Union City Chronicles: Sex & Violence

It was a rainy Saturday night in Union City. Prodigy, head and sole employee of Prodigy Private Investigations Inc. sat at his overcrowded desk in his office monologuing. He reached into the lower right-hand drawer and pulled out a fifth of whiskey. As he poured himself a glass, the smell of hate and unkindness, like a mixture of bleach and ammonia, filled his nostrils and he turned away, disgusted. It'd been a long time since he had done any work with his comrades, hell, it been a long time since he had done any work at all. His eyes cast over the several folders on his desk: jobs that had come in that he had turned down, unable to get back on the streets. As he idly passed a hand over the folders, a picture of an attractive woman caught his eye. It wasn't attached to a stuffy manila envelope, the way the rest of the cases were, and it had only two words: Help Me. Below this was a phone number and the signature of someone in a hurry-- Madeleine. Prodigy quickly downed his glass of whiskey, strode to where his coat and hat hung on the wall, and quickly put them on. He opened his office door with a bang, revealing his assistant Gladys sitting at her desk.

“Gladys,” he said, “I'm going out.”

Gladys looked at him unfazed. “Do you want me to clear your desk while you are away?"

"No, don't touch it."

“Alright, Mister P, but you're going to have to let me clean it sooner or later."

“Not tonight Gladys,” Prodigy said as he marched out the door.

She called after him, “Do you want me to close your whiskey bottle?”

“...Yes.”

Meanwhile in a neat brownstone on the better side of town, the musical ingénue Adagio sat in her room practicing a new instrument, the fete. On the walls from floor to ceiling were tacked pages upon pages of sheet music. The room was a sanctuary for the girl, and she felt extremely peaceful despite the nasty weather picking up in intensity outside.

Elsewhere, a young man whom the rain forgot walked alone on the wet sidewalk. His name was Oblivion and he was in search of a warm meal. He passed by a feed store, glancing in the picture window as he passed. A young woman wearing alpaca ears stood in line at the checkout counter, her cart laden with alpaca feed.

The cashier, a disaffected man, looked at the mound of feed and then at the cheerful buyer. “Is, uh... is all this for someone else?”

“No,” she said brightly, “it's for my babies!"

The cashier sighed and shook his head, the words Man, fuck this town, on the tip of his tongue.

Over at Morden Labs, Lars was finishing up his work for the night. A fellow technician approached him. “Finishing up?”

“Oh yes, looking forward to going home finally."

“What are you working on?”

“Electronics, superconductors, you know, the usual. I'm nearly through with this series of tests and should have a copy of my report on Morden's desk around Wednesday."

"Say,” the technician, whose name was Daniel, said, “this isn't about the new PhD running around here is it? Have you seen him yet?"

“No,” Lars shook his head.

“He's some yellow haired guy, looks vaguely European. I don't know what he said but he seemed to really piss off Morden. Every time I try to work onL5 projects, he puts me back in my place. Guess some people are more equal than others. Whatever.”

Lars could only nod in agreement, hoping that Daniel would go away so he could finish up and go home.

On the other side of town, Beatrice Helms sat in her quiet corner office reviewing several requisition requests from the home office. She rubbed her tired eyes as her new second assistant Nebbins knocked gently at the door and entered. “Do you need any assistance this evening, marm?” he questioned politely. “Could I get you some tea?”

Beatrice offered him a smile, saying, “It's never ending, is it. I think I'm going to put all this down until Monday morning. You are free to leave, Nebbins, thank you.”

He offered her a salute, then turned on his heel, shutting the door behind him. Beatrice sat back in her chair, turning to look out the window at the rain splashing on the glass and the hurried lightning as it flickered from cloud to cloud.

