Angus Moran peered over the top of his scotch and rocks into the face of his brother, Fergus. Behind him, a variety of men stood draped over a tall bar that lined one wall of the small room. Each man held in his hands something to deaden the conscience, everything from wine to whiskey to reefers.

On the furniture, a grey dust had stained the surface where the cigar and cigarette smoke had settled from the air. As soon as Carson McReynolds had entered the room, however, its occupants had extinguished all sources of smoke. Like many powerful men, Carson McReynolds had quirks. For one, he allowed no smoke of any kind to tarnish his lungs. He also insisted that any food he ate be prepared in his presence, and if not in his own house, that someone else taste it at least half an hour before Carson ate it himself.

The last quirk Angus could understand. If he could have gained from it, Angus would have no problem offing the arrogant little politician. Though Regis McReynolds claimed the title of councilman, Carson really ran the show, and he played his political role like a horn.

Tonight, Angus Moran and Carson McReynolds shared a unified purpose. Someone had very unwisely chosen to wage an attack on the Rats, and the attack had touched too close to both parties present. Whoever had published that little paper needed to learn what it meant to meddle in affairs beyond their scope. Angus expected he was far beyond their scope and what they were willing to risk. If he read the paper right, its authors had no idea what they were getting into.

"They missed all the major players," Carson insisted when Angus held out the rolled-up periodical. "None of your guys is named by name, and the closest thing to Regis is a neighborhood store."

Angus sneered at the politician in disbelief. Surely the savvy politician must know better.

"Yeah, they missed all the majors, but this was week one. These people are obviously smart enough to know that if they throw all their crumbs out in one week, they'll need to up the ante if they wand readers to come back. Do you want to risk that they stumble upon someone that connects your brother's campaign to my organization?"

Shaking his head, Carson smiled condescendingly. "Angus, my friend, these people look like amateurs. The type-set is archaic, the writing sophomoric – they don't even have their facts straight. Barry Johnston? Wallace Henton? Pete Flaggerty? None of those men has much to do with us. They play along at times to make life easier, but they don't benefit from a relationship with either me or you. I think the paper is just as likely to make enemies as they are to gain friends among the townsfolk with their recklessness. If they anger too many people by naming the wrong names, no one will notice when they mention the right ones."

"And you are really okay with that?" Angus hissed, and Fergus nodded in accord. "If our relationship became public, your entire constituency would jump ship and vote for the other guy. And if the other guy is elected, we are going to lose access to a very lucrative business arrangement."

Carson peered, not at Fergus, but at the pair of women that flanked him on either side. Their dresses seemed to have lost several vital pieces that only just managed to preserve the ladies' dignity, if Carson could call it that. How a good Irish Catholic like Moran could justify the indulgence, Carson didn't know. He turned back to Angus.

"There is no chance that the people of my district would elect a black man. You can send your boys out to intimidate the voters in his neighborhood, and my machine can turn out as many voters as we need."

"There aren't enough voters in your fat cat neighborhood to win over his if they turn out."

"No, but my fat cat donors have enough cash to pay for the votes I need. The most important thing is that your boys can't go blundering around my district causing trouble. As long as we keep this out of the eye of the police..."

"Between the two of us, we own half of the police force."

"Half is not enough," Carson blared. "I have powerful enemies, people who have thrown in with your competition, and they own the other half. You think we're untouchable? If your boys go after the wrong man, then we all suffer."

Fergus bared his teeth, and the comment finally drew words from Angus's stoic older brother. "My boys know how to be careful. When we get answers, we make sure no one else can."

At his comment, the guys at the bar responded with various harsh laughs and murmurs.

Carson glared at the men in disdain. "That's exactly my point," he exclaimed. "I can't have your men stirring things up and drawing attention to us so close to the election."

Angus peered over at his men, signaling silence to his lackeys.

"What do you suggest?" Angus narrowed his eyes in steely determination. "We'll do what we can if you need it, but we'll stay out of your way for now if you want. If these people get any closer, though," Angus pierced Carson with an icy glare, "we'll take matters into our own hands."

After a moment's consideration, Carson nodded his head in agreement. "I have some resources that should help figure this out before that happens. I'll milk those for a few days and let you know. Surely this magazine will only publish once a week."

"You'd better hope so if you want me to stay out of it."

"I'm sure of it," Carson assured his business associate. "You can send one of your men to my office on Wednesday to see what we've found."

"Good enough," Angus agreed, and his gaze relaxed from an expression of hostility to one of hospitality. "Do you want to stay around for a few drinks?"

Carson couldn't resist a sardonic smile, especially after his eyes made the sweep of the room and encountered once again the rogue gathering of men and the vampish expressions on the women. "I'll pass," he assured his comrade. "Send your man over on Wednesday," he commanded before turning to the door.

"I expect your brother to spend some capital on this if he's serious. I'm not footing the bill for his political campaign."

Turning back, Carson glared at the square-built Irishman. "You'll do what's necessary, and so will we." Unwilling to show any weakness around such a shiver of sharks, Carson shot one last glare at the two brothers before continuing out the door. Just a show of force, not actual ill-will. Though he didn't remotely trust the Rats' bosses, Carson sure as hell would make sure that Angus Moran never had a reason to count the McReynoldses among his enemies.

As soon as McReynolds had climbed the stairs into the darkened street, a shadow detached itself from the dark pool around a nearby lamp post where the contrast deepened the inky quality of the night. McReynolds nodded at Sam Lincoln, a silent command to refrain from speech for the time being. Only after Sam had followed Carson for several blocks did either of them venture a question.

"So, how bad is it? “Carson asked his young companion.

"People are definitely talking, though their response is mixed. Most of them knew someone, you know, had friends on the list - so they don't particularly appreciate the sentiment of the authors. Still, nobody particularly loves the Rats either, so most people are just waiting to see what happens next. No one has been materially harmed yet."

"Or physically, though that might change."

At this statement, Sam had to reign in his surprised expression. He had assumed when he went to work for the McReynolds that intimidation might fall under his job description. To hear it spoken of directly, though, felt different; definitely less appealing. The thought of the power had drawn him; the reality of causing harm drew him up short.

Trained in reading people, Carson McReynolds didn't miss the raising of Sam's eyebrows. "You're not getting missish on me, are you? You assured me you could do everything I needed in this job; you knew what that meant."

"No, Mr. McReynolds. You can count on me," he covered. "I just thought that since you had met with the Rats that they would probably handle that aspect of the business."

"They're planning on it," McReynolds agreed, "but it may come down to our involvement. Angus Moran is smart, but he doesn't usually venture onto our side of the tracks. I'm concerned that he might leave a track that we don't want followed. If he has trouble sending the message or figuring out where to send it, we may have to take it upon ourselves."

Sam searched his mind to see how much the thought bothered him. Not too much, he realized, though he imagined he possessed some limitations. What the limitations were, he didn't really know. In the past, Sam had crossed some ethical lines to further his personal agenda. Furthering the McReynolds' agenda would prove quite lucrative, and this possibility expanded his willingness to transgress the confines of Victorian morality.

"Just let me know if you need me to do something," Sam offered confidently to the burly politician beside him. "I'm on your payroll, and you know that I possess talents that serve your purpose."

Patting Sam on the shoulder, Carson McReynolds offered his young companion a closed-lipped smile. "I'm counting on it," the politician offered, and Sam got the impression that the man had more than just vague ideas about what that service would entail.