Nestled between two massive buildings in the downtown district of Los Angeles was a moldy red-brick building with a faded wooden sign reading: "Tiny's Diner." The inside of the diner was lack-luster with cracked red leather adorning various booths and sticky takeout menus clad in yellowed plastic. The former proprietor of this fine run-down establishment was one Timothy A. Sapienza AKA "Tiny Dancer," a low-level hood working for a strange organized crime figure known only by his street name: Donatello . The diner was usually empty due to the fact that it was located in an alley infamous for purse-snatching and vagrancy.

     Tiny's son, named Arthur Sapienza after his grandfather who fell to his death while constructing The Tower Building in New York, casually entered the Diner, taking a stool near the cash register. The young man, aged fifteen, looked up at a man named Frank, who he knew as an uncle even though they were not related. Frank mostly turned a blind eye to the comings and goings of Tiny's diner, and barely moved or spoke. Today though, Frank spoke up.

"Your father was a good man."

"He drowned, Frank. How the hell did he drown so easy?"

The network of wrinkles tightened on Frank's face. He cringed, unable or unwilling to shed light on the matter.

Arthur leaned forward. "He was whacked. You can say it."

Frank shook his head. "Your father didn't want this life for--"

"Fuck what he wanted! He was a washed up boxer throwin' fights for a nickel before Noel found him! Now I got the same opportunity he had."

Frank grimaced, face turning red. His hands, calloused and worn from a lifetime of hard labor, balled into fists. If Arthur were his child, he'd set him straight... Just like he did his wife when she wouldn't shut her yap. 

Arthur sneered, knowing the old man couldn't touch him. "You think I want the same life my grandfather had? The same life you had? How much you got socked away there, chief?"

Frank crossed his arms, smirking. "So what? You wanna be a chip off the old block? Tiny Dancer Two?"

"Why not keep my old man's name. Easy to underestimate a killer with a soft nickname."

"Yeah..." Frank said, his gaze drifting off. "Your dad always wanted to be a button man. Couldn't hit the broad side of a barn though."

Arthur filled with rage, his hand slipping into his overcoat. But the sound of the bells above the door chimed, making him loosen the grip on his pistol. 

Frank perked up, greeting the next person to enter. "Can I help you?"

Thomas had been wandering along street after street, but paused in front of a small, moldy red-bricked building. His stomach growled a little and he chuckled. "Why tha hell not, you're always hungry anyway, aren't ya?" he slapped his belly before walking to the door and shoving it open.

The tension was thick as fog setting in over the harbor and Thomas couldn't help the feeling that him walking in might have just saved SOMEONE'S life... But he shrugged it off as a man called out, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," he looked around. "I thought maybe I could grab a bite to eat since it's a diner and all... Anybody ever come in here?"

Something told him to leave, the hair on the back of his neck stood as everything in him said 'RUN!'... But he didn't. Instead he swallowed that fear with the confidence of a cold blooded swindler and approached the counter to take a seat.

"And what do they order if they do?" He made eye contact with both men and smiled, a crooked grin wicked and cold as they came.

Arthur spun on his stool, returning the smile. "You sure must be desperate to pick a place like this to grab a bite, mister." The young man appraised the newcomer, realizing that he might be a threat. There was a presence about him that gave Arthur pause. Something that made him think the man could have been in the army, or at the very least a gunfight. It was the way he carried himself, a certain lack of fear. 

Shockingly, the stranger took a seat beside Arthur, hands folded in front of him. He looked to Frank. "So how 'bout it?"

Frank reached for a baseball bat he always kept under the counter. "Scram. We're closed."

Arthur noticed tension between the two of them and found a small shred of respect for the stranger. "Easy, Frank. Why ya bein' such a bluenose all of a sudden? If this boob wants to kill himself with your shitty cookin' who's to say he can't?" 

The stranger looked past Frank to see a stove that hadn't been cleaned in years. Grease, blackened stains, and chipped paint made the antique grill look like it came out of a horror movie. As a wave of revulsion and fear washed over the stranger, a large man holding a suspicious crate pushed his way inside. 

