NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC:Grammian's Death (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=9024202&postcount=359)

IC:

Grammian opened his eyes and had a look around. Everything was... weird. Out of place. He was sat on a barstool, in a very white bar. Behind him, hundreds of people sat in plastic chairs looking at TV screens and chatting loudly.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Said a voice. Grammian turned to see the barman who'd spoken. He was standing drying a pint glass with a grey towel.

"I take it I'm dead, then?" Ventured Grammian, recalling getting shot. Vaguely, but recalling it nonetheless.

"'fraid so, buddy. Welcome to Limbo; the little place between heaven and hell. It hasn't decided where you're off to yet. I like to call it the departure lounge."

Grammian chuckled and felt in his jacket pockets. There! The cigar he'd been puffing on when he was shot. A stroke of luck, there. He lit it with his little silver lighter and took a drag.

"So this is what limbo looks like? An airport? With a bar (not that I'm complaining. It's only civil that a guy gets a drink before he goes to the whole fire and brimstone lark.)?"

The barman laughed. "You'll notice you're alone in the bar. We like to personalise the experience for people, gets them all calm before they do their thing. It seems you find bars particularly relaxing."

"Nothing nicer than an empty bar..."

The barman laughed and sat down the glass he was cleaning, produced a shot glass and poured some whisky in it.

"Care to tell me your story? It's sorta what I'm here for."

Grammian picked up the glass and sipped at it. "Which part? Why I'm here at this moment in time, or what led to my getting into my profession?"

"Let's go for the latter, eh? Sounds longer. Here, check this out." The barman turned and turned on the TV set. Grammian raised an eyebrow when he recognised himself on the screen, some sixty years ago.

"Care to do the commentary?" Asked the barman.

I remember the year well. It was 1947, I was in my 20s and I'd just finished my service to the army. Didn't like it, would you believe; I didn't like killing. Kinda ironic now, eh?

Anyway, I didn't exactly have a shining CV to get me a comfortable job. Not that any were going, anyway. I drifted in and out of one job to another, doing maybe a week's work then deciding I didn't like it. There were really only a few things I was good at, and I didn't want to accept the main one.

So it was really a sheer fluke I was walking home when the rain came on...

He hated the rain. Some rain was fine. The thin stuff. The one that just tickled you, didn't involve an hour of drying of clothes when you got indoors.

Alas, the rain that day wasn't the good kind. It was the torrential kind, the starts floods kind. The kind that did involve an hour of drying when you got indoors.

Grammian shrugged his shoulders and pulled his raincoat up against his neck. It didn't make much of a difference, but it stopped the liquid mercury dripping down his neck, chilling him to the bone.

He decided to take a short-cut home; an alley off main street eventually led to the side door of his apartment building. It also offered some shelter from the rain.

The alley was quiet, life taking on the strange eerie silence that only occurs when it was raining heavily. So it was particularly unusual to hear a woman's scream.

Grammian could hear a scuffle going on, and a woman shouting, "Get away!". Logic told him to ignore it; his conscience told him to deal with it. He ran towards the noise, getting closer towards the commotion. He rounded a corner to see two men advancing towards a woman in a red dress in the corner. They had their backs turned.

Grammian was only a foot away from them when they recognised his footfalls. One turned around and was punched in the face. He keeled over, into a miniature river of rainwater, adding his own red contribution to it from his nose. The second turned around and pointed a knife at Grammian.

"This ain't none o' your business, pal. Just back off and go home, or I'll cut ya good." He threatened. Grammian was easily within slashing range. He nodded and took a few steps back. The woman screamed, "NO!" and the thug grinned and said something.

He was out of slashing range. Grammian pulled the Colt revolver he kept in his coat out and aimed it at the goon. He allowed himself a smile. The thug lost his.

"Drop the knife and disappear." He said. The thug stared at him. Grammian repeated himself and was treated to some foul language.

BLAM

The thug shrieked and dropped the knife, clutching the bloody pulp of his left ear. He ran past Grammian, closely followed by his friend. Grammian put the revolver back and went over to the woman.

He held out his hand and asked if she was alright. She gave him a warm smile and said she was.

"Who were those guys? Rapists?" He asked. The woman shook her head, little drops of rain tickling his face as it flew off her long brown hair. It didn't bother him as much as it usually did.

"No, they were kidnappers. After some money from my papa." He said, before giving him another warm smile, "My name's Cogita Juilianni, by the way."

