FLASHBACK - Wrong Side of the Road (Artie)

The bartender went somewhat silent at this.
Some young girl coming in wanting to see the boss? That wasn't....typical. At all. Nobody saw the boss.
"Uh, Mr. Cade is uh..." the bartender said before he was interrupted by a wooden thud.
"Mr. Cade is...?" came a voice like murky oil from the stairwell.
Down the stairs strolled the man himself, clad in an impeccable white suit, twirling a cane and slinging it over his shoulder as his feet made contact with the main level. He smoked a cigarette in his teeth and his grin allowed smoke to escape from between them as he strolled over to the bar.
"...or do you not know how to finish that sentence?" he asked the bartender, who chuckles nervously and quickly set back to his business.

Artie looked the girl up and down. She looked shaken by something. He had his guesses. None of them probably very interesting. He wondered if her visible fear was of him as he let his eyes look back up to hers.
"So, little lady..." he said without picking up on the irony as he hopped up onto a barstool to be more at eye level with the girl, "Artie Cade at your service....depending on what that service is. Perhaps it might be best if we adjourn to the new back wing of the place, here. COGGS! Bourbon, two glasses."
The bartender complied as Artie took the items and ushered the young girl into the still being finished back room. All that was in there at present was a wide table and five chairs. Artie tapped the large leather one and gestured for her to sit while he plopped down opposite in a creaky wooden one.
"Apologies for the rush, my dear," he purred as he poured the glasses and slid one to her, "I don't much trust the patrons out there. Gotta keep your wits about ya here."
He set his spindly legs in a crisscross on the table and swirled his glass as he smoked, looking back at the girl.
"So then, you came to see me? Who sent you? Who ARE you?"

Nodding his head as the girl spoke, Artie maintained his comfortable reclining position and blew smoke at the ceiling. This girl was...on something. Or severely distracted. I mean sure she was young but...she didn't seem like she'd been much of a drinker.
"Jessica....Jones..." he replied slowly, "So some....what, purple...man?"
He chuckled lightly and ashed his cigarette in the small glass tray.
"Forgive me but you're talking like I should know who that is. For that matter, do you know who I am? I'm not reeeeeally the sort people usually come to for kicking their habits. I sell the stuff, I can't be expected to clean up after."

Artie leaned forward and took another sip of his drink, looking the girl dead in her eyes. Yeah she was probably on something. Hallucinating.
"And if it's Fisk's product you're reeling from," he smirked, "That's even less my problem. Never seen ya before, you from his side of town?"
He leaned back in his seat and kept his feet on the floor.
"Look, bottom line is..." he went on, "If you're seeing purple people, all I can recommend is lock yourself up somewhere for a while and sweat it out. Could be good for ya, kid. But look, I hate to see a girl in trouble I'm not causin, so here..."
Reaching back into his wallet, Artie began to count out a sizable amount of cash, $200 in bills and set it in front of her.
"If that'll do to put ya up someplace. Should help. Alright?"

This display was....well, the behavior of any junkie. Someone believing any trip they'd paid some dimes for was real. Sheesh, this kid was real broken up. Cracked in the head. It all set him very much on edge, something he didn't like in his own den.
He looked at the money as it fluttered down from her throwing it at him, deciding it was a better display of power not to look at it. Or pick it up.
Instead he just looked at her. With a sigh, he massaged his temple with two fingers.
"Ms. Jones," he said, opting for formality, "Do you even hear yourself?"
And Artie thought he was the crazy one...

Standing and looking up at the girl, Artie tapped the ash off of his cigarette again before letting it hang from his lips.
"To answer you," he began, "No. No I haven't been hypnotized. And I don't think you have either. Ya know what I think? I think maybe you got into daddy's stash. Or maybe you're mixed up with a rough crowd over in Hell's Kitchen. Maybe you're a mule that went wrong. All I know is I'm too sure you're tweaking out on SOMEthin to risk letting you have an episode here in my place."
Carefully, oh so carefully, he put his hand on one of his pistols.
"Now I'm gonna offer you the money again, okay?" he said calmly, "And another outburst like that and you'll be...forcibly removed. Understand?"
To emphasize his point, he tapped the handle of his pistol lightly with his fingers. Then he leaned down and retrieved the bills, sliding them to the girl and patting her hand as he did.
"It's okay," he said gently, "These things happen."

