Keats studied himself in the mirror like he’d evaluate the face of a stranger, trying to analyze the details, the way someone like Hiems would. The face was older than when he’d first arrived in Detroit. It had been a boy’s face then, smooth and light. It was darker now, with a thin layer of stubble. His jaw was harder. The eyes still gleamed, but with a different light. Moonlight now, as opposed to the sunlight of his youth, perhaps. Both beautiful, both able to guide you- but the moonlight contained more monsters.  He stood taller now as well, with new muscle grafted onto his previously thin frame. In the prime of his physical prowess, he knew he still had a long way to go in training his mind. Fortunately, Will Hayes and Via Parile were proving to be excellent tutors, encouraging their now official family member to expand his horizons.

Which is why he’d regretfully accepted today’s challenge, he supposed, as he walked down the sidewalk. Prostitutes. That was an idea that would have sent him walking in the other direction before he’d gotten involved in Detroit. Well, not the idea of prostitutes in general- but having to control them, to run them. It was still distasteful to him, but there were parts of him that were…  empty now. Killing another person had removed something from inside of himself. Perhaps just numbed it, if he was being an optimist.  

He sighed slightly as he knocked on the door of the apartment building. Some sacrifices had to be made, he knew. You can’t be a bleeding heart philosopher and an effective criminal. Something had to give. He’d traded a purity of heart for money and power, and that was not a deal one could re-do. Better to accept it and move on, he thought, as a young man opened the door to the… what the hell should he call this place… brothel…whorehouse…place-in-which-men-paid-to-have-sex-with-women. Whatever. Didn’t matter.

The man in front of him, quite simply, was only a step above plant life. The gaps in between his teeth actually seemed to be functioning as miniature greenhouses, based on the color of the growths there. He also smelled like rotten garbage. At least it was still spring- he’d probably be even worse in the summer. The guy’s clothes weren’t much better. Keats glared at the young Earner in front of him, Lucas Pierce, who was casually smoking and tapping the ash into an empty pizza box. No wonder Don Hayes had sent Keats to clean up this mess.  The scuzzball had just finished a long speech about how profitable he was, which was a lie, when Keats stopped looking around and politely uttered a single phrase.

“Bring out the girls.”

The man grinned, obviously assuming that a good lay was all the Keats was interested in. He paraded back into the room after a couple minutes with five women, although he had to push the last one into the room. She looked terrified. Keats looked at her face carefully. She was crying. Young. Blonde. Her eyes were like subway tunnels. Keats resisted looking at anything else, even though she wasn't wearing much. The Earner, Pierce, caught Keats looking at her.

“You got good taste, my man. What’d you say your name was?”

Keats just looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah. Mr. Man, you got great taste, like I was sayin’.  New girl here. Just picked her up last night!”

Keats addressed a question to the girl. “Do you want to be here?”

She shook her head and as the man started to protest Keats strode over to the couch and picked up the pillow that looked least infected, sticking it in the Earner’s chest as he approached him.

Keats allowed himself a small smirk for the first time since he’d entered the building as he addressed the other man, “Hold this for me, will you?”

As the Earner, bewildered, held the pillow against his chest, Keats pulled the gun from the holster under his shoulder and pumped three shots into him through the pillow. Based on his facial expression, the Earner still didn’t know what hit him- and never would. The women, understandably, started screaming- at least until Keats pointed the gun at them. When they were quiet, watching a couple feathers from one of the pillows spin to the ground, he returned it to his holster and addressed them, particularly the oldest one, who was a brunette.

“You- you’re Rose? You’re running this place for me now. No more kidnappings, or luring girls here with drugs or liquor or whatever the hell this asshole was doing. You find women who need money, and you offer them a job. They give you your cut- we’ll talk numbers later, and in return they don’t talk to the cops and they get a safe place for them to conduct their business. I want you to renovate this shithole- make it the kind of place a businessman stops in for the afternoon. Build relationships, and keep your ear to the ground. A good place. A clean place. I’ll send some thugs around to make sure everyone behaves, and I’ll have a clean up crew here within the hour to burn most of this shit- and him. Pillow should have kept the blood splatter to a minimum, anyways. Make money, gather information, and stay loyal… and you’ll all be making a hell of a lot more than you would for him. And anyone who wants to leave, can leave. Now. Later. Whenever. You’re providing a service- not slaves. Sound good?”