Arthur whipped off his fedora and wiped his brow, scolding the much larger man. "Jesus Christ! Take that in through the back you big dumb gorilla!"

The man's sloping forehead glistened as he adjusted the crate with his knee. "Back's blocked, Tiny. Noel said this is a top priority. Some guy parked--"

Arthur now glared at Frank. "You block the fire lane again?"

Frank groaned, tossing his keys atop the crate. "Don't scratch my boiler."

As the large man lumbered out, Arthur cast a sidelong glance at the stranger, gauging his reaction. "Let's have a swig of that hootch you keep in the back, Frank." Arthur turned to the stranger. "You ain't gonna rat on us are ya? I mean technically we ain't sellin' it to ya or nothin'... but the ice in your glass is gonna cost about five bucks..." Arthur cast a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You didn't come here light did ya?"

Thomas stiffened just slightly, and the fidgeting in his pocket froze as Frank yelled at him to scram. He didn't budge, or breath really... But he didn't come off as a threat either. He slowly eased up as Arthur loosened the tension, berating Frank for his behavior... But then he saw it. That stove. Even as a street grifter eating out of gutters that thing looked questionable.

"I mean..." he started after Arthur's comments about boob dying from the food, but trailed off as a burly man shoved a large crate through the door. He shifted in his seat, but turned to look at Arthur as he glared at Frank.

"Hooch is free but tha ice is five bucks! That's robbery!" Thomas chuckled out. "Damned prohibition got -all- us cats in a bind, eh?"

Shrugging, Thomas fished out a few pieces of paper and some lint, putting it on the table. "Would seem I'm a little bit short... But..." he trailed off as he reached his open palm out over the lint and paper. "I might be able to come up with the means..."

A flourish of his hand with a quick snap and a tiny flash, smoke rose from the counter top where the paper and lint had been... And in place, there was a crisp five dollar bill.

"Will that work out for ya, sir?" he chuckled, that same smirk from before curling up the left of his mouth.

"Just so you know, I like mine without ice, though..."

He chuckled as he slid the five over to the other man to let him inspect it. It appeared to be genuine, foolproof tender. Touch, sight, even taste if one was so inclined... But the lint and paper was gone.

"Go ahead, look it over. It's real. And you can keep it, free of charge since I'm not taking ice..." he winked with a chuckle, "... IF you can figure out just where it came from."

Thomas smiled, "And ya don't have to worry about me saying anything about that crate. I'd have to answer for too many things myself if I were to say anything."

Offering a hand, he introduced himself. "J. Thomas O'Malley... But my friends just call me Alley Cat. Well, some call me street-rat, or stray too... But I prefer the more sophisticated sounding of the bunch." He chuckled.

Frank crossed a pair of thick hairy arms over his barrel chest, grimacing. "I don't give a fuck where that fin came from ya dirty mick mother--"

"Holy shit! That's fuckin' magic!" Arthur nearly fell off his stool. His demeanor changed from dangerous wannabe kingpin to exited ten-year-old at a birthday party. There was a glimmer of innocence in his eyes that reminded the stranger of someone he knew from a much more innocent time. A hiss of air sucked into Arthur's lungs as he was instantly won-over. "How did you do that?" 

Before the stranger could react, Arthur thrust out his hand and grabbed the stranger's, shaking it vigorously. "Wow! That trick sure is the cat's pajamas! You got to tell me how it's done!" Arthur threw his hands up, unable to contain himself. "You know what? I don't wanna know! I just I--" He glared at Frank. "Whaddya waitin' for? An engraved invitation! Get us some damn drinks! And go threw the ice box. I think we got some leftovers from Sal's."

As Frank poured a copious amount of liquor into a couple of dirty glasses, Arthur introduced himself. "The name's Arthur. My old man was Tiny Dancer. You might have heard of him. He gave Maxie Rosenbloom a good fight before that bum went on to grab the title from that other bum, what's-his-face. Maxie and my pop were sparrin' partners if you can believe it." He motioned to the stranger's drink, so far left untouched on the counter. "Oh don't worry. That stuff's imported. It ain't that denatured swill you'd come across in some low-rent speakeasy."

