MaeB

Intriguingly's

Miko felt like she was an onlooker, sidelined and spectating. She watched with widened almond eyes, blinking rapidly as an unmistakably dismembered voice echoed from behind the door. The splintered, worn wood did little to create a barrier between whatever was making those eery sounds and the small group of unsuspecting strangers that had gathered in Intriguingly’s. One of the man’s dogs barked and Miko’s brows raised. Dogs were especially good at sensing otherworldly presence, weren’t they? Is that why the protective animal couldn’t stop barking at the door? When the latch clicked open, the group of strangers all flinched with synergy. Miko took a couple of cautious steps backwards, not realising she was holding her breath and had been since the voice first spoke. The hastened beat of her heart thumped in her ear canals. There was no time to register what was happening. In fact, there was no rational explanation for it all. Perhaps some kind of gimmick? A marketing technique for the strange antique store? Something to get the town talking? Miko shivered. Whatever was beyond the now open door carried a chilling energy with it.

All of a sudden, the shop went into shutdown. The lights extinguished like a snuffed candle then flickered like strobes. Miko’s hand flew to her face, shielding her eyes from the naked flashing bulbs overhead. The air seemed to chill, temperature plummeting at an unbelievable speed, Miko’s breath formed plumes of vapour in front of her face. Then, chaos unfolded around them. Shelves trembled, sending the goods that were sat upon them tumbling to the ground. Glass shattered somewhere in the background. The young man who was stood at the front of the group, in direct eyeline of the haunted door, exclaimed loudly and Miko heard genuine fear in his voice.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the chaos died. Intriguingly’s was illuminated once more and the silence that enveloped them should’ve felt comforting. But Miko’s heart still thudded behind her ribcage and the hairs on the back of her neck still prickled. Though there was no longer an eery voice echoing beyond the door nor phantom destruction erupting around them, Miko still didn’t feel safe. And nor did anyone else in the group. Her eyes flicked from person to person searchingly. The young man that was toe to toe with whatever was behind that door was stuttering nervously. Unsurprising, really. The rest of the group didn’t have front row seats to whatever had just happened. The shop owner, suspiciously silent, shuffled over to Intriguingly’s door and flipped the sign.

“Closed!…” it read.

“Sir?” Miko called, her voice shakier than she’d have liked. “You don’t seem to be particularly bothered by whatever just happened… That a regular occurrence here or something?”

Her tone was a little more accusatory than she’d intended but she blamed the nerves.

“He’s right, you know. We deserve some kind of explanation. Like… What was that? Some kinda publicity stunt? Was a pretty good trick. But you can’t just close up shop and leave us in here!”

Miko blinked. She rarely felt as emboldened as she was presenting. But something about herd mentality and the fear that still prickled at the back of her neck drove her onward.

“Sir! Say something!”

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

“Ain’t no Winifred here.”

Like a wail through water, the disconnect tone needle-pricked Pearl’s right ear. A short, sharp snarl ripped from the back of the Madam’s throat as she dashed the receiver in the vague direction of its cradle. Plastic rattled as the phone tussled with itself. The noodled telephone cord tangled and coiled before it stretched just as a bungee cord may strain against those brave enough to jump. The receiver hung limp and lifeless as it swayed through the air, abandoned yet mocking, dull thuds like ellipsis against the leg of the table. She wasn’t sure whose voice had bitten back at her, so audacious and accusatory, immune to Pearl’s ominous threat. She paced the perimeter of her dingy office, eyes spinning in their sockets like hastily potted cue balls roll across a snooker table.

“Ain’t no Winifred here!?” she hollered, again and again, a scratched vinyl begging to move on. Her shrill cries were met with a stale silence.

As if sensing her daughter’s soft white underbelly, Pearl’s Mother’s voice spoke out from beneath the cesspit of rage within. That smoker’s rasp swept away Pearl’s own futile voice with a brush of a phantom hand and spoke with a disappointment that planted a kiss atop her head.

“Pearly girl, how did you miss it, huh? How did you let that old wog fool ya?”

The Madam’s fists clenched tight, balling at her sides. She daren’t argue with her Mother. Not in life nor in death. Least when Moira was living, she could be walked away from. Nowadays Pearl carried her everywhere, malignant and inescapable.

“Well, it’s no wonder she pulled the wool over your eyes, little lamb. You ain’t had your eye on the prize for weeks, have ya? Been too busy starin’ down the bottom of a bottle, ain’t ya? Pearl, I’ve done told you that shit is a goddamn kaleidoscope. This House has been rottin’ from the inside out and all you’ve been seein’ is pretty patterns. Before long you’ll be starin’ down the bottom of a barrel. How about that? I’m tellin’ you, you got a pest problem? Call in the cats! Fix up, Pearl. Goddamn it, FIX UP!”

Pearl Sackville’s hands flew to her face, eyes shielding themselves behind her finger picket fence. She didn’t answer Moira. No, she didn’t dare rush to her own defence. She didn’t deny the poignancy of the booze nor did she blame the coke she’d hoovered between Manhattans. She wished she could bury her incompetency beneath the bodies of her vices. But her Mother was, as she often tended to be when it came to Soirée, absolutely right.

“You’re gonna make this right, my little lamb. You’re gonna send after that skinny little whore and you’re gonna reset the balance in your House. Bring her Home. Deliver her to those oily wops. Get her back here ready for em. A little gift. And whilst you’re at it, these bozos you’ve got guardin’ the place might as well be little boys playin’ cops n robbers. Y’know half of them don’t even be packin’ any heat? How are they gonna guard the fort, Pearl? With they matchstick wrists and heads full of minced beef? Goddamn it, girl. FIX UP!”

The clarity of the final specs in a freshly cut line of coke burned through Pearl’s nostril. She felt the electric rush wash away the drunken waves that crashed against her corroding cliff-face. Moria’s rasp had ebbed away with the tide and Pearl was, once again, alone in her office. Thoughts of what to do, who to scream at, where to go and her next line all buzzed angrily in her hive.

“Who the fuck was that? Who do they think they’re speaking to?”

“Winifred best be on the first Greyhound outta here if she knows what’s good for her…”

“I’m gonna light that skinny bitch up. How the hell am I gonna get to this diner?”

The office, quickly becoming suffocating as it filled with the pressure of decision, was soon behind her as Pearl made her way back to the Soirée bar. She felt like she was reentering the scene a new woman. A performer who’d undergone a wardrobe change backstage. She wore a signature vengeful smile on her lips and a sobering determination she hadn’t sported in days. Roger spotted her from across the room, instantly recognising that smile. The Madam strode towards him, Moira’s rasp lingering like a hangover.

“With me. Now.”

