The flight from New Orleans had been a terror, and the brisk New York night that hit me as I left the airport was no godsend either. If this was any portent for how my night was going to go, I was in for trouble. I shrugged, pulling the shoulders of my brick and rust coloured bomber jacket closer into myself, urging it to protect me from the cold night more than it possibly could. Hailing a cab, I sneered at the thought of going back to the French Quarter alone. Buck, the man to whom my brother told me I should turn to when he was gone, the man who thought to turn me into a cheap thirty dollar hooker or just kill me outright for denying him, would make sure my life was hell if I went back. Perhaps leaving the old country had been a much more deadly mistake than just something that would pull Diego down. So I turned a steely eyed gaze to the Yellow Cab pulling up in front of me, and quietly slid inside.

"Just drive," I whispered. Just drive.

The driver was a middle aged man of Pakistani or Indian descent who smelled like moldy pita bread, but he knew the streets and kept the Bollywood music down low. As neon lights smeared into lightning streaks with our increased speed, I fingered the small piece of lead in my pant's pocket. The old dented bullet fragment was the only bit left of the bullet that had taken my brother. Touching it reminded me that I had a mission, if not for me, then for Diego. Vengeance is a powerful motivator, he had always said, and I never understood that until he was gone.

"Here pretty lady," the driver said, "Here." I looked up, not even having the faintest idea of where in the city I was, and realized I didn't care. I mumbled a half-hearted thank you, clambered out of the cab and didn't turn around to collect my change. He looked like he needed it more. Besides, the dead have no use for pocket change.

I waited in the dark behind The Chicken Hut, closed, and the third city bank (the shittiest of the three by far) that I had seen on the block. My breath came out in heavy plumes of white mist that I hurried to cover by lighting a Lucky Strike and practicing my smoke rings. Still no sign of the representative from the Spanish Inquisition. More waiting in the dark. Fuck me it was cold. I wish I had stopped and gotten a coffee from the airport kiosk, if only to warm my freezing hands, but hindsight is 20/20. My eyelashes were starting to stick together not because of the mascara I had forgotten to remove three nights before but from frozen tears that the sharp cold wind was forcing from me. Jesus let them come, I thought. I had survived so far, the twenty-four hour free pass that Buck has reluctantly issued me before leaving New Orleans was still in effect and I would live, if not comfortably, until its end. But what of me after? Twenty-four hours only got a girl so far and a lone girl on the streets of a city she didn't know was an easy target without protection. Finally, after my fifth Lucky was burning close to the end of the filter the representative came strolling, confidently, arrogant in his knowledge that I'd never best him... towards me.

"I want in," I said before he could cut to the chase, or the kill as it were.

"I need in, now you know, so ball's in your court."

Quirking a heavy brown eyebrow at me, he said, "Your name lady?"

"Ell."

I watched the man retreat back into the darkness he had come out of, just one more shadow blending into the others. Standing in the cold for a few more minutes, watching the plumes of my breath become more steady in pace, I thought over what I'd done. I'd turned my back on everything I had known. There was no way I could ever go back, even if I'd wanted to, and so the constant internal surge of vengeance would be the only real thing I'd carry with me from one life to the next. The bubbly young blue eyed, blonde I had been back in the old country had no place in the Inquisition, no place in New York and no place in any of my thoughts. I would forge a new identity, one made of sweat and tears. Of blood and hope. Yes, of hope... because I believed I would see the bastards that had taken my brother from me again. When I did, when they were cowering before the girl they had deemed "No Threat" two years ago, when they had the gloss of fear in their eyes and I could smell the piss going down their legs, when I pressed my rosy lips against their too pale cheeks and told them who I was... that I was Death, without mercy... when I saw them like that, then I would have hope that Diego had not died in vain. I would be Pestilence, "a plague upon their Houses", and I would be relentless until victory.

