The Macabre Masquerade (NakedTea and How Brittle the Bones)

[NakedTea]

Up above the night is solemn and somber, under a still, dark-blue sky faintly smudged with gray smoke from the city's chimneytops and lit by the tiny pinpricks of light that are the stars, the crescent moon, shining down in echoes far away glory. What few sounds stir are the sounds of the dark, of frogs croaking in the lazy, deep-running river, of birds cawing sleepily in the ocean of clouds above, in some happy neighborhoods the sounds of peace, in others, the sounds of the low and miserable going about their midnight dealings. Once in a great while a train will come by singing it's songs of steam and gears, breaking the stillness with a flash of light and movement as it tears it's way across the tracks.

But for the most part, uptop the night is quiet, sleeping.


While down below the party rolls on.


Bottles clink as they're pulled from the shelves, sweet fermented nectar within, glasses clink as they're brought together in toast, good spirits and good spirits making friends of all, and the cash register clinks as it's filled to the brim with coin and scrip. Oh yes, the good times were rolling and business was booming, every man a king and every king in good company.

An underground grotto filled with the sound of merriment, safe harbor for both the most wanted of criminals and the common man who simply needs a good stiff drink, a grand celebration of wine, women and song... The Gilded Lily is all these and more, the crown jewel of the American Midwest's rumrunning trade.

The tunnels used to belong to the city, part of some fool councilman's futile dream of an underground railroad that would run throughout the entire city. They barely got halfway before the budget ran out of course, but no sooner were the tunnels abandoned then they found new purpose.

Smugglers, thieves, the mob... For any criminal, regardless of rank or expertise, free movement without interference from the law was at a premium. Some clever entrepreneur saw the opportunity. Now there's an underground railroad all right, connecting countless basements, warehouses, seemingly innocent establishments, an endless stream of smuggled goods flowing through it.

And amidst the twisting, labyrinthian network of caverns lies the Gilded Lily. A marbled hall nested among dirt and mud, lit by crystal chandeliers, ostentatious grandeur in the most unlikely of places. No-one knows the owner or what deals he's made with the police to keep the joint safe, but everyone knows one thing. You don't fuck around here. Anyone who tries, be they criminal, commoner or cop, will find themselves in dire straights and the law not lifting a finger to help them.

The Gilded Lily is safe. Everyone knows that.

As it turns out, everyone was wrong.

It's a normal enough night. Some 'friends of the family' kicking back and having themselves a party, drinks flowing freely, the house band having to play as hard as they can just to be heard over the laughter and good cheer. A chick named Esme doing the singing, new here, the last singer having flown the nest last weekend. A normal day. A good day.

That all ends as the door is kicked off it's hinges, shouting drowning out all else as the boys in blue pile in, laying down the law with their truncheons. People scream. People panic. As one frenzied, dumb stampede they rush at the door, only to be beaten back, the poor fools at the front caught between the flailing batons of the police and the shoving, trampling herd pushing them forward. Somehow a fire starts, a dropped cigarette or a broken light, something, flames sprouting forth to lap at the alcohol spilled across the crowd. Someone gets the bright idea to pull a gun, a single shot provoking more, lead flying through the air thick and fast within instants, turning it all into a bloodbath.

Confusion rules the mob. But a few minds stand out in their sharpness, staying cool, collected. Up on the stage, the violinist, youthful and innocuous. The bouncer lurking behind the bar, broad-shouldered, one-eyed and built like an Olympian. One of the many late-night patrons, ragged and sharp-angled. All of them stand out because they don't join in the stampede. No, they have the common sense to remember the back way out, leading up to the grocers located directly above.

The violinist vaults over the bar and the bouncer is already halfway up the ladder in the blink of an eye, but the last one pauses, turning back and going for the cashbox. The duo tears through the store, bursting out onto the street, pulling open the doors of an old model-t and diving in. The engine roars to life like a snarling beast let out of it's cage, belching gasoline fumes, but they don't take off. Not yet. They're waiting on one last passenger first....

 

[destati]

If only her parents could see her now — spitting out renditions of popular jazz songs with a Lucky Strike dangling from her burgundy-painted lower lip, Esme Oates was living the life that any seventeen year old would wish for. It was not entirely wrong to say that her mother and father were unmindful of her current location; rather, they knew she was singing with that pretty little voice of hers for spare change while under the watchful eye of her fiancé, an amateur stockbroker, and apparently that was good enough for them.

How wrong they were.

