1920's Steampunk Shenanigans (IC)

[Mordae]

The sound of a jazz trio playing on the corner of 34th and Broadway carries brightly over the near-constant click-clack of horse hooves on the cobblestoned streets as well as the occasional rumbling roar of streetcars passing along the Broadway line. It's Saturday afternoon, and pedestrians criss-cross the warm, sun-lit square: some bound for the rail terminus at Sixth Avenue, others doing their weekly shopping at the finer merchants of the Herald Square district, still others simply enjoying the rare bit of fine weather. On the far side of Broadway, a boy wearing a sandwich board hawks playbills for the nearby Savo Theatre's matinee performance of The Cabaret Girl, his gilt and crimson beanie easily recognizable among the sea of drab colors preferred by the neighborhood's well-to-do residents and guests.

Tucked just around the corner to the south, sandwiched between Lucio's Pearls and the Bristol Hotel, Mama Lucia's Italian Restaurant does a brisk business on its sidewalk veranda. A somewhat portly girl named Moll, her grey linen dress hidden behind a thrice-stained red-and-white checked apron, takes lunch orders from one of the tables, the others having already been served or perhaps lingering on their wine.

As the day's typical chaos wends on, a low, deep whump-whump begins to fill the air, and a dark shadow rolls out from the east across Sixth Avenue. Pedestrians stop and stare, pointing at the sky. "It's here, Beatrice; right on schedule!" one gent comments to his wife. "By Jove those Brits know what they're about , building such magnificent ships."

[Andrezitos]

Caramuru stops the fork mid air when the shadow washes his plate coming from the window. For a brief moment he remembered that stormy day he drew blood of somebody else for the first time. "That would no do", he thinks, referring to his sudden change of mood and appetite. How could someone still eat spaghetti after remembering the sight of maggots eating a two week human body. He lands the fork harshly in the plate and stops eating, half past still waiting to be devoured. He turns his back and his gaze to the window. A zeppelin? He wonders.

[PallentisLunam]

John leans up against the counter and casts a lazy eye over the crowds both inside and out. He straightens his already pristine suit and brushes some imaginary lint off of his shoulder. "Look at 'em, Tony," he says to a passing bus boy. "You would think they never seen anything that flies before."

Johnny shakes his head and takes a pull from the soda he's been working on. Some people just ain't meant for nothing more than being sheep. The kinda folks that point and stare at the same thing a dozen times.

[ElFi]

Feet propped up on the wicker chair across from the table from her, Maggie half-heartedly picked at the chicken parmagiana set in front of her. It smelled heavenly, but her stomach wasn't up to it today. Not even the dynamic jazz band on the corner managed to faze her much, though the coal-skinned man with the gleaming brass saxophone was certainly producing a series of bombastic tunes to attempt to entertain her ears. "Bleedin' caffler mafiosos," Maggie muttered to herself, "Can't even enjoy myself a meal thanks to you ball-bags."

Instead her mind drifted back to Leo, that frightened face he had worn as he watched her walk out the door that morning. Maggie leaned back and took a breath. She was doing this for him. No one else. Then all other thoughts escaped her mind as the shadow of an airship blanketed Broadway. The redheaded student's head flicked upwards to admire the view, her mouth hanging open in awe. Going to build one of those contraptions one day. I swears it.

[Mordae]

"You said it, mistuh." Antonio was always known as Tony, or Little T, or Junior--though the latter not quite so much since his pop never came back from the great war. Tony was a few days short of twelve and too clever by half; he split his days between the restaurant and the paper route, selling the more scandalous rags from the back of his pop's old motor-bicycle--the gossip sheets paid a fair mite better than the New York Times. A careworn duster crowned his dark, curly locks, and his face was a mass of freckles and budding acne. "Empire State Building's ain't even done yet, and already we get ten zeps a day."

Lucia had taken over her husband's business with the masterful industriousness of a second generation immigrant, the kind who could still remember her own parents working twenty hours a day to make a better life for her and her sister. The good Lord knew she had gotten more than her share of unflattering propositions--and even a few proposals--to buy the business out from under her. But with the grace of the angels and a bit of help from the family, she'd been able to keep Big Tony's Diner out of the hands of unscrupulous real estate moguls and gold-digging bachelors, and now it was Mama Lucia's place. She bustled about behind the counter, taking orders with an iron fist and sending them flying back to the kitchen, where her older son Dino and her only daughter, Emelia, worked the cook line. "And you'll find yourself shipped out on one, if you leave number ten dirty another minute!" Lucia leveled a wooden spoon in Little T's direction, and he scooted off to the hoots and chuckles of the patrons seated on the chrome-plated bar stools.

Out in the street, the shadow grows steadily bigger, and it becomes apparent that the newly arrived airship is quite a bit larger than the typical passenger liners that serve the eastern seaboard. A few of the patrons on the veranda have stood and walked out into the street to swell the crowd of gawkers.

[PallentisLunam]

"My apologies, Mama," John calls with a roguish grin at the proprietor and matriarch. He reaches over to the bar where his set his hat down and gives it a cheeky tip her way. "Maybe one of these days I'll learn not to cause trouble."

