The Life Noir OOC
Making a living is rough. Particularly when your living is made dodging coppers and ducking under loopholes in mundane laws, slipping between fired bullets and depending on your wit being sharper than the next Jane's or John's to survive. Of course, matters aren't any simpler if you're trying to make a living enforcing laws and maintaining order in society, catching the sneakiest criminals in the last century, and when you just know that the walls not only have eyes, but are probably full of rats and crooked officers the same. Even if you're just trying to scrap by selling yesterday's fruit, in this city, you're going to struggle! But what's the real defining point of 'good' or 'bad?' Who's the real villain, beneath the badges and the slicked hair?
Let's find out.
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Leaves were falling lazily to the ground from the few tall, skinny trees that had been planted along the sidewalk as an apology for the lack of greenery in the city. The autumn wind wiggled its way through the New York streets, and the moon shown down like a witness to all the various machinations within the city that most knew about and none spoke openly of. Particularly now, at night, once all the good girls and boys had gone off to bed. Now, the life beneath regular life slipped up from beneath the cracks and roared on behind closed doors.
Fiona Muirenn strolled down the sidewalks that were dusted with litter and leaves, her heels clicking and clacking purposefully. She was dressed well, though hardly in a manner that would be seen as typical for a woman her age. She wore a black and purple striped suit that curved nicely around her frame, and a matching fedora bedecked with a simple red flower sat tilted on her blond head. Fiona's face was a rather marvelous thing to behold, if only for the catching light in her eyes and the deep ruby red of her lips...but there was a certain business-like sheen about her whole figure that was at once captivating and undefinable with a single look. There was something inherently dangerous about the woman who was walking alone between the moon beams and the street lamp lights.
But she was indeed alone at the moment, and as such had no one else to be marveling at the feeling that the seemingly calm woman in the business suit might at any moment pull a pocket knife out from under her shirt and lodge it between their ribs. Not that she would have, of course. Not likely, anyhow. And Fiona was hardly the sort of woman to reflect on her own ability to inflict bodily harm. Even if she had been, she was preoccupied at the moment.
There was quite a lot that had happened in just the last few months, and quite a lot more that she intended to make happen in the future. Since August, a mere five weeks ago, there had been a sudden increase in the number of women found dead in the streets. There was always one or two, of course...a hooker who had annoyed a customer, or just some waif who had begged for cash from the wrong miser, but lately the numbers had become enough even to be noticed in reputable newspapers, and to draw investigators in from outside states. Not that Fiona was worried, of course, for she was fairly certain that she could hold her own against some loon who resorted to strangling young women in back alleys. It did annoy her, of course, that someone would do such a thing in her streets...but it was as of yet still far beyond her actual business.
And her business, on this particular night, drew her down across town to a particular Chinese restaurant. At least, that was what the Gin Blossom was known as during the day. At night...well, Fiona knew of an entirely more lively existence back beneath the meat cooler and down around the winding crickety stair case, and past the door where a very large man in a greasy shirt would demand a password...Down past all the shadows and pork buns, there lay a world of glittery outfits and giggling flapper girls, gambling goons and drunkards down on their luck but not ready to be thrown out yet.
And it was to this world that Fiona was now headed, and this world that Fiona slipped her way into once making certain that she had not been followed, and that there were no straggling strangers within the restaurant itself.
The Gin Blossom was a remarkable juice joint. Chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the scent of sweet flowers that were brought in fresh each day mingling with the scent of tobacco smoke and sour whiskey. The live band, whose sound was so carefully masked to prevent it reaching the area above the underground joint, was boisterous and filled the whole spacious room, emphasized by the current singer's lusty voice. Fiona entered, and was either greeted warmly or avoided, as a woman of her position would grow accustomed to being. It brought a smile to her face.
“Shin, how are you?” Fiona greeted almost cheerily the ancient Asian bar owner. The wrinkled man chuckled and bowed and kissed her hand, guiding the smooth stepping woman over to her usual table and shooing away the scrungy looking men that had been sitting there before. As the owner made to leave and fetch her a favorite drink, Fiona caught his sleeve and drew him close to murmur something in his ear. “If Mama's here, I need to speak with her. You don't mind, do you?”
“Oh, yeah, no problem, Miss Muirenn, is no problem,” Shin bobbed his head and hurried off into the crowd, leaving Fiona to drape herself across her seat and drum her fingers on the table. Business had been good so far that night, with only a few small time business owners needing a reminder of how painful life was before siding with the Muirenns, and the rest happily promising continued loyalty. But Fiona had a whole new project she was attempting to string together, and she was hoping to make the talented 'Mama' a part of it.
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Life just wasn't fair.
Of this, Charles Wallenstein was certain. He had been working a certain case from about five different angles for a full six months, only to just last weekend have some old timer Dick pop up and snag all the credit out from under him. But at least the bad guys were tucked into bed at the nearest jail, and no longer free to play their dirty little games and earn their dirty big money on the streets. But somehow, the victory for humanity did nothing to comfort the failure in Charlie's pockets. Hard work didn't always pay, unfortunately!
But now he had a whole new angle that he needed to be working. A new case, a new angle, and new friends that he needed to make. The number of innocent (probably) girls that had been showing up, the life squeezed from their pretty necks, in alleyways in the mornings recent was appalling. And no matter the numbers of Toms, Dicks and Harry's that were snooping around for some information on the apparently un-connected attacks didn't seem to be bringing up even a wooden nickel's worth of useful anything. So Charlie made an informed decision to let go his massive disappointment with the stolen victory, hard as it was going to be on his stomach, with all the reduced price bread he was going to be eating the next few weeks, and focus on the new work at hand.
And one of his first steps with his new found goal would be interviewing one of the cops who had found one of the most recent victims, some doll with so much makeup that at first a positive id couldn't be made. So Charlie walked through the dark streets, his eyes darting about from under his wrinkled hat at all the dirty street corners and the 'ladies' who slunk around behind them at the sight of the glint his badge gave from off of his belt. The police station wasn't very far from Charlie's office (which was part of the reason he had chosen the location of the ratty building) and so he was soon stepping in through the door and flicking dead leaves off his shoulders and nodding at the secretary who eyed him with a great deal of disdain. Surely he wasn't the dirtiest thing that had ever walked in through that door!
There were a few cops shooting the breeze at one of the dimly lit desks, and Charlie recognized all but one of them from meetings in the past. And so he felt certain that this one must have been the one he had spoken with over the phone earlier.
“Hey boys. Hey, you Knightley?” Charlie greeted in his heavy New Yorker's drawl as he removed his hat and came to a stop a desk away from the policemen. “Detective Charles Wallenstein. Talked to you ovah the phone? You still got a minute?”
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The Life Noir ( )
by Jadeling Hawkins on Sun Dec 14, 2008 9:40 pm
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Jadeling Hawkins - Member for 5 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by NorthernSoul on Mon Dec 15, 2008 5:41 am
The day had started off well. A cheque addressed to 'Mr Benjamin J Goldberg' had arrived in the post that morning, written in the fluid, flowing script of a person used to writing. The accompaning letter from a 'Mrs S Ramsbottom, the editor' thanked him for 'contributing such a thoughtful, sensitive and unrelentlessly romantic to the esteemed pages of our quality magazine' and 'very much encouraged him to pen similar works' that would 'further enthrall the minds and capture the hearts of our faithful readers'. At around two o'clock in the afternoon, after Ben had groggily awoken with a sledge hammer-like hangover, he staggered downstairs to retrieve his letters from the pigeonhole in the hall. Afterwards, he stood in front of the desk in his cramped room, wearing a pair of button-up undershorts and not much else except for an unlit roll-up hanging out of the corner of his mouth and laughed as his pale gaze scanned the letter.
They'd lapped up that schmaltzy bull and now they were asking for more? He'd certainly oblige. Why would he deny the numerous readers and intellectual giants of Women's Romantic Fiction Magazine? Especially if they were going to pay him sixty dollars for a story he'd drafted in a gin-drowned stupor in the early hours of a Tuesday morning.
After throwing the letter into the waste-paper basket for kindling, he washed, dressed in slim-fitting navy-blue trousers and a crumpled cream shirt, sleeves rolled up in preparation, and went down the street to the bank on the corner to triumphantly cash in his hard-earned cheque. Back in his flat, he sat down at his typewriter and set his fingers purposefully to the keys.
Five hours later he'd managed to produce eight paragraphs of an article on the culture of organised crime in the Lower East Side. He finished a sentence with a final tap of a key and the typewriter clacked in a satisfyingly final way; a full stop out loud. Ben brought his hand to his mouth, a cigarette lodged between the distal joints of his yellowing index and middle fingers, and blew a stream of blue-grey smoke out of the open window. The characters, a stark black on white, hung there on the curve of the paper over the roller of the typewriter, daring him to continue, mocking him with their tangibility.
In one movement, Ben stubbed his cigarette out on the tabletop and tore the paper out from the typewriter. He screwed it up with one hand and threw it with practised anger into the waste paper basket. More kindling. Flicking the cigarette butt out of the window, he stood up accompanied by the screech of his chair and reached into his back pocket for a hip flask. It was resoundingly empty. Not even a drop of the paint-stripper-cum-moonshine left. With a growl, he hastily pulled on his jacket and stormed down the stairs, out into the crisp darkness of an autumn evening in New York.
Not to McSweeney's, though. He had a tab there as long as his arm which would swallow a significant proportion of his sixty dollars and, for tonight at least, Ben Goldberg wanted to feel rich. Off to that speakeasy masquerading as a Chinese restaurant then. A little ritzy for his usual tastes; most of the bars Ben frequented were of the variety that were filled with with men aiming to go from vertical to horizontal in the shortest time possible, except when he felt like picking up the odd sheba, of course. Maybe that's what he'd do tonight, too.
His mistake, however, was not choosing to go to the Gin Blossom, but walking within a block of McSweeney's in order to get there. Two thickset men, who Ben knew by sight to be McSweeney's heavies, were coming the other way down the street. He tried his hardest to look inconspicuous, with little success.
"-about all them quiffs getting bumped off," one was saying. "Whoever it is, must be some kinda- Hey, isn't that that kike who upchucked all over the corner of the bar the other week? Mr McSweeney said he owes him..."
Ben didn't even bother to run away.
Twenty pain-filled minutes later, Ben had lost fifty dollars and gained one split lip. He had consequently decided to self-medicate with copious amounts of whiskey in the underground bar in the Gin Blossom. This place was nicer than he remembered; a jazz band playing in one corner, accompanying a singer who's voice sounded like golden syrup as it flowed through the smoky air. A few good-looking shebas around, he mentally appreciated, giving an attractive blonde who'd just walked in the eye as he lit up, holding the cigarette gingerly between his bruised lips. Looked vaguely familiar though, he just couldn't quite work out why...
They'd lapped up that schmaltzy bull and now they were asking for more? He'd certainly oblige. Why would he deny the numerous readers and intellectual giants of Women's Romantic Fiction Magazine? Especially if they were going to pay him sixty dollars for a story he'd drafted in a gin-drowned stupor in the early hours of a Tuesday morning.
After throwing the letter into the waste-paper basket for kindling, he washed, dressed in slim-fitting navy-blue trousers and a crumpled cream shirt, sleeves rolled up in preparation, and went down the street to the bank on the corner to triumphantly cash in his hard-earned cheque. Back in his flat, he sat down at his typewriter and set his fingers purposefully to the keys.
