms or firearms/intimidation)]

[Heritage]

After observing the front of Giovanni's Restaurant for a while, the Whistler nods to himself.

Pull the car into the alley - looks like we don't fit the dress code right now.

Once safely out of view, Whistler removes his mask, cape and hat, then jumps out of the car, checks for any witnesses, and goes round the back to the trunk. Karl pulls out a garment bag and places it in the back seat.

A gift for you, my dear.

He opens it up, and reveals a beautiful deep red silk dress. Karl grins broadly at Polly.

See if it fits - I'll keep watch out here. There's matching shoes and a nice warm mink in the trunk, too.

[Prince of Boredom]

Noticing the fire escape, Bai Long quietly sneaks to the alley and heads up the fire escape to see if he can find another way into the speakeasy...

[ProfPotts]

Black Lotus:

The gunshot again cleanly holes the man's hand. He screams - with both pain & anger - & staggers backwards.

"Tsk, tsk. That makes two. Care to even the score, Devil?" She waves negligently at his bloodied hands. "Ewww. Looks painful. You should see a doctor about those wounds. We wouldn't wish you to expire, now would we? Hurry now, I think I would like a peek at Nightingales, but if you hold me up, I'll be quite put out with you."

For a brief moment the young woman thinks that the man is fool enough to actually try to attack her again - but fear finally overcomes his misplaced pride, & (with a final snarl of rage) he turns tail & flees for his life.

Watchman:

Canny to the predicatable ways of villainous lowlifes the masked vigilante's shot nails Shotgun in the centre of his chest just as the 'brown fox' in his hands is leveled. Snapping his pistol quickly across to point at Shamrock the Watchman finds the better-dressed criminal's own automatic facing him in a mirror-image of his own pose. Down the alley Officer Fitzpatrick skids to a halt at the sound of the shot, glances back, then redoubles his efforts to escape. Shotgun's body, tossed back against the alley wall by the shot that killed him, lazily slumps to the snow-covered ground; but neither his friend, nor the Watchman, spare him a glance. Caught in the vigillante's steely-eyed gaze Shamrock breaks out in perspiration, despite the chill in the air. A second ticks by & the hand aiming the gun starts to shake; whilst the Watchman's aim remains rock-steady. Suddenly the criminal drops his pistol, takes a step back, & throws his arms up in the air, as he stammers,

"D-d-don't shoot, fella'... please... I surrender..." ::nervous

Whistler:

A gift for you, my dear.

::blink

::smile

::bigsmile

::biggrin

Polly throws her arms around her boss's neck & squeezes him in a happy hug,

"Wow! Thanks boss! You're th' best!"

See if it fits - I'll keep watch out here. There's matching shoes and a nice warm mink in the trunk, too.

Polly nods, & smiles,

"Sure thing, boss. No peeking now..." ::wink

The Whistler tries his best to ignore the distinctive (to him at least) rustle of fine clothing over feminine flesh ::blush ; but soon enough the well-dressed couple are heading, arm in arm, towards the infamous 'restaurant'...

White Dragon:

His movements as one with the shadows the hooded man slinks silently into the narrow ally behind the restaurant, careful to place his own light footprints on the snow inside those of previous travellers. A well-practiced leap - bouncing off the wall & spinning up to the fire escape - would appear like flying if there was anyone to observe it; but Bai Long chooses when he is seen, & has no need for an audience yet...

Adding to the observations he has already made, the martial arts master notes that the 'club' itself appears to be in the basement of the building. The restaurant is on the ground floor. The next floor up is now revealed to be bedrooms (by the noises coming from them bedrooms rented - with occupant - by the hour), & offices. The top floor looks to be storage - old furniture, boxes, crates. The flat, snow-covered, roof is easy to reach, & has a door to access the building. Both the roof door & the windows to the floors the White Dragon pass are locked - although the locks on the windows are little more than simple catches.

[tooho]

For a brief moment the young woman thinks that the man is fool enough to actually try to attack her again - but fear finally overcomes his misplaced pride, & (with a final snarl of rage) he turns tail & flees for his life.

*sigh* "Woof." ::sly

*Ayama, you really have to learn not to play so long. *sigh* Hmmm, Nightingales? Sounds interesting.*

She'll peacefully walk over, pick up the forgotten razor and carefully close it, sliding it into her pocket. "He'll want this back later." ::devil

With an unconcious swish of her braid, she'll slide her hands over her guns, square her shoulders and slide into the alley shadows, heading to Nightingales for a peak at the action. ::sneaky2

[Archer21]

Though many things had changed since Ulfmund's beginning in this new world, the scents and mood of the club were similar enough. With a broad grin, the blond man approached the bar, and catching the bartender's eye, spoke his favorite word in English. "Beer!"

