‘I needed more. This isn’t an easy decision to make.’
Misu took to looking down the cue once more, drawing it back a few times. ‘Because you’re fretting about it.’
Franco looked up, almost scorned by her bluntness. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course I would. But it seems like time is now against us. Make your choice.’ Misu took her shot. The ball gently traversed into the pocket. The next ball was enclosed by another, a spherical barricade between the cue and its intended home.
‘Like I said, I need more time. I can’t rush this.’ Franco eyed up the intended shot’s trajectory. ‘You can’t make that by the way.’
Misu decided not to pay attention to such a remark. She firmly chipped the cue ball, watched it bounce off a cushion, and strike all three of the balls. The number ten ball spun over and over and fell over the lip of the corner pocket.
‘There you go being all wrong again!’ Misu exclaimed, straightening herself. ‘Now we’ve established your wrongness this also means that you could, theoretically, decide what to do next. So what, pray tell, is the verdict?’
‘I can make my own decisions thank you very much.’
‘Evidently you can’t, like how you decided to get dragged away and beaten to a pulp by a man who quite happily would have chopped you to pieces should the need take him. Also how you’ve decided to leave everyone under this roof wondering as to their fate while you have your little moment. Let’s not forget that gem.’
‘That’s not fair.’
Misu tossed the cue down upon the table. ‘No, it’s not, but here we are. If we pull away, the show will be hounded by rumours of the bad kind. If you confront it, what’s really the worst that will happen? It’s time to decide what you want to do with the Morning Star, Franco. You’ve had plenty of time to think on it, three weeks in fact of nothing but your procrastination. If you want to walk away, fine. If you want to scrap the whole thing, then you do that. But make a decision quickly because the others are getting impatient.’
She glared in frustration.
* * *
‘And what about you?’ he asked, wondering just where her allegiance lay.
‘I do what I’ve always done. I’m just waiting for a sign so I know where the wind will blow me next.’
Franco turned his head aside, wounded by the words. ‘Right.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to say! Whenever we speak you’re staring off in the distance. It’s like you’re not even in there. We all put our lives on the line to get you back safely and need I remind you that you’ve not even said a single thank you?’
‘Thank you!’ Franco threw his hands in the air.
‘I’m not supposed to prompt you for that! I ran things when you were gone, remember? Hell, I even turned a good profit for us which I would think was worth a little acknowledgement.’
‘You caused a literal mutiny!’ he retorted.
‘Oh you are so not being fair. I did what I had to do! I did it all, made every bad decision, to drag your sorry ass back home and sure, I caused problems but it worked didn’t it? I said I was going to talk to Corinne and fix things didn’t I?’ Misu was on the offensive now, red-faced and defending her actions.
‘Elizabeth?’
‘Her too! Again, thank you, Misu!’ she called patronizingly.
‘I said thank you, thank you, a million times thank you!’
‘Have you even asked me if I’m okay? Have you even done that?’ Misu roared.
‘Are you?’ Franco shouted back.
‘No I’m bloody not! I’m the furthest thing from it! I’m in pieces but here I am weathering the brunt of your pissy attitude, doing what I need to. Maybe when I finally rest I’ll be able to cry or something but that’s not now, is it? That’s way down the line because you and I have still got something to sort!’
Franco wanted to retaliate but was instead knocked back by her frankness. The words simply wouldn’t come. His lips trembled.
Misu placed her hands on the billiard table and scrunched her eyes to a close. ‘You’re dragging your feet. Everyone out there is waiting to see what you decide. Do I want all this to end? No, not in the slightest! Do I want to be parted from the only family I’ve ever known? Of course not! But I can’t live on what-ifs while you’re getting your act together. Franco, please, can we just …’ she hesitated over what to say next ‘… make a decision once and for all?’
‘It’s not about a decision, dammit. I don’t know if I can fulfil what’s required of me!’ Franco suddenly outpoured, jabbing at his chest. ‘You all relied on me to protect you. I was supposed to be able to do that! Run the show! Be the master of ceremony! Be all of the things that we require to keep things ticking over and this past month has proven one thing – that I can’t protect myself let alone those who matter the most. The Morning Star is just too big for me to handle.’
* * *
Franco withdrew momentarily, trying to hold back the torrent of emotion behind a stern, defiant gaze, but Misu was having none of it. She slowly paced herself forward and placed a hand against a cheek, fixing his messy hair with the other. His shouting had made him flustered, wild-eyed, something Misu was too familiar with. She recognized a break when she saw one. She could identify a cry for help.
‘It’s just too big to do it alone,’ he mumbled.
Misu flickered a pained smile, the pair of them verging on tears.
‘Franco. Listen to me. You are at your best when shunned, when tested by that which is outside of your control. It inspires you to be stronger. To fight harder. To stand tall. That, in turn inspires us all. You are the risk taker, the chance maker, who endured everything the world saw fit to bury you under. You’ve done good by clawing free from that. So the next time you feel like you should fold, or are told to scale back your bet, remember fortune doesn’t favour the bold, Franco.’ Her lips trembled with the words, her brows narrowing as she pleaded with him to understand every single word that she spoke. ‘It favours you.’
