Dorothy heard the rap on the door and wondered at who it could possibly be. Had the police taken initiative to come over here for themselves? So much for getting a fresh charge of clothing. The little birdie perched herself on the edge of a chair near by, hoping the voices would clue her in as to whom this early morning - or was it late night - visitor would be.

A sweetly familiar, sing song voice greeted Ben as he opened the door. Her curiosity peaked as her worry dissipated, and Dorothy shoved off of the chair to get a better look. Sure, it wasn't polite to be nosy, but at this point being polite wasn't her first order of business. Before seeing the face she placed the voice; Bebe from the Gin Blossom. The little dame worked her way around the same tables that Birdie and Mama crooned to. That sweet little face was enough to make Dorothy consider taking up ciggies herself.

Glancing around the place, Dorothy knew that Bebe wouldn't take her for a gold digger. She didn't want any other interpretations, either, though. She'd be razzed around the joint for sure if even a kind portrayal of what this looked like was whispered. Bebe didn't seem like the loose lipped type, but one could never be too safe.

"Bebe, doll!" Dorothy said, easing her way into the doorway but not too close to Ben. "Don't look so agitated, darling. Nothing doing here. You aren't interrupting a thing. I must look quite the rag-a-muffin. Could you spare me some different threads, though? A trade off for sugar, if you will."

Dorothy let her eyes quickly give Bebe a once over, thinking that they seemed close enough to the same measurements. Close enough to get her to the station and back, though there was still the issue of her brothers.

Turning her head to Ben, her brow furrowed, "Do you have the time? We're probably expected at our...er...appointment fairly soon."

So much for sleep.

Bebe blinked in surprise when she heard the voice of Birdie from inside the apartment. She didn't seem like the type of girl to just go home with a guy. After Birdie came to the door, though, it was made clear that nothing had been going on, yet anyway. Birdie looked like she had just woken up from a nap, her usually meticulous hair slightly disheveled. Bebe smiled at her when she came to the door.

"Sure doll, I think I can set you up with something. If you fill my cup with some sugar we can can just go over to my apartment and pick something out. I'm assuming you want something a little less glitzy." Bebe laughed and handed her cup to Birdie. When Bebe had arrived a few months earlier and gotten the job at the juice joint, she had immediately liked Birdie. She was a sweet-faced warbler with an even disposition that Bebe knew she could trust from the get-go.

Bebe glanced at Ben and then back at Birdie. She wondered what exactly their relationship was. They did make a good-looking couple, Bebe had to admit. She had developed kind of a crush on Ben since she'd moved in. Nothing to speak of, but Ben had always been nice to her, though he never seemed to really notice her whenever they were both in the hallway other than to exchange pleasantries. He was just such a stud muffin, Bebe had started taking an interest in him. But after seeing him at work and seeing how he and Birdie had taken to talking, Bebe was trying not to stare too hard at Ben. In doing so she took a desperate interest in the door frame. She tried another attempt at conversation. "So how are things going with you?" She left it purposely open-ended so it could be answered by either Birdie or Ben, but hoped that she could maybe get even a little attention from Ben, but with Birdie right next to him, she knew she couldn't compare and smiled a bit wistfully.

Patrick's heart had nearly stopped beating when Fi appeared, bellowing like an enraged bull and his hand almost jumped to the Colt .45 holstered under his shirt. He never thought that Brigit's family would come for him so soon, hell, he hadn't even gone on a the date with the little bearcat yet. As she continued to rage and storm about, the gunrunner was forced to take a step or two back, just to keep from getting burns from her anger.

"It's one or the other Fi" he said quickly, recovering from the shock of her yells, "Power or stealth, I thought I taught you that years ago, when you first showed up looking for some firepower all those years ago. Now, who you going after and what's your battle plan? If you want arms, I want answers to outfit you properly."

Patrick chewed on his lower lip for a moment, looking as if he was thinking about what firearm to sell to his favorite customer but he wasn't. He had already decided to give her a Colt Model 1903 Pocket Hammerless in a .32 caliber, the smaller cousin to his favored Colt M1911 or is better known nickname, the Colt .45. What he was really thinking of was the chances of her killing him in such a deranged state.