Five hours later he'd managed to produce eight paragraphs of an article on the culture of organised crime in the Lower East Side. He finished a sentence with a final tap of a key and the typewriter clacked in a satisfyingly final way; a full stop out loud. Ben brought his hand to his mouth, a cigarette lodged between the distal joints of his yellowing index and middle fingers, and blew a stream of blue-grey smoke out of the open window. The characters, a stark black on white, hung there on the curve of the paper over the roller of the typewriter, daring him to continue, mocking him with their tangibility.
In one movement, Ben stubbed his cigarette out on the tabletop and tore the paper out from the typewriter. He screwed it up with one hand and threw it with practised anger into the waste paper basket. More kindling. Flicking the cigarette butt out of the window, he stood up accompanied by the screech of his chair and reached into his back pocket for a hip flask. It was resoundingly empty. Not even a drop of the paint-stripper-cum-moonshine left. With a growl, he hastily pulled on his jacket and stormed down the stairs, out into the crisp darkness of an autumn evening in New York.
Not to McSweeney's, though. He had a tab there as long as his arm which would swallow a significant proportion of his sixty dollars and, for tonight at least, Ben Goldberg wanted to feel rich. Off to that speakeasy masquerading as a Chinese restaurant then. A little ritzy for his usual tastes; most of the bars Ben frequented were of the variety that were filled with with men aiming to go from vertical to horizontal in the shortest time possible, except when he felt like picking up the odd sheba, of course. Maybe that's what he'd do tonight, too.
His mistake, however, was not choosing to go to the Gin Blossom, but walking within a block of McSweeney's in order to get there. Two thickset men, who Ben knew by sight to be McSweeney's heavies, were coming the other way down the street. He tried his hardest to look inconspicuous, with little success.
"-about all them quiffs getting bumped off," one was saying. "Whoever it is, must be some kinda- Hey, isn't that that kike who upchucked all over the corner of the bar the other week? Mr McSweeney said he owes him..."
Ben didn't even bother to run away.
Twenty pain-filled minutes later, Ben had lost fifty dollars and gained one split lip. He had consequently decided to self-medicate with copious amounts of whiskey in the underground bar in the Gin Blossom. This place was nicer than he remembered; a jazz band playing in one corner, accompanying a singer who's voice sounded like golden syrup as it flowed through the smoky air. A few good-looking shebas around, he mentally appreciated, giving an attractive blonde who'd just walked in the eye as he lit up, holding the cigarette gingerly between his bruised lips. Looked vaguely familiar though, he just couldn't quite work out why...
The Murmuration
mur·mur·a·tion
–noun
1. an act or instance of murmuring.
2. a flock of starlings.
Origin:
1350–1400; Middle English < Latin murmurātiōn- (stem of murmurātiō ).
mur·mur·a·tion
–noun
1. an act or instance of murmuring.
2. a flock of starlings.
Origin:
1350–1400; Middle English < Latin murmurātiōn- (stem of murmurātiō ).
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by daughterofdon on Mon Dec 15, 2008 4:11 pm
Police Sergeant Lance Knightley was quick to hop off the desk he had been sitting on. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat as he stepped forward to meet the detective. The man fell a little short of the image of professionalism that Lance had been picturing while on the phone, but it was no matter—he was anxious to talk about the girl.
“Right—Detective Wallenstein. I’m Knightley—Sgt. Lance Knightley,” he said, with a gruffness he had learned on the job. He passed a dismissing glance at his fellow officers, Gavin and Percy, and then gestured for Charles to follow him. “We’ll talk in my office.”
He sat down at the desk in the small office and waited until the secretary had finished pouring them two cups of coffee before he spoke. “Thanks, Elaine,” he said duly, although clearly he was distracted and hardly noticed the girl. The brunette secretary smiled over-eagerly—secretly glad that she had agreed to work the late shift. Then she left, and the door closed. Lance listened a moment to the city sounds outside the window, and then he turned to Charles, ready to speak.
“So. First off, I want to be involved in this case. I mean, it’s been five weeks since the first victim turned up, right? If we nip this in the bud… I’m sure it’s one person who’s doing it. And it may not be professional, but I must admit that I feel personally involved…”
He leaned his elbows on the desk and wearily placed his knuckles on his jaw. He immediately regretted admitting to his feeling of personal involvement. It must have been because the detective looked so unassuming, and had a friendly face, like a guy he’d like to have a drink with—well, not necessarily a drink. Still, Lance had been lucky that he wasn’t considered a suspect, and he didn’t need to say things that would inspire such suspicions.
“I didn’t know the girl,” he was quick to add, laying his broad hands flat on the desk. “They told me her name after they finally identified her, and I hadn't heard of her. But… it was the first time that I came first upon the victim—I was on night patrol and it was just in an alley, a total shock to me when I saw her. Or at least, it was the first time I have seen a female victim… like that. Strangled. God…”
If his tongue had been less guarded, he would have admitted to wanting a drink at that moment. But he softly shook his head at the unbidden thought and took a gulp of his hot coffee instead. He had a little bit of flashback as he remembered shining his flashlight upon the heavily made-up face (literally like a doll), grotesquely smudged by the brutality of her murder. And for some reason there was feathers all around her, which he only recently realized were the feathers shedded from her man-handled boa. After he made his discovery, he had immediately dropped his nightstick with a thud, and was startled by the sound of a cat scurrying nearby. The time after that—when he rushed to a callbox and called the station house for back-up, and then the detailed report he had to make, and the investigations that immediately followed… all of that was as dazed as a dream.
“Right—Detective Wallenstein. I’m Knightley—Sgt. Lance Knightley,” he said, with a gruffness he had learned on the job. He passed a dismissing glance at his fellow officers, Gavin and Percy, and then gestured for Charles to follow him. “We’ll talk in my office.”
He sat down at the desk in the small office and waited until the secretary had finished pouring them two cups of coffee before he spoke. “Thanks, Elaine,” he said duly, although clearly he was distracted and hardly noticed the girl. The brunette secretary smiled over-eagerly—secretly glad that she had agreed to work the late shift. Then she left, and the door closed. Lance listened a moment to the city sounds outside the window, and then he turned to Charles, ready to speak.
“So. First off, I want to be involved in this case. I mean, it’s been five weeks since the first victim turned up, right? If we nip this in the bud… I’m sure it’s one person who’s doing it. And it may not be professional, but I must admit that I feel personally involved…”
He leaned his elbows on the desk and wearily placed his knuckles on his jaw. He immediately regretted admitting to his feeling of personal involvement. It must have been because the detective looked so unassuming, and had a friendly face, like a guy he’d like to have a drink with—well, not necessarily a drink. Still, Lance had been lucky that he wasn’t considered a suspect, and he didn’t need to say things that would inspire such suspicions.
“I didn’t know the girl,” he was quick to add, laying his broad hands flat on the desk. “They told me her name after they finally identified her, and I hadn't heard of her. But… it was the first time that I came first upon the victim—I was on night patrol and it was just in an alley, a total shock to me when I saw her. Or at least, it was the first time I have seen a female victim… like that. Strangled. God…”
If his tongue had been less guarded, he would have admitted to wanting a drink at that moment. But he softly shook his head at the unbidden thought and took a gulp of his hot coffee instead. He had a little bit of flashback as he remembered shining his flashlight upon the heavily made-up face (literally like a doll), grotesquely smudged by the brutality of her murder. And for some reason there was feathers all around her, which he only recently realized were the feathers shedded from her man-handled boa. After he made his discovery, he had immediately dropped his nightstick with a thud, and was startled by the sound of a cat scurrying nearby. The time after that—when he rushed to a callbox and called the station house for back-up, and then the detailed report he had to make, and the investigations that immediately followed… all of that was as dazed as a dream.
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Monroe on Mon Dec 15, 2008 7:42 pm
The amber lights of the dressing room glowed like fireflies in the dim space as Millie, better know as Mama, powdered her face and painted her lips with a deep burgundy lipstick. Her full, dark face was made up to be seen under the lights of the stage. Wide-set, dark brown eyes were accentuated with a thick line of kohl, her full, rounded cheeks accentuated with rouge.
Mama pulled her hair back into an intricate up-do and slid a gold, bejeweled pin into it, pleased with the striking black woman that looked back at her in the mirror. The voluptuous woman’s frame was squeezed into a tight, heavy, beaded gold and purple cocktail dress, perfect for the night’s sultry performance. Mama dabbed on her signature, expensive orchid perfume, letting it’s heady, intoxicating scent envelope her. It was rare that customers got close enough to smell the orchids, but when they did, they were paying extremely well. Mama made sure they got what they paid for.
The diminutive, ancient owner of the Gin Blossom hurried in and Mama turned in her chair, looking at him over her bare shoulder.
“Hey honey, what’s you’re hurry?” she asked, raising one well defined, arched eyebrow.
Shin hurriedly bowed his head. “Miss Muirenn wishes for you’re company.” he said, gesturing to the door. Millie nodded and stood, gathering her skirts.
“Of course.” she murmured, hurrying from the dim room. A long, darkened hallway led to the lounge where Millie spied Fiona already seated across the room. The plump woman glided across the area with the grace of someone half her size. Patron’s smiled at her from behind their glasses, tipping their hats to the ‘one and only Mama May’. Millie took her time, casting lingering, enticing glances at the Gin Blossom’s best customers.
Finally reaching the mysterious Fiona’s table, Millie draped herself across the opposite chair.
“How you doin’, baby? It’s been too long.”
The jazz singer knew this was no social call. Fiona was all business in her suit and fedora, drink in hand. Mama knew the in’s and out’s of the speakeasy world, knew a bootlegger or a gangster when she saw one. She also knew that Lady Luck was one woman she would not want to be on the wrong side of. It was lucky for her that they worked for the same team, so to speak. Both of them encouraged a certain lifestyle; it only made sense to work together.
Mama pulled her hair back into an intricate up-do and slid a gold, bejeweled pin into it, pleased with the striking black woman that looked back at her in the mirror. The voluptuous woman’s frame was squeezed into a tight, heavy, beaded gold and purple cocktail dress, perfect for the night’s sultry performance. Mama dabbed on her signature, expensive orchid perfume, letting it’s heady, intoxicating scent envelope her. It was rare that customers got close enough to smell the orchids, but when they did, they were paying extremely well. Mama made sure they got what they paid for.
The diminutive, ancient owner of the Gin Blossom hurried in and Mama turned in her chair, looking at him over her bare shoulder.
“Hey honey, what’s you’re hurry?” she asked, raising one well defined, arched eyebrow.
Shin hurriedly bowed his head. “Miss Muirenn wishes for you’re company.” he said, gesturing to the door. Millie nodded and stood, gathering her skirts.
“Of course.” she murmured, hurrying from the dim room. A long, darkened hallway led to the lounge where Millie spied Fiona already seated across the room. The plump woman glided across the area with the grace of someone half her size. Patron’s smiled at her from behind their glasses, tipping their hats to the ‘one and only Mama May’. Millie took her time, casting lingering, enticing glances at the Gin Blossom’s best customers.
Finally reaching the mysterious Fiona’s table, Millie draped herself across the opposite chair.
“How you doin’, baby? It’s been too long.”
The jazz singer knew this was no social call. Fiona was all business in her suit and fedora, drink in hand. Mama knew the in’s and out’s of the speakeasy world, knew a bootlegger or a gangster when she saw one. She also knew that Lady Luck was one woman she would not want to be on the wrong side of. It was lucky for her that they worked for the same team, so to speak. Both of them encouraged a certain lifestyle; it only made sense to work together.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Jadeling Hawkins on Tue Dec 16, 2008 10:54 am
Fiona's cool eyes lifted as Millie approached and let herself into a seat. She smiled.
