BELOW THE SURFACE: CHAPTER TWO: Cyanide's Touch
Below the Surface: A 2023 Lackadaisy Fanfiction...now posted here, there, and NOW on Tumblr. Enjoy!
TW: poisoning, blood, vomit, violence and gore: If you are uncomfortable with these things, SKIP AHEAD. While the gore and blood is at the end, I will mark it accordingly.
---"Too many of us treat guns with genial familiarity. Guns should give us the heebie-jeebies. They are killing machines. That is all they are. We should dread them the way we dread cancer and cyanide and electric chairs." - Author: Kurt Vonnegut Jr.---
"His voice means to deceive you...my voice just wants to lead you...Below the Surface."
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A night of witnessing poker playing and other gambling games increased his headache.Yet Mordecai Heller still remained by Asa Sweet’s side for that night. All these rich people, wasting their time and wealth on betting games. Occasionally, Asa nudged him into a game or two.
“I’m uninterested in such a rambunctious activity, Mr. Sweet,” Mordecai told him in a flat tone, and Mr. Sweet would only reply with a smirk and a shrug of his shoulders, before returning to his gambles.
“Aw, really? I thought you were the type of guy to be exceptionally good at gin rummy~”
Mordecai’s ears flicked up slightly, turning his head to face the Savannah cat in front of him: Silas Tueuse, French actor.
“I can assure you, I would rather not.” He remarked in disdain, trying to keep himself up to be professional, yet somewhat polite. “Besides: I am not one to lose myself over such antics.”
“Aww, what a spoil sport.” Silas inched closer to the tuxedo cat, his own ears flicking upward, and his tail fluffed up. Mordecai looked into his yellowish green eyes, and his frown deepened. He watched the Savannah cat breed carefully and very closely. He watched his neck length, brown and highlighted hair, seeing how much it bounced as Silas moved and turned his head.
“That’s what I keep telling the boy,” Mr. Sweet chuckled, giving Mordecai a gentle nudge. Mordecai suppressed the urge to roll his eyes yet again, but despite that, he couldn’t help but to give an unnoticeable smirk at his boss’s remark.
“I can always help loosen you up~” Silas offered, leaning back in his chair, his legs opening slightly. Mordecai had a close–mouthed grimace curl onto his lips, his ears flattening against the back of his head. He and Mr. Sweet shared uncomfortable glances of the innuendo Silas proceeded to practically shove into their faces.
“I like to decline that, very much.” Mordecai cleared his throat, turning his head away. Silas shrugged with his right shoulder, leaning back more.
“Your loss, then.” He ran his tongue on the top row of his canines. He turned to face another hotel member, now chatting away. This hotel member was named Roberto, a quiet and shy type of man. Silas was trying to flirt with him and get him out of his shell, in order to do unholy things.
“Uch…” Mordecai pinched the bridge of his nose, and felt a gentle pat on his arm from Mr. Sweet, and it somehow eased him for the given moment. The rest of the night was still rather loud, but eventually it all ended. Silas brought some poor unfortunate fellow along to God knows where, and the office had been emptied, aside from Mr. Sweet and Mordecai.
“Well, they certainly got their money’s worth.” Mr. Sweet spoke up, leaning back in his chair and sorting out the dollars he had. He lit up a cigar, intaking some of the smoke, then exhaling out his nose.
“I have yet to commiserate with the fools and how they spill out their wealth over a simple game of gin rummy.” The tuxedo cat finally brought up.
“Ah, don’t act like you don’t enjoy a round of gin rummy.” Mr. Sweet chuckled, pulling out his cigar from his mouth. “You’re quite good at it, you know.”
Mordecai’s ears flattened further on his head, eyes narrowing more. His sharp and cold glare softened, just for a split second, before shifting back to the cold and stoic gaze he always harbored. “...I don’t play gin rummy much anymore.”
There was more silence, aside from Mordecai taking out his pocket watch and flicking it open to notice the time. He rolled his eyes and flicked the lid of the pocket watch shut with a loud click.
“Son, there’s been many things going on in the shadows of St. Louis.” Mr. Sweet finally sat up fully, turning to face Mordecai.
“Isn’t there always, Mr. Sweet?” Mordecai cocked a brow, putting away his pocket watch.
“Not like this…amongst us rum–runners is something dangerous…more dangerous than usual.” Mr. Sweet leaned forward, gesturing with his free hand. “I’ve had too many employees rush into my office to tell me that my hotel residents are dying in their rooms.”
Mordecai faltered, blinking once, twice, registering the words his boss had spoken. “Dying?”
“Killed, it doesn’t matter how: what matters is that they’re dead. Unmoved. Complete cadavers.”
