It had been an unusually warm and sunny day in mid-September. Many people had gone out in their long sleeves and jackets in the cool early morning only to find that the warmth of the day made such clothing unbearable. A blue sky with only a smattering of rolling white clouds encapsulated New York City. The night owls were still abed and the early risers had already, long ago started their day.

The instructions given over the phone had invited all accepted hires to meet at a penthouse flat in the Upper East Side at about 10 in the morning. Here it became apparent that wealth was casually flaunted. Cars were parked along streets with nary a nag in sight. The buildings were a mix of old, classic beauties and a new, modern style. The flat itself was located in a newly built complex that was in the Art Deco style which was still in its early stages. Bright shiny white contrasted starkly with a very business-like black.

At the front of a revolving door stood the Doorman. He was ready to judge with his eyes and watch all cool and collectedly as the commers and goers went about their daily business. It had been indicated at the end of the phone call that they should simply tell the Doorman that they were here to see Miss Hobbs at the top flat. Even if they were in rags he would let them through saying, “The elevator is located at the end of the hall at the left of the stairs. Last elevator. If you would prefer, to your immediate right are stairs leading up to the flat. That is, if you wish to climb the ten flights.”

Upon entering the building the ground floor held a lavish fountain and gorgeous plants of bright colors. There were stairs that started together at the bottom but split to allow a fine pear tree to show itself. They rejoined at the top, connecting to hall which lead to other apartments in the building. If directions were followed to the elevator, one would simply walk past the left side of the stairs and come to a line of four elevators with shiny golden, embossed doors. The last would take them on a short trip to the flat. If stairs were chosen, they would be going up a large and winding staircase with landings which held doors. At the tenth landing would be a door with a sign hanging on it that read, “Enter.”

The elevator would open to a perfectly white foyer with black curtains hanging on the walls, magnificent paintings, and statues of white or black marble. The statues depicted the naked human form of both sexes in many a pose. Here they would be greeted by the butler. “Welcome,” he would say in a bright yet soft tone. A gentle man of many years but without an ounce of cruelty in his visage. “I am Mister Foley.” Mister Foley was a tall gentleman, with salt and pepper hair, and a rather boyish sort of gangly to his body. His smile showed perfect teeth but was perhaps a bit too wide for his face. He dressed in a rather rich looking tuxedo and wore white gloves upon his hands.

“I will take you to meet our Miss Hobbs.” Then he would walk into the flat, the front circular room leading to a sparse hall which would then led to a living room with a fireplace, overstuffed chairs, a low coffee table, and a small television on a stand. It was not this room they would stop at. Instead, he would lead down another small hallway which stopped at a black door. Foley rapped his knuckles against the door before opening it.

If the stairs were chosen, an individual would be greeted by a short and overweight woman. The bob of her hair wouldn’t quite fit the wideness of her face or the extra chin. Her hair was greying but it was obvious from her face and demeanor that she had a liveliness beyond her physical form.

“Hooah! I suspect yer lookin for Miss Hobbs. Come in and follow me. No dawdlin’ or gawkin’. We best be getting’ on with things.” She had a thick, sharp, but friendly Irish accent. She wore a cream-colored blouse and black trousers with a matching vest that was in part covered by her stark white apron. The woman would lead them into the kitchen which looked as if it had come straight out of a Sears catalog before it had hit a recession. All the new bobs and bits could be found in a room made of black, sparkling marble and white cabinetry.

“I be Norma, if you be needin’ anythin’ don’t yeh be hesitatin’ to ask me or Mister Foley. Or let Miss Hobbs know, she'll call fer us.” Through the dining room with a long table and excellent wall adornments and into the living room, down the hall and a black door which opened to the study.

This room was also rather large. Bookshelves lined one wall, a fireplace against another, and huge windows which looked out onto the street below. There were several couches and chairs as well as a large desk littered with papers. Upon a divan lay Miss Hobbs, Lady Detective. Her form was clad in a stylish and short beaded dress. A sheer, feathered robe lay open allowing anyone who dared to look a peek at her stockings and garter. One arm lay languidly over the curve of her hip and the hand held a cigarette. The other supported her and flipped through what appeared to be a fashion magazine.

As her employees arrived, Miss Hobbs looked up from the magazine, searched them over and offered a playful grin. She sat up, her heeled feet hitting the floor and crossing at the ankles. “Welcome! Please sit, as soon as everyone arrives, I will go over, well, everything!” She made a fluid motion to indicate the two modern couches and three stuffed chairs.

(Edited)

Rosa and Joseph Kimbell

The apartment block awoke in a tremendous groan as the mass of pipes began to heat up. An unruly bell had been trilling in Rosa’s ear for the past fifteen seconds, loud enough to rouse the dead but only just managing to get the woman conscious enough to bat it clean off the table with a deft swoop. The motion sent her body past the point of no return, off the edge of the bed and towards the invitingly cold floorboards. Another tremendous groan followed the tremendously loud thump that followed.

