The Monkees Meet the Mob (5/?)
Title: The Monkees Meet the Mob
Author: seek_to_know
Rating: PG
Summary:
Peter and Mike accidentally eavesdrop on a conversation not meant for their ears and are discovered. When what they heard comes back to haunt them in the form of gang revenge, how far will Micky and Davy go to save them? And will their band mates' efforts be enough?
Warnings: none
Genre: Friendship/Adventure/Drama, with probably some H/C
Pairing: None
Main Character(s): The Monkees
"Okay, punks. Wake up!"
Mike was shocked into awareness by a rough shake. He found himself staring wide-eyed into the smirking face of Greaseball, his heartbeat accelerating madly from the rudely surprising awakening. Groaning as all the aches and pains he had merited in the last twenty four hours came rushing back with a vengeance, Mike eased himself into a sitting position on the end of Peter's bed.
Peter was also waking up. The sandy haired boy was having a little harder job of it, and his headache throbbed so strongly it took he a few seconds just to be able to open his eyes. Mike looked on in concern, diagnosing him with a very probable concussion. The Texan boy decided to see if some Aspirin were available as soon as possible.
There was no chance to ask now, however. No sooner had the boys' feet touched the cold floor than the Greaseball and his companion began to urge them none to gently to get a move on.
Mike and Peter were going to meet the Big Boss.
They were not bound or blindfolded this time. Rather, Greaseball led the way while his companion walked behind them, a gun trained on their backs. Up two flights of rickety, bare-board steps, around a corner, and through a corridor they went until they finally arrived at a small wooden door, upon which Greaseball knocked, tentatively.
A few moments later, it swung open, and Blondie shuffled out, his face burning with anger and humiliation. A voice called for them to come in, which they did.
Peter was surprised at the well-kept look of the office as he entered; the rest of the place (or what he had seen of it) looked like a permanent construction site. The walls were painted, and one even sported a large picture. The floor was carpeted. At a heavy wooden desk at the far side of the room sat a thin, balding middle-aged man lighting up a cigarette. Without looking up at them, he chuckled.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't my old friend Michael Blessing."
Micky and Davy awoke at around noon, and after the doctor had checked Micky over, he said that the boy was well enough to leave on the condition that he get plenty of rest and regular meals and such. Davy paid at the desk, and the two left with an officer Detective Carstairs had sent to pick them up. All ran perfectly smoothly until they reached the police station.
Where they met with difficulty in the form of Detective Carstairs.
"What the bloody hell do you mean, you won't remove it?" Davy yelled, furiously, bringing a balled fist down on the detective's desk.
"Mr Jones, I am going to have to ask you to lower your voice!" Carstairs replied harshly, standing up and walking around the desk to stand toe-to-toe with the much shorter Englishman. Davy threw him a scorching glare, but complied, though every syllable dripped with venom.
"I could understand your reasoning for the escort before, but to continue it would be ridiculous. You-"
"I have no intention of making one of my men escort you everywhere," the detective broke in. "Even I have no right to misuse my subordinates in that way. However, I would like to place you and your friend under police supervision, if only until the time your other two friends are found."
"Oh, and I suppose you haven't got a single clue as to that yet! Which is precisely why Micky and I want to help!"?
"And you are once again proving how much you are in need of police interference!"
"Oh, is that so..."
Davy's voice began to rise again. Micky had been listening faithfully to the entire exchange; however, he refrained from joining in as something on the detective's desk caught his eye. A large Ziploc bag sat on the desk, containing a few odds and ends and labelled as evidence from the scene where he was found. But it was not so much the bag or evidence itself, as two small items which caught his attention. A pair of hand rolled cigarettes, a little squashed and dirty looking, sat docilely among the other bits of gravel and such collected from the scene.
Taking advantage of the detective's distraction, Micky gingerly reached a hand into the bag, careful not to touch anything but what he was aiming for, and snatched one of the cigarettes, which he slipped into the pockets of his jeans. Then he leapt into the fray, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.
"Detective Carstairs is right," he said meekly, though still loud enough to be heard above the din. "Davy, we're gonna have to listen and keep ourselves out of trouble."
Davy turned him, stunned into silence. Micky, giving up like this? Why? The curly haired boy went on.
"There's nothing more we can do, and we should let the police handle it. They have more experience anyway. Besides, I need to rest because of my concussion and I'll need you around to help me, Davy."