Frank returned from the back with a paper bag filled with leftover Italian food from a local restaurant. A portion of spaghetti, meatballs and breadsticks were tossed in a black, cast-iron pan before the stove was fired up. Frank smirked, looking over his shoulder. "Sorry, pal. We're all out of potatoes." 

Arthur sized up the stranger. "Don't mind that palooka, Tom. Can I call you Tom? Anyway, I wasn't tryin' ta chisel you or nothin'. Just needed to see if you were alright, ya know?"

Frank now grumbled over his shoulder. "And performin' a fuckin' magic trick does it for ya?"

Arthur nodded aggressively. "Yeah. It does. I never heard a no copper doin' magic before. Shows what you know, ya blockhead!" Though Frank remained silent, Arthur saw Frank's shoulders tense, signaling to the young man that his verbal darts had hit their mark. Arthur, already drunk, reached for the bottle of top-shelf whiskey sitting near the register. His words began to slur as his defenses lowered. Pain registered in his eyes as he covered the raw emotion with boisterous laughter and more liquor. 

Arthur pounded the empty glass on the counter. "Hey, Tom? You hear a that chopper squad in the paper a while ago? They called it: The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre. Ha! What mush. If I was there, I'd a clipped forty! no, no! A hundred! Now that'd be a real massacre." Dark laughter echoed throughout the diner as a chill ran through the air. 

Thomas eyed Frank after the 'Mick' comment, but he let it slide on a technicality that he was, in fact, of decent. Even if he was born in the U.S. to only one muggle-blooded Irish parent. That was besides the point though, and a story for another time...

He returned his gaze to Arthur who'd gotten very excited off of the basic magic trick. Thomas smiled and chuckled. Really smiled; ear to ear like. It had been some time since he'd seen that wonder in a human's eyes... Aside from when he spent time at the HQ that was. Wonder and amazement was the boring normal there.

"Aye, real magic for ya. You'll not find the lint or paper anywhere, because it -is- that fiver now." He winked at Frank as he finally took his drink and tipped the edge. His eyes squinted and he cleared his throat soon as the spice of the drink hit his tongue. He'd also not drank much... And truth be told, it wasn't his forte. Drink, though, he did; if anything to make friendly with his new acquaintance.

"I never -really- kept up with boxing. I was always to busy playing with magic and trying new things~" he cut off and blinked...

Frank's potatoes comment did not go missed, and Thomas' eyes were like blades as they steeled on the man. The look was only for a split second before it passed, and it might have been missed, but the deepest urge to let the man have it had been there... Even if it passed with the flittering wave of his hand...

The fire -leapt- from under the pan on the stove for just the briefest of seconds; enough to kiss Frank's fingers but not actually burn him. But that moment had gone, and Thomas was already moving on to conversation with Arthur.

"Anyway... You can call me Tom, though I think you'd honestly be the first!" he chuckled out. "As for that massacre? Yeah, I don't think that was enough people to really call it that. You're right on that point." He laughed with Arthur in the dark moment, but then stopped and reached over to him.

"But remember. We're not in the business of hurtin' people that don't have it comin', yeah? So, maybe not a massacre? It sends the wrong message. Most people get it, don't fuck with us. And those that don't? Well they got it comin'. But Average Joe there?" Thomas pointed toward the door, gesturing that he meant outside. "They haven't done anything, and the fewer Joe's caught in the crossfire, the better... That St. Valentines fuckin' Fiasco? That was bad for business."

He sighed and turned back to his drink. "So many people think it's the way you can throw your weight around and bully the people... But the truth is? It's about making them -love- you. Yeah, don't take shit from anybody. Kick an ass or three. Clip a cat if necessary... But always look for the better options. Respect is better than fear."

He smiled and looked back at Arthur. "Now, I'm not sayin' don't get what's yours... But there's an old story that I always loved. You heard the story of Robin Hood? Now that's a swell cat... A crook to the Government, a savior to the people. Took from the rich and powerful, gave to the poor and helpless. Communities cared for their heroes. We can be those heroes... Even if our hands get a little dirty to keep the good people good."