The name should have started warning bells ringing right then and there. If I hadn't spent the last 6 years of my life in the army, I probably would have said my "You're welcome"s and left. But I didn't.

"Do I get to know the name of my rescuer?" She asked sweetly.

"Oh, right. Sorry. I'm Frank Grammian." He said.

"Please come with me and meet my family. I'm sure my father would be more than pleased to reward you." She said, taking a hold of his arm.

Again with the warning bells. But I wasn't making a fixed income, and you know what money's like when it comes to making reasoned judgement. Especially when there's a beautiful woman involved.

"Sure." Said Grammian, grinning. He walked Cogita back to her house, a big mansion on the edge of the city. If he was alone, he would have whistled at its grandeur; instead, he kept silent.

The inside of the house was even more impressive than its exterior; an expensive looking red carpet embroidered with gold ran through the many corridors and up the majestic staircase. Everything looked like it belonged in a museum of fine arts.

"Cogita! You're soaked!" Said a young man, who came over with a hot towel which the young woman gratefully accepted.

"Thank you, Theodore. Oh," She turned to Grammian, then back to the newcomer. "Theodore, I'd like you to meet Mr. Grammian. He saved my life this evening."

The man raised and eyebrow before shaking Grammian's hand. "Saved your life...?" He asked. Cogita nodded.

"I'd like to speak with my father, please."

They were led up the stairs and towards a large oaken door. The butler knocked the door and went in before either Grammian or Cogita. There was a pause, then the door was opened fully. They walked in and Theodore left.

Behind an expensive looking desk sat a man with grey hair in a black suit. In a seat opposite him sat a younger man, who looked quite similar to Cogita. Grammian assumed he was her brother.

The old man got to his feet and Cogita rushed over to hug him. The younger man didn't stand.

"Cogita, Cogita, Cogita... I'm so glad you're alright." Said the old man. His daughter pulled away from him.

"Only thanks to this man here," She said, turning to Grammian, "Papa, I'd like you to meet Frank Grammian."

The old man shook hands with him. "We owe you a great deal, Mr. Grammian. If you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

If you had a timeline of my life, you could systematically trace back all of my problems to what I said.

"Sir, I'd like a job."

(OOC: The RP is now officially open for anyone who wants to join. Send me a telegram first, though, so I can make sure your idea fits in. I've made sure it's pretty free-form, though.)

So that was how I got started, really. One simple request to Don Juilianni and I was on my way downhill. Course, it didn't really start violently; he didn't send me out to break people's kneecaps and whatnot. Oh no, not old Don Juilianni. He was too smart for that sorta shit. He didn't like to scare of the new recruits by getting their hands dirty on the first day. Some people started with, say, making a delivery to one of the family's interests in the city. I was a little different. I got put straight into protection.

"So remind me again, what're we doing?" Asked Grammian, leaning against the wall of the butchers. He was bored, and didn't hide it.

"We stand out here and wait until someone decides to play hero. In which case we go in and kill 'em." Replied Patrick O'Hanlon.

Grammian raised an eyebrow. "And how often does that happen?" He asked, gripping the Colt in his jacket pocket. Maybe he would get something to do, after all.

"I've been working for the Don for the last 7 year. I only seen it happen twice. Both times nutcases were involved. One was Harry Ramsfeld; we had to shoot that bastard 9 times before he stopped cutting ole Jake with the butcher knife. The other was Éva Pascarté. SHe's still alive."

Grammian sighed. THen a gunshot went off inside the butchers. It was going to be a good day after all.

Grammian and Patrick burst into the butcher's shop, pistols drawn. Through the door, they found one dead body (the guy they were supposed to be protecting) and another man who, if he wasn't dead, was going to wish he was. A lethal looking spike was being pushed through his neck. Holding onto it was a young woman with short hazel coloured hair.

"Jesus!" Said Patrick, raising his pistol. "Éva Pascarté?! I didn't think I'd see you around here anymore..." Grammian raised his pistol and aimed it at the woman.

She pulled the weapon out of the corpse of the butcher and wiped the blood off it. "It's rude to point a gun at a lady, you know." She said. Before either man could respond, she threw the pig-sticker into Patrick's hand. He dropped his gun and fell to the ground, clutching it.

"What are ya waitin' for?! SHOOT HER!" He cried, staring at Grammian.

Grammian's finger tightened around the trigger, his hand started shaking. He then sighed and lowered his pistol and shook his head.

"No way. I ain't killin' a woman. It's not right." He said.