Shaking myself out of the pit of self indulgence I had thrown myself in, I zipped my bomber jacket up to my chin and turned down the alley. It wasn't yet 3:00am, The Witching Hour, but for some reason I didn't worry about being a lone woman on the streets. I wandered the city of broken dreams until I came across a run down, pay by the hour or night, motel. I paid cash. The book keeper didn't even ask to see my ID, must have been something about the look on my face, and he gave me the rusted out key with a nod. 9A was a shit hole, not the worst place I'd ever hung my hat but not somewhere I'd want to stay long. Just being inside the room made me feel dirty, so I quickly stripped and headed for the shower. The bath was small, no man would ever be able to fit into the thing without bumping both shoulders and the right elbow against a wall, but it worked for a woman of my stature. Mildew covered the faucet and the cold water was turned on and off with a laundry pin, but the water was hot and the tank seemed endless. It was the closest to Heaven that I'd been in a long while... I never wanted to leave.

A violent knock woke me from sleep the next morning and a coarse, "Package," was grumbled through the the flimsy wooden door. I froze, and staying where I was, listened to retreating steps and then the silence that followed. I slowly shuffled to the door, naked but for a tangled mess of blonde curls, and peered warily through the peep hole. The magnification was horrible but I could see the small brown paper package propped up against my motel room door. I threw the locks, knelt with one knee on the ground and the other in front of me, and eased the door open a hair. S.I. was printed in black in in small letters in the left hand corner of the package. Spanish Inquisition. I reached out a freckled hand and pulled the thing inside. After closing the door I sat on the floor, back against the cold wood and bum on the shag carpet, with the S.I. package in my hands. It wasn't very heavy as I pulled the small silver gun out. It fit my thin hands well and was easy to lift. The perfect gun for a woman... small but deadly. Like myself. I smiled, knowing full well that this gift was pushing me closer and closer to the edge of sanity (just as my dreams of revenge did). I knew what to do now. The weight in my hands was a physical realization of the things to come.

Great story hope there may be a second one

Abit long but still good.

I enjoy it Ellie great work.

Rourke reminisces. He tips his cap politely and speaks up from the back:

Ah, I remember this:

http://mafiareturns.com/comm/thread/28060

Good read

So what now Detective Rourke?

Rourke takes the monocle off his face and the pipe out of his mouth. He blows a few smoke rings into the air and prepares to speak:

Elementary, my dear Ruaidhri_M.

Rourke forgets what comes next and departs.

Hellboy watches Rourke as he discovers yet another scandal.

"Well done Rourke, yet another job well done."

It's not a scandal.  It's my own post... I've just posted it twice.... a year apart.  Why waste a good read when you can use it again and expand upon it?

Mea culpa Detective Rourke.

I've seen a continuation of the piece and had asked for the back story, and after having read through the first part of her memoirs thought it to be excellent and better presented as a whole rather than fragmented. The piece you saw tacked to that lamp post is just the beginning with more to follow. A running series if you will. It made more sense to see it in this manner, from the onset.

Ellie had asked me if the self-plagiarism would be an issue. My reply was if it was presented as a series it wouldn't ruffle any feathers. I'd rather have it in this format, adding on to the last, then see new pieces of manuscript every week on the ol' lamp post.

Like I said, if it causes a stir place the blame at my feet. It's not often we get to hear or read well crafted stories here, not often enough. Here's an opportunity to get to know someone with a fascinating history, and have a peek at their life every week. Win/win situation if you like this sort of thing. If you don't then you're not obligated to indulge.

Chapter two will have you hooked. Take a moment to give it a whirl when it comes along. The first part may be too familiar to you and keeping you from enjoying it. The next installment will be all new. I'll bring you a copy myself and we'll read and drink every beer in town.

Ellie I agree with you, why waste a good read and I was only joking about a scandal.

"It's not often we get to hear or read well crafted stories here, not often enough."

Judge your right I couldn't agree with you more and really does anyone even care that she re-posted it again.

So Ellie I most praise your bloodline for such a great story.

I enjoyed reading this story very much. Can not wait until you write more! I am sure the next part will be just as captivating to read as this one was.

I love you my sister....

And I won't forget.