"Well if it ain't the baby vamp herself. How are you, Mama? Yeah, it's been too long," Fiona greeted in reply as she capped off her drink and set the empty glass on the table. Stroking a bit of blond hair off of her cheek, the Lady Luck actually smiled. It was an exciting matter, after all. "I'd ask if business is good for you, but really I don't think that's something you need to worry about."
One of the drinkers nearby had been continuously shooting looks at Lady Luck since she had settled herself into her seat. He was a rather poor looking creature that might have had blond hair when it was washed, but now was sort of a grimy gray. He was dressed nicely, of course, since a ratty patron rarely got much attention from the eggs in the joint. Now, to Fiona's great annoyance, the man tippy-toed up to her table and sat own, uninvited.
"Hey there, Lady Luck," The man offered as he ran one hand through his hair. "I, ah, I hate ta bother ya, but I was wonderin' if I might have a few words 'bout sellin' a few clean guns..."
Normally, Fiona would either listen in on an offer or shrug off unsavory ones with a show of cold grace. Business-like. But at the moment, she was in the middle of easing into making an offer of her own. And this man had strolled up without invitation, and certainly without right. He didn't even have an old contact of hers to introduce him! If his apparent rudeness hadn't doomed him in Fiona's eyes, the uncouth nature of his flimsy deal certainly would. And a look flashed over Fiona's face like a flash of lightning in a stormy sky.
"Beat it, piker. This ain't an open conference!" Fiona snapped, her teeth clicking as she spoke. She spun her glass with one finger around on the table, and considered flicking it at the man's face to drive home her point. Luckily, she didn't have to. The man scurried back away to the comfort of a bench seat and a heavy drink. With a sigh, Fiona rolled her shoulders and turned a friendly eye back on Millie. "Sometimes I think I should start dragging a bimbo around with me all the time. But that gives out the wrong idea, you know. I like the personal touch."
But she hadn't come to the Gin Blossom and dragged Millie out of her dressing room just to discuss the fact that she preferred pounding her own faces. Still, this seemed an opportune moment to get down to business. "That's why I'm starting up a whole new little project. Something I'd like to see you involved in, Mama."
At this point, one of the sweet-faced serving girls came up with a new drink and an offer of cigarettes, the former of which Fiona accepted and took a light sip of. "How would you like to be a lead performer? No side gigs, just running a show of your own. I'd even let you pick your own tunes."
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Charlie put on his best friendly listener face and sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes somewhat wider than normal. He was the very epitome of trust-worthiness. It wasn't that he thought the sergeant wouldn't trust him, necessarily, or that he thought there would be anything left out of the story...but he knew that police could sometimes be skittish about these sort of things. Hell, anyone would be skittish about these kind of things, especially when talking to a dick. And Charlie needed to know everything Knightley knew.
He didn't make any argument when Knightley expressed a desire to be involved. No, in fact, Charlie nodded encouragingly at the idea. Two heads, right? And while dicks could roam the streets more freely than cops, the men in blue had a certain influence in their uniforms. That could come in handy.
So Charles listened intently to every detail, locking away not only the words, but the inflections and posture of the officer as he spoke them. He didn't get the impression that Knightley was hiding anything, but he wouldn't have been doing his job if he didn't question him thoroughly.
"So she was just lyin' in the street theah?" Charlie asked, looking up from the note pad he had been scribbling furiously in. "No one else around? Was theah a note or anythin'?"
Charlie stood and took a few thoughtful steps around the office, running one hand down his face and tucking his note pad into his inside pocket. His gaze got caught outside the window as he considered the facts of the case. It seemed that there was nothing noticeably similar between the victims, other than that they had all been women. None were of the same race, the same hair color, the same eye color, or even the same profession...
"So Sahgeant," Charles suddenly spoke, looking back to Lance curiously, "Have you seen all tha victims? You ain't noticed anythin' similah in them, have ya? Other than tha fact that they're all found in tha mornin'..."
Charlie frowned and shook his head, re-seating himself. In serial cases, whether they were robberies or murders and peeping toms, there was always some similarity. Something that connected the lot of them. Charlie just couldn't see it. And if he couldn't see it, how could they track down the culprit?
"Well if it ain't the baby vamp herself. How are you, Mama? Yeah, it's been too long," Fiona greeted in reply as she capped off her drink and set the empty glass on the table. Stroking a bit of blond hair off of her cheek, the Lady Luck actually smiled. It was an exciting matter, after all. "I'd ask if business is good for you, but really I don't think that's something you need to worry about."
One of the drinkers nearby had been continuously shooting looks at Lady Luck since she had settled herself into her seat. He was a rather poor looking creature that might have had blond hair when it was washed, but now was sort of a grimy gray. He was dressed nicely, of course, since a ratty patron rarely got much attention from the eggs in the joint. Now, to Fiona's great annoyance, the man tippy-toed up to her table and sat own, uninvited.
"Hey there, Lady Luck," The man offered as he ran one hand through his hair. "I, ah, I hate ta bother ya, but I was wonderin' if I might have a few words 'bout sellin' a few clean guns..."
Normally, Fiona would either listen in on an offer or shrug off unsavory ones with a show of cold grace. Business-like. But at the moment, she was in the middle of easing into making an offer of her own. And this man had strolled up without invitation, and certainly without right. He didn't even have an old contact of hers to introduce him! If his apparent rudeness hadn't doomed him in Fiona's eyes, the uncouth nature of his flimsy deal certainly would. And a look flashed over Fiona's face like a flash of lightning in a stormy sky.
"Beat it, piker. This ain't an open conference!" Fiona snapped, her teeth clicking as she spoke. She spun her glass with one finger around on the table, and considered flicking it at the man's face to drive home her point. Luckily, she didn't have to. The man scurried back away to the comfort of a bench seat and a heavy drink. With a sigh, Fiona rolled her shoulders and turned a friendly eye back on Millie. "Sometimes I think I should start dragging a bimbo around with me all the time. But that gives out the wrong idea, you know. I like the personal touch."
But she hadn't come to the Gin Blossom and dragged Millie out of her dressing room just to discuss the fact that she preferred pounding her own faces. Still, this seemed an opportune moment to get down to business. "That's why I'm starting up a whole new little project. Something I'd like to see you involved in, Mama."
At this point, one of the sweet-faced serving girls came up with a new drink and an offer of cigarettes, the former of which Fiona accepted and took a light sip of. "How would you like to be a lead performer? No side gigs, just running a show of your own. I'd even let you pick your own tunes."
--------------------
Charlie put on his best friendly listener face and sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes somewhat wider than normal. He was the very epitome of trust-worthiness. It wasn't that he thought the sergeant wouldn't trust him, necessarily, or that he thought there would be anything left out of the story...but he knew that police could sometimes be skittish about these sort of things. Hell, anyone would be skittish about these kind of things, especially when talking to a dick. And Charlie needed to know everything Knightley knew.
He didn't make any argument when Knightley expressed a desire to be involved. No, in fact, Charlie nodded encouragingly at the idea. Two heads, right? And while dicks could roam the streets more freely than cops, the men in blue had a certain influence in their uniforms. That could come in handy.
So Charles listened intently to every detail, locking away not only the words, but the inflections and posture of the officer as he spoke them. He didn't get the impression that Knightley was hiding anything, but he wouldn't have been doing his job if he didn't question him thoroughly.
"So she was just lyin' in the street theah?" Charlie asked, looking up from the note pad he had been scribbling furiously in. "No one else around? Was theah a note or anythin'?"
Charlie stood and took a few thoughtful steps around the office, running one hand down his face and tucking his note pad into his inside pocket. His gaze got caught outside the window as he considered the facts of the case. It seemed that there was nothing noticeably similar between the victims, other than that they had all been women. None were of the same race, the same hair color, the same eye color, or even the same profession...
"So Sahgeant," Charles suddenly spoke, looking back to Lance curiously, "Have you seen all tha victims? You ain't noticed anythin' similah in them, have ya? Other than tha fact that they're all found in tha mornin'..."
Charlie frowned and shook his head, re-seating himself. In serial cases, whether they were robberies or murders and peeping toms, there was always some similarity. Something that connected the lot of them. Charlie just couldn't see it. And if he couldn't see it, how could they track down the culprit?
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Jadeling Hawkins - Member for 5 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by imogen_22 on Tue Dec 16, 2008 2:47 pm
A cieling. A well lit, creamy white cieling was what Lacey Brown was met with as her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, this confused her. This was not her bed, nor her room. Hell, she didn't have a room. She sat up, only to have her head rush with blood, sway, and fall back onto the pillows.
Oh. Right. She'd been on the job last night.
Lacey turned slowly, fumbling for a clock on the bedside table. She managed to blink enough sleep from her topaz eyes to make out numbers. 3:47. She swore, and sat up again, ignoring the pounding in her ears. Had she really slept the right into the afternoon?
She sidled out of the bed, trying to ignore the furious pounding in her ears. As Lacey rubbed her temples, trying to sooth her blossoming migraine, her gaze flicked to the snoring lump on the other side of the bed. A wretched mix of bad cologne and gin radiated off of him, bringing a fuzzy haze of memories from last night. She squinted her eyes, fighting furiously against her headache to remember when she picked this guy up. Nothing. One too many martinis. she thought, rolling her eyes.
Lacey stole across the room, pulling on last night's dress and panythose as she walked. She paused at the mirror, where she discovered her flapper wig hanging from the top. Lacey had to jump to get it, and after spending a good five minutes trying to pull her hair into a bun, gave up and just stuffed it all into the wig.
On the dresser was a wad of cash, held together by an elastic. She always made sure her clients paid beforehand, before they were too stoned to know up from down. She deposited it into her purse, and, after grabbing her jacket from the bedpost, was out the door.
She was met by the crisp November air of New York, biting at her nose and cheeks as she strode down the sidewalk. Lacey fished a ciggy out of her purse, just managing to light it before the meek flame on her match was blown out. The city was already buzzing with people, most of whom glanced at her as she walked by; some in disgust, some in envy, and some-mostly male-in interest.
Prostitution had obviously not been Lacey's first choice of job. Once upon a time, she had hopes and dreams like any other girl, of being a writer, a teacher, whatever. But also like any other girl, she soon found out that New York was cruel and merciless, and one had to do everything they could just to scrape by.
She haled a taxi at the corner, her jacket blowing and showing half her legs. Lacey ignored the disgraceful looks of ongoers as she clambered into the cab; she'd gotten that reaction enough for to become old.
She saw the driver grimace as she climbed into the car, ciggy in hand. However, he said nothing, just rolled down the window in the front. He couldn't turn down a customer. Just like her, he had to get by.
"The Gin Blossom." Lacey muttered before taking another drag. He nodded once and pulled back into the stream of traffic.
Staring out the window, Lacey found her gaze glued to a pair walking down the street. It was an older man, with a rather unattractive goatee, holding the hand of a little girl, her eyes twinkling. She could practically see the words on her lips. Daddy. She pondered, briefly, what it would be like to grow up with a father who loved you, and a mother who cared enough to get a real job. To have someone to care for you...
"Ma'am?"
Lacey's head whipped around to the front, where the driver was now staring at her with a puzzled look. It took a moment for her to realize that the cab had stopped, and the pair was gone. When she looked out the window, she saw that they were parked in front of the Gin Blossom.
