"Keep in mind this was 1925. Booze was illegal, right? Prohibition," Kelly Sheehan explained as he carefully pulled the last glass of Harp lager away from the tap. He turned and set it carefully on the tray held out by the petite blonde waitress-slash-barback, Marybeth. Giving her a nod, he watched as she opened the door to the basement and carefully carried the beers downstairs. The first round was always free for the poker players downstairs. Sheehan figured they had earned it with their $100 buy in. Sure, it was illegal, but some people needed a thrill they couldn't get at the riverboats or on Indian land across the border in Kansas. Sheehan knew that from experience. And Fiddler's Green, where fishermen go if they don't go to hell, was there to cater to them.

Satisfied that the young woman had safely navigated the steps, Kelly Sheehan nodded to himself and turned back to the cluster of regulars listening to his story. "So imagine how it looks for old Tom Pendergast when the Missouri State Police bust down the door and come in with shotguns and billy clubs." Sheehan cupped his hands around his mouth, deepened his voice in imitation of shouted commands. "'This is a raid! This club is serving illegal liquor!' And so on, and so on. Remember how I said it was the State Police? It had to be them, not the Kansas City PD. Why's that, Kelly, you may be asking yourselves?" Sheehan paused for a second, straightened his narrow necktie, then laughed. "Because Tom Pendergast fucking owned the KCPD! They called it Tom's Town for a reason! Oh, it gets better!" He pulled out a few shot glasses, unasked, and poured out several measures of Jameson's. "Pendergast was in there playing a hand of poker- gambling was illegal too, you know- and he doesn't get up at all when the pigs yell for everybody to put their hands up. Just keeps sitting there. The sergeant or whoever in charge of the raid doesn't like this one bit, right? So he marches over and shoves his .38 into Pendergast's face and growls for him to stand up like everyone else." Sheehan laughed in anticipation of the punchline and started handing the shots of whiskey to his favorite regulars, keeping one for himself.

"And you know what Tom Pendergast does? He just looks up at this cop who's sticking a gun in his face, great big young fit guy with a gun. Pendergast is fat and in his fifties by now. He's been caught dead to rights, glass of bootleg Canadian rye in one hand and deck of cards in the other. But he just looks up at him, and all he needs to say is 'Do you know who I am?'"

"The cop goes pale, and holsters his gun, and even tips his hat like they used to do, and mumbles, 'Yes sir. Sorry, sir.'"

"And Tom Pendergast, showing a true greatness of spirit, just nods and says, 'That's alright, son, get your wife something nice," and slides a C-note across the table to him. A hundred bucks! That's like a thousand today." Kelly Sheehan barked a laugh, then smoothed down his wool cardigan. He dressed like a stereotypical hipster, sure, but he didn't speak like you might expect one to. Still laughing, Sheehan raised his shot glass in salute, motioning for his audience to do the same. "Here's to Big Tom Pendergast! A son of County Tipperary, and a boss if ever there was one! City Hall is made out of his concrete, and as if that wasn't enough he ran the place longer than any mayor. The biggest, baddest Irishman to ever run Kansas City!" Kelly knocked back the whiskey, set down the glass with a click. "Man, guys, those were the glory days for the Kansas City Irish," he said, a note of nostalgia for a time he never saw creeping into his voice. "That's what we need, you know? A bona fide Irish Mob, like back in the day. Boston and New York and Cleveland have 'em, why doesn't this town?" He sighed wistfully. Dropkick Murphys came over the speakers, their song "Rebels of the Sacred Heart". Sheehan nodded. He liked this one.

Sheehan stepped away from the regulars for a moment, looked the bar over. Decent crowd for a Thursday night. A lot of the usual folks, true, but a few new faces. Those were the ones to watch. Given what was going on down in the basement, it'd be inopportune to have a few cops wander in for a drink.

In particular, he focused on one guy in one of the booths, then sighed and rolled his eyes. He knew that from college. Amateur hour, apparently. He had to suppress a chuckle as he walked back over to the cluster of regulars, who were definitely not on the straight and narrow, and leaned over the bar to whisper to them.

"Alright, guys, check out this idiot against the wall there. In the mirror, don't look right at him," Sheehan said. As he looked, the young man in the leather jacket looked around furtively as he set a couple plastic baggies on the table, and accepted a roll of cash from the woman seated across from him. It was too far away to see the contents of the baggies, but it was pretty clear. "Jesus, this is bush league," Sheehan snorted. "They're not even trying to hide their drug deal. What do you reckon? X, Mary Jane?" He chuckled again, then turned serious. "I can't have this obvious shit going on in my bar. Cops catch wind of deals going on here, they're gonna find out about the poker game. Maybe we should eighty-six this kid." Sheehan took another look at the amateurish drug deal going on and shook his head. "I dunno, I almost feel sorry for him. Maybe he just needs a lesson on how to do it right. His boss, too."

He shrugged. "What do you guys reckon?" he asked.

"You crazy Sheenan?! that's some illegal shite right there!"

Cried Conor O'Connor throwing the group into a roaring laughter. They all liked his sarcastic sense of humor, or at least that's what he thought. He realized his lighter was out of gas after trying to light his eighth's cigarette for the evening to no avail. It made him a tad bit agitated. There was a ringing truth to Kelly's words, felt Conor. It was about time the Irish earned some respect in this city. He thought.

"Tell ya'll what i think?" Conor lowered his voice while most of the group was still recovering from the joke. "I say we rob his arse; Let him go empty-handed to whomever is his boss. Then we could sit and wait for the bigger fish to come to us"

They all nodded their heads eager to get on with it while Conor stood up and cried to the guy sitting by the wall.

"Hey! misty-pants! long way from home ar'ya?"

Maybe the guy happens to have a lighter on him as well, Conor was suddenly optimistic. He felt a surge of life in him he hadn't felt in years.