“I hate to see de evenin' sun go down," came the raspy, croaky notes of a very groggy figure slumped on the floor. “Hate to see de evenin' sun go down," she repeated solemnly, sluggishly pushing her torpid figure up onto its knees, then onto its arse and finally those reliable feet. “'Cause ma baby, he done lef' dis town…” W.C Hardy, eat your heart out. Armstrong had Rosa's, locked up in his trumpet case and that dastardly doggone smile.

You had to be a certain way to sing the blues. As in, not necessarily black - not really, though the best ones are - but downtrodden. Well and truly fucked by Life, the world's oldest and loosest whore. “Feelin’ tomorrow like I feel today," observed Rosa as her nails scratched lazily at her buttocks. “Feel tomorrow like I feel today," she confirmed, louder this time. “I'll pack my trunk, make ma git away," she crooned, brushing her hair in vain as her feet took her out to the kitchen.

The kitchen was a dead thing, cruelly reanimated by the creaking copper central heating pipes. It lacked colour, or even brightness - the white tiles had given up long before either of the inhabitants did and sunk into a lowly, dingy grey that couldn't be scrubbed off. It held the spirit of Louisiana captive for so long that she went mad and shot herself, leaving nought but the orange spatters of the exit wound over the stovetop. Crusted-on Cajun sauces that neither of them could afford anymore were all that remained. On the worst days, the ones where there was no food on the table for weeks, did Rosa ever lick those spots out of desperation - but only once, to preserve their memory like a shrine? To breathe life back into her aching shoulders and reinvigorate her trembling body as it came to from one of her otherworldly interruptions? For what purpose were these fermented stains left upon an otherwise clean enough kitchen, laziness or something deeper?

Rosa's nail scraped at one of those orange landmarks. “The bayou is stubborn," she murmured. “Speaking of stubborn…”she continued, raising her head to peer out of those useless reveries. “Uncle Joey! Un-cle JOOOOOH-WHEEE!” her hollering shook the paint on the walls, made the room inhale it's dusty air after a whole night of relative peace. Undead culinary stations and the lonely moans of the Saint Louis Blues could only temporarily hold back the irreverent mass of colour and energy that is, was, and forever will be Rosa Kimbell. “Getcha god-fearing ass outta bed so’s I can dig into these telegrams and eggs!”

“ROSA!” Joseph let out a muffled yell from behind his door. “YOU GOD DAMN LOUT!” followed by several minutes of silence as heavy footsteps stamped around behind his door. The door suddenly swung open and into the kitchen barged Joseph who refused to speak a word to the girl as he angrily banged about the pans and glasses in preparation for their breakfast.

Content that Joe was starting the process of yet another round of fried eggs (or some eggy equivalent) as their main, and probably only meal, Rosa set to work opening the envelopes. “A bill. Another bill," she mumbled, peering miserably at the numbers. “A...Oh right, yeah. Hey Joey, do you have friends?” Joseph continued to ignore her, a hint that he had not gotten over his rude awakening. “I mean like, anyone who'd actually ring our flat. Who's Hobbs?” Rosa persisted, drumming her fingers on the tabletop in a valiant attempt to make the most annoying noise possible.

Joseph stood facing the stove and away from her, baring his teeth as the drumming got on his nerves. “It’s the agency.” he forced out from between his teeth. “The private investigator job.” he finished and fell back into silence as he continued with their breakfast preparation.

“Huh.” Rosa stopped being annoying and pulled a face of great contemplation. “After you went to bed, someone called us. Said we needed to meet them in a penthouse suite - Upper East Side.”

“What time?” Joseph responded, briefly pausing the cooking as he took a moment to understand the implication of the telegrams request.

“Ten in the-SHIT," Rosa threw her arms in the air, twirling around and pacing the tiny room like a gibbon in a birdcage. “That's in an hour! What am I gonna wear?! I need my gloves but I can't just go in my jumpsuit, can I? Maybe a dress? Who the fuck wears a dress in the day?!”

Joseph had by now calmed down, primarily due to Rosa’s sudden hectic turn. “Clothes.” he replied, turning to slip the cooked eggs onto awaiting plates.

Rosa froze mid turn and eyed the eggs hungrily. She collapsed back into the chair - food had a greater influence over her than fear - and started to wolf them down with what could best be described as 'grotesque enthusiasm’. At any rate, it was enough to keep her seated and keep her silent. That was all Joseph needed. “We’ll grab the subway. Go get dressed when you’re done.” he ordered.