Éva laughed and cocked her head to one side. "You're cute. I like you. Hopefully I'll see you around." She then turned and left.

"What in the name o' God did ya do that for?!" Yelled Patrick, getting to his feet and staring at the weapon in his hand, "You know who that was?! Éva Pascarté! The sister of Don Pascarté! You coulda killed her and hit the bastard Don where it hurts!"

"I don't kill women, Paddy. Sorry about your hand."

"Meh, don't be worried about that. Be worried about yerself; you've gotta explain to the Don why our butcher got killed, along with one of his men by a bitch you coulda perforated."

Me and Patrick headed back to the Don's mansion, after he got his hand fixed up by one of the family's favoured doctors. By the time we were at the gates of the place, I was pretty nervous. It was pretty much my first day in work for the family, and already I'd screwed up pretty bad.

"The Don will see you now," Said the butler, opening the big oak door and stepping to one side. Grammian walked in along with Patrick. The old man raised and eyebrow when they entered.

"Care to explain what happened?" Asked the Don.

"We were standing outside the butchers, waiting for our man to collect the money, when we heard a gunshot. We ran in to find our man dead, along with the butcher. It was Éva Pascarté, Don." Said Patrick.

"And what happened to your hand?"

"She... she threw one of those needle things she always carries around at it. Went straight through. I dropped my gun."

There was a silence. "But you still had your gun, si?" Asked the Don, pointing to Grammian.

"Yes I did, Don." He replied.

"Then why did you not shoot? How do I know you did not shoot? Because the Pascartés haven't gone into mourning over the death of their Don's sister."

"Don, I didn't shoot because she was a woman." Replied Grammian.

Silence fell over the room. Young Anguillo Juilianni glared at him as if he was a traitor. Patrick stared at him, before shaking his head. The Don looked at him levelly.

"And you did the right thing." He said, after an agonising pause. Everyone turned to stare at the Don. "The death of Éva Pascarté would mean we were at an all-out war with the Pascarté family. The death of a family member always hits you hard. We can not afford an all-out war at this time."

"Pop, they just destroyed one of our businesses..." Said Anguillo, to his father.

"It's the game works. That was one of our smallest businesses, and the Pascartés knew it. We're not friends with them, but we have a mutual understanding; never hit the big business, or it's war.

"Grammian, I'm pleased with your work. Patrick, I'm afraid your days as an enforcer are over. So, you're getting a new partner, Grammian. Meet Toni Collagini. Big Toni."

A man in a dark suit came over and shook Grammian's hand. He was big. Really big. Built like a tank and looked like he could take one on with his right hand, Toni Collagini was not a man to mess with.

"I've got something I'd like you to take care of. Both of you. Some dealer has started selling drugs around 53rd street. Our territory. People are starting to think he represents our interests. Not so. The Juilianni makes it a rule never to traffic drugs. So this man is making us look bad. Take care of it."

Drug dealers come in two very distinct forms; the idiots who deal because they don't know what else to do, and the smart ones who deal because that's the life they've chosen. Luckily, the smart ones are as common as a decent politician.

I don't like drug dealers. Anyone who makes a living by getting kids addicted to something that's going to wreck their life is automatically a bad guy in my book.

Toni slouched in the passenger seat of the car, whilst Grammian sat straight up. Both were watching a street corner. Or, more to the point, the man who was standing there. They were almost certain he was the guy they were after, but it was the "almost" part that was keeping them in the car. They wanted to see him go about his dirty business before they made a move.

It was half an hour later before he finally dealt his filth. Toni nudged Grammian and the two got out of the car. They walked over to their man, who raised an eyebrow and said, "Need a fix, lads?"

Grammian glanced at Toni, who nodded then grabbed him by the throat. The dealer started gurgling and tried to fight back. It was something of a lost cause, given Toni's physical stature.

They pulled him into a building nearby, specially set up for the purpose. No one would ask any questions. The dealer was thrown onto the floor, gasping for air. Toni and Grammian pulled out pistols and aimed them at him.

"Who do you work for?" Asked Grammian.

"What're you talking about, you sick fuc.." Toni kicked him in the face. "Aw hell, my nose! You sunnavabitch, you broke my goddamn nose!"

"We can do worse. Who do you work for?" Asked Grammian again.

"...the Pascartés said they'd protect me if I dealt in your territory. I needed a backer like that to move into the big time, y'know..." Whined the broken dealer.

"What's your name?" Asked Toni.

"Peter DeGeorgio." He replied.