Max Lowrey

It was Thursday night in the downtown area of Kansas City. In an alley, a young kid, somewhere in his early 20's was getting beat up by Wesley, with Max watching from a couple of feet away. Who was Wesley? He was a 35 year old, african-american male, big and strong fellow, from the East side of the city. In the eyes of everyone Wesley was Max's driver and personal bodyguard. In reality, aside from those 2 tasks Wesley was also doing the dirty work from time to time if Max wanted somebody dead or tortured. Wesley's story and how he ended up working for someone like Max were simple. He used to be part of the Army Ants and he fell in love with a mexican chick from the rival gang, Los Conquistadores. The two of them couldn't hide their relationship forever so when they were discovered, Wesley was accused of treason by his fellow gang members, while on the other side, Los Conquistadores wanted both of them dead, the woman for betraying them and Wesley for getting involved with one of their own. Max saved the life of both Wesley and his girl by negociating with both gangs personally. As a sign of gratitude Wesley started working for Max. That was 3 years ago and Wesley has been working for Max ever since, proving to be very useful and loyal.


As Wesley was beating the crap out of the young man, Max signals him to stop. Wesley rises up and starts arranging his black suit. "You screwed up Barry! You know I don't tolerate screw-up's. How could you allow someone to steal from you?" Said Max as he got closer to Barry who was coughing and bleeding on the ground. "I'm sorry Mr. Lowrey. But he was bigger and stronger then me. And he wanted drugs really bad. I told him I won't give him no meth because he didn't had any money, then he got upset, he pulled out a gun and pointed it at me." Said Barry who struggled to get up from the ground but to no success. Max breathed deep and took his hands off of the pockets of his pants. "Please Mr. Lowrey. Give me a 2nd chance. I promise I won't dissapoint you again. You know I need the money for my mother. I have to pay for her cancer treatment. She's all I have left. I can't afford to lose her. Please!" Continued Barry as he grabbed Max by his left foot but Max pulled himself away and made 2 steps back.

As he was staring down at the kid, Max pulled out his gun, a Smith & Wesson 686P revolver in .357 Magnum, grabbed the kid by his hair, pulled him up and pressed the revolved underneath his chin. "You listen to me you bastard. You go to your mother and thank her a thousand times that you still live." Said Max as he let go of the kid who ran off as Max put his revolver back in the holster. "Let's get out of here Wesley." Said Max as both he and Wesley headed to Max's car, a silver 2012 Chrysler 300 SRT8. Both men get inside the car, with Max on the back seats. "Wesley, take me to Fiddler's Green. I need to relax a little before I go home." Said Max as Wesley started the car and drove off to the destination pointed by Max. "May I ask you something? Why did you let that kid go anyway? He fucked up, he didn't deserve it." Said Wesley who was paying attention to the road as the car's monstrous 6.4L V8 engine was rumbling angry. "Youngsters don't give a shit about their parents anymore Wesley. I know because I was like that. That kid was willing to do whatever was necesary to pay for his mother's cancer treatment and save her life. That's why he got involved with us in the first place remember? And that my friend is worthy of admiration. And besides...we all deserve a 2nd chance in this life. Barry got his, and he better not screw up again." Responded Max.

Sheehan's well-told story failed to capture Beth's fascination. Big Tom Pendergast was, as the story explained, an enormous presence in Kansas City “back in the day”. He was hardly forgotten, and Beth heard stories about his life so many times she could predict the ending of any new one someone bothered telling her. So while Sheehan talked giddily with the other regulars at the bar, she downed the offered shot of Jameson's in silence. To Sheehan's credit, he was a good storyteller; he and the other regulars' reactions provided her with amusement. She smirked as she watched him with the rest of the group.

Then the idiot bartender had to go and propose some crazy idea about reviving the Irish Mob. No matter how subtle he tried to be, his intentions were clear.

She couldn't help but laugh at O'Connor's remark, not because of his humour, but from the familiarity of it. For Beth, the laughter was bitter-sweet; there was unity in it she rarely felt, and while she sensed a longing for it, she shut it down quick. No time for that.

In the face of the numerous other gangs suffocating the city, many of which Beth had been a part of, an Irish Mob would have to bring in some big players if they wanted to get anywhere in the business. Still, Fiddler's Green attracted a host of Irish criminals, though none could be described as big shots just yet. With the right incentives, maybe... What am I thinking? No, there was no chance of a revival. Not unless Sheehan had some more crazy ideas stuffed up that ridiculous wool cardigan. She watched him wander about the bar. What are you thinking?

When he came back and leaned closer to them, she knew he was about to suggest something stupid.

She looked at the young man in the mirror anyway, and rolled her eyes at his lack of tact. What kind of idiot was this kid? At least Sheehan had enough sense to know a threat to his arrangement when he saw it. Beth picked up her half finished beer and turned around in her stool to watch O'Connor approach the dealer. Ever aware of the pistol resting against her ribs and the switchblade in her pocket, she wondered how brave the dealer thought he was.

Conor's apartment – The day after the night Kelly brought up the idea of reviving the Irish mob.

Conor woke up at his apartment to the ringing sound of his old alarm clock. It was a real bell that was ringing not the electronic sample sound which Conor detested. He silenced the alarm while trying to recall the events of last night. They were a total blur. Conor remembered only hazily being at Fiddler's green; He remembered sitting by the bar listening to Kelly tell a story about Tom Pendergast and the old days of the Irish mob in Kansas City. All the rest was a gone. It was a bit rare for him not to remember a whole night yet it did happen from time to time. I hope no one's dead because of me. thought Conor sarcastically. After finishing his morning ablutions, he got dressed and went down to open the pet store which was just below his apartment.

It was like any other day at the store with a couple of the usual archetypes of customers. A chubby boy came and made a remark on Collin, Conor's pet hamster. Conor gave him an earful of his views on the spoiled kids nowadays, wasting their lives eating hamburgers. After the boy left a couple came looking for a dog. The couple expressed their dissatisfaction with the dogs he had to offer so Conor ranted his vitriol onto them on their way out.

