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"Then you don't recall the last time then Fi" said Patrick, his eyes dancing as he looked between his old friend and the lad she was with (which was plain from the kiss on his mask), "Why I remember you got so ossified that you nearly upchucked on me when I was carrying you home. And then you also....nah, thats not polite."

The gundealer smiled, as he crossed his arms like he had just won the verbal banter. He was only embellishing a little. He had been barely more sober then she had been when Luke brought them both to their respective homes and she hadn't done anything more then be drunk that night, neither of them had but this was all good fun to poke at her. Besides, it was a good way to gauge her latest male companion, to see how even tempered he was. Besides, she was always allowed to get him back when Brigit found her way back to his side, after she returned from the alter.

Charlie exhaled through his nose, following Marty's gesture with his eyes. It was crazy, what he was doing. That was the only word for it. But he was still doing it.

"Right. Jake. Lead on, Mistah Thompson." Charlie rose stiffly from his seat, fighting the urge to run his hands through his hair to show his dislike of the situation. Even if Marty's 'friends' didn't turn out to be baby grands working for the Italians, or for Artie, or for whoever else Charlie had annoyed in the past (it was a very, very long list), what was the Shamus supposed to say? Could he actually trust anyone with the truth about why he'd so abruptly quit the job he'd slaved to get? Even Dorothy didn't know the full reason, and she easily knew more about his professional life than his own mother did. And Daisy Wallenstein was a regular snoop.

But Charlie followed Marty over to the boat that had probably never once seen a day in the water, making it a failure as a boat but one hell of a party decoration. The detective almost felt under his jacket for the .32 caliber pistol he had tucked into the shoulder holster that was so well hidden by the rental tux's stiff jacket. But he figured that whoever Marty's 'friends' were must have been watching, so he decided to keep that secret to himself until, God forbid, he needed it.

Stuffed into the dark, quiet space, where Dorothy's soothing, dulcet tones almost couldn't reach him, Charlie found himself close to tapping his foot. But he stuffed his hands into his tux pockets and waited in agitated silence.

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The feel of Remy's arm around her middle gave Fi some level of confidence, and she settled her left arm curling up around his shoulder as she would were they about to dance, primly resting her right against his chest until the conversation with Patrick was over and she was able to take Remy's other hand and take him up on the 'dance or two' he'd agreed to. It was comfortable, being this close to him, even if it was awkwardly public and private at the same time with their masks on.

At Remy's mentioning of Patrick's boys helping him with his tools of the trade, however, Fiona was forced to deftly reach up and flick his ear. "Come on, now, Kitten. We're at a social event, let's not talk business." There was a reason Fiona had gone as long as she had and gotten as high on the totem pole as she had without spending any time behind bars...and it certainly wasn't because she spoke openly of her dealings behind closed doors.

With that out of the way, Fiona resumed her comfortable clutch of the Cajun and coolly answered Patrick's point, though her eyes were laughing. "I'll have you know, brother, that I never get drunk. Not even five hundred barrels of the finest hair of the dog could ever get more more than a smidgen ossified. The only problem is finding a fella that can keep up with me."

Fiona lightly chucked Remy under the chin at the comment, winking purposefully at him. Just then, there came a flurry of excited red hair in a pale green gown, which clung on to Patrick's large arm like it was made of solid chocolate.

"Lawd, how's a gal supposed to guard your body when it moves around so much, huh?" Brigit asked her 'boss' for the evening, grinning from one edge of her glittering mask to the other. She just then noticed the pair that was with Patrick, and blinked her youthful green eyes in surprise. "Fi! Applesauce, look at that dress. I didn't know you had a new daddy, I thought you were still carryin' a torch for that fly boy. This ain't him, is it? What's your name, Sheik?"

Fiona had started frantically but subtly drawing a line across her throat in the universal plea for silence at Brigit's mention of the words 'new daddy,' and her desire for Brigit's lips to stop moving had only increased as they went on. Any lesser woman would have hung her head and groaned at the subject of the 'fly boy,' who had almost become her fiance, and who was probably romancing some ritzy dame somewhere else at that exact moment. But Fiona simply pursed her lips and busied herself with straightening Remy's tie.