"Thanks Pete." Said Toni, before turning to Grammian. "Alright, kill him."

"What?!" Asked Grammian and Peter at the same time. "He told us everything, we can't just kill him!"

"This piece of crap has been selling poison to anyone who has enough money to make him feel like his life has some meaning. He wanted backing from the Pascartés so he could improve his operation, selling loads more to even more kids who don't know what they're buying. We don't kill him, he's going to cause a lot of upset."

Grammian stared at Toni, then at Pete. "Don't do this, man, don't do this! I'm freakin' beggin' you here, don't do this..."

*BLAM*

Grammian put the pistol back into his jacket and stared at the corpse on the floor. Toni put his own pistol away and patted him on the shoulder.

"You did good kid. Let's go back and tell the Don the good news. Or the bad news."

"Bad news?"

"The Pascartés seem to be looking for trouble. First the thing at the butchers, now this... sounds bad."

Cleo Mancini got dressed in a formal evening gown. It was full length, black, low cut in front and back, but not sleazy. Very elegant. She put her dark brown hair up with some pieces wispy around the sides. Then some diamond earings and a diamond necklace. She was ready for her date, an up and coming politician, who needed some eye candy at a political get together/party tonight. This ought to net me a few thousand dollars.

Cleo made good money, that is true. A man named Paul Juilianni had met her in a pub one night and asked her if she wanted to make some good money. Anything was better than being a cocktail waitress. She took him up on his offer.

So he introduced her to his Escort Service, thinking she would pull in a lot of money. She would. She was quite stunning and very obviously Italian. Cleo had never done anything like this before, and was nervous and didn't know if she wanted to be a high class ho... which was what she was, save for the name 'Escort'.

Soon enough, Cleo got used to the money and living a glamourous life, and she was very thankful to Paul. Unfortunately, in the back of her mind, she knew she sold her dignity... a feeling she couldn't shake.

Cleo was treated well, lived lavishly and had everything anyone could dream of, but at the same time, there was a deep down sadness. She was good at covering it, and was an excellent escort, who got along well with people in all walks of life.

The intercom buzzed in her room: Your date is here Cleo.

"I'll be right down," she said into the intercom as she put on her heels.

Another day, another dollar.

It wasn't long before I was back in the Don's office, explaining what had become of Peter DeGeorgio. He didn't care that I'd killed him in cold blood, which was disturbing at the time. I was finding it hard to accept, too. But it seemed more business was to be dealt with.

Beside the Don stood Daniel Lunardi, the Family consiglieri. A map of the city was on the big desk, with various places circled in red.

"The Pascartés have been doing everything in their power to try and drag us into a shooting war," Said Lunardi, "All the areas I've circled are where our businesses have been attacked, damaged or shook up by them. There's going to be some bloodshed soon, too, unless we start taking action."

The Don looked at the map for a long time, resting his head on his hands, before finally asking the question on everyone's mind: "Daniel, if we went to war, what sort of chance would we have at winning?"

The consiglieri tapped his palm with the red pen. "At the moment, it looks like they're trying to provoke us to do something. So there goes your element of surprise. The Pascartés are smart when it comes to making decisions; they won't do anything risky without knowing the odds are heavily in their favour. Which they are, in this case.

"The Pascartés own pretty much the entire weapons business in the city. Any guns that come in have to go through them before they get distributed. So they get the choicest pieces of kit and outgun us at any given time. And there's a hell of a lot of money in that business, too. So they've got plenty of cash to back them up. Buy certain politicians and so on.

"Numerically, they're better too..." As he was talking, Anguillo (the Don's son) came over and motioned for Grammian to follow him out. In the hallway outside the office, he closed the door.

"I need to talk to you," He said, "A few things have been going on recently that my father doesn't know about. For instance, we run a pretty tight prostitution racket. But he wouldn't approve, so it's getting run by me.

"One of our best girls, Honey, was shot dead last night. We found her body in a sewer. She was supposed to be taking out a high-profile police captain who's running for Mayor sometime soon. I need you to find out what happened and deal with whoever shot her."

"Why me?" Asked Grammian, with genuine confusion, "Why not Big Toni? I'm not so good at this sorta stuff."

"My sister likes you, and that makes you a good guy. I'm trusting you on this one, OK?"

Lil' Tag to keep track...

Carmine Lucini slumped on the bed in her quarters sobbing. She's dead! She's dead!!! She's dead! Carmine started shouting hysterically: "She's dead! She's dead! She's dead! She's de..." Anna, the booking agent ran up to comfort her. "Wh-who would want to kill her?! She was so nice! No one had a reason to do this!" She sobbed.

