The Christmas season had been a little slower than hoped-for, but it was time to move on to the new season. Running from 17th January running until the 3rd April. Again they would be going with their 3 tier show, starting with a selection of the best Drag artists in Detroit, followed by a burlesque show, and wrapping up with an all star adaptation of 'Singing in the Rain.'

Coctail hour starting at 6.30 with a champagne reception and canapés, followed by a selection of classic cocktails. Reserved seating for all three shows, and a gourmet 4 course meal. 

Singing in the Rain Menu

Cocktail hour Hors d’oeuvres

Stuffed mushrooms

Oysters Rockefeller

Crudites with dips

Deviled eggs

Salmon Mousse on sliced bread

Olives

1st Course

Chicken Caesar Salad 

2nd Course

French onion soup

With

Toasted Sourdough broulle

3rd Course

Ribeye of beef aged 35 days

Poivre sauce

Creamed mashed potatoes

Runner beans sauted in butter

Ceps in brandy

4th Course

Fresh made pavlova

With

Raspberry Coulis

Each course is paired with a wine personally selected by our master sommelier

Cost: $75.00

Mickey sat at the bar, business was slow tonight, but then again there was a war going on. So many friends taken too soon. He had a shitload of Legal paper work to go through though. Last wills and testaments for Dagda, Pepsi-Cola, Tyrion, even Le-Semois and he hadn't even died yet. He'd decided to take out the Godfather though and ascended to the position himself, perhaps a power play, perhaps a futile attempt at self preservation, or a desperate volley of self aggrandisement, but whatever the reason, about 20 minutes later he sucked his balls up into his abdomen like a sumo wrestler and rang Mickey begging for a Will. $500 was $500 and Mickey was happy to be a notary any time money was on offer. On top of that, at least 6 people had died intestate, and Mickey was drawing up papers to lay claim to their assets, better him than Uncle Sam sucking it into the Federal Blackhole that was the post war boom Economy. Mickey shook his head, where had the time gone? It seemed like only a few weeks ago it was 1934 and now here it was the 1950s. Thankfully he had 'legitimate' business interests and was able to sit out the war, Hitler, the Italians, the Japs, at least being Latino he hadn't ended up in an internment camp somewhere.

Only a few years of peace and prosperity, the A-Bomb had scared off the new enemy, the Ruskies, but now there were rumours of potential trouble in Korea. Still, war was good for business, whilst Uncle Sam had his gaze firmly affixed over seas, the feds weren't as fixated on issues back home. Still, he had Judges in his pocket, Police captains in his Pocket, the ADA in his pocket, and 24 G-men. The G-Men where the secret. The Police knew better than to put the squeeze on the Mob, Organized crime was a Rico violation and that was a Federal offence, so it fell squarely in the FBNs jurisdiction. Still, at the moment the FBN were no threat, not with stale wank ButterCup sitting in Bricktown. Swanning in here, looking for someone to kill like he owned the joint. Fucking tool-bag. Hopefully he'd get shot in his stupid face and die in the gutter like Grin-07 had. 

Back to the paperwork. Lots of money to move, lots of properties to transfer, more dead kids to cover up for R-L_Stine... like what the actual fuck was going on? Was he eating the fucking things? Any one would think he was EvilClown or something. But it kept the bills paid. two gun shots, close by. One of the staff came over and whispered in his ear, Buttercup had shot Ms_Ann_Thropy and then taken a pro from Invicta, only for Invicta to be gunned down a hot second later by Willie_G_Skull. Things were heating up, and Mickey was worried about the staff.

"Close her up guys, and head out the back. I'll stay here and look after the joint in case one of those Bella Vista Fags try and torch the place. Stay safe."

Mickey lit a Morley and inhaled deeply, it was going to be a long assed night.

It had been a while since Mickey had been back in Detroit, certainly it had been prior to his death and miraculous resurrection. This was the thing, the world was convinced that Mickey and 6 others had miraculously risen from the grave, like Zombies or Vampires or part of the Holy Trinity, instead of the far simpler explanation that Dominick had been a shit shot and had just failed to kill his targets. Of course with Dominick lying face down in the gutter with two to the back of the head, the man who could confirm that his accuracy was a toss up between an Imperial Stormtrooper and a Starfleet Security officer was no more. Unlike a Zombie, or a Vampire, or in deed Christ, Mickey still needed to eat and drink, and this is why he had come to the Caberet Supper club. It was disappoint to discover that business was down, but given he was now 500 miles away this was to be expected.