"Alright Fi" he said, giving her a smile like he would fix everything and she needed only to wait, "I think I have just what you need.

Not looking, the gun dealer reached around behind himself and patted the shelf slightly. His finger tips brushed over a soft leather case and quickly pulled it forwards. Nestled in the leather holster was a small semi-automatic pistol, that looked much like the .45, save that it was missing a hammer. The grip was made from checked walnut and the metal was a plain nickel finish.

"Nah, I wouldn't have come to the door if you were..." said Ben with a grin at Bebe's apology for interrupting, completely oblivious to the reasons behind her intense examination of the doorframe. He looked at the dial on his wristwatch then glanced at the cracks between the curtains where the watery early morning light was just beginning to creep through.

"Damn, I was hoping to catch up on an hour or two's worth of Zs. Just let me get that sugar for you..." he said, disappearing from the doorway and going over to the little stove in the corner of the room to retrieve a packet of sugar from the cupboard above it. There was a thud and a muttered curse as a can of condensed milk fell off the shelf onto his foot but, a moment later, he reappeared with a paper bag.

"Take as much as you want," he said, handing it to her. "I'll come and get it after we get back."

He paused before answering her question but, hell, if she read the newspapers she'd be finding out later this morning anyway.

"Things are... Well, we were coming back from the joint you both work at and- and we stumbled across the body of some poor hoofer bumped off by that guy who's been in the papers these past few weeks. We're about to head down to give a statement to the cops," he said, running his hand through his hair wearily. He could do with a cup of joe right now. Preferably one fortified with something a little extra.

Bebe's face registered surprise and something else. Something close to disgust. "What? O my God! How did you guys find the girl? Holy shit! Er, excuse my language. It's just, that makes me so mad! Did you know who it was?" Bebe felt like she was rambling and stopped for a minute. She peaked over at Dorothy. "How are you guys doing? Since you have to some over anyway to get a dress, and since I have the water boiling already, do you want to come over and have some tea? Maybe it'll calm you down a bit. Or me, since I seem to be the one freaking out right now." She smiled sheepishly.

Bebe grabbed the bag of sugar and mumbled a thanks to Ben. She scratched her ankle with her foot and then picked at a piece of wood hanging from the door frame. She sighed and then smiled a welcome at the two, willing them to come over.

"We just walked down an alleyway and there she was," he said, trying not to remember the dead woman's face. "I don't know how long she'd been there but whoever it was that bumped her off wasn't there any more..." He, of course, had been thinking about who the killer was. It was a long time, if ever, since he'd had the potential to lead on a story this hot. He'd heard about the other killings before, of course, but somehow, now that he'd seen what he'd seen, it had taken on a more personal note. The familiar adrenaline of the chase was beginning to slowly build in his veins. Maybe he'd be able to squeeze a few leads out of the bull when he got down to the station.

Ben shook his head at Bebe's offer, wondering what the reaction would be if he asked if she had any whiskey instead.

"You go ahead and get changed, or have some tea," said Ben to Dorothy. "I need to change too." Maybe he'd make himself look a little more presentable for the fuzz than he was currently, with his clothes still smelling of smoke and booze and his hair still damp from the rain. He might even put on a tie...

"Never heard of him" said Patrick, turning away from Fi and walking down the shelves, looking for something, "Why is this dick stickin his nose too far into your business?"

The gun dealer continued to walk, pausing now and then to look into an unmarked box. About halfway around the armory, he stopped and picked up a very small weapon, a Colt Model 1908 Vest Pocket. A compact, hammerless semi-automatic pistol, made to be kept in the vest pocket with being noticed. Each clip held six .25 cartridges, almost half the size of his beloved .45.

"Will this do" asked Pat, walking back over to Fi and offering the little gun, "And whos the lucky lad?"

When Charlie mentioned the magazine his mother was crazy out, Lance guessed that his own mother was probably crazy about it to, although the name Ben Goldberg didn’t ring a bell. But that was his father’s first name, too, and something that undoubtedly his widowed mother would get sentimental about. And she did love reading syrupy romance fiction…

But from Charlie’s concern, it sounded like Ben Goldberg was more of a journalist than just a writer of fluff. That was important to know—they weren’t just interviewing an average joe; this guy could publish what they told him in the paper. Knowing that, they wouldn’t be telling him much—he’d have to do the talking.

