213 West Worley
Columbia, MO, 65203
The Igrael Stone:
The Last of the Cavaliers
March 8, 1941
Jack and Darelle knocked at the townhouse door, upon the still cobble-stoned streets of St. George. The stoop kind of dipped onto itself, as if under the weight of hundreds of people it had sagged. The four-story converted hotel had been windowed refuge for visitors since the early 1900's, and still clung to the corner like a lamppost.
Darelle went first. Jack looked at the number scribbled on his paper.
"Two fifteen," he said. "Upstairs..."
The iron clanked, and those men who had burnt clinging to the forge hot metal screamed at Jack and Darelle. She burnt like the men had, but their souls had left. These were just vicious echoes left by their passing.
The man paced outside, lean and olive skinned, wearing a hat covering his eyes. He looked up, smiled with a oval face a little worn and wrinkled, but a regal figure nonetheless.
"Of course, of course it would be you." He held his hand out. "We spoke. I'm Tommy D'angelo. And you are Jackson, is that right?"
And you would be…too familiar.
"Jack," he said, declining the hand.
"And this girl, what is she doin' here?" Thomas put his hands on his knees and bent down. "My, you are pretty, aren't you?"
Jack walked in front of his sister, smelling the reek of bursting lust in the air. He went to protect his princess savagely with his eyeteeth on the verge of growing. "Yeah, my little sister does look good, doesn't she? But I'm sure the girls you pick up in the whorehouse look better than my sister. If you don't want to keep this on a professional level, you take your ten grand and trick it on some REAL whores. You hear?"