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meepetteoneonly · 3 months ago

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Snakes and Ladders: II.

Also on AO3: here

Previous chapter: here

Chapter Summary: House of Hope is an exclusive bar for all those who seeks the finest pleasures, including rare alcohol. Nine-Fingers and Mol have to ensure bottles of fancy booze Raphael managed to get imported are going to be delivered from warehouse in the docks to the bar.

TW: Smoking, abandoned children, orphanage, violence mentioned, gun

My note: I really have no idea how warrants and searches work in common law, especially in 40's, so I took inspiration in nowadays dawn-raids conducted by competition authorities. I apologize for any legal inaccuracies. Also, I have no beta-readers so it was not beta-read, obviously. (:

Nine-Fingers’ eyes hung onto the the rippling water surface. Freezing waves were crushing against the lonely wharf nearby, splashing the old wood. The burning tobacco between her lips was giving her the false sense of warmth, but didn’t really help much. The wind carried from the ocean was sharp, uncompromising, taking her coat and boots for no enemy at all.

„This is how I started, you know.“ She said to a woman much younger than herself right next to her, who kept breathing between inside her palms. „Sheets in orphanage got wet, so they gave us cigarettes. ’These magic sticks will keep you warm.’ Can you believe that?“ Nine-Fingers chuckled.

„Cheaper then wood, I guess.“ The younger woman said and rubbed her hands together.

„Sure it was. And created future customer for the donor.“ A smoke cloud escaped Nine-Fingers’ sly smile. „Bloody brilliant business strategy. Get them hooked young; profit. But I would probably do the same thing having the whole tobacco empire under my thumb. Can’t blame them.“ She grinned and let the cigarette die under her heel.

„Anything for the business, right?“

„Well, not anything, Mol. Especially not waiting another goddam fifteen minutes in this bloody weather. What the hell is taking them so long, eh? Mattis' always on time.“ Nine-Fingers said, checking her surroundings.

Warehouses, depots, old shabby structures made of wood or wavy metal sheets formed a city of their own, with its own life and rules. Fog, humid and sticky, filled with the stench of rot, salt and fishes lingered between the buildings. Docks, the most important transport node, resembled a ghost town now. The last living being Nine-Fingers saw was the security man at the gate an hour ago. The next living being Nine-Fingers expected to see was Mattis, one of her people, together with his friend Mirkon and Meli. And that was about to happen fifteen minutes ago.

„Should I go and check what’s goin’ on?“ Mol suggested, kicking her heels. She could barely feel her toes, although she did her best to keep squeezing them. „Maybe-„

„No - wait!“ Nine-Fingers hissed, putting a finger over her lips. „You hear that, hm?“ Finally, between the roaring sounds of the ocean, she recognized rumbling of the Straight-6 engine.

Astele Keen, in certain circles known rather as Nine-Fingers Keen, wasn’t impatient person. She have learned long ago that problems were solved the best with both cold, blood and head, but on the other hand, she liked the job to be done and some jobs were better to be done faster than the others.

Hissing and rattling announced the large Dodge truck approaching, with Mattis’ focused face behind the big wheel. He appeared to be comically small compared to the size of the vehicle he was driving. Despite his build, Mattis was wily, definitely not the one to be underestimated. He had a lot in common with Mol. They were cunning, street-smart types who fit well into family's business. Nine-Fingers took them both under her wings long before they turned eighteen, but she considered Mol to be more driven and more suitable for jobs that left hands dirty.

With a long creak, the truck stopped in front of them. Mol frown her nose as the reek of gasoline and exhaust fumes stained the air.

„Took you long enough. What happened?“ Nine-Fingers asked when Mattis got out of the vehicle, followed by Mirkon and Meli who travelled on the body.

„Sorry, boss. The engine wouldn’t start. I think it was the battery.“ He said. „But guys gave it a push-start, so here we are.“

„Fine. Let’s get to work than.“ Nine-Fingers clapped her hands and took out a bunch of keys.

The lock was frozen, so it took a moment to get the key in and another to open the warehouse. When the metal gave in, they were fifty minutes behind the plan. Nine-Fingers wasn’t happy about that, but there was nothing she could do. One hardly fought a weather.

To everyone’s surprise, electricity was functioning, however those few bulbs hanging from the ceiling, didn’t do much. The warehouse was divided into series of narrow aisles alongside which crates and barrels of contraband were towering. The floor was a patchwork of cracked concrete and oily stains, with discarded wooden pallets scattered around. Some of the deeper cracks were now patched up with ice and dirt. The whole place would use a little upkeep, but Nine-Finger’s knew that this particular warehouse served not only its original purpose. The bigger the mess, the harder to secure evidence, she smirked.