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Alanna didn't lose her breath easily, but her lungs were in the shallow end of the oxygen pool after a few good dances. And the appearance of the dark, olive-skinned, chocolate-eyed man bowing and asking for her to join him in a dance didn't help. Alanna didn't think many fellas would be at the ball that would, for one, be interested in dancing with her among all the slim, rich, bob-haired dames that would be there, and secondly, would be sporting that charming, subtle Toronto accent. But here was one such gentleman, whom she had been hoping to see but was beginning to lose faith in meeting up with as the songs had ticked by.

But her grin sparkled wide and eager as she met eyes with her Lancelot, and she slipped her hand into his gladly when just moments ago she had wanted to sit down and watch Addy and William shuffle around like embarrassed teenagers on the dance floor. Years ago, she would have systematically greeted him by laughing and throwing herself into his arms to be spun around, her usually bare feet skimming the wet grass. But those days were passed. Now, she simply beamed from beneath her baby blue mask, her heavy lashes fluttering teasingly. "Sir, I'd be delighted."

As the next song began and Alanna settled her arms around her tardy beau's shoulders, she murmured beneath the music, "I wasn't sure you were coming. What made you so late, eh? I guess that's fashionable for coppers these days?"

"Did I or did I not just point out a perfectly eligible bachelorette for you, Goldberg?" Jo retorted, following Ben closely through the crowd. She caught a glimpse of Artie King, chatting it up like the most docile of lambs with the mayor. Her palms got clammy beneath her silky gloves, but she kept walking. "Even I have only a limited number of miracles to pull out of my hat, you know. Maybe if you untangled that hay stack on top of your head every once in a while, grit your teeth and start bathing on a weekly basis, I might be able to find you some kosher fish to make miserable."

As they approached the gondola, Jo took Ben's arm. Not because she was frightened, or anything like that. It was strictly for appearance's sake. So they'd look like a normal couple seeking out a quiet place to neck, or some such bushwa. Much as she would have been doing with Hugh, had Goldberg not chosen that exact moment to start up the meeting with Wallenstein.



Charlie was one foot-tap away from hauling it out of the dark and bidding Marty a pleasant evening with his mysterious friends. But after what seemed an age and a half, two figures entered the dark.

Dick Wally had spent the better part of his career skulking about in the dark alleys and darker halls where the darkest crimes took place. He had developed remarkable night vision for a creature that didn't actually make its living preying on the citizens of the light. And this unusual talent came in to play when his new 'friends' joined him in the shadows. He could almost instantly make them out; a dame with a curvy, jaunty figure in a gold dress, her tightly bound spirals of hair gleaming even in the limited light, and a fella with hair that would probably have been unruly even under the masterful guiding scissors of a whole fleet of barbers.

The Detective hadn't had much reason to think of the troublesome pair of news hawks in the last few weeks, not as they had been given reason to contemplate him. He almost didn't recognize them. He really didn't want to. So, at least for the time being, he tried to convince himself that he was mistaken, and that there really must have been hundreds of pairs just like Ben Goldberg and Jo Levard wandering around in the city with a reason to oust Artie King.

"So what's this about?" Charlie insisted at once, his hands remaining stubbornly in his pockets. He looked from the guy, to the doll, to Marty. Then back to the tallest one. "You got somethin' ta say ta me, get it out quick or I'm gonna ankle and forget the lot of ya."

Charlie felt his teeth tighten and his hands curl slowly into fists. There was no mistaking the lack of brotherly love in this man's voice. There was no mistaking that this was the fella Charlie had almost not won his Dorothy from. And now, for some mysterious reason, this fish expected Charlie to risk it all to help him get a front-page story.

Charlie's already low opinion of news hawks dipped to uncharted depths.