Roger obediently tailed her, moving with less fluidity than his boss yet urgent nonetheless. They exited through the back door that opened out onto a back alley. These were brick walls that harboured secrets and turned blind eyes to Roger’s fist-filled farewells. The cool night air greeted them both first, abrupt and stunting, then Pearl whirled round to face her right-hand.

“What’s small, black and usually really fuckin’ good at keepin’ secrets?” her tone was facetiously melodic. The riddle rolled off her tongue but she spat out each syllable like olive stones. Flecks of spittle splattered against Roger’s cheeks, little saliva specks like drizzle on a window pane. He seemed unperturbed. “No guesses, Roge? Boo! You’re no fun. I’m talkin’ about our rat, Roge. The one that got me grabbed up by that greasy wacko wop? Remember? Now, I know you been wracking them 3 brain cells for the answer but don’t worry, Minnie and her mind-blowing IQ helped me figure it all out.”

Much like his immunity to the spittle, Roger didn’t take the bait regarding his intelligence either. A dramatic pause ensued.

“Winnie’s Wash, Roge!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms up in a theatric “quelle surprise!” style. “Winnie’s washed up! She’s sold out! Given up the ghost! She’s thrown her old pal Pearly under the bus as one final “Adieu” then jumped right on with her one-way ticket and cut outta town. And that’s a good job really ain’t it, Roge? Cos you was hot on her tail ready to break them breadstick bones over your knee, weren’t ya?”

Roger twitched one singular brow. He didn’t have a chance to interject before Pearl launched into her next breath.

“So here’s my plan. I’m gonna make a couple calls, Roge. Pearly’s gonna call in a couple favours. I’ve got money on the streets that I’m about ready to collect. There’s a lil someone who’s gonna go retrieve our Dixie from uptown. Someone she ain’t gonna see comin’. And there’s someone else who’s gonna help me kit out these schmucks you’ve bulked out our muscle with. Half of them couldn’t even handle a Crossy 38 if it came with a fuckin’ picture book play-by-play. Now, I told you to get the best bodies you could find. I want you to take a look at them, Roge. Ask yourself if they could handle themselves around the fuckin’ Family. Get this place locked down by tomorrow. When big daddy Tony comes back? I don’t want a single one of these spunk bubbles unarmed at my front door. I wanted guard dogs and I’ve got kittens in fuckin’ Christmas bows.”

A wind whistled down the alleyway, tousling Pearl’s jet black pin curls. She flattened them with her palms, fixing them back in place. Roger nodded, ever stoic and solemn. She didn’t await confirmation. She didn’t need an answer. She knew her order had been received, it was written in Roger’s hardened upper lip. He didn’t need to tell her that it was good to have her back. He didn’t have to acknowledge that bright, devilish light that had returned to her corneas. And he didn’t know that it was thanks to Moira’s ghost that Pearl was back. Just in time.

Intriguingly's

How we all doing?

@RickyG85

I’m moving house and still getting my ass handed to me at work…

But I’m working my way through my commitments and this RP is on my radar.

So sorry for the delay! I will be back.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

Weakness has a scent; Gun mental grey in scarlet. A well-trained nose can smell that putrid weakness from across a room. All that salt-crusted sweat and shallow breath. Pearl Sackville knew that smell like second-hand smoke but when it caressed her nasal hairs this time it was because she caught whiffs of it oozing from her own pores, mixing with her liberally doused perfume. Her eyes flickered from the entrance of the Soirée bar to the stage, liquorice pupils dilating around a sea of drunken, faceless Johns rupturing and contorting with bellyache laughter. Pearl’s upper lip quivered, resisting a disdainful sneer. How dare these leeches behave so joyously when her own mind was plagued with ominous threats and imminent danger? Like salt upon a slug was the sting of her babydolls parading through the crowd, long-legged and slender-necked, sprinkling compliments like confetti down an aisle. They were working the room, tickling egos and tempting tantalisingly with their plunging necklines and half-smiles. The Soirée sirens glided from vessel to vessel, luring with their extended velvet arms and poised calloused hands ready to lead their victim to their murky depths. It should’ve made Pearl happy. The business was booming, the bar was flowing, the Blues artist she’d booked was captivating the attention of the few who were momentarily uninterested in her babydolls... But it was resentment that prickled her forearms and umbrage that raised the downy hair there with a rigidity that reminded her of her albeit misplaced anger.

In the hours since she’d ordered Roger to double the muscle, the Madam had set up camp at her signature bar stool and seldom moved since (save for the odd toilet break) She forced a smile that verged on grimace, she knocked back Manhattans that didn’t taste as good as Sandy’s and she hoped her occasional teary eyes could be passed off as drunken puddling. But if anyone had noticed the Madam fraying at her edges, no one attempted to tug at the snag nor did they offer a patch to sew on and conceal the threadbare hole she proceeded to finger at and widen. As the whiskey within clawed at the underside of her hot skin, Pearl lacked her usual gravitas, finding herself stumbling through conversations with punters at the bar who inched away from her with hitched laughter and awkward side-steps. That metallic scent of weakness continued to linger around her, upturning the noses of those trained to scent it out. Roger lingered nearby noticeably more than usual, his piggy eyes scanning the room continually.

“Too goddamn late for alla that…” Pearl grumbled to herself under her breath, shooting him an inebriated sideways glance.

As she gulped back on her freshly lit cigar, the Madam turned when she felt another presence beside her. There stood Minnie, watching her warily as she collected a glass of champagne from the bar. As a child fearful of a nippy terrier may creep, Minnie’s shallow and narrow feet shoved into obnoxiously high platforms shuffled in a hesitant approach.

“Place is a gas tonight,” Minnie said tentatively, forcing a weak smile as a chaser to her delicate chortle.

This was a bolshy attempt at appeasing her Madam from the young babydoll and Pearl knew it. Usually, if she were operating at full strength, she may have rebuffed the juvenile advances with something cutting and demeaning. Yet tonight, she let a lazily weak smile carve into her blood-red lips as she raised her glass, cigar balanced between two fingers, in mock salute.

“You gots that skinny fella on Table 41 givin’ you eyes, girl” the Madam said, her alert irises seeing beyond Minnie’s form even as it obscured her view.

The babydoll knew better than to turn around. Instead she cleared her throat and raised a brow. The Madam continued, nonchalantly sipping at her Manhattan.

“But them Thom McAns and loose fittin’ pants tell me if he can’t afford a tailor he certainly can’t afford you,” Pearl stated. Minnie bristled at the covert compliment. “So if he’s gonna have a go, little lamb, make sure he pays up front first, alright?”

Minnie nodded eagerly, all wide-eyed and obedient, unaccustomed to her boss exchanging more than a handful of unpleasant words with her. Pearl clicked her tongue, winked and flashed a fiendish grin.