Group followed Nine-Fingers through the gloom to the block of crates labeled as fragile. Four times five crates of twenty bottles of extraordinarily fancy booze each. The prohibition had ended long ago, but this stuff was scarce and getting it on the market for reasonable price was impossible. Even for the Canias. Yet, boss gave it his best to keep his guests satisfied, drunk and prone to be caught in incriminating situations when necessary.

„All right. This is it. Let’s load it up so we can get out of ’ere.“ Nine-Fingers gestured towards the block. „I don't know about you, but my bloody ass is freezing.“

Mattis and men he’s brought got moving. Mol and Nine-Fingers grabbed one of the crates together as well.

„I hope boss will spare few. I could use something to get my blood pumping.“ Mol grunted as her white fingers squeezed the rough edge of the crate.

„I wouldn’t count on it.“ Nine-Fingers smiled. „But you could ask Korilla to put in a good word with ’im.“ She teased.

„She hates me.“

„That’s not true.“

Mol rolled her eyes but said nothing. Hate was maybe a word too strong, but Mol could tell when someone didn’t like her. Korilla was boss’ assistant. She run day-to-day business of his club and as Mol has found out, she was quite sensitive about her height. Retrospectively, calling Korilla a dwarf wasn’t good idea. As skillful and quick-witted as Mol was, sometimes, she didn’t know when to hold her tongue and making rather cruel fun of others was just one example. She liked to test boundaries just as all young did, but Nine-Fingers rather didn’t want to see Mol getting into troubles that were easily avoidable. After the incident with Korilla, she decided to keep Mol on shorter leash.

February seemed to be finished with throwing a monkey wrenches into their job. Slowly but steadily they keep loading the truck’s body with the alcohol. The half of the block remained when Mirkon suggested a quick pause, offering a cigarette to his fellows. Nine-Finger’s didn’t oppose it. Her arms would use a short break and her lungs were thirsty.

„You want one?“ She turned to Mol.

„Thank boss.“ Mol mumbled and took one of Nine-Fingers’ Lucky Strikes. Compared to Nine-Fingers, Mol was hardly a smoker. She never got used to the bitter aftertaste tobacco left in her mouth, so she smoked for socializing purposes rather than for her own enjoyment. She found out cigarette was a ticket into conversations; a pass that allowed her slip into right groups of people. Also, it was something to hold onto if she got nervous.

Nine-Fingers rolled the cigarette around between her lips, let her lungs got soaked with nicotine. It was only before they got back to work when she overheard cars humming from the outside. "Mattis?!" She shout at the boy. "You left the engine running?"

"No." Mattis looked surprised. "But the battery will be all-"

Nine-Fingers left him startled when she rushed to the door without any more words, followed by Mol who had no idea what came over her as well.

Although she was cautious and usually thought two steps ahead, cars with beacons surrounded by the swarm of custom officers left her speechless. However, the beacons were off and officers weren't accompanied by criminal police. That was a good sign. But they seemed to be confident. One of them waved at her with some paper. That was a bad sign.

By the corner of her eye, Nine-Fingers spotted Mol's hand sneaking inside of her coat. "Calm the hell down, sharpshooter." She hissed at her protégé. "There's no need for bloody guns, all right?"

Nine-Fingers threw her cigarette away and approached the officers, staring them down with confidence of her own. It was already clear they are here because of that alcohol boss managed to import from the Caribbean undeclared and unnoticed. Or so they thought until this very moment. But the question was how deep in shit they actually were.

"How can I help you, officer?" She asked. Years of being in family's business taught her that being jovial with authorities is the sweet spot between dogged opposition and compliance.

"We have a warrant to search this warehouse and seize any undeclared goods discovered as well as secure necessary evidence." The officer informed her.

"Well." She huffed, "Than show me this warrant of yours." She reached for the paper. The officer handed her a prepared copy over.

Everything seemed to be in order. The paper was heavy and the document born all necessary marks and symbols. The date as well as location of the warehouse was correct. The owner - a legal entity, too. There was some justification and the document was signed by a magistrate. Nothing suggested the warrant was a forgery.

"Keep that copy." The officer said and gave her few more copies of other various documents. One of them described the course of the search, the other rights and duties of investigated subject. "And these as well. We would also need your signature here."

Nine-Fingers was a little bewildered by the amount of papers he gave her. and all the ridiculous paperwork. Usually, when she saw someone in uniform, she was ready for guns and batons and handcuffs and things going messy in general. This was new. But in the end, it convinced her that this was truly not set up by Maladominis or Stygias. Killers dressed up in uniforms sent by rival family - that was the oldest trick in the book, but one does never know. After all, the Valentine day was just behind the corner.

