Chapter Text
An aggressive knock came at Sam’s door. It sounded familiar. Too familiar. They weren't going to let up if who was behind that knock was who he thought it was— or were. Knowing snippets of his past, it was probably the three men in Retroville that Sam was all too familiar with. Sam liked to keep quiet about his past, so it was likely only those three men that knew of his awful deeds from the ‘40s. He shuddered to think what they wanted now. More money? Asking for a “job well done?” Hell no. Those days were behind him. The man had deliberately made sure that he couldn’t and wouldn’t make the same mistakes now than when he was in his prime. He’d made a lot of mistakes and was trying to move past them, albeit how old he was. Old people can change, too— just look at Ebeneezer Scrooge. Sam groaned and got up from his desk to answer the door. The hardwood flooring creaked as he stepped towards the oak door of his office. He gripped the bronze doorknob and slowly turned it before opening the door. Outside the door stood three men that Sam wished he never saw again. Or, at least, under different circumstances. Three men stood menacingly at his door: Zix, Travoltron, and Tee…
The biggest one of the bunch was Mr. Tee. Tee had dark skin and a build that could shoot to kill— he could take you out in one swing of his huge fists. It was rumored that he wrestled in his youth and, judging by how beefed up the guy was, he probably still did. Nobody knew for sure. His knuckles were hairy and he had a knot between his brows. He had a prominent brow bone with big, bushy eyebrows. He wore a beard. His tightly coiled black hair was thinning in two spots on his temples and he wore it cropped short. He wasn't that smart, but he could rough you up in the worst way imaginable. A gold chain adorned his neck. He was five foot ten. He always wore brass knuckles and had a switchblade in his pocket if he needed it. Tee usually sported stained wife-beaters and worn work boots that probably needed to be replaced.
The brains of the group was Zix. He was also five foot ten, a little rounder than the others, and he was a little thin up top. Not to a horrendous extreme, but you could definitely tell why he wore his dark, greasy hair in a side part. His eyes were dark as well. Zix was the leader of his comrades, telling each person what to do in any given situation. He was also the oldest. He had a five o'clock shadow and wore a nice suit that was literally killer— Zix had made a little more than a few kick the bucket when instructed to. The man was lethal, so it was best not to be on his bad side— especially for Sam. Being Mr. Brainy, Zix could usually come up with a solid alibi should he or the boys ever get into some legal trouble. He could also crack a joke or two, which really made being threatened sound a lot less menacing on the surface than what lied beneath.
The ditz of the trio was Travoltron, but he could talk a big game and was pretty good at smuggling things in for the Dallas crime family— money, weapons, etcetera. He could sweet-talk himself out of any situation, especially when there were ladies around to swoon over him. He was by far the best looking, but it didn't take away from the fact that he was a complete airhead. He had a strong jawline and a dimple in his chin. His eyes were a bright baby blue that were colder than ice. Travoltron’s hair was also slicked back in a pompadour. He was the youngest and stood at six foot two. Another thing about Travoltron is that he was the only Italian one of the group— the others were African-American and Russian-Jewish-American. He was the type for women to notice immediately, which made him an easier target to be found out about. He had to blend in somehow, but he wasn’t about to obstruct his beautifully sculpted face. He had a cigarette in his mouth, but since when didn’t the guy puff a couple tobacco sticks? Travoltron could probably have been a lounge singer for Sam, but he thought the life of crime would pay better. His brows were by far the cleanest. The same thing couldn’t exactly be said for his choice in outfits. He wore a black leather jacket, a tattered pair of jeans, and an old, stained white wifebeater like Tee.
Zix, Travoltron, and Tee all worked for the Dallas organized crime family. Their boss at the moment was Finbarr Calamitous, a notorious gangster that... well, couldn't finish anything. He was an evil mastermind that could track you down like a bloodhound sniffing out reefer and cocaine. Vito Genovese had called in a personal favor that Finbarr “take care of” Sam. That was not the way things went. Like said before, Finbarr couldn't finish anything.