Cecil sat in the rear with three of his co-workers, his fingers never leaving his glass of Stolichnaya, his eyes never leaving the five-foot-six-inch creature on stage. He could barely hear the others prattling on about this and that over the boisterous trumpets, so he would nod every time he thought a statement was directed toward himself, his eyes still focused on his fiancée. To say that she was beautiful would have been an understatement. With her copper-red finger waves and willowy figure, she was gorgeous. Of course, she was more than a pretty face, but the man took pride in knowing he had snagged a keeper.

Esme thought otherwise.

She breezed on through ‘Avalon’ and ‘Margie’, unfazed by Cecil as he tried his damnedest to get her to look at him. She would look right through him, a dull glaze settled over her green eyes. Her mother and father had the worst taste when it came to potential suitors — influential men with limited, insipid views. It had taken weeks to convince Cecil to let her sing and have a good night out, and he had the audacity to follow her to make sure her fun was limited.

She stubbed her cigarette on the heel of her shoe and flicked it to the side. It was time for her break, which would have amounted to five or six minutes, and instead of going to greet Cecil she lingered on stage with her back turned in his direction. She removed her compact mirror with intentions to spot-check her makeup. What she saw did not displease her: her eyes were outlined with mascara and kohl, the dark red tint to her lips had yet to run, and her rouge still looked quite nice against her pale complexion. She wore a beige-colored dress that came a few inches above her knees, exposing her stocking-cladded stick thin legs. The dress was straight and loose and covered her boyish figure. She wore a long bead of pearls around her neck. And if one looked close enough, they could see a dust of freckles over her button nose. She was everything her parents hated about the younger generation. No wonder they had set her up with such a prude.

She closed the compact and set it aside with her other belongings, turning around to face the crowd as her break ended. There was no time for her to open her mouth before the door was kicked in, a blur of blue following. Esme stared in shock, her mouth agape and eyes wide. The Fuzz. What an appropriate way to end her night. Unless she high-tailed it out of there right now, she knew no good would come out of this. She was underage and the scent of Luckies was still on her breath.

“Go get in the car.”

For the first time in her life she was glad to see Cecil.

“Now. I’ll grab your things.”

Esme did not protest. She peeled herself away from the microphone and fled from the scene; going through the only exit she could see, she panicked as soon as she felt a hand grab out for her delicate shoulder. She reacted faster than her common sense would allow her by elbowing the mysterious person hard in the gut, and when the mysterious person retaliated in shock, pain, or whatever it was that made the person let go, she bolted from the back of the bar and down the street.

Licking at her lips, she scanned the streets for Cecil’s Ford Model T. It took seconds before she found what appeared to be Cecil’s ride, and she leaped at the opportunity as she pulled open the door and hopped in between who Esme thought to be Cecil’s co-workers. The scent of her Chanel No. 5 quickly flooded the car.

She could still feel her heart racing, her muscles trembling even after minutes had passed since the car fled from the scene, but the look of fear had passed and now a wide toothed grin was bestowed on her face. What a rush! What excitement! Well, now it was exciting to look back on what had just happened. “Talk about a—“ she began, her voice trailing off as she finally bothered to look at the three men, none of whom were familiar.

“You three,” she stated obviously, “are neither Cecil nor his co-workers.”

 

[NakedTea]

"So glad you've figured that out then."

The first reaction the violinist has to Esme shoving her way into the seat beside him is confusion, plain and simple. Isn't that the dame who was singing? What the hell does she think she's doing here? But before he can even recover from his blank-faced surprise, the passenger door is pulled open and in leaps the last of the trio, iron cashbox clutched in hand.

"Come on, what're you waiting for, let's beat it!"

No further encouragement is needed, the sound of incoming sirens already thick in the air. The wheels spin and screech, the car leaving a trail of burnt rubber and acrid fumes in it's wake as it speeds off into the night, the world outside the tinted glass windows turning into a blur of lights and darkness. She is for the moment forgotten, the youth and the lean one too busy peering out the windows in watch for pursuit, hands not-so-covertly slipping to the guns holstered beneath their clothes, the one-eyed man occupied with sustaining their breakneck pace.

It's only when Esme draws attention to herself once more that they remember the unwanted stranger in their midst. The one-eyed man doesn't even look her way, apparently unconcerned, while the lean one gives her only a brief, distasteful look before returning to his vigil. It's the youth who speaks, giving the aforesaid, sarcastic reply.