At that point, the English boy realised what his friend was up to. Micky was not that severely concussed, and even if he were he would never say something as helpless sounding as that. Communicating that he understood with a very faint nod, he assumed a mask of contrite humility.
"I'm sorry, Micky. I forgot you weren't well."
"Detective," Micky said, turning to face Carstairs, who seemed caught between amusement and shock at Davy's sudden change. "I promise to not do anything thoughtless and to not let Davy out of my sight. There's no need for a police escort; I know when we're not needed to help. Now if you could take us back to our pad, we'd be very grateful." Carstairs looked gratefully pleased.
"Now that's what I like - a responsible young man. Come on, son, I'll take you boys home."
Micky and Davy kept up the charade right up until the point Carstairs dropped them at their doorstep. The yellow tape from the night before had been cleared away. The door still had a couple scratches and dents from where the gangsters had tried to force it. When they opened it, however, a completely different sight met their eyes.
The barricade had been cleared from the door, but the room was still in disarray. Everything that had been placed in front of the door had been piled in the middle of the room. They would have a lot of cleaning on their hands. They set to without a word, only beginning to converse once they had worked themselves into a rhythm.
"Thanks for bailing me out of that, Micky," said Davy, grinning at his friend. "Fancy bit of work there."
"Oh, that's not everything," Micky grinned back at him. "I also managed to get this." He then produced the stolen cigarette. Davy looked shocked.
"Micky! That's police evidence!"
"So! I left them the other one! Besides, you want to help Mike and Pete, don't you?"
"I take it that means you have some sort of plan? And what about all those promises you made to our friend the detective?"
"I won't be breaking them," Micky said, proudly. "I said I wouldn't do anything thoughtless - we'll make a plan first. I said I wouldn't let you out of my sight - my sight is going right along with you. We know when we're not needed - but Mike and Peter need us."
Davy looked at him in awe. "And to think I wasted all that time shouting and getting angry. I'm sorry, Micky."
"Don't be," Micky said, dismissively waving a hand. "If you hadn't distracted Carstairs so well, it wouldn't have been possible."
"Thanks," Davy beamed, tough he still felt a little stupid. "So what's so special about the cigarette?"
"Well, for one thing, it's hand-rolled," Micky explained. "And we're also really lucky for another reason. Let's go to the table and I'll show you."
Dropping their tasks, both boys made their way to the kitchen table. Micky carefully unrolled the cigarette, collecting the tobacco into his hand and holding it out to Davy.
"Smell."
Davy took a sniff, and wrinkled his nose in surprise. "It smells like...cherries...and chocolate!" he exclaimed after a moment.
"Exactly," Micky said. "Expensive novelty stuff. The guys who were chasing us weren't that rich. Now there's only one place you can get stuff like that for cheap, I know because my Dad was a smoker and I grew up around here."
"Oh, yeah? Where?" Davy inquired, curiously.
"It's called Maverick's, and its down near the industrial waterfront area, sort of the same place those first two thugs were arrested. The guy who owns it never realised how high class his stuff was or he would have moved by now."
"So we start around there? Isn't it possible that the guy could have purposely gone to the place for his tobacco?"
"Yes," Micky agreed. "But we can always ask around that area. Anyway, there's another clue, here on the paper."
Handing it to Davy, the English boy saw a word hastily scribbled along the top - a name. "Benson," Davy read. "So that's the guy's name?"
"His or an acquaintance of his," replied Micky.
"Say, man, what if the detective realises this is missing?"
"He won't." Micky said confidently, prompting a set of raised eyebrows from Davy. Micky explained. "He'd only just begun to count the stuff - I saw the list on his desk. It seems luck was on our side, and he hadn't reached the cigarettes."
"Yeah," said Davy, pensively. "Listen, Micky, we should finish cleaning up before we do anything else. We can plan tonight."
"Right," replied the curly- haired boy, willingly. He nodded sharply, then winced as the pain from the blow he'd received came rushing back to his head. His reaction did not escape Davy's notice.
"I'll finish up, if you go upstairs and get some rest. You do have a concussion, Micky. And you're going to need your wits and your strength at their best for what we're going to do."
Micky nodded gratefully, and went upstairs to his bed for a nap while Davy finished the cleaning. Comfortably ensconced in the covers, he slept and dreamed of his missing friends.
