Post by Jordanna on Jan 18, 2006 19:28:54 GMT -5
"That's our show, folks. Thank you and good night!"
It was a full house at the Paragon Club, but as Alex "Foxy" Malone concluded his last performance of the night, the applause didn't enthrall him as it usually did. His thoughts were elsewhere. He bowed his way off the stage, smiling and blowing a few kisses, but the smile vanished the moment he ducked behind the curtain.
"That was a great act, Foxy." Marty Stringer, the small, bespectacled stage manager, accosted Alex on the steps leading down from the stage. "Do me a favor and keep it for more than a week, will ya?"
"Now really, Marty, people wouldn't be curious enough to come back every night if I didn't change my act at the drop of a hat, would they?" Alex grinned patronizingly and pinched Marty's cheek, then slid down the railing of the steps and jogged off across the floor.
"Sometimes I don't know why Sid wants a bumblebee like you decorating the place!" Marty fired back at the retreating entertainer, rubbing his cheek with a scowl. Anyone close enough to notice might have sworn to seeing a twinkle in his eyes--but if asked, he would have insisted it was only the glare of the lights on those thick glasses he wore.
In any case, Alex didn't hear Marty's remark. He was already halfway down the hall onto which the back offices opened. The door at the end belonged to owner-manager Sidney Rosenstein--Alex's emancipator, employer, and friend.
Having a standing invitation to enter without knocking, Alex threw open the door and stepped in--causing Sid to erupt in a flurry of movement behind the desk that ended in the slamming shut of a drawer.
"What's the problem?" Sid drawled, peering up at his star performer with some annoyance.
"That's my line." Alex closed the door and sauntered across the plush red carpet, to claim his habitual perch on the corner of the desk. "Sid, we've been together eight years--and except for when Caleb was born, and when you had your appendix out, I've never seen you miss being out front to meet the guests. What goes?"
"Nothing," Sid muttered defensively. "I just had work. We got licenses to renew."
"You never let that keep you bottled up back here before." Alex rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand, a picture of docile relaxation.
"Well... the city wants more paperwork this time. That 'homeland security' stuff, ya know."
"Uh-huh."
In the blink of an eye, Alex had uncoiled himself, thrown open the desk drawer, and plunged his hand into it. Sid tried to slap his arm away, but he had already found an unfamiliar object on top of the regular stack of files in the drawer, and he brought it up.
It was a long knife with a black blade.
Alex's brow furrowed in puzzlement as he regarded the weapon, holding it between finger and thumb like a dead rat. "What's this for? You're not going gangster on me again, are you, Sid?"
"No," Sid ground out, carefully but irritably snatching the knife away from Alex. He threw it back into the drawer and shut it, then folded his arms and looked away from his friend. After a moment, reluctantly, he murmured, "It's a message."
"Ohh." Knowing the crowd Sid used to run with, the explanation didn't entirely surprise Alex, although it did make a slight sense of uneasiness squirm in his gut. "But I don't get it, Sid. You've never done anything to honk off the Comancini boys--and even if you did, they'd never threaten their old boss' son-in-law."
"It ain't the Comancini family," Sid answered morosely. He nodded his head toward the desk drawer. "I've heard about other guys who've gotten those things--guys that got nothing to do with any mob. It's a different gang than any others that you or I know about--an' when they stick one of those daggers in yer door, it means ya just got a new landlord."
"Meaning they want you to pay for 'protection'." Alex scowled. "Don't they know you've got the Comancini bunch behind you?"
"Oh, they know. They just don't care."
"Just who do these creeps think they are?"
"The way I hear it, they know exactly what they are--and that's just why they can do whatever they want."
Alex sighed. "Stop talking riddles, Sid."
"Look, I don't know everything. Most of the folks who get squeezed don't even know who this bunch really is, but me having the ties I do..." Sid shrugged, and then looked gravely at his friend. "You won't like it if I tell you, Foxy."
The entertainer returned his employer's gaze; firmly, expectantly. Sid sighed and shrugged again.
"The rumor is... it's a gang of mutants."