“I understood that part completely, Mr Sweet, you needn’t explain a thing.”
“...do you remember Mrs. Smitt?”
“Quite well, in fact. She was the kind and feeble elderly woman who came in to spend the night here after her daughter’s baby shower. That way she could hop on a train to return safely to Detroit.”
Mr. Sweet’s eyes dulled: “...she’s dead.”
“...excuse me?” Mordecai paused again. “...she’s dead?”
“Staff found her with a slit throat in a pool of her own bloodied water in the bathtub.”
“It was one of the grizzlier murders…like something you would’ve done on command.”
“When was the murder, sir?”
“Two days ago, eleven–thirty pm, sharp. ”
“I was right beside you while you were busy playing roulette.”
Mr. Sweet gave a hearty chuckle, clapping the other’s shoulder. “I’m well aware. You never left my side during nights like those.”
“It’s my job, after all.” Mordecai gave a single, firm nod. Mr. Sweet gave him a genuine grin, and Mordecai’s expression finally broke out into a small smirk. It quickly faded into a nonchalant expression as he gazed forward. He pursed his lips tightly, keeping himself silent. The news of murder circulated in his thoughts, turning cogs in his head as he began to wonder who Marigold was dealing with…
The poor man had no idea what hit him.
Roberto stole each kiss from Silas, being lured away into a pool room, tucked away into a further corner of Hotel Maribel. Silas giggled at Roberto, stroking his chin as he pressed him against the pool table.
“Ah, damn…” Roberto let out a shudder, feeling Silas’s hands rove across his chest. Silas gave a crooked grin, baring his sharp fangs.
“You like that, don’t you?” He chided, bringing his lips closer to Roberto’s neck. Roberto let out a shriveling moan, leaning into the bite.
“Y–yes…” He admitted softly, gently. He hastily gripped onto Silas’s top, but Silas guided the hands away.
“Nah–ah–ah…not until you had a drink. Just one more: for me?~” Silas stroked Roberto’s chin, then strutted away to shut the double doors, then sauntered over to a drink cart. Roberto slumped against the pool table, letting out a small, unheard whimper. Silas kept his back turned, hiding the fact that while he was pouring Roberto his favorite gin, the Savannah Cat slipped in poison. No…
…he poured in cyanide. Yet Roberto was too blinded and a bit too drunk. Silas hummed a haunting tune, slipping the cyanide bottle into his pocket, then swung himself around, holding Roberto’s whiskey and giving it to him, gently caressing his shoulder.
“Drink up,” Silas hummed, “we don’t want you to get parched~” He planted one last kiss on his mouth, then strutted to get a pool stick. He got a chalk cube, chalking the cue slowly, deliberately, gears shifting in his head as he heard the ice clink against the glass when Roberto took a drink of the gin, the gentle gulp or two. Silas’s ears flicked at the sounds, and he grinned deviously: the cyanide would later take place…
Mordecai’s eyes snapped open, and his head whipped up. When did he fall asleep…? How did he let this happen? He was scolding himself…until he realized and felt the gentle draping of a jacket over him. He met yellow eyes and slit pupils, his shoulders dropping at the sight of Serafine. He gave a deep frown, sitting up slowly in his chair. He massaged his temples with his fingers, muttering something incoherently.
“I thought I locked the door.” He then brought up.
“Ya didn’t…I guess dat you felt too tired.” Nico chimed in. Mordecai stared at the Savoy siblings with dulled eyes. He gently took off the jacket, realizing that Serafine was wearing only her red undershirt, with her necklace of bones dangling almost elegantly…in a haunting manner. Ah…said jacket was hers.
“Which is rather indecorous of me, considering the current work location and time.” He handed it over to her, though a glimpse of gratefulness flashed through those olive eyes of his, before quickly fading.
“Mmh, you an’ your fancy words…don’ you get a bit tired of keepin’ all dat up, chér.” Nico gave a quick eye roll. There was a gentle clink of a mug on Mordecai’s desk, with a nice scent wafting into the trio’s senses.
“...did…” Mordecai stared at the mug of tea, his favorite, no less: Earl Gray. He eyed it skeptically, pursing his lips tightly.
“We listen, chér. No matter how much talkin’ you do, we listen .” Serafine slid the mug over more, just slightly. Mordecai blinked.
“...that’s rather unusual, coming from you and Nico.” His fingers curled around the handle of the mug, and he brought it over cautiously. “...no pranks? No Winchester sauce poured in as one of your practical jokes?” He raised a brow, smelling the fragrance: it was the usual, subtly citrusy scent, and his shoulders noticeably dropped. He felt relaxed, at least a bit more. Though he is going to be fuming if he finds that damn sauce in his tea… again. So reluctantly, he took a sip…and it tasted good. He was in pure shock. “...my apologies. I assumed before I found out.”