It was about half past ten when a man entered the store wearing a black Tuxedo suit, or maybe it was not a real Tuxedo – Conor could not care less. The man had greasy black hair and olive skin. He looked in his thirties.

"Morning" Conor forced himself to be polite. He was leaning backwards in his chair, his legs crossed on the desk in front of him - not the most welcoming posture.

The man ignored Conor's pleasantry and went around the store examining the animals. The man's reaction made Conor a bit tense so he took a cigarrete from the pack that lay on his desk and lighted it. After a few moments, the man arrived at Conor's desk. He took a cigarrete out of the same pack and put it in his mouth. Holding the cigarette in his mouth, he leaned forward hinting Conor to light it. After a moment of hesitation, Conor contained his exasperation and decided not to blow things out of proportion just yet. He took his legs off the table and lighted the man's cigarette. The man straightened his posture and after puffing the cigarette a few times, he took it out of his mouth.

"That's a nice place you have here"

A touch of an Italian accent hardened Conor's suspicions. By the looks of it, the man was working for the Ciprianos.

"You like it?"

"What's not to like?-" The man was talking with his hands as well as his face.

That's some profoundly bad acting skills, thought Conor.

"-It's a shame though - such a nice store in such a troubled neighborhood, who knows what could happen to it?"

It was obvious where the man was going with this. Conor had his suspicion since the man came through the door yet only now did he make his mind about his course of action.

"Just a jiffy, le'me ge'me sho'gen" Conor started looking for his gun underneath the desk.

"Come again?" Conor's accent was too strong for the man to interpret his words.

"Has to be here somewhere..." The shotgun was not underneath Conor's desk so he turned around and crouched to look for it in the cabinet behind.

"What's here?"

"Ah... here" Conor took the loaded shotgun out of the cabinet, got up and pointed the gun at the man's head. The man was stunned; Conor's actions were too relaxed for him to think something drastic like this was about to happen. He lifted his hands in the air.

"Ohhh, let's not get carried away here"

"Carried away? You want carried away?! How 'bout you get the fahk outa'here and tell your fahkin' boss I ain't paying no protection money to nobody, get it? I sell pets not fahkin' jewels, dick-brain!"

Conor's smartphone, the one he got as a present for his 45th birthday, rang loudly grabbing the attention of the man in the suit. While holding the gun with the trigger hand Conor pulled the phone out of his pocket and onto the desk. After sliding to answer the call on loudspeaker he returned to grip the gun with both hands still aiming at the head of the man in the suit. It was Ashling's picture showing on the phone's screen.

"Morning Ashling, I'm a bit busy now, is it urgent?"

Yesterday – 5:45pm

They sat idled on Kirk Drive, about a block down from Ashling’s apartment. From the blown-out speakers of her ‘94 Camry came a deep pulse of analog synth (a refugee from the mid-80s) before paper-thin guitar chords rang in between a steady machine drumbeat. The car was obviously fish-bowled. Smoke seeped comically from the mere ventilation of the car’s cracked windows and drifted into the tree line that blocked a view of I-35.

“…which would be totally fine, do what you want dude… seriously there’s nothing I hate more than guys that don’t have their own friends… like, I’m not crazy right? There’s a certain brand of person out their that –.” The rest of her stirring rant would need to be put on hold to nurse the expertly crafted joint resting in her hand, “… out there that, male or female, you know,” her hands cut about the smoke in a mad flurry, “once they get into a relationship, they either dump their friends… OR, the small amount of friends they DID have are driven away once things start heating up.” She continued uncontested over the silence in the car, until she realized she was doing most of the talking. “Am I making sense?”

Ashling laughed. “You’re fine, Callie. Just stop being a hog and pass me your lighter too, you always need to tell a goddamn story.”

“Just want to make sure my audience is paying attention.”

“You fail to realize my attention has been on the joint in your hand.” She pointed.

Callie laughed, swiping her phone off. “I’m the worst, I know.” She passed both over to Ash, before switching gears without a beat. “I just fucking can’t believe Ellen.”

“OHHH MY GOOOOOD.” Ash looked tortured, like she was in mental anguish. “If I have to hear about her one more time…” She could hear Callie laughing, “Shut up, that was one of the best things about leaving UMK.”

“You have work at…?”

“Eight. Not too bad.”

“I could really go for some tortas, then we can see your dealer?”

“Yes to food…" She sighed. "...and yeah, I can hit him up." She was quiet for a moment. Her eyes focused on the smoldering point of tight white, "He’s been weird recently, I dunno, you’ll see I guess.” Ash took a hit.

---

Present Day – Morning

She stretched in bed, attempting to raise her arms out from the sheets pinned under Callie's body. With enough effort she broke free and stumbled across her bedroom floor to the dresser, slipping into a flowing Brooklyn Americans knit jersey. She crossed over collapsed party-goers, journeyed in between littered solo-cups and empty liquor handles, and eventually spilled into the main room of the apartment. A few people stirred in small pockets among the room, quietly adjusting in their half-sleep.

She sat on the balcony and lit a serviceable roach, fumbling with her iPhone and looking out at the city around her. The day was just beginning and in her living room lay scattered a bunch of undergrads that would be - with much regret - missing their classes. After some aimless thought (or 'dose' of morning meditation) she was reminded of something she had to do, she dialed Conor.

He answered, but made certain he was busy. "Conor, how are ya, you old fool? Think I could pick up some mice for Jeff later?"