They each stood there, menacingly. Someone was going to get a one-way ticket to pain if they didn’t comply, and it certainly wasn’t going to be either of the three standing outside of Sam’s office. They came to the Candy Bar at random, but it was usually once a month.
Sam exhaled sharply and balled a fist. “What do you want, yeah?”
“You don't look so happy to see old friends, Sam,” Zix started, raising a brow. Tee and Travoltron nodded to each other. “We just want a little compensation for what we've done for you.”
Sam shook his head. “You'se no-good varmints, that's that you are, yeah! And you aren't gonna get a dime from me,” Sam replied, crossing his arms.
Welp, the jig was up. He’d probably have to tell his employees— particularly the ever observant James Isaac Neutron— why the not-so-underground mobsters kept visiting him during work hours. Geez, and read out his will while you’re at it. The fella would rather die, but he might have to fess up why he moved to Retroville in the first place. Winni already knew, but that was because they had no secrets from one another— not even Fowl’s affair with Thomas Edison way back in 1924.
Naughty woman.
You see, what Sam failed to mention to most people in Retroville was that he moved from the Bronx to Retroville to escape his mafia ties. He tried to flee with Tessie, but she ended up ratting him out. Reaching out to their affiliates, the Genovese family got in touch with their good pal— the Civello family. The Civello family wouldn't be stopped. One man against thousands? Ha! That’s just begging for a death sentence.
Zix, Travoltron, and Tee, being part of the Civello family, knew all about Sam Melvick, but as long as Sam paid them some cold, hard cash, they would keep his presence in Retroville a dirty little secret. They were bad guys, yes, but they weren't necessarily evil. They were more anti-villains, if anything. They weren’t exactly going out of their way to make it easy for Sam to escape his life as a caporegime, but they did have a little sympathy. Storm clouds always had their silver lining, even if it was very, very transparent. Sam had a life with Tessie and a successful life— Tessie was infertile and Sam was content not to have children, especially in his line of work. A rather large epiphany came to Sam one day, and he couldn’t see the Genovese family the same way ever again, so he begged Tessie to come with him and flee the Bronx. He and Tessie were never married, but they were pretty damn close to it. Sam thought it would be a good idea to get married, but Tessie claimed that she was a wild spirit that couldn’t— wouldn’t— have her wings clipped. The floozy didn’t want to be tied down. Needless to say, marriage was certainly out of the question. Hank McSpanky was essentially the underboss of the Retroville syndicate with Zix being the consigliere, Tee being the caporegime, and Travoltron in the soldier position. While they were all soldiers, they had a little system going on for themselves. It gave everyone something to do and a role to fulfill around their area of expertise— making good food.
All they were after was a little money to keep McSpanky's House of Steak going. McSpanky's wouldn't interfere with the Candy Bar, and the Candy Bar wouldn't interfere with McSpanky's. It was a good deal that Sam could live with. What other choice did the guy have? It was either that or somebody call the priest because there was a dead man walking.
“Zix, I think he wants a little trouble,” Tee mumbled in a sinister tone, slipping on his brass knuckles. The guy was itching for a new punching bag to break in.
“Can it, Tee,” Zix hushed, holding up a hand to signal to the big lug that he should shut his big yapper before he said something that could get them into some issues.
“What is it ya want, Zix?” Sam grunted, waiting to hear the inevitable “Pay up or we rat you out like we should’ve years ago.” He sighed and braced himself to hear the worst. What would it be next? His bank account? His friends? His loyal employees? They wouldn’t dare, but it was always a possibility.
“Well, Sam, ol’ pal, it seems we’re running down on our cash, and we figured you could help a fella out,” Zix shrugged, giving a suggestive nod towards the oldster. “It’d be a shame if something were to happen to your bar, your employees, or Winifred,” the round man threatened with a malicious smile on his mouth.
Sam couldn’t let any of those happen. “How much?”
It was bound to be a big number.
“$4500 by next Friday,” Zix dictated, glaring a cold icy stare into Sam’s blue eyes. “If you’re a day late, consider that Fowl a poached egg, got it?”
Same clutched the aged bronze door handle to resist the rage that boiled deep in his veins. He forced a smile to his face and nodded. “Consider it done.”