Misu clung to the man, an explosion of passion erupting between them. Their hands roved over each other’s bodies, catching the gasps in one another’s mouths between grunts and moans and whispers of relief. She held on to his hair, desperate for him not to stop, unable to say what she felt or thought, instead letting her hungry kisses communicate it instead.
Franco fell backwards onto the billiard table, Misu clinging to him like a predatory animal, sending the balls scattering. Nails sank into his jacket, pulling at the shirt buttons beneath and exposing his chest, still pitted with purple bruises. She tasted him repeatedly as if something unseen was going to rip them apart once more. She didn’t know what feeling this was. It wasn’t love, or at least she didn’t think it was, not that she knew exactly what love entailed. All she knew was that there and then, entwined with him as she was, things were simple and right.
And that was good enough for now.
‘We’ll have our show,’ Franco whispered, his hot breath sending shockwaves over her skin. His lips traced down her neck, nuzzling into the nape. Misu’s eyes flickered as she arched her head back in ecstasy, managing a whimper of words.
It was the right answer.
* * *
With the word out, the press flocked at the train’s arrival though Franco himself was never seen. His recovery was kept concealed behind the curtained windows, flashing camera bulbs popping in vain for a good shot of the shadow inside. When they became too rambunctious, the employed security stepped in for some much-needed muscle.
Jacques ensured that the train was entirely off limits for snoopers. For Jacques, it felt good to get back into the routine, to have purpose once again and although the drink plagued him, its grip was soon relinquished. All it took was the support of those around him and even in such a short space of time, he felt its control over him wane. Ferry wasn’t too sure he was up to the job but the pair gave one another a wide berth out of professional courtesy.
Misu refused to ans
wer any questions put to her. She hid behind her shaded glasses and hat when venturing out for provisions, a task that was frequently invaded with reporters. Thankfully nobody had been wise to the fact she was the other half of the duo believed killed in the destruction of the Gambler’s Den. Her refusal to talk on the matter directly led to wild speculation. The newspapers filled in the gaps by interviewing the few Bluecoats who came forward, though they still vied for the absolute truth. Speculation, imagination, and outright lies only sold papers for so long.
Finally, when the announcements were put up around the city, under the cover of night to prevent interruption, the buzz created was beyond measure.
The advertisements were light on details, though confirmed the Morning Star would be hosting a show. Simple posters stated the time and the place, causing many to converge on the grand central station. Such a commotion had to be controlled, so tickets were issued just to enter the train station in the vain hope of controlling the crowds. Gossip was rife and that night, answers were finally given.
* * *
‘Look at you – what’s this? I shouldn’t have trusted you to dress yourself with one working arm.’ Misu began to straighten Franco’s shirt collar and flatten down his cravat. She gently manoeuvred around his sling, checking its support on the still-fragile arm. It was brilliantly stylish, sewn by her own hand to match his blue suit. In doing so she paid him a smile that he reciprocated.
‘Nervous?’ she asked, adjusting a metal pin of a stag’s head that was threaded through a lapel buttonhole. She patted it when done.
Franco hesitated. It was only momentarily, but enough of him to brush aside his bluster and confess. ‘Yeah. This time. I’m not sure why.’
He bowed his head and took a wavering breath.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Katerina stated, leaning herself against the side carriage doors. She peered once again through the curtains to the patient punters who had gathered en masse. ‘You always are. Always have been. Nerves do not become you. We would all agree to that. Am I right, ladies?’
There was a riotous cheer from the showgirls that flooded the carriage, some stood on seats when floor space was taken. Beaming faces of warmth formed walls of good cheer for their returning manager.
Elizabeth wiped her eyes, submitting to her emotions momentarily before regaining her composure. Colette her gave a sharp dig to the ribs to encourage this and if she was to admit anything in this moment, it would be that she was relieved that they had all made it through this escapade unscathed. A miracle, she considered it.
‘Mister Franco, sir?’ Elizabeth stepped forward, wiping her wet palms down the sides of her saloon dress, almost catching her fingers on the wealth of black lace.
She reached a gloved hand towards him. ‘I just wanted to say – welcome back to the Morning Star.’
Franco took stock of the collective look of surprise around him and whilst he was yet to be introduced to this woman, he very much appreciated the sentiment. He took the offered hand and shook it with his own.
‘Thank you,’ he said, glancing to Misu who shrugged in agreement. Elizabeth stepped back into line.
‘You’ve been hiring without me? I don’t remember giving you the green light for that,’ Franco put to Misu.
‘Well we needed to fill the gaps and you weren’t around. I couldn’t very well leave jobs unattended now, could I?’
‘This isn’t right,’ someone coldly delivered at the back of the carriage. The bodies parted in trepidation, revealing Corinne who leant lazily against a seat back.
‘Excuse me?’ Misu asked.
Corinne approached the pair, taking her time in assessing them both. She spied Misu first, the look upon her face as more confusion than disgust, then Franco, whose face resembled something that would be found on a butcher’s slab, seemed equally puzzled.
‘I said this isn’t right, not by a long shot.’