Last night

After arriving at Fiddler's Green, Wesley stops the 2012 Chrysler 300 SRT8 in front of the bar as both he and Max get out of the vehicle. "I'm going inside for a drink. In the meantime feel free to do whatever you want. I don't know, smoke a cigarrette, listen to some music. I won't stay for too long." Said Max as he arranged his suit and walked inside the club. Wonderful athmosphere tonight. However the satisfaction he had of beying here was quickly blown away as he saw John, one of his dealers, selling drugs in public, in front of everybody. Not even the fact that he was noticed by Sheehan, Connor and other regulars didn't seem to bother him. "Oh my God!" Said Max silently as he facepalmed himself.

He then went over to Sheehan, who was talking to others and was keeping an eye on the prick too. "Hey Sheehan! I'm sorry about that. Let me take care of this personally. Trust me! It won't happen again." Said Max with a serious tone as he went over to John, grabbed him by his right arm and started pulling him towards the exit.. "What the hell? Let me go!" He said as he freed himself. However he stunned after he saw he saw Max's face. "Boss? Oh shit I..." He said as he was interrupted by Max who again grabbed him by his left arm pushing him to the exit. "Get in the car now." Said Max with a calm tone as both men entered the car.

Wesley, surprised by what he just whitnessed, threw away he cigarrete he was smoking and got in the car too as he turned around and stared at both men. Once inside the car, Max's calm state dissapeared as he delivered a fast punch with his left hand straight in the dealer's face. As his nose started bleeding Max started shouting at him. "What the hell are you thinking? Selling drugs in a public place? In front of everyone? Did you at least realise that you were beying noticed? What if one of those people called the cops huh? Then what? You piece of shit." Max then stopped for a few moments. "Not to mention that you just made me look like a total idiot." Continued Max as he ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair.

"Boss, please i'm sorry! I promise it won't happen again." Said the dealer begging for Max's mercy. Max looked at him disguted. "I'm tired of beying surrounded by idoits, i'm tired of giving 2nd chances. It's time to put my foot down. And i'll start with you." Said Max as he looked mean at the dealer as he pulled out an 18 inch stiletto switchblade from an inside pocket of his suit. After activating the blade, Max grabbed the dealer by his head and thrusted the blade halfway into his neck. After that he grabbed him by his nose, preventing from breathing. By doing this Max wanted to make the guy die faster. After the dealer died, Max pulled off the switchblade from his neck, cleaned the knife's blade of the blood it had and, pushed the blade inside the handle and put the knife back in the inside pocket from which he took it. "Good one Max! Now what the hell do we do with the body?" Said Wesley who watched the whole scene from the driver's seat. "I'm thinking." Said Max.

Last Night.

Slouching against the bar counter, Beth started a mental countdown. 10... 9... 8... Conor stepped up to the dealer. 7... 6... 5... The dealer looked up. She watched every minute movement of the man's eyes. The door opened and someone walked into the bar. 4... 3... 2... Max Lowrey stepped into her line of sight and seized the dealer's arm. Wait, what?

Beth scowled and sat up straight again. What the hell was Max Lowrey doing interfering with her entertainment? She slipped off the bar stool and turned to watch as he dragged the dealer out of the bar, leaving her, the regulars and the rest of the bar's patrons staring. The door slammed behind him, jolting most everyone out of their stupor.

She turned to Sheehan and Conor, gesturing so violently droplets of beer flew from the bottle in her hand. “What the fuck?”

Present Day.

The door unlocked with minimal effort. She shoved the lock picking kit into her back pocket, braced her hands on the door frame, and kicked it open. She wanted to make a noise, but she wasn't about to damage the lock. The handle made a loud thud as it struck the wall. Beth stepped over the plaster dust, picking up a frying pan on her way into the bedroom. Sure, she had a gun in her jacket, but brute force was much more fun.

As predicted, a greasy, overweight man in his late forties rushed out of the room. She swung the flat of the pan at his head. He stumbled and fell, very much like a chubby kid on one of those home videos TV shows. She continued into the bedroom.

The floor was littered with cigarette packets, baggies, empty bottles, condoms and discarded clothes. The smell was damp and stale, and she could swear it worsened with each visit. Her mother lay face down on the bed, amidst crumpled bedsheets. Beth found a half empty bottle of whiskey on the bedside table and poured it over her mother's head. With a start and a shriek the woman erupted from the bed, drawing a knife from under the pillow. She waved it around with an embarrassing lack of skill.

Snatching the blade from her mother's hand, Beth shouted, “Quit your damn screaming and clean your shit up!” She seized her mother's arm and threw her into the bathroom.

While her mother sat in her underwear beneath the running water of the shower, Beth got rid of the latest customer. She made sure to give him a lasting reminder not to come back. She retrieved the groceries she'd left outside the apartment and started making breakfast. Every few days she would do this, and since her father's disappearance, there were never any surprises.

Her phone – one of those cheap disposable ones you get at a gas station – lit up about halfway through her first set of pancakes. The message read:

TJ snitched. Knock him off.

She groaned. Her knuckles had just started healing again. “Mom! Gotta go to work. Food's in the kitchen.” Beth shovelled the rest of her food and called into the bathroom on her way out of the apartment. “Don't fucking stay in there all day!”

Last Night

"There's a saying, Beth," Sheehan said as he sheepishly stopped pouring Max' usual drink. "Don't shit where you eat. Think he wants to come in here and relax, just to watch some fuckup fucking up?" He dabbed at the spilled beer. "Honey, you wanna maybe be a little more careful there? Less cleaning I gotta do, the better," he said as he took a discreet pull from the whiskey and coke he kept under the bar, set carefully on a coaster between the Louisville Slugger and the Charter Arms Bulldog.

Today

The bar always seemed so strange at noon. Light and airy, as opposed to dark and closed off.

Of course, there were chores that had to be done that he just hadn't felt like doing. Receipts to reconcile. Cash to take to the bank. Product to be stocked. And it was a Friday, of course, good crowd tonight, good tips. Not to mention the gambling ought to be good. He had cranked up the radio as he worked.