"So... So what the hell is this? Just decided to jump on in to a strange car? You could get hurt that way, you know." He continues, a switchblade knife slipping into his hand from one his vest pockets, spinning between his fingers as the long, shiny blade snaps out from the ivory handle. He looks a year older than her at best, hardly the age from which the crime families usually recruit, but he handles the weapon with a slick grace that gives no doubt that his lack of years does not indicate similar lack of experience.

And in the background, the sirens have begun to grow louder....

 

[destati]

Esme looked just as confused as the violinist. Where was Cecil? Why was he not sitting behind the wheel of this vehicle? This car looked like the car that belonged to her fiancé, but the longer she stared the more obvious it became that it was a different car. The upholstery in this model was shabby compared to Cecil’s. Her cheeks grew scarlet red as she continued to spot differences, and it was impossible for her to blame the rosy hue on her rogue.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, avoiding a more formal explanation of her actions as she scooted over to the free door, her hand now on the door handle as though she was going to leave. If it had not been for the last passenger to enter, she would have done just that. Instead, instincts kicked in and she moved back to where she was sitting, now finding it impossible to leave unless she dared to climb over them. Clearing her throat with an abrupt ahem, she cocked her head to the side as she glanced at the newest passenger. “Excuse me, but I was on my way—”

The car peeled away from the bar and down the street before she could finish her sentence, and for now she decided it best to remain silent. Her desire to keep quiet was only strengthened as her eyes lowered, taking in the sight of guns. Esme swallowed hard. She had seen guns and other weapons in movies. In that aspect, everything about them seemed enchanting and exciting, but being so close she could find nothing exciting about them. If anything, seeing a gun this close evoked feelings of apprehension.

“This car greatly resembles my fiancé’s car,” she responded to the violinist, her eyes still lowered as she tried to find something to focus on. The flick of his switchblade caught her attention, and her eyes flickered up to concentrate on yet another weapon. She swallowed again. “I thought this was my fiancé’s car, so I . . . I got in.” She hated the way her voice trembled at the end, making it more than obvious she was growing fearful of this situation. As if she needed she needed her voice to do that. The girl was as stiff as a board, refusing to budge an inch lest she get too close to either man across from her.

The sirens in the near distance gave her some comfort. If they would just hurry, perhaps this ordeal would be over. After all, the police could take down three thugs, right? That was what they were trained for, right? She silently agreed with herself.

“Now, if you could just . . . let me off . . . my fiancé is waiting for me.”

 

[NakedTea]

The lean one snorts, a slight noise akin to a more bestial form of dismissive chuckle. "Oh, oh no girlie. 'fraid you're in the for the ride with us bad, bad men." The man smiles, a too-wide grin that shows his teeth and the metals capping them, gold, silver and even tin, his financial history as recounted by his broken teeth and how much he could afford to shell out to a dentist at the time. "So don't go treating us as fools, hear?" Oh there's something mean-spirited indeed in his mirth. It's plain in his eyes that he's laughing at Esme, at the poor girl's confusion and fear.

"You hear the sirens, don't you ma'am? Then you'll surely understand why we don't have time for stopping." The youth seems to have found his manners along with his wits, even snapping the switchblade shut again after a moments consideration. "Mebbe once the coppers let up we can let you go, but 'till then it'd do us all a great favor if you weren't to start screaming or crying or anything of that nature." The violinist offers her a little smile, this one seeming to show some measure of genuine amiability. He's not as rough-looking as his friends, indeed, you'd never expect just from looking at him that he'd run with such a motley crowd.

Soft hazel hair combed back with neat, loving precision, a face that lends itself easily to youthful excitement, enough masculinity to be attractive without being entirely devoid of softness and warmth... At first glance he seemed no more or less than the very image of a nice, perfectly respectable young man, with the prettiest green eyes to boot.

Those good looks are somewhat tarnished as the bullet tears it's way through back and front windshields, going right through his skull in the process.

A spray of red and gray splatters against the tattered fabric of the seats, the violinist slumping over right into Esme's lap, blood drooling from the smoking hole in his temples. Letting out a swear not fit for repitation the lean one draws a machine gun out from beneath the seats, leaning out the window and sending a spray of blazing lead flying towards the blue copcar that had pulled up behind them out of nowhere, it's sirens silenced so they wouldn't notice until it was too late.

The chase is on and poor Esme Oates is caught in the thick of it now. And she had thought seeing her singing at an underground speakeasy would have given her parents conniptions.