Seymour's Emporium & An Intro to Politics

As the blacked-out SUV pulled up to the tailor's shop, Flat Flanagan and Mr. Beckdette stepped out and went inside. A small door-mounted bell jingled, alerting the tailor of new customers. 

"One moment!" the Tailor called out from somewhere beyond the well-organized suits, ties, blazers, and cufflinks. Mr. Beckdette was quiet, simply tapping his watch patiently. It took no more than a few seconds for hurried footsteps to make their way to the front. Flat looked down to see an older gentleman, probably mid-sixties in age, with silver, flattened hair to appear. 

"Ah! Mr. Beckdette! Welcome back! I trust the adjustments to your blazer are as you requested?"

"Indeed they are, Seymour." Mr. Beckdette said as he adjusted the blazer's collar. "I'm actually here for my new pal, Mr. Flanagan."

 Seymour nodded and circled Flat. "Ah, Masseur Flanagan. The man lost in a new world." Said the old tailor, his French accent twirling words around Flat like rings of long-stalked cigarette smoke. 

"Y-yes sir. It's my trench coat and fedora," started Flat as he held out his ripped trench coat and hat. Seymour put on his magnifier monocle and combed over the torn fibers. 

"When the news said you were straight from the 20s, I had no idea you'd bring such excellent craftsmanship through my doors." Seymour smiled as his old eyes raked over the trench coat. Flat stood there a moment thinking back to the day he'd gotten it...

*Flashback: 1920s New York City*

"What's this?" Asked Flat to his Secretary. She was holding a large bag out for him to take. Normally, she'd never go out of her way to get a gift for her boss, but after he'd spent the year ensuring she got out of a bad relationship, even giving her the guest house on his property to use until she got back on her feet... She knew she had to repay him in some way. 

"It's a small thank-you gift. It's for everything you've done for me." She said nervously as Flat took the bag, set it on his desk, and opened it. As the tissue paper hit the floor, Flat pulled out the brand-new trench coat and matching fedora. 

"Miss Lilliana... this is a very nice gift, but I told you there's no need to repay me. Save your clams for a new place..." Lilliana shook her head and smiled. "I will, but you must take this gift, please Flat?"

Flat shook his head at her pleading eyes. "Fine, fine. Thank you for the hat and coat." His gray-eyed smile made her smile. "You're welcome, Private-Eye Flanagan..."

*End of Flashback*

Flat knew she'd spent a few clams at Macy's Department Store to get the coat, and couldn't think of replacing it. "I'd like it fixed. I don't want a replacement... a fella could say it's... special... in ways a new coat couldn't be."

Before Mr. Beckdette could protest, Seymour held up his finger and silenced him. "Ah, yes... that sedimental value of a treasured possession," Seymour said nodding. "Come back in a week. I'll have it done, the hat too. Free of charge. It's not every day I get to work on something so nice. Do you..."

Before Seymour could continue, Flat shook his head. "No sir. I don't need a rental bum freezer." Seymour nodded and sent the two on their way. As they climbed into the SUV, the driver nodded to Mr. Beckdette, who nodded back as Flat closed the door. As the SUV entered traffic, the Mob Boss hadn't taken his eyes off of the Gray-eyed Private Eye. 

"So... Mr. Flanagan," Started the Mob Boss coldly, "tell me, have you seen my speeches? For my presidential candidacy." Flat looked away from the window, and looked at Mr. Beckdette. "I'm afraid I haven't had much time. Too many Knickerbocker, New Yorkers I mean, clambering for an old-fashioned egg cream." 

Beckdette let out a boisterous laugh at Flat's reply. However, the gray-eyed gumshoe didn't laugh. While they'd been talking, been at Seymour's Emporium, and on the sidewalk, he'd been cataloging everything and everyone he'd seen, mentally. Just as he'd surmised Beckdette had been sizing him up, checking the "cut of his jib" so to speak. "You're a funny man, Mr. Flanagan. You know, I could use someone like you on my team... my candidacy team..." 

The offer caught Flat off guard a moment before he laughed. "Me? C'mon on, quit razzing me." However, much to his surprise, Mr. Beckdette's personal secretary handed him a large Park-Clasp envelope. 

"No, Mr. Flanagan... the Boss isn't razzing you." Said the Secretary as the SUV came to a stop outside of Flat's diner. A Torpedo stepped out and opened his door allowing him out of the vehicle. However, before he was free to go, the window rolled down as Mr. Beckdette leaned over. "Think it over. I'll expect a reply when I come get you to pick up that suit, and close this deed out fully. I think I'll drop in for an ice cream..."

"Egg cream, Boss." corrected his Secretary.

"Yes... an Egg Cream. I'll be by in two days to try one. Better be as good as you claim them to be." Mr. Beckdette said with a grin as the window rolled up and the SUV drove off, leaving Flat and his slashed tie standing in the wind. As Flat went inside, Director Gresson and Alyssa were already inside waiting for him. 

"Alright, Gumshoe. Time to talk. What did you learn?" Said Gresson. 

Flat grinned and looked at him. "Seems I now have a way to be your singin' canary, Director Gresson." 

As Flat whipped up some Egg Creams and chow for the two, Gresson and Alyssa looked over the Candidacy packet he was given. Gresson took off his reading glasses slowly and looked over to the Private Eye, who was battling his mix-machine. Three years of absolutely no leads, zero evidence of corruption or bodies in the closet, and now... this, out of time Private Eye had just managed to get them a way into the Mob's backdoor. 

"Egg Creams and Chow for the two of you. Creams' served cold and Chow served up piping hot... just like this lead-opening." Flat grinned as he took off his chopped-tie and sat down beside the two of them. For the CIA and their gray-eyed Gumshoe, this was going to be one busy election-cycle.