The Jolly Roger

Cat And Mouse

It had been almost two weeks since Warrick Roberts had attended the luncheon Mister Kingsley had invited him to; he hadn't slept more than a handful of hours in that amount of time.

It had been a simple meal of bread, cheese, poached fish, and bussel sprouts. It had been well made and quite delicious, but Warrick had only picked at it, too nervous to really indulge his taste buds; which had also been quite nervous.

Casey Kingsley had eaten well though, he wasn't nervous at all. What cat is ever nervous in the presence of a mouse?

"Sorry to hear about your dad." Casey had said right off, his mismatched eyes meeting Warrick's own in a strange way, almost intimate, and Warrick was forced to lower his own violet orbs to the tablecloth in order to break away from the unwanted contact. 

"Thanks," Warrick said. "And thanks for inviting me to lunch here, but...um...Well, my father dying isn't why you invited me here. Is it?"

Casey had told him that he enjoyed his straight forward approach to the situation and then preceded to tell him he actually had called him there about his father or, rather, his father's large sum of debt.

" Two thousand pounds?!?" Warrick could scarcely believe it, but the proof was in the pudding or, in this case, Catseye Casey's vest pocket. Betting slips, receipts, loan applications; all signed in his father's tiny lettered handwriting. So there it was, the proof, and the debt?

It was Warrick's debt now.

He had left the pub with the promise of having the money in a fortnight. If he didn't have it, Casey said he would gladly accept Warrick as an employee; a most unsavory business, of course.

So Warrick had taking every case he could get his hands on at the detective agency. And he hadn't even breached five-hundred pounds yet.

He laughed miserably at the thought as he threw back another shot of whiskey. The barkeep shot him a look of pity, but said nothing. He figured Warrick was probably still torn up about his father; and he was, just not the way he use to be.

He had laid awake at night ( when he wasn't poking around the docks looking for some old lady's lost dog or handbag.) thinking about how if his father were alive, he'd probably just kill him again for getting tied up with the likes of Catseye Casey.

When he did sleep it was fitful. And Casey's eyes seemed to watch him in every dream; one a dull brown and the other a brilliant green, a razor thin, black pupil slicing through its center.

He'd wake up sweat drenched, night clothes clinging to his lean frame. He was afraid of Casey, as anyone in Portsmouth would be; but he was afraid to be one of Casey Creeps even more. That's what they called them around the town: Creeps. Never to their faces; no one disrespected a Creep in such a way. Not unless they had a death wish.

Creeps were violent and petty. The rumors were everywhere, some unbelievable, some so sadly true. Warrick glanced at the serving wench as he thought about it. A pretty girl once.

Rumor had it that she wasn't pretty anymore because she'd rebuffed a Creep and his advances and he had cut out her left eye for it, crossed her nose with a horizontal gash, and signed his name on her pale back with his switchblade knife, something every Creep carried.

Warrick knew enough to know the rumor was true, the girl had been Veronica's best friend since they could walk. Warrick had been the one to save Loren the night of her ruination. He had been seventeen then, four years ago.

She hadn't look him in the eye since. Which is just fine, Warrick thought. She does it 'cause she's ashamed. But if he were a Creep she'd do it out of disgust and fear, and so would everyone else.