J: Mhmm.
J: Hollick can lift this stick, but is it too eye-catching?
It's been half an hour since they were supposed to meet.
Hollick is far from timely, but there's something about it, a feeling. A pit in his stomach.
J: The little blade is for Becket. Though, here's hoping we can sort all this out without it getting messy.
They still haven't shown, but a ringing phone gives him something of an answer.
J: Yo, this is J. Who's callin'?
Pioneer: J, it's Pioneer. I've been trying to reach you. After you left last night, Antony came to the diner.
Antony, a terrible name.
J: I had that punk cornered yesterday, at the West Coast Star.
Pioneer: It was shortly after you left. You only just missed him.
Pioneer: Becket and Hollick went out with Antony and his goon, but they didn't come back. There must have been a scuffle.
Pioneer: The word on the street is they went straight to the West Coast Star.
J: When?!
Pioneer: I'm not sure of the details, J. Sorry, we couldn't reach you before.
J: I was there last night. Dammit!
J: Whatever, whatever, we can't sweat that for now. I'm on my way. Everything good there, all else considering?
Pioneer: Other than being down two sets of hands, everyone else is fine.
J: I'll swing back soon as I sort out this mess. Catch you later.
The swordsmith dons his coat while dialing another number.
...
J: Blackhand.
J: Good news, I've got some intel.
J: Bad news, I need to bust out some buddies first, and it might get messy.
He glances up at the owl clock on his wall. Time is not on his side.
J: Three PM, Blackhand, let's pick a spot to meet.
Sheriff Blackhand: The phone booth on Mouse Avenue, across from the candy shop.
J: Fine, we'll go over the details face-to-face.
He hangs up and dashes out of the workshop, ready to bust out his unlucky friends.
Disco Kid: Hey J! The joint's not open yet!
J: Yeah, yeah. I know, just need to see Gabby. It's urgent.
A lie, told without a blush or skip of the heart.
Disco Kid: Usually it'd be a no go, but for you, just make it quick, okay? I'll pretend I didn't see you.
Very smart, Disco Kid.
J: Of course, just say I snuck into the place all by myself, while you were hard at work.
J: By the way, is Antony here?
Disco Kid: He never left. He hasn't stepped out since last night; he's probably holed up in the basement. I heard they've got a couple of poor saps locked up down there.
The basement? Excellent. J strides past him without another word.
Henchman: Hey, buddy. What are you doing here?
J: Big Tony sent me to check if you guys are slacking off.
Henchman: That chump's got some nerve. He ain't nuthin' but the boss's lapdog, and he thinks he can check up on us?
Henchman: How about he comes and checks up on us himself, if he has the nerve.
J: You wanna tumble with him, go right ahead. But I've got a job to do, so you either step back or we have a problem.
A poorly staged act. J stifling his laughter, spits on the ground, and saunters toward the basement.
J: You go right ahead, man.
The noise, however, catches the attention of another guard dog. Thankfully, a drunken one.
Drunk Henchman: What-what's that racket?
J: So what, you're the guard dog here?
Drunk Henchman: Dog? The hell ...
Drunk Henchman: Say that again, bro, I dare ya!
Taking down the drunk requires only a single well-aimed punch to the nose.
J: Lay off the sauce, dude. Getting tanked in the morning ain't classy.
Antony: Seriously, be smart, Becket. Just give the nod, and I swear you can—
Antony: Who's that?
Antony: I told you; nobody gets in without my say-so, don't you get it?!
He spins to dress down the rule-breaker, only to realize he's not the kind to obey.
J stands at the top of the stairs, staring down at the scene.
Hollick: J!
Antony: J?! Why it's gotta be you again?!
J: Right, why me again?
J: Yeah! How come it's gotta be me!
The traitor, about to call for help, is silenced by a timely headbutt from Becket.
Antony: Ugh!
Taking advantage of the moment, J leaps down the stairs, grabbing the traitor's collar to hoist him up.
Antony: B-big bro! Think of the good times. I've pulled our fat outta the fire before.
J: Your pocket is loaded with goodies, Antony, and they're all mine now.
He motions to a stack of invitations, all prepared for the banquet. Now to be repurposed.
The belated J tosses the traitor aside and frees his two old friends.
The binding ropes find a new "host" and the traitor receives his just deserts.
J: You guys see any other way outta here?
J surveys the surroundings, searching for an exit in the cramped underground space.
Behind a pile of discarded tires, he kicks open a rust-covered old door.
J: Is there another room in the basement?!
Becket: Nah, J, this looks like the sewer line.
J: I guess sewers count as a way out too. Come on, let's go.
Hollick: What are we gonna do about this guy?
J: Gag him, tie him down, dump him in the trash. Upside down, trash belongs in a dumpster, fellas.
...
Hollick: Think I stepped on something.
J: You better hope it's somethin' still movin'. Probably just a rat.