"Ah, thanks." she smiled, a smile she knew could make men's hearts race and women look on in envy. The driver cleared his throat, trying to cover his flush. Lacey fished the wad of cash from her purse and carefully pealed off one of the clams. "Keep the change." she said in a slightly husky voice, one that made the man go redder as she stepped out of the car.
People looked up as she walked in, alerted of her entrance by the gust of bitter air that blew abruptly into the tavern. Most looked down again, while some of the men's eyes lingered, giving her an appraising once over.
"Well look what just blew in." Shin, the small, elderly owner of the bar, chuckled as she took a seat on one of the stools.
"Hey there, Shin."
"The usual?" He glanced up from the glass he was washing down with a cloth.
"Nah, too much of an edge from last night." she gestured to her head. "I'll have some java."
"'Course." Shin nodded, and obliged. Once she had taken a good long sip of coffee and her head was clearer, Lacey looked around the bar.
Besides most of the usual drugstore cowboys, eyeing dolls from the room, there was only one table that caught Lace's interest. One in the corner of the room, with only two occupants. She knew both faces. The curvy woman was Mama-but then, most everyone at least knew of her-and the smaller one was the infamous Lady Luck.
Oh. Right. She'd been on the job last night.
Lacey turned slowly, fumbling for a clock on the bedside table. She managed to blink enough sleep from her topaz eyes to make out numbers. 3:47. She swore, and sat up again, ignoring the pounding in her ears. Had she really slept the right into the afternoon?
She sidled out of the bed, trying to ignore the furious pounding in her ears. As Lacey rubbed her temples, trying to sooth her blossoming migraine, her gaze flicked to the snoring lump on the other side of the bed. A wretched mix of bad cologne and gin radiated off of him, bringing a fuzzy haze of memories from last night. She squinted her eyes, fighting furiously against her headache to remember when she picked this guy up. Nothing. One too many martinis. she thought, rolling her eyes.
Lacey stole across the room, pulling on last night's dress and panythose as she walked. She paused at the mirror, where she discovered her flapper wig hanging from the top. Lacey had to jump to get it, and after spending a good five minutes trying to pull her hair into a bun, gave up and just stuffed it all into the wig.
On the dresser was a wad of cash, held together by an elastic. She always made sure her clients paid beforehand, before they were too stoned to know up from down. She deposited it into her purse, and, after grabbing her jacket from the bedpost, was out the door.
She was met by the crisp November air of New York, biting at her nose and cheeks as she strode down the sidewalk. Lacey fished a ciggy out of her purse, just managing to light it before the meek flame on her match was blown out. The city was already buzzing with people, most of whom glanced at her as she walked by; some in disgust, some in envy, and some-mostly male-in interest.
Prostitution had obviously not been Lacey's first choice of job. Once upon a time, she had hopes and dreams like any other girl, of being a writer, a teacher, whatever. But also like any other girl, she soon found out that New York was cruel and merciless, and one had to do everything they could just to scrape by.
She haled a taxi at the corner, her jacket blowing and showing half her legs. Lacey ignored the disgraceful looks of ongoers as she clambered into the cab; she'd gotten that reaction enough for to become old.
She saw the driver grimace as she climbed into the car, ciggy in hand. However, he said nothing, just rolled down the window in the front. He couldn't turn down a customer. Just like her, he had to get by.
"The Gin Blossom." Lacey muttered before taking another drag. He nodded once and pulled back into the stream of traffic.
Staring out the window, Lacey found her gaze glued to a pair walking down the street. It was an older man, with a rather unattractive goatee, holding the hand of a little girl, her eyes twinkling. She could practically see the words on her lips. Daddy. She pondered, briefly, what it would be like to grow up with a father who loved you, and a mother who cared enough to get a real job. To have someone to care for you...
"Ma'am?"
Lacey's head whipped around to the front, where the driver was now staring at her with a puzzled look. It took a moment for her to realize that the cab had stopped, and the pair was gone. When she looked out the window, she saw that they were parked in front of the Gin Blossom.
"Ah, thanks." she smiled, a smile she knew could make men's hearts race and women look on in envy. The driver cleared his throat, trying to cover his flush. Lacey fished the wad of cash from her purse and carefully pealed off one of the clams. "Keep the change." she said in a slightly husky voice, one that made the man go redder as she stepped out of the car.
People looked up as she walked in, alerted of her entrance by the gust of bitter air that blew abruptly into the tavern. Most looked down again, while some of the men's eyes lingered, giving her an appraising once over.
"Well look what just blew in." Shin, the small, elderly owner of the bar, chuckled as she took a seat on one of the stools.
"Hey there, Shin."
"The usual?" He glanced up from the glass he was washing down with a cloth.
"Nah, too much of an edge from last night." she gestured to her head. "I'll have some java."
"'Course." Shin nodded, and obliged. Once she had taken a good long sip of coffee and her head was clearer, Lacey looked around the bar.
Besides most of the usual drugstore cowboys, eyeing dolls from the room, there was only one table that caught Lace's interest. One in the corner of the room, with only two occupants. She knew both faces. The curvy woman was Mama-but then, most everyone at least knew of her-and the smaller one was the infamous Lady Luck.
Live, love, laugh
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imogen_22 - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by daughterofdon on Tue Dec 16, 2008 5:49 pm
Lance furrowed his dark brows as Charlie asked him about a note. “No one was around—she was just lying in the street. No note or anything,” he answered with a fair amount of certainty. “Although… the crime scene unit may still find something after they’ve finished collecting evidence.”
From his seat, he looked expectantly at Charles as the detective mulled around and looked out the window. He found this fellow to be a lot easier to get along with than the other dicks that worked with the police. Some of them had these attitudes about them—like they were smarter than the cops. Well, maybe they were… Lance was no rocket scientist, but he had gone to the University—although he would concede that his focus could have been more scholarly and a bit less athletic.
As soon as Charles asked him if he had seen the victims, Lance turned rigid and took a deep, stoic breath. “I… uh… have not—yet,” he said, slowly reaching across to the end of his desk and pulling forth a clean manila file. “I got these from the crime scene unit. Pictures.” He seemed to fortify himself with another breath as he opened the folder and spread the black and white photographs before him. His mouth was tight with disgust and his brown eyes glinted with the beginnings of righteous fury. He could tolerate seeing murdered men without feeling affronted, but there was something about seeing a dead woman…
After the initial shock of seeing the hand-full of images—all young women murdered within the last five weeks—he remembered what the detective had asked. Could he see any similarities between them? He scanned them all together, looked back and forth, checked all the physical aspects that could discriminate a woman. After looking at the women themselves, he considered what they were wearing…
“Beads… feathers,” he mumbled. “Hey, Charlie! Can I call you Charlie? They were all wearing something around their necks. Here, look at this,” he got out of his seat and held the photos under the detective’s nose. “She’s got a string of beads, this doll’s got a scarf… a fur stole… a feather—what do you call it? Right—a boa. And from what it looks like, the creep used the neckwear to strangle the victim. Yeah, look at how the beads are broken here, and the one that I found—the feathers had been torn out.”
He was excited now, hovering eagerly over Charlie as he showed him the photos. He backed away, though, when he realized that it might have been just a coincidence. “Alright… maybe it’s just the fashion for dolls to wear these things—but at least that would mean the killer chooses fashionable victims. I mean, I don’t see any nuns or schoolmarms here… all of them must be under thirty.”
Lance looked through the photos once more, searching for more details that the victims were wearing. “Wait… what’s this? This one’s wearing some sort of brooch. You can see it from where her scarf was covering. He held the image close to his eyes and squinted. “It’s some kind of flower… and it’s monogrammed. 'GB'. But that’s not the initials of this victim. Charlie, you’ve got a magnifying glass on you?” He handed Charlie the photo to confirm if he read the letters right.
Meanwhile, Lance scratched his head as he thought. “Do you think it might be a club? The GB club? 'G' as in gambling… 'B' as in brewery… or maybe 'G' as in gin…”
He lifted his brow as he placed his hand on his badge—known to members of the force as their shield. “You know, I don’t mind going under cover… if we need to go some place. If it is a speakeasy, surely people there will know this girl--and maybe they would know who would want to strangle the life out of her.”
From his seat, he looked expectantly at Charles as the detective mulled around and looked out the window. He found this fellow to be a lot easier to get along with than the other dicks that worked with the police. Some of them had these attitudes about them—like they were smarter than the cops. Well, maybe they were… Lance was no rocket scientist, but he had gone to the University—although he would concede that his focus could have been more scholarly and a bit less athletic.
As soon as Charles asked him if he had seen the victims, Lance turned rigid and took a deep, stoic breath. “I… uh… have not—yet,” he said, slowly reaching across to the end of his desk and pulling forth a clean manila file. “I got these from the crime scene unit. Pictures.” He seemed to fortify himself with another breath as he opened the folder and spread the black and white photographs before him. His mouth was tight with disgust and his brown eyes glinted with the beginnings of righteous fury. He could tolerate seeing murdered men without feeling affronted, but there was something about seeing a dead woman…
After the initial shock of seeing the hand-full of images—all young women murdered within the last five weeks—he remembered what the detective had asked. Could he see any similarities between them? He scanned them all together, looked back and forth, checked all the physical aspects that could discriminate a woman. After looking at the women themselves, he considered what they were wearing…
“Beads… feathers,” he mumbled. “Hey, Charlie! Can I call you Charlie? They were all wearing something around their necks. Here, look at this,” he got out of his seat and held the photos under the detective’s nose. “She’s got a string of beads, this doll’s got a scarf… a fur stole… a feather—what do you call it? Right—a boa. And from what it looks like, the creep used the neckwear to strangle the victim. Yeah, look at how the beads are broken here, and the one that I found—the feathers had been torn out.”
He was excited now, hovering eagerly over Charlie as he showed him the photos. He backed away, though, when he realized that it might have been just a coincidence. “Alright… maybe it’s just the fashion for dolls to wear these things—but at least that would mean the killer chooses fashionable victims. I mean, I don’t see any nuns or schoolmarms here… all of them must be under thirty.”
Lance looked through the photos once more, searching for more details that the victims were wearing. “Wait… what’s this? This one’s wearing some sort of brooch. You can see it from where her scarf was covering. He held the image close to his eyes and squinted. “It’s some kind of flower… and it’s monogrammed. 'GB'. But that’s not the initials of this victim. Charlie, you’ve got a magnifying glass on you?” He handed Charlie the photo to confirm if he read the letters right.
Meanwhile, Lance scratched his head as he thought. “Do you think it might be a club? The GB club? 'G' as in gambling… 'B' as in brewery… or maybe 'G' as in gin…”
He lifted his brow as he placed his hand on his badge—known to members of the force as their shield. “You know, I don’t mind going under cover… if we need to go some place. If it is a speakeasy, surely people there will know this girl--and maybe they would know who would want to strangle the life out of her.”
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Walter Barrecks on Tue Dec 16, 2008 6:19 pm
"Boy oh boy, do I know how ta pick 'em...ow..ow." Literally crawling into his bathroom, Detective Bruyere looked to be in bad shape. He extended his arm, grasping for something above him, causing several different flasks to fall on his head. One by one, he checked every one of them, throwing them at the wall when they happened to be empty. "J'ai besoin du vin.. ou biere..." Remy was begging for just another drop. "Looks like Shin's 'bout ta get another customer."