As Prodigy made his way to the sidewalk, he happened upon a couple with two umbrellas. They offered him one and he took it. The file folder under his arm contained the single photograph of the girl called Madeleine. He knew he had to start with what information was there, so he found a sheltered alley, pulled out his phone and called the girl's number. Not surprisingly, it rang seven times and went to voicemail. A happy voice said, “Hey this is Madeleine's phone! If it's Saturday night you know where to find me! If not, leave a message." Prodigy left her a brief message with his phone number saying, “Please call me. I can help you.” The weather and the failure to make contact put in his mind to have a drink. He shot a text to Beatrice, Lars, and Kyra who all texted back the acceptance of his invitation to meet at a bar on 89th and Sheppard.

Adagio's mom opened the door, balancing a tray of food. She placed it on the bed, then touched Adagio's shoulder to get her attention, signing,

Do you want to eat here or downstairs?

Downstairs, Adagio replied.

''Your father and I are going to the performance this evening. Will you be all right here by yourself? Yes. We love you very much. By the way, there is a message on the phone from someone named Madeleine for you. She didn't say much, she did mention your friend Prodigy, and she left her phone number. I left it on the phone downstairs if you would like to play it for yourself.''

''Thank you, mom. I love you. Have a good time at the show.''

As soon as her mother had closed the door, Adagio texted Prodigy with this information, closing with I'm going to the coffee shop on 89th and Brewer.

Everyone else had met at the Russian owned and operated bar Руди, which everyone called Rudy's. After a general introduction among those who had not yet made acquaintance, Prodigy explained the Madeleine situation to his comrades. Almost as soon as he was finished speaking, a hand clapped onto Prodigy's shoulder from behind and Officer Gordon-Levitt was greeting him and Beatrice. “Lady Jack,” he nodded cordially. She smiled at him. “I couldn't help but overhear what you were just saying,” he said to Prodigy. “It sounds an awful lot like a prostitute who came in a little while ago trying to get some guy in trouble. It was pretty obvious that she was lying, there were a lot of holes in her story. She works down the Phuking Phantasy Lounge on 8th and Berry, takes requests if you know what I mean. We called the gentleman in question, but her accusations didn't stick."

At the coffee house, the manager approached Adagio with some nervousness. “We would be honored if you would play on our little stage," he said. “I'll bring you whatever drinks you need. It's an honor to have you here,” he repeated. Adagio obliged him, having brought along her fete. The manager brought her a chair and she sat on the little dais as Oblivion watched in the audience.

With Officer. Gordon-Levitt's information in hand, Prodigy, Kyra, and Lars immediately paid their tabs and went outside to get into Prodigy's car. Cursing the weather, Beatrice straddled her new motorbike, and they all made their way to the Phuking Phantasy Lounge. The lounge looked as one might expect, neon women on the sign in various states of undress, and a large bouncer blocking the doorway. As Prodigy approached him, the bouncer held up a hand. “You're not going in there,” he said. “Y'ain't dressed proper.”

Not in the mood for obstruction, Prodigy snarled up into the bouncer's face. “Get out of the way. I'm going in.” In response, the bouncer punched him. The last thing Prodigy saw before a white light and stars was the name GRIMACE. Beatrice shrugged deeper into her trench coat. Prodigy would get his way eventually, but this might take a while.

While the bouncer was distracted, Kyra stealthily moved through the roped off doors. Inside, she was met by Lars, who had teleported in. They were greeted by maître d' who asked them if they'd like to be seated. They agreed, and were given a table near the stage where 5 or 6 dancers were in the middle of a performance.

Somehow still conscious, Prodigy was able to speak with the bouncer in such a way that they ended on friendly terms. He and Beatrice were allowed to enter the PPL. Just as they crossed the threshold, Oblivion and Adagio arrived.

Once inside, Prodigy and Beatrice were reunited with Lars and Kyra. As the bouncer had returned to his book, Oblivion and Adagio had been able to walk right in. The maître d' rushed up to Adagio and welcomed her warmly. “It is such an honor to have you in our establishment,” he gushed. “Please let me know if there is anything I can get for you.” Oblivion saw the rest of the group at their table and pointed them out to the maître d' who seated them with great flourish and the assistance of several acrobatic Chippendale waiters who rearranged tables and chairs so that the entire group could sit comfortably, Adagio's back to the stage.