[Mordae]

"You keep those charms to yourself, Johnny," Mama shoots back with a broad grin of her own. Playful banter was a specialty of the house, and Lucia gave as good as she got. "When are you gonna get that Wall Street job you keep talking about?"

Out in the street, a lone man in a black suit makes his way through the crowd toward the open doorway of the diner. His satin-trimmed bowler is crouched low over his close-cropped dark hair, and his narrow, olive-hued face is chiseled and clean-shaven. His long, confident strides carry him with effortless ease across the cobbled paths, though he slows as he approaches the entry to give the patrons a once-over. His face is familiar enough to everyone, but particularly so to Maggie, John, and Caramuru, who know him as Mister Garofalo. His gaze seems to lock onto each of your faces as he walks past, and a subtle tip of his head toward the unbussed table in the back suggests he means for you to follow.

"Buongiorno, A.G.," Mama calls cheerfully from the kitchen window as she piles up her arms with recently plated orders. Garofalo acknowledges the welcome with a very faint, thin-lipped smile and a quick tip of the hat. Meanwhile, Little T is furiously trying to clean up the number ten table before Garofalo's polished wing-tips get there.

[Andrezitos]

Caramuru raises from his chair, clean his mouth with one of the restaurant's napkin, and follows this Mister Garofalo quietly. This mafiosi causes a bit of an impression he may say. Somewhat tall, over forty probably, strait as a sequoia. But before getting there, Caramuru leaves some cash in the balcony. He knows he could eat for free here due his position, but knows better not to accept free lunches from anyone.

[PallentisLunam]

"Soon as I can tear myself away from your cooking long enough to charm some banker's daughter!" Johnny says spotting Garofalo at the door.

Downing the rest of his drink, Johnny scoops up his hat and holds it against one arm as he follows the boss with a cocky swagger and a crooked grin. Took him long enough. Johnny thinks to himself as he takes a careful look at the restaurant's occupants, not quite trying to stare anyone down but exuding an imperious air with a touch of arrogance.

[ElFi]

At the sight of that man, Maggie gritted her teeth, paid the bill for her lunch (and left half of it cold on the plate), and stood, making her way through the crowded mass of tables towards her employer. Her employer. It made her want to vomit just thinking about it. But, nonetheless, this Mister Garofalo, or whatever his name really was, was the only way to earn back the money to buy Leo's freedom. Again, her memory flashed back to this morning, and that panicked look he'd given her from his bed as she walked out the door.

Not that any of that made her want to smash in the ball-bag's face any less. She sat down roughly in a chair at his table and tried her hardest to look him square in the eye.

[Mordae]

Garofalo slides into the back of the number ten table--it's by far the biggest booth in the cramped restaurant, but it still only seats five--taking up the central position on the long cushioned seat behind the table. From there, he has a ready view of the entryway, and the walls of the diner wrap around his back and sides somewhat like a protective shield. The half-moon table is still slightly damp from where Little T had wiped it down just moments ago, and there's a spot of tomato sauce that the lad missed; Garofalo ignores it and takes one of the folded cardboard menus from the stand that also holds the salt and pepper shakers. The red and white checked linen napkin remains in its perfect triangular fold directly in front of him, flanked by the cheap steel fork, knife, and spoon. He waits for everyone to seat themselves somewhere on the semicircular red vinyl bench before speaking. His voice is low and firm, like a purring tiger.

"It's good to see you all got the message. It's been a trying week." There is the faint smile on his lips again, but it fades as quickly as the sun had been blotted out by the airship that now circles overhead. He relieves his head of the bowler, hanging it on the antique brass hook behind him, just below the sepia-toned matted picture of the late Big Tony. The fellow's hair is noticeably thinning at the back, and there's a dark pink scar visible at the edge of the balding ring not far above his left earlobe.

[PallentisLunam]

Johnny spins a chair around and sits sideways on it. "Let's see if we can't lighten your load boss man," he says with a conspiratorial whisper.

[Mordae]

"I'll cut to the chase, since I know some of you are not much for small talk." Garofalo spares a sidelong glance in Maggie's direction, before lowering his voice even further. "I'm sure you've all noticed the Brit ship in the sky. What you may not know is its secret cargo: a quarter ton of diamonds straight from the mines of South Africa. They're bound for an estate over on Murray Hill, but the parties don't want to draw attention so it's not to have extra guards posted." He lets that sit for a moment before continuing. "At least, once it's out of British hands. There's a contingent of soldiers aboard the airship so it'll be unlikely anyone could touch the crate at the dockyard. And knocking over a truck in broad daylight on forty-second street will probably cause a stir, too. That leaves a break-in, before the dealer starts distributing."