It took a good twenty or so minutes for Remy to force himself off of the ground and clean up. Last night was quite a screw up, one of his biggest in weeks. Although he should have been working on other cases, like the mystery of the missing dolls, he instead was hunting down gangsters and thugs. It wasn't a hard task, for they were just the small fries. It was probably midnight when the Cajun stumbled upon some info that there was some evening collections going on. Some smuck made a deal with the Italian's lackeys, and now he couldn't pay up. Considering the situation itself, Remy didn't care if a selfish dope was shaken up a bit, but it was a prime chance to spread the message: There's a new Dick in town, and he's here to clean house.
It worked, he made his point, but he received a nice black eye from it, darker than his normal insomniac shade. This is, of course , leaving out some other bruises. However, Remy would be damned if he didn't give them a bigger repair bill. Placing a fedora on his noggin, he tipped it to cover up his shiner slightly.
--------
Coffee in hand, Bruyere entered his work place, the scent of perfume trailing behind him. Normally he would take the time to clean his clothing after his weekly visits to Kitty's, but the lips on his collar made it clear he didn't today. "Bon matin Charlie, ca va?.." Remy's gaze moved to the other person with Charlie, a face he'd never seen. "Pardon moi, who are you?"
It took a good twenty or so minutes for Remy to force himself off of the ground and clean up. Last night was quite a screw up, one of his biggest in weeks. Although he should have been working on other cases, like the mystery of the missing dolls, he instead was hunting down gangsters and thugs. It wasn't a hard task, for they were just the small fries. It was probably midnight when the Cajun stumbled upon some info that there was some evening collections going on. Some smuck made a deal with the Italian's lackeys, and now he couldn't pay up. Considering the situation itself, Remy didn't care if a selfish dope was shaken up a bit, but it was a prime chance to spread the message: There's a new Dick in town, and he's here to clean house.
It worked, he made his point, but he received a nice black eye from it, darker than his normal insomniac shade. This is, of course , leaving out some other bruises. However, Remy would be damned if he didn't give them a bigger repair bill. Placing a fedora on his noggin, he tipped it to cover up his shiner slightly.
--------
Coffee in hand, Bruyere entered his work place, the scent of perfume trailing behind him. Normally he would take the time to clean his clothing after his weekly visits to Kitty's, but the lips on his collar made it clear he didn't today. "Bon matin Charlie, ca va?.." Remy's gaze moved to the other person with Charlie, a face he'd never seen. "Pardon moi, who are you?"
"She called me late last night, to say she loved me so.
But I guess you changed her mind.
Well I should have known it wouldn't be all right,
But I can't live without her
So I won't even try...
And if I get drunk, then I'll pass out on the floor now baby.
Cause you won't bother me no more.
And if you're drinking, well you know that you're my friend and I say
I guess I'll have myself a beer."
Reel Big Fish- Beer
But I guess you changed her mind.
Well I should have known it wouldn't be all right,
But I can't live without her
So I won't even try...
And if I get drunk, then I'll pass out on the floor now baby.
Cause you won't bother me no more.
And if you're drinking, well you know that you're my friend and I say
I guess I'll have myself a beer."
Reel Big Fish- Beer
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Walter Barrecks - Member for 5 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Irish Wolf on Tue Dec 16, 2008 6:58 pm
A plain dressed man walked down the New York sidewalk, the hem his dark gray coat flapping in the brisk breeze. He could afford a much more expensive coat or be driven around everywhere in his nice car (which was back at his home) but that would attract attention and attention was something that he never really wanted, not in public and not in private in most cases. Of course, if you ran with the underground, you might think you know this stranger, dressed in gray and his head topped with short cut, flame colored hair. He might be the Irishman, know as Guns, importer of good (and cheep) firearms and fine alcoholic beverages. Of course that would bring a small chuckle at yourself, Guns never leaves his base in Hell's Kitchen without his two ogre-like bodyguards.
Of course, almost any speakeasy owner would know that it was indeed Patrick O'Keefe AKA Guns, as he was the man to see for the good stuff needed for a party or to woo a politician into keeping the police from raiding your hole-in-the-wall or jazz joint. Gangsters or guns-for-hire who personally came by his shop would also know him, as the guns that they used to shoot each other and cops mostly came through his place.
A smile came over his face, as the point he wish to reach came into view, the Gin Blossom. The old man that ran the bar beneath the eatery had place an order to Guns, for a bottle of Calvados, a fine apple brandy from Lower Normandy, which was lightly slapping against his side from within the deep inner pockets of his coat. That wasn't the only thing that was touching his side with each step, a pair of Colt .45s, holstered under his arms, did as well.
A few quick steps carried the unimposing man through the restaurant and down into the world he thrived in.
Of course, almost any speakeasy owner would know that it was indeed Patrick O'Keefe AKA Guns, as he was the man to see for the good stuff needed for a party or to woo a politician into keeping the police from raiding your hole-in-the-wall or jazz joint. Gangsters or guns-for-hire who personally came by his shop would also know him, as the guns that they used to shoot each other and cops mostly came through his place.
A smile came over his face, as the point he wish to reach came into view, the Gin Blossom. The old man that ran the bar beneath the eatery had place an order to Guns, for a bottle of Calvados, a fine apple brandy from Lower Normandy, which was lightly slapping against his side from within the deep inner pockets of his coat. That wasn't the only thing that was touching his side with each step, a pair of Colt .45s, holstered under his arms, did as well.
A few quick steps carried the unimposing man through the restaurant and down into the world he thrived in.
Its easy to be brave behind a castle wall
Twelve highlanders and a bagpipe make a rebellion
A king's son is no nobler then the food he eats
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Irish Wolf - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Monroe on Tue Dec 16, 2008 11:10 pm
The air was thick with cigarette smoke and perfume, the lights dim and seductive. Or at least, that’s what the men thought. For a few sly women though, it created the perfect darkened ambiance to pick the pockets of flirtatious patrons.
One such patron, a greasy haired sap in a suit he looked like he couldn't afford, had been eyeing Fi from across the room ever since Mama had sat down. He was messing with the wrong dame, thought Millie with a coy smirk as he propositioned her. Lady Luck quickly rid their table of him and they were all business once again.
Mama accepted a cigarette from the serving girls tray, slipping her a folded clam and a smile. The voluptuous woman withdrew a long cigarette holder from the cleavage of her gown, showing you didn’t have to possess sleeves in order to have a few tricks. Inserting the cigarette into the long, thin device, a dapper gentleman leaned over and lit it with his match. Millie nodded her head to him and winked one well defined, kohl rimmed eye in a look of enticing gratitude.
“Now Fi, let’s just be straight, ‘kay honey?” She took a long drag and blew a smoke ring off to the side, peering at the doll before her. Mama couldn’t imagine Lady Luck just offering her a gig for nothing. They went way back; after all, they both did some major transactions at the Gin Blossom, but still. Fiona was a business woman. “You know I’d never turn you down, and every bird in this birdcage would love their very own shot at the hot lights. So why me?”
She leaned back in her chair, studying the dame before her. If the infamous Lady Luck wanted Mama in her pocket, she was sure there was some frolicking to be had. Millie was good at playing the fuzz, though. She’d gotten the Gin Blossom out of a pickle or two in her time. “So what’s the game, angel?” she asked, leaning in, her deep, resonating voice suddenly much softer. Even with the crooked crowd enjoying the Blossom, one could never be too careful.
Mama’s eyes swept to the entrance of the joint as a cool breeze blew in, careful to inspect everyone who came in. She had a real knack for sniffing out the heat. But it was only Lovely little Lacey, a flesh and blood angel if there ever was one. Millie nodded her head to the doll who had seated herself at the bar. “Hey baby, how you doin’?” called Mama above the buzz of the speakeasy. Her rich, silky-deep voice carried well, and her eyes glinted in the lights reflected off the stage.
The woman was old enough to know a thing or two, older than most of the flappers and bats that passed through. She felt it her duty to take these women under her wing, to teach them and look out for them. She was the closest thing to a ‘mama’ a lot of them had, and a real mother hen for the whole bootlegging jazz scene.
One such patron, a greasy haired sap in a suit he looked like he couldn't afford, had been eyeing Fi from across the room ever since Mama had sat down. He was messing with the wrong dame, thought Millie with a coy smirk as he propositioned her. Lady Luck quickly rid their table of him and they were all business once again.
Mama accepted a cigarette from the serving girls tray, slipping her a folded clam and a smile. The voluptuous woman withdrew a long cigarette holder from the cleavage of her gown, showing you didn’t have to possess sleeves in order to have a few tricks. Inserting the cigarette into the long, thin device, a dapper gentleman leaned over and lit it with his match. Millie nodded her head to him and winked one well defined, kohl rimmed eye in a look of enticing gratitude.
“Now Fi, let’s just be straight, ‘kay honey?” She took a long drag and blew a smoke ring off to the side, peering at the doll before her. Mama couldn’t imagine Lady Luck just offering her a gig for nothing. They went way back; after all, they both did some major transactions at the Gin Blossom, but still. Fiona was a business woman. “You know I’d never turn you down, and every bird in this birdcage would love their very own shot at the hot lights. So why me?”
She leaned back in her chair, studying the dame before her. If the infamous Lady Luck wanted Mama in her pocket, she was sure there was some frolicking to be had. Millie was good at playing the fuzz, though. She’d gotten the Gin Blossom out of a pickle or two in her time. “So what’s the game, angel?” she asked, leaning in, her deep, resonating voice suddenly much softer. Even with the crooked crowd enjoying the Blossom, one could never be too careful.
Mama’s eyes swept to the entrance of the joint as a cool breeze blew in, careful to inspect everyone who came in. She had a real knack for sniffing out the heat. But it was only Lovely little Lacey, a flesh and blood angel if there ever was one. Millie nodded her head to the doll who had seated herself at the bar. “Hey baby, how you doin’?” called Mama above the buzz of the speakeasy. Her rich, silky-deep voice carried well, and her eyes glinted in the lights reflected off the stage.
The woman was old enough to know a thing or two, older than most of the flappers and bats that passed through. She felt it her duty to take these women under her wing, to teach them and look out for them. She was the closest thing to a ‘mama’ a lot of them had, and a real mother hen for the whole bootlegging jazz scene.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by NorthernSoul on Wed Dec 17, 2008 3:00 am
Ben finished off his whiskey, grimacing as it stung his lip, and gestured to the barman for another. Whilst the barman was pouring the amber liquid (which had a suspicious amount of sediment in, for whiskey) into the glass, Ben took the opportunity to lean back in his seat and examine the blonde. She was a beauty, that was for certain, with pale skin and blood-red lipstick that was almost black in the dimness of the underground speakeasy, but beautiful in the same way a storm or a forest fire was beautiful from a distance; one change of wind and you were running.
Not long after she'd sat down, she was joined by Mama; even Ben, who wasn't a regular at this joint, knew full well who the voluptuous jazz singer was. He was sure she had ten years on him and most of the men in this room but he'd bet his last ten dollars that the word 'no' wouldn't cross a single one of their minds if the opportunity arose.
So who was the blonde that she could command such immediate attention from Mama and Shin?
His unspoken question was answered just a moment later by the poor sap who was stupid enough to approach their table unasked and unintroduced. Lady Luck. Fiona Muirenn, the daughter, or niece, or something, of some high-up mobster in the Muirenn family; the rent collector and errand runner to a dozen or so speakeasies and gin mills in the area. As hard as he'd tried, some deeply-hidden journalistic instinct hadn't quite been drowned in four year's worth of gin and so Ben immediately began to listen a little harder to their conversation.
