Der Preuss

by Alestar

"Schlaf, mein Kind . . . schlaf leis' . . dort draussen geht fer Preusss' . . "

The cold wood moaned under slow footsteps, and the man paused on the top stair, hand on the railing, and listened to the lullaby.

"Deinen Vater hat . . . er umgebracht . . deine Mutter hat er arm gemacht . . "

He nodded and unlocked the door. He knew before he entered that the old woman would be curled on the sofa in the corner, young child nestled in her arms, rocking softly, and she was. He shut the door behind him, loud enough to alert her to his presence but not so loud that it could wake the baby.

She looked up.

"Gutenabend, Herr Creed."

He stepped closer and she pushed the blanket out of the baby's face for him, revealing a plump, pink face and a mop of brown hair.

"Gutenabend, Grete," he said. "Where is Herrin Creed?"

The man noted the woman's sudden quickening of pulse without suprise, because Herrin Creed was someone this woman should've feared. She clutched the baby closer to her and answered that the Herrin had been entertaining in the parlor-- carefully enunciating the thick English words.

The man nodded, reached out to touch the bundle in the woman's hands, and then went to find his wife. As he pushed farther into the old house, he heard the lullaby resume behind him; low, tremulous.

"Und wer nicht schläft in guter Ruh' . . dem drückt der Preuss' die Augen . . "

* * *

He found her in the parlor, alone, behind a scotch. He stopped in the doorway and she said, "Gutenabend, Victor."

He said, "Leni." He sniffed the air, once, twice. "Who's been here?"

She lifted her face to him, which slid into a wide, sharp smile. She rose from her chair and went to him, placing a warm hand on either side of his jaw. "How was work, dear?" She pulled him down for a deep kiss, pushing a hand through his blond hair to fist at the base of his skull. Bit his lip, and then drew back and brushed her lips across his cheek.

"Good, yes? Work was good. I can taste it."

She took his hands and he allowed her to peel the gloves from them-- cakes of dried blood falling to the floor-- and Victor nodded. "Work was fine."

She threw the stained gloves onto the bar. "Does this mean you won't be having to go back out tonight?"

He only stiffened slightly, but she smiled. He shook his head no and pulled her back to him-- burying his face in her light hair, and her arms came around him, petting.

He said, "Tell me who's been here."

She answered, "The chief of police. He had a few questions."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him about licking blood off your stomach last night."

"So ya didn't tell him anything."

One hand fell down to his ass and squeezed. "What's to tell?" She laughed and kissed him again, and pulled away. "I'm taking Graydon for a walk. Don't wait up." She was out the door then, and he heard the crisp click of her footsteps through the house, away.

He listened to the sounds of leaving, and then dropped into the chair. He drained the last of Leni's scotch and resisted sleep not at all.

* * *

Hours later, his eyes opened, and he was already standing.

It took him a moment to realize why-- and a moment after that to realize who.

The one realization sent him forward, the other sent him running still. Stuck in that place, he simply remained where he was until the intruder
opened the parlor door, and stepped in, and closed the door behind him.

"Gutenabend, runt."

He wore flannel and denim beneath the long coat, and smelled of Cuban cigars.
Blue eyes shone from a darkened face. He said, "Ain't you a native." Victor only continued to look at him.

"This is a nice place ya've got here," Logan said, half indifferent, half smirk. "Smells like a nice family."

"Yeah," said Victor slowly. "Yeah, it is. What d'you want?"

"Heard you settled down. Figured you'da got better at hospitality." He looked over at the bar. "Offer me a drink."

Victor shook his head but moved to the bar anyway. Felt strange in the stomach and shoulders, suddenly, like a wild animal in a business suit. Four walls and a nursemaid seemed ridiculous and intolerable. He poured whiskey into a glass and sat it on the table beside a second chair.

"Siddown."

Logan arched an eyebrow, and Victor shrugged one shoulder, sitting down in his own chair.

"What's yer wife's name," Logan asked.

"Leni."

Logan sat, then, and took a swig of his whiskey. Then he levelled a look at the other man.

"And your son's?"

"Graydon."

"Good name."

Victor decided to stand, after all, and make himself a drink. "Yeah."

"Gotta say, Creed, I was suprised t'hear about this place. Hidin' in plain sight, eh?"

"Yer the one who hides," Victor growled, pouring the whiskey.

"Right. And yer the one who takes his son to the big game, right between yer noon and three o'clock massacres."

"As opposed t'what yer doin', I guess."

"You don't know what I'm doing," Logan said.

Victor took a long, hard pull from his glass and sat back down, eyes slipping along the far side of the room-- there was a framed map, hanging, and an old phonograph with one of Leni's jazz records on it, and a long jagged scratch across the wooden wall.

"Why don't you tell me, runt."

Der Preuss' hat eine blut'ge hand, die streckt er über's badische Land.

"I didn't come here t'tell you anything," he said.

Victor looked at Logan and asked, "Why did ya come here, then?" and Logan looked at him, and the scratch in Victor's peripheral vision stretched longer across the wall.

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