He winked and chuckled before shooting his drink. He coughed, and wheezed just a bit following the chug and hit his chest. "Son of a motherless whore that's some strong juice there! WOO!" A tear fell from each eye as they watered up... "Good hooch. Really, really good hooch." He chuckled, almost embarrassed and ashamed that he couldn't handle the burn.

"Robin Hood... Yeah... Rob from the rich.. (hiccup) and give to me!" Arthur began laughing. "Bad for business..." He quieted down as the stranger coughed. "You're alright, Tom. A little soft... But alright." before Frank could chime in, Arthur hopped off his stool and motioned to the door. "Frank! My new friend and I are gonna paint the town red! Or white! Naww..." Arthur's words slurred as his slender frame swayed like a reed in the wind. "Maybe we'll paint it like a zebra!"

Frank turned, shaking his head. "Don't you want a chew before you ankle on outta here?"

Arthur nearly fell over, but Tom helped him stand straight. He held up a hand. "I'm fine! .... well maybe yeah... I'll have a little something..." 

After being helped back into his seat, Arthur wolfed down his share of the leftovers. When they were finished, Frank glared at Tom. "Food and drink ain't free. Time to fork over that fin, magic man."

"Knock it off, Frank." Arthur rummaged through his own pocket and slapped a twenty dollar bill down on the table. "His money's no good here." When Arthur did this, Tom could clearly see the iron tucked into his waistband. Not only was this brat drunk, but he was armed as well. Arthur then wobbled to the door, keys in hand. Parked outside was a beat-up Chevrolet 1930s Standard. The vehicle was marketed as "affordable" and didn't look like the typical ride for a gangster throwing money around. Arthur stumbled towards the driver's side and fumbled for the handle. 

"So, Tom. Where'd ya wanna go first? We could hit a nightclub, go chase some flapper girls..." Arthur's hand swayed and missed the door handle as he giggled drunkenly. "Gimmie a hand, will ya?"

Quickly following Arthur out, Thomas chuckled at the man. "Why don't I help ya over here..." He directed Arthur to the -other- side of the vehicle and helped the man in before making his way back to the driver's side. Hoping in, he held his hands out for the keys. "C'mon bud. Cough'em up. Ya can't drive like that."

Taking the keys and starting the old Chevy, Thomas held down the clutch and shifted the vehicle into gear to pull away. "So where we headed cat?"

He pulled out onto the main street and started driving down the road. "Nightclub and chase some flappers? Maybe an adventure of some sorts? Like ya said, paint the town red?" He chuckled... "I might have somethin'... I'm lookin' for an item and if it falls into the wrong person's hands? Well... It could be a big issue."

Thomas didn't really wait for much input as he drove and continued to talk.

"There's a whole different world, one you don't even really know about, I'm assuming, based off your reaction to my parlor trick." He took his eyes off the road for just a second to look at Arthur before turning back. "I'm not talking about sleight of hand and misdirection either."

Thomas turned the vehicle down another road. "There's a place I need to visit and see about getting some info... You know how to use that?" He gestured on himself where Arthur had his pistol tucked away. "Cause ya might need it. These cat's, they ain't all nice, capisce?" With another turn down an alleyway, Thomas slowed the vehicle to a halt in front of a small antique store. "Now, we can go in the antique store and knock it over, cause I know they have a lot of valuable things in there... Or..." He turned and looked at Arthur. "Or you can follow me down the rabbit hole." He smirked a shit eatin' grin like there had never been seen before.

Arthur felt like he was swimming in his own head as Tom easily manhandled him into his own car. After being stripped of his keys, Arthur felt like a kid who'd been put on time out. He barely registered what the stranger was saying as they passed the busy downtown streets. Men and women walked arm-in-arm, rich, working class, and poor all mingled, passing each other without a second glance or care in the world. Arthur wondered just then how many of these people knew that some day they would grow old and grey. That some day they would all die and become stiff and cold. Their bodies would shrivel and shrink and those who loved them would also die. They'd all be dead together. Dead and buried and forgotten just like his old man. No one would even remember his name. 