Alex's heart dropped, and he flinched as if he had been pricked.
Mutants. For the last eight glorious years in Sid Rosenstein's employ, Alex had never had to face that word. He played a grand charade, letting people believe his gift was just an ordinary talent honed to perfection. Some employees of the club probably suspected the truth; perhaps even some audience members did, now and then. But it didn't matter, because he was under Sid's wing. No one was going to challenge Sid on who he chose to employ in his own club, with his own money. Secure in that knowledge, Alex had grown comfortable circulating in the loftiest levels of ordinary human society. He had allowed himself to forget that he was different. To forget the struggle to survive which he had once known... and to forget that others like him, without the helping and guiding hand of someone like Sid, still moved in that dark world.
Now he realized just how much Sid had really shielded him from.
How much he had let himself be shielded from.
Watching the play of troubled emotions on Alex's face, Sid smiled sadly. "I told ya you wouldn't like it."
"Thanks for teaching me what a fool I've been, Sid." Alex glanced up ruefully. "Of course there are people like me who've gone wrong... I might have myself, if it weren't for you." He slipped from the desk corner and into the deep leather chair that faced Sid. "What are you gonna do?"
Sid spread his hands broadly. "Nothing much to do but pay up."
"But there must be some way to fight this. What about your old pals? If they know this... other gang is hassling you, they'll--"
"Yeah. They will. That's exactly why they're not gonna know about it." Sid's expression became firm. "Listen. If the Mob starts fighting with this mutant gang, it'd get bloody. Then people would start to look at what's going on, and they'd find out there's mutants involved. And if they see mutants fighting a gang war, then things'll really get ugly--for people like you." He shook his head. "My parents survived one Holocaust. I'm not gonna be the guy who starts another."
Those resolute words made Alex's heart thump painfully. He closed his eyes for a moment, sliding a little further down in his seat.
"What can I do to help, Sid?"
Sid grinned, assuming a ghost of his usual exuberance. "You just do what you've been doing for the last eight years, kid. That's always been more than enough."
Alex nodded blankly... but even at that moment, he knew he had to do something more.
It was a full house at the Paragon Club, but as Alex "Foxy" Malone concluded his last performance of the night, the applause didn't enthrall him as it usually did. His thoughts were elsewhere. He bowed his way off the stage, smiling and blowing a few kisses, but the smile vanished the moment he ducked behind the curtain.
"That was a great act, Foxy." Marty Stringer, the small, bespectacled stage manager, accosted Alex on the steps leading down from the stage. "Do me a favor and keep it for more than a week, will ya?"
"Now really, Marty, people wouldn't be curious enough to come back every night if I didn't change my act at the drop of a hat, would they?" Alex grinned patronizingly and pinched Marty's cheek, then slid down the railing of the steps and jogged off across the floor.
"Sometimes I don't know why Sid wants a bumblebee like you decorating the place!" Marty fired back at the retreating entertainer, rubbing his cheek with a scowl. Anyone close enough to notice might have sworn to seeing a twinkle in his eyes--but if asked, he would have insisted it was only the glare of the lights on those thick glasses he wore.
In any case, Alex didn't hear Marty's remark. He was already halfway down the hall onto which the back offices opened. The door at the end belonged to owner-manager Sidney Rosenstein--Alex's emancipator, employer, and friend.
Having a standing invitation to enter without knocking, Alex threw open the door and stepped in--causing Sid to erupt in a flurry of movement behind the desk that ended in the slamming shut of a drawer.
"What's the problem?" Sid drawled, peering up at his star performer with some annoyance.
"That's my line." Alex closed the door and sauntered across the plush red carpet, to claim his habitual perch on the corner of the desk. "Sid, we've been together eight years--and except for when Caleb was born, and when you had your appendix out, I've never seen you miss being out front to meet the guests. What goes?"
"Nothing," Sid muttered defensively. "I just had work. We got licenses to renew."
"You never let that keep you bottled up back here before." Alex rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand, a picture of docile relaxation.
"Well... the city wants more paperwork this time. That 'homeland security' stuff, ya know."