Sheehan looked up at the sound of the front door swinging open, squinting into the bright sunlight pouring in. "Oh, hey," he called. "Uh, we don't open until five, I'm afraid."

"Not here to drink," said the first and smallest of the men with a noticeable accent. They stepped into the bar, ignoring Sheehan's stricken expression. It was easier to see them when the door swung shut. Less glare. Three men. Sheehan looked them over. Two big guys, bearded and long-haired, wearing sunglasses and denim vests. The patches over their breast pockets declared them to be members of Manhunter MC. With a small note of alarm, Sheehan noted the proudly displayed "1%" under the club rockers.

But the bikers didn't do any talking. It was the smaller man, thin and dried-up, who did that. With his olive complexion, the thin white knife scars on his face were that much more noticeable. He smiled in a friendly manner. "You the manager here?"

"Yeah," Sheehan answered guardedly. "Kelly. What can I do for you?"

"Name's Gabi Cohen," the newcomer answered, passing a nicely embossed business card across to Sheehan. He looked down at it. Gabriel Cohen, CEO, Adloyada Kosher Winery, Branson, Missouri. Underneath was something in an alphabet Sheehan didn't recognize. Possibly the same thing written in another language. Hebrew, maybe? "I've got an interesting opportunity for you. The very first batch from my winery could be stocked at your bar," the stranger said excitedly.

"Well, that sounds interesting, Mr. Cohen, but I can't say I get too many requests for kosher wine. Are you new here in town?"

"I came over from Israel just last year."

"Not much call for that in Northland. Maybe try down around the Country Club district."

"Thanks for the advice," Cohen said politely. "Though I had a young fellow in here last night scouting this place out. He seemed sure my product would sell just fine here, and he knows the scene in Kansas City quite well." Cohen shrugged. "Speaking of which, I haven't seen this young man since last night. Fellow by the name of Lenny. That ring any bells?"

"No, can't say it does," Sheehan replied, heart pounding in his chest. This story was sounding too familiar for his comfort. "Sorry."

"Quite alright. If you see him, have him give me a call," Cohen said with a smile. "Think over my offer. I'm in town for a few days." Cohen nodded politely to Sheehan then spun around and left, bikers close behind.

Sheehan wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs, then dug for his phone. He was pretty sure he had a number for Lowrey, or at least a burner he used. He bit his lip as he waited through the ring tone.

"Max? It's Sheehan. Uh, what exactly did you do to that guy last night?"

Ashling & Conor - Morning phone conversation

"no problem, i'm just taking out the trash." Conor smiled cynically towards the man in the suit "see you later... oh and Ashling?"

"yeah?"

"i need to talk to you 'bout something"

"is it Jeff? 'cause if it is i told ya a gazillion times already. there's no way he has cancer! plus i-"

"-no it's not that but it's not for the phone either. bring some tea with ya and will talk when ya're here? "

"no problem grandpa. see ya later then, bye"

Ashling hung up. "do you know who i am?" The man in the suit gained some courage all of a sudden

"doesn't matter, off you go or you're a dead man" Conor replied unimpressed gesturing with the shotgun towards the door.

"you just made a terrible mistake" the man in the suit started to walk backwards with his hands still lifted in the air.

"yeah i know" Mumbled Conor to himself as he saw the man exiting the store. Maybe Ashling would know what to do. he thought, She works in the field. Maybe she knows a thing or two about these types of situations

Last night

Max arrives at the apartment building where his condo was located, on the to floor. After getting out of the car Max heads to Wesley and signals him to slide down the window. After Wesley does that, Max leans down. "Remember what we discussed. You dump the asshole in the Missouri River and afterwards take the car with you home. See you in the morning." Said Max as he left. "Okay Max!" Responded Wesley as he slided the window back up revved the Chrysler and drove away. As he entered the building, saluted the doorman ans walked towards the elevator, Max started thinking. This turned out to be one ugly day. One problem after the next. Hopefully tomorow will be better. Fortunately for him there was always someone home, waiting for him. That someone was Jenna, Max's girlfriend. The two used to be together in high school but they broke up after one year of dating. As of two years ago they got back together and have been that way ever since. Jenna was Max's support and the only good thing left in his life. She knew that he was a drug lord but she chose to stay by his side. Even Max himself was surprised by her choice after she told him the truth. Jenna justified herself by telling him that the only thing she cares about and wants from him is his love and respect. And thank God for her she was getting plenty of both.



After he entered the condo Max found Jenna walking around the house, all wet and covered only by a large white towel. A smile imidieatly appeared on his face as he came close to Jenna and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Hmm, what are you doing up so late!" Said Max as he started kissing her neck and left elbow. Jenna smiled herself as she placed her right hand on Max's head as he was doing that. "I did a shower and I waited for you to come home." She responded. "Well now I am home." Said Max as Jenna turned around and both of them started kissing. Then Max lifted Jenna up on his arms and took her to the bedroom where they continued what they started in the living room.

The next morning
Time: 09:34 AM

"Wake up sunshine!" Said Jenna with a soft voice as Max woke up yawning. "Is it morning yet?" He asked with half a voice. "It sure is!" Said Jenna with a smile on her face. "You know? I was thinking, while you were sleeping and I was watching you sleep. I think we should take our relationship to the next level." She said. Max didn't like the sound of that. "As in marriage?" Said Asked Max surprised. "No silly! You know very well I don't believe in that. I meant that we should have a child." Said Jenna. Max was left stunned at such news from his girlfriend. "Jenna, you know very well what I do for a living. It's bad enough that I am putting you in danger with this life I live. But a child? No. Definetly not. Maybe someday. Depending how things evolve in my life." Said Max as he got up from the bed and started getting dressed. "I'm 30 years old Max. You're 33. That "someday" you spoke about may be too late." Said Jenna with a dissapointed voice as she went straight to the bathroom.