[Prince of Boredom]

The White Dragon silently creeps over to the door that leads into the building and quickly applies a side kick to it. After the door opens, he quietly sneaks into the bulding and looks for a staircase down.

[Heritage]

Polly throws her arms around her boss's neck & squeezes him in a happy hug,

"Wow! Thanks boss! You're th' best!"

He smiles warmly and flips a finger across her chin.

And you deserve the best, Polly.

The Whistler tries his best to ignore the distinctive (to him at least) rustle of fine clothing over feminine flesh ::blush; but soon enough the well-dressed couple are heading, arm in arm, towards the infamous 'restaurant'...

Happily strolling towards Giovanni's in their warm fur coats, Karl imagines that they are just two young people enjoying each other's company, and the time passes all too quickly. Once at the door, he inquires about the 'enchanted grotto', snuggles up to Polly and winks in a knowing fashion ::wink

[Asbjørn]

Down the alley Officer Fitzpatrick skids to a halt at the sound of the shot, glances back, then redoubles his efforts to escape.

The cop can run. There's nowhere to hide, so he might as well sweat for a while... ::sly

Suddenly the criminal drops his pistol, takes a step back, & throws his arms up in the air, as he stammers,

"D-d-don't shoot, fella'... please... I surrender..." ::nervous

"Smart move."

The Watchman walks closer - kicking the dropped pistol away - and stops when his own gun is about a foot from the gangster's forehead. Never taking his eyes off him he says

"Speak quickly, I've got another fish to catch. What's going down at Nightingales? Who's invited, and what's the agenda?"

[ProfPotts]

Black Lotus:

Soon enough the young vigilante finds herself concealed outside Giovanni's Restaurant, watching the numerous patrons heading in.

The Viking:

"Beer!"

Ulf' is rewarded with a tall glass of foaming amber liquid which, when tasted, is close enough to beer to be passable. The Doc also receives a beer, & orders a stiff brandy for the young lady. Drinks collected the Doc leads the small group to sit at one of the tables near the stage, where youthful (if a bit skinny for the Norseman's tastes) women gyrate in a possibly ritualistic synchronised dance display. Kettles lights a cigarette, & offers one to the young woman, who takes it - hands still trembling slightly - & also proceeds to inhale the smoke. Offering one of the little white sticks to Ulfmund, the Doc raises an eyebrow,

"Smoke?" he inquires.

White Dragon:

The door is easily kicked open, with some noise, but nothing noticable further inside the building. Sneaking inside, the hooded warrior finds the junk-strewn attic area. After some quick searching he locates the narrow stairway down to the floor where he heard all the 'interesting' bedroom activities... At the foot of the stairs in another door, also locked, through which the giggles, laughter, moans, & yelps of ill-repute drift to the martial arts master's ears.

Whistler:

The obviously wealthy couple are quickly escorted to the 'secret' club once they speak easy. Entering the smokey club atmosphere, with the band music, shouting & laugher, is slightly disorienting to the Whistler - but a few moments hanging on to Polly's supportive arm are enough for him to adjust. Glancing about the magician spots the gentlemen Polly & he met earlier in the alley - the Norse fellow now dressed in a much more civilised fashion - although his lusty beer quaffing still leaves something to be desired...

Watchman:

"Speak quickly, I've got another fish to catch. What's going down at Nightingales? Who's invited, and what's the agenda?"

The gangster's eyes dart about ::lookaround , but he finds nothing to reassure himself with in the lonely alley, & still feels the vigilante's stare burning into him...

"I... I don't know nothin'..." he begins, but can't even maintain that pretense under the steely gaze, "Okay! Okay... I don't know everything. There's a big meeting. Representatives of all th' bosses are gonna' be there. Some new gang is movin' in t' town, & they wanna' talk. They've been orderin' those hits - th' bowman guy in th' papers - t', you know, prove that they mean business. Joe, th' Dutchman, Queenie - they'll all have people there. They say that this new mob is run by th' 'Big Guy'. Everyone just wants t' know how everything lies, you see? Maybe there'll be a war, maybe an alliance - either way, it's goin' down tonight."