"Ta hell with this. I ain't playin' your games." Charlie turned on his heel and headed back out for the safety of the light, not even wanting to see the faces of the two most irritating journos in the Big Apple.

"Hold your horses, buttons!" Jo hurried and caught Charlie's arm. He shook her off as if worried he might catch something.

"I ain't a 'buttons' no more, sister. So jest pipe down an' leave me out of whatevah the hell it is you think you're on to!"

"So you really don't care that Artie King is crooked? The police Commissioner?" Jo set her fists at her hips. She knew Ben well enough to know when his heart wasn't in something, and he certainly wasn't making his usual signs of being determined with Charlie Wallenstein. Jo certainly wasn't dying to spend much time in the rude former-cops time, either, but they had already decided that they needed the man to get farther than she'd gotten in her first attempt. Which was jail.

"Care?" Charlie snapped, whipping around to face all three of them. His friendly features contorted briefly in what looked like his version of rage. After all he'd given up...these three dumb doras just didn't get it, did they? "Now look here, Sheba! I care about what happens ta this city, an' who's hands it's in, more than any one 'a you three palookas could ever write in one 'a your goddamn articles!"

Jo was unfazed by the impassioned, brief speech. She simply stuck her finger between the Shamus' ribs and fixed him with her infamous, probing glare. "So for all that, you won't take five minutes to help us get to the bottom of Artie King's crookedness?"

Charlie was silent for a moment, his breath coming in frustrated puffs through his nose. Then he swore under the soft tones of the ball's most recent song floating around them, and dragged his hands through his hair as he contemplated giving the gondola a swift kick. He must have been out of his mind. He swatted Jo's hand away from his chest and scowled. "Fine. But you keep my name outta all this. An' I mean completely. Artie finds out I helped you snag his information an' he'll have me iced before the ink dries."

Fiona's rouge lips parted in a wide grin that only Remy seemed able to conjure from her, and she squeezed his shoulder at the challenge. "Alright then, Kitten. It's a date. You supply the refreshments and I'll drink you under the table, and then we'll just see what happens."

This last part was not only spoken in French, but in a hushed purr meant only to tease Remy's ears.

Brigit, who spoke as much French as she did fish, cocked her head and glanced at Patrick. Guns O'Keefe knew bits and pieces of just about every language, as far as Brigit knew. But judging from the way Fiona had spoken, and the fact that she was giving the masked stranger the look (that one that never failed to get a fella hot under the collar, to Brigit's knowledge) Brigit doubted that whatever her cousin had said was greeting-card common.

Out of the corner of her eye, Brigit caught sight of the swanky, dark-haired son of the Dago family. Francisco Seccarinni, twirling around a pretty little thing that looked as Italian as pasta sauce. She snorted, shaking her head. "It gives me the heebie jeebies, bein' around the Dagos without someone pullin' a shank out." Then she muttered something rude under her breath about the general hygiene of the Italian race.

Remy knew that Fiona had very different views and designs for the Dago clan. But no one else did, and she couldn't afford an opportunity to slight them publicly. She merely shrugged, one arm still draped around Remy's shoulder. "It really is amazing who they invite to these things, I know. But it is a charity ball, after all."

Brigit bit her lip as a short titter escaped her lungs. Her entire job revolved around hating the Dagos enough to break their bones and pop off the casual round at them. For her, there was no act. Which made dating a man that did work with the Dagos odd.

Charlie stared after Marty, one eye cocked wider than the other, as the man apparently had a mental melt down and took off into the crowd. Charlie had never quite mastered the technique of creating a proper distraction, which was probably why he had so many stories of busted bones and black and blue temporary tattoos courtesy of the Muirenn mob, and probably why he'd gotten caught listening in on Artie's conversation in the first place. But when he saw that the bimbos guarding King's office take off after the bawling bird who looked like he'd been enjoying far too much of the champagne, he understood, and he hurried off in the direction of the office. He didn't wait for the journos to follow him.