She signed the paper, confirming she was properly instructed as a representative of the subject to investigation. Her signature was shaky. Blue lines full of uncertainty. Big letters of someone who didn't spent much of a time doing nine to five in the office. Yet, with a wide smile, she gave it back to the officer, feigning she is making a little tear to the paper. "Have fun, then." She winged at him.

The swarm got straight to business. Custom officers found their way to the warehouse, taking notes, asking questions, labeling crates, inspecting the makeshift office in the corner, which no one actually used. Nine-Fingers told Mattis and the others to let them do their job. And she kept her eye on Mol. The young woman seemed to be displeased that she stopped her foolish try to intimidate the officers. But this was not situation to wave around with a gun. It would make things only worse.

"They are taking the crates we came for." Mol said. "The boss won't be happy. And the dwarf too."

"That's for certain." Nine-Fingers smirked. "I'm not happy either, you know? Mol, what the hell is goin' on with you?"

"I just wanted to do something about this bullshit, right? This is Canias' warehouse. How dare they place their foots in here? We'd better show them who's running this city."

"This is not right time to show anyone anything, goddamit. You just don't take the gun on police or custom officers or whatever they are. That's the rule."

"Pretty stupid one." Mol frowned.

Nine-Fingers reached into coat for her cigarettes. The package was empty. "Bloody hell." She murmured, crumpling the package. "Whatever you say, Mol. But it's rule because it works. Authorities are not our enemies. They are counterparts. So you'd better go with it, because sometimes we just have all them to do what they must." Nine-Fingers said. Canias always had good relationship with authorities and few years ago, don Mephistopheles Cania reached certain truce with police chief. Since than, they had bianco cheque to do any business that wasn't directly on sight and wasn't openly violent. Until now, it seemed. It worried Nine-Fingers as she had the feeling that this was a herald of much bigger troubles.

Custom officers were fast. It was around noon when the one in charge gave Nine-Fingers the final piece of paper to sign. It was a protocol on administrative searched they carried out, accompanied by list of seized goods. She scribbled her name under the thick paragraph of legal text and handed it back to the officer. He nodded.

Mattis and his friends were already gone. Nine-Fingers dismissed them the moment she realized their muscles won't be needed any longer today. Together with Mol, Nine-Fingers left the docks the last.

After Nine-Finger's lecture, Mol felt offended. She kept staring out of the car window silently. Was she that wrong when she wanted to scare those uniformed cockroaches a little? No one would get hurt and it would be clear who's truly in charge of the docks. It was an idea she was almost ashamed to have, but what if Nine-Fingers was getting old? Mol was used to seeing her slitting men's throats open for less and now she bent over in front of these fuckers? Preaching on some stupid rules? Bullshit.

They stopped at some café on their way to city centre. Nine-Fingers asked the waitress if she can use the phone and gave Mol some money to got them something. The café was empty as it just recently opened, so Nine-Fingers didn't really mind using the phone at the bar as they had no phone booth or phone at the place that would ensure at least some privacy. As she listened to the dial tone, she observed the waitress. The girl paid her no attention at all. Good.

Light, yet bitter smell of coffee hit her as the girl poured two mugs full. Good old American coffee, Nine-Fingers thought. Being a soldier of Canias had many perks, but coffee wasn't one. Nine-Fingers was fed up with their espressos and regardless what they said, drip coffee remained her favourite.

"Hello? Korilla Hearthflame speaking." Woman voice came from the receiver.

"It's Nine-Fingers." She said, lowering her voice. "We got the problem in the docks."

"Yes, I assume you did. You should've been there an hour ago. What happened?" Korilla asked.

"Customs happened." She smirked. "Bloody customs officers came with a warrant and seized the stuff."

"If this is a joke, it's pretty bad one, Nines. But you rarely joke around, so I guess it's true than." Korilla sighed. "All right. We'll figure something out. Come to the House."

"On our way." She hung up.

When Nine-Fingers got to the table, Mol was already in the half of Banana Cream pie she ordered for herself. She was a sweet-tooth. "So?" She asked with her mouth full of whipped cream.

"I've spoken with Korilla. We're going to the House. And you," Nine-Fingers emphasized, "are going to behave. You are not going to call her a dwarf ever again, are we clear?"

Mol jabbed the pie with a fork. "Fine. I'm sorry, ok?"

"Look, Mol. I know how stubborn you are, but if you want to get somewhere in our world, you have to bloody listen." Nine-Fingers reached for a still hot mug and slurped some coffee. "Finish the pie and we go."

