♣𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐘♣ 𝐴 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝐼𝑛 𝑆𝑡. 𝐿𝑜𝑢𝑖𝑠

♣ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴏᴠᴇʀᴛɪᴍᴇ♣

Mitzi stepped into her office, balancing her adding machine in one hand, her gaze drifting to a familiar portrait on the wall. She softened.

"Good evening, dear," she murmured, cracking the window open and, with practiced nonchalance, tossed the adding machine right out. She then eased into her chair, pouring herself a neat glass of whiskey. "It might interest you to know, Sedgewick Sable is having a new quarry blasted just west of here, between the two rivers. Quite a list of dignitaries attending the... christening. I suppose that calls for a special invitation? They're blowing something up, after all. What better reason to celebrate?"

A sudden knock interrupted her musings. "Yes?"

The door creaked open, and Rocky leaned in with a grin. "You should be careful conversing so indiscreetly with the portraiture, Miss M. People are liable to think you're crazier than a can of cricket juice."

"Oh, Rocky... Come on in."

He strolled in, holding the very adding machine she'd just disposed of. "I found your adding machine," he said, handing it to her.

"Thank you, sweetie." She took it with a playful eye roll, setting it aside.

Mitzi finished her drink, cleared her throat, and straightened. "Actually, I'm glad you came."

Rocky's eyes lit up, the hint of excitement flickering across his face. "You are!?"

She wrote on a slip of paper, slid it into an envelope, and pinned it closed with her characteristic flair before handing it to him. "You're still certain you can get your hands on that freight tomorrow night? We may have some important guests, and I can't keep watering down that watered-down whiskey we've got left."

Rocky donned his hat with a satisfied smirk. "Absolutely. And not only because I got my hat back. And the car. But because Viktor gave me some invaluable advice. Turns out my trouble is I'm the wrong kind of noodle. Tomorrow, I'll be more like... linguine!"

"Mmm-hmmm," she mused, satisfied, patting him on the shoulder as she handed over the envelope. "The Union Trust Building. It's getting late, but the doorman should take it. If you could just drop it off on your way to... wherever it is you live."

With a quick salute, Rocky left the café, a bounce in his step, the envelope in hand, as Mitzi's adding machine clattered once more from her window.

Not far away, in Wick Sable's grand office, his secretary, Lacy Hardt, approached him with a sour expression and a sealed envelope. "Mr. Sable?" She waited for him to respond, then frowned when he didn't look up.

She cleared her throat, louder this time. "Mr. Sable?"

Nothing. Wick continued jotting notes on a contract, oblivious. Lacy rolled her eyes, clenching the envelope tighter. She finally stepped right up to his desk and slapped down a knife. "Some thug brought this message for you."

Wick blinked, taken aback. "Whuh?"

"It's just your letter opener, Mr. Sable. The doorman said the courier looked like some scruffy excuse for a hoodlum." She handed him the knife, adding with a wry look, "What are you doing here this time of night, Lacy?"

"Well, I figured I'd stay and make more coffee if you needed it... but I think maybe you've had enough." Lacy's gaze flickered to his already empty mug.

"Why don't you head on home and get some rest?" he offered, folding the note with a satisfied smile. "Big day tomorrow and all..."

He took the envelope, noting the Aces pin within, and smirked at the message: How about a toast to good tidings and new prospects? - Mitzi, PS. Bring some friends.

Later, on a quiet bridge over the Mississippi, Rocky leaned against the rail, watching the river wind through the city as he mused aloud to himself, a hand raised dramatically.

"Old Man River! That seems far too austere a name
For something made of mirth and rage.
O, roiling red-blood river vein,
If chief among your traits is age,
You're a wily, convoluted sage."

"Is "old" the thing to call what rings
The vernal heart of wester-lore;
What brings us brassy-myth made kings
And preponderance of bug-type things..."

A bug hovered, swirling around him as he brushed it away, climbing onto the rail with a smirk.

"To challenge titans come before?
Demiurge to a try at Avalon-once-more!
And what august vitality
In your wide aorta stream
You must have had to oversee
Alchemic change of timber beam
To iron, brick, and engine steam."

"Your umber whiskey waters lance
The prideful sober sovereignty
Of faulty-haloed Temperance
And wilt her self-sure countenance;
Yes, righteousness is vanity,
But your sport's for imps, not elderly."

"If there's a name for migrant mass
Of veteran frivolity
That snakes through seas of prairie grass
And groves of summer sassafras,
A name that flows as roguishly
As gypsy waters, fast and free,
It's your real name, Mississippi..."

Just then, he noticed a lone police officer eyeing him, eyebrow arched in suspicion. Rocky, unfazed, grinned, offering a half-hearted salute.

"Encore?" he quipped, with a nervous chuckle.

TO BE CONTINUED!!!!