Blackjack

The cold damp wind brushed against my brown fur, carrying with it the scent of dead fish and broken dreams. I probably should have pulled my coat closer around myself, but the cold, damp air was soothing on my battered body.

My tail thumped against the waterlogged boards of the dock. It had been a hell of a night for this broken down rat detective.

One full of old flames, old enemies, and me getting the tar beat out of me by a bunch of thugs.

My claws felt the butt of my revolver: not the usual snubby .38, a full size .44.

I hate using guns.

Don’t get me wrong, I can shoot them just fine, and if I need to use them I will. But I hate having to do it, they’re just as likely to escalate the situation then deescalate it. But tonight the iron was a necessity.

He’d come back to town. I growled the name through my incisors.

“Blackjack.”

The name had nothing to do with his fur color, rather it was about how he got his start in the gambling rackets. I’d busted him back when I was still on the force, shut all his operations down.

Couldn’t put him away though. He’d skipped town, for good I had hoped. But just like an old wound, he’d found a way to creep up again.

Once he got his claws back into the city, he wouldn’t stop. I had only one recourse: I was going to stop him before he made it any further. The problem was that I was but a private eye now, not an officer of the law.

Perhaps that was for the best.

No case to solve. No clients. Just me and a vendetta against Blackjack and his thugs.

My first stop was O'Malley's: a place where the light didn’t reach and the music hid the teeth behind the smiles. The joint sat two blocks from the river, wedged between a pawnshop and a funeral parlor, which was poetic in a way that made me want a drink. Inside, the air was a cocktail of cigar smoke and spilled gin. The regulars were as predictable as the stools: old beasts with bad knees, young pups with bright eyes and empty pockets, and one bartender who had the snout of someone who’d learned to be bored with trouble.

“Skreet,” the bartender said without looking up.

He knew me. Everyone did. You learn people when you’ve got a face that remembers fights. He polished a glass like it owed him money.

“Seen any sign of BlackJack?” I asked, seating myself on a stool that complained under the sudden shift in my weight. The bartender shrugged, the same slow motion he used when life disappointed him.

“Maybe. Depends on what you mean by ‘sign.’ Cards been shuffled differently lately. New names at the table. Old debts come due, that sort of thing.”

“New names?” I muttered. “New names mean muscle.”

He laughed, small and flat. “Names mean gossip. You want truth, you ask the clockmaker down on Mercer. He keeps his ear on the bell and his mouth on a bottle.”

“You mean Finn, eh?” I asked.

“The very same. Clockmaker is just one of the hats he wears.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

I left O’malleys with a lighter step and whiskey on my breath. Finn was an emaciated squirrel. He liked brass gears and gossip in equal measure.

The shop smelled of mineral oil, and brass. Finn was hunched over a clock, his tiny claws working with the devotion of a priest.

“Skreet? Been a long time.” he squeaked in a reedy voice, like a violin in need of a tune up. “You look like you lost a fight, and then tried to buy it back.”

“You could say that.” I growled, “Heard any folks asking about a ‘BlackJack’?”

The squirrels ears perked up, “Blackjack, the gambing kingpin? Can’t say I have... but I might have something you would find interesting.”

He reached into his coat and brought out a playing card, an ace of spades scratched up on the sides. “Been meaning to ask you, found it in an alleyway. Something about it seems…”

“...Like a calling card?” Skreet interjected. “Like a taunt meant for someone in particular?”

“Something like that.” Finn chirped, “You know Skreet. Maybe you shouldn’t stick your snout in this one - might get chopped off.”

“You let me worry about that,” I growled. “Just keep your ears open if you hear anything, might be something in it for you.”

“Ahhh, now that is something I like to hear,” Finn replied.

The rain had slacked into a drizzle. I walked without direction in the neon glow, letting the city decide for me what sin I would be led into this time. My thoughts kept drifting back to her.

Delilah.

She’d been the first to drop the hint: ‘He’s come back...’ But something told me she knew more than she said: She always did. I found her where I used to find her when she wanted to be found, at the Lafayette.

She sat by a window of the hotel bar, glass of vermouth in paw. She was in a low-cut blue gown, shapely legs stuffed in fishnets. The white-furred rat smiled in amusement as I sat across from her, her long, whip-like tail moving like a snake.

For a second, I thought it might’ve been dancing just for me.

“Packing heat?” she asked in that sultry tone I had grown to dream about. “Or you just happy to see me?”

I ignored her little innuendo.

“Can’t help but notice you came back... same time as him.” I stated the obvious.

“Him who?” She asked, a little hint of a smirk on her muzzle.

“You know damn well,” I replied.

“Skreet,” she said, followed by a giggle. “Always the dramatic type. You know, I think this new life suits you. I can’t help keeping tabs on others... Especially dangerous types.”

“Tabs? More like bookmarks.”

“I did warn you,” she said casually, sipping her vermouth.

“So you did. Playing both sides again?” I muttered.

She rested her paw on my arm rubbing it softly. “You have muscles, I have secrets.” She sighed and leaned back, taking another sip. “You know I don’t want to see you hurt... Again. Blackjack’s got his sights set on more than one thing.”

“His old rackets?” I asked.

“He’s a sore loser, like most gamblers.”

“That’s a lead then,” I grumbled standing up.

“Skreet,” Delilah said, leaning forward again, just missing my arm.

“Don’t be so eager to leave me. It’s been years. Bad ones. ...We could catch up.”

I’d be lying if I said the offer wasn’t tempting. Seeing her soft, round, white furry face lit a fire in me I hadn’t felt in years. I heaved a deep sigh as I placed my floppy hat back on my gray head.

“Delilah... I wish I could stay. When we’re old, let’s get a little house together. Far away from here. On the coast. Where no one can ever find us.”

I didn’t turn around but I did hear her sniffle. “That sounds nice, old rat. But I sense there’s a ‘but’ and I know it’s that glass of yours.”

My old magnifying glass, it showed more than just what something looked like close up. I made the mistake of looking at her with it once and... I can’t unsee it. Taught me to not look at my friends through that thing.

“Maybe someday,” I muttered, and I half-believed it myself.

A heaved a breath again and patted my coat.

“Alright, Blackjack,” I said to the dripping night sky. “Deal me in.”