The swift movement of this young girl caused Artie to stumble backward against the wall behind him, his jaw dropping as she swung this chair that would easily have taken three men to lift...three fairly sturdy men. After all he'd bought it for the purposes of it never moving from its spot...a throne almost. And with one quick move, like tossing away a cigarette butt, this kid just smashed it into tiny pieces...and left a rather sizable dent in his poor unfinished wall.
He idly wondered how well he'd fare if he noted she'll have to pay for that.
Then he very quickly decided against it as he saw her break down and cry. Clearly this wasn't just some druggie on a bad run, not with that demonstration...was all he'd heard about costumed heroes running around true?
If not, he had no other logical explanation for all this.

Something very odd happened in that moment, looking down at the crying girl. Artie Cade, the hitman turned mob boss working his way up to controlling half the city...felt pity. Even regret. He moved cautiously toward the girl, kneeling in front of her, remembering in the back of his brain and in some shriveled corner of what passed for his heart how often he'd felt despair like this. Nobody would help him. Being turned away. He questioned himself...why should he care? He shouldn't. Not his damn problem.
But then again, this kid could be useful, if he didn't show that hand too early.
In lieu of that, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, handing it slowly to the girl.
"I'm sorry..." he half whispered, "I didn't know that....well....that's hardly an excuse. It's all right....here, take this."

He would keep the handkerchief outheld until she took it. It was the least he could do. It felt better to do it anyway...even if he wasn't sure as to what end.
Artie cleared his throat softly.
"Let's...start over...keep things civil...okay?" he offered, "I'm Artie Cade. What can I do for ya, huh? Tell me."

This all resonated with Artie. On some strange, warped, deep level...he felt sad.
Artie Cade never felt sad. Not about anything.
Well, occasionally about having murdered his lovely Ms. Locke in cold blood those years ago, but he'd since locked that away as best he could. But this was all terribly affecting...and of course, when the girl offered her services, when clearly she was stronger than...well, anyone he'd ever seen, that could be useful.
No, it would be useful. There was no could. This was a certainty.

Standing slowly, Artie helped the girl to her feet and nodded.
"Deal," he said, "We've got ourselves a deal. This is my turf, this third of the city here. Nobody's gonna find ya here. On that I give you my word, Ms. Jones."
He took the handkerchief from her gently and dabbed at her tear stained face.
"Until we decide what you can do to help out around here, you're my guest."
He looked over at the splinters of the huge chair then back up at the girl.
"...I mean....that was a pretty clear indicator you're not to be trifled with," he admitted with a nervous chuckle, "Do you....know how to fight? Ya know, right hook, left hook, stances...all that?"
Artie blinked and shook his head at what an absurd idea that was. Putting some kid into the field out there with his boys.
"Ah, geeze, listen to me," he said as he cleared his throat and looked back at her, "We won't worry about that for now. I'm a lotta things, but I don't exploit young kids. Not ever. That's bad for business. And just...well hell, kids should never have to see the things we do."

It then occurred to him he was both babbling and talking down to the girl. He smacked his hand on his forehead.
"I'm sorry," he laughed, "It's not...that I don't think ya got the temperament for it or anything or because you're a woman. And you're not some little ten year old punk from Hell's Kitchen. I just uh...forgive me, I haven't slept in three days. Still a little loopy."
He looked back up at Jones and smirked.
"...tell ya what, til you feel comfortable here, you're with me. How's that?" he offered, "You stick with me. We'll keep it simple. Like ya said, we help each other out. Bodyguard sounds so....minimal, but if we can think of another term you let me know."
He offered his hand to her to shake. It seemed a sensible deal to him. Better than tossing her out to the ravens during his takeover.