Except...

Some people would be remembered. Some of them would make their mark. The Al Capones of the world, the Genghis Khans... The big bad conquerors, all racing towards wealth, power, or the biggest body count. They would become immortal, their names feared and only spoken in hushed whispers in the dark. Arthur turned towards Tom, looking him over. He might as well have had dollar signs in his eyes. Arthur was no fool, working a job with a total stranger was the fastest way to get fitted for a Chicago overcoat. For all Arthur knew, Tom was the cat and he was the canary... 

But Arthur didn't care. His father was dead, his mother was dead, his sister was dead. They were all cold. Waiting for him in the hereafter. What Tom didn't know was that Arthur was quick with a blade and never turned his back. Even drunk, he could filet a kidney with his eyes closed. And the handsome rogue would never see it coming...

But despite this primal sense of fear and mistrust, there was something honest and wholesome about the thief who called himself "Alley Cat." A glimmer in his eye that made Arthur feel like they could be best pals some day. Maybe even brothers.

The car lurched to a stop in a greasy alley, making Arthur want to throw up. His stomach still churned as he stepped uneasily from the vehicle. Though he was insulted by Tom's question, he answered anyway, feeling himself sober up as the sun mischievously hid behind a canopy of clouds.

"Sure. I can handle my iron. Just need to get the world to stop (hiccup) spinning." Arthur returned the smile but frowned. "Rabbit hole? That's not some kind of fairy bar is it? Look, I ain't judgin' or nothin. I just prefer the company of women is all." Arthur looked at the door to the back of the antique shop and scoffed. "Valuables, eh? In this dive? What are we gonna cart off? The Mona Lisa?" Arthur went to the back of his car and relieved himself, peeing on a brick wall. 

Zipping up his fly, Arthur walked to Tom, looking him dead in the eyes. "I'm three kites to the wind, pal. You really want to knock this place over? Fine, what the hell?" The young man chuckled, the stubble on his chin glinting in the light. "Two things though... What's the plan? And most importantly..." Greed now glowed in Arthur's eyes as he cast a wicked grin. "What's my cut?"

Thomas' eyes lit up. "Yeah! It is a fairy bar! How didja kno~..." he trailed off. "Oh, no... Wrong kinna fairy." He chuckled. "Nevermind that." Arthur continued as he relieved himself behind the vehicle and Thomas nodded.

"I mean, different value than the Mona Lisa... But certainly valuable objects. There's power held in old things crafted from before our time. So not the Mona Lisa, per say, but perhaps something will catch your eye. However, I'll have to take you to the Rabbit Hole some day. I think it would, quite literally, blow your mind." He chuckled.

As Arthur returned and the spark of greed clicked on, Thomas smiled. "Oh, all I want is a certain ring and a certain coin. Anything else you can have. The plan, is to march in the door and immediately take control of the situation. This is where I need you. The owner knows my face and will vanish with the items I seek. I've tried twice now and the ass has slipped away each time. I swear to you, it's a treasure trove of items in this particular shop." Thomas smiled wickedly. "And I don't care what you take so long as I get my ring and my coin."

"So, walk inside and tell the little old lady at the desk, 'Cistem Aperio'. She should open a door for you... One you wouldn't expect. This is where everything becomes serious. Don't... Be... Alarmed... Regardless of what happens, act like you knew it would. It's why you being drunk might help..."

Thomas grinned and looked at his new found friend. "Think you can do that? I'll wait till the door is opened and pass through with you... Once in there, they won't be able to stop us..."

"Yeah... That sounds good." Arthur adjusted his pants, feeling the iron slip. When he grabbed for it, the gun went off, burying a .38 caliber slug in the meat of his thigh. When a groan, Tiny slumped to the ground, holding his thigh which now leaked blood like a broken garden hose. The wheel gun clattered to the ground as Tiny began swearing up a storm. 

"Jesus Christ!" Tiny began howling in pain as the stranger looked on in shock.

Thomas blinked a few times, shaking his head in disbelief... He glanced between Arthur and the shop that began to look like a mirage before it was simply a wall. Cursing under his breath, he rushed to Arthur's aid. Human lives were more important than magical objects, right? That's what he told himself at least.