"Carmine, Carmine... shhhhh....", Anna said as she held Carmine.

Carmine was Cleo/Honey's roommate and they were the best of friends. She had heard all about how they found her and she didn't know if she could stand it. She continued sobbing...

"Carmine, calm down." Anna said. "I'm sure the killer will be caught."

"But that won't bring her back!" She started sobbing all over again.

Then she calmed down quickly. "Thank you Anna, for being here for me."

"I'll always be here for you Carmine."

"And I'll be here for you Anna. Thank you. I'm fine now, although I think I need you to cancel tonight's date." Carmine said.

"Of course, I'll do it right now." Anna ran out of the room.

I'm going to kill the motherfucker who killed my roommate myself. These were Carmine's last thoughts before she cried herself to sleep.

OOC: Dreg, are we going to just quit this or what?

Dregs???? :confused:

OOC: Ahem. Sorry. I was on holiday for the last two weeks, hence the total lack of posts. I would have given more warning, but I only found out I was going 20 minutes before the taxi arrived. So I added [On holiday] to my motto and hoped for the best.

Anyway, I'll get right back to the RP as soon as I feel... human.

ooc: Cool! :D

"My sister likes you, and that makes you a good guy. I'm trusting you on this one, OK?"

I didn't like the job one bit, to be honest. I have limited sympathy for hookers and the like, but Anguillo had asked me personally to find out what happened.

Besides, shooting a woman is wrong. Even if she is a whore.

Grammian drove slowly into the red light district. He had the dead woman's last known address scribbled down on the back of an envelope, along with a few rag tag details. And a note to buy some milk on the way back.

He slowed down outside the address he'd been given and got out. It was dark, and already the women were out, flaunting their goods. If you wanted to call it that. Grammian put on his hat and entered the building. A woman sat at a desk, on the phone. She sounded like she was making an appointment for a "client".

Great. A female pimp. Equality and all that.

"I'm here to speak to a..." He glanced at his envelope, "...Carmine Lucini. With regards to her roommate Cleo. Is she available?"

ooc: Hopefully I'll post today.

OOC: This isn't like a hooker stable. High class call girls who are paid thousands to entertain celebrities and gov't officials and the like. Elegant women who dress for formal occasions, not women walking around in lingere waiting for a pickup. There are waiting lists for these girls.

IC: "Hello, I'm Anna, the booking agent." A woman in her late 40's dressed like a ceo in a skirt suit stood up and extended her hand.

"And who may I say is calling, and what is your business with Carmine?" Anna asked. "Who sent you. We don't just let anyone in here, I am sorry to say."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upstairs in Carmine's room, she sat on her bed under the covers with her knees pulled up and her head resting on them, still sobbing. "Why Cleo?" She sobbed. "She was the sweetest girl and n-never hurt anyone in her life."

Carmine sobbed uncontrollably and finally yelled at the top of her lungs, "IT'S NOT FAIR!!!" This was loud enough to be heard by Anna and Grammian. "Not fair! Not...fair... not..." Oh God I hope she didn't suffer. Carmine began sobbing uncontrolably again while looking at Cleo's empty bed.

"I'm Mr. Grammian. I represent the Juilianni family's interests in this matter." He glanced at the ceiling, where the woman's shrieks were coming from. "By the sound of things, Miss Lucini is still here. I expect to see her, right now."

Grammian was let up to Carmine's room. He took a deep breath before he entered, the girls sobs coming through the door at him.

"Miss Lucini, my name is Frank Grammian," He said, standing at the door. He didn't want to get too close to the hysterical woman. "I'm here to find out who did this to Cleo. Okay?"

She nodded between sobs.

"First of all, do you know if Cleo had any enemies? Any at all?"

It was a dumb question to ask. I sussed that one out half a second after I asked it. It was just asking for the woman to go into a fresh spate of sobs. Which she did, with gusto.

A few minutes later, I'd calmed her down a bit and found out that Cleo was the nicest person in the world and she'd never have any enemies.

Which made my job a whole lot more difficult.

"Miss Lucini, can you recall Cleo saying anything about her client the night she was murdered? The Police officer?" Asked Grammian, resisting the urge to slap the woman. It was understandable that she was upset, but he couldn't exactly help her unless she started giving straight answers. Then again, if he did slap her, she might have a nervous breakdown on the spot. And he'd get even less answers.

