Bernardi rubbed his hands against his thighs earnestly to fight off the cold as he stepped from his car, assuring Anthony that he would find his own way back home to deal with the day's more troubling matters - that or call the taciturn steward in the event of his complete inebriation - once he'd had time to think on them. Time was ever in short supply for the prolific mob boss: it was the price he paid for control of the city, after all. Sighing a cloud of white mist into the  winter air, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and set out for his destination.<br/><br/>The cul-de-sac was an old part of the city, built over onto itself so many times that in places the original stonework had sunk beneath the ground to form derelict tunnels and vaults. Highrises with ornate decorations crowded in on one another like black monoliths against the dusty grey clouds they illuminated with a thousand spotlights. The entire architectural history of City Black stood on display in no sensible order, from the fluted roman columns and chiseled murals of old courthouses through to the rounded edges, geometric patterns, and upward thrust of modern art deco skyscrapers.<br/><br/>Beneath all of this, sandwiched between a disused barber shop and a black-shuttered jazz parlor was a modest brick storefront of rounded windows and arches; little more than a hole in the city's great iconoclastic wall. A hole with "Molly's Tavern" dangling above it in rusted red and white letters.<br/><br/>There was nothing in City Black enumerated on more than a single hand which could keep Geralt Bernardi away from his historical dive; even his exceptions served more as delays than deferrals. Wiser men knew not to stand in his way; braver ones quickly learned why; forces of nature themselves were made to bend to accommodate his stocky, flatfooted figure. Today another item was added to this exclusive list. Specifically, a diminutive street urchin.<br/><br/>The girl stood no higher than his waist, only recognizable from her scuffled brown environs through her green eyes and a braid of dirty - in all senses of the term - blonde hair, terminating in unruly fringes from an overlarge cap which hovered perilously just above her eyebrows. Poking her head up from behind a newspaper stall, she bolted directly into his path to stare up at the imposing mobster with an expression of sheer amazement.<br/><br/>"You want somethin'?" growled Bernardi, raising an eyebrow.<br/><br/>Still smiling incomprehensibly, the wayward child quietly shook her head and continued to stare as if in awe.<br/><br/>"The boss..."<br/><br/>"Says you," he scoffed. "Can't say I remember puttin' an alley tramp on my payroll. Bad for the reputation."<br/><br/>She gave a small frown of confusion. "But... you're<span style="font-style: italic">everyone's</span>boss!"<br/><br/>The prolific gangster chuckled, reaching into the breast of his suit to produce a cigar. "Heh. Damn right."<br/><br/>The girl nodded sagely in agreement, briefly forgetting her apparent enthrallment with his presence before blushing and hiding her face with the grey-brown cap.<br/><br/>"This one's got a real head on her shoulders for an ankle-biter," he mused, padding his pockets in search of a lighter. "The mooks in my outfit could learn a thing or two from you, missy. Now where'd I put that goddamn-"<br/><br/>The object in question materialized from the snow-blown darkness beside him, clutched in a nimble-fingered hand.<br/><br/>"Allow me," offered a younger man in a heavy beige overcoat. "I hope she wasn't causing you trouble, sir."<br/><br/>Bernardi grunted dismissively and accepted the gesture, eying the stranger with suspicion as he flicked the lighter and waited for his cigar to properly catch. He was a man average in every way that he wasn't first bedraggled, wearing an apologetic smile about as comfortably as the dusty old hat which covered his ruffled blonde hair. The heavy camera about his neck seemed the only thing of worth he possessed. The mob boss handed him back the lighter, indulging in a puff of his cigar before holding out a hand. "Geralt Bernardi. Businessman."<br/><br/>The man seemed almost taken aback, but hastily shook it all the same. "Edward Venner. Photographer for Black City Realty... when I can land a contract. Time was I'd shoot the scoli races, but that hit the tracks with Mr. Valman. Nowadays..."<br/><br/>Geralt grimaced at the mention of his old business associate. Would Valman never stop haunting him? The city seemed to relish in reminding him at every opportunity. He was about to inquire what happened when the photographer winced abruptly; taking advantage of the distraction, his daughter directed another playful kick squarely into the man's shins. "Can it, you phenom'nal sap! You're making him mad!"<br/><br/>"Not so good!" Ed snapped, raising his arms like a movie monster. "Mercy on the legs, y'little tyrant! I'll shoulder a lot fer a pretty face, but behatted goons who don't give a bohunk's beard for their betters fall in for punishment with capital C!" He leapt at the girl, but she spun to the side and threw her cap into his face, using the momentary distraction to plant a tiny foot in the pocket of his coat and vault onto his back. Venner responded by ducking his head, grabbing her from either side, and holding her upside-down in front of him while she bit at his leather gloves. This continued until more than a third Bernardi's cigar had disintegrated into the wind. Curiously, he didn't mind in the slightest.<br/><br/>"Say," the mob boss interjected helplessly through a wall of flailing limbs and minor insults, "how'd you figure me fer... me, anyway?"