[b]Saloon City[/b]

“My husband ain't no muttonhead, sir. I swear to the purity of Christ that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” the woman pleaded as she stood bellow Donovan's chair. Seated atop a raised platform, in a seat as raised as it, the boarish master of 45th Street loomed over his second story saloon courtroom like a prince with cobwebs and dangling lanterns as his tapestries. Leaning over the scratched, cracked, and tall table he dug a fork and knife into fried chunks of ham and eggs.

It was early morning still and Donovan Adams was met continuously with the pleas and bargains he was expected to fulfill. A tall pint of cider and a hearty breakfast tempered his angry indifference towards the heralds of bullshit that rocked the apartments and alleys of the heart of Saloon City.

He was by no means a handsome man. Wide and muscle built, he towered like a bear but sauntered with the distinct lack of grace as a moody bull. His cheeks were swollen, nose bulbous and drooping. There was a deep angry, studious glare in his deep gray eyes that he held affixed to his plate.

Of today's interest was a plump middle-aged woman, a net of wild messy hair was kept back in a tight bun that wrapped her head in a halo of gray and black. Sorrowful blue eyes peered up at her would-be savior of fortune. “He wasn't raising no sand, he's a humble person Mr. Adams. Your a man of respect, ain't ya? Couldn't you speak to the police? They're the ones that are holding him.”

Donovan Adams nodded as he scooped a hearty fork full of ham into his mouth. Leaning back in his makeshift throne he ran a heavy scarred and bent hand through his mustache. “Beguile for me the circumstances your husband got arrested again.” he demanded in a low thunderous voice. He rose his heavy gaze up beyond the woman's head as the sound of the saloon doors peeled his attention away from her briefly, catching a pair of men enter the tavern.

From the second floor he could see the near whole of the Yellow Belly Inn. The establishment was bare and empty for the morning with a handful of staffers mopping away the events of the prior evening, the piss, vomit, and blood of a raucous night. The smell of vinegar hung heavy in the dusty air as young maids and servers re-arranged the saloon from the first floor to the second level floors.

Dressed in clean suit clothes, the two figures cut an uninterrupted beeline across the sagging wooden floor. They walked with a confident grace through Donovan's field of view. One behind the other they never strayed or wove far off their desired path. With their black outfits, they were almost like mourners.

“The police told me only that he was robbing some blind fool's house. But he was only nearby when some damned coons ran passed with handfuls of lifted finery!” she protested, “But I know he was only a victim of circumstance, he only picked up what they must have dropped and he was found with some of it! He's a good Christian man and wouldn't steal from anyone, I know this in my heart.” she plead woefully.

Donovan nodded, “He's down at the second precinct on a fifty dollar bail then, am I right?” he asked.

“Yes sir.” confirmed the woman.

“I'll go down after I eat and see about your man.” he grumbled dryly, raising his mug and taking a long drink. He watched the two men stomp up to his level from behind the pleading woman's back. They gave pause as they brushed the road dust from their black town coats as they stepped to the side.

“Oh thank you. And God bless you.” she beamed, on the verge of tears. She sat herself up and shuffled for the stairs.

“Her man up the spout?” asked the taller of the two. A young man, his waxed mustache hugged his upper lip as he gave a wine devilish grin. He ran a hand through his long oiley black hair as he removed his hat. Sharp green eyes shone as he followed her path with his eyes.

“And I'm to levee the ransom.” Donovan sneered, “What are you two up to, Howard?”

Howard laughed and turned those green eyes of his back up to Donovan. “A lick of no good.” he cackled. “We saloon boys never change!” he beamed. “We just figured we would stop by since we were in the neighborhood.”

“And how about you, Morrison?” Donovan asked, turning his attention to the quiet tall man leaning on a wooden cane along the handrails. A long wiry beard graced his chest. His eyes buried under heavy brows as much as they were the brim of his hat, he could have been nearly blind. And more so with the swollen nose on his face.

“Nothin'.” Morrison answered.

“We were in any event on the hunt for the family of the tail-waggers who were slain these past couple of nights, offer some condolences to whatever next of kin we can find. Or acquaintances. I'm sure you understand the principle.”

“I do, but what I don't particularly understand is giving the time of day to a celestial, a nigger, and a kike.”

Howard smiled knowingly, “Well I'm sure with a world-view as complex as that you're up to some good deep-thinking. Maybe you know who killed the poor girls.” he remarked sarcastically, “But all the same Donny, they're tax payers all the same. To us, and to you. It's their money that keeps righteous American born men and women out of the cage at night and in the street doing the work.”

“I quiet well understand how money goes.” Donovan remarked sharply.

“I'm sure.” said Howard, “We already spoke to Beatrice and Gabby on the account of the negro and the chink, perhaps if you can find time in the day and you can on your own behalf talk to the Jew's pimp, a fine lad named Seamus Cutter.”

“He sounds like a right good man with a name like Seamus.”

“Rest assured he's a true American as any of us can quantify and his blood goes back damn far in Central City's saloon scene. He fought in the War, so he no doubts fits your qualifications.”

“I'll see to him then.”

“Excellent!” Howard beamed with a jovial clap of his hands. He rubbed his palms together, “I like it when things come together.” he hissed orgasmically through clenched teeth. “He lives just north of Jacob's street, or the corner of that and Newark. Ask about at the saloon, you'll find him.”

“Jacob's and Newark, isn't that out of my jurisdiction?”

Howard shook his head, “Orders from James himself, as far as he cares  it's yours for the time-being. He actually expects you to figure this out and wrap it all up before the police bother.”

“How I wonder why.” Donovan growled, rubbing greasy fingers across his heavy bushy brows. The taste of cider met his lips bitter and strong as he took another heavy swig and the froth bathed his horsehair brush of a mustache.

“His business is his own, make of it as you will. I'm sure there's favors in it for next time you meet.” Howard explained. He motioned over for Morrison who sulked back to his partner's side.

“If you understand now, we will be off on our own matters.” Howard bowed, seeing himself off with Morrison in tow, like a panther of quiet death.