“Since our girl Dixie ain’t comin’ back, you should raise your prices, girl. Make the most of being the skinniest lil’ fawn round here these days,” Pearl’s brows inched closer to her jet black hairline, poised as if she were sharing abundantly generous tidbits of wisdom.

The Gibson on stage had burst into a sultry solo, the fingers that plucked upon strings strummed out both sides of a conversation. Pearl’s head turned to watch, the hopeful first notes sparking her curiosity. That opening lick was posed like a question and was followed by a melodic response. Then, just as Tony’s fingers had curled around her neck that morning, the guitarist bent his fingertips around strings to choke those sad notes into an anguished whine. Minnie followed her Madam’s eyes to the performer and the two of them silently appreciated his artistry. For a moment, Pearl forgot her fear and was reminded that this was her house. Her home. As the musician bowed his head, honing his attention in on the Gibson’s neck with fingers tickling along the frets, Pearl exhaled a plume of cigar smoke and expelled her unease with it.

“Dixie ain’t say where it was she was goin’” Minnie said hesitantly, twirling a curl round her index. “But she told me once she had an Aunt uptown that runs a diner she was always wantin’ her to work at…”

This commanded Pearl’s attention. She fixed her shark eyes on the babydoll, watching her wrestle internally with loyalty to her fellow working girl and the innate need to please her Mother. Minnie’s bottom lip quivered slightly, buckling as it deliberated sharing the whole story. Pearl said nothing. She let her silence coax the words out from the shadows.

“I only says that cos I saw them men this morning, Miss P. Them men talkin’ bout Luca. In your office? I’m sorry, I weren’t snoopin’ or nothin’. Just heard them. Saw them leavin’…” young Minnie sniffed, a flash of regret pinching at the corner of her eyes. “And the girls, we’ve been hearin’ things. Nothin’ bad, naw. Just Roge has been asking us questions and I was thinkin’ “Why” all of a sudden… Then we put 2 and 1 together and… S-Some of us wanna help, Miss P? If we can, I mean… Maybe if Dixie can explain to them that this is all one big misunderstandin’? Maybe she can convince em-“

Pearl ran her tongue along the chapped red lipstick that coated her lower lip, a flash of pink against her porcelain white flesh.

“This diner, Minnie. This Aunt. You got a name?”

Drums kicked back in on stage as the Gibson slipped back into the fray, sibilance of snares and symbols, and the singer’s liquid tone juiced and flowed along a song about living each day like your last. The young whore blinked, realising it was her turn to speak again. She shook her head, wracking her brains so hard it became overt. A smog of suspicion crept across the Madam’s face and her lips became taut as a knot as they pinched together. Sensing herself falling, Minnie’s mouth opened and shut like butterfly wings. Then, the betrayal fluttered forth into the night. Dissipating with Pearl’s cigar smoke.

“I-I don’t remember for certain, Miss P. But I’m pretty sure she said real north-like. Edge of Minnenoona. And it’s just off the freeway so they called it Roadside Diner or somethin’…” she gulped at her glass of champagne with the thirst of a dog fresh from a walk. “I could be dead wrong but that’s what I can remember! You think that’ll help? You think we can just get Dixie to explain this whole thing? Then maybe she can come back, huh? Earn her keep again. I gotta say, Dixie was real good with the-”

Pearl rose to her feet. Minnie halted. The Madam clinked her empty glass on the bar and took one final puff of her cigar. The sweet smoke billowed from her pursed lips as she kissed it goodbye.

“Thanks, lamb”Pearl sighed, a paper-cut smile appearing above her chin. “When Dixie comes back, I’ll be sure to send her straight to you right after she cleans up this little mess.”

Minnie smiled and nodded.

“Speakin’ of messes, Miss P, Dixie says that cleaner that came by was real sweet on her. Think she’ll come by regular now? Be nice to have someone tidyin’ up after us full time huh? Like a proper hotel?”

Soirée dialled right down to a slow-motion replay. Minnie’s lips were moving so laden, her blinks heavy-lidded, the Blues on stage sounded like it was playing somewhere 3 streets over as Pearl Sackville had a painfully delayed realisation. Winnie’s fuckin’ Wash. She moved too quick for someone who had sunk more Manhattans than she could count on two hands. Darting through the thick Soirée crowd, ducking her head with a determined urgency, her high heels speared the liquor-soaked carpet. Pearl beelined for the office and gave the door a kick as she entered then flicked it shut behind her. Her eyes narrowed on the phone that sat innocently atop her desk. She snatched the receiver from the cradle and jabbed in the number. Flames licked at her insides and a particular breed of clarity that came only with rage illuminated her mind. Of course. How else had Tony been so dead certain Luca’s body was Soirée’s problem? The old crone had sold out. After years of harbouring the secrets of every no gooder in Minnenoona, she’d chosen Pearl Sackville to break the habit of a lifetime. Daggering breaths whistled through flared nostrils. A click sounded as the phone was answered on the other end. Pearl wasted no time. Her voice was low as she hissed:

“Winifred.”

Nothing. Faint static and the hint of breath in the receiver.

“What have you done?”

And for a beat there was nothing. Nothing but Pearl white-knuckling the receiver and imagining driving her thumbs through the Cleaner’s eyeholes.

“Ain’t no ‘Winifred’ here.”

Then, the line disconnected.

Intriguingly's

Hope everyone is doing okay ...

@Stryder BC

I’ll try and get something out over the next few days - Work is kickin’ my ass

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

Stars blinking like sneeze spray across the skyline. The thud of a taxi door being flung shut oh-so-carelessly, no consideration for how the metal may crunch closed in the street lamp half light. Winds guillotining through the slit of a dress. Ankles pooling and melting over the edge of kitten heels as they snapped across paving slabs that shimmered with a dewy nighttime sheen. Pearl stood at the foot of Soirée stairwell. Her face, pinched tight against the cold, was angled upward at the fluorescent signage as the hum of the ballast crooned away. The linear tubes winked at her overhead, casting an intermittent shadow that hugged Pearl from behind and caressed her cheek. She felt the chilling gnash of a breeze gnaw away at the residue of Sandy that clung and coated her skin. His fingerprints, overlapping with Tony's like muddied paw prints, reminded her that Little Pearly Girl was still hidden beneath her cloak of liquor and coke and "fuck yous." It was Little Pearl who felt fearful of the ghosts on Greet Street. It was Little Pearl that felt tears prickle as the stars above glinted like Sandy's wedding band. Little Pearl winced at the memory of Tony's bracelet tinkering in her ear as he gripped her neck. It was the Madam that gulped down the ball of fear that grew benign in her throat and it was the Madam, and maybe the Manhattan, that gritted her teeth as she climbed the stairs of Soirée. Her Mother's eyes stared back at her from the other side of glass panes in the door, narrowed and accusatory, so disapproving of her weakness. Moira wouldn't have allowed such a parasite to enter Soirée. She would never have let Tony Sangiovese and his meatheads accost her. Tony was a small fry compared to the men who buried a bullet in her Mother's skull. Pearl had to reestablish herself. And she had to do it tonight.