She reached beside her, retrieving Franco’s show mask from a collection of paraphernalia that had been organized on a table nearby and offered her service. Franco turned, allowing the mask to be placed and fastened up. The decorated depiction of a stag covered the upper half of his head, with two symmetrical antlers protruding, coated in silver leaf that matched the swirly accents and deep black gloss. Corinne stepped back and smiled.
‘There. That’s better. Now you’re ready, boss.’ The women behind her murmured in agreement.
Franco chuckled warmly before a call at the far end of the carriage beckoned his attention. Jacques stepped inside, dropping his toolbox and tossing a pair of leather gloves atop it with an obscene clatter. The noise from the outside crowd silenced as the door behind him was shut.
‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’
‘Not at all, Jacques.’
‘The rig’s all set up now, boss. The lights are ready to go. When do you want to do this? Seems to be quite the crowd outside. I wouldn’t keep them waiting.’
‘No time like the present I’m supposing. Would you be so kind as to do the honours?’
With a punch to the master switch on the wall, the Morning Star exploded in light and brought relentless cheers from its spectators who thrived on the anticipation.
‘Let’s get back to business shall we?’
It was a grand idea.
* * *
That night, Franco Del Monaire took to the carriages of the train, his train, in his first show since his kidnapping. The walk was one of triumph, with every step over the carriage rooftop like reuniting with an old friend. Fireworks took to the black sky and once again, spotlights erupted around him. His show outfit had to be modified to account for his injuries, naturally, but the mask atop his face fitted perfectly as if it had never been abandoned in his absence.
The turnout was grand, much larger than any other show they had undertaken when the revelation broke that the owner of the Gambler’s Den might actually still be alive. Many were sceptical of course and the papers’ stories were seen as offal to flog their rags on a slow news day. Still, the curiosity remained and those attending awaited a solid answer. On his appearance the Stag was showered with applause. He accepted it, bowing in each direction as much as his back would allow. Finally he addressed those who congregated to catch a glimpse of him.
‘It’s good to be back!’ Franco said. The audience erupted into ovation and whistles until it casually subsided. ‘It is a blessing to be among you all once again, fine people, to be among supporters, well-wishers and, of course, friends.’
Franco’s alter ego spoke when he opened his mouth. It was the Stag who waved his arms and called for cheers, who worked the crowd into delight. The showman paraded as with a second identity to prove the fact that he was, technically, a deceased individual.
And the more he spoke, the more distracted he became. The voice, his voice, seemed distant and insincere. He slipped into a routine as if nothing had changed, that the show would continue on unaffected by what had happened. The words formed sentences and coaxed the applause but he abruptly stopped in the middle of a well-told tale that would usually climax in back-slapping and glass-raising.
The strangers outside of the mask watched as Franco’s words fell silent. The people were waiting just as much as he but for very different reasons.
‘Ladies and gentlemen …’ he mumbled, cleared his throat, and called much louder, ‘my people, a moment of your time, please. Now I must tell you that the Morning Star is quite the impressive beast. It has carried us to you and it has done the ones within it well. But what you see here, beneath me, is a phantom of something else. It is the result of a great tragedy that took place outside of this here city no more than twenty miles out!’
Already glasses were raised in silent respect, knowing full well the venture he referred to.
‘The Gambler’s Den – you all know it, you’ve all heard of it – met its end in fire and desperation. For the protection of those in current company you were never told the truth of its demise, nor the true tale of the one
s who died upon it.’
As he spoke, his fingers instinctively reached to the leather buckle at the back of his mask. The clasp was set free.
‘All in the Sand Sea have known me under the moniker that you see here and have done for quite a time now. But no more.’
The mask slipped away and clattered on the carriage rooftop.
A pair of rockets traced a trail into the sky, erupting into glitter at a crescendo. In the light, Franco took his gaze to the sea of faces before him. It was not the sight they imagined. Though finely dressed in his showman blues, his face was still deeply bruised. His left eye was still blackened and left arm in the decorated sling. There was a clear difficulty in walking, with something of a limp hampering his movements, but he managed to keep himself steady for pride if nothing else.
Naturally there was a heavy police presence along the platform but as Alex Juniper pointed out, himself in attendance, it was strictly for public safety and not sentiment.
‘You believed me to be dead and for my deception I apologize. My name is Franco Del Monaire. Once the proud owner of the Gambler’s Den, now your host of the Morning Star, who stands before you, humbled and bare for your judgement.’
People, Franco repeatedly iterated, don’t like to be fooled. They will happily accommodate illusion for the sake of mystery. They will be the subject of tomfoolery for amusement and even happily take it in their stride to gain a story for others. But what people do not tolerate, is bare-faced chicanery. Lies. Lying to folks was an easy way to get one lynched and run out of a town. He had been the subject of a funeral, where grief was outpoured and lives damaged due to his forever absence.
Whilst he expected jeers and missiles thrown in his direction, he received quite the opposite.
There was not a single person who wasn’t on their feet and giving a thunderous applause, followed by exclamations of love. Chants began; fists were waved in the air. The showgirls who manned the tables and served the drinks looked around quite puzzled as to how to accommodate this.
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