A minute later, Mama called out a greeting in her dark brown voice to a girl who had just stumbled down the steps into the bar. Ben watched as she took a seat next to him on the bar and ordered a cup of joe. Wherever she had just come from, it clearly wasn't home; her dress was a little too glitzy for this early on in the day (a reminant of last night perhaps?) and a curl of auburn hair was snaking down onto her shoulder from underneath the short black wig she was wearing. He could see what she was going for and he was sure she'd taken in most of the men in the room, but she was just a little too vulnerable to convey the baby vamp look to him tonight. Well, she knew Mama, and Mama knew Lady Luck; it couldn't hurt, could it?
"Let me get that, Shin," said Ben, handing over a few cents for her coffee. "What's the story, sheba?" he said. His voice, broad Bronx, sounded as if it had been glazed in honey then dragged through gravel. "Heavy night last night? Ben Goldberg, by the way." He extended his hand.
Not long after she'd sat down, she was joined by Mama; even Ben, who wasn't a regular at this joint, knew full well who the voluptuous jazz singer was. He was sure she had ten years on him and most of the men in this room but he'd bet his last ten dollars that the word 'no' wouldn't cross a single one of their minds if the opportunity arose.
So who was the blonde that she could command such immediate attention from Mama and Shin?
His unspoken question was answered just a moment later by the poor sap who was stupid enough to approach their table unasked and unintroduced. Lady Luck. Fiona Muirenn, the daughter, or niece, or something, of some high-up mobster in the Muirenn family; the rent collector and errand runner to a dozen or so speakeasies and gin mills in the area. As hard as he'd tried, some deeply-hidden journalistic instinct hadn't quite been drowned in four year's worth of gin and so Ben immediately began to listen a little harder to their conversation.
A minute later, Mama called out a greeting in her dark brown voice to a girl who had just stumbled down the steps into the bar. Ben watched as she took a seat next to him on the bar and ordered a cup of joe. Wherever she had just come from, it clearly wasn't home; her dress was a little too glitzy for this early on in the day (a reminant of last night perhaps?) and a curl of auburn hair was snaking down onto her shoulder from underneath the short black wig she was wearing. He could see what she was going for and he was sure she'd taken in most of the men in the room, but she was just a little too vulnerable to convey the baby vamp look to him tonight. Well, she knew Mama, and Mama knew Lady Luck; it couldn't hurt, could it?
"Let me get that, Shin," said Ben, handing over a few cents for her coffee. "What's the story, sheba?" he said. His voice, broad Bronx, sounded as if it had been glazed in honey then dragged through gravel. "Heavy night last night? Ben Goldberg, by the way." He extended his hand.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by imogen_22 on Wed Dec 17, 2008 7:08 am
Lacey hunched slightly over the bar, turning her attention back to the mug in her hands. Probably wasn't any of her business anyway, if someone like Lady Luck herself wanted to speak to Mama. Even so, she watched out of the corner of her eye as Fiona was interupted by a rather drunk man, who she dismissed sharply. Lace hid a smile, wondering briefly what it would be like to have the world at one's fingertips like that.
She strained her ears through the crowd, managing to pick up a few words of their conversation,"...lead performer...running a show...why me..."
The woman frowned, taking a thoughtful drag of her ciggy. To her, it seemed that Mama was being offered a gig. Probably a pretty big one at that, judging by the look on the singer's face. Now, Lacey knew most of the people that came in this place, and she was aware that Lady Luck and Mama were pretty close. Wonder how much she's charging her. she mused, reaching for her coffee again.
"Hey baby, how you doin'?" Lacey's attention was turned back to the table to see Mama. She smiled back.
"Eh, same as always." she called back. Her voice didn't carry across the room quite as well as Mama's. "Heard you hit on all sixes last night. Wish I coulda' seen it." She gave a little salute before turning around again.
She drained the last of her coffee, setting the mug down again. Lacey reached into her wallet, but was stopped by a slightly crusty voice. She watched as the man next to her paid for her drink, and her lips instantly pursed.
"Lacey Brown." she replied, shaking his hand lightly. She purposefully tried to hunch her back and turn in such a way that didn't give him the wrong idea. Seemed like an okay guy, but she wasn't looking for a date. "Thanks." she added, nodding to the empty mug.
She glanced at him sceptically, still unsure if he was looking for a doll or just making polite conversation. Knowing New York today, it was probably the former. So her voice was slow as she answered, "You know, one too many drinks." she made a vague gesture, careful not to let off that last night she was on the job. Never could be too careful, what with the fuzz always sniffing about. 'Suppose her 'job' wasn't illegal, but the bulls didn't like it much.
She strained her ears through the crowd, managing to pick up a few words of their conversation,"...lead performer...running a show...why me..."
The woman frowned, taking a thoughtful drag of her ciggy. To her, it seemed that Mama was being offered a gig. Probably a pretty big one at that, judging by the look on the singer's face. Now, Lacey knew most of the people that came in this place, and she was aware that Lady Luck and Mama were pretty close. Wonder how much she's charging her. she mused, reaching for her coffee again.
"Hey baby, how you doin'?" Lacey's attention was turned back to the table to see Mama. She smiled back.
"Eh, same as always." she called back. Her voice didn't carry across the room quite as well as Mama's. "Heard you hit on all sixes last night. Wish I coulda' seen it." She gave a little salute before turning around again.
She drained the last of her coffee, setting the mug down again. Lacey reached into her wallet, but was stopped by a slightly crusty voice. She watched as the man next to her paid for her drink, and her lips instantly pursed.
"Lacey Brown." she replied, shaking his hand lightly. She purposefully tried to hunch her back and turn in such a way that didn't give him the wrong idea. Seemed like an okay guy, but she wasn't looking for a date. "Thanks." she added, nodding to the empty mug.
She glanced at him sceptically, still unsure if he was looking for a doll or just making polite conversation. Knowing New York today, it was probably the former. So her voice was slow as she answered, "You know, one too many drinks." she made a vague gesture, careful not to let off that last night she was on the job. Never could be too careful, what with the fuzz always sniffing about. 'Suppose her 'job' wasn't illegal, but the bulls didn't like it much.
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imogen_22 - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by daughterofdon on Wed Dec 17, 2008 9:44 am
Lance frowned indignantly as the door to his office opened and in came Detective Bruyere. These damn dicks! Walking into the station house like they owned the place—barging into his own private office! He was a police sergeant—he was of a higher rank than these ragamuffin detectives. And 'ragamuffin' was right… he sniffed the air that came in with the Cajun—women’s perfume with a tinge of booze, two scents stronger than the steaming coffee in his hand. Not to mention the visual details about him: a smudge of lipstick on his collar. A black eye. What was wrong with these dicks? They could at least shave once in a while! Or at least clean up after hitting the heifer den.
Then, as if to spite Lance even more, the man speaks in pigeon French—and then has the gall to ask who he was before introducing himself. And he was in Lance’s office, in a NYPD station house—and he decides to speak French to an officer? Sgt. Knightley was ticked.
“Pardon moi? God damn, this is my office! And I was having a private conference with Detective Wallenstein,” Lance huffed. “You introduce yourself first, and show me your badge. I’m only assuming you’re a dick because you know Wallenstein here, but for all I know you could be a hood off the street.”
He folded his arms over his chest and glowered. But he soon enough calmed down, after realizing that this worldly detective could help them with a particular piece of information.
“Alright, monsieur. There's one way you could help us. You know a joint called the ‘GB’?”
Then, as if to spite Lance even more, the man speaks in pigeon French—and then has the gall to ask who he was before introducing himself. And he was in Lance’s office, in a NYPD station house—and he decides to speak French to an officer? Sgt. Knightley was ticked.
“Pardon moi? God damn, this is my office! And I was having a private conference with Detective Wallenstein,” Lance huffed. “You introduce yourself first, and show me your badge. I’m only assuming you’re a dick because you know Wallenstein here, but for all I know you could be a hood off the street.”
He folded his arms over his chest and glowered. But he soon enough calmed down, after realizing that this worldly detective could help them with a particular piece of information.
“Alright, monsieur. There's one way you could help us. You know a joint called the ‘GB’?”
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Jadeling Hawkins on Wed Dec 17, 2008 11:47 am
Fiona smiled once more as Mama not only expressed interest...but doubt! Most performers would have started cutting off their own fingers if that's what they had been told to do to be a lead. But Millie had not only a head between her shoulders, but a properly functioning brain in it. Fiona held up her glass with one hand, two fingers pointing out approvingly to the singing dame. "That's why, Mama. You got smarts. You got moxie. And even though you know I could have your pretty face all kindsa carved up and fed to the fishes, you ain't afraid to tell me what you think."
Fiona leaned forward a bit, her eyes gleaming conspiratorially. Though her words were far from dainty or even polite, anyone who truly knew Lady Luck could have said that the lingering threat was only figuratively literal. But then, very few people truly knew Lady Luck...even those who did business with her on a regular basis. That was just common sense for a member of a family tradition as Fi was. But at any rate, she was being almost friendly at the moment. "Here's the thing, Sheba. I like the personal touch on my transactions. Always have, probably always will. You know that. What I want to do is this..."
And Fiona lowered her voice so that even Millie, sitting as close as she was, would have to strain to hear. "See, the earnings for protection collections are great...real pocket stuffers. But--and don't get me wrong, 'cause I do so enjoy my work--it can get a bit tedious. You've got to make sure the juice is going on the right route, keep the fuzz out of the works, and listen to all the whining from owners, and all on top of making sure there's no competition lolly gaggin' around. So I figure, why not try the direct approach? Manage it all in one spot, see?"
The serving girl returned, and this time Fiona accepted a cigarette, holding it out to be lit and taking a single drag once it was. She didn't bother acknowledging the greasy-haired man who had returned to light the smoke, hoping to get a second chance to speak with the bear cat. Exhaling out of the corner of her red lips, Fiona continued with evident excitement. And seeing Fiona excited about a matter of commerce was something akin to seeing lightning in a bottle (after being dared to stick your pinky in it). "I've got a club in the works. Something run directly from the family, skipping over middle men. Brewery, smokes, music, and guns, all in a single spot. And with something that big, I'm aiming for the cat's meow of each...department, if you will."
Fiona paused to sweep the room with her catching eyes, looking for ears that were leaned in too close to the conversation. She noticed quite a few men staring at her table, but given its occupants this could only be expected. "So that's where you come in, Mama. You've got the pipes of a black angel, and eyes that won't behave...but no offense meant, I could say that of about half the women in this very room. But you're no dumb Dora, which sets you apart. I need someone that'll keep my bell bottoms and fly boys coming back, but who'll know to keep her pie hole shut when questions are asked."
Now, Fiona relaxed back into her seat. She shrugged, and her Irish lilt returned to a normal volume. "If you're not interested, you're welcome to keep moon lighting here at Shin's. I won't even be offended. But if you're as smart as I think you are..."
But Fiona was made to pause as a new face showed up in the Gin Blossom's dim light. One that was both familiar and somewhat unexpected. She had never thought Patrick was much of one to leave his precious guns behind to get a shot of hooch. She lifted one hand in a careless wave at her favorite weapons distributor...and one of the few people who had actually known her name and face since the true beginning of her career. In fact, Patrick had probably seen more evidence of Fiona's dealings--and helped wash more blood out of her clothes and off her hands--than any member of her own family. He was also one of the few people in the world who she made no effort to frighten. He had sold her her very first gun-for-work, over seven years ago. That was something to respect.