Hollick: What if it ain't movin'?
The question goes without answer. It's better left without one.
Becket: Pal, we've got a classy banquet to crash soon. Don't kill the mood.
J: Hahahahaha! Just pretend it's a dead rat, then.
J: But I'm thinking here, fellas ...
J: Isn't life like walking through these sewers? You never know what's gonna float by next.
A torn scarf, a wilted rose, maybe an empty beer bottle.
In the pitch darkness of the sewers, it's only by blind luck they find an exit—blind luck and a hustler's intuition.
Hollick: To the left, boss, left. There should be a ladder going up.
Hollick: Unless it's been swiped.
Becket: Who'd swipe a ladder from the sewers?
He touches a rust-streaked iron frame. The cold metal whimpers. J can hear it, the sound of metal—a whisper only he can hear.
J: How long you been down here, buddy?
Becket: Uh, J, you alright there?
J: Huh? It's nothing. I'll head up first. Becket, follow me. Hollick, you're last. Keep the ladder steady.
Becket: Don't rush now. Let us climb up first.
Hollick: Reeks like hell here.
Backstreet Loiterer: Whoa! Someone's crawling outta the sewer, man! Hold up, one, two, three!
J: Hey, buddy, can you give us a hand?
The loiterer attempts to offer a hand, but the stench blasting out from the manhole soon sends him reeling back. Only a shaky hand is offered from as far a distance as he can manage.
J: Much obliged.
J: Hollick, how come you didn't mention this exit's right by a trash heap?
Backstreet Loiterer: Hey, this is a really good heap, man!
J: I think we'd almost have been better off down there.
Backstreet Loiterer: Yeah, whatever if you prefer sleeping with rats, man.
J: Where are we? Do you know how to get to George's candy shop from here?
Backstreet Loiterer: Sure thing, man. It's just a left past the alley—they got the best toffee on Haight Street.
J: Thanks buddy. Why don't you swing by Tang's Restaurant and flash them this?
J: You'll get a full meal. Just a little way to say thanks.
J attaches a shiny metal badge to their new friend's old shirt.
Backstreet Loiterer: What's this thing?
Becket: It's your golden ticket. You're in with J now.
J: Becket, let's move.
Becket: Don't lose it, and remember, if any of your friends need a meal too, tell them to find J at Tang's Restaurant.
Sheriff Blackhand: Jesus! Is that reek coming off of you?
J: Yeah, made a detour through the rat canals on my way here.
J: Those guys are linked to the Grant Avenue gang, through a guy called "Agent R." He's the one with ties to the real big shots.
J: They're meeting up tonight at the Silver Gate Hotel.
Sheriff Blackhand: Silver Gate Hotel ...
The sheriff hesitates at the name, as if mentioning an impenetrable fortress.
Sheriff Blackhand: Is your intel solid?
J: Unless Antony's got a death wish.
The sheriff laughs.
Sheriff Blackhand: Alright, take this. Be careful what you say. It hears everything and remembers it all.
J: A bug?
Sheriff Blackhand: Yeah, a wireless piece of arcanum tech issued by the police. Works better than your regular recorders.
Sheriff Blackhand: So, what's your plan? Don't tell me you're planning to storm in with a blade, then hack your way outta there after grabbing what you need.
J: A little trust here, Sheriff. Becket and Hollick got their hands on some invites, so they'll find a way to kick up a fuss on the first floor.
He smiles. Nothing better than letting his friends do what they do best—unleash chaos.
J: I'll find a way to sneak in through the top, lift all the juicy goods. You can show up at the hotel at eight tonight with the usual crowd, journos, cops, the whole nine yards ...
Sheriff Blackhand: And if you screw up?
J points to his two sidekicks.
J: They've served their time chowing on prison meals, so the only thing I ask is you get them out of there in one piece. Alright, Blackhand?
Sheriff Blackhand: A couple of punks making a scene at a big Grant Avenue bash ... It'd be weird not to see cop cars and spotlights tonight.
Sheriff Blackhand: But let me make your life a little harder, J. The stakes are big tonight. You don't bust them up and pronto. I've got orders to turn over all your people first thing tomorrow.
Sheriff Blackhand: In other words, J, your friends might get deported, and the rest will be breaking rocks in the Mojave, if they are lucky.
J is silent for a moment. If not for the rotten stench, it might have given him a shred of nobility.
J: I promised my friends a way out. I'll get it done, Blackhand.
Sheriff Blackhand: I've given you all the time I can. Don't mess this up, or I'm going to have to do what I've gotta do.
J: Eight sharp tonight. Earlier's better. I'll pop out once I snag the proof.
J: We'll meet by the entrance to Kim's Jewelry Store.
J: Fellas, time to clean up and suit up, we gotta roll.
Sheriff Blackhand: Grant Avenue's that way, J, you got it backward—
J: Just slippin' into some fresh threads!