It didn’t take long for Rosa to tear through the meal. After letting loose the customary burp, she leapt out of her chair and made it into her room in two bounds. Her wardrobe was sparse at best, with raggedy old oil-stained clothes and a couple of tenderly kept pieces of dress clothing for the multitude of parties she snuck into. The place they were going wasn’t some sort of speakeasy shindig - it was the real deal, Long-Island-and-Chauffeurs sort of rich. In a world like that, honesty was the only thing that people like Rosa had left. No sense in pretending to be a rich immigrant - she pulled on the trusty slacks, the cleanest vest she had on hand and her work boots (somewhat pointlessly scrubbed down with an old oil rag). Her jacket covered the skin on her arms - a set of ladies’ leather gloves covered her hands.

Rosa checked herself out in the mirror, gave her rump an encouraging slap and sauntered out into the kitchen. “So, are we going with the usual shtick today, buddy? Skin condition and seizures?” she queried, tugging the belt of her trousers so they’d fit on her dwindling figure. “It’s one thing wearin’ gloves in a factory, a fashion statement at a party, but in someone’s home...I dunno, Upper East Side fellas seem like the sort to kick up a fuss.”

“There will be a time and a place, that time isn’t now. Gloves stay on and you don’t talk about it.” Joseph plodded into his own room after resting the dishes in the sink to dress himself. Out of habit and boredom, Rosa dried the dishes whilst she waited.

“I know, that wasn’t what I was asking. I was making sure we got our stories straight, so when they do ask I can just say it’s a health thing, instead of sayin’ shit like ‘I don’t wanna talk about it’ like some sorta freak," Rosa retorted impishly. A jingling of keys and the heavy clumping sound of her work boots came from the living space before the door swung open (“Hurry up Joey!”) and two slightly sleepy, slightly nervous figures sloped out and towards the station.



“Y’know," murmured Rosa conspiratorially as she gave Joseph’s ribs a quick jab with her elbow, “I get the feeling she’s...got the same disposition that I do.”

To put it lightly, Rosa hadn’t seen this much open nudity since a couple of her friends from the factory had broken open the street’s fire hydrant. The marble statues depicting - in painstaking detail - the curvature and forms of both men and women were certainly gaudy against the paintings and tapestries, and the whole place stank of Nouveau Riche. Not that Rosa was particularly surprised. She wondered how much this Hobbs woman was paying poor Mr. Foley to repeat the same spiel, the same mechanical chores, day in, day out. She wondered if he was ever reprimanded for letting the endless monotony slip - a slight deviation from his instruction manual would land him where, precisely? In the scrap pile, next to the broken bulbs and the blown out fuses? Rosa felt a twinge of pride for her utter inability to find any job in customer service - she did not have the right programming.

Joseph grunted “Don’t," a quick warning and a firm end to the conversation. It snapped Rosa out of her musings and reminded her of where she was. She had to remain sharp, be formal, and above all - keep her mouth shut. One look up at Joseph’s sullen stare was enough to confirm that he was thinking the exact same thing.

The room that contained Miss Hobbs was a prime snooping room, chock-full of whatsits and doodads just waiting to be picked apart by grubby little fingers. Books, papers, ornaments, the odd painting here and there - everything had a story to it. Everything looked like it mattered. Rosa’s jaw clenched and she tried to pass it off as a distaste for the décor, because it certainly fucking was a distaste for the décor.

The place was a psychometric minefield. Even now Rosa could feel the goosebumps on her arms. Her fingers were getting pins and needles. She thanked her lucky stars that she tucked in her shirt. This was always the case when she went somewhere new, but it certainly taught her to stop fidgeting with everything she saw and it kept her wary enough to notice things that you wouldn’t usually notice - because usually, picking up a paperweight wouldn’t give your average Joe a seizure.

Joey. Rosa looked over at the older man and tried to unlock any latent telepathy skills that went with her own weird abilities. Maybe he’d be able to figure it out by the look of discomfort, but probably not. By the look that he gave her back, he definitely did not understand, and wasn’t even remotely thinking about Rosa even though he also picked up on the layout of the room. They both sat down on one of the sofas - slowly, stiffly - one out of age and strife, the other out of back-sweating terror.

They wanted him to go in through the back.

Mr. Samuel Wu, Esq, could tell simply from looking at the building. Upper East Side, clad in marble. The kind of building where the tenants had names like Stuyvesant or Rockefeller. A Chinese man such as himself would be expected to go around to the servants' entrance and scrape and bow. The only reason he would be expected is if he spoke in broken English and was delivering a load of “crean raundry”.

And so he walked towards the front door. He wasn't suicidal, if asked he would go around to the back. This wasn't the time or place to be obstinate. But it felt good to take a minor stand.

