Joe didn't ask what had happened. He never did. It was none of his business, and frankly he didn't care. The two dirty bums had probably gotten bit back trying to rob someone. Serves 'em right. His office reeked of disinfectant and it was cold. Outside it was snowing in the dark Minnenoona dusk. He was still wearing his greatcoat while he stitched the smashed up one. He was covered in these little shrapnel pocks. But after some digging about Joe realised there wasn't an foreign objects in his flesh. Lucky bastard, it had probably been rock salt and not buckshot. "You're lucky kid, there isn't any lead in you. All the salt has dissolved. Once I've stitched you up I'll give you some morphine for the road." The young man winced and his brother chimed in, "That sounds painful doc, can't he have some morphine before you sew him up?" Joe shoe him a withering glance, "Shut up or get out. You don't get the drugs until you pay. Because I don't trust you scum." 

These two boys were too brown for Joe normally. But they knew the current words the Irish were using. So obviously they were connected to someone, so Joe best not risk turning them away. The kid groaned and whined for the duration of his stitches. Hopefully this would teach him he wasn't such a tough bastard. As Joe put finished the last surgeon's knot with a precise flourish he nodded at the boy, "Good man. Time for that morphine. Hold tight." He left his office through a side door. When the boys heard the door click shut with the lock they locked at each other. The unscathed one got up and rattled the back door handle. The doc had locked it. "Locked. Fuck." They looked at the office window. It was also locked shut. He pushed his brother off the stool. From the pharmacy closet Joe's ears perked up when he heard a dull thunk from his office. He paused and pondered. By the time he concluded they were likely trying to smash his window out his jaw had dropped and his brow had furrowed just in time for him to hear a loud [i][b]craaasshh[/b][/i] from his office. Yup. That was it.

He fumbled with the lock for a moment and by the time he was out of the medicine closet he had just enough time to catch a glimpse of one of their rear's vaulting over the counter and out the window, trying not to get caught on the jags of broken glass. Joe swore and made for the door. By the time he was out and in the dark back alley they were already hightailing it into the depths of the city. He reached for his strap and tried to line the boy up in the stubby sights of his revolver. He knew it wouldn't hit them from here but he could sure as hell scare them. He popped off a shot, one of them squealed. Then they rounded a corner. He'd have to file a police report in the morning. It would be pretty easy to cover up. He went back into his office and made sure everything was as well to do as it could be before locking the place back up. He got in his car and sighed heavily as he pinched the bridge of his nose. This was a hassle, for sure.

He took a moment to consider his plan of action. Who might know where the pair of hooligans had hidden? He figured Sackville's Soiree might be a good place to start. Good as any. Those walls had ears. And eyes in many cases. And even if the house didn't know who he was looking for: McGabhann was always kind of looking for that sort of company. He fired up the engine and rolled out of the clinic and into the empty snow-burdened street. The streetlight bounced off of the snow to form a strange yellow haze, it cut his visibility. Joe leaned forward and squinted through as he turned corner after corner. Crossing his hands and idling lazily on the clutch as he swerved about the empty streets. He scratched his philtrum and sniffed as he parked the car. His hands stank of disinfectant but he was used to it.

He liked the Soirée. His taste was above the bland hookers here; but the drinks were good and the boys had blow almost as good as the chink's. He was thirsty. His nose was itching. He stepped into the bar with a curt nod to the doorman. He wasn't a regular but enough of a face he didn't need to hassle his way in. He ordered himself something strong and beckoned the powder boy with a tap on his nose. As his drink was being poured he stepped into dingy toilets. Powder boy followed suit. 

Joe wordlessly offered him a fistful of crumpled bills and was met with a tiny brown envelope. He brought it up to his nose and carefully savoured it's acrid flowery scent. It would do. He stepped into a cubicle and emptied the packet onto the cistern. He pulled an old business card out from his wallet and a fresh note. He lined it up with a practiced hand and rolled up the note. Nothing itched the scratch like it. He stepped back into the bar. Wired. He looked around. No sign of Pearly. Or Roge for that matter. He scratched his nose. His vigorous hand reached for the glass and he took an enthusiastic swig. It tasted of poison and gasoline dripping down his throat. Delicious. 

He was ready for mindless chatter but the handful of other early morning bar flies looked half dead. The bar man stood idly, polishing his collection of crystal tumblers. "I'm looking for a pair of mulattoes. Scum. One's beat up. Full of stitches. The other had a funny nose. Ring any bells?" 

The bar man took a moment to respond. Scratching his chin. Joe laid a big bill on the counter. His face lit up. "Yuse always a kind one Joe. Anything for a friend. Not many half-breed brothers. Most broads learn from their first mistake. A funny nose you say? Sounds like it could be the McClusky brothers. Did one have regular hair and the other had kinky hair?" Joe nodded with a wicked grimace as he replied, "Sounds like 'em. You know where they haunt?" The bar man shook his head. "No, but the pawnbroker Aloysius mentioned they sold him some shinies a couple weeks ago. He might know more."

Joe grumbled unintelligibly. He ordered another drink for the road and knocked it back unceremoniously. "Send Pearly my regards, woodya." He stumbled out of the bar and fumbled with his keys. He swerved back home and climbed under the covers next to Ruby, his long suffering wife. He mumbles some excuse about a complicated emergency before he drifted off into oblivion. It had been a long time since Joe had been burdened by dreams.