7. Peaches

On his way to the sleazy part of town, Frank remembered the taste of peaches. Peaches were fresh and vitalizing, a soft and oh so welcome boost of energy and life at any time of the day. Seeing this poor man slain in murderous rage at the boathouse had drained him, left him limp and lifeless. Going to smack some thug around would without a doubt be both informative and revitalizing.

The sight of Squeaky's run-down, crappy apartment complex disgusted Frank every time he climbed its sticky stairs and made his way through its stinky corridors. Fair enough. That only enhanced his relish in kicking in the little rat's door. "I hope you're home, Squeaky", Frank shouted in a dark voice as he stampeded into the dwelling. Not only was Squeaky home: the little slob was still in bed. He let out a girlish scream when the front door flew open, and another, even higher-pitched one - which Frank had at first deemed impossible - when he saw who had come to visit. With a trembling voice, Squeaky uttered a half-arsed, fake joyful laugh.

"H... hey Frank! Gogogogogosh I haven't seen you in a wh... wile", he stammered, sweat on his forehead, propping himself up against the ugly, stained back wall of his smoke-reeking bedroom.
"How have you been?", Frank asked. "Looking peachy." Mmmmmm, peaches. "Still on the wrong side of the law, huh?"

"But Frank, you know that..."

"Well, I don't care actually... as long as you're on the right side of my fist", Frank went on calmly. He grabbed Squeaky's pajama - or rather, what Squeaky would have called his "pajama" - and pulled the little rascal up to his eye level. "I'll need some information, lad."

"But I ain't no know nuthin believe me!", the little slime ball shrieked.
Frank sighed.
It was always the same routine. You ask nicely: they lie. A punch in the stomach: the little worms try to wriggle their way out of the noose with petty excuses. Shoot a random household item: they waver. Threaten to shoot a few body parts off: they talk. Frank was tired of going through it again and again, but if he had to, he had to.

As always, it worked. Squeaky chirped like an adorable little sparrow. Apparently, that filthy fortune cookie miscreant was lodging in Park View Hotel under the assumed name Louis Armstrong. Frank found it preposterously shallow to use the name of a 20th century musician as a cover, and he gawped at the stupidity of all those cultureless philistines that didn't get suspicious at hearing the pseudonym.

Off he went.