Author: seek_to_know
Rating: PG
Summary:
Peter and Mike accidentally eavesdrop on a conversation not meant for their ears and are discovered. When what they heard comes back to haunt them in the form of gang revenge, how far will Micky and Davy go to save them? And will their band mates' efforts be enough?
Warnings: none
Genre: Friendship/Adventure/Drama, with probably some H/C
Pairing: None
Main Character(s): The Monkees
"Okay, punks. Wake up!"
Mike was shocked into awareness by a rough shake. He found himself staring wide-eyed into the smirking face of Greaseball, his heartbeat accelerating madly from the rudely surprising awakening. Groaning as all the aches and pains he had merited in the last twenty four hours came rushing back with a vengeance, Mike eased himself into a sitting position on the end of Peter's bed.
Peter was also waking up. The sandy haired boy was having a little harder job of it, and his headache throbbed so strongly it took he a few seconds just to be able to open his eyes. Mike looked on in concern, diagnosing him with a very probable concussion. The Texan boy decided to see if some Aspirin were available as soon as possible.
There was no chance to ask now, however. No sooner had the boys' feet touched the cold floor than the Greaseball and his companion began to urge them none to gently to get a move on.
Mike and Peter were going to meet the Big Boss.
They were not bound or blindfolded this time. Rather, Greaseball led the way while his companion walked behind them, a gun trained on their backs. Up two flights of rickety, bare-board steps, around a corner, and through a corridor they went until they finally arrived at a small wooden door, upon which Greaseball knocked, tentatively.
A few moments later, it swung open, and Blondie shuffled out, his face burning with anger and humiliation. A voice called for them to come in, which they did.
Peter was surprised at the well-kept look of the office as he entered; the rest of the place (or what he had seen of it) looked like a permanent construction site. The walls were painted, and one even sported a large picture. The floor was carpeted. At a heavy wooden desk at the far side of the room sat a thin, balding middle-aged man lighting up a cigarette. Without looking up at them, he chuckled.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't my old friend Michael Blessing."
Micky and Davy awoke at around noon, and after the doctor had checked Micky over, he said that the boy was well enough to leave on the condition that he get plenty of rest and regular meals and such. Davy paid at the desk, and the two left with an officer Detective Carstairs had sent to pick them up. All ran perfectly smoothly until they reached the police station.
Where they met with difficulty in the form of Detective Carstairs.
"What the bloody hell do you mean, you won't remove it?" Davy yelled, furiously, bringing a balled fist down on the detective's desk.
"Mr Jones, I am going to have to ask you to lower your voice!" Carstairs replied harshly, standing up and walking around the desk to stand toe-to-toe with the much shorter Englishman. Davy threw him a scorching glare, but complied, though every syllable dripped with venom.
"I could understand your reasoning for the escort before, but to continue it would be ridiculous. You-"
"I have no intention of making one of my men escort you everywhere," the detective broke in. "Even I have no right to misuse my subordinates in that way. However, I would like to place you and your friend under police supervision, if only until the time your other two friends are found."
"Oh, and I suppose you haven't got a single clue as to that yet! Which is precisely why Micky and I want to help!"?
"And you are once again proving how much you are in need of police interference!"
"Oh, is that so..."
Davy's voice began to rise again. Micky had been listening faithfully to the entire exchange; however, he refrained from joining in as something on the detective's desk caught his eye. A large Ziploc bag sat on the desk, containing a few odds and ends and labelled as evidence from the scene where he was found. But it was not so much the bag or evidence itself, as two small items which caught his attention. A pair of hand rolled cigarettes, a little squashed and dirty looking, sat docilely among the other bits of gravel and such collected from the scene.
Taking advantage of the detective's distraction, Micky gingerly reached a hand into the bag, careful not to touch anything but what he was aiming for, and snatched one of the cigarettes, which he slipped into the pockets of his jeans. Then he leapt into the fray, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.
"Detective Carstairs is right," he said meekly, though still loud enough to be heard above the din. "Davy, we're gonna have to listen and keep ourselves out of trouble."
Davy turned him, stunned into silence. Micky, giving up like this? Why? The curly haired boy went on.
"There's nothing more we can do, and we should let the police handle it. They have more experience anyway. Besides, I need to rest because of my concussion and I'll need you around to help me, Davy."