"She did seem to be a bit unhappy with him..." She started, wiping her nose with a handkerchief, "I thought it was just my imagination, though. If only I'd paid more attention to her..."

And she was off again, into a fresh torrent of tears.

Grammian stood at the door, not sure of what he was to do. When it came to comforting call-girls that had just lost their best friend, he was as skilled as a two-year-old trying to do brain surgery with a lead pipe.

He did the smart thing and left.

So after that cheery encounter, I'd found out that the dead woman was upset with the Police Captain that she'd been going out with that night. It was beginning to look like he was my chief suspect in the matter.

But therein lay the problem; if it was the cop, what could I do? It wasn't like he was some piss pants newbie in some hellhole of a precinct. It wasn't like I could kill him and not face any consequences. But it wasn't like I could let him go if it turned out he'd shot the whore, either.

OOC: I've decided this would be a whole lot simpler if I just made it a story RP. Less dependance on people deciding to stay on the forums for more than 20 minutes.

IC:

The Police Captain the whore was supposed to have been going out with had an office in the main Police building in the city centre. So if I had to kill him at some point, I wasn't going to do it there. Unless I took leave of my senses.

Grammian pulled up at the big grey building and got out. It was certainly impressive enough; he guessed there must've been at least 30 floors in the building.

He pushed through the door into the lobby.

At the reception sat a man in an immaculate police officer's uniform. Grammian guessed he must've spent a month polishing his badge and buttons.

"Can I help you?" He asked.

"I'm here to speak with Captain Haynes."

"Your name?"

"Frank Grammian."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I'm afraid not. However, this is a matter of grave importance. The Captain will want to speak with me."

"We'll see."

The receptionist picked up a phone and dialled some numbers. Grammian heard him say that he wanted to speak to him. The receptionist put his hand over the receiver and said, "The Captain wants to know what's so important."

Grammian thought about how to put it, before saying, "Tell him it's with regards to Cleo."

The receptionist said so into the phone, then raised an eyebrow before putting the phone down. "You've to go right up. He's on the 28th floor, room number 128-C."

Grammian headed towards the elevators. Before he was able to get out of the lobby, he had to go through a security point where he had to hand over his revolver. The officer assured him he'd get it back when he was leaving.

Grammian entered room 128-C after a brief elevator journey up to the 28th floor. He wasn't admitted immediately into the main office; he was first made to wait in the small office of the Captain's secretary while he finished his previous meeting.

Grammian waited, looking out the window. The view was certainly impressive.

A few minutes later, the door opened and a tall man in a grey suit left. Grammian nodded to him, but the man completely ignored him. Grammian shrugged and walked into the main office.

"Sit down, please, Mr... Grammian, is it?"

I didn't like him as soon as he said that. He knew my name. He'd been phoned a few minutes earlier and thought it important enough to speak to me. It wasn't memory loss, it was intended to be condescending.

"That's right. I appreciate you speaking with me at such short notice."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah let's cut the bullshit. You want to know what happened to Cleo. And you're talking to me about it. Why?"

"You were the last person she was scheduled to speak to. I'd like to know what happened that night."

"You think I killed her."

"You're a police officer; you know the drill. Suspect everyone, then eliminate suspects one after another."

"You son of a bitch, don't you dare lecture me on how to conduct an investigation or even compare yourself to a policeman. You're not even a god damned officer. You private?"

Grammian stifled a smirk. "Yeah, I'm private."

"Figured as much. Well, let me tell you something PI Grammian; I don't give a damn who hired you. I had nothing to do with that whore's death and I have a mind to smack you in the face for even thinking I did. I'm married. My wife was ill that night and I needed to go with someone to give the right impression. Now get out. You show your face around here again and I'll have you arrested."

He was pissed. There was no logic in staying around to give him a chance to make good on his threat. I figured I'd follow him, find out what was going on in his life. Not that it mattered, of course. He was guilty as hell. But you need to have no doubt about the motive before you do anything to anyone.

Grammian sat in his car, watching the building he'd left an hour ago. The car was cramped, muggy and the radio was starting to repeat itself, but he would wait as long as it took. It turned out to be 20 minutes.

Haynes got into his car and drove off. Grammian turned on the engine and followed him, keeping a fair distance behind him.

Haynes cruised into the roughest part of the city like he owned it. I was thankful I'd gotten my pistol in my pocket after I'd left the police station. Not long into the slums, Haynes pulled over and went into a bar that wouldn't have looked out of place in a western. I pulled over and parked on the opposite side of the street and watched through the window.