---------------------------
Charlie chuckled as Bruyere staggered into the room, in a show of his usual, clearly unkempt self. Though Bruyere obviously had some very large habits, and some rather unsavory ones, his personality made him, at the very least, enjoyable. At least he wasn't a case-stealing jackass like most of the other dicks Charles knew of. And he was working to clean up the streets, even if he was ignoring one or two areas for the time being...And never mind his massive success in the city he had just transferred in from.
"Hey Bruyere. Yeah, sa vah, or whatevah it is ya say..." Charlie nodded and turned back to Lance Knightley, but it was clear the sergeant wasn't in the mood to entertain a character like Remy without advance notice. Charlie should have told him ahead of time that there was a possibility the Cajun would show up. "Sorry, Sahgeant. This heah is Detective Bruyere, a real egg amongst us humble dicks. Just came in from...ah, what was it, Philly, Bruyere? Cleah'ed out a real mess ovah theah."
Hoping this introduction would be enough, Charles motioned for Remy to take a look at the photographs. If two heads worked well, than three should be even better. "G.B. could be anythin'. Gin, maybe. Brewery? Well, that don't narrow it down much. What if it's initials? Ya know, like...Gingah Bravoie, that flappah who...nah, that's dumb..."
Charlie sat back and frowned, rubbing his brow under his hat. "So they all got somethin' round their neck. They're all women. They're all kinda young. They're all strangled, an' all at night. I wanna say it's some kinda gang doin' it, but why? These dames don't look nothin' like molls...at least, theah wouldn't be that many of 'em...an' gangs don't leave theah victims lyin' out on the streets. Whaddya think, Bruyere?"
Fiona leaned forward a bit, her eyes gleaming conspiratorially. Though her words were far from dainty or even polite, anyone who truly knew Lady Luck could have said that the lingering threat was only figuratively literal. But then, very few people truly knew Lady Luck...even those who did business with her on a regular basis. That was just common sense for a member of a family tradition as Fi was. But at any rate, she was being almost friendly at the moment. "Here's the thing, Sheba. I like the personal touch on my transactions. Always have, probably always will. You know that. What I want to do is this..."
And Fiona lowered her voice so that even Millie, sitting as close as she was, would have to strain to hear. "See, the earnings for protection collections are great...real pocket stuffers. But--and don't get me wrong, 'cause I do so enjoy my work--it can get a bit tedious. You've got to make sure the juice is going on the right route, keep the fuzz out of the works, and listen to all the whining from owners, and all on top of making sure there's no competition lolly gaggin' around. So I figure, why not try the direct approach? Manage it all in one spot, see?"
The serving girl returned, and this time Fiona accepted a cigarette, holding it out to be lit and taking a single drag once it was. She didn't bother acknowledging the greasy-haired man who had returned to light the smoke, hoping to get a second chance to speak with the bear cat. Exhaling out of the corner of her red lips, Fiona continued with evident excitement. And seeing Fiona excited about a matter of commerce was something akin to seeing lightning in a bottle (after being dared to stick your pinky in it). "I've got a club in the works. Something run directly from the family, skipping over middle men. Brewery, smokes, music, and guns, all in a single spot. And with something that big, I'm aiming for the cat's meow of each...department, if you will."
Fiona paused to sweep the room with her catching eyes, looking for ears that were leaned in too close to the conversation. She noticed quite a few men staring at her table, but given its occupants this could only be expected. "So that's where you come in, Mama. You've got the pipes of a black angel, and eyes that won't behave...but no offense meant, I could say that of about half the women in this very room. But you're no dumb Dora, which sets you apart. I need someone that'll keep my bell bottoms and fly boys coming back, but who'll know to keep her pie hole shut when questions are asked."
Now, Fiona relaxed back into her seat. She shrugged, and her Irish lilt returned to a normal volume. "If you're not interested, you're welcome to keep moon lighting here at Shin's. I won't even be offended. But if you're as smart as I think you are..."
But Fiona was made to pause as a new face showed up in the Gin Blossom's dim light. One that was both familiar and somewhat unexpected. She had never thought Patrick was much of one to leave his precious guns behind to get a shot of hooch. She lifted one hand in a careless wave at her favorite weapons distributor...and one of the few people who had actually known her name and face since the true beginning of her career. In fact, Patrick had probably seen more evidence of Fiona's dealings--and helped wash more blood out of her clothes and off her hands--than any member of her own family. He was also one of the few people in the world who she made no effort to frighten. He had sold her her very first gun-for-work, over seven years ago. That was something to respect.
---------------------------
Charlie chuckled as Bruyere staggered into the room, in a show of his usual, clearly unkempt self. Though Bruyere obviously had some very large habits, and some rather unsavory ones, his personality made him, at the very least, enjoyable. At least he wasn't a case-stealing jackass like most of the other dicks Charles knew of. And he was working to clean up the streets, even if he was ignoring one or two areas for the time being...And never mind his massive success in the city he had just transferred in from.
"Hey Bruyere. Yeah, sa vah, or whatevah it is ya say..." Charlie nodded and turned back to Lance Knightley, but it was clear the sergeant wasn't in the mood to entertain a character like Remy without advance notice. Charlie should have told him ahead of time that there was a possibility the Cajun would show up. "Sorry, Sahgeant. This heah is Detective Bruyere, a real egg amongst us humble dicks. Just came in from...ah, what was it, Philly, Bruyere? Cleah'ed out a real mess ovah theah."
Hoping this introduction would be enough, Charles motioned for Remy to take a look at the photographs. If two heads worked well, than three should be even better. "G.B. could be anythin'. Gin, maybe. Brewery? Well, that don't narrow it down much. What if it's initials? Ya know, like...Gingah Bravoie, that flappah who...nah, that's dumb..."
Charlie sat back and frowned, rubbing his brow under his hat. "So they all got somethin' round their neck. They're all women. They're all kinda young. They're all strangled, an' all at night. I wanna say it's some kinda gang doin' it, but why? These dames don't look nothin' like molls...at least, theah wouldn't be that many of 'em...an' gangs don't leave theah victims lyin' out on the streets. Whaddya think, Bruyere?"
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Jadeling Hawkins - Member for 5 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by NorthernSoul on Wed Dec 17, 2008 12:36 pm
Ben inwardly noted Lacey's cautious reaction as she sat hunched on her seat, one arm clenched across her stomach clearly expecting him to, what? Preposition her at any moment? Relax, doll, he thought sarcastically, there's plenty out there but tonight, I'm not one of them.
Meanwhile, the conversation between Fiona Muirenn and Mama in the corner had been reduced to a whisper of which Ben could make out nothing but the wordless mouthings of her scarlet lips across the little table where the two of them sat. The details of Mama's new gig were lost in the smoky air. Instinctively, his interest was roused ten-fold.
So he turned back to the bar, no longer facing Lacey but leaning his lean frame against the polished brass and slowly turned an empty shot glass over with his long fingers. Shin set down another glass of whiskey on the bar and the liquid sloshed, climbing up the sides. It was a deep, rich amber in the dim light as Ben took the cigarette out of his mouth and took a sip from the glass before replacing it between his lips.
"Yeah, I know," he said, breathing smoke out from one side of his mouth. "Had one of those myself last night. Work today wasn't particularly productive. So, are you a regular at this joint? You seem to know a few faces," he said off-handedly, nodding towards Mama.
Meanwhile, the conversation between Fiona Muirenn and Mama in the corner had been reduced to a whisper of which Ben could make out nothing but the wordless mouthings of her scarlet lips across the little table where the two of them sat. The details of Mama's new gig were lost in the smoky air. Instinctively, his interest was roused ten-fold.
So he turned back to the bar, no longer facing Lacey but leaning his lean frame against the polished brass and slowly turned an empty shot glass over with his long fingers. Shin set down another glass of whiskey on the bar and the liquid sloshed, climbing up the sides. It was a deep, rich amber in the dim light as Ben took the cigarette out of his mouth and took a sip from the glass before replacing it between his lips.
"Yeah, I know," he said, breathing smoke out from one side of his mouth. "Had one of those myself last night. Work today wasn't particularly productive. So, are you a regular at this joint? You seem to know a few faces," he said off-handedly, nodding towards Mama.
Last edited by NorthernSoul on Thu Dec 18, 2008 3:30 am, edited 1 time in total.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Irish Wolf on Wed Dec 17, 2008 12:44 pm
As Patrick moved through the semi-darkness, a slight movement off to his left caught the corner of his eye. A quick glance told the gundealer that it wasn't an Italian pulling a gun (mostly likely one of his own) on him but a doll and not just any doll at that. It was the Lady Luck herself and she was an old...well, he wasn't sure what to call her. She was more then a friend and he treated her like family but there was no blood to link the pair. They did a lot of business together and survival might depend on her good graces in the future but where did that leave their relation?
A smile crossed his face, as he continued to walk up to the bar. They could talk a few minutes, he had business to attend to first. A few quick steps brought him over to the long bar and to the right of Lacey, although he didn't know her or the man she was talking to, he was looking at the barkeep.
"Láojià Shin" said Pat, using a newly learned greeting in Chinese, his unseen chest swollen with pride. He enjoyed talking to his business partners in their native tongues, if they both knew them. He had picked up a large handful of words in French, German, some Italian and now one in Chinese.
"I have that giggle water you wanted" he continued, still smiling, as he reached into the long, plain coat. After his fingers wrapped around the neck of the good sized bottle, it was pulled forth and placed in the old man's hand. "Send my money and a glass of whiskey over to the lady's table" he went one, slightly jerking his head towards Fiona's seat and walking away.
A few more steps and he was pulling a seat up next to Lady Luck without a word or greeting.
A smile crossed his face, as he continued to walk up to the bar. They could talk a few minutes, he had business to attend to first. A few quick steps brought him over to the long bar and to the right of Lacey, although he didn't know her or the man she was talking to, he was looking at the barkeep.
"Láojià Shin" said Pat, using a newly learned greeting in Chinese, his unseen chest swollen with pride. He enjoyed talking to his business partners in their native tongues, if they both knew them. He had picked up a large handful of words in French, German, some Italian and now one in Chinese.
"I have that giggle water you wanted" he continued, still smiling, as he reached into the long, plain coat. After his fingers wrapped around the neck of the good sized bottle, it was pulled forth and placed in the old man's hand. "Send my money and a glass of whiskey over to the lady's table" he went one, slightly jerking his head towards Fiona's seat and walking away.
A few more steps and he was pulling a seat up next to Lady Luck without a word or greeting.
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Irish Wolf - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Monroe on Wed Dec 17, 2008 8:45 pm
Millie’s eyes lowered to the surface of the table as she took her time mulling the proposition over. Too many dames agreed to too many things too fast, and they paid for it later. Mama wasn’t going to make that mistake.
On one hand, this was a great opportunity for her. It would only put her star on the rise, and would mean she wouldn’t rely on little side deals with wealthy patrons. Mama didn’t make the sort of transactions that led her to seedy motels with greasy men though. Her customers paid well and treated her even better. It was a wine and dine experience, but they always got what they paid for. Mama was the best. She brought something to the table none of the others birds in the joint could bring. She had the age, the experience, and a certain touch. Yet, the woman would not miss those particular rendezvous. She would gladly give that life up.
But, taking the role of Fiona’s lead lady would also put her in a new round of trouble. People were always poking their noses around, and often it was people who ought not. She’d have to play it cool if she was bothered by the heat.
The fuzz and the dicks she could handle though, of that she was sure. She raised her eyes, eyelashes fluttering, and smiled at Lady Luck, giving a slight nod of her head. “Honey, you know I’d do anything for you,” she said as if she hadn’t just been seriously mulling the matter over a mere moment before. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Fiona.”