Zix smirked an evil one and held out a hand for Sam to begrudgingly shake. “Pleasure doing business.”
“You’re gonna run my business into the ground with these little ‘monthly stipends’, yeah,” Sam grumbled, scoffing at the three men before him. He knew getting into the mafia would end badly, but he could live with being mercilessly threatened— well, maybe not mercilessly threatened— once a month. Sam knew that without the so-called help of those three awful, morally-grey men, he’d probably be getting pretty comfortable in a coffin— six feet underground.
While they weren’t the best company around the Candy Bar, it was better than being dead. It would take more than a few threats to put Sam’s flame out. He couldn’t ever retire, but that was what happened when you had to lose out on a couple grand every month. That was more than some people made in a year. Thankfully, Sam was pretty well off when it came to his finances(Mafia money was pretty good), but $4500 was still a lot of dough.
“Ay, Zix, I think he’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’,” Travoltron uttered, patting Tee on the back. “His chills are most definitely multiplying.”
Tee ran a hand over his shiny brass knuckles and gave a knowing look to Sam that said, “You’re going down.”
Zix glared at the two of them. “Wait on that one, Tee. Sam needs a little time to cough up four and a half grand he owes us before you get the go-ahead.”
“How kind,” Sam murmured sarcastically, folding his arms across his chest.
“You’re damn right, it’s kind,” Zix snarled, taking a step closer to Sam. He pointed an angry thumb at himself and then an accusatory index finger at the old man, tapping Sam’s sternum in an aggressive manner. His tone was colder than a winter in Siberia. “We’ve been covering for your ass for over ten years now. We didn’t have to, but we did. You could be dead by now; you should be thanking us for our patronage. Would you like us to inform ol’ Vito Genovese about your whereabouts and that you’ve been right under our noses the entire time? Is that really what you want, huh, Sam?”
Sam shook his head.
Zix continued. “That could get us killed, too— this has been going on for too long to back out,” the man explained, narrowing his frozen eyes and leaning on the doorway. “And by the way, losing you means losing money for all of us. We’d be out by thousands and our restaurant would be in shambles. We’d probably get put in the slammer and you’d be dead. Doesn’t sound very profitable to me, now, does it? Makin’ sure you don’t get lynched ain’t cheap.”
“No, yeah,” answered the old man quietly.
“Glad we’re in agreement. Now, are you gonna quit complaining and get the money or are you gonna be a dead man?” Zix asked, balling a fist.
“I can get you the money by next Friday,” Sam quietly answered. That was the only safe option the cat had.
“I’ll hold you to it,” Zix responded. He pushed off the doorway, but stopped after a split second to add another quip for Sam to know. “And don’t think you can get away with it being late this time. Come along, boys,” he scoffed, waving Travoltron and Tee to follow him.
Sam watched Zix, Travoltron, and Tee leave and he sighed to himself before flipping the “Do Not Disturb” sign that he had on the front of his door, closing the door to his office, and sinking down in his seat. Well, he had temporarily put off his inevitable death, but for how much longer could he keep up the money before he ran out? The gang must have been getting desperate for money— the price of their “protection” had gone up by $500 each month for four months now. They’d started upping it in late August— it was early December now. He wasn’t sure what to do, but it was clear that a working business relationship with Zix, Tee, and Travoltron was set in stone.
Ah, romance. Such a wonderful thing to experience, right? Well, James was pretty damn close to that. Or so he thought. As it turns out, Betty wasn't very sweet on him. Pity the poor, blind fool. Hell, she seemed more interested in Bolbi than in himself. But still, like the ever persistent boy he was, Jimmy was trying to lie to himself that Betty was just having a little trouble warming up to him. Every interaction, at least on her side, made it seem that James was more of a brother figure to her than anything else.
Jimmy wasn't taking it so well. It felt like another one of his inventions had failed, but this time, it wasn't an invention. It was human interaction. The very thing his body was built to do, and the fool couldn't do it. Betty had been there for about a month and a half by now, and she didn't exactly ignore him, but she didn't feed into his obvious affection for her. James tried to keep it a secret, but much like his experiments, that turned out to be a total failure.
