Chapter 6: Birds in Deep Trouble

Midnight Owl, an elegant restaurant just hovering around downtown Morissey. The food here was as equally expensive as the place itself. Not that you'd have to be a millionaire to eat here, but finest chefs here trained in parts of the world: France, United Kingdom, the list goes on.

Chance took a cab to get here. He had his own car, that sturdy 2 seater Deckard, but he was a Haverton, he'd easily be known by "certain people", especially he was wearing Haverton pin: it was struck in gold and mirrored the American eagle.

These days, it was really easy to identify someone just by the car they drive, in addition to how they get around town. Clothing wasn't any different. Chance remembered a time where people judged other people by what they wore, even the color of their clothes. He knew this as he grew up in the West part of Morissey.

Here he was now, clocking at 27 years of age, and not much has changed with the people even with this Hellfire Arm crisis, but people weren't ignorant. It was just a matter of time til somebody wants to panic and think the end of the world was near.

The pin was a must wear for any Haverton agent going outside, even if you weren't on an assignment or doing private investigations. Two years Chance's been wearing it.

After promptly looking at the large head of an owl outside the restaurant, he walked onto the carpet outside the door, before coming in and seeing the front man, just behind the front man was the restaurant itself, cloaked in a shade of darkness, there was still light in there, thanks to some lights.

"Good afternoon sir." the front man said and smiled as Chance walked up to him. "I'm afraid the remaining seats are-" he stopped talking as soon as he saw the Haverton pin. "Oh."

"Good afternoon. I hear Mr. Wesley Riskell often has lunch here."

"Yes sir." the front man stuttered. "I mean, detective..."

"Chance Gordon." Chance gave a smile. "I'd appreciate it if you'd just point to me where he's sitting at."

"I'll take you to his table then."

"Trust me. I wouldn't want to be here too. Unfortunately with what's happening right now-"

"I understand sir." the front man spoke. "Follow me please."

Chance took a step into the restaurant and noticed how little light from each of the tables' candles were lighting up the place, mostly dark in this place in addition to smoke from cigarettes if not cigars. Smoke was smoke regardless what brand you lit up here in Morissey.

Many of the patrons here were dressed casually, though some couples were dressed better than others

The Haverton detective followed the front man up to a table consisting of five men. The men were all different even from a glance. There was a Jewish man, an Italian, an African-American, and an Irishman, whose wrinkles really marked how long he had been smoking.

"Gentleman, or should I say, Morissey Four." Chance spoke as the front man left him be. "Enjoying the food?"

Morissey Four. That name stuck to the four men at the table like freaking glue, even more so since they're famous for all the wrong reasons. Different backgrounds, different mindsets, but it's all about crime and money in the end, followed by a thing called power. In the underworld it didn't matter who you were, or how much was your wealth, if you had power, then you were bound to been on top of the criminal food chain

But right now, it wasn't about any of that.

"We're having a conversation here, sir." The Italian in the white gray suit spoke. "We'd appreciate if you buzz off."

"That won't work Joey." The Jewish man in the tailored suit spoke next. "This man here's a Haverton." he pointed at Chance's badge.

"Well shite." The Irishman, Angus O'Malley, exclaimed. "The hell ya doing here?" His face pointed at Chance. "We're already enough trouble as it is, what with all these Hellfire Arms around."

"Wes Riskell." As soon as the men heard Chance say that, they all faced the Jewish man, who sighed.

"That'd be me." the jewish man rolled his eyes. "Can't you see my hands are tied detective? That our hands are tied?" Riskell spoke out loud, then pointed at the men sitting with him.

"Weren't you the same guy who also had two Hellfire Arm users in his own gang?" Chance countered.

"That true?" The African American, Derman Whittle, spoke. Anger was in his eyes. "No wonder the MPD's finest broke into my neighborhood and searched the place!"

"First of all Derman, your 'neighborhood' isn't really yours, people live there like YOU." Riskell countered. "And second, detective, the MPD's got one of my guys, ain't it? I caught wind of what happened at Penrose Avenue. HAST was there."

"Graham's dead." Chance spoke in a dead tone. "Somebody shut him up, shot up the interrogation room at the station, just as soon as he was gonna tell me about another guy in your organization, also holding a Hellfire Arm."

Derman Whittle and the Irishman looked at Riskell.

"Not one word-"

"Oh go suck a horse's schtick Wes. You had a Hellfire Arm user and that backfired on ya!" O'Malley shouted. Several people turned their heads to the table.

"Hey, let's be civilized here." The Italian with his hands up. "Detective. Name's Joseph Satriano, my friends call me Joey. Riskell here called a meeting cause, well, we're all in deep shit right now."

"I can see that." Chance said, folding his arms.

"Yeah, and it's just so a coincidence a Haverton like yourself came here." Satriano continued. "We're all here on behalf of our, esteemed workers in society. People of business, you understand."

"Point is we want to form an alliance." Riskell spoke in a grumbled tone. The other men except Satriano followed suite. "We know for a fact that there's plenty of Hellfire Arm members in HAST, and other Arms the MPD is holding after a clean sweep the last few months."

"And we know the Havertons are really good at their job, at investigating." O'Malley added.