As Max was getting dressed his cellphone ringed. It was Wesley. "Hey Max. I'm outside, with the car. I did what you asked me last night. I ditched the body and I went home with the car. And I was careful not to be seen too." Said Wesley as he was walking around and smoking a cigarrette. "Excellent. I'm, coming down now." Said Max as he put the cellphone in the pocket of his pants and finished dressing himself up. He then went to the bathroom where Jenna was brushing her teeth. "I need to go. See you later! I love you and try to understand. A child is the last thing we need right now!" Said Max as he and Jenna kissed and then he quickly left the condo and took the elevator down. After exiting the building both Max and Wesley get inside the car as Wesley starts it and drives away. "Take me to the abandoned building where we keep Tommy hostage. I think it's time for me and him to finally have a small chat face to face." Said Max as his cellphone rang again.

"Sheehan?" Answered Max surprised. After hearing his question Max felt a little surprised at his sudden interest on what happened to his dealer last night. "Does it even matter what happened to him? What's important is that I got him out of there before something bad happened. Trust me, I had no idea what he was doing there. All dealers, not just those working for me, know very well that you never sell drugs in public places and in the eyes of everyone. But if you really wanna know I guess I can trust you enough to tell you." Said Max as he paused for a few seconds. "Let's just say I sent him on a permanent vacation. And the only place he's ever gonna sell drugs in anymore is hell. I hope Satan likes meth." Finished Max as he waited for Sheehan's reply.

[slint x TheYellowKing]

"Should we leave?" Callie said from Ash's bed, no longer nestled under the sheet and blanket (undoubtedly, she had taken note at Ashling wardrobe change: the hockey sweater, black leggings, and ballet flats). She looked ready to brave a lengthy hangover.

"Yeah..." Callie's bright face dropped and Ashling quickly laughed in defense, "...no, no, no. I have work later. Y'all are good for now. You can chill here, smoke, I don't care I'm just going out... but... you should TOTALLY see if they want to do shrooms." Callie cocked a meticulously plucked eyebrow. "Listen." Ashling closed the door and led her friend to the bed, they sat in an attempted huddle that she quickly abandoned all notion of. "He wants me to pick up more when I ain't even sold current stock..." She trailed and when she opened her mouth again, spoke softer, "...I mean, not that he knows that or anything."

"I didn't like the way he was looking at you yesterday."

"Yeah, neither did I. Dude is a creep but he's a good contact."

Callie sighed slowly and deeply. "So you want us to do shrooms for you?"

Hearing the words thrown back at her without the drug dealer rhetoric (which had clearly crashed to the ground in a splintered and flaming heap) didn't make her feel a hundred percent about the attempt, but at the same time pushing drugs was what paid Mama's bills. Barnes & Noble was just self-issued allowance. She pursed pale red lips, "It's like this. I want you to eat an eighth on my behalf because I have to go run some errands and can't hang out with you and you're my shit, dude; my bitch, my partner in crime and badassary. And of course I got YOU on the goods, but I wouldn't want to leave out..." She stood up and thumbed to the dull white wall and further beyond it, to their friends in the 'livi-dini-kitchen'.

Callie smirked, staring straight through her. She wasn't stupid, she just didn't care. Callie would come out of Ashling's room with her baggie, wake up the sleeping bunch, and they'd all have a good time. She knew it would work out for everyone. They didn't necessarily need to know she didn't pay for the trip.

"Just make it so they think you already bought the bag or whatever," she cracked a sideways grin and threw up her hands as to say 'I dunno,' "you're good at manipulating with that, uhh ye'know, subtly nuanced shit."

"Bye biiiiiitch."

She slipped out the door and walked down the hall, crossing back over the still sleeping party patrons. Not much had changed in the main room. Simple movements were made, sure (for instance Jenna was no longer sleeping half on the couch/half on her boyfriend's chest, and alternatively appeared to have had found solace on the carpet), but everyone's general locale remained the same.

Ashling opted for the stairs and bailed out the bottom door, hitting all thirteen flights. It was certainly not the lazy-man's exit but - compared to where the elevators spat the residents out - it would place her a lot closer to the parking lot.

The Camry rumbled lightly down the road, its purring fell completely under the noise from its speakers.

---

Conor's shop sat across the street from Ana's Taquíera, a grub-hut (and personal favorite of Ashling's) in the heart of KC, it made her dart out like a bat out of hell for Jeff's errands. The door chimed open and immediately she was hit with a mix of varying animal food odors and a symphony of chirps and squawks. Ashling saw Conor sitting by his desk, staring glumly at the floor; it wasn't like him. The sound of the shop door slamming shut caught his attention.

"Hey shining-face, how's the hand?" Conor lifted his head, his bright green eyes looking hollow.

"Oh it's nothin', the doctor said it's an inflammation, but it's been a week since then an-."

"- fine... didn't ask for yar life story, sheesh..."

"What a charming ass you are."

"Oh don't be so sensitive, the mice are over there." Conor gestured with his head towards a cage on Ashling's left.

"So," Ashling turned from the cage and sat on a stool on the opposite side of his counter, she placed a box of tea, "I brought the tea. What was it you wanted to talk about?"

Conor stood from his chair and disappeared through the flowing drapery of the door behind the counter, tea in tow. He shuffled around in the back, clanging and scraping about. He set a teapot on the burner before returning to see Ashling rolling her eyes, keeping herself propped up with an open palm.

"So business?"

"Yeh, business." He spoke gruffly, clearing his throat. "Now it's no surprise to me that ya' either found yaself mixed in with crime at a young age or were born into it. Now I won't dive into the specifics on ya history or anything but what I DO need from ya is yar advice on some... uh... storefront defense."

She looked disappointed but an ardent observer could see the smirk hiding, just thinking of etching itself across her face. "Conor, Conor, Conor," she puffed, "what do you think it is I'm doing here? I'm small time. I came here for school and stayed for the city. You're just looking at a Brooklyn girl that fell in love with the Missouri sunrise."

