The red sunlight of the late day shone over Emma's shoulder onto the front of the Red Rum Drum. The light gave the gaudy building a demonic hue.

A grand three-story building seemed to climb out of the ground. Even in this day and age, the idea of a three-story thatched building, made in the traditional style, seemed unlikely to be able to stand. But it did. More than that, it accommodated an alarmingly high number of people, some spilling out of the windows.

To the casual observer, each level catered to a unique form of entertainment. The drinking was on the first level. That is where most people started with the establishment's very own rum, known to one and all as the red rum dram. The rum brewing was done on the Island estate of the owners, not brought in across the seas. It was one of the great secrets on the island. Most locals suspected the publican would fortify the rum by mixing all the un-drunk drinks left behind. This was followed by a coca leaf and cinnamon. The resulting mixture was a bizarre but potent concoction that periodically tasted sweet, sour, or burnt. It reminded more than one person of sucking the end of a spent pistol barrel.

Once the owners deemed a customer was in their cups and likely free with tongue and wallet, the drinker would be approached by a woman, or if indicated, a man, or both. It was a long as sea for most, and no one would point fingers here. The server's job was to ascertain what you knew about anything and everything.

To a local, any information could lead to a deal, or better still, the prize ship and a fair share of the prize. So the servers were the smartest and most mentally dexterous of the staff. The server traded information back to the owners for their day's pay. If the news was too good and valuable, they were openly encouraged to sell that information as they pleased, with the understanding that the house cut was seventy percent.

On the other hand, if they sold the information back to the house, they would get thirty-five percent, a much better deal than peddling the info to other parties. And, on the odd occasion when, they could sell the information and did not pay the house. The house had a standing bounty for anyone who did not offer the correct tribute. The bounty was always twice the price they were paid for the information. Since pirates went everywhere in the South Pacific, the bounty was eventually collected. And it was enough of a deterrent.

Once the companion was accepted for the night, they would offer them any number of delights. The first was the gambling downstairs. The drink would never stop here as long as silver or a new story and tale was forthcoming. Any card and dice games were played. There was also that odd Australian Two-Up game available to be played here. This was one where two coins were tossed in the air, and bets were taken to see if the coins finished with two heads up, one or none. Generally, two people would start. Then, others would join. It was very popular despite its simplicity. This led to side bets. At that point, the din of shouts and yells would be deafening.

Any money absent-mindedly dropped on the floors would be scooped up by one of four or five young children darting here and there. They sat under the tables like dogs, waiting for scraps of meat. All the staff, young and old, fed the goals of The Red Rum Drum.

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This was the drum's great secret, learned long ago by Emma.

The Drum only existed to gather and sell information. They needed to get the mark happily talking about the ships they had seen while at sea, acts authorized by the Captain legal and not.

When the punters ran out of money or information worth having, the bouncers would be called. The paid bruisers were generally well-trained by one military or another. They would keep to themselves, in the shadows, in the building, or at a table, dressed in the local garb, and would not stand out until needed.

The second floor was said to be the brothel. The balcony outside saw women and girls of all colors and sizes parade and calling to passing sailors. They also had a spattering of young men doing the same. But, here lies the rub. Rarely had anyone made it up to the second floor. A few had boasted that they had been. They were sure, in fact. But, because they were so drunk, they could not really recall any details. That was it in a nutshell.

The owners of The Red Rum Drum did not like brothels. But, they had created a fair place for the staff regarding wages and benefits. Sure, they were not above killing a staff member when they broke the rules. But, in this respect, the deal's fairness did not seem to favor a girl or guy for this particular vice. The top floor was the owner's apartment, where only the most notable and wealthy were permitted to enter.

"And that is why we are here," Emma finished recounting all she knew about the drum to her party.

"So, we go in there and find the men. And, they will be so inebriated that they will tell us exactly what we need?" Amelia asked, pointing at The Red Rum Drum.

"Naw," interjected Mr. Wolf, "That would be too simple. "Two drunk pirates that talk is just too simple," Mr. Wolf continued. Then, counting on his fingers, he ticked off.

"We find some guys. And we can get all the information we need," he squinted his eyes up and cocked his head as if a bug had just flown into it. Something was wrong, and he still couldn't understand it.

Emma ignored him and continued, "Signals. If I am in trouble, I will signal you to join me and save the day," Emma said.

"All right then," Mr. Wolf agreed.

"We are keeping this simple. We are going to simply approach the owners and ask to buy the information," Emma clarified.

"Alright, you little minx. I got something for you, alright? I have," Mr. Wolf yelled out to one of the women on the balcony.

"Is that my signal," Emma half sarcastically asked and smiled at Mr. Wolf, who pointed at one of the girls on the balcony.

"Just making fun for myself, if'n we ain't going to have any proper likes, pirate fun," said Mr. Wolf.

"I believe it is just fun, not pirate fun, when your profession is pirate, in the first place," Hutchens corrected.

"Oh, how clever. It is like food in France must be French food," Amelia joined in, placing her hand on Hutchens shoulder and forearm.

"What has happened to this conversation? We are here to get information for my brother, aren't we? Is that still what is going on here, because…" Emma trailed off.

"Of course we are," Amelia responded, wringing her hands. "That poor man must have suffered so much. But, we must make all haste. For the finish line is surely in sight."

"Yes. Truly so," Hutchens encouraged.

"By Poseidon's beard! Are we going in or not?" Mr. Wolf asked.

"No. You are going to stay here with these two. You're to make sure that they do not come to a bad end," Emma pointed at Hutchens and Emma.

"Right you are," Mr. Wolf rolled his eyes over to Hutchens and Amelia.

"Come on, you two. Let's go somewhere safer than the street." Mr Wolf instructed.

"Where, Mr. Wolf?" Emma asked him.

"In the shadows, over by Molly's inn. Captain," Mr. Wolf replied and turned, not waiting for a response.