At that point, the English boy realised what his friend was up to. Micky was not that severely concussed, and even if he were he would never say something as helpless sounding as that. Communicating that he understood with a very faint nod, he assumed a mask of contrite humility.
"I'm sorry, Micky. I forgot you weren't well."
"Detective," Micky said, turning to face Carstairs, who seemed caught between amusement and shock at Davy's sudden change. "I promise to not do anything thoughtless and to not let Davy out of my sight. There's no need for a police escort; I know when we're not needed to help. Now if you could take us back to our pad, we'd be very grateful." Carstairs looked gratefully pleased.
"Now that's what I like - a responsible young man. Come on, son, I'll take you boys home."
Micky and Davy kept up the charade right up until the point Carstairs dropped them at their doorstep. The yellow tape from the night before had been cleared away. The door still had a couple scratches and dents from where the gangsters had tried to force it. When they opened it, however, a completely different sight met their eyes.
The barricade had been cleared from the door, but the room was still in disarray. Everything that had been placed in front of the door had been piled in the middle of the room. They would have a lot of cleaning on their hands. They set to without a word, only beginning to converse once they had worked themselves into a rhythm.
"Thanks for bailing me out of that, Micky," said Davy, grinning at his friend. "Fancy bit of work there."
"Oh, that's not everything," Micky grinned back at him. "I also managed to get this." He then produced the stolen cigarette. Davy looked shocked.
"Micky! That's police evidence!"
"So! I left them the other one! Besides, you want to help Mike and Pete, don't you?"
"I take it that means you have some sort of plan? And what about all those promises you made to our friend the detective?"
"I won't be breaking them," Micky said, proudly. "I said I wouldn't do anything thoughtless - we'll make a plan first. I said I wouldn't let you out of my sight - my sight is going right along with you. We know when we're not needed - but Mike and Peter need us."
Davy looked at him in awe. "And to think I wasted all that time shouting and getting angry. I'm sorry, Micky."
"Don't be," Micky said, dismissively waving a hand. "If you hadn't distracted Carstairs so well, it wouldn't have been possible."
"Thanks," Davy beamed, tough he still felt a little stupid. "So what's so special about the cigarette?"
"Well, for one thing, it's hand-rolled," Micky explained. "And we're also really lucky for another reason. Let's go to the table and I'll show you."
Dropping their tasks, both boys made their way to the kitchen table. Micky carefully unrolled the cigarette, collecting the tobacco into his hand and holding it out to Davy.
"Smell."
Davy took a sniff, and wrinkled his nose in surprise. "It smells like...cherries...and chocolate!" he exclaimed after a moment.
"Exactly," Micky said. "Expensive novelty stuff. The guys who were chasing us weren't that rich. Now there's only one place you can get stuff like that for cheap, I know because my Dad was a smoker and I grew up around here."
"Oh, yeah? Where?" Davy inquired, curiously.
"It's called Maverick's, and its down near the industrial waterfront area, sort of the same place those first two thugs were arrested. The guy who owns it never realised how high class his stuff was or he would have moved by now."
"So we start around there? Isn't it possible that the guy could have purposely gone to the place for his tobacco?"
"Yes," Micky agreed. "But we can always ask around that area. Anyway, there's another clue, here on the paper."
Handing it to Davy, the English boy saw a word hastily scribbled along the top - a name. "Benson," Davy read. "So that's the guy's name?"
"His or an acquaintance of his," replied Micky.
"Say, man, what if the detective realises this is missing?"
"He won't." Micky said confidently, prompting a set of raised eyebrows from Davy. Micky explained. "He'd only just begun to count the stuff - I saw the list on his desk. It seems luck was on our side, and he hadn't reached the cigarettes."
"Yeah," said Davy, pensively. "Listen, Micky, we should finish cleaning up before we do anything else. We can plan tonight."
"Right," replied the curly- haired boy, willingly. He nodded sharply, then winced as the pain from the blow he'd received came rushing back to his head. His reaction did not escape Davy's notice.
"I'll finish up, if you go upstairs and get some rest. You do have a concussion, Micky. And you're going to need your wits and your strength at their best for what we're going to do."
Micky nodded gratefully, and went upstairs to his bed for a nap while Davy finished the cleaning. Comfortably ensconced in the covers, he slept and dreamed of his missing friends.