<br/><br/>"Sorry again," the man apologized ruefully, ducking his head under a passing leg, "the little lady's developed a bit of a fixation. She picked up somewheres that you'd started out with holes for pockets just like us..." he deposited the girl unceremoniously on the ground where she lay spread-eagled and unmoving, dusted off his hands, and placed the cap over her face. She remained immobile. "Now every time some fella goes by in a ritzy hat it's 'Geralt The Boss' this and 'Mister Bernardi' that. Never figured she'd actually be right. Sockadollager an' a half to get her talking about anything else once she starts, though, let me tell you."<br/><br/>The girl glared at him reproachfully and adjusted her hat, suddenly on her feet again. "I don't want to talk about anything else; Boss Bernardi's swell. He isn't scared of anything - someone gives him guff then he just calls his book-person an- ON THE FLOOR WITH YA!" She pantomimed a curiously accurate Tommygun volley, perforating her clean-shaven guardian with a wall of imaginary lead. "It's curtains for 'em! You work in City Black, you work for the Boss!"<br/><br/>"Boss Bernardi..." Geralt rubbed his chin earnestly. "Not a bad ring to it. You're all right, kid."<br/><br/>She beamed back. "Happy to oblige, boss."<br/><br/>"Screwy bunch," he chuckled, slumping his shoulders in farewell. As he turned to leave, however, Ed caught his attention with a pointed nod of the head. The reedy photographer raised his camera, smiling uneasily. "If it weren't too much trouble, could I impose upon your boss-ness for a picture? It'd be a swell gift to the little miss; better by miles'n anything I'd bring in myself."<br/><br/>Geralt contemplated for a moment, then shrugged his assent; the girl in the cap materialized beside him and began to fret hopelessly with her braid as though she were on stage. Her father glanced up at the streetlight, frowned, expertly adjusted the shutter speed of his camera, then unfurled the day's paper from under his coat to shade the lens.<br/><br/>"Try to look important- er... more than usual," Venner cautioned. "On second thought, just act like everything's daisies. Aaaand<span style="font-style: italic">fulmineous</span>."<br/><br/>The camera flashed three times in quick succession, neatly catching a plume of smoke as it issued from Geralt's cigar stump, and flooding the dingy street with light. For one brief moment the shadow of a little girl in a hat that didn't fit was as long as that of the city's most powerful man. Blinking furiously as his eyes readjusted, the gangster tapped his cigar with casual interest "Whazzat, some sorta magic spell?"<br/><br/>Ed's eyes widened. He made a show of examining the camera as though seeing it for the first time, then smirked and gave a morbid shrug. "All flash, no magic. Good evening to you, sir."<br/><br/>A cursory nod of the head was Geralt Bernardi's goodbye. He slid the tavern door aside with one shoulder and sauntered within.<br/><br/>Molly's was having a slow night, as evidenced by the moaning jukebox, bright lights, and general lack of projectile alcohol. An ossified couple slumped together at the bar, barely sensate, a quiet bald man read from his handbook in one of the booths, and a lanky-limbed musician sipped from a glass of whiskey while tuning his guitar. The most raucous party in the room was a group of sharks from somewhere in the murky depths of Geralt's outfit, betting and playing pool in the corner beneath the watchful eye of a trained murkrow with cards in its feathers. The bird appeared to be winning.<br/><br/>The tavern was small even by inner city standards, and had only shrunk since Prohibition, but a lifetime of memories and a cheap bottle of rye somewhere nobody would think to look upstaged garish new dinner-and-a-show affairs like Morris's "108" or Florian's "Evening Theatre" every time. Molly's was home.<br/><br/>An intimidating woman at the bar with a bandana tied about her head and silver bracelets on her wrists narrowed her eyes as Geralt ambled towards the counter, if it could honestly be called such.<br/><br/>"Well look what the purrloin dragged in," Molly sighed. "Take a table, y'old grumpus."<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://www.seventh-house.org/wp-content/themes/naota/images/NavDivider3.png">[ img ]</a></div><br/>The little vagrant held out her hand. "Two."<br/><br/>"Hey now, it was a dollar a minute ago," observed the man with the camera. "You're a right grifter, you know that?"<br/><br/>She crossed her arms and pouted. "Grifter yourself,<span style="font-style: italic">Neil</span>. You said he'd never buy it from 'a little skirt who couldn't trick a blind lemming off a street curb'," she retorted. "...whatevers a lemming is s'posed to be."<br/><br/>Neil shook his head hopelessly and reached into the pocket of his shabby grey jacket. "Fair's fair," he lamented. "Unfair, more like." Shrugging, he slipped off the heavy garment entirely and dropped it unceremoniously onto the girl's shoulders. The coat was so woefully oversized that it brushed her ankles, the sleeves swaying comically in the wind to either side. She threw the lanky stranger a look of confusion as he raised an eyebrow and deliberately patted the breast pocket of his vest - a vest far more expensive than his worker's outfit should have entailed. Inside the coat lining was a sheaf of five dollar bills.<br/><br/>"Get something for that brother of yours with it; tell him it's to teach his big sister some manners."<br/><br/>"Brother?" The diminutive huckster tilted her head to the side with an innocent smile, her cap nearly falling over one eye as she did so. "What brother?"<br/><br/>Neil grinned a grin of repressed agony. "Foxy little-" he started, but caught himself when he realized he was giving her a compliment. "Careful now - too much of that and you're liable to turn into<span style="font-style: italic">me</span>."<br/><br/>The girl paged through the bills once more, then gave him an appraising look. "Seems reasonable," she replied, sticking out her tongue.