Still, he was determined to try and win her over, even if it meant sacrificing his dignity. Using the newly-developed Hypno Ray wouldn’t be a very good idea. It could break, malfunction, and, in James’s opinion, it was just downright inhumane to use experiments to get what he wanted. Jamesy wanted to do it the old-fashioned way— woo the woman himself, without the need of whatchamacallits, kajiggers, inators, doo-dads, knick-knacks, fingle-fangles, etcetera.
Jim was making the usual fool of himself around Betty, who had hit the red leather barstools to use her employee discount on wine. James, ever the alcoholic, also ordered a glass of Purple Flurp.
Carl wasn't there. He was out at a petting zoo with Elke. Nobody understood what made Elke have such horrid taste in men, nor how Carl could pull such a wonderful looking lady. Life certainly had its mysteries, didn't it?
Sheen nodded and poured them all a glass of wine, humming an idiotic tune to himself as he did so. The dunce didn't have a care in the world. Jimmy envied him.
Nick was also at the bar, jotting down some more lyrics to his song. Jimmy eyed the title and shot him a glare that Nick didn't catch. What did that fat cat have that Jim didn't? Fame? Fortune? Better looks? Blackened lungs from smoking a pack every day? A limp? Who wants Ol' Charcoal Lungs as a husband?
As one could probably tell, James’s giant ego was deflating like a bouncy house with a small hole in it. Soon enough, there would be a shell of the man he once was.
Betty took a sip of her Flurp.
James also took a sip and decided to start a rather awkward conversation. “Nice weather today, huh?”
Wonderful line there, Jimbo.
“If you call fifty degrees good weather,” she dryly answered, nursing her wine like it was going out of style. So much for savoring your food, eh?
“Well, it's not so bad, Betty,” Jimmy started.
“How so?”
“Well, we could be like the Midwest states and have three feet of snow. Those small-minded people don't know that they could have some good weather if they just moved a little more to the south.”
“I'm from Illinois,” Betty grumbled, giving him a sideways glance.
Jimmy's face dropped and he adjusted his neckline, gulping down his true feelings. Apparently, that didn't get a laugh out of her. “Oh... Sorry, Betty. I didn't know—”
“Did you say Illinois?” Nick chimed in, throwing a dirty smirk at Neutron.
“Yeah. Born and raised,” she nodded, turning to face Nick Dean.
“Chicago area?” Nick asked.
“No, I'm from Springfield.”
“Springfield’s a nice area. Your parents from there?” Nick inquired, cocking his head slightly. Damn body language.
“Oh, my dad is. My mama’s from China,” Betty nodded, straightening out the wrinkles in her pink uniform.
“Awh, that's real sweet, Betty,” Nick smiled, snaking an arm across the table over to her hand. No contact had been made yet, but it was clear what its intentions were: holding hers. “And how long have they been together?”
“Thirty years,” Betty replied with a grin. She brushed some of her almost-black brown hair away from her face and inched her hand closer until hers was on top of one of his filthy woman-stealing mitts.
Prolonged eye contact.
Sappy smiles.
Something had clicked behind Jim’s back.
Jimmy clenched his teeth. Jealousy burned deep within him like gasoline to an engine. He wanted to berate him, but it would do no good— it wasn't a very smart thing to get after someone for trying to get something that wasn't even yours in the first place. Or someone that wasn't yours in the first place, either. Nick smirked back and shrugged. It was a game of catch and Jimmy had just been thrown a curveball. The ball was out of his reach now. He was doomed to be a third wheel on the wonderful bicycle of romance.
Seeing what was to come next, Jimmy got out of there before he made everything worse for himself. He couldn't bear his competition; it seemed he had lost the game even before it started. Such a pity. He stormed to the break room and slammed the door. Cindy was in there reading a book— Little Women, to be precise. Her blonde hair was done up in pin curls. They were phasing out, but why not go out with a bang? Old Hollywood gals always wore big, fluffy curls. That same bullet of red lipstick from their big blow-up last month sat by a nail file. Her lids sported a dark wine color that made her green irises stick out like a sore thumb. That in combination with the crimson of her lipstick made her look beautiful. She was wearing an olive green frock that accentuated her build in a lovely way that even James had to give her the benefit of the doubt for it. She did, indeed, look radiant.