Then Charlie mulled on about the name of the victim, and made the clever assumption that Betty Buttons was a tailor or seamstress. Lance would have never had made that connection. That seemed to be one of the best things about Charlie, was that he had a wide range of knowledge from all areas. Like, how did he know about popular women’s magazines? And the stage names that performers chose? He must snoop around a lot, Lance thought with a tad more admiration for the friendly-faced detective.

And he knew another piece of information that Lance was fishing for—Fiona. Of course! That was an ‘F’ name, and perfectly Irish to boot. Fiona Muirenn. She was the lady he was taking out on Friday…

“The Muirenns are involved with this?” Artie’s face had grown much sterner upon hearing the last name. He had never made the acquaintance of the daughter of the infamous crime family, but he knew enough about the older male Muirenns to figure that any female involved with them would be just as insidious. As a man behind the law, who had been born and raised in New York, Artie King had acquired quite a few reasons to despise the Muirenns—including any person with the misfortune of having that last name.

Lance didn’t know what Artie knew about the Muirenns. He didn’t have nearly as much life experience, not to mention he had only lived in New York for less than five years. Plus, he didn’t have any prejudices against the Irish. He came from Toronto—Canada’s Belfast. Before he was born, the Catholic Irish had been heavily discriminated against in that city. But now, as the generations changed, the Irish ran it. No doubt, most of Lance’s boyhood buddies had been Catholic and Irish.

“If Fiona Muirenn was at the scene of the crime, why didn’t you bring her in for questioning?” Artie frowned at Lance and Charlie. “And what’s this importance about her lipstick? You think the shade of her rouge means that she was an associate of the victim?”

“Commissioner, Miss Muirenn left the restaurant before we found the body,” Lance explained. A wave of uneasiness descended on him—he knew he shouldn’t have brought her up. Now Artie was on his case, and he had to be guarded about what he admitted about his run-in with Fiona Muirenn. Now that he had somewhat of a romantic interest in her, he didn’t want to interrogate her—especially in this stark room, which could reasonably kill any amorous feelings between anyone. He would much rather engage her in pleasant conversation over dinner in a warm candle-lit restaurant…

“As for her lipstick… Betty Buttons may have had Fiona Muirenn’s in her purse. Of course, so many women wear red rouge, so we can’t possibly be sure…” Lance trailed off, distractedly looking off to the side. In his mind, he was almost positive that it was Fiona’s lipstick. But now that he lost his desire to interrogate her, he was unsure how much he wanted to publicly confirm his suspicion.

“Well, bring her in to the station—one of you,” Artie ordered. “She probably knows more than the writer. Lance, since Detective Wallenstein isn’t welcome in the Muirenn office, why don’t you pursue her? You’ve always been charming to the ladies.” His expression was a bit too wry to be interpreted as a true compliment.

Lance squirmed in his seat, trying hard to hide the fact that he felt just as anxious as most of the witnesses who had been interrogated in the room. “I guess I’ll try to… get a hold of her, Commissioner. But I’m not the one with the rouge. Detective Bruyere has it…. Say, Charlie, did you find anything out about that jewelry in the purse?” He was practically dying to change the subject.

Bebe mulled over what Ben had said about the poor girl. She was appalled and almost frightened to walk to work tonight. Her mind continued on this strain until he brought up Dorothy going to change.

Bebe smiled brilliantly at Birdie. "I'd love for you to have a cup with me. And that way, you can sit for a minute while I find you something to wear. My place is kind of messy, but then, his isn't much better." She gave a cheeky grin to Ben and then laughed. She turned back to Birdie and said, "Just come on over when you want. I'm gonna skedaddle over there and try to tidy up a bit and put the kettle back on the stove." What she didn't tell Birdie was that she had to wash another mug as well as through all of her laundry somewhere other than the floor. "I live in that one," she said, gesturing at the apartment across the narrow hallway. "I'll leave the door open, for you doll."