Prodigy began looking around for any dancer or waitress who might match the woman in the photograph. The music on the stage faded away as the girls exited and a neon sign reading WE'LL BE RIGHT BACK ;) flickered up onto the curtain.

Oblivion helpfully volunteered to check the backstage area and vanished. Now completely invisible, he found his way to the dressing rooms. Opening the door revealed many naked dancers. No one in here matched the photograph. Continuing down a narrow hallway, he came across the backstage area and greenroom. There was no one back here at all, but Oblivion did notice that there was a trap door in the floor. It did not look like it would be easy to open, so he relaxed and sank through the floor to see what might be down there. There was no light, so he pulled out his phone to use the flashlight. This only revealed a mattress. A brief search turned up nothing except a pair of handcuffs from underneath the mattress. Oblivion made his way back to the table with nothing to report, which disappointed Prodigy greatly, as he had been hoping for some pictures of the scantily clad occupants of the dressing rooms.

Just then a waiter came over to the group with the message that the owner, Mr. Zane, was waiting for them in his office. Everyone rose and followed him to a back area. Upon entering the office, a boxy man of medium height turned around and snapped at them, “What the hell do you want? Get the hell out of my office! Nah, I'm just fooling ya. You're Prodigy right? I'm Zane.”

Prodigy was only taken aback for a moment, and he shook the man's hand. “We are here about Madeleine,” he said. “What can you tell is about her?”

“Madeleine? She quit. Well, I ask her to resign. She was causing problems with some of the guests, there were allegations of abuse.”

“Was she dancing too close to them or something?”

“No, nothing like that. Look, some of the girls here have moonlight jobs if you know what I mean.” The blank look on Prodigy's face prompted Zane to explain, “They're prostitutes. But I'm not affiliated with any of that. I run an honest business here. Madeleine was a fantasy prostitute – she got involved with a regular customer, then started throwing accusations around. I couldn't have that so I ask her to leave."

“Who was the regular customer?”

“You know I can't give out that information.”

Prodigy leaned back in his chair. “I've worked with the UCPD for a long time. Say you give me this information, and then something comes up where I could put in a good word for you with them....”

"His name is Bill Jensen,” Zane said, eyes widening. He proceeded to describe Jensen's appearance.

“Thank you,” Prodigy nodded. “You've been helpful!”

The group walked back out into the darkened main room. “Well, what do you think?” Prodigy questioned the rest.

“We should speak with the maître d' and some of the regulars,” Beatrice translated for Adagio.

“That's why we keep you around, shorty,” Prodigy offered her a smile.

Lars and Kyra approached one of the men who seemed very comfortable in the establishment. “We're here on official business, trying to find out about Bill Jensen. Have you seen him lately?"

“Not in about 2 weeks,” the men sitting closest to them answered. “Hey Dave, have you seen Bill lately?”

“No, Dave, I haven't. It's been a while. Something about his wife, or his business, or his mistress, I don't know."

Prodigy and Beatrice approach the maître d', who told them that Madeleine was Bill's favorite. “She was quite a professional,” he said. “She took requests, handmade outfits, whatever the guys wanted she would give 'em. Bill was always very generous with his money, especially with her. The guy had it made. He lives in a penthouse in the Bronson Tower, I think.”

“Would you happen to have an address?” Beatrice asked.

“You know I can't provide that information. You're not the police.”

“Oh of course,” Beatrice shrugged. “But if, say, you happened to have the information on that terminal there and it just so happened to be open while we were passing by, then who's to say what information was put out there?”

“Umm...” The maître d' was reluctant.

"Zane will never know,” Beatrice assured him.

“This never happened,” the maître d' said, entering a few keystrokes on his computer terminal. “Now if you will pardon me, I must use the facilities.”