“Greetings, my dear fellow,” he said to the uniformed doorman with a winning smile. “Mr. Samuel Wu, Esq, here as a guest of Miss Hobbs.” He adjusted his tie, waiting for the order to turn around and walk away, waiting for his entire lunatic adventure to collapse at the first obstacle.

But the improbable happened. The doorman looked him over with a credulous and vaguely disgusted air, but let him through. He actually let him through, with a recitation of an obviously prewritten welcome and directions. By George.

Mr. Wu took a moment to savor the rare combination of wealth and taste that marked the décor in the lobby, then let himself in through the stairs- he may have gotten past the doorman, but he wasn't going to press his luck any further in interactions with the elevator operator or other residents of this building. Besides, a man his age who spent most of his time in an office had to keep trim. The ten stories were a brisk climb.

He was greeted by a matronly Irishwoman and escorted into the study, once again displaying sensibility and taste. And there, at last, was the elusive Miss Hobbs, clad in a daringly short dress. Mr. Wu cleared his throat nervously, uncomfortable with the nude statues and overt display of feminine sexuality. His eye lingered for a moment over the bronze form of a male athlete, before he greeted the two women and one man in the room. “Hello. I trust that I am on time, tardiness is an abominable habit with which I take great pains to not engage. I am Mr. Samuel Wu, Esq, of the Benevolent Fraternity of Merchants. Please, take one of my cards.” He reached into his vest pocket, dexterously sorted through the three business card holders with his fingers- one for English, one for Mandarin, one for Cantonese. With a small bow, he handed each person in the room an English card. “I must confess that I have little experience with the art of detecting, however I hope my own small talents will be in their way a worthy contribution to our endeavors.” With that, he sat in one of the available armchairs, determined to watch and learn.

"Otto, you'd better check the time." the strong voice came across the table from Cecelia as Otto sat eating his oatmeal painfully slow this morning. The woman eyed the clock reading half past 7:00AM, her fiance, and then back to the clock. "Not sure why you're in such a hurry." he retorted, a bit of his oatmeal slipping from the side of his mouth and falling back into the pale pink bowl with a sickening plop. "No reason darling." the woman lied bluntly. She in fact had a reason, a big one- she had been accepted to her recent job application and was asked to meet today. Otto already had some doubts about a woman in the work force, but he had gotten over it over time, but if Cecelia were to tell him about this new one, he'd blow his top.

Cecelia hated being late, she preferred to be early if anything and for some reason when you needed to be somewhere time went by way more quickly. Eventually Otto wrapped up his breakfast, took his time gathering his work belongings and heading out the door of their brick facade home. Before he could even get out the door completely, the woman had bolted up and began to clean up the mess in the kitchen as well as get primped and primed for the day. Adorning a long sleeved fall dress in the most daring shade of mauve, Cecelia styled her hair and applied a generous amount of makeup.

It was 8:00 AM.

"Not bad you old girl." she complimented herself as she looked into the mirror that hung in the front entry way. She moved her shoulder forward, eyebrows raising and lowering. Her nose looked far worse from this side, or was it that one? It would have to do for now, considering she would need some time to travel as well. Gathering her purse, coat, and matching hat she walked out the door and headed towards the outward streets to grab a taxi.

Arriving in only thirty minutes, the woman gave the fare as well as a small tip to the taxi driver. Stepping up to the address, Cecelia sauntered over to the door man, her large hazel eyes full of wonder and excitement. "Good morning, I'm here to see Miss Hobbs!" she chirped as the man returned a nod, and a directive "The elevator is located at the end of the hall at the left of the stairs. Last elevator. If you would prefer, to your immediate right are stairs leading up to the flat. That is, if you wish to climb the ten flights." Going through the doorway, Cecelia would go immediately to the right- taking the stairs.

Taking the stairs was not a lavish thing, though Cecelia believed that when one had the opportunity to exercise, that a woman should exercise their rights to do just that. A shallow breath escaped from her mouth when she reached the landing of the fifth flight of stairs. This was a mistake. This was a mistake! However, they always do say pain is beauty. Removing her jacket and hat at this point, the woman continued on until she was met face to face with a stout woman who greeted her with a quite eccentric albeit welcoming greeting.

Noticing the woman's smile Cecelia couldn't help but return it, the robust woman waddling in front of her as they made their way through a dream worthy kitchen. "Thank you for your large dose of hospitality Norma." Cecelia quickly wondered if the woman would take offense by this slip of tongue. A friendly chuckle was exchanged as Cecelia hustled into the room laying eyes on Miss Hobbs herself as well as three other people, who she assumed would be coworkers. "Morning." she chimed as she took a seat to the most left side of the empty couch.

