Tangerine

Tangerine had been following Frederick for a week now. Apparently, he was 'high-priority': a man with connections, power, and his grimy hands on a parcel that needed intercepting. So far, however, Tangerine's only observations had been that Frederick enjoyed a whole lot of smoking, drinking, fucking... and not much else.

Either way, his employer was paying a lot. Enough for this to mean something.

Tangerine stood opposite a dive bar, nursing a cigarette against the chill in the air. The streetlight flickered, casting a meek orange across the rain-slicked pavement, agitating him enough to call it a night. He tossed the cigarette to the ground, smothering its ember with his heel.

"Darling, don't flatter me."

Frederick stumbled out of the bar, glamorous as ever, suit falling from his shoulders, his face flushed pink. But he wasn't alone. A young girl followed, fitted in a dress far too expensive for this side of London. She steadied him, a forced laugh carrying through the wind.

He lowered to her ear and mumbled something too quiet for Tangerine to make out. Then, he straightened and slipped a package into her hands, passing it over like a token of good will.

The second Frederick had gathered himself into a taxi, she lurched for the alleyway, clutching the package to her chest.

Blood rushed in Tangerine's ears at the promise of some long-awaited action. He crossed the street in quick strides, beelining for the alley, and caught sight of her figure bathed in shadow. He stilled, watching her rip at the parcel with fervour. He forced his hands into his coat pockets, feigning composure, despite itching for his revolver.

"You wanna hand that over, love?"