The outing had given Pearl the clarity she'd so desperately needed. She felt anchored in her body again instead of clutching railings starboard side in uncharted waters. Seeing Sandy behind the bar, still ruggedly handsome and effortlessly charming, should've reminded her of the heartbreak he'd left behind. It should've rattled her already brittle nerves but instead something fierce had succumbed her. Was it her Mother's voice? Her determination to regain control? The anger she felt at a wife she'd never know laid up in bed waiting for her bartender husband to return home? Either way, Pearl was somewhat pieced back together. Cracked and tarnished but together.

Roger was awaiting her return on the other side of the Soirée doors, his night shift in full swing. They hadn't crossed paths when she'd snuck out for her walk earlier and his baldheaded nod of greeting felt as close to "Welcome Home" as she'd ever get. The nod was stoic and solemn in an utterly emotionless way, arms folded across his ironing board of a chest.

"I'm fine, I'm fine..." Pearly sighed, waving a hand dismissively.

Roger's brows twitched and he twisted his body to let his Madam slink past like a cat returning through the flap after a night of skulking shadows and jumping fences.

"Come 'ere, Roge" Pearly purred, shrugging out of her coat and heading toward her office. "We've got business matters to tend to."

The two of them entered the office, the Madam took her rightful place behind her desk whilst Roger stood expectantly opposite her. She eyed him from over the desk, fingernails rapping rhythmically across wood.

"Tony Genovese paid me a visit," she said tightly.

Roger nodded again. Just once. Morbid yet knowing. She searched his face for a sign of any remorse. Anything that may give an inkling of guilt for his absence, for allowing some schmuck to lay his hands on the woman that paid his wages and fed his kids. But, as always, Roger remained unintelligibly stolid. The finger raps had turned to taps, impatient as they knocked against wood. The smell of Tony's breath on her cheek, the immovable nervousness to be in her own home, the weakness she felt at Tony's mercy, it all bubbled, boiled and toiled within her. Little Pearly Girl sobbed but the Madam roared protectively as she slammed her palm down on the desk. The typewriter and the pen pot clanged as the desktop shook. Pearl's palm spanked the desk again. And again. The pen pot teetered then toppled over, spilling its contents like vomit across haphazardly strewn paperwork. Pens rolled scattered across the desk, sent to an untimely death as they plummeted to the floor. Roger stood, staring unflinchingly.

"He had his goddamn hairy ass hands round my throat, Roger!" she bellowed, vocal cords straining against her pain. Her own fingertips hovered where his hands had been, just as they'd clutched at his grip all those hours before. Voice softening a few decibels as she took a short and sharp breath, she went on. "My throat! Mine! Me! I've run the most successful whorehouse in Minnenoona since those girls were picking they noses in class. And in all them years, do you know how many times I've had someone grab me up in my fucking house?! I'll tell you, Roge. Let me tell ya. One. And it's one time too damn many!"

Pearl's words coloured the air blue, thickening the air like too much flour in cake mix. Roger still stood, phlegmatic. The only giveaway that he was even hearing her was his slow blinks and clenched fists pinned rigid to his sides.

"He says he's comin' back in a couple days, y'know. And I'll be damned if that wop gets that close again. So by the time he's back, I want twice the bodies in here. I want the best fists you can find me, Roge. I'm not kiddin'. I know you know people. Tony's got enemies all over these streets. Find they friends, friends that'd wanna chance to see him on his ass. Go fetch em. Bring em back here. And tell em if that greasy-haired hairy fuck even tries to put his hands on me again? You take em clean off."

A silence fell. Pearl's bones trembled. Her eyes bore holes through Roger's skull, two hollowing beams piercing straight through him. His shoulders rose and fell with barely a sigh.

"And what about when the rest of the Family hear Tony's been roughed up at the local brothel, Miss P? What happens when the others come? And they keep coming?"

The Madam ground her molars together, faded ivory on faded ivory, ridges smoothing by the second.

"I need you to restore peace in my house, Roger. That's what I pay you for. I don't pay for your problems. I pay for your solutions."

Pearl daintily plucked at her handbag and pulled out a silver cigarette tin. She slid a cigarette out and placed it between her lips, the hiss of a match head crackling as a glowing flame leapt forth to illuminate the tip. It was no cigar. But it smoked anyway and it filled her limp lungs with something. Her outburst passed them by like storm clouds on wind and she puffed grey into the space between them. Roger turned and purposefully left the office without another word, shoulders broad and door slam rattling hinges with finality. Once again, Pearl was alone. But this time, she didn't feel scared or vulnerable or fearful. Those feelings had inched away into the darkness as soon as she'd settled into her office chair. Little Pearly Girl had been put to bed. The Madam smoked her cigarette as she stared at the space in the carpet where Roge had stood. As she breathed in the nicotine and breathed out the remnants of rage, she told herself this would all work itself out. She wouldn't wind up like her Mother, face down on that very desk with a hole in her head. She'd sooner die than wind up dead.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

Pearl rarely ventured beyond the Soirée walls. What could possibly entice her outside when she had everything she needed within the same 4 walls, in arms reach? In the whore house, she was Pearly Sackville. Beyond? She was a slight, weathered woman in an immodest gown and a cloak of liquor. Something shifted within her as soon as her heels clinked against the Minnenoona pavement. The winds that kicked up various litter and stray plastic bags, pluming in their abandonment and twirling around ankles, made her eyes sting and well with salten tears. Even the yellowed streetlights overhead, shrouded in winter mist against the last of the daylight, were enough to make her dip her head. It made her miss the shelter within the shadows of Soirée. Made her crave the cool marble of the bartop against her underarms. But the whorehouse had been invaded by a parasite Pearl felt naked for. An intruder had infiltrated the castle walls she'd built for herself; Her moat too shallow, battlements too weak, merlons lowered. Pearl's palace had been tarnished by a sonless Father before it had even turned from morning to afternoon. She imagined the feeling that clung to her bones could be likened to the victim of a house burglar. A violation of your sanctuary. Your home. Once someone has made it very clear how easy it is for them to reach past the shattered glass of your window pane and unlock your front door, once they've skulked through your photo-framed hallways and dug through your drawers, suddenly home doesn't feel like home anymore. Suddenly the brickwork is made of sand and with every ebb and flow of the tide, it all crumbles away until there's nothing left but a mound of something that for a long time you called yours. Yet in this case, nothing but safety had been stolen from her. Tony had left Soirée just as he'd arrived; Enraged and vengeful. But he'd left Pearly different. Humbled. Scared. She no longer felt invincible as she glided through her hallways in her slitted gown and her bouncing pin curls. She could still smell the cigarette smoke on Tony's fingers as they'd curled around her neck. If someone were to dust her heart for fingerprints, they'd find the swirling stains of fear left behind by that blackened stare. His pupils had diluted before her like squid ink, cold as the Minnenoona winters. And once he'd left? The coke and the bourbon didn't amplify her confidence nor race along with her heartbeat. The drum in her chest was off-beat and jagged. In fact, the drugs and the alcohol were bare-knuckle fighting within her, dialling up the volume of every paranoid stream of consciousness that pierced through her mind with each punch into the next. So without debating why, Pearl succumbed to her sudden urge to leave Soirée. Equipped with her trusty Smith & Wesson sleeping peacefully in her crushed velvet clutch, Pearl fled her home with shallow breaths and a throat shrunk small as a sipper straw.