As he talked, Keats slipped the woman an envelope full of bills and she nodded enthusiastically. He’d gotten some information on her before, and had no doubt she’d make for an effective Madame. Keats quickly turned and walked outside, heading down the sidewalk. Cops had been bribed to stay away and ignore any noise complaints, but no need to risk it. Mostly, though, he didn’t want to know which path that young blonde would choose. Maybe he liked imagining that she’d walk out of there, get a job, and live a normal life. He wanted to believe it was possible, at least.

Keats sighed as he looked up at the wind moving through a tree planted in the sidewalk, rising up from the concrete that surrounded it. He’d just killed a man, but it was easier to kill men like that. It still affected him, just not as much. Or maybe he was getting used to it. A scary thought. But he’d helped someone today, as well as making a good investment. Maybe that counted for something.

Hopefully, he thought as he walked along, deep within his own reflections- but always scanning the crowd. 

Harper was just about to doze off to sleep when the telephone rang.  It was Rose.  Rose was a lady of the night she befriended when she first arrived in Detroit.  She and a couple of the other ladies were her eyes and ears on the streets and were spared a lot of grief because of them. Rose told her the events that happened earlier that night.  Harper remembered what that place was once like.

It was run by the well respected Madam Sinclair.  There was a speakeasy on the lower floor. Next to it was the poker room where high stake games were held. The place was frequent by prominent men and the ladies were respected by their clientele.

When Madam Sinclair passed away a couple of years ago, it was taken over by that sleaze ball.  Some of the ladies just moved away and some had no other choice but to stay.  I had hired some muscle a couple of times to put some heat on him.  He would straighten up for a little while only to resort to his same old bullshit.

I am glad that son of a bitch was taken out. Maybe now the place will return to what it once was and some of the other ladies will return.

I told Rose to stop by and check out our secret hiding place, I had something for Mr. Keats.

I went to the cabinet where I kept my private stock. I pull out a jug of my fire turning blue moonshine. I placed it in a bag with a note.

Dear Mr. Keats,

Cheers to you. Congratulations on your new venture. You have some fine and loyal ladies there.  Take care of them and they will take care of you in more ways than one. 

Best regards,

Harper Lane

It was close to midnight when the messenger found Keats reclining in a booth of his favorite Irish pub. It was a semi-reserved place for him that Jimmy, the owner, tried to keep empty for him. Lately, it'd become an unofficial office for Keats. A place to crash when he needed to be alone, usually with a good drink. A place to write. A place to read his mail, as well as the occasional book. Better here than at his spartan apartment, which he'd never really viewed as his own. He traveled so much that it always felt like he was sleeping in someone else's bed or using someone else's bathroom when he was there. Other than the Black Rock headquarters this stupid booth might be the closest thing he had to a home. 

The messenger dropped a bag off on the table, bowing quickly but not stopping to answer questions. Keats was grateful that so many gangsters and goombas from Detroit visited this place. At least they were keeping an eye out. He'd let himself let his guard down and get within two feet of him. Another thing to work on. Maybe he was still bothered from what had happened earlier. More the blonde than the scumbag, sure. But still.

Opening the bag, Keats discovered  a note attached to an expensive looking bottle of liquor, with a handcrafted label.

"Moonshine, huh? Seems fitting for me."

Opening the note, he read it carefully before demanding a pen and paper from Jimmy and composing a reply, resisting the urge to ramble too much.

Don Lane,

I sincerely thank you for both your gift and your note; I consider each of them a great honor to receive from someone of your esteemed stature. I look forward to a more prosperous future for the ladies in question and believe that both their quantity of money and quality of life should improve shortly. 

A sincere thanks, and I wish you luck in all of your business dealings as well. If I can ever repay you for the favor of this exquisite bottle of moonshine, please let me know.

Sincerely,

John Keats

Folding the letter, he called over one of the young thugs from the bar and asked him to deliver it.

Resting back into the leather of the booth, Keats allowed himself a small smile.

"Jimmy? Get me a glass."