The dim lights glittered in her dark, depthless eyes, her chocolate skin glowing as if lit from within. Her lips curled up, a comforting, friendly look on her face. She lowered her voice, being completely candid with Fiona, no airs. She rested her hand atop the other woman’s. “You just leave it up to me, I’ll steer your new joint out of trouble.”
A man joined them at the table wordlessly, seated next to Fiona. Mama inclined her head, standing. “Mr. O’Keefe,” she said in greeting, her chair gently pushed back. The gentleman and herself were acquainted, but held no strong ties. He dealt with guns, and Mama dealt with liquor. It seemed they had some business together. Millie gave Fiona an appraising look. “You know, you’re really makin’ something of yourself.” she said, a hint of pride in her tone. Maybe Fiona’s business wasn’t straight, but Millie was always proud to see a woman make something of herself, get up just as high as any man.
On one hand, this was a great opportunity for her. It would only put her star on the rise, and would mean she wouldn’t rely on little side deals with wealthy patrons. Mama didn’t make the sort of transactions that led her to seedy motels with greasy men though. Her customers paid well and treated her even better. It was a wine and dine experience, but they always got what they paid for. Mama was the best. She brought something to the table none of the others birds in the joint could bring. She had the age, the experience, and a certain touch. Yet, the woman would not miss those particular rendezvous. She would gladly give that life up.
But, taking the role of Fiona’s lead lady would also put her in a new round of trouble. People were always poking their noses around, and often it was people who ought not. She’d have to play it cool if she was bothered by the heat.
The fuzz and the dicks she could handle though, of that she was sure. She raised her eyes, eyelashes fluttering, and smiled at Lady Luck, giving a slight nod of her head. “Honey, you know I’d do anything for you,” she said as if she hadn’t just been seriously mulling the matter over a mere moment before. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Fiona.”
The dim lights glittered in her dark, depthless eyes, her chocolate skin glowing as if lit from within. Her lips curled up, a comforting, friendly look on her face. She lowered her voice, being completely candid with Fiona, no airs. She rested her hand atop the other woman’s. “You just leave it up to me, I’ll steer your new joint out of trouble.”
A man joined them at the table wordlessly, seated next to Fiona. Mama inclined her head, standing. “Mr. O’Keefe,” she said in greeting, her chair gently pushed back. The gentleman and herself were acquainted, but held no strong ties. He dealt with guns, and Mama dealt with liquor. It seemed they had some business together. Millie gave Fiona an appraising look. “You know, you’re really makin’ something of yourself.” she said, a hint of pride in her tone. Maybe Fiona’s business wasn’t straight, but Millie was always proud to see a woman make something of herself, get up just as high as any man.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by Jadeling Hawkins on Thu Dec 18, 2008 1:33 pm
Fiona nodded approvingly at Millie, her fierce blue eyes practically glowing with satisfaction. Millie would indeed make a wonderful addition to the best club in the expansive Big Apple...which Fiona was certain she would be pulling together. And when Millie appraised Fiona, and spoke with pride of her accomplishments...well, Fiona could only smile and tip her hat to the Sheba as Shin shuffled over and informed Millie that her turn to melt hearts was coming up.
And then, Fiona was left to speak with Patrick. She turned her gaze on him, the very tiniest corners of her lips raising in an amused smile as tendrils of smoke curled around her face. "Look what the cat dragged in. How you doin', Guns? Where's your bimbos?" She smirked a bit, turning back around to face the stage as the dainty crooner was finishing her song and accepting cheers and cat calls. The girl was pretty, but small, and Fiona pondered on how such a tiny creature could ever survive if one of her admirers got too aggressive. But either this thought didn't occur to the singer, or she simply didn't care enough to prevent her from shooting come-hither looks at every Jack who flung a coin at her.
Soon, the petite performer was sauntering down off the stage and clearing the way for the saucy jazz singer affectionately known as 'Mama.' Fiona smirked once more at the manner with which the men hooted and howled, and imagined them doing so at her own joint. Yes, Mama was a huge draw.
Fiona turned back to Patrick, exhaling a few more lazy circles and putting the life out of her cigarette in an empty glass. "So what're you doing here, Patty? I thought you preferred the quiet in your gun shelf."
And then, Fiona was left to speak with Patrick. She turned her gaze on him, the very tiniest corners of her lips raising in an amused smile as tendrils of smoke curled around her face. "Look what the cat dragged in. How you doin', Guns? Where's your bimbos?" She smirked a bit, turning back around to face the stage as the dainty crooner was finishing her song and accepting cheers and cat calls. The girl was pretty, but small, and Fiona pondered on how such a tiny creature could ever survive if one of her admirers got too aggressive. But either this thought didn't occur to the singer, or she simply didn't care enough to prevent her from shooting come-hither looks at every Jack who flung a coin at her.
Soon, the petite performer was sauntering down off the stage and clearing the way for the saucy jazz singer affectionately known as 'Mama.' Fiona smirked once more at the manner with which the men hooted and howled, and imagined them doing so at her own joint. Yes, Mama was a huge draw.
Fiona turned back to Patrick, exhaling a few more lazy circles and putting the life out of her cigarette in an empty glass. "So what're you doing here, Patty? I thought you preferred the quiet in your gun shelf."
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Jadeling Hawkins - Member for 5 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by imogen_22 on Thu Dec 18, 2008 3:23 pm
Lacey straightened herself up a bit after a moment, deciding against her better judgement to flatten her suspicions. She'd been around long enough to know that one should always be hesitant to trust. Either way, the man had already turned away from her, losing interest only a couple moments after striking up a conversation. She rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
Her amber gaze swept the bar once more, flinching as the tiny sheba singing shrilled out a piercing high note. She let her eyes linger on a shady table in the corner, where Mama was now leaning over the table, speaking with her companion in hushed words. Try as she might, Lacey could no longer make out their words over the loud buzz of the crowd. The dame's expression was rapt as she listened to Lady Luck, her own face a mask of enthusiasm. Lacey was curious-probably more curious than she should've been, considering it probably wasn't any of her beeswax.
However, she continued watching with intrigued amber eyes as Mama was called on stage, Lady Luck then left alone with a newcomer, a man. The sheba's face was the extreme opposite of what it had been just a few moments ago; cool, lazy, unconcerned. And why should she be worried? Most of the guys and gals in this club would probably stand on their heads for her if she asked them to.
Lacey's interest was fading, and she turned once more, letting herself be immersed in the full, rich, saucy notes that now filled the room, curtosy of Mama herself. She tapped her foot to the rhythm-though she didn't recognize the jazzy selection-and watched as most of the men in the Gin Blossom hoot and hollered her on. The corners of her lips turned up in a small smile. Mama was a star.
She was almost surprised as the man next to her-Ben, was it?-spoke again, but she quickly smoothed out her composure. Lacey shrugged indifferently, still watching Mama on stage. "'Suppose you could say that. I come here pretty often, and I know most of the faces. What about you, though?" she glanced at him. "Haven't seen you before.
Her amber gaze swept the bar once more, flinching as the tiny sheba singing shrilled out a piercing high note. She let her eyes linger on a shady table in the corner, where Mama was now leaning over the table, speaking with her companion in hushed words. Try as she might, Lacey could no longer make out their words over the loud buzz of the crowd. The dame's expression was rapt as she listened to Lady Luck, her own face a mask of enthusiasm. Lacey was curious-probably more curious than she should've been, considering it probably wasn't any of her beeswax.
However, she continued watching with intrigued amber eyes as Mama was called on stage, Lady Luck then left alone with a newcomer, a man. The sheba's face was the extreme opposite of what it had been just a few moments ago; cool, lazy, unconcerned. And why should she be worried? Most of the guys and gals in this club would probably stand on their heads for her if she asked them to.
Lacey's interest was fading, and she turned once more, letting herself be immersed in the full, rich, saucy notes that now filled the room, curtosy of Mama herself. She tapped her foot to the rhythm-though she didn't recognize the jazzy selection-and watched as most of the men in the Gin Blossom hoot and hollered her on. The corners of her lips turned up in a small smile. Mama was a star.
She was almost surprised as the man next to her-Ben, was it?-spoke again, but she quickly smoothed out her composure. Lacey shrugged indifferently, still watching Mama on stage. "'Suppose you could say that. I come here pretty often, and I know most of the faces. What about you, though?" she glanced at him. "Haven't seen you before.
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imogen_22 - Member for 4 years
Re: The Life Noir ( )
by whiteangel on Thu Dec 18, 2008 4:31 pm
Dorothy Byrd lingered a moment more on the small stage, batting her long eyelashes to the right, giving a seductive curtsy to the crowd at left, and fixing her lips in a well practiced pouty lipped smile. Over the past few months she had learned how to time her exit based on the clinks of coins on the floorboards at her feet much like popcorn on the stove; two to three seconds in between a pop a cue to make the last bow.
"Come sing me some more of your songs, little birdie." Came a husky and well liquored voice from a nearby table. His chair tipped back against the wall resting on two back legs, a well worn fedora sitting crooked on his head, and a fat yet distinctively cheap smelling stoagie sagging from his lips. He looked disheveled all around, a sign that his company was none worth signing for.
"Aww, baby, and make you miss Mama? I'll be back another night, sugar." Dorothy cooed, an innocent smile belying her inner discomfort. Despite the months at this gig, Dorothy hadn't mastered the art of feeling out the character of a man much like the other sheba's here could.
Leaving no room for response, she scooped up her earnings and let her petite frame carry her quickly to the bar, a safe haven of sorts. She perched daintily on the edge of a stool, away from the others but near enough for interaction. A quick glance at the clams and coins she tossed in her purse brought a grin to her face as Mama's voice, thick and sweet like maple syrup, hushed the crooners up front and demanded the attention of all patrons.
Dorothy watched in admiration for a moment, glad that the nights line up had put her as an forerunner to Mama. Singing after the curvaceous jazz singer often made for tight pockets, callous comments, and the occasional glass of hootch thrown at the stage. A part of Dorothy cringed for the dame who would have to follow Mama tonight, but hey, it was a dog-eat-dog world. Every woman for herself.
"Come sing me some more of your songs, little birdie." Came a husky and well liquored voice from a nearby table. His chair tipped back against the wall resting on two back legs, a well worn fedora sitting crooked on his head, and a fat yet distinctively cheap smelling stoagie sagging from his lips. He looked disheveled all around, a sign that his company was none worth signing for.
"Aww, baby, and make you miss Mama? I'll be back another night, sugar." Dorothy cooed, an innocent smile belying her inner discomfort. Despite the months at this gig, Dorothy hadn't mastered the art of feeling out the character of a man much like the other sheba's here could.
Leaving no room for response, she scooped up her earnings and let her petite frame carry her quickly to the bar, a safe haven of sorts. She perched daintily on the edge of a stool, away from the others but near enough for interaction. A quick glance at the clams and coins she tossed in her purse brought a grin to her face as Mama's voice, thick and sweet like maple syrup, hushed the crooners up front and demanded the attention of all patrons.
Dorothy watched in admiration for a moment, glad that the nights line up had put her as an forerunner to Mama. Singing after the curvaceous jazz singer often made for tight pockets, callous comments, and the occasional glass of hootch thrown at the stage. A part of Dorothy cringed for the dame who would have to follow Mama tonight, but hey, it was a dog-eat-dog world. Every woman for herself.
Don't expect life to be worth living...make it that way.
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whiteangel - Member for 4 years
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