McCrory's Speakeasy of Boston Mass

Miscellaneous

A well-built Shoshone walks into the Boston, Massachusetts branch of the Thieves Society for a few drinks.

He just spent five weeks of his life hidden aboard a tramp freighter, traveling from Primorsky Krai of the Russian Far East across the oceans to a pre-arranged smuggler's entry to the United States. He wants to wipe the taste of dust and oil and seaweed away before he delivers the goods to his client.

One of the other Thieves Society members at the same bar is an indigo-skinned second story man who obviously is set up for an interview with an informant. The problem is, Puma has reliable intelligence that Blackjack was murdered by repeated missile strike. This is the kind of mystery that David Ironhorse can't leave alone. . . .

"Good day, Monsieur Cougouar," the Frenchman greeted him in an unusually brisk, if civil, tone. "It is but seldom that our paths cross. Five years, n'es pas?"

"Evenin', Blackie," David returned. "You always make me sound so fancy." He dragged the empty bar stool away from the table a short distance so he could plant his backside. He drew a slow sip of his Disaronno while he looked BlackJack over again.

"I have another meeting," the thief objected. "It is true that I have some forty minutes before my contact is expected, but I have uses for that time. I do not invite you to...." His expression shifted from annoyed to perplexed. "You have the air of a man about to ask BlackJack to prove that he is who he is. I am myself. You look upon neither a shapeshifter, nor an illusionist."

"To be real honest with you, Blackie," David drawled, "what bothers me is how much I am convinced of who you are. You are definitely, one hundred percent without a doubt, the little molly's mate."

"Oui." BlackJack blinked at him. He tilted his head thoughtfully. His voice and expression smoothly concealed a surge of dull pain, but David's empathic sense caught it anyway. "Why else would you accost me today at all, monsieur? Excepting that you are an acquaintance of Jarissa, and she is my wife?"

David jostled his tumbler a little, making the ice clink. He pretended to watch the liquid swirl. "You French linguists, and your little problems with translating to proper American. No, Blackie, after the couple months I just had, I would not call her your wife." Slyly he peeked back up at the frozen blue face. "I been calling her your widow."