The smell of wet asphalt assaulted her nostrils, the threat of rain sat fat in the swelling grey clouds that rolled lazily overhead. The Madam tucked her black trench coat tighter around her slight frame, pulling the belt at her waist to cinch the material tighter still. Greet Street was littered with the lives of people so different to her; Working professionals returning home, hung and haggard by a hard days work. A woman pushing a screaming stroller with a wayward wheel and too many nights of too little sleep darkening her under-eyes. Teenagers laughed as they kicked a flaking, wet football to one another, the sound of their scuffing trainers echoing down the street. Eyes barely lingered on Pearl as she took slow, uncertain steps down Greet Street. The thread of Soirée became more and more taught with every step she took away from it but with every click of her heel, Tony's breath on her face was further and further in the rearview. Squinting, she raised her aquamarine blues to the sky and heard her Mother's unmistakeable rasp in her right ear.

"Pearly Girl. This is what happens when you turn a blind eye to disobedience," Moira's words, hissed between clenched teeth, felt as real as the cool Minnenoona air in her lungs. "What have I told you about these girls? Have I taught you nothing? Have you learned nothing? Letting that whore get away from you was the very same weakness that let that gangster into your home. If you'd have handled your business like I taught you, he'd have never gotten his rotten hands on you. Do you see that? Do you see that the same fair hand that struck a girl for being too pretty is the same one that shied away from dealing consequence? Is this how you run shit? For God's sake, Pearl, it's no wonder we're here. This is how my legacy lives on? Well? Now you must face the repercussions of your lack of actions, little Pearl."

A speeding car, wheels splitting a roadside puddle, spattered murky water across Pearl's coat. She barely flinched. Instead, she begged with her Mother for a solution. A plan. A slither of wisdom that might suggest how she could escape from beneath the thumb of Tony Genovese. But there was nothing. Just static. So on she walked. Until dusk became dark. Until her heels stung and throbbed with every step. Until the streets became flea-bitten with the late dwellers of Minnenoona. A neon sign ahead beckoned to her, finger coiling with "come hither", tantalising and beaconing against the night sky. Pearl Sackville ducked inside, inhaling the familiar smell of booze-soaked carpets and stale smoke. The bustling dive bar should've made her recoil. The sound of raucous laughter and clinking glassware should've made her turn on her heels and hail a cab back to Soirée. Yet though this dinginess wasn't one she called her own, it still comforted her. A scene that was a stranger to her but had the familiarity of home without the complications. Tony Genovese wouldn't emerge from behind the beer-smeared slotties and there wasn't a soul in here that would recognise her face. In this bar, she was a no one. Here, she really could hide in the shadows. The bartender wouldn't know her drink. The drunkards sat at the bar wouldn't gawp at the Matron of the house. Instead, conversations continued to bloom around her and Pearl slid onto a vacant bar stool with pursed lips and stiffened joints. Her feet gasped with relief as she took her weight off of them, poising them on the footbar and wriggling her toes stuffed in the pointed ends of her heels. She scanned the length of the bar in search of a staff member, fingers fumbling with the clasp of her clutch to pluck a few crisp bills from inside. That's when a laugh her heart recognised reverberated within her ribs. Her neck snapped to peer around the bulking back of the man next to her, eyes searching frantically for the face she knew she'd recall.

As if fate had placed him there, Sandy Collington jeered with a drunken fool whilst popping the cap of a bottled beer, completely ignorant to the new arrival who stared at him wide-eyed down the bar. His hair, longer than it was all those years ago, was peppered with silver and thinning like smoke. He wore it tucked behind his ears, unwashed. That silver cap on his tooth still glinted with every wide-mouthed laugh that ripped from him. Sandy's torso had gotten fluffy with extra weight and he moved with a lumber that lacked the grace of his quick steps all those years before. Sensing Pearl's eyes on him, Sandy turned expectantly to serve his next customer. She watched in slow motion as recognition bled across his features, the hangover of his laugh evaporating from lips she'd memorised as a lonely girl in her early 20s. She felt the legs of her bar stool quiver. Sandy took long, slow steps towards her. She felt as though she were watching him through a pair of binoculars, his body a tiny spec in the distance. But before long he was just an arms-length away, his face dappled with age and wrinkles looking down at her with emotions she couldn't quite identify.

"Peaches," he stated. It was not a question. A statement. He renamed her again, whetting her crown and whispering a prayer.

And suddenly Pearl had a reason to gather herself back together. Like an actor about to emerge from backstage, watching the curtains rise with bated breath, Pearl sharply inhaled and held that little lifeline close to her chest, bracing herself to perform as someone who was perfectly and utterly fine. Someone who had simply wandered into a bar for a drink. Someone taking shelter from the cool Minnenoona air. Her tight, wry smile did little to wipe the scars of the morning from her face. But his easy eyes had already locked onto her, combing over her, and she wondered if he could see every inch of her beneath the puddle-spattered trench coat. Suddenly she was who he knew before. Younger and armoured with a naïvety that had long since abandoned her.

"Do you still make the meanest Manhattan in the Midwest?" Pearl rasped.

Sandy folded both arms across his chest, sleeves riding up to uncover tattoos she didn't remember being there. They were already faded into his skin. How long had it been since she'd heard his voice?

"There are some things that never leave you," he shrugged, bowing his head in acknowledgment of her request.