(Two months later...)

Artie trotted down the stairs, tying his bowtie as he went. It'd been so long since he'd worn any other kind of neck ornament that he could do it flawlessly without even looking at the thing.
He stopped at the main bar area and nodded to Kitts who was minding the counters. It was still mid afternoon and they hadn't opened because, well, some days were just slow.
"Kitts have you seen Jessie today? I've got a meeting with Barlow Hatch and I need her around for that."
"Yes, sir, she was uh..." Kitts thought for a moment, "I forget exactly, but she'd said she'd be around."
"Well I didn't hire ya for your memory, Kitts, so you're still earning your keep." Artie said with a roll of his eyes.

He prepared himself a cup of coffee, mostly infused with whiskey, and sipped at it as he checked his watch.
Barlow Hatch was some gun runner from...he didn't really know, somewhere else not the US. Said he wanted to meet with Artie about upgrading some firearms or somesuch. Had the money to prove it, at least, sent along a good faith payment.
Even so, Artie didn't trust some stranger from across an ocean.
For meetings like these, he needed his muscle along. It provided two things.
One: a pretty face to be distracted by
Two: Jessica was a woman, so that left her underestimated by most men and
Three: absolute security for Artie himself.
What were they gonna do, hit her? She'd bend them in half. He'd never felt safer, which helped business negotiations and standoffs alike be resolved in more concise manners.
Artie finished his drink and looked at the door. Where was that girl?

With a laugh, Artie nodded sarcastically.
"Soon. And where DO you go sometimes?" he asked as he lit another cigarette, "If I wanted a goldfish for my muscle I'd go down to Kipper's pet shop down on Third."
Walking toward the door after fetching his overcoat, Artie reached up and tussled Jessica's hair as he moved passed her. This didn't happen often so at least he could have some nudges at her expense.
"No harm done," he said as he strode out to the waiting white limousine, "If Hatch had to wait he has to wait. This is my town and he can get over it."

Once they were both situated in the car it was a short drive to the docks near Coney Island. It was perhaps ill advised for Artie to take his most distinctive car, but he considered this his heyday. And he'd be damned if he didn't let new acquaintances know how well he was doing. One of the ships was unloading presently and it bore the markings of the freighter Hatch was bringing in most of those crates on. So at least that was in order.
Stepping out of the car, Artie lit another cigarette and waited for Jones to meet him alongside the other end of the car. He surveyed the crates...they looked big. Either they were packing a lot of weapons or a few exceptionally large ones. Either way, he smelled profit.
"Boss!" one of his dock men called as he approached, flanked by a handful of other unsavory goons Artie was wont to employ, "Hatch is just doctorin' the manifests, says he'll be down."
"Well good, Jimmy," Artie grunted, "I ain't got much time for waiting."
He chuckled and nudged Jones' side at his joke.

Barlow Hatch was an old timer. That old breed of war profiteer gangster that you wouldn't suspect. He was a neat little man, hunched over from age so that he was about Artie's height. This last part Artie made sure to note as he hobbled down the gangplank, surrounded by a band of tough looking Englishmen. Hatch wore a short hat and a long scarf that fluttered in the wind as he approached Artie and Jones and the assortment of others.
"Mr. Cade...?" Hatch rasped in a light voice, "A pleasure, sir."
They shook hands. The old man had a good grip, which surprised Artie.
"Mr. Hatch," Artie returned with a wide grin, "Glad you made it."
"Oh it was a long journey indeed," Hatch chuckled in a cough, "But I think our business relationship will be worth it. Have you somewhere to sit...?"
"Of course, right here sir..." Artie said with a "keep an eye on them" look of Jessica as his driver opened the limousine doors to let Hatch and Artie inside before closing it again.