Here in the Alleyway:
Part 1 - "Knock-out Ringer"

Knock-Knock. 

Either it’s the start of a bad joke or a bad day.

I stirred from the bed half-awake, blinding my eyes as I opened them to the bright scarlet hues of the room that made it hard to tell if it was morning or dusk. Judging by the fact that I was in my bed it had to of been the latter as it was the only room that caught the evening sun. No sooner had I reached to pick up the pack of cigarettes from the nightstand that the rapping came again.

Bang, bang, bang.

“If you don’t want to see something you’ll regret then you’ll wait!” I shouted in a low and gritty voice. It often likened to a dirt road that had been well traveled over the years but never taken care of.

A few clicks of the lighter and a quick puff got the old motor going. Grudgingly I grabbed my discarded charcoal trousers with faded red suspenders and pulled them on, but once-white shirt that was part of the set had been stained with some form of muck was below even my standards to put on. I decided pants alone were good enough and slung suspenders over my shoulders securing them with a solid snap.

BANG! BANG!

As I reached the door I threw it open with the utmost respect one would give such an impatient annoyance. But what stood there was not the usual fair that presented itself at my door. She was feline: short and slender, clad in an off-white cocktail dress that wrapped her gracefully, presenting what little curvature she had in a splendor that would make any male pine after her. Her fur was a light ginger color reminiscent of autumn leaves and her hair cut to a short bob giving her an even sleeker appearance. Along with a pair of cool, blue eyes one would swear they were looking at the embodiment of Fall itself. Although, the moment I stared into those eyes no sooner did they begin to burn. A fire was lit behind her composed expression.

“How long are you going to make me wait?” Her voice was just as soft as her fur, maybe even softer. It betrayed her age. She was young. Perhaps too young for some tastes.

“Sorry kid, not buying today.” I reached for the door to close it.

“What?” She was puzzled by my comment, “Mr. Tabor? Grant Tabor?”

“If you’re using that name I take you're not a lady-of-the-evening.” My voice carried with it a little disappointment. This was the red-light district and a pretty dame like her would have lightened up the place.

She was flustered, but not discouraged. “No, Mr. Tabor, I was referred here by the Reliquary. I want you to find someone for me.” 

Whatever grogginess remained in me quickly vanished. I stepped aside and gestured her towards the back.  “Please. And my friends call me Tabs.”

The place was old and cramped. The layout of which let any clientele know this was as much a home as it was an office.  Anyone arriving was ushered past a small, desolate kitchen area that hasn’t seen use past a coffee maker. Further back was an old oak desk and a pair of wooden chairs, all three of which looked as if they scuffled with one another on multiple accounts. Looking to left of the desk you'd be greeted by a bedroom and its well-worn Murphy bed, and to the right the dated washroom which begged to be set ablaze. 

As she walked past with a cute short tail barely peaking from underneath the dress, she looked even smaller than she did in the hall. 5’ 2” perhaps? And weighed just as much as the change in my pocket. I stood a good 6’ 4”, but it sure felt I was a solid two feet taller. I would have said it was my boxer-esque figure, but pushing the tail end of 38 had more than rounded an old fox like me.

“You aren’t what I expected Mr. Tabor.” She commented. Turning to look me over in the same fashion I did her. “I did imagine someone more standard for your tribe.”

“They didn’t tell you I was from the north?” The question had become a cliche at this point in my life.

“No.” Her breif, innocent reply was telling of her age again. It was likely she had questions about my appearance and it was best to get it out of the way. 

“Well, my kind comes from the the colder north where there is little vegetation. Our darker coats darker coats among the dirt and rocks, and it’s with my age that I am greying and well soon become an Old White.” I rubbed my chin and jaw, expressing the white whiskers with pride.

She paid no attention to my actions because her eyes were locked to mine. Their olivine color bore a distinct disparity to the more common reddish-brown iris of any fox. I broke contact as I moved to put out the remainder of the cigarette in the ashtray behind my desk.

“And those are the likely reason you were sent here. They’re the Sin I carry.” My voice lowered as I became annoyed, eager to change the subject. “So, why are you here Miss...”

“Mrs. Mary Larkson.” Her attitude took an non-stop train to haughty. “I want you to find my husband the former governor. He’s been missing for five days.”

“Bill Larkson? The hell. He’s older than I am and you say you're married to him.” My mouth spoke faster than I had sense.