"What tha fuck, Arthur!" he yelled as he slid next to the man and removed his own belt. "Hang on pal... Hang on." He took the belt and wrapped it around Arthur's leg, above the shot, and cinched it tightly causing Arthur to yelp out and reach for his leg. "EH! Don'cha touch that! Gotta tighten it to stop the flow... Ya hit close to your fuckin' artery. So keep your hands away. I seen this plenty... You'll be alright."

Thomas looked back at the wall; frowning, huffing, and setting his features into a foul look... But it didn't stop him from helping. Hoisting Arthur into the vehicle again, he slammed the door and reached in through the window. "Here, pull this tight."

He tugged the belt's length against the buckle to cinch it even more then handed it to Arthur. "I'll get ya to the hospital... Unless you got a place to take care of tha bullet in your leg."

Looking around, he spotted the gun and grabbed it, then hopped in the driver's seat and took off. "Hospital or safe house, pick one and pick fast or I'm doin' it for ya."

The shot didn't hurt right away. It wasn't like in the pictures you could see for a quarter. There was a classic Arthur barely remembers called Nosferatu (1922), featuring a terrifying undead monster who feeds on the living. Those eyes struck Arthur just then, peering out from the dark at its next hapless victim. The very specter of death which haunts us the moment we turn off the lights. 

Arthur groaned, holding the belt tight. "Take me to St. Vincent's!" As the car's heavy frame rocked on its suspension, Arthur groaned, feeling his numbness slowly turn to a deep throbbing pain. Blood soaked his slacks, dripping onto the carpets and seat as his face turned beet red. Teeth clenched, Arthur muttered obscenity after obscenity, cursing himself, the gun, god, and even the loose waistband on his cheap suit. In Arthur's mind, those long bony fingers curled around a corner as the specter of death studied him with lustful eyes...

The ride seemed to take forever... or perhaps it was simply Arthur's perception of time... But upon arrival, Arthur let out a big sigh of relief when he laid eyes on the oldest and most historic hospital in Los Angles; a sprawling six-story structure famous for weathering both a smallpox epidemic in 1863 and a typhoid outbreak in 1905. 

"Jesus... Fuckin' finally! No-- No!" Arthur motioned, losing his grip on the belt for a moment. The slickness of the blood made it harder to hold as precious life's blood slipped away. Arthur gasped. "Take me around back. Yeah! There! There! If you take me in through the front, the Geese will spot us."

When Tom parked the car, Arthur saw a look of confusion in the stranger's eyes. "Jesus Christ, don't tell me you never heard of 'em? Don't look at me like I'm crazy, pal... The Daughters of Charity? God's Geese?" Arthur grunted, holding the belt so tight, his foot tingled. "Nevermind. I had my appendix out last year. Those bitches were all over us with questions. I think my old man was about to slug one of 'em, too." Arthur chuckled darkly. "Now that woulda been a gas!" Arthur growled through the pain, opening the door and hobbling out. "Okay!" He huffed, trying to control his breathing. "Take me into administration. And don't say nothin' to nobody." Arthur put his arm over Tom's shoulders as he was helped into the building. 

Most just looked on with surprise or shock as Tom helped Arthur hobble through the halls, left pant-leg dripping with blood. As one of the Daughters of Charity passed them the hall, stack of papers in arm, Arthur cast a menacing stare that shook her to her core. 

Arthur pointed with a blood-stained hand. "Turn here, pal. Take me into Epstein's office."

As Arthur stood near a terrified receptionist, he glared. "Why don't you take a picture! Arthur then pulled out a wad of cash, his tone soft, smile plastic. "Be a doll and go get doctor Epstein for me, will ya?" 

The receptionist, a buttoned-up beauty with auburn hair, cleared her throat. "I'm sorry sir. Doctor Epstein is unavailable--"

Arthur looked ready to bite, but held his false tone of civility as he peeled off several twenties and hobbled to her desk. "Go get him, doll. Now."