“No apologies, we don’ need any.” Nico shrugged it off. Mordecai took another sip, and he sighed, setting the cup down and he took off his pince–nez, rubbing his eyes with two fingers.
“...what are you doing here, anyhow? Don’t you have to attend your cult with…your chicken.” Mordecai used hand gestures. Nico and Serafine shared a fit of laughter, ringing through the tuxedo cat’s head.
“We’ve been stuck wit’ Mr. Sweet, jus’ like you, chér.” Serafine then slid her arms through the sleeves of her jacket, now adjusting how it felt.
“That’s rather unfortunate.” Mordecai deadpanned.
“Someting we can both agree on.” Serafine raised her brows slightly.
“Oh don’ tink dat you’re better than me.”
Both of them gave each other withering glares, with Nico staring with a somewhat wide–eyed stare. Serafine cracked a genuine grin, her eyes squinting: showing that she was thoroughly and honestly enjoying the banter she and Mordecai had going on. Mordecai gave a smirk, raising his own brows out of surprise.
“Hm. I wasn’t the one who carved a loa into someone’s chest.” He held a hand up. Serafine flicked her knife out, pointing at Mordecai as she watched his eyes narrow, and his tail fluff up in alarm.
“...hm. You learned a ting or two.” Nico hummed. “Dat’s a start.”
“Mhh, I suppose.” Mordecai swished around the tea in his mug. The office was quiet, now…despite the literal embodiments of chaos known as the Savoys standing directly in front of him. He couldn’t help but feel enlightened…barely.
The three heard footsteps, rushed, panicked even. Mordecai quickly moved to answer the door, and noticed how Mr. Sweet was now in front of him. There was an uncanny look of urgency in his boss’s eyes, and that meant something awful happened. Mr. Sweet put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it a bit.
“...there’s another victim of homicide, Mordecai.” He kept his voice lowered. Immediately, Mordecai let out a small noise of disturbance, then he gave a firm nod, pulling out his M1911 and gripping it tightly. Serafine’s head whipped to face the other two, as they rushed out of the room. She followed with curiosity eating at her, quickening the pace with her brother by her side.
“How did this happen?” Mordecai kept himself collected, being led by Mr. Sweet.
“Nobody knows what exactly happened…but there’s…” A look of disgust crossed Mr. Sweet’s face. Mordecai bit back the urge to grimace, but he continued forward.
“Peekon, what’s goin’ on?” Nico walked by the tuxedo cat, and Serafine wasn’t too far behind.
“Murders have been going on in the hotel. It’s becoming apparent that we are a target to this predator.” Mordecai took a sharp left, and the faint smell of vomit wafted into his nostrils. He let out a growl, ears pinning on his head as he reared back, bringing his arm to his nose and mouth, turning his upper body to face the other direction as he halted in front of closed double doors. He was missing the scent of his tea now.
“Ugh, what crawled up an’ died in dere?!” Serafine let out a quiet retching noise, suppressing a gag. Mr. Sweet swallowed thickly, then shoved open the doors to the secret pool room. When he showed the Marigold Trio what was causing such odors, it was apparent now. Crystal clear, and it made Mordecai’s stomach twist into knots.
(TW: blood, vomit and gore below!)
“What the hell?!” Serafine backed up, jerking away violently as she hit the back of a lounge chair. Nico reached for her, his ears pinning against the back of his head. His eyes were widened. The horror scene in the pool room. Blood splattered on the floors, but that’s not all. A pool stick was stabbed into Roberto’s right eye as he slumped against the wall. Vomit was on the floor, nearby his feet, and bits and pieces of bile caked the corners of his mouth. His mouth was open, as if he was trying to gasp for air before he was killed. His face was slightly tainted with blue and purple, due to suffocation. Cartilage from his stabbed eye stuck out and curled around the pool stick in a disgusting fashion, occasionally dripping blood or sloppily falling onto the floor in pieces.
(TW: blood, vomit and gore warning over!)
“Son of a…” Nico trailed off. Then, his brows creased as he tilted his head to the side: confusion crossed his face. He had no clue who was going this far to take such measures to massacre people like this. Serafine looked concerned more than she had ever seemed: her brows were angled, she dug her heel into the ground and planted herself. Mr. Sweet was tapping his foot rapidly, sweat beading his forehead over the situation and how there was, yet again, another murder in his hotel…and for the first time for the elaborate triggerman, hatchetman, ferocious shadow of Mr. Sweet, Mr. Mordecai Heller…
…his gun slipped out of his hand and hit the floor, and the world went silent and deathly still.
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