“Indeed. I might be some-what young, but I am of good breed and standing. Something you’d do well to remember. Now about my husband?”

Young was putting it mildly. She was so much a kid that even the shadiest of bars would turn her away. And for her to be married even by today's standard is troubling. Then again it's hard to debate societal matters with someone young, even harder when you’re  standing in front of them shirtless.

“If you say you’ve been referred to me by the Reliquary I have no right to refuse, but I do have the right for information no matter how private. Understand?” 

Her reluctant nod assured me she wasn’t going to be so forthcoming.

“I  just pray you’ll be discreet.” There was a playful note to the statement as she sat down. 

The dress must have shrunk another inch or two, creeping ever higher as she crossed her legs.  She knew it was enticing and made no effort to hide it. That alone begged all kinds of investigation. I averted my ogling gaze by fidgeting with chain of the small lamp on the desk. Night had set quickly and the lamp gave the atmosphere of an interrogation room. I leaned over the desk glimpsing downwards once more before the questioning.

“Firstly, you claim to be Bill Larkson’s wife, but what proof do you have? I haven’t read the papers in awhile but I’m sure his marriage to a young thing like you would have been the buzz of the town.”

She reached into her small hand purse and produced a diamond ring along with a photo. The photo was of Bill Larkson kneeling before her at some event, on the back was written “The Orchid Club, 2/18” and the ring had a rock on it that could knock out a prize fighter. No doubt they both were real. I set them on the desk, looking back somewhat bemused at the truth.

“You can question anyone in the photo. Our desire was to keep the marriage private until after the election.” Her tone was honest and proud. A sure sign she knew what marrying a person like Larkson meant.

“The election? Bill was going to run for governor again?” 

“That’s why I wasn’t too concerned when he travels for long times. He’d been doing it a lot recently. To gather support. But two days ago, when we were going to host a garden party to announce his run, he did not return. So I began to ask a few of my husband’s colleges; one of whom gave me a number to call and that’s how I ended up here.” Her demeanor seemed more like that of a lonely child looking for a parent than an anxious wife. Not surprising given her age as well as the fact her marriage is only two months old. The thought of being tied to a person for your life must be a concept still far out of grasp.

 “Those must have been some powerful people you asked. Do you realize who the Reliquary are Mrs. Larkson?” 

Her reply was brief, “I was told they would be of more help than the police. That was all I needed to know.”

“The Reliquary is the black hand of politics, and they are above all laws. It's been said they keep a balance of power through manipulation, threats, violence, murder, and even wars. If you’re an unlucky stiff such as myself you'll get contracted, from time to time, to handle private matters for some well-to-do families such as yours Mrs. Larkson. Often there is no declining, but the pay is typically too good that no one would try.” I knew I was beginning to sound like a street corner crackpot by the uneasy expression on the girl's face, but the truth is always stranger than fiction. “Let me just say that going to them instead of the cops means there are unseemly things you want kept hush-hush. I mean just look at where I work. You can go a block in any direction and find some form of scandal going down.”

That struck a cord. Her expression changed yet again and she began to right her dress. She’ll need to grow a poker face quickly if she’s going to be a politician's wife.

“So, how’s your love life? Was Mr. Larkson active enough?” My question was basic enough for any wife that comes to me looking for their husband, but to ask of someone so young, it felt more provocative and perverse. Yet a part of me wanted to know.

She pursed her lips, shifted in her seat and poised herself. If she had a weapon stuffed somewhere on that tiny personage I was about to find out.

“What do you mean?” Her voice went sharp, “Did he love me? Yes, I dare say he did.”

I swear I could hear a gun cock, but I couldn't take my time playing games with her.

“No Mary, I mean did you perform for your husband at night? Two months is an awfully long time for a guy. More so if they come home to someone like you.” I grew more pressing as I slammed the desk knocking the ring off the top. “Some men can’t handle it Mary and they end up here, in the Alleyway, seeking to fulfill their dark desires. Is that what happened? Something a future governor doesn't want in the headlines? Perhaps that he was spending days here with various trollops then going home to a pretty, young wife, that's been hidden away?” I felt myself taken in by own questioning. “So I’ll ask again. Mrs. Larkson. Have you performed for your husband at all?”

A graveyard silence filled the room. As if on cue I felt myself knocked sideways as a shrilling scream and two shots rang out in the small apartment. All that lingered in my mind as it became overshadowed by pain was being dragged along the floor.

It must have been a bad joke.