The teapot whistled lightly under their words.

"No way in hell ya opened up shop as quick as'ya did without any experience, lass. Don't buy it."

"I'm ambitious."

"Wouldn't ya still be enrolled in college if that were the case?"

"Fuck you, I'm still ambitious." She groaned, defeated at his very question. There was no reason to keep the pathetic diversion going any longer. "MAYBE I can help. Whattaya got?"

"Name's Cipriano, wants m-

She laughed as soon as she heard the name, "I know what he wants. You're fucked!"

Conor didn't look too amused.

"Listen man," she shifted on her stool, pointing on the counter for emphasis, "that guy was just the messenger, and you see how big that fuck was? Just wait. You can't make the first move, you're just one dude, and plus you don't have the team to hit 'em before they shake you up."

The teapot's whining had been slowly rising while Ash was advising Conor, it pierced entirely through the shop and stirred the animals even more.

"Ashling."

"Yeah?"

"I think there's someone you need to meet."

She gulped, oh boy. What the blazes had she stumbled into?

Sturmgewehr said
"Sheehan?" Answered Max surprised. After hearing his question Max felt a little surprised at his sudden interest on what happened to his dealer last night. "Does it even matter what happened to him? What's important is that I got him out of there before something bad happened. Trust me, I had no idea what he was doing there. All dealers, not just those working for me, know very well that you never sell drugs in public places and in the eyes of everyone. But if you really wanna know I guess I can trust you enough to tell you." Said Max as he paused for a few seconds. "Let's just say I sent him on a permanent vacation. And the only place he's ever gonna sell drugs in anymore is hell. I hope Satan likes meth." Finished Max as he waited for Sheehan's reply.

"Okay, first off, thank you very much for taking care of that guy. I deeply appreciate it, I don't like that kind of thing going on in the bar." Sheehan sighed. "Guess that means I owe you one, Max. So to make it even, here's a little tip for you. A guy came up from Branson asking about him. He said his name was Gabi Cohen. An Israeli. He was rolling heavy, too- had a couple of one-percenters with him. Wearing kuttes from an outfit called Manhunter Motorcycle Club."

Sheehan thought for a second. "Look, Max, I know a guy like you doesn't need my advice, but here's my theory. Maybe your boy picked up something on the side and wanted to see how it would sell. Maybe from this guy Cohen, dollars for donuts he's mobbed up. And then maybe he came here to try and sell it, because we have a bit of a reputation for being fast and loose up here at Fiddler's Green." Sheehan was nervous, his hands shaking. Maybe a drink would calm him down a little. Good thing he happened to be at a bar. He groped down in the well, came up with a bottle of cheap gin. It'd do. "Just conjecture, but it makes sense. At any rate, watch your ass, okay? Just in case. I'll see what I can find out about Cohen and the bikers and get back to you." Sheehan downed a warm shot of gin, winced at the piney taste as he realized just what an awful idea he was acting on. "Right, the well's for mixers," he muttered to himself.

In a dirty, damp and empty warehouse TJ lay curled up like a foetus on the ground, whimpering. His eye and nose already started to swell and blood dripped down his cheek and chin. He cradled his broken hand and arm, and Beth half expected him to start rocking back and forth. Just to make sure her 'message' got through, she gave him a final few kicks to the ribs, then lifted him up by his shirt and slammed her fist into his face. She couldn't help feeling a tiny bit proud of herself that he passed out from the strike.

Otherwise, she was all 'business'. Her crew kept a number of these little warehouses dotted around the city. They had an agreement with a couple other big shots, but it was never smart to kill people in the same place too often. Then again, that's what bribes were for. Needless to say there were a few people in law enforcement and real estate that conveniently couldn't see these warehouses on a city map.

She knelt and searched him, coming up with a roll of cash, a few full baggies, a switchblade and a handgun. He had two burners on him; she scrolled through his texts on both. One for their everyday shit, and one for the Ciprianos. Beth scowled at the phone, then at TJ, as if he was conscious enough to feel her glare.

“What the fuck, TJ? This is who you snitched to?” She read through the foremost texts again, locking them down in her memory as best she could, then stamped on both phones. Pocketing the rest of her loot, she stepped back to nurse her bleeding knuckles. Whatever TJ told the Ciprianos – and Beth guessed her crew didn't know yet; they would have sent a team to deal with him if they did – it meant they were in the Ciprianos' sights. And if they were in the Ciprianos' sights, they were screwed.

“Fuck you, TJ,” Beth spat. She took the safety off his gun and shot him with it. Once in the head, nice and quick. She swapped out the gun for her burner, tapping out a quick message.

Clean up on aisle four.

The codenames were her idea, of course. At least for Beth, they never failed to lighten to mood. But this time it would take a little more than a bad joke. She dumped TJ in what must have been an office in the back and left the warehouse.

She managed to get two blocks away before she was shot at.

Ducking low, she dove into the nearest building – a closed down antique store – and sprinted through to the back. As she broke through the back door, heavy footsteps pursued from the front of the shop. Beth cursed and ran through the back streets, headed for the main road; she'd parked her bike on the next street over. Bullets struck the brick walls either side of her. She swore again, pulled TJ's gun out of her waistband and shot back, but didn't stop sprinting.

She ran straight across the open streets and into the road. They weren't on the outskirts of the city any more, there were security cameras here. The bullets stopped flying. Beth narrowly dodged traffic and jumped over parked cars, stuffing the handgun away again as she went. A minute later she found her bike and couldn't get away fast enough. Only when several roads separated her from the shooters did she feel the pain in her arm.

Conor turned the key, switching off the engine. It was quiet - too quiet. Usually, this time of night he would hang out in Fiddler's Green, making fun of everything with his sarcastic jokes. His current situation didn't amuse him. He was waiting in the darkness, tenser than he had been in a long time. Waiting like this, watching his shop at night, brought to his head memories of his service. Most of it he spent alone in guard posts peering through a target - sometimes for days in a row.