"Note to self...bluenoses are everywhere in this bloody neighborhood." Mumbling to himself was something that he was used to, but waking up early was something he'd need to get back into at some point. Emil Buckner wasn't fond of bimbos, especially those who mocked his cheaters, but there wasn't much he could do about it, he'd spent to much time in the dark or somethin and now his eyes were goofed. Regardless, he liked to think it added to his style, made him look more fashionable, course, what the hell did he know bout fashion? The weight of the trench coat he so often shrugged on in the morning pressed against his frame, and reminded him briefly that there was a sinker shop nearby. Not a bad place to grab lunch later on, he took another mental note just as he moved to a stop in front of the location provided to him over the ringer. The penthouse was the kind of place one might expect an egg to live, a place far to expensive for someone in his position to afford. In fact, it seemed downright pleasant. Which reminded him, when he passed by the pleasant part of town again he'd have to break a chair over the zozzled bimbos for insulting his eye sight.

Berries.

With little incentive to stay outside in the sun and sweat through to his britches, Emil ankled his way to the fancy revolving door, and was greeted by the doorman, clad in his working suit. "I'm here about Ms. Hobbs, maybe a fancy dinner, a trip to a petting pantry, and possibly a drink?" Emil's bad joke was met with silence, so he rephrased his question; [color=8882be]"Just Ms. Hobbs then, where can I find er?"

The doorman gave the directions like he'd rehearsed them through his head many a time, and the Private Eye soon found himself moving through the foyer. He didn't feel out of place, not one bit, and he was certainly not lying to himself about it. He cringed momentarily at the sight of the large pear tree, trying to figure out who in the whole bloody city would need a tree indoors, before moving up the stairs, ignoring the elevator. He didn't trust them, to many horrid things he'd heard of the moving boxes.

As his gams reached the top of the stairway, the roguish man was greeted again, the overweight woman waiting for him giving him a brief rundown of what was to come, before ankling up his game to keep up with her. She was surprisingly fast for a woman her size, and her accent sounded like something from overseas, not that he minded, it was refreshing to hear a new voice. " Thanks...uh, Norma. You happen to have any...noodle juice? Not literally. y'know, tea?"

He stepped through the entranceway to the study a few minutes later, holding a cup of the liquid he'd requested, which he'd insisted in carrying in himself, he took a seat on the far right side of the couch which was occupied by a woman. Seemed he was a bit later then he'd thought, there being already several others within the confines of the room, along with the woman he assumed to be Ms. Hobbs. Taking a sip of his noodle juice, the warmth seeped into his bones.

"Ladies, gentlemen." He nodded to the others with a small grin.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Violet absently opened and shut her knife as she strolled down the street. Looking at the opulent buildings surrounding her, she wondered how many of those windows had illicit activities going on behind them. One thing her experience had taught her was that rich people were much bigger criminals than the working class. Nearly every mansion held a few tales of vice within its walls.

As she approached the right building, Violet closed her knife and stowed it away in her pocket. The Doorman let her in when she mentioned her employer, and she entered the place.

She immediately froze where she stood, the majesty of the lobby hitting her all at once. Her breath left her in a huff, a bewildered smile creeping onto her face. This place was ridiculous. Huge staircase, fancy fountain, gold elevator doors, she wouldn’t be surprised if the toilet paper was gilded.

“Damn…”

While riding the elevator, she wondered if she should have dressed a little nicer. She could have at least worn a vest or something.

Miss Hobbs’ door led her into an equally fancy foyer full of art and statues that had to be priceless. Violet felt even more out of place, looking like a disheveled kid who hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep (which she hadn’t) standing in the middle of a damn palace.

She followed the butler into the study, mentally reviewing the bogus backstory she told the cops. She wasn’t involved in her parents’ business, too scared of retribution to blow the whistle on them. She’s never committed a crime in her life, let alone multiple murders. She was totally in the dark about the gang’s activities.

Innocent person. Innocent person.

She came face to face with her employer, Miss Hobbs. She was dressed in the way one would expect for someone living in a place like this.

Violet greeted her with a confident smile, “Violet LeBlanc. Nice to finally meet you.”

She watched as each of her employees entered the room with excitement. Each in turn she greeted with a large smile and a bright and cheery tone that was perhaps lower than one might expect from such a small woman. A voice like whiskey and cigarettes which lilted with a upper class British accent. She doused her smoke in the nearby ashtray and stood, moving toward her desk.

“Since everyone is here then, I will hand out the contracts. They are just simple things I expect from all of you and a packet that will work as an employee handbook with suggestions on what I would like you to wear, gear you might need, and the way you must behave in order to give this company a good name.” She collected a stack of papers and handed them out to each person in turn.