Bebe went back to her apartment and rushed to put the kettle back on and started running some water in a mug. She left the water running while she rushed to her bedroom, clothes everywhere. She grabbed up her clothes and started shoving them in drawers and in the closet when she remembered she was supposed to find a dress for Dorothy as well. "Shit." Bebe reached in her closet and grabbed a few dresses for her to choose from, all clean if not a little wrinkled from being on the floor. Dresses in hand, she made her way back to the tiny kitchen and proceeded to wash the mug and dry it with a towel after setting the dresses over the back of a chair. Then she just waited until the sheba showed up.

Remy stumbled out of The Greasy Palm, laughing in euphoria. "Well, dat worked *hic*well." The Cajun dick tucked his notebook back in his pocket, the words "The Sour Flower" written in big blue letters. "Now wha' was I s'pose ta do?" Possibly it wasn't wise to sample every drink behind the bar "to make sure Derrick was right." No, neither was walking around in his state, but he was a cop, and he'd be damned if anyone other than cops cared. "Oh yeah, I wasa s'pose ta talk ta dat blond.. ah.. Ms. Fiona Muirenn."

Remy scanned the street, looking for someone with with the information he needed. Bruyere put his arm around the next person to walk by, inquiring odd information. "Heya, you know where I can find da Muirenn Real Estate building.

Confused and slightly scared of the drunk, the man pointed in a direction. Remy chuckled more. "Which hand is da way I hav' ta go?"

"Pal, you need some help. Just keep going straight until ya see the sign on the office."

"Merci."
----------
Remy sat in one of Fiona's waiting chairs at her office, the secretary told him to just wait a while, perplexed why a dick like Remy was sticking his head in the Lion's Den.

"Not a chance" said Patrick, grinning, "I remember that last blind date you set me up on, she had a great chassis but God what a flat tire. I think I'd rather take Luke out on a date than another bird that you've pulled from some little gin mill or hole in the wall. I have more self respect then that Fi and you sound like my ma."

"Pat" he said, changing his voice to sound higher pitched and as feminine as he could manage, "When are you going to get married and give me grandchildren like your brothers? Neither of us are getting any younger you know. Kenneth already has three littlins and you have four years on him."

"And besides" Pat said, giving Fi a grin like that of a wolf finding a lamp that had wondered far away from it's flock, "Since when do you date just some bird, when you wouldn't even take me up on a date?"

As the door opened a bell overhead tinkled cheerfully, which left Roman feeling obscurely disappointed. He'd half-expected a gong to sound as he and Campone entered the Lily Blossom. Ah well.

At the sound of the bell a little Chinaman hurried through a door in back, menus in hand. He faltered at the sight of the two blue uniforms, then threaded his way between empty tables to where the officers stood.

"How you do, gents?" he said with a tiny bow, "Want an early lunch? My kitchen is always open!"

Struz waved away the menus. "Just coffee, thanks pal."

"Just coffee? Okay, I get you two cups." The Chinaman started off back to the kitchen, but Roman laid a hand on the fellow's arm.

"I hear you serve extra strong coffee here," he said, "So strong that there'd be some who'd object to it. Am I right?" Beside him, Campone chuckled.

The Chinaman's already narrow eyes narrowed still further. "I don't know what you talking about he said."

He made to pull free his arm, but Roman's grip tightened. "You've got a lovely place here," he went on. "Now'd it'd be a shame if you were to have to close down, on account of your coffee being too strong and all. Now, my partner and I," he gestured at Campone, who grinned, "We keep these streets safe for honest taxpayers, and maybe we can make sure you and your coffee stay safe too. Otherwise, who knows what might happen?" He shrugged helplessly, then caught the Chinaman's gaze. "You understand what I'm saying, pal?"

He paused, waiting on the Chinaman's response. He'd made himself clear, but without letting go of anything that might get him in trouble. Yep, he'd learned well in the Jersey City PD, alright.

"What would they have to be jealous about" chuckled Patrick, leaning towards Fi, "That I would rather take a lovely doll like you out to dinner then some greasy dago lad or one of our big Irish kin? I would think I would lose business if I wanted to throw on my glad rags to take one of them out for dinner and dancing. And think of of the shame me mother would feel and the ear damage I would get from her. I mean that would be far worse then me not havin children."

"And that tomato you set me up with was a wet blanket, you owe me for that evening." he continued on, grinning, "At least as a pleasurable dinner companion one night."