And she watched him ice a shaker, as she had so many times before, dusting a coupe before pinching its dainty stem between thumb and forefinger. Heads turned as Sandy began assembling the cocktail, not recognising the routine. Those that frequented this bar didn't tend to order Manhattans, it seemed. Though she was sure they would if they knew the man making it. A thin smile remained velcroed to Pearl's lips as she watched Sandy's fingers cradle the neck of the whiskey bottle, slipping that liquor onto ice. The sweet vermouth was added with a flick of his wrist and he shook bitters to balance just the way she liked. And when Sandy reunited both halves of the cocktail shaker, smacking them together with his palm, there was something heavy in the way he looked upon her. The ice cracked side to side, his arms moving with a lazier, slower shake than his former self.

"You never came back," she whispered. Her words disintegrated in the air between them, lost in the buzz of the bar and between the crackling of shaken ice.

Sandy tapped the shaker on the edge of the bar, breaking apart the tins and pouring the chilled cocktail into the glass before her.

"No cherries here, I'm afraid" he said haughtily. "You alright with a twist of lemon?"

She nodded. A curl of yellow rind plunged down the side of the glass and Pearl reached eagerly for the stem, lifting it to her parched lips. As it flooded her tastebuds, Sandy's signature gliding down her throat, she swallowed back the first sip with a thirst that crept up on her. Sandy stood, awaiting her reaction patiently. She hummed in approval, smacking her lips together and letting a genuine smile pinch her cheeks.

"You still over on Greet Street?" Sandy asked, busying his hands with polishing steamed glassware before returning them neatly to the shelves hidden beneath the bar.

Pearls eyebrows raised and she nodded slowly.

"Sure am," she replied. "Never left."

He nodded once. Brief.

"How have you been?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Business good?"

"Business is always good."

"Sorry about Moira."

"I'm not."

"No?"

"No."

"Bad, though. The way it all went down."

"I don't think so. She'd rather it all happen that way than dying old and wrinkled."

"Can't have been easy for you. Seeing her like that."

"Weren't easy seein' her like anything."

"I know that. But-"

"You been doin' this? Here? The whole time?"

"Hell naw. Tried somethin' else for a while but... Didn't work out."

"You been in Minnenoona ever since?"

"I have."

"And you didn't-"

The jukebox whirred and clicked in the corner as it changed record, the silence exposing Pearl and Sandy so much they both halted, awaiting the next Blues song to kick in. As soon as the tinkering keys refilled the room, Pearl gulped deeply at the Manhattan and stared intently at Sandy. A lick of pain flickered across his aged face, those soft hazel eyes clouding with guilt.

"You're the last person I expected to see come walkin' through that door tonight, Peach. It's been a long time."

Pearl sniffed. She remembered that tone. The fry in his voice. She remembered the way he saw her. The way he spoke to her as if they were alone. The way he laughed at her even when she protested her funniness. She remembered the way he'd spot her from the other side of the room, over the sea of heads and shoulders between them, smiling as she pushed her way through the crowd. Remembered the smell of his cologne mixed with sweat. Remembered how she'd giggle and blush and become so malleable in his hands.

"I should be gettin' back. They'll be wonderin' where I am. Thanks for the drink. Taste just like I remember it."

The last of Sandy's Manhattan spilled into Pearl's parted lips as she unfolded from the bar stool, the balls of her feet squealing as she straightened up. She wanted to sprint back out the doors. She wanted to melt into the bar. She wanted to reach across and cradle Sandy's face in her hands. As she turned to leave, choking back the sob that balled in her throat, a hand flew out and gripped her arm. She nearly ripped it away. Instead, she simply reached into her clutch and extracted a generous wedge of bills. Gripping them in her fist, Pearl looked down at the hand that still wrapped around her forearm. It was mapped with fine wrinkles and the glint a silver band at the base of a finger. She gasped softly, stepping back as if that hand were searing hot. Pressing cash into the vacant palm, fingertips brushing against the wedding ring, Pearl hurried away from Sandy Collington and his mean Manhattans and his even meaner ring finger. She was walking a mere few minutes before she whistled for a cab, knees knocking as she jogged towards its flashing indicators and flaring taillights. As she crumpled into the backseat, the taxi drivers eyes peered at her through the rearview mirror.

"Where ya goin', Ma'am?" he huffed, wasting no time shifting back into gear.

"Soirée," she said sharply. "Take me to Soirée. Take me home."

Where In The World?

Consider me ENSNARED

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

Little opals of condensation beaded across the mildew-framed window, leaving snail trails glistening in their wake as they skated across the rink of a grey landscape beyond. Echoed indents of sequins like scales on her skin, Pearly Sackville rose from her pit in slow motion, each movement only a droplet easier than the last. Her faulty memories of the night before hung drying in a darkroom, pegged at their corners, sun-bleached and dripping with residual development chemicals. She winced as she remembered Roger leading her upstairs like a horse to slaughter. How he'd placed his boot over her bag of coke and ignored her pertinence. How he'd cradled her then lifted her into bed like an overtired toddler. Pearl wished she'd drunk that little bit more to prevent any recollection whatsoever. After all, photographs were best developed in blackout. She gritted her teeth as the cool water cut across her skin. She bit back tears as a wire brush with missing beads on the bristles ran its fangs through her hair. The Madam slowly pieced whatever was left of herself back together.

"Now, now my precious Pearly Girl," her mother had said all those years ago, the cherry of her cigarette dancing in the darkness of that dimly lit room. Plumes of smoke had hung around them like ghosts. "One day I ain't gon' be here to do every damn thing in this place. Lord knows I ain't plannin' on livin' til I shrivel and prune like some crone sat in her bathwater too long... Naw, I'm gon' die young and pretty. And when I do? This'll aaaaaall be down to you, m'kay? The bar, the business, the girls... It'll be yours, alright? And when it is, Pearly Girl, when it is all yours? I want you to be goddamn good and ready. None of this 'happy families' horseshit. These girls ain't your friends. They ain't your sisters. They ain't even your colleagues. You don't belong with them. They belong to you. You understand that, don't you?"

If only Pearl's memories of her mother's words would fade as quickly as those she drowned in whiskey and cocaine night after night. Still the woman's ashen voice, crackling as it fried in spitting oil, resonated so clearly between her ears. When Pearl eventually concluded herself ready for public consumption, the Madam clicked her bedroom door open and peered through the slither between door and frame. The corridor was desolate, deserted and dark, save for the single piano key of mid-morning dusk that pushed past her across the landing. She wore a black slip dress, straps so thin they hung loosely from her jutting clavicles. The hem skirted the top of her knees with a devastating slit that chiselled up her thigh. The powder she'd puffed across her skin clung to her peach fuzz and dusky blush bloomed as it kissed the apples of her cheeks. Pearl walked the length of the empty corridor, listening for the sound of another soul haunting the empty whorehouse at this hour. Just when she'd accepted she was probably alone, the sound of wood splintering made her head turn to cast a look like a fishing line over her shoulder. The bare face of Minnie Tyrell, Pearl's youngest babydoll, poked out from behind her bedroom door. The girl was still shrouded in sleep, stubby lashes flickering at the sight of her Madam patrolling the corridors so early. Freckles dotted across Minnie's button nose like flecks of cocoa powder. Her smooth skin looked pulled oh-so-taught across her angular face, fighting gravity far better than the loosened jowls at Pearl's own jawline.