"There's also some Drippers." Derman Whittle spoke up. "Some of them gone crazy with Hellfire Arms."

"So how about it detective?" Satriano asked. "We got a deal?"

Chance leaned back in his chair.

"Come on detective." Riskell said. "I lost two good guys of mine. The others here lost people to Hellfire Arms too you know." he looked at O'Malley, Satriano and Whittle.

"Graham was a good guy to you?" Chance spoke. "Cause since somebody popped Hellfire bullets at him, silver bullets at that, I wonder myself if you had him shut up."

"Silver bullets?" Riskell spoke. "Ah shit."

"He said something before he died: Piercer. Ring a bell to you?"

"Not here." Riskell said as he looked left and right. "Take us to the station. At least there's some HAST guys there with Hellfire Arms."

"You're kidding Wes!" O'Malley screamed. "You got the coppers and who knowshow many Haverton's there, we're gonna hit the cells for sure ya idiot! We're over!"

"Better caught then dead." Riskell grumbled. "What? You drunk enough to realize how problematic these Hellfire Arms are now?"

Chance held the urge to chuckle at the sight of the criminals worrying about their situation that bad. By the time he got them to the station, it would be a whole different story.

***

Grant McSweeney laughed his ass off as he saw the Morissey Four being escorted by MPD officers, and a couple of black and white were called in by Chance using one of the city's many gamewells. With Sucker Punch strapped on his back, McSweeney went over to the Haverton detective.

"I didn't think you'd be catching four birds!" he said to Chance. "I'll be sure to ask them the questions."

"Anything happen while I was gone?"

"Yeah, for starters, some of your fellow Havertons are working with HAST to determine about those silver bullets that killed Graham. Damn things nearly burnt a guy's finger, so we had to douse our gloves in holy water."

"Holy water: as practical as normal water?"

"You bet. Been around since the old days of the American West. Guys at Penrose Avenue also finally found that Hellfire Arm."

"And here it is" the two men heard a voice. It was Valefar. In his hand was an extremely tiny gun. Almost the size of his hand.

"All that for a tiny gun." Chance spoke in a disappointing tone

"Now Mr. Gordon. No need to insult the Gunsmith's creation." Valefar flicked the tiny gun, and then it turned back to the size of a normal gun. "This here's called Little Bastard. Self explanatory."

"Does that make you the Big Bastard?" Chance said.

"Ha! Funny guy. Nah, I'm just the one who makes the deals." Valefar spoke. "So, how's the case about Graham? I heard he got shut up. Literally."

"Mind telling me who or what is Piercer?" Chance's tone was calm.

"Looks like the war and what you've been through so far has made you calm, huh Chance?"

Chance sighed. "I'm not in the mood for jokes Valefar. Nobody is. Now, would you kindly just tell me before McSweeney here takes over my job and tries to bust your eardrums?" As he said that, McSweeney himself chuckled.

"Fair enough." Valefar spoke with a wide grin. "And since you asked so kindly, I guess I could lend a hand, for now. Piercer's a Hellfire Arm, one of the oldest. Been in use since the Old West."

"And let me guess, you don't remember who was the last person to get it."

"A guy like me needs sleep, and drinks." Valefar replied. "It ain't easy working like me you know."

"You're not even human." McSweeney said.

Valefar scoffed at the HAST officer. "Heh, even a demon like me needs some rest. I'm a living creature too you know."

"If you really want us to help you get the Hellfire Arms back then you're gonna need to do more than what you're doing now." Chance spoke.

"Do I hint some disdain, Chance?" Valefar taunted. "Is it because of what happened 4 years ago at Iwo Jima? Battle hardened men in your unit taking up the Hellfire Arms? Come on, you and the other Allies won! Isn't it good to win?"

No answer from Chance.

"To tell you the truth Chance, I was just following orders from the Gunsmith, and trust me, that war was caused WITHOUT the involvement of my boss or any other bastard from Hell." Valefar countered.

"He tells me to go someplace, and if somebody wants to make a pact with the Hellfire Arms, I make sure it's contracted. Also, let me say I had nothing to do with Graham's death. Besides, I couldn't really have another Hellfire Arm user be killed by another, right?" He paused, noticing Chance's cold expression.

"I know you hate me, but I suppose you could be more civilized to me in exchange for some information about Piercer, or maybe that other Hellfire Arm user, the mustauche guy that worked for Riskell? Or Didn't work anymore, I don't really know. Your choice, you could only choose one by the way."

"Five bucks says this fiend here is lying." McSweeney told Chance.

"I thought you said the Commissioner's office that you don't remember Hellfire Arm user's names?" Chance spoke. "Cause there's been too many of them?"

"I didn't say I'd give you a name." Valefar spoke. "But maybe Lloyd Howitzer's mistress! A woman like her, seeing a man like Lloyd, before his death that is."

"Chance." McSweeney whispered. "Make the call. Either way, we'll be able to make some progress concerning the Hellfire Arm crisis. Whichever you go for, I'll try to manage the other."

"So, you wanna know more about Piercer? Or you wanna see the lady?" Valefar spoke. "Some friendly advice if you choose the latter though, be gentle with your words about her lover's gruesome death."

I know how to do my freaking job, Chance thought. As he rolled his eyes, as a rat passed him.

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