Earlier that day he told Ashling to meet him at Fiddler's Green so he could introduce her to Sheenan. He even called Sheenan and told him she was coming. In the end though he decided to do things his own way. It might have been a foolish decision but Conor preferred to go with his gut than with an advice of an unproven college dropout.

It was around midnight when he saw a black car approaching. It parked near his shop and a man came out.

Not yet. Conor told himself. Not yet...

After a few failed attempts the man kicked the door open and entered the shop.

Not yet.

Sounds of breaking cages and screaming animals started to come out of the shop.

Now!

Conor got out of the car taking with him his shotgun. He walked towards the black car while the ruckus at the shop continued. He reached the drive's side window, still unseen by any of the assailants. He knocked on the window to draw the driver's attention. The driver turned his head to find himself peering into a barrel of a shotgun. Conor fired.

The man who went inside the shop must have heard the shot since the noise ceased. Conor hurried and crawled into the backseat of the car. The man opened the passenger side door and saw that the driver was shot. Panicked, he rushed to the driver's side, pulled the body out of the car and took his place. Right after he shut the door, Conor loaded his shotgun. Upon turning around in his seat, the man discovered Conor with his loaded shotgun aimed at his head. He shrieked with terror.

"ah ah ah, turn around and shut yar trap" Conor talked so softly it was almost whispered.

The terrified man, did Conor's bidding and turned his head to face the front window of the car.

"Do you wanna die?"

The man didn't make sound.

"Good, so here's what's gonna happen: ya're gonna drive me to the man who sent you here. Then you're gonna get outside and tell him Conor O'Connor, the man from the pet store, had come to see him - that's me. Got it?"

The man was silent.

"Ya're a fish eh?... I hope fish know how to drive, cause it's either that or i'm returning ya to the river mate"

Midday – 12:08 PM

Beth couldn't go home. TJ knew where she lived, as did a few others in the crew, and that was just a few blocks from her mother's apartment. No one but the Ciprianos knew just how much TJ had told them. He could have given them the locations of all the important players. That little rat. Fortunately for Angela Callahan, her daughter never mentioned having a living mother. Nobody knew where Angela lived or that it wasn't far from Beth's own apartment. Her mother was safe.

After twenty minutes, she slowed down. A racing motorcycle in the middle of the day wouldn't go unnoticed, and she didn't plan on attracting the attention of the Ciprianos' thugs for a second time today. The bullet wound in her upper arm needed covering up too. Where could she go? Conor's place? The man had a lot of guns, and he wasn't afraid to let people know he could use them. Still, how trustworthy was a guy she only ever spoke to in a bar or in the occasional phone call. “Friends” was not the way Beth would describe any of the people at Fiddler's Green. More like... highly familiar criminal drinking buddies.

Then again, she had known them for years. But, no, she couldn't just turn up at Conor's pet shop with a bullet in her arm and a target on her back. Couldn't turn up at the bar like that either. She'd never hear the end of it if she spilled blood all over Sheehan's precious bar.

In the end she parked somewhere secluded and texted someone on the crew, then waited. She removed her shirt, now ruined, and thought, Great. I liked that shirt. Fuck you, TJ, and your Ciprianos buddies. Tying the shirt around her waist, she inspected the bullet wound. The majority of the blood had dried, leaving cracked red stains all over her arm. Fresh blood seeped out at a much slower rate. The adrenaline had long since worn off, the hole in her arm felt much bigger than it was, and pain shot up and down her arm whenever she moved it. Nothing she hadn't experienced before.

12:53 PM

When she saw her crew-mate arrive, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a burner in the other, her relief was marred by distrust. She pointed her gun at him, made him swear his loyalty, before she let him near her. He was a tall guy, the kind you'd call dark and handsome if you cleaned him up and put him in a suit. His name was Jordan, or something like that. She didn't care to learn the names of the people she worked with.

Under threat of being shot if he fucked up, Jordan removed the bullet from her arm with a pocket knife – sterilized by the flame of his lighter – and slapped on a bandage of cloth strips. The tequila cleaned the wound, and made it easier for Beth not to break poor Jordan's nose when he stuck the knife in her arm.

“Right, now fuck off,” she told him when it was done. “Warn everyone we've got the Ciprianos hunting us down.” At the name, Jordan paled. Beth rolled her eyes and shooed him away, “Go on. I'll keep the tequila.”

Now without the possibility of staining Sheehan's bar, she waited for her head to clear somewhat and drove straight for Fiddler's Green. It was a couple hours early, but either Sheehan knew something she might find useful or someone else did and they'd be there soon enough.

Sheehan had loosened his tie and sat down at one of the tables with his Macbook. He had disregarded his chores for the day to try and make sense of it all, find out anything he could about this sudden and unwelcome new presence in his life.

His research wasn't getting him very far. Looking for a Gabriel Cohen from Israel was like looking for a guy named Dave Smith from the US. Narrowing his search parameters with the addition of "Branson", "winery", or "vintner" wasn't finding him anything before the previous year and opening of the winery. Dead end.

There was more out there on Manhunter MC, including a poorly spellchecked website. Founded in 1972 in Jonesboro, chapters in Arkansas, Tennessee, and southern Missouri. Low-rent punks and rowdies, associated with a few small-time rackets. Protection and hijacking by the look of it. So how did any of this involve them?

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, then stiffened as he heard the door open again. Sheehan briefly contemplated diving behind the bar, but scolded himself for being overdramatic. Sheehan stood and curiously walked over to the foyer to get a better look at his guest.

"Beth?" he said incredulously. She stood before him, bloodstained bandage on her arm and shirt with more than a few reddish stains on it. "Jesus, honey, what the hell happened to you?"