1963-08-25 - The Cavalry is Here
Summary: Some thugs try to shake up the Bronx neighborhood, and Cecilia has something to say about it. Before she can do much, men in suits arrive and take it into consideration.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
Mr.Smith Cecilia 

A typical day in the Bronx, rusted out beaters line the streets of this poor section of town. Businesses boarded up still shine lights from within as new squatters have come to sell off the new hit drug that's been sweeping the city: Joy. The roomers flung wild on this new catch saying it can do almost anything, and it seems from the lines leading out from these peddlers domains that there's something to it.

In the alleyways people lay back zoning out and just looking to their hands across their faces broad smiles as they soak in the warm falls air. Leaves drift slowly but surely from the trees piling up down onto the sidewalk as people travel their way to and fro. There's a certain calmness to this part of the city during the day.

Yet as a small group of men make their way down the street each one is holding onto a small implement of destruction. Chains, and baseball bats, but from the looks only one or two of the half dozen men have an actual firearm, in the form of a pistol each. They're all dressed in the same jean jacket, with matching jean pants, their motorcycles left behind at the side of the road so they can march in on a small corner store.

People begin to slowly clear the street half expecting things to get rather violent rather fast. Each member of this thuggish group looks to be in their mid 20's, trying to earn some quick cash by breaking some legs. They stomp around like they own the world even as a young paper boy drops his papers and runs for the payphone to make a call.


Home breathed. These streets had a pulse, the heat of the pavement bringing a new life to the fruit rotted off of forgotten trees in overgrown parks, mingling with the stench of spilled oil. Her heels punctuated the throbbing mix of cat calls and drug mongers, the tittering of so many foreign tongues a symphony only one raised in such chaos could find musical. Unblemished by needle's touch or the sallow skin of addiction, Cecilia moved with all the confidence of kingpins, her skirts sweeping aside would be suitors with a class few could aspire to.

And just like reading the vitals on a patient, the disruption of normal ebb and flow caught her attentions. A curl sprang back into place with the rest of the mane of black tendrils, a wildness to her eyes as she looked about at the approach of the men, half expecting to see someone familiar. When the presence went unmarked, dark eyes turned back to the dregs oozing across the pavement towards her, all leering grins and overt theatrics. She didn't move.

Everything was still as she waited.


The way these thugs make their way down the street is slow and deliberate, throwing their weight around. Smoke rolls off their cheep cigarettes as they move closer in on their target. The owner of the establishment, a small Korean man stands a very small target sweeping away at the front steps of his business. Unlike a lot of the places on this street there are no bars over the windows not even a lock on the door.

The small framed man looks up over cheep glasses towards the oncoming group, a light smile on his face which fades as one of the man slams his bat down hard into his hand. The group seem to be taking their time nice and slow making their way to the seemingly completely undefended corner store.

"Hey chinaman" The burliest of the group calls over to the Korean gentleman in his mid forties. "Didn't take kindly to getting thrown out last night." As one of the men does a light lunge at a young man to send him running off a light raise of the bat to intimidate. "Gonna regret that here in a second when we make an example out of you."

The languid manner in which their steps piloted to the corner store was considered from her vantage point across the street. Cecilia stood poised on one foot, then the other, her weight shifting as she peeled off her heels with a sigh. The book bag slung over one shoulder slid to the ground beside a dumpster, likely picking up the stench of piss and souring alcohol that had washed over the sidewalk the night before. Unburdened, she pulled back her hair and tied it into a quick bun even as she slipped over the asphalt. Her approach was silent, calm, easily dismissed; after all she could hardly boast 130 pounds.

"You're not from around here…Are you?"

A hip popped, her feet settled on the hot surface unflinchingly flat. One elbow jutted outward in picturesque pose. All that was missing was an extension of her hand; maybe she could check her nails. However, she didn't bother with such frivolity. In contrast to the yellow frills of her dress and its feminine cut, she was all quiet calm. Reaching up, she pulled off her glasses and set them quietly in a pocket.


Not too far off a set of wheels slowly roll along the pavement of the road. Slow and majestic they travel not even needing to stop for streetlights. They travel closer and closer by the minute maintaining their normal operating speed, even as the ominous black shadows run along side of them. People on the sides of roads for the most part look completely away from them as if the cars didn't even exist, simply going back about their days as they roll on past.

The biggest man of the bunch with his baseball bat, and m1911 sticking out the back of his jeans takes a step forward. "What's it matter to you?" Puffing up his rather large muscles as a show of force. "Kill you as easy as anyone else who tries to stop me from teaching this chink whose boss." He lifts up his bat to try and drive her out of the way, expecting her to run like the rest.

It's around this time that the pitch black vehicles arrive at the scene. They slow down to a calm stop right off to the side of the road. Each one has on it the exact same license plate. Mercedes-Benz W189 model 300D, four of them heavily modified with the window film which had only been patented two years prior. As they come to a stop the engines shut off and doors begin to open. Inside each vehicle is an identically dressed man, black pinstripe white undershirt matching pinstripe tie and a simple hat. Their boots are polished to a perfect shine, and out of the four cars six men each step calmly with hands behind their backs.


The back of her throat felt thick. It wasn't fear though; even her pulse didn't jump in tempo. Her toes were shifting, imperceptible adjustments to a musculature nobody expected she possessed. Focus was narrowing, like setting a thread through needle head, the black cars in another universe other than the one she now controlled; hot pavement and sweat pooling on her brow. Even though she shouldn't have smiled, the indulgence was one savored as the aggressor closed the distance.