Haynes walked into the bar and sat down on a stool, saying something to the barman. He got a clean-looking glass placed down in front of him and the owner of the fine establishment poured some liquor in it from a bottle that was under the bar. Along with a wad of money.

I'd figured Haynes was corrupt when I met him. He went to six or seven similar pubs after the first one, with exactly the same routine. It turned out he was more corrupt than the average graveyard.

Once he finished his rounds, he headed from the slums to his own little piece of paradise.

Dusk was beginning to descend like a thick blanket over the city as Haynes pulled up into the driveway of a house that was far beyond a policeman's pay. Grammian drove past it, mentally noting the number, and pulled over a good 100 metres away. He got out and headed up to the house on foot.

The lights were on in what Grammian assumed was the living room. He hunched low and crept into the thick bushes that lined the garden. The last thing he needed was a neighbour phoning the police because some peeping tom was staring into the window of the police captain.

Haynes seemed to have decided he hadn't had enough to drink that day and was sitting in a chair downing whiskey. A few gulps later and he sat it down.

Enter Mrs. Haynes, stage left.

Her face was bruised, her right eye was puffed up to the extent you couldn't see the eye itself. She'd taken quite a beating. There was the reason Captain Haynes had needed to hire a call-girl to come out with him. His wife was "sick".

She said something to him. Grammian couldn't make it out. He did make out the response, though. Haynes got to his feet and slapped his wife in the face. She collapsed to the floor.

Grammian decided he didn't feel that bad about killing a policeman after all.

Despite the fact that I hated the man's guts, I couldn't bring myself to gun him down in his own house in front of his own wife. It was crazy, really. Besides, it gave me a chance to get a clean gun.

I snuck out the bushes and went back to my car. It was time I paid a visit to my buddy Harvey Jameson. Armorer to the Juilianni family.

Grammian padded up the metal stairs and banged on Jameson's door. The apartment was in a lousy part of a lousy city, but it was protected by the family.

"Who is it?" Came a voice behind the door.

"It's Frank. Open up."

The door clanked as the heavy deadbolt was released and it was heaved open. Harvey smiled and nodded.

"Evening Frank. What can I do for you?"

"I need a clean piece."

Harvey nodded and turned into his workshop. Grammian followed him in. On the workstation sat several snapped open sawn-off shotguns. On a shelf was every conceivable kind of ammo, neatly boxed and filed away.

"What can I interest you in?" He asked.

"A six-shooter that's small enough to fit in a shoulder holster without being obvious. But powerful enough to make sure someone doesn't get back up from a bullet."

"And clean, yeah?"

"Oh yeah."

Harvey turned to the filing cabinets and pulled open a few drawers. Finally, he pulled out a matt black revolver with a 4" barrel.

"There you go. Bring it back when you're finished."

Grammian nodded and checked the chamber. Satisfied, he slid it into his holster.

"So how's Cogita?" Asked Harvey, closing the drawers.

"I wouldn't know."

"I always liked her, y'know. Lovely girl."

"I'll be sure to pass that on. See you, Harv."

ooc: Dreg, I'd like to continue where I left off. Seriously. I might need a day or two. I have some commitments and double vision, but I'd like to continue as Carmine. Is that OK?

ooc: You really don't want any other people??

ooc: You really don't want any other people??

OOC: Yes. This is more suited towards being a story RP.

IC:

Grammian cruised back towards the house of one Police Captain Haynes, the man he was going to kill. He could go all moralistic and say that he would be making the world a better place by putting a couple of bullets in him. But he didn't have such illusions; he was going to kill the son of a bitch because he shot a whore and was a sadistic wife beater.

I arrived at the Haynes place at half nine at night. It was dark and it looked like it was going to rain again. I was about to pull up and wait to see if he was going to go out when he saved me the effort.

The car pulled out of the driveway, with Haynes behind the wheel. Grammian coasted along behind him, keeping his distance. Where was he going?

Nearly half an hour later, Haynes pulled over and stopped at the edge of a flood overflow drain. It had started raining, but he got out and stood at the edge trying to light a cigarette.

Grammian pulled up on the opposite side of the street, put on his black hat to keep the rain off his head and got out. He undid the top few buttons to let him get easy access to the pistol in the holster.