Rather than take up a booth or a table, he sat at his old place at the corner of the bar, where he could watch both the room and the show. His half smoked packet of Morley's^TM sat on the bar beside him as he enjoyed a 25 year old Middleton. Supper was on its way, and perhaps he could shake this niggling headache he had had for the last couple of days.

Finally ToE decided to stop by his father's old place and grab a bite to eat, some more drinks and perhaps sleep through a show. He set his Morley's on the table beside him and ordered a bottle of Jameson. There was no point drinking Midleton at this point, he was too far gone on Jim and Coke to be able to discern the subtle intricacies that made a nice 25 yr old a truly remarkable drink. Light peppery tones intertwine with sweet mandarin orange, vanilla and cinnamon layered over rich toasted wood notes thanks to the many years spent in American oak. Lingering and full-bodied finish with the delicate fruits softly fading while the pot still spices and oak continue to the very end. Not to mention at almost 110 proof, the premium you paid for this amazing 1st fill bourbon was worth every penny.

Mickey arrived outside the club, someone had mentioned a few weeks ago. A throwback to a bygone age of opulence. 

The Victoria building rose out of the Detroit night like something out of time, chrome, glass, music, a shrine to the Art Deco period made real and brought to life. He sat in his car, a beautiful Lincoln Continental Mk II, and just watched. Who came, who left, and who else was watching.

It was only when he was happy that he got out and crossed the street. 

He walked across the street, and fixed eyes with the doorman. His next action would be telling. As Haller stepped onto the pavement, the doorman simply opened the door and welcomed him. Some was expecting him.

The Detroit cabaret club screamed money and excess. Champagne, caviar, cocktail dresses, and carefully laundered uniforms. The staff glided from table to table, ever present but unseen. Glasses refilled without asking, plates cleared without instruction, and course arriving without summoning. The old place was a well oiled machine, that allowed the excess of the hidden ruling classes to be indulged.

Mickey smiled as he approached the concierge, his eyes casually taking in the room as only a trained observer can. The staff smiled when spoken to, and didn't unless addressed, and the tables arranged like a battlefield disguised as a ballroom.

On the stage a drag artist was miming to A Doris Day hit. So very British, but cleaned up and sanitised for an American audience. He... she... was mostly ignored by the hoi polloi as they discussed the day's business and drank over priced cocktails. Mickey had met Doris Day, had represented her in a contract negotiation with Warner Brothers, and he secretly thought she would approve of the Drag artist's routine. Doris Daze reached her climax as a hostess approached him, her smile a obviously fake and rehearsed. 

“Good evening Sir, do you have a Reservation?”

Mickey studied her briefly, then gave a small, tired smile. “J. Michael Haller, Jnr. I believe I’m expected.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, more of a presupposition. In places like this, someone usually was expecting him.

She nodded briefly and again, gave that all too well rehearsed smile. Then without checking a ledger or list she guided him to a VIP table in a private area close to the stage, which told him enough about the sort of clientele the club catered for and who was paying to keep the lights on.

He took his seat, comfortable but not overly so, his jacket open and tie loosened slightly. It beat the hell out of a police sweat box at 3am on a Saturday morning.

A waiter appeared out of nowhere, slightly disconcerting how well trained they were, or the effect the room was having on his perception, and poured champagne. Haller left the glass untouched. Instead he placed a billfold and a packet of cigarettes on the table. A simple signal. Money had the effect of making people talk, and they revealed even more when they believed you already understood the situation.

He lit a cigarette and allowed his attention to move around the room, the cigarette all but untouched in the ash tray in front of him. There was one group of men laughing louder than the occasion required, a woman at the bar, over dressed for the occasion and more interested in the entrances and exits than the stage, and two tables back sat a man who carried himself like a cop, his clothes said business man, mid tier executive, but his shoes gave the game away, thin soles worn down from long hours walking a beat. Detroit, he thought. Same problems, different faces.

Daze finished her routine, and there was a smattering of polite applause as she bowed and curtsied like the star of the Grand ole Opry. The orchestra began properly as she left the stage, and the lights dimmed for the show. Most of the room turned its attention to the stage. Mickey didn't.

The truth was that he hadn't come for the entertainment, he'd come for conversation and negotiation, the quiet sort conducted between courses and behind polite smiles, in hushed voices that couldn't be overheard due to the surrounding noise. Debts negotiated politely, problems presented carefully, and opportunities discussed in low voices. He adjusted his cigarette packet and billfold out of habit, then let his gaze wander the room without settling anywhere in particular. There was no need to stare, just quiet observation.

If anyone needed a lawyer that evening, they would find him.