[Andrezitos]

Caramuru glass eye suddenly feels disturbing, like it was not there for a decade or two inside his eye socket, and he gently scratches his eyelid. In his mind many questions arise like a storming rain. A quarter of ton? That is two hundred and fifty kilos. I am strong, but even I could not carry that much on my own. Even if this Don Juan here could share the burden with me, it would still be an hundred and twenty five kilos on my back. He than gives a small laugh. African diamonds strongly guarded inside a flying ship and I am here thinking how to drag away an hundred or two kilos with my bare hands. He ends his brainstorming and finally address the contractor.And what you will give us in exchange for all that much diamonds? A quarter each?

[ElFi]

Diamonds. So that was what it was going to be. Maggie grinded her teeth together so hard she could've sworn she was tearing the top layer off. She brushed an unruly lock of red hair back into place and tried to act like she didn't want to lunge across the table and smash the bloody bloke's face in. It would be so easy, too. But enough of that. She took a breath and tamped down her temper. "How do you want us to do this?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice even.

[Mordae]

"Well, now, you know the rules. I'm sure it'll be worth your while in cash--or protection." Another glance is spared in Maggie's direction. "I'll leave the how's up to you. Smash and grab, con, slip-the-gate... you've each been effective at your own little gig, and now the boss wants to see whether you can handle the big game."

Garofalo looks like he is about to continue when Mama Lucia works her way over from behind the counter. Most times she'd just shout, but Mr. G appears to get special service. "Coffee, A.G.?" she asks solicitously.

"Black. And a half reuben." The thin man bows his head with a show of deep respect.

"You got it, sugar. The rest of you, you need anything else?" Mama's dark eyes search across the table.

[Andrezitos]

Caramuru glances the other participants. I want mine with sugar, please. Life is already too bitter the way it is. As soon as the attended leaves, he looks Mr. Black Coffee. And from you, Mr. Wight, I would like to ask for whole plate of blueprints, guard schedules, security notes, corrupt insiders, anything that could connect all of us in this robbery when the inevitable federal investigation come to bite us in the arse. Caramuru never gets a job without any kind of warrant.

[Mordae]

"See? That's why you're the right man for the job." Garofalo flashes a thin smile. "I don't have the answers for you, but I can put you in touch with someone who will." He reaches into the inside pocket of his double-breasted suitcoat and pulls out a business card and a pen. He scribbles a name and telephone number on the back of the card, and slides it over to Caramuru. "He's the former groundskeeper, had a falling out with the current owner. You should be able to coax what you need out of him."

[Andrezitos]

Are you side tracking me, Mr Black? Caramuru asks in sarcastic way. He knows the answer tough. In this world no one will take that much risk without someone else to blame in case things go wrong. Before the italo-american could speak he adds. What else you could give me, us I mean, to help accomplish this monumental task? Some incentives, a motivational talk perhaps? Cheap talking is not Caramuru's best skill. Changing his tone, he concludes: You are putting a lot of responsibilities on this contact of yours.

[Mordae]

"He's my uncle." Garofalo dips a hand behind his lapel again and pulls out a stack of greenbacks; ten Jacksons fan out neatly on the table. "It'll be believable if you buy him off."

[ElFi]

Despite herself, Maggie couldn't help but bite her lip and ogle the cash. It was more than she'd ever seen since coming to America. Leo could've picked pockets for a whole month straight and not come up with that much. Summoning her wits, she looked up to face Garofalo, the *******. "So what're we waiting around here for, then?"

[Andrezitos]

Caramuru sees no more reason to keep talking while lots of preparations are needed. He nods to Maggie and silently prepares to leave the parlor.

[Mordae]

Johnny gawks momentarily at the hundred-fan, but quickly recovers his grinning composure. "Sure thing, boss man. We'll have this nut cracked in no time." Reaching to retrieve his hat, he scoops the ten bills into a neat stack and tucks it into his own suit pocket. The business card goes next, sliding up into the ribbon over the brim of his hat as though he were a reporter for the Times. The smile maintains itself long enough to wave to Mama on the way out the door.

"So, either of you ever played the long game before?" he inquires quietly. The noise of the street is invigorating, with streetcars rattling past pedestrians, bicycles intermixing with automobiles, and even the deep clank of the steam-powered firetruck hurtling along 44th Street not so far away. It was always best to feel out the team before a job started--you had to know who you could trust, and who might stab you in the back if the chance offered itself.

[Andrezitos]

Before finally letting the conversation run its course and take actions, Caramuru makes a point about diamonds and carats to Mr. Black. You see, if I am not wrong, you are asking us for at least 10000 carats in diamonds. Taking an approximate guess of the market value of such amount of jewelry material, it would cost something around 50 million bucks, regardless, or better, besides, purity or polish quality. Manhattan island stretches over roughly 600 million feet, taking 4.20 as mean square foot price, we end with something around 2575 million dollars. A fifty of this whole city. Them, looking strait on his eyes, Caramuru tries to see more clearly what this contractor is made of. Are you really able to give us a fare retribution for this job?

[Mordae]

"I'm sure there's something better than a bullet to the brain, if that's what you mean. Yeah, it's worth a lot of money to the big boss, even if your numbers are based on this quarter ton being clean gems and not raw rock from South Africa." Garafolo seems content to stay and sip his own coffee. "You pull this off, you'll all be made. Ten grand, easy."