He was halfway across the street when Haynes looked up and saw him. He flicked away the cigarette and squinted in the dark, trying to see who it was. He recognised the face and pulled out his own pistol. Grammian dived to the side as the gun went off and a bullet hit a building on the other side of the street. Grammian got into a half crouch with his own pistol drawn, in time to see Haynes running down into the flood overflow.

Grammian ran after him, unbuttoning his coat as he did so to let him easily access the ammo he had stuffed in the inside pocket.

He was in time to see Haynes run into one of the three tunnels that served as a backup escape for water when it rained too heavily. Grammian charged after him.

Inside the tunnel was very dark, even darker than outside. Grammian moved through it slowly, taking careful steps forward. It was the perfect place to blunder blindly into an ambush, so making a hell of a racket wasn't a great idea.

Less than a minute's walk from the tunnel entrance was the remains of a mesh safety guard, probably to stop people from running through the drains in the dark. It looked like it hadn't served its purpose in decades, since the wire had a massive hole in the middle of it, and only pointed edges remained. Grammian stepped over it, making a mental note of the shoe that was left at it.

The darkness was worse here than it was previously. Grammian prayed he knew how to get back out once he was done. The tunnel was silent, save for the steady drip, drip of water from the ceiling.

"Aaaaaooww!" Came a cry not very far ahead from where Grammian was.

That was the sound of a man stubbing his toe.

Grammian raised his pistol and aimed into the darkness, roughly where he'd heard the noise.

BADAMM, BADAMM, SPAKK

"AAAAOOOOW!!"

That was the sound of a man catching a ricochet.

Grammian's eyes had adjusted slightly to the darkness. He paced forward towards where he'd heard the noise. On the floor lay a body. It wasn't moving. Whether or not he was dead was immaterial; he was lying face down in water and had taken a ricochet. Dead or not, he would be.

Grammian retraced his steps and headed back to the Don's mansion to meet Anguillo and give him the good news.

"So you killed him, eh?" Asked Anguillo, leaning back in his leather chair in his personal office. Grammian nodded.

"And the gun?"

"It was a clean one from Harvey's. I took it back to him. It'll be destroyed by now."

"Good work, Frank." Said Anguillo with a smile, "This Captain Haynes was proving to be something of a thorn in our side. As you may know, it pays huge dividends to have a high ranking official on the payroll. Captain Haynes refused to bite. For us, at least. We heard rumours that he was getting the white envelopes from the Pascartés, but we're not certain."

"Will there be any repercussions?" Asked Grammian carefully.

Anguillo laughed and shook his head. "There won't be. Not after Captain Haynes' less than ethical activities are released to the press."

"I guess that's that, then." Said Grammian, beginning to stand up.

"Ah, just one more thing." Said Anguillo, waving him down into the chair. "One more little job for you tonight. A special request, actually. You've to take my sister out for dinner."

What a difference a date makes.

Cogita and myself had a nice dinner together, I walked her home and agreed that we should do it again sometime. Which we did. And again after that.

Pretty soon it'd become official that the two of us were a couple. A few months down the line and it was made official that the two of us were man and wife.

The Don set us up with a nice house in one of his secure neighbourhoods. Nice, quiet, close to work.

Anguillo seemed to like that I was treating his sister fairly. She always had nice things to say about me, apparently. Although he did make it very clear to me over a brandy at the Don's mansion that he was very close to his sister and that he'd make my life very unpleasant for me if I hurt her in any way.

Harvey was always nice, too. He brought us round some kitchen stuff when we were moving into our house. I guess making him my best man at the wedding had made him feel that he had to look out for us both.

Months ticked by. Life was good. The Don had taken me off the rougher work. I just had to oversee deliveries every now and then to earn my keep. Cogita got pregnant, and I asked the Don if I could do longer hours. Earn more money.

When she was into her third month, I was working very late. At around 2 in the morning, I got home.

Grammian closed the door to his house and reached for the light switch. He stopped and retracted his hand before he did it. Cogita would be asleep upstairs, and it wasn't fair to wake her up just because he was home.

He took off his shoes and padded up the stairs quietly. The door to his bedroom was slightly ajar. He smiled. Cogita liked having the tiny beam of moonlight in the bedroom when she was going to sleep.

He pushed open the door quietly. He stopped. He flicked on the light. He collapsed onto his knees.

His wife lay on the bed, the white bedsheets covered in blood. Her blood. Grammian got to his feet and walked over to the mess, finding it hard to really believe it was possible.

She was dead. 6 stab wounds to her chest.

Grammian held her body close and yelled in anguish.