A stack of what looked like a long contract was pinned down by her elbow. The manilla folder that obviously held them was tossed aside by an empty bottle of Purple Flurp.
“Someone’s got their panties in a twist today,” she commented, not looking up from her book. Cynthia turned a page. She tore her eyes away from the book, dog-eared the page, closed it, and turned to face Neutron.
James winced as she folded the page. Such a disgrace to printed word and literature itself. That soured his mood just a hair more. He crossed his arms. “What's it to you?”
“You look upset.”
“And what if I am?” the man grumbled, taking a seat across from the woman that tormented his very existence.
“Then I get to say I told you so,” Cindy boldly proclaimed.
“You don't know what this is about.”
“I'll bet I do,” Vortex trilled.
“How much?”
“Is all your life savings a good enough bid to start at?” Vortex laughed, batting an eyelash as if she were innocent. Neutron glared at her. “I told you it wasn't a good idea to go for her, Neutron,” she sighed, re-applying her lipstick.
“Whatever,” Neutron scoffed, rolling his eyes around in his skull.
“There’s better women out there,” Vortex shrugged. “What do you see in her, anyway? There's other fish in the sea, you know.”
“Why do you care?”
“Who says I do?” Cindy snapped back. “You're just asking for some heartache, so you might as well listen up. Go for someone in your league. You'll find someone eventually— and it sure as hell won't be Quinlan. Just be yourself and a nice girl will come along.”
“Piss off. And what are those for?” Neutron gestured to the papers that her elbow was practically smothering.
Vortex's demeanor did a one-eighty degree turn. A dirty grin replaced the sarcastic look on her face. She swept up the legal documents in her polished hands and straightened them out, clacking them on the top of the wooden table. “Our truce, remember?”
“Please say you're kidding,” Jimmy grumbled, standing up from his seat. He facepalmed and swore under his breath.
“Easy, tiger. If you can withstand watching Mr. Singy-song and Betty be disgusting with each other, you can handle a silly little contract,” Vortex stated with a raised brow. “Sit down.”
Neutron rolled his eyes and settled back down in his creaky chair. It squeaked as he shifted into it. He facepalmed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. He drew in a quick breath and let out a sigh sharp enough to draw blood. “This isn't what I meant by suggesting we start over, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Cindy replied with a smirk. She waved his half of the contact in front of his face and then threw them down with a slam in front of the poor dork. “And what better idea to make sure we don't cross a line,” she gave him a glare, “than signing a contract with each other? You know, to really tie things together?”
“I'm not signing it, Cindy,” Jimmy blurted.
“Sure you aren't,” Vortex smiled. “And then when I put in my two weeks’ notice, you'll be to blame!” She gave him a seemingly innocent smile and nodded as if she wasn't trying to blackmail him into signing a contract that would no doubt serve his dignity up on a silver platter— and there'd be evidence, too. Horrible, horrible, demeaning evidence.
Jimmy shuddered to think what would happen if those papers got into the wrong hands, Cindy excluded from that bunch. Her hands were already the wrong grubby mitts to be holding onto the damn contract. It was humiliation on paper; a public declaration of his weakness to blackmail. That was the worst sin of all.
“You wouldn't be so petty to quit your job over a contract,” Jimmy excused.
“Wanna bet?” she threatened with a naughty look on her mug, standing up from her seat.
The man groaned. “Fine. You got a pen?”
“Of course, Mr. Neutron. Glad we're in business, Neutron,” Cindy grinned. She held out a hand to shake.
He refused it. Instead of a formal agreement, all that escaped the guy was, “I can't believe I'm doing this.” Jimmy shook his head and sighed with the sassiness of a thousand Miss Libbies. “And what exactly are the terms to this agreement?”
“Oh, nothing much, Neutron; just a few things that could improve our professional relationship, that's all,” Cindy innocently responded.