"Miss P?" Minnie mumbled, her lips smacking together blearily. "It's payday today, right?"

For a moment there was no sound save for the hiss of air in the old Soirée pipes until Pearl clicked her tongue impatiently.

"First of the month, Minnie-" she drawled. "Comes round on the 1st of every month, same as last month, last I checked. So once you girls have got your lazy asses out of bed, your money'll be ready for you. In my office. Get some clothes on and I'll see you there."

And with that, she turned on her kitten heels and disappeared downstairs to her office, blinds clattering against glass as she slammed the door behind her. The girls had to gather in that office once a month to collect their earnings. Often shaking palms outstretched, eagerly awaiting the weight of a single brown envelope. A few days before, Pearl would comb through the books, compiling each of the girls' monthly wages by separating out their share from the daily takings. Then, she'd deduct her cut. If the babydolls didn't turn up to collect, the envelope would be retuned to the safe. There were 6 girls who currently lived at Soirée, Pearl's girls, and another 10 part-timers would rent a room for a few hours here and there. The rental fees were payable to the Madam and that, plus Pearl's standard percentage, would be deducted from the pay packets. All of the girls would arrive on the 1st to collect their little brown cushion that was counted and skimmed by Pearl. They'd be grateful. They'd be polite. A flurry of perfume and costume jewellery would soon fill the office, each of the little lambs lined up one by one. The Madam dropped to her knees by the safe and dialled in the code, waiting to hear that whispered click of approval before swinging the heavy door open and stacking the envelopes next to her. A soft knock on the door told her the girls were arriving.

"Come on in!" Pearl called, cradling the envelopes and settling behind her desk.

Minnie was the first to enter. She wore an oversized t-shirt and running shorts with no shoes. Approaching the desk somewhat sheepishly, the young girl's eyes were lowered to avoid Pearl's steely gaze. Minnie and Dixie had been close. Dixie had somewhat taken the young thing under her wing, offering her undoubtedly terrible advice and showing her the ropes of Soirée. Her hand extended, flinching at the sound of the rest of Soirées whores filing in through the office door, Minnie looked infantile next to the others.

"Thank you, Miss P" she said softly, inclining her head as the money was lowered into her palm.

Then came the barrage of thank yous, each of them followed by hurriedly retreating steps.

"Thanks, Miss Pearl."

"Thank you, Pearl.

"Pleasure doin' business with you, Miss P.

"Same time next month, huh? Thanks so much Miss Pearl."

And then they were gone.

None stayed to exchange pleasantries. There was no small talk nor idle chit chat. The whores came to collect their money then got right on back to working. Pearl sighed. Sobriety clung to her like wet wool on damp skin and every inch of her twinged as she ran a hand through her curls. Just as she was about to stumble downstairs to the bar for her first of many drinks that day, there was another knock at the door. It lacked the hesitancy of the babydolls and it was surely not Roger's signature raps. This knock belonged to someone who hadn't graced Soirée before. Someone who didn't care to wait for permission. Before she had a chance to grant them entry, the door swung open, slamming against the dry wall behind it. The creak of the office door revealed someone the Madam reluctantly recognised. His thick, jet black locks were slicked back like engine oil. Unkempt black brows like two caterpillars sat above his shark eyes. A pinstriped three piece suit, pressed and starched to perfection then drenched in cologne, encapsulated a barely-contained belly and a gold chain snagging on wiry chest hairs. Tony Genovese stood wide-legged and broad shouldered. His eyes scraped along the length of the office before landing on Pearl who sat rigid behind her desk. She breathed back the wind of fear that whistled up from her toes, lifting the hairs on her arms, pinching her lips together as she returned the Wop's arrowhead of a stare. Two more men were stood behind him though they didn't enter. Instead they guarded either side of the office door like stony gargoyles.

The two of them stared at one another from across the room. Pearl wondered if Tony could smell the perspiration that beaded in her armpits. She exhaled, pushing her chair back from the bureau desk, folding one leg over the other.

"Tony Genovese," she said slowly, a lyrical lilt embellishing his surname. "Soirée don't open 'til a lil later... But I'll see if one of the girls would be willing to make an exception..."

Disgust tugged at one corner of his lips. He holds up his left hand demonstratively, the wink of his wedding ring sufficing as an answer.

"I'm not here to catch somethin' nasty off one of your whores, Pearl" Tony sneered. "Matter of fact. I usually wouldn't be caught dead steppin' foot into this cesspit. But I think you know damned well why I'm here."

The Madam widened her eyes in mocking innocence, clicking her nail extensions on the desk as she feigned curiosity, channelling her years of experience repressing fear and theatrically displaying a false confidence. Was the skill so refined that it would fool Tony? She wasn't sure. Yet still, the Madam forced a smile on her face and raised her chin.

"Cesspit? Ouch. Tony, I sell pussy and liquor. You're happily married and there's plenty good bars your side of town. So if you want neither of those, what can I possibly do for you?"

To his credit, Tony moved fairly quickly despite his size. He was looming over the desk with a reddened face far quicker than Pearl would've guessed. Her hand hovered instinctively over her garter, the pistol's metal warmed against the flesh of her thighs. Roger wouldn't be arriving at work for another hour or so. She found herself begging to see his shiny bald head rounding the corner. Tony's breath smelt like an ash tray filled with espresso. His palms were flat against the top of the bureau desk, torso reaching over to deepen his glare. Could he see her resist a recoil? Could he hear her debating her next move frantically in a brain fogged by last nights whiskey? Could he sense the remnants of his son's presence in the rooms overhead?

"My skin's itchin' just by settin' foot in here. I'll be bathing in bleach when I get home, tell you that. Best believe I wouldn't be stupid enough to put a single dime in your pocket, Pearl. Believe me. Not a fuckin' dime. But my son? Oh, man. My son didn't have the same sense. And look where that got him."

There was something beastly about Tony Genovese. The hair on his knuckles. The bulging of his eyes. The twitch of a heartbeat thickening a vein in his thick neck. How had he found out so quickly? Which of the girls had snitched? Had Dixie gone running straight to him? Hoping her honesty would spare her?

"This is the part where you beg, Pearl..." Tony hissed, flecks of spittle whetting her cheeks. "This is the part where you realise you ain't wrigglin' your way out of this one. You can't sweet talk me. You can't sell me nothin'. I'm immune to you. Cos I ain't one of your stinking' Johns, am I? I ain't one of your whores. I sure as hell ain't one of the small timers runnin' their gear through here so they feel some need to pander to your bullshit. This ain't somethin' you can throw money at and it'll go away. You took somethin' from me, Pearl. My boy. My fuckin' SON. And now? Now I've come to collect."