During daytime, the House of Hope was dormant, gathering the strengths to welcome again the guests who sought to left the mundane life behind, at least for one night. Without the dim, alluring lighting that gave the human vices aura of something desirable and protect the guests from reflecting on the true nature of their acts, the main hall around the large bar resembled a theatre rather than night club. The ceiling was decorated with golden embossed ornaments that framed the painting of sky. Grey contrasting clouds were swirling into a celestial maelstrom.The centre of the scene was light, with figure of half naked angel covered in red juice dripping from half-rotten pomegranate he was eating. Heavy curtains along the stage had the same ruby colour as well as upholstery. The devil's in the detail, boss used to say. However, Nine-Finger wasn't the right person to appreciate Raphael Cania's artistic quirks. The ceiling could be as well wallpapered with old newspapers and it would make no difference for her.

On the sides, there were two pompous chandeliers. Third one used to be above the stage but it was replaced with spotlights. The stage itself was large, providing enough space for simple music performances as well as for rather luscious shows for private society. The same kind of society for which the seized bottles were intended.

They found Korilla sitting on the top of her desk, going through a ledger, probably.

"Do you have some cigarettes?" Nine-Fingers asked once she put all the documents they gave her during the search on the desk.

Korilla nodded. "Sure I have. But- what's this?"

"Ask a lawyer, not me. So far as I understand, the warrant and some documents regarding our rights." She lit the cigarette Korilla gave her and took place in large armchair. So did Mol. "It wasn't regular police, so I guess, it's not that bad. Still, we might have a problem."

Korilla started listing through the documents, her eyes scanning each and every line patiently. She was embodiment of meticulousness and Nine-Finger's knew Raphael owned Korilla a great debt for success of House of Hope. She was everything and more one could wish for in a manager. A wrinkle keep appearing on forehead as she went through the papers.

"So? Any idea what's going on?"

Korilla put the documents back. "Not at all. It only seems that some magistrate does not know how we play it in this city. Have you ever heard about this Astarion Ancunín?"

"Never." Nine-Fingers shrugged her shoulders, looking at Mol. She only shook her head.

"Maybe he's new. We got to check him out. But that's for boss to decide." Korilla said.

"And where is he anyway?" Nine-Fingers threw away the cigarette she'd just finished smoking.

Much more worried expression came across Korilla's face. Or maybe annoyed. "He went to visit the old man in a hospital. And I tell you, he's insufferable every time he get back from him."

Mol cackled.

"A little respect wouldn't hurt, Mol, you know?" Korilla crossed her arms. "Don is dying and given the events from the morning, rough times might be ahead of us."

"Sorry." She muttered immediately.

"Korilla's right." Nine-Fingers said. "You know what? Go get Mattis the money for Mirkon and Meli. I'll wait for the boss here, all right?"

Mol fought the urge to roll her eyes, but she did as Nine-Fingers wanted, leaving both woman taken aback a little.

"Are you sure you bet on the right horse, Nines?" Korilla asked once the door closed behind Mol.

"Not a horse. Bloody mule." Nine-Fingers smiled. "But yes, I am sure. The thing is, she's young and she craves action."

Korilla took a long look at Nine-Fingers. Mysterious but warm smile played on the corners of her lips. "You got a soft spot for that girl, right?"

"Maybe. I took her from streets when she was a child, so what else would you expect? I taught her how to pick up pockets when she was ten." Sense of nostalgia spread through Nine-Fingers' chest.

Mol was no different than Nine-Fingers was during her first years in family's business. She too was pissed of when she had to run errands instead of collecting payments for protection or being engaged in much more funny (and bloody) activities in general. Nine-Finger's first real job was to deliver a message to unfaithful husband of a florist who prepared the decorations for a funeral of don Cania's wife. That was when she met Enver Gortash. Together, they beat that man to a pulp, breaking both of his legs. When she heard the poor guy crying in pain, it hit her that power to inflict violence requires strong self-control. Since than, she usually tried to operate more diplomatically (with exemptions of course), contrary to Enver who found this power to be intoxicating rather than burdening.

"I understand. But she acts like a teenager while she's almost twenty. Our world stands on hierarchy and it looks like she didn't get it." Korilla said. Although she wasn't the one doing important decisions, she was great observer and her observations usually served as a ground on which decisions were made. At least Raphael's.

"I'll do something about that, don't worry." As Nine-Fingers read it, there was a simple concern hidden in Korilla's words - she wanted to be sure that Mol is trustworthy.

"Fine." Korilla nodded and lit cigarette for both of them.

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