He snatched his papers and skimmed through the first page.
It read:
The Vortex-Neutron Pact
December 7th, 1965
I, James Isaac Neutron, solemnly swear not to violate the following:
- Insult Cynthia Aurora Vortex
- Tell her off about her family
- Be a doofus
- Insult Liberty Danielle Folfax
- Brag about my inventions— humble bragging is also off the table
- Destroy public property
- Flirt with Betty Quinlan
- Speak of subjects I know nothing about
- Pretend I'm snazzy
- Spend time gabbing on about things nobody understands, nor would they give a flying [redacted] to try to
Signature:
X________________________________
I, James Isaac Neutron, hereby admit to the following:
I am (a/an)...
- Dork
- Snake
- Self-absorbed suburban kid
- College dropout
- Broke
- Extreme moron
- Left-brained know-it-all
Signature:
X_______________________________
By signing my signature, I, James Isaac Neutron, shall be permitted by law to follow rules, such as:
- Giving most, if not all, of my on-stage time at the Candy Bar to my peer or colleague, Cynthia Aurora Vortex.
- Calling Cynthia Aurora Vortex the preferred name of “Miss Majesty Herself, the Beautiful Gorgeous Cynthia Aurora Vortex”
- Admitting that I, James Isaac Neutron, am only skilled at left-brain activities, such as math, science, and engineering, and that Cynthia Aurora Vortex is skilled in the arts, including, but not limited to: t'ai chi, painting, vocal music, music in general, and English lessons.
- Taking Cynthia Aurora Vortex out to dinner when she pleases
I, Jamea Isaac Neutron, am officially the colleague/peer of Cynthia Aurora Vortex.
Signature:
X_____________________________
Jimmy slammed the papers down. “Uh-uh. No way, no how, missy. I'm not calling you ‘Miss Majesty Herself, the Beautiful Gorgeous Cynthia Aurora Vortex.’”
“Oh, but it has such a good ring to it,” she sarcastically complained. “Couldn't hurt you to say it again now that you've already said it once.”
He scoffed at her. Neutron held up the contract as if he was about to tear the poor thing in half. They both knew he was too much of a wingnut to actually go through with it. Doofus. “No.”
“Ah, come on. It really rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?”
“No.”
“Libs got away with it,” Cindy excused, shrugging her shoulders.
“One key difference there, Cindy,” Jimmy retorted.
“And what's that?”
“People actually respect her,” Jimbo smirked.
She shot him an offended face, but they both knew that one was true. “That was uncalled for.”
“Your face is uncalled for.”
“Not as bad as your hairdo,” the woman snickered. “Pompadours are phasing out, Elvis. Now can we sign the contract?”
“Oh, says Miss Pin Curls?” he shot back, arms crossed.
Cindy rolled her eyes. “Mmm, real mature, Neutron. I can be Miss Pin Curls, but not Miss Majesty Herself, The Beautiful Gorgeous Cindy Aurora Vortex?”
“Right on,” he replied with a dirty grin.
“Sign the damn contract,” she growled.
“I'd need a pen first, dearest Cynthia,” the genius inquired, innocently batting his eyelashes at her.
“Say that again and I'll shove a pen down your throat,” the snake hissed.
“Deal.”
Cindy reached into her purse and got him a standard ballpoint pen to write with.
He took it and their hands accidently brushed together. The two locked eyes and immediately aborted their mission when it came down to that. Yuck. Awkward much?
They were silent for a moment. Awkwardness was a new thing for him and Vortex, and it was rearing its ugly head and bucking, trying desperately to get them off the saddle. Life wasn't always a rodeo, not even in Texas.
“How long did it take for you to get all of this written down?” Jimmy asked. “Who helped you with it?”
“My dad’s an attorney, so not too long. It's all perfectly legal,” Cindy snickered.
“Besides the blackmail,” he grumbled.
“Besides the blackmail,” Cindy happily repeated, a satisfied grin on her gorgeous face.
After reading through the terms and conditions, Jimmy begrudgingly signed the contract with his loopy, loopy, loopy signature. His dignity was already down the gutter anyway.