Welcome to the Working Week (Westside Saga)

[Harlan Higgs]

The House Bets Against

A gramophone turned slowly in the corner, putting lively music into the cozy parlor of the refurbished Luxor Social Club. A fan turned lazily on the ceiling, pulling up a plume of smoke from the smoldering cigar in Harlan’s fingers.

He raised a tumbled full of dark red liquid to his lips, sipping the mixture of blood and fine bourbon as he relaxed. Now he felt at home in the Omniverse. Fine booze, fresh vitae, and the remnants of the previous day’s vicious slaughter rattling around his head.

He was deserving of this, of course. Just enough to remind himself of the finer things he’d had. Too much would be bad, so he’d hit the streets again later, in what he would affectionately call “community service”.

He heard the footsteps and the rusty jangle of metal approach the social club’s entrance, what sounded like a small group of people milling around outside, unsure of whether to take the risk of knocking on the dark oaken doors. The Ravnos rolled his eyes. There would have to be some, ah, retraining to undertake. Knock that rough-and-tumble street gangster nonsense out of their heads if they were to be fine, upstanding pillars of the community.

He quickly drained the rest of his drink, sticking the cigar in the corner of his mouth, and stood up. Clean, pale hands straightened his bowtie as he crossed the soft green carpet and gave the entrance parlor a final inspection. “Wait a moment, I hear you lollygagging about like a bunch of krauts waiting for the beer hall to open.”

He heard an intake of breath as the door opened, and he took stock of the assembled citizens. The remaining Metalheads, still dressed in their ramshackle armor and ripped clothing. Fear and recognition were in their eyes, followed by a dawning confusion as the altered state of their former hideout dawned on them.

They hadn’t seen the bloody carnage or the aftermath. They just knew that all of their former gang buddies had been in this building when it was sealed. Now reopened, everything was unfamiliar.

Harlan stood in front of the assembled secondaries, slowly walking up and down their line, puffing his cigar. Finally, after what was almost an incredibly awkward silence, he spoke. “So….as I'm sure you are well aware, I killed Argus. And your compatriots. Now, you had the good sense to flee before things got messy, which tells me you have a sense for danger, and more importantly, how to stay alive.”

“I respect that. It’s how I’ve lived to near a hundred years old, discretion being the better part of valor and all that.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth, inhaled deeply, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

The gray vapor shimmered and coalesced into what looked like a translucent movie screen, a “greatest hits” reel being displayed in grainy black and white, images of Harlan in Vegas, gunning down gangsters, getting stabbed and thrown off a boat, and numerous other vignettes that went by too fast to really focus on.

He waved a hand and the smoke dissipated as he went on. “I’m new here in this “Omniverse”, and from what I’ve found out, anything goes. Coruscant, like many places in many societies, is built upon the backs of the less fortunate. Like yourselves. You fight and scrape and spit for the drippings of the ones upstairs. That takes heart and hardness.”

His tone softened slightly as he went on, the former Metalheads listening in rapt attention, one or two showing the fresh faced expression of keen interest. “I run the show in these parts now, as small as it is. Argus was an idiot. He had no idea how to take care of the territory. He had no idea how to be a gentleman. I am a gentleman. I understand how hard life is. And it’s my duty as someone who knows how the world works to make it just that much better for those who don’t, or can’t.”

He removed the cigar and flicked it into the air, where it burst into glowing golden sparks, Harlan tipping his bowler and grinning hungrily at his new prospects, the foundation he would rebuild his criminal enterprise on. “The money and power comes much easier with that in mind, friends.”

He had them casting off their ripped clothes and makeshift metal armor not long after that, the Ravnos leading them to the second floor. He’d turned it into a sort of common room, less formal than the entry parlor but still tastefully furnished and decorated with green lamps and muted wooden mantels.

Off to the side was a series of fitting rooms and closets, stocked with pinstripe suits, fedoras, bowler hats, and functionally tasteful skirts and blouses. The new recruits dressed themselves while Harlan toiled in the second room off the side, summoning classic Thompson Submachine Guns, snubnose .38 Pistols, baseball bats, and ice picks from memory.

Each weapon was a near perfect copy of one he’d used many times, and he could hear the former Metalheads making themselves comfortable on the couches, talking amongst themselves and voicing their apprehensions and hopes for the future.

Harlan re-entered the common room, slightly winded from the effort of stocking the armory, and joined them in the circle of seats. “Now...the hour is late, and I’m a bit tuckered from stocking the armory. So, why don’t you tell me about yourselves before we hit the hay and prepare for tomorrow?”

The first recruit to speak sat up a bit straighter, taking off the fedora he’d picked out to reveal a bald head marked with scars, one going across his nose. “Name’s Charlie. Used to be too hitter for Argus. He sent me along when they needed some muscle.”

It showed in the man’s face. He’d seen and perpetuated that good old street violence, but seemed unmarred by psychosis or chem use. And you didn't live to get very old as a hitman. Charlie gestured to the man sitting across from him, a short man with sunken lips who’d chosen to forgo a hat. “That’s Chatter. On account of he don’t shut up.” Chatter smiled and the rest of the prospects erupted into laughter. Evidently this was a preexisting joke.

The two women were sitting close to each other, one dressed in a suit, tall, brunette, with leopard spots going up her temples and down underneath her shirt. The other was dressed in a blouse and skirt, redhead, cute, with ridges on her nose and a bob haircut. She was the one who spoke. “I’m Rika Yrens, and this lovely lady with the spots is Ziadaj Adx, Zia for short.” The brunette nodded, brushing a stray hair out of Rika’s eyes.

Harlan rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Excellent. Excellent. Now, don’t stay up too late ...tomorrow we show the colors, patrol the neighborhood, and show the citizenry that there’s a new outfit in town.” He stood up and bowed, gesturing with a flourish as small pins appeared on each person’s lapel, shaped like spades.

“Welcome to the Gentlemen Jacks, fellas.”