Jo was quick on Wallenstein's heels as he went down the hall, moving with a stealthiness that few who'd never worked with her would ever guess she could possess. The best journalists had a combination of attention-grabbing charisma and sneaking skills, after all. She could tell that if any bridge was to be breached with the snarling blue, Wallenstein, then it was going to be up to her to keep him talking about the story. Ben was clearly less enthusiastic about working with Wallenstein than he had let on...and even less enthusiastic than Jo had originally thought he would be, when she'd first tried to dissuade Marty from involving the dick.

As Marty's sister was explaining her station to the baby grands, Jo slipped into the door behind Wallenstein, and headed directly for the glossy desk where the police Commissioner did his daily deliberations. Charlie quickly shut the door as Goldberg entered, but only barely leaving him time to get in without his coat sleeve getting caught in the door jam. Then he lifted one finger to his lips, sternly, silently informing the news hawks that if the bimbos that were just returning to their station were to hear them, the jig would be up.

Jo felt an unusual warmth rise up in her cheeks as Ben put his own touch on her painstakingly put up locks, and she did her best to ignore and hide it by hurrying over to crouch next to him and get a good look at the case he'd cracked open. She was quick to flick her fingers across the folders, looking for any label that struck her as even the slightest bit suspicious. She lightly elbowed her partner as she looked, her eyes glued to the rapid display of police business. "Good work, Goldie! Maybe we'll luck out, and find one of Artie King's love notes from his buddies with the deep pockets."

"Wait...you mean you don't even known who's payin' King off?" Charlie demanded, his brows snapping as he kept his voice at an accusing whisper. He almost groaned. He should have known that this wily pair was going to drag him in to trouble they didn't even know the depths of.

"Do you?" Jo returned, not lifting her eyes from the files.

"You think I just up an' quit 'cause I hear a rumor?" Charlie grit his teeth, decided that the Jackass Goldberg and the preachy Levard were a perfect match. They could spend an eternity chasing dead ends around together.

"Well, who is it, then?" Jo snapped quietly, pausing to inspect a file titled 'charitable donations' (there was nothing more suspicious than a rich man labeling something 'charity').

"It's Frankie Seccarinni. The Wolf." Charlie rolled his eyes, glanced at the door, and scowled at the news hawks. "You dumb dora...Who were you expectin'? Did you even stop ta think before you dove in with the sharks? Gawd..."

"Well if you feel so strongly about it, then maybe you should have waited before running off with your tail tucked so firmly between your legs, Wallenstein," Jo retorted without missing a beat. Her eyes had widened a bit at the mention of Frankie Seccarinni, Artie King's sugar daddy. That was most certainly a big fish to be prodding in the eye. But she was here, she had a file open in her lap, and she didn't take her sweeping gaze off of it for even a second. The point of no return was a faded memory by now.

"Feel free to stop by the shop" said Patrick, not missing a beat as his 'bodyguard' for the evening returned, "Anytime you feel the need for a new hammer or a box of nails, mon ami. I might even cut you a deal on any merchandise you get, for being a friend of my dear sister's. Oh and watch out if you try to out drink her, she cheats at the game of drink."

The gundealer flashed a bight smile, as he wrapped an arm around Brigit, being as chaste as possible in the act and fell into a completely relaxed posture. His ears, tucked into his neat hair, could only pick out a few words of the French that Fi spoke and only one of them could be translated, if because it was so closely related to hiss secondary business; drink. That only widened the smile he wore, as a very amusing mental scene played out in his head. The ticket sales to watch someone out drink Fi would rake in a tidy profit and all the betting on who would last the longest......well it might just make one change profession to that of gambler.

"Oh come now" he said, after glancing over at the dancing dagos, "Frankie's not all the bad of a fella and he smells better then that ugly boar of a brother he's got. Now inviting him would be a true social flop.....oh wait....they did unchain that beast for the evening. That boyo will drink all the giggle water and moan it doesn't hit him like bathtub gin does. Got no taste that one."