Bitsy waited patiently as her bright and shiny new employees signed their contracts. She was so enthused about the whole situation she had to light another cigarette and went to shuffle some papers uselessly on her desk. Finally all of the contracts were handed in and Hobbs immediately pulled out envelopes which contained the $100 and required a signed receipt showing payment had been given. The young woman had no concept of money and did not quite realize was the sign on bonus was the equivilent of $1,300 nor that their weekly pay came to nearly $700 in todays terms. All of this for a sake of a hobby.

“The sign on bonus is to ensure you will have a full clean wardrobe, are able to purchase notebooks and pens, as well as to make sure all of you can eat. A starving investigator is a bad investigator. All he’ll want to do his investigate what to put in his stomach.” She joked in a jovial and friendly way, as if she had known these people all her life.

Once everyone came down from the shock of the amount of money they had been given, Bitsy decided it was time to get right into it. “Since we have everything signed and ready we may as well start! I already have a case lined up for us. It is through my cousin, he has an archaeologist friend who has had some items moved around or gone missing. He suspects that a fellow colleague may be up to these shenanigans. Any questions before we get on with it?”

Rosa had seen her fair share of people from all sorts of different backgrounds, which is why she was a little disappointed in the line-up. All of the people here looked as if they could afford breakfast; maybe even luncheons, if she was going to be adventurous with her musing. She was even a little offended that Sam Wu, Esq, had such a fancy-pancy way of speaking. Where was the honour? The integrity, the pride in your own heritage? She dished out some disappointment in her stare. Maybe that’ll get to him. Or maybe he’ll just wonder why this chocolate ragamuffin was giving him the stink-eye.

Whether it worked or not was irrelevant, Samuel Wu (Esq) still gave out his business cards and Rosa was temporarily placated with the notion of an offering. She didn’t quite know what to do with cards like those, especially since her time on the telephone was severely limited after racking up that bill talking to the girls back in Louisiana. However it wasn’t hard to spot a bored young lady, and a bored young lady was she. Rosa knew how to amuse herself, and waiting was probably one of her fatal weaknesses. Now she had a card.

Another woman walked in but barely said anything - no introduction this time - as Rosa was perfecting her masterpiece, a paper boat that could weather all the storms and shit you’d find in the New York gutters. It was intriguing to see her handiwork, especially given she was still wearing those gloves and hadn’t taken them off when she came in. In fact, out of all the people who came in, the only one that really introduced herself was the dirty young blonde who looked like she’d come from harder times, but hadn’t, because she was a LeBlanc. In fact, that name alone made Rosa nearly drop her paper boat.The LeBlancs made everyone’s life hell. Even being near one made Rosa bridle with disgust.

This didn’t mean Rosa didn’t like any of those assembled. It was just-...she wasn’t impressed by them. There was something lacking - something they needed to prove to her first before she could really appreciate who she was working with. For Samuel, it was a bit of relatability. For the two unknowns, it was primarily their names. And the LeBlanc-...well, Rosa didn’t know how anyone could redeem themselves if they’d openly call out that name in a high rise apartment. But she knew a thing or two about the path to redemption. She was willing to keep an eye out for some sort of miracle.

When the contract arrived, Rosa had completed the business-card-turned-sea-vessel and was ready to set sail into the dangerous waters of binding agreements. She regarded the paper with scepticism. It crinkled under her clunky grasp - but only a little. She inhaled through her nostrils. She rubbed one eye. She looked up at Joseph, then down at the contract. She did not - could not - mention nor react to the absolutely absurd amount of money she’d be making, on a salary. She barely batted an eyelid at the reimbursement clause. She absolutely, positively did not make any sort of indication of surprise or excitement whatsoever, on pain of death, or the loss of such a good deal-...

...A deal too good to be true.

Rosa’s finger traced the circle of the symbol painted on the letterhead. She was at least vaguely aware of what her employer was trying to tell her, but her thoughts went back to the cereal gypsy of her ill-fated discovery of the investigation unit. Her blood seemed to curdle in her veins, as if she was dumped into a bucket of ice water. She knew there had to be a condition somewhere. A ‘but’. She had an inkling of a suspicion, that had now blossomed into a great big ugly bloom of hypotheses.

When Rosa spoke she stood out immediately, which probably explained why she was so quiet in the first place. For starters, a voice like that didn’t come from New York. In fact, it was really difficult to place her anywhere geographically from the sound alone. Sometimes there was a Louisiana drawl. Her consonants had all the heavy heat of Maghrebi plains. The Irish in her came out like a little leprechaun elbowing its way through the sentences. And, as if it were an afterthought, there was that unmistakable New York varnish on top of the entire debacle, as if tossing some loose semblance of familiarity onto the most otherworldly accent known to man would make it a little easier on the ears. It was coherent enough though. You could hear her. She spoke in a way that could be understood.

