Commins' Case: Bloody Burlesque ✅

Chapter 6

Marie and I take a carriage across town. 201 Bay Avenue is a shipyard surrounded by chain-link fences hemmed with barbed wire. I climb from the carriage and close the door behind Marie. Through the fence, I see rows of moonlit warehouses, a few derelict fishing trawlers and a most impressive collection of rusting metal detritus scattered about the grounds—a lovely location for a meeting.

"I know this place," I whisper to Marie.

She questions me with a look.

"It's owned by a crime boss, Devon Burlingham. He had his beginnings as an enforcer, working his way up through the ranks. Now he commands everything."

"How do you know that?"

"I used to be a constable."

"What happened?"

"Perhaps I prefer the freedom that comes with freelance investigations."

She makes a noise that implies a certain level of scepticism.

-

I change the subject and attempt to regain my focus. "If Gabriel is involved with the mob, it doesn't bode well. I am not a fan of you being here, but I would prefer not to leave you on your own. Will you be able to stay quiet?"

She ignores me. "How do you plan on getting inside? Those gates are chained up tight."

"I am most certainly not going to knock. Follow me."

Marie and I stroll around the chain-link border; the yard seems to be abandoned. If there is anyone inside, they are staying out of sight. I discover a portion of the fence that is loose.

-

I drop down to the wet concrete, push up the chain-link and slide under, the back of my overcoat gaining a thick layer of mud. I look forward to shedding these filthy clothes when we are done here.

On the other side, I stand and pull up on the chain, looking expectantly at Marie.

"You must be kidding me?"

I shrug. "Unless you would like to climb over. Otherwise, you're welcome to stay out here," I tell her. "Alone."

She sighs, drops down to her belly and crawls under. She has more heft in the back than what I do, and the sharp ends of the wire fence catch her bottom. She squeaks. I tug on the fence but cannot lift it any higher.

"I'm stuck," she says.

"Don't panic." I place my hand on the top of her bottom and push down.

"Mr. Commins!"

"My apologies, but this appears to be the root of your problem. Just keep wriggling, and I'll push," I say as I shove Marie's bottom down whilst unsticking the fence from the fabric of her dress.

She wriggles and squeezes her way through. I grab her arm and pull Marie to her feet, looking mutinous. The front of her dress is covered in wet and dirt. She groans in dismay as she begins to brush herself off. "Do you know how much this dress costs, Mr. Commins?"

"Undoubtedly more than my outfit," I tell her. "Let's go." I steer us towards the nearest warehouse.

-

It doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for—raised voices issue from the warehouse closest to the water. Marie and I cross the yard, using the rusted out hulks of dead fishing boats as cover, then sneak to a grimy window for a peek. Gabriel is inside, and his situation is grim. A pair of Burlingham's goons have him tied to a wooden chair, and from the looks of it, they have spent the last thirty minutes or so with him. He has two eyes that look like swollen pink pufferfish and a nose pointing in the wrong direction.

Marie's fingers sink into my forearm. "We have to help him."

I shush her.

From an office at the back of the warehouse, a black-haired man emerges wearing a suit that would cost more than my entire wardrobe. Devon has piled on even more layers of muscle since last I saw him. He drags a second wooden chair over and plants himself directly in front of Gabriel, and gives him a slap across the face, then taking a moment to adjust the cuffs of his silk shirt. "Now. Where is my money?"

"I'll get the money," Gabriel spits through swollen lips. His voice cracks and trembles. "Just don't hurt any more of the girls."

I give Marie a meaningful look.

Her lips press together into a straight line.

-

Devon spreads his hands. "What are you talking about? I don't run around beating on women. Besides, those ladies aren't the ones who owe me money." Devon leans forward until he and Gabriel are nose to nose. "You owe me money, Gabriel. You owe me a lot of money. And I'm tired of waiting."

"Give me a little more time," Gabriel pleads.

Devon leans back in his chair. "You've been stringing me along for two years now with your promises. That club of yours has yet to turn a profit. Men don't want to watch those girls dance. They want to fulfil their more..." he leans forward again, "sexual needs."

Gabriel shakes his head. "We are an art troupe, not—"

Devon cuts him short with another slap. "For God's sake, Gabriel. Your days of owning a business are over. In lieu of payment, you are going to sign the club over to me, and I will take over the day-to-day operations." He laces his fingers together and gives Gabriel an almost pitiful look. "If those ladies wish to keep their jobs, they will have to expand their 'repertoire'."

Gabriel spits, and it lands in Devon's well-groomed beard. Devon does not look impressed as he wipes his beard his handkerchief.

-

He stands and motions at his two enforcers. "I'll let Martino and Camillo entertain you for now. I'll be in my office until you are ready to sign."

"You'll have to kill me," Gabriel yells. It's a resigned and broken statement. They may not believe him, but I can hear the conviction in his voice. He is ready to die to protect the girls. Foolish, though noble.

Devon walks back to his office and closes the door. Martino and Camillo take turns using Gabriel's face to work out their issues. The first punch gives off a meaty crunch. Marie squeaks.

I shush her again.

"What are we going to do?" she whispers.

"We ought to leave him," I tell her. "He got himself into this mess; he can get himself out."

"They'll kill him."

I turn to her and pause. "Probably."

Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits.

"Are you ready to fight the mob?" I ask, exasperated.

"Are you ready to let an innocent man die?" she retorts.

I press my lips together and exhale through my nose. The flat hacking sounds of knuckles against flesh penetrate the grimy window. Grunts and whimpers punctuate each pulpy crunch. Gabriel is holding on, but he will not last forever. He'll give up or die, and when that happens, Devon will own the club. It will be one more brothel in a town already full of them. Perhaps some of the girls will leave, but most will have nowhere to go. I don't wish to cross paths with the mob, but I cannot bear the thought of Marie of Blanche being owned by Devon Burlingham.