Blood stained several of the bills as the woman recoiled. "I'm sorry, I--"

A guttural growl rolled in the back of Arthur's throat as he leaned forward, now ready to strangle the poor woman, the look on his face horrifying. 

Chest heaving, the receptionist meekly held up her hands. "Sir, please! Doctor Epstein is in surgery right now! He cannot be disturbed!"

Arthur's wad of cash dropped as his face, now deathly pale slackened. Lightheaded, the young man collapsed as a fresh spurt of blood gushed from the wound in his upper thigh. The world began to darken as Tom's face came into view followed by the receptionist's. But in Arthur's mind, all he saw was the specter looming over him, its touch as cold as the grave...

Thomas watched in feigned horror as his new friend Arthur made an ass of himself in front of -everyone-... The staff at the hospital, the patients, even the visitors. He could have been nice and understood the way the hospital worked... Could have taken the time to explain patiently the situation and get help quickly enough to not end up in a pool of his own blood on the floor. Regardless, it happened.

Thomas continued to watch, knowing full well that he could literally reverse the flow of blood with a flick of his wand and a single utterance of incantation. Arthur would be alive again and free to walk about without aid. Like his artery hadn't been nicked and slowly leaked until nearly all of his blood emptied onto the floor. Like he'd not been too drunk to handle his weapon and shot himself. Like he'd not screwed up the only chance Thomas had to get the items he needed from that confounded 'antique' shop.

Instead he stepped back and allowed for Arthur's time to come to an end... Perhaps it was better this way. The kid had too much bloodlust, and lacked enough sense to handle it all. Even if Thomas had liked him. None of that mattered now. The nurses were rushing around trying to get things settled, and doctors were hurrying. Even Epstein made his way from his important surgery, but was quickly assured that everything was handled and he should return.

Arthur Sapienza's life would come to an end on that hospital floor... Thomas was certain that maybe he, and Frank, might be the only two to actually mourn the young man's life. Perhaps it would be best to tell Frank of the day's happenings. In person. Thomas huffed and argued with himself... -Do I really have to return? It's not like I owe anything...- He sighed and whispered out. "Frank deserves to know..."

Leaving the hospital, and leaving the not even cold body of Arthur on the ground as the Hospital's problem, Thomas made his was to Arthur's 1930's Chevy and drove, in silence, back to the bar where the day's events had started.

Back at the diner...

Frank sat quietly at the diner wondering how Arthur was doing, handling the shipments for the new business, and cleaning up after his brush with attempting to cook earlier. He'd heard on the radio that gunshots were heard in the center of town and wondered if Arthur and his new fairy potato had been the cause... And if so, why weren't they back already and trying to lay low? Worry was cast over his face as he worked, and the large man who'd brought the crate in spoke up.

"You okay in d'ere Frankie?"

"Yea... Yea I'm okay. Jus' worried about tha kid, yaknow? He's stupid... Childish... Loves magic fa some fuckin' reason that dumb little prick. But he's family, eh?"

"Yeah Frankie... I know. I'm sure he's okay. That magic fella didn' look like much. Arthur could take him in a pinch."

Frank laughed... "You got that right, Paulie. Ain't a fuckin' chance twinkle toes could go a round with Tiny Dancer tha second! HAHA! Ahhhh, thanks Paulie. I needed that."

Frank went back to cleaning with a smile on his face, little knowledge of his adoptive family's blood covering the hospital floor. Paul stood, lit a cigarette, and headed for the door. "Anytime, Frankie... Anytime."

It had been hours now since Arthur's untimely, but self inflicted death, and Thomas had been sitting across from the diner regretting and contemplating how to go about the unsavory news.

"Barge in, tell them he's dead, give them the keys, and leave..."

Thomas shook his head. That seemed to always play out with a bullet in HIS head. That wouldn't work...

"Walk in, calmly explain everything... That... That probably won't work."

He sighed and hung his head... "Just go," he told himself and stood, making way for the downtrodden diner's door.

It swung open with ease, and Thomas trudged up to the bar. Frank spun with a smile and laughed...