She waited until the weapon menaced downwards, and then her entire frame rocked forward, her own hand grabbing his wrist as her weight pivoted around where the bat would fall. Within his guard, which hadn't been difficult to claim given the element of surprise, she tugged at her grip to hopefully draw him over her waiting foot and to the ground. It wasn't a particularly painful attack, but utilizing his surprise and hopeful lack of training in this sort of thing, her intent was to put him on the cement quickly.


The bat is raised up by the overly muscular man, and before he knows what's hit him he's right back first on the ground in a complete daze. His massive beard covers his face as he lay there confused. The other men jump back for a moment before they all move in with the hopes of taking this spot to just beat her senseless with their whips and chains and bats.

Yet just as the fighting is about to start there comes the cascading sounds of the safety being flicked off of Thompsons. Each of the men from their cars simply standing in wait now holding their weapons at the ready to make the men dance.

"Wouldn't do that if I was you." A voice calls out from one of the overly well dressed men, his accent is a thick Italian, with those hints of the more native Brooklyn accent. "This territory is under protection."


Rapture was the closest word for the expression tracing her lips as she pivoted to slam her heel down into the hand still clutching the bat. The motion would hopefully disarm him, and while she could stoop to take his weapon, instead she elected to allow its lazy roll to the stunned boot toes of her victim's compatriots. She turned to face them, all white teeth and waiting with flushed cheeks for a violence that didn't come.

The voice that disrupted her own brand of vigilante justice was weighted without a glance, her instincts warning her not to remove her focus from the men who had been intending to jump her. A tongue ran over her lips, tasting salt as she panted lightly and let out a huff that tossed a curl back over one ear. Even with the booming authority in the stranger's words behind her, she didn't recede her step.

Territories belonged just as much to their occupants as they did the lords, and she wouldn't give an inch until she knew these thugs were leaving.


There's a pause in the air as everything seems to go quiet for a long moment the thick accented man taking a few more steps forward with his Thompson. He has a small half burnt out cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth as he takes a pause.

The thugs for the most part seem frozen like deer in the headlights for a few moments, the man on the ground turned white as death. The calm takes back over the air as people walk back away into their own homes turning away and just not seeing a thing.

That same Italian voice calls back. "Hey you want some time to deal out your own justice that's fine by me, but we need to have some words with them about what happens when you waltz in uninvited into someone else's home." The tone is a friendly one even as he and the other suit wearing men hold their guns at the ready. A small puff of smoke rolls from the corner of the mans mouth.


"I would like that very much. Thank you."

She hoped the polite discourse could continue, even as she nudged loose the m1911 still peeking from the back of the prone man's jeans. As the weapon clattered onto the cement, she picked it up slowly and with great purpose (and awareness of the guns at her back) aimed the muzzle at her hand. The trigger squeezed, and the sound of gunfire exploded onto the silence of streets holding their breath.

In her untouched palm, the smoldering remnant was cradled before being unceremoniously dropped. Her ears were still ringing even as she growled out,

"Next time, the cavalry won't get here before we're finished."

Turning with a sour expression, like a dog denied bone, she strode barefoot towards the men with the gun held out in offering of submission. The hand she had fired into was raised as well, unharmed though little wisps of grey curled away from the skin as if still burning away at something hot. She paused in handing over the pistol only to remark quietly,

"Don't have the discussion where kids can see." And with a nod up to the apartment windows, she went to go recollect her things.


The man on the ground at first goes even more white around the face as he finds himself at the end of a gun. There's a large part of him visibly terrified that this is the end. He closes his eyes waits for the bang and when it comes there's a discernible wet spot on the ground beneath him as the other men start to back off.

As the gun is held out the man who'd done all the talking passes her back a small clip of money. "Hope they didn't cause too much trouble." His voice polite and friendly as ever even as he gives a bit of a smile, Before grabbing the gun, with a handkerchief, folding it over one end then the next. The gun no longer in view he passes it over to one of the men behind him.

"We'll make sure there isn't a second time Ma'am, you stay safe, alright?" A bright and chipper grin of pure white teeth as he calls out towards an old butchers shop situated between two abandoned storefronts. "Jimmy, got a few thugs here that need to learn respect, clear the back." An old Italian man with a beer gut who had been watching from the background suddenly flipping the sign on his store from open to closed.

Even still the group of 23 men move away from their cars to politely escort the men in their jean jackets who all seem to be completely terrified of the woman, so much so that they hardly seem to catch the inference of the finely dressed gentlemen.


"Oh, no thank you. Your appearance saved me any trouble."

The money was declined with a tilt of her head and demure femininity. For all the violence held in delicate balance, her response was equally as accustomed to feigning normalcy under such circumstances. Or perhaps it was normal for her, a falsified smile offered up as she responded in turn,

"Heavens, no. You gentlemen showed up right in time."

It was a complimentary concession, but she managed it with grace. Stringing a finger through the band that held up her hair, she let it fall down and rearranged her glasses over her nose, suddenly the young and prim scholastic woman again.

"You as well."

Stepping over to her things abandoned on the other side of the street, she re-shouldered her bag and began to slip on her heels to continue home. Who controlled these streets mattered little to her, so long as their dominion didn't interfere with her own morals.

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