She said, “Do you know what this symbol means?” Her gaze snapped up to meet Bitsy’s in the eye, a ballsy move for someone with more patches in her pants than dollars in her pocket. “Or did you just draw this on for the hell of it?”

Mr. Wu ignored the look he got from the woman- doubtless furious that a Chinese had dared to speak to her- and instead studied the contract. Fairly standard boilerplate, really. The pay and terms were exceptionally generous. A staggering fifty dollars a week. Hobbs had money to burn, clearly. Wu idly wondered how best to use the money. Some of it would cover his expenses of course, the rest would be donated to a Chinatown charity. He had to look out for his people. Content with the offer, Wu went ahead and signed his name in a careful and elegant script

The same woman who had glared at him objected to the ouroboros device on Hobbs' letterhead. Wu largely ignored the protest, instead thinking of practical matters. While he had no experience in the matter it seemed to him that logical and unemotional thoughts were key to success for a detective. He extracted a leatherbound notebook and pencil from his case, held them at the ready like a student taking notes in class. Feeling the need to be helpful, he pulled out a few other pencils and wordlessly offered them around the room to anyone who might need one.

"I, for one, would like to hear more of the misfortunes of this archaeologist. As it happens, I do have some passing familiarity with the lucrative trade in antiquities. Many of my countrymen have brought over ancient treasures from the old country, and unfortunately find themselves in such dire straits in this brave new world that they are forced to sell such heirlooms in order to pay their debtors. Frequently, they come to myself or others of my organization for advice, and through this humble enterprise I have become acquainted with myriad local purveyors of curiosities and antiquities. From this experience it strikes me as most likely that some unscrupulous villain has stolen the pieces in question in hopes of turning a tidy profit from their auction to less upstanding collectors." He delicately cleared his throat. "That is, of course, a preliminary thought. Ignorant as I am of the facts of this peculiar case, perhaps I should refrain from a priori speculation until such time as I have been fully appraised of the matter." Beaming, happy to be contributing, he eagerly lifted his pencil above his notepad. Mr. Wu was beginning to enjoy himself.

Bitsy's eyes connected with the woman who spoke to her. Rosa, she believed. The moment their eyes met she felt the humid heat of the bayou, smelled the seasonings in good ol' creole cooking, and heard the sound of clinking chains and far off singing. The small woman tilted her head to the side, considering the girl before her. She had picked up on their phone conversation that there was something special about her, something Rosa hid from the world. However, upon their meeting, it did not become immediately obvious. Hobb's watched her trace the image of the Ouroborus. Her features fell from her ditzy, excited smile and turned to something a bit sad as fond memories danced through her head.

She approached the woman and looked down at the symbol on the page, upsidedown from her view. "No," she said quietly as the smile started to return. "Certainly not an arbitrary picture. The Ouroborus means infinity, death, and rebirth. My father used to use it when stamping the wax on important letters. I thought it would be a fitting image for our new beginnings." She looked up to meet Rosa's eyes again. "But is there something else on your mind?" She stared at the girl for a long moment. Could the girl look into her thoughts? Could she read the answers to her questions on Hobbs' face? What was so very special about Miss Rosa? Her eye contact broke when Mr. Wu caught her attention.

Straightening up, she spun toward the man with her excited smile back into place. "Ah, absolutely. Any good investigator must know the facts before going into a case! And your knowledge of antiquity may be of extreme use to us. Well done Mr. Wu. Cheers!" Her light steps took her back to her desk and she opened up a file that lay amongst the mess of papers. Flicking some ash from her cigarette into the nearby ashtray, she began.

"Our archaeologist in question is one Mister Oliver Meyers. He's been in the gig for at least twelve years. Visited places like Egypt and even worked with Mister Hiram Bingham in his discovery of Macchu Picchu. This caused him to lead an expedition more recently to the tail end of Mexico to perhaps find some Aztec or conquistador treasures. His team did find some things there and were to return, but the death of his partner and the museum withdrawing his funding has left him without a hope of returning to further investigate. He has brought back with him a good number of artifacts which have either gone missing or turned up in strange places - such as his bathtub." She smirked, took a drag from the cigarette, and looked at the group of people before her. "I wonder what the shock on Mister Meyers' face must have looked like. In any case, Mister Meyers' has invited us to his abode to discuss the missing valuables." Bitsy snapped the file shut and tossed it unceremoniously back onto her desk.

Josephs eyes were still glued to the contents of the contract, unsure of how to handle to the current facts as they were being presented. The sign on bonus alone was a life changing amount of money for his and rosa’s situation. He didn’t speak, but instead casually shot glances at the other people present in the room to try and maintain similar reactions, finding himself completely out of his element.