The Madam stayed silent. It felt as if the office were shrinking to the size of a broom cupboard and Tony Genovese's belly was pressing hard against her, back forced against the cobwebbed walls. Her lungs simply wouldn't fill. Was there even any air between them? Was it Tony stood over her or the body of Luca Genovese with his bulbous eyes and slack jaw? They shared the same eyes... Then a hand really was gripping her throat. There? It found no resistance. The gargled gasps that leapt from her mouth only wound Tony's fingers tighter and tighter still. She could smell cigarettes on his fingertips. His chunky gold-linked bracelet tinkered as he adjusted his grip around her neck, firming the grasp. No one had dared threaten Pearl Sackville in such a long time. No one got close enough to lay a hand on her. That was the way she'd built Soirée. So how had this happened? How was she on the receiving end of a threat as callous as this one when she was usually the one with a finger on the trigger? The illusion of power and wealth and protection kept most wolves of Minnenoona at the Soirée door. Not this one. Tony Genovese and his family didn't fear the Madam nor any of her hired muscle, that much was clear. He saw what she feared she really was: Powerless. Vulnerable. Manipulable. Weak.

"I came here to see if you'd have even an ounce of decency left in you," he spoke with a snarl, molars creaking as they ground together. "Came to see if you wanted to apologise to me. Might've made it easier for you, you know that? Instead you tried pullin' the same bullshit you pull with these other schmucks. Well, I'm done. I know it was you. I know what you did. And when I come back in a couple days, I'm gonna tell you exactly how this is gonna go. Don't worry. Your bag of bones ain't gonna be floatin' in no river. No. Killin' you is more hassle than it's worth. Too much heat. You got too many pigs in your pockets. No, killin' you would be a kindness."

When his fingers relinquished her throat, Pearly gasped and wheezed and coughed and spluttered. Tears blurred the sight of Tony's pinstriped body walking away. He got to the door and turned round to fix her with another disdainful grimace.

"Didn't your mother die right there? In that same spot? Face down on that fuckin' desk? Be poetic if you joined her the same way wouldn't it? Shame. I'll be back in a couple days," he sniffed, voice colder and calmer now. "And this time you'll be ready for me."

Intriguingly's

Miko had returned her phone to her handbag, adjusting the strap on her shoulder somewhat anxiously. Her eyes flicked round the strange antique store, wondering what exactly about this place was drawing her in. There seemed to be a heaviness in the air, something that triggered an unsettling yet magnetic stir in her gut. Just as the young woman’s gaze slid back to the cluttered shelves, another commotion behind her commanded her attention. A black Labrador, eyes bright and alert, was bounding towards her. Its tail wagged erratically lowered between its hind legs, excitable yet anticipative of something. Miko instantly lowered to a crouch and extended a hand for the Lab to scent. It’s cool, wet nose snuffed against her fingertips, huffs of warm breath against her palm. A small smile plucked at the corners of her lips, the irresistible charm of an animal softening her exterior. The young dog, still so puppy-like in its demeanour, nuzzled its way between her knees. That soft, jet black head bumped against her hands, demanding pets and attention Miko was all too willing to give.

“Hello, little one…” she crooned, tone soft yet animated, using both hands to ruffle the spot between its ears.

She wondered if the strange store owner would be accepting of dogs amongst his precious collections. Miko’s head snapped side to side, searching for the owner.

“Doo,” came a loud whisper. “Come here, boy.”

Doo had different plans. He’d settled nicely between Miko’s legs and seemed content receiving the enthused pats along the length of his back, tail still wagging happily. She glanced up to find the man who’d been analysing the vintage surgical tools a moment ago, another black labrador at his heel. She smiled weakly, hands still busily giving the young dog love. Well, at least she knew who this adorable animal belonged to…

“I’m not sure who’s protecting who, here…” Miko said hesitantly, laughing meekly, her usual disdain for talking to strangers melting away with every nuzzle from Doo.

She lowered her face to speak directly to the young Labrador.

“Can you feel what I’m feeling, little one?” she cooed. “It’s a strange place here, huh?”

Doo seemed to be either oblivious or uncaring about the creepy atmosphere. His claws clacked against the floorboards as he shuffled excitably from paw to paw, the weight of him against her somewhat anchoring. Miko looked up, searching for that signature garish outfit that the owner was wearing. She spotted him at the other side of the store, talking to a young woman by a large mirror. Satisfied they were safe for now, permitted to continue enjoying the unexpected affections of a young dog, Miko looked up at Doo’s owner.

“He’s so friendly!” she said. “I bet you struggle to get anywhere fast with him saying hi to everyone he sees?”

As she huffed a small laugh, something clattering behind her made Miko jolt. Doo startled in sync with her, the two of them craning their necks to peer behind them. One of the dusty books had fallen from the shelf overhead, landing on the worn floorboards face-down. Before she had the chance to return it to its rightful place, there was another thud as the second book tumbled from the shelf to the ground. This one landed with both leather covers parted, the spine almost audibly groaning, pages splayed like limbs. Miko’s brow furrowed. There was no one else in this corner of the store other than Miko, Doo, the other dog and their owner. No one lurking the other side of the shelves. Nothing. Then, like dominoes, the other books on the shelf began tumbling down. The sound of hardbacks colliding with the ground and paper pages crunching erupted around Miko and Doo. She got to her feet just as Doo began to huff nervously, hooking her fingers through the collar of the young Labrador, stepping over the paper carcasses that surrounded them. Seemingly out of harms way, Miko turned back to where she’d just been crouched. At least 15 books had toppled unexpectedly from their homes. It looked as if someone had rattled the brittle wooden shelves and sent them tumbling to the ground. But Miko knew that wasn’t the case. Nothing nor no one had caused this. They’d made their bid for freedom all on their own.

Glancing at the dogs owner nervously, she wondered if perhaps he’d seen something she hadn’t. Then, worried Doo might get the blame, she began carefully returning the books to their rightful place. Slotting them back in, cover to cover, that unsettling feeling had returned to her gut. This shop had an otherworldly feel about it. She wondered whether this would be the last of the strange happenings.

“Well that was… Freaky?” she said curiously to no one in particular. Doo let out a little whine from his owners heel.

Her voice had trailed off as she slotted the final book back into a gap. Miko half expected the owner to appear, those beady eyes and beaky face looking upon her all accusatory. She turned to face the man who clutched at his dogs leads, an equally confused expression knitted into his features.

“You saw that, right?” Miko whispered.