Prodigy and Beatrice leaned over the terminal. “It is the Bronson Tower,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Number 69.”

“Appropriate,” Beatrice rolled her eyes.

As the group walked toward the doors, a massive figure loomed outside the darkened glass. Prodigy's shoulder bumped into the form as he passed-- “Mr. Smith.”

“Prodigy! Can't say I expected to see you here. Taking in some of the culture?” the cannery operator spoke in his usual glossy, menacing tone.

“Here on business, actually,” Prodigy replied coolly. “Not that it's any of your concern.”

“We're looking into a Bill Jensen, d'you know him?” Lars joined the conversation.

Smith paused. “Can't say that I do.”

Prodigy could immediately tell Smith was lying, but couldn't figure out why. “I'm sure you don't,” he growled. “so if you'll excuse us.”

Those riding with Prodigy climbed into his car, while the two motorcyclists sped ahead. Prodigy managed to back his car out of the narrow space when one of Smith's bodyguards approached the car. Prodigy rolled down his window.

“... You actually have manual windows?” the bodyguard stared at him.

“It was cheaper and it's cooler,” Prodigy retorted.

“Ugh, whatever. Mr. Smith asked me to give you this.” He handed Prodigy a coupon for a can of Smith's Fresh Canned Fish.

The disgust on Prodigy's face was manifest and he threw the coupon back at the bodyguard. “Man, I fucking hate that guy,” he snarled, rolling the window back up and driving away into the wet darkness.

Adagio received a text message from her dad. ''Hey sweetheart, how's it going? Are you still out with your friends? Yeah. We're having fun. I'm just going to stay here tonight. Okay, we love you. Have a good night. Love you too, dad. ''

At the same time, Lars received a text from Mr. Morden.

''We have business to discuss tomorrow morning. Lab 23, 0730.''

Then,

Don't be late.

At Bronson Tower....

Once everyone arrived at the Tower, they immediately took stock of the sheer wealth of the place. The massive doors opened to a marble foyer with a single spiral staircase leading all the way up. It was, unfortunately, roped off with a heavy velvet rope. To the right and left were two elevators. “We shouldn't use the elevators. Don't want to be seen,” Beatrice mused.

In response, Lars opened a portal right to the 69th floor and everyone stepped through. As they did, Kyra squealed delightedly at the large painting on the wall. “An alpaca!” she ran to the frame, only to back away again in disappointment. “It's... it's a llama.”

Adagio knocked at the door, then pushed Prodigy to the front of the group. When there was no response, Oblivion ghosted through the door to investigate, and unlocked the door for his comrades. Everyone entered the apartment, nerves on edge.

The apartment was tastefully decorated, though obviously for a confirmed bachelor. It was clear the maid service had come within the last few days, as there was very little dust on the shelves and tables. The group spread out to search for any clues.

“Do you have a forensics kit?” Beatrice questioned Prodigy.

He shook his head. “Left it at the office.” He pushed on a nearby bookshelf only to have it slide backwards. “A compartment!” Stepping inside, he was disappointed to find only more books.

The kitchen, bedroom, and living room were cleared. Adagio went into the bathroom to search and returned to Prodigy triumphantly holding a small box with a 0.38 handgun and several loose rounds inside. Kyra had been checking the bottoms of all the furniture and found a cell phone taped to the bottom of one of the kitchen chairs. She gingerly took it toward the group, only to have it drop onto the floor, and the battery pop out. “Shit!” she quickly picked it up and put the pieces back together.

Lars returned from the bedroom. “There aren't nearly enough shirts in the closet,” he said. “Like he's gone away, or something.”

Prodigy examined the phone Kyra found. There was one contact on it: Mad Maddie. The text messages in the phone's record were extremely graphic in nature and he refrained from reading them aloud due to Adagio's presence. His search turned up an address in the nearby suburbs on Denmark Street. “We're close,” he announced to the rest. “We've got to move.”