Of course it was at this moment, when what seemed to be a life changing opportunity was dropped into their laps, Rosa began opening her mouth. He shot her a glare, tensening up, as he suspected her to reject the offer. He didn’t say a word to her, primarily due to the people around, but he couldn’t help clench his jaw and shake his head at her hoping she’d get the memo.

Rosa glared back at him. She pulled an award-worthy scowl and pointed, with more intensity than before, at the Ouroboros on the top of the letterhead; she was more than happy to keep up this game of charades, in full view of the others.

This only further infuriated Joseph more. Primarily because he didn’t even understand where her issue with the fine lady Hobbs’ proposal was. His face continued to tense, a signature vein bulged on his forehead as he continued to try and stop her from speaking out a rejection.

Rosa politely raised her hand. “May I have a contract without the symbol on it, please?” she asked in her most gentle, mannerly tone that her accent could muster. “I don’t think I can sign this one as it is.”

Joseph let out an exasperated sigh before frantically waving his hand and interjecting: ”She’s fine! She doesn’t need another one, it’s okay. She’s just cracking a joke- oh this Rosa!” he tried to cram in a scrap heap of an excuse before turning to rosa, and scolding her in a as much muffled tone as he could muster under his furious circumstance: ”Rosa, if you don’t zip it and sign this god-sent contract I will wallop you seven shades darker.”

“Le Diable is in this paper,” Rosa hissed back, leaning in and using her contract to cover her mouth. “Some random-ass gyppo in the kiosk hand me this number, we get a fuckton of money and there’s a goddamn devil sign painted on the top? Look at the signs, pal!”

Joseph rolled his eyes in a massive arc at his words. Even if Rosa -did- have a relatively decent point about the somewhat dubious and all too good sounding contract they were faced with, Joseph only saw a brighter future both him and his niece deserved. ”The only signs you’ll be seeing if you don’t be -quiet- are the ones you’ll find on your way out of this city because I swear- Rosa I swear i’ll ship you off if you botch this up for us.” he hissed back, leaning in close to mask the embarrassing argument.

“Si? Back on the slave boats to Le Mali? Out of sight, out mind, heh?” Rosa sounded so much like her mother when she got mad. The words became more clipped and fervent. She clicked her tongue and shook her head, lowering the paper again. “Tsk. Give me a pen. Give me a-” Rosa was cut off when Joseph angrily thrust his own pen into her hands, just before Samuel handed out pencils. Rosa gave an appreciative, approving nod to the merchant but insisted on using Joseph’s fountain pen to blot out the Ouroboros on the top of the page. Her bullheadedness had to come through for one last laugh. Giving Joseph a jovial jab in the ribs, she launched into a little story: “Y’know, in the marshes, you find snakes eating their own tail. It happens when they go mad. When they get SO hungry, they attack and eat the first thing they see...nothing about new beginnings there. It’s the beginning of the end for them.”

A demonic symbol as a way of symbolizing new beginnings? That was certainly an odd way to think of things, but Emil wasn't one to judge others on preferences, merely actions. He was in no way a church goer, couldn't ever wake up on time to make it, not to mention they'd thrown him out on more then one occasion when he'd stood up to protest that there were reasons the police had been formed in the first place and that people shouldn't always be off praying to "God" or whatever they believed in. After being thrown out, he'd remember he'd been relieved of his duties as an officer of the law and kick himself for forgetting. Old habit's die hard.

The large sum of money had certainly shone a new light on the lady Hobbs. She either was incredibly generous without meaning to be, or she was a bit absent-minded in her excitement to get her new industry started, either was fine with him for now, he needed the money, maybe he could finally buy himself a mattress.

As tempted as his law abiding and good nature was to inform the pretty woman of her mistake on the sum she was offering up, he kept his trap shut and merely kept his eyes on his contract, though he couldn't help but allow his old investigator instincts to kick in for a moment, and his mouth began working for him.

"Before we leave, is there anything else we should be aware of? I dunno why, but something about all of this seems fishy, not just the case, but you and your hirin's. Most employers I know wouldn't be able to stand the sight of half the people in this room and tell em to ankle their way out, yet here you are allowing us all in without hardly a second thought. What's your angle? I'm not tryin to be rude, but it's my-WAS, my job to be a skeptic." Emil took another glance at those who littered the room with him, noting every single individual and what he'd need to remember about each one in case he needed to match a name to a face at some point.

Absently, his other hand fumbled into his coat pocket, trying to locate his own pen he kept with him, briefly revealing the interior of his trench coat to the world. It was covered in lazily stitched patch work, nearly falling apart, and it became clear he'd been referring to more then just the others when he'd asked his question, he himself was also one of those who'd probably be turned away.

With the exception of basic labor, but that hardly paid anyways.