"Uh-huh."
In the blink of an eye, Alex had uncoiled himself, thrown open the desk drawer, and plunged his hand into it. Sid tried to slap his arm away, but he had already found an unfamiliar object on top of the regular stack of files in the drawer, and he brought it up.
It was a long knife with a black blade.
Alex's brow furrowed in puzzlement as he regarded the weapon, holding it between finger and thumb like a dead rat. "What's this for? You're not going gangster on me again, are you, Sid?"
"No," Sid ground out, carefully but irritably snatching the knife away from Alex. He threw it back into the drawer and shut it, then folded his arms and looked away from his friend. After a moment, reluctantly, he murmured, "It's a message."
"Ohh." Knowing the crowd Sid used to run with, the explanation didn't entirely surprise Alex, although it did make a slight sense of uneasiness squirm in his gut. "But I don't get it, Sid. You've never done anything to honk off the Comancini boys--and even if you did, they'd never threaten their old boss' son-in-law."
"It ain't the Comancini family," Sid answered morosely. He nodded his head toward the desk drawer. "I've heard about other guys who've gotten those things--guys that got nothing to do with any mob. It's a different gang than any others that you or I know about--an' when they stick one of those daggers in yer door, it means ya just got a new landlord."
"Meaning they want you to pay for 'protection'." Alex scowled. "Don't they know you've got the Comancini bunch behind you?"
"Oh, they know. They just don't care."
"Just who do these creeps think they are?"
"The way I hear it, they know exactly what they are--and that's just why they can do whatever they want."
Alex sighed. "Stop talking riddles, Sid."
"Look, I don't know everything. Most of the folks who get squeezed don't even know who this bunch really is, but me having the ties I do..." Sid shrugged, and then looked gravely at his friend. "You won't like it if I tell you, Foxy."
The entertainer returned his employer's gaze; firmly, expectantly. Sid sighed and shrugged again.
"The rumor is... it's a gang of mutants."
Alex's heart dropped, and he flinched as if he had been pricked.
Mutants. For the last eight glorious years in Sid Rosenstein's employ, Alex had never had to face that word. He played a grand charade, letting people believe his gift was just an ordinary talent honed to perfection. Some employees of the club probably suspected the truth; perhaps even some audience members did, now and then. But it didn't matter, because he was under Sid's wing. No one was going to challenge Sid on who he chose to employ in his own club, with his own money. Secure in that knowledge, Alex had grown comfortable circulating in the loftiest levels of ordinary human society. He had allowed himself to forget that he was different. To forget the struggle to survive which he had once known... and to forget that others like him, without the helping and guiding hand of someone like Sid, still moved in that dark world.
Now he realized just how much Sid had really shielded him from.
How much he had let himself be shielded from.
Watching the play of troubled emotions on Alex's face, Sid smiled sadly. "I told ya you wouldn't like it."
"Thanks for teaching me what a fool I've been, Sid." Alex glanced up ruefully. "Of course there are people like me who've gone wrong... I might have myself, if it weren't for you." He slipped from the desk corner and into the deep leather chair that faced Sid. "What are you gonna do?"
Sid spread his hands broadly. "Nothing much to do but pay up."
"But there must be some way to fight this. What about your old pals? If they know this... other gang is hassling you, they'll--"
"Yeah. They will. That's exactly why they're not gonna know about it." Sid's expression became firm. "Listen. If the Mob starts fighting with this mutant gang, it'd get bloody. Then people would start to look at what's going on, and they'd find out there's mutants involved. And if they see mutants fighting a gang war, then things'll really get ugly--for people like you." He shook his head. "My parents survived one Holocaust. I'm not gonna be the guy who starts another."
Those resolute words made Alex's heart thump painfully. He closed his eyes for a moment, sliding a little further down in his seat.
"What can I do to help, Sid?"
Sid grinned, assuming a ghost of his usual exuberance. "You just do what you've been doing for the last eight years, kid. That's always been more than enough."
Alex nodded blankly... but even at that moment, he knew he had to do something more.