"Heee heee heeeeyyyy, it's about time you's two... guys..." Frank slowly paused on his words for a bit. "...made... it... Kid, where's Arthur?"

Thomas sighed and looked up, the trepidation written across his face. "You saw how drunk he was, Frank. I didn't let him drive. We headed off to do a job... Something I needed done... He was drunk. Had to piss..." Thomas trailed a bit and Frank leaned closer, almost growling.

"Where's the kid, potato boy?"

"Arthur lost hold of his gun..." Thomas sighed.

"What tha fuck boy?! Where's Arthur!?" Frank yelled out.

"FUCKING DEAD! Arthur's dead, shot himself in the leg. Must'a nicked his artery... Bled really bad, Frank. Hell, he's still got my belt around his leg." Thomas began rattling off hopefully quickly enough to let Frank catch the whole story. However, Frank started laughing.

"Oh, this shit again? How many times is that kid gonna see if I care that he's dead? C'MON ARTHUR! COME IN ALREADY! I GOTCHA A SANDWICH!..."

Frank made his way out from behind the bar and headed for the door.

"Frank," Thomas called out. "It's not a joke!" He swiveled off his bar stool and tried to follow Frank to catch him. "I'm not playin' with you Frank, Arthur's dead!"

Thomas slammed the keys on the nearest table and slid them to the other side. "He shot himself, he didn't make it..."

Frank slowed to a halt as his hand hit the door, turning to look at the keys and the blood covering Thomas, all of it clicking... Including the missing belt that the stranger had been wearing earlier. He shoved passed Thomas, pushing him over the table and chairs. As Thomas rolled and cursed Frank quickly disappeared behind the bar and Thomas heard the tell-tale (CHK-CHK) of a pump action shotgun.

Frank, in infinite anger and rage, rose over the bartop and fired wildly without fully taking aim... Truly Thomas' only luck in the moment as it gave him time to draw a slender, roughly foot long stick from a small slit in his trousers.

Frank screamed in rage... "YOU KILLED HIM! I KNEW YOU WERE BAD NEWS! YOU FUCKIN' KILLED HIM!" and continued to fire off shots...

Thomas held the wand out straight, and yelled out, "Petrificus Totalus!" Immediately Frank's arms and legs snapped together and the man yelled out.

"W-What have you done to me? What's going on!"

Thomas walked closer and sighed, crouching near Frank. "My dear Frank, magic is real. Very real. You're currently under a spell that paralyzes your whole body. Here's the deal. I'm going to walk out of here in a moment, because you aren't going to remember me, but you're going to remember that Arthur was shot, and is at the hospital... You heard he didn't make it. He was shot in an armed robbery. He died saving his accomplices life."

Frank blinked, "I ain't ever fucking forgettin' you, you, you potato fuckin', mother lovin', shit-eatin' bastard! I SWEAR I WILL KI-"

"Obliviate..." Thomas said softly, and Frank grew quiet for a moment before standing... "He-hey, who are yo... Never mind, I'M COMIN' ARTHUR!"

Frank grabbed the keys and ran out of the restaurant, hopping in the car and riding off towards the hospital...

Thomas, on the other hand, turned and looked at the bar. "Arthur... I'm doin' this for you."

He pointed his wand at the stove... "Expulso..." A quick swish of the wand and Thomas was ducking as the stove exploded violently.

"Over doing it again, Thomas..." he chuckled to himself before flinging his wand about and shooting fireballs from it to burn the place to the ground... No chance the fire brigade would make it in time, he was going to make sure of that... Everything would be ruined, and Frank would have insurance payoffs to take care of anyone he could... He'd just never know that Thomas took care of the issues for him...

As the building burned, and Thomas coughed madly as his lungs began to fill with smoke, it was time to leave. Slipping the wand back into it's hidden place, Thomas rushed from the building and coughed until he fell to his knees in the park across the street, then rolled onto his back and rested.

He watched as the building burned, as the fire brigade fought vigorously to douse the flames, and as they continued to fail because he'd make sure the flames didn't go out until there was nothing left. Once it was all said and done, Thomas O'Malley made his way home to scry for the antique store, yet again.