FSE

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When I reentered my penthouse apartment to the sight of Cherry in nothing but Murrs-brand white briefs and one of my larger dark t-shirts, putting together another pizza in the oven, even that did not falter my resolve.

"Heya Markus!" he chirped, winking at me across the granite island. "How're you--"

"I have another lead for us."

The ocelot's ear immediately perked. "Who?"

"Desmond Sylvester," I started walking immediately into my 'armory room', where I kept my guns, knives, fake IDs, passports, whatever I needed for a contract or occasions like tonight. "It has to be him...It has to be that Bengal bastard."

"Daddy Stripes?" Cherry gasped in recognition. The slim, spotted feline proceeded to follow me inside. If I weren't focused on finding my tools, I would've seen him wide-eyed and uncertain. "I never figured he'd be sore about me not wanting to be under his...his thumb."

"Pimping is his income," I explained, "and maybe he wanted to make an example of you by having those two guys try and shoot you up?"

"Um, yeah..." he shrugged in agreement. "I mean, it makes sense..."

Too much sense, I thought to myself, but we don't have any other suspects at the moment.

For tonight, I put on some discreet combat boots, blue jeans, a hidden boot knife, a throwaway phone, gloves and garotte wire. The latter I learned was very useful in close quarters combat, especially when one ran out of bullets. Unfortunately, a silencer pistol would be the first thing guards would search for.

A few days ago, Cherry had wandered into here by accident, and he nearly went fanboyish over how many of my tools and firearms he recognized from various action flicks. Reluctantly, I told him he had permission to look but not TOUCH any of the shotguns, pistols, knives and other weaponry lined up on the gunracks along the wall. I didn't forbid him from browsing through my fake IDs and passports, however.

"Teo J. Franklin, Niko V. Bellin, Rutledge Kalvin..." he read them off to me, doing his best to poorly imitate the accents of my stated nationalities. "Darrian Rackaw, Darrian Vlahos, George Silverman, Gradee Cormic...?" He giggled, then imitated my homeland's accent, "An' Oirish too! 'oy aboyt dat!"

"Get away from those already!" I groaned, staring deadpan back at the now-obnoxious feline. When he complied and placed the passports back inside the box, a part of me hadn't realized I chuckled aloud. "That last one is actually the name I leased this apartment under."

"Huh. Go figure..." he laughed shortly. "So, you really lost your accent with time then?"

I sighed, flicking my tail at the floor as I examined a recent city map I bought several months back. "Yes. That is what happens when you leave your home country for many years."

"So," he proposed, "If I moved to England, would I suddenly get an English accent?"

"Maybe," I ran a finger along the map, then paused as it landed on the location that I labeled down. "That's it. I might be able to find Desmond here."

"So what're ya gonna do then?" Cherry asked.

"Simple, really." I calmly placed a knife in the hidden part of my boot. "I'm going to hire his services."

***

As far as American metropolises went, Lakertown was a cultured city of industry, commercialism, landmarks, and especially vice. No large city like this on Earth could function without a touch of debauchery or crime. That is, if one looked in the right neighborhoods. Or in Lakertown's miserable case, it's old red-light district just west of downtown.

A decaying adult theater, two competing strip clubs, several bars, countless tattoo parlors and foreign food vendors. Not to mention prostitution if one could detect and follow the signals.

One secret to know about pimping--as I learned during my early mercenary years--was that a procurer owning multiple sites never operated them all at once. Unless he or she wanted the police or (God forbid) law-abiding citizens to realize where the illegal cathouses, whorehouses and brothels operated, then a well-funded pimp would stick to one location before switching to another a couple nights later. These locations could range from obvious ones like a massage parlor to less-than-obvious ones like a crappy hostel or construction site.

In Daddy Stripes' case he owned a single four-story apartment building. And tonight, business was booming as several cars were randomly parked outside, their owners no doubt inside. From a safe distance, I watched a variety of johns in unconvincing disguises meekly enter the establishment, with a smile always plastered on their muzzles when they leave.

Thankfully, the Rottweiler guards didn't find my boot knife when he searched me. Part of me regretted not wearing a body-proof vest, but I knew if this glorified bouncer found me wearing one, then he'd immediately think I was a cop.

"Get inside," he grumbled once finished.

The smell of unprotected sex seemed to fumigate the hallways and stairs. Under cover of hip-hop music vibrating throughout the building, the sounds of gasps and moans could be heard behind paper-thin walls. Used condoms and empty lube bottles filled any trash bins in sight. I did my best to avoid stepping in one pile of...I didn't even want to know.

Aside from a few junkies laughing at the TV (while a vixen sucked them off individually) in the main hallway, no other souls could be found on the first floor. Which forced me to travel to the second floor, where the headbanging music and grunts of ecstasy grew louder.

Another code in hidden cathouses or bordellos: open doors meant open for business.

And standing under the doorway was a twenty-something black-and-white-furred cat in a small red tank top and the tightest pair of cut-off denim shorts I had ever seen. Her welcoming smile, fluttering (yet desperate) eyes stared directly at me.

"You lookin' for a good time?" she asked like a sultry siren.

A muscled lion stood down the hallway. No doubt the boss' enforcer. Perfect.

Have a lighter, more friendly voice.

"Actually, ma'am," I spoke to her in a lighter, more friendly voice, I would like to ask you something. Would you be open to reading passages of Scripture with me?"

"Huh?" she raised an eyebrow.

"I'm a pastor of a local church, my child," I pretended to plead and delicately held her paws, "and you are suffering in sin. If you would just open your heart to Jesus Christ, our Lord who sacrificed--"

"L-Look, I ain't letting you gimme a Bible study unless you're willing to pay!"

"Why would I indulge in the very sins that consume your soul, child?" I asked her more fanatically. "Surely, if we sit down together and read John 8:11, you will see how much Jesus loves!"

Finally, the lion came my way, one paw gripped behind his back.

"The fuck ya think you're doing, Bible freak? Either fuck her or get the fuck--"

In just a few swift motions, I twisted the gun from the lion's paw, broke his wrist with an immediate snap, then snatched it from the air. The scantily clad white cat yelped in fright while her 'guard' writhed on the floor, howling in immense pain.

"Zack, help me--"

Gripping her arm, my growl immediately silenced the feline.

"Shut up, now." I held the gun to the right side of her temple. "Do not make me hurt you. Or kill you."

Despite her whimpering, she complied.

Locking eyes with the lion as he growled up at me, I coldly said, "Tell your boss unless he has an endless surplus of merchandise to replace this one, he will answer my questions. I will be in that room waiting."

Kicking the half-closed door behind me, I pulled the frightened cat with me, making sure to keep staring at the lion before slamming and locking the apartment door. Now we waited for 'Daddy Stripes' to show up.