Denmark Street was a row of shabby prefabricated houses with zero lot lines and an air of shame. In the pre-dawn light, Prodigy could see an unkempt lawn with several tacky garden fairies near the front door. Something clicked in his head and as the six drew closer, they could hear the gut-wrenching sounds of a struggle inside the house. Then, two shots rang out. “Get in there!” Prodigy yelled.

Kyra summoned an alpaca and sent him immediately through the front door. It gave way with a sickening splintering sound. Everyone followed the animal and found themselves walking into a fairy garden. Hidden among the fake trees and lurid fantasy sparkles and settings were leather straps. Beatrice pointed at the back door, visible through the house. “It's open!” she shouted. “I'll clear the upstairs. Secure the perimeter!”

Prodigy almost didn't hear her. His focus was on a round bed on the far side of the room, draped by some hanging silks, but clearly supporting the dead body of Madeleine, the girl in the photograph. Fffffuck, he cursed internally. She had two bulled holes in her head, obviously shot from above at point-black range as she lay, helpless.

Lars had led the charge, sailing out the back door. “He is here!” he called, seeing a man running in the ever-increasing brightness of early morning light. Kyra slid into place next to him. “Alpacas! Sic him!” she ordered, and no fewer than 24 alpacas appeared and ran en masse after the fleeing figure, taking out several garden fences in the process. They caught up to him several lots away, thoroughly trampling him. When Lars, Kyra, Adagio, and an angry Prodigy caught up with him, the alpacas were contentedly milling about, eating the grass and garden plants. At Kyra's command they formed a circle wall around the group, determined to keep the villain from running away again. Lars yanked the man's wallet out of his pocket. “It's Bill Jensen alright,” he said, disgust in his voice.

Prodigy knelt down and slapped Bill Larsen a little harder than necessary. “We know what you did!” he bellowed.

Larsen came out of his stunned state quickly. “It was me! I'd do it again! The ungrateful bitch!”

Prodigy slugged him in the face again, over and over, until Larsen became senseless again. Dragging Larsen by the shirt collar, they returned him to the backyard of the house on the cul-de-sac and awaited the arrival of Officer Gordon-Levitt and his men. The case had ended, but not in a satisfying way. Prodigy pulled a flask from his coat pocket and took a long pull.

As the dawn spilled into the world on Sunday morning, Beatrice Helms sat down at her office desk, something a bit stronger than tea in her favorite cup at the corner of her desk. Prodigy stumbled into his office, attempting to put his hat up on the wall, failing, and collapsing onto the ancient leather sofa. Kyra snuggled into her favorite alpaca's soft, warm fur and took a long nap before her shift at the grocery store. Adagio crept into her house and up to her room, where she continued to play her fete, all shreds of tiredness far from her. Oblivion wandered the streets, again in search of something to eat. Lars, however, had a meeting.

At precisely 7:30AM he presented himself in Lab 23 where Mr. Morden and several other men in lab coats awaited him. “These are Dr.s Janson and Entsetzen,” Morden said, his face stern. “We wanted to bring you on board with a very particular project. I have need of your associates, Prodigy and the rest. This project may involve saving the world... from itself.”

At this point, Dr. Entsetzen took over. His vaguely European accent charged every word. “I built this machine?but need power of man with portals. You will put hand in and be able to travel into future.”

Without hesitation Lars placed his hand where Dr. Entsetzen indicated. Morden looked down at his phone and pressed send. Prodigy and his associates all received texts: We need you.

AFTER CREDITS SCENE

Gladys sat down at her computer on Monday morning. She turned it on, then went to start the coffee. Prodigy wouldn't be arriving until closer to 10AM if he came in at all. As she entered her login information on the computer screen, a message popped up.

''On a mission. May be gone for some time or maybe no time at all. I'm not sure how that works. You'll have to call in the Teen Prodigies.''