Life After Noir

Apostophe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Apostophe** on Sat Jan 16, 2010 4:44 pm

Nate grinned at the starlet's response, a snappy retort masked by dulcet tones. He gave a little nod, half of amusement and half of grudging respect. Touche, young grasshopper, he conceded silently. He was still chuckling under his breath as Sofia started reading.

She was a good actress, he'd give her that. Maybe even a great actress. She took the jumble of wistful aspirations and corny jokes that was Phoebe Rollins and brought her to life, turning her into something tangible, something relatable. It was the sort of performance that would have audiences sympathizing with Phoebe, the poor dear, at her lowest moments, and rooting for her as she slowly rose out of obscurity. But that wasn't why Nate decided, even before she was finished, to give Sofia the lead role. Not completely, at least. See, there were three things that a young actress needed to make it in the business, one of which was obviously the ability to act. But sheer talent could only get you so far. You also needed a face worth putting up on a billboard - which Sofia had - and, more importantly, a reputation. Which Sofia most certainly had.

"That's the one," Nate muttered under his breath just as Sofia was finishing, to a very relieved-looking Howie. As soon as the theatre was quiet he was on his feet, cigarette abandoned, features expertly arranged into a dashing smile. In a louder voice, he addressed the young woman now waiting expectantly onstage, "Sofia, that was grand. Congratulations, sweetheart, you got the part."

Whatever subtle banter had been happening before was instantly dispelled. Now, Nate was all charm. He strode down the aisle and up onstage, his gait long and confident while Howie half-stumbled after him. He shook Sofia's small, soft hand in his larger one and flashed her a winning smile. "Allow me to formally introduce myself. Nate Turner, at your service and looking forward to working with you. And this," he clapped his flustered companion on the shoulder, who in turn offered Sofia a weary nod, "is Howie Dawson, screenwriter extraordinaire."

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss D'Elia," the decidedly shorter man added. He stumbled over the words a bit, and Nate bit back a condescending sigh. There was a reason Howie worked behind the scenes.

"Now, Sofia," Nate continued, taking it upon himself to skate over Howie's somewhat lesser social skills. "While Howie is finishing up here, why don't you let me buy you a coffee? We can talk logistics, and you can tell me a bit about yourself. It's not every day I get to work with such a famous actress, you know."

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Sun Jan 17, 2010 11:48 am

Ben smiled at Tommy; a smile that was almost imperceptibly dampened by Evelyn's mention of Jo. How he wished that what she assumed was true.

"I promise, kiddo," he said, forcing a brightness into his tone. "And I'll bring you a whole mountain of books for you to call your very own. How does that sound, huh?"

He waved as Evelyn took the pacified Tommy out to join the other children then dug his hands into his pockets, a frown passing over his angular features. He was in the middle of making a mental note to stick someone at The Times, perhaps Donnie, onto finding the kid's closest relative when there came the sound of heeled footsteps on the stairs.

Ben turned around to see Fiona enter the empty hall.

"Listen, Muirenn, how likely do you think your employees here will dry up if they figure out that their bread and butter woman isn't dishing out the payroll from beyond the grave? 'Cause Levard's sister-in-law has taken the kid into that classroom right there and I'm gonna have to tell Jo's family at some point if we don't get her back soon..." he said, tension written through his stance.

"And the kid's gonna be OK here, right?" he added suddenly.

Sofia raised her eyebrows in feigned surprise.

"Really? Gosh, Mr Turner, I wasn't expecting a decision to be made so quickly!" she said, as he took her hand in his own. So there were brains inside that good-looking head of his. Was it really arrogance to assume that they would pick her? There were a few girls here who were more beautiful than Sofia in their gamine, flapper-esque way and undoubtedly a few who were better actresses than her. But none of them had her reputation, her CV. For such a young and relatively unknown director to chose someone else... He would have been an idiot.

"And nice to meet you too, Mr Dawson," she said, flashing the screenwriter a scarlet-lipped smile, enjoying her ability to make him stumble over his words. "I'm simply in love with your script," Sofia lied seamlessly, more for her own entertainment than for any need to flatter the scriptwriter.

"A coffee would be just copacetic," said Sofia, turning back to the director before Howie had a chance to reply. "Lead the way. But I'm not sure there's anything I can tell you about myself that you don't already know. Or at least, that you can't read in the tabloids."

She had noted Nate's sudden change in demeanour from surly to charming but thought no less of him for it. She had done the very same thing herself on countless occasions when it had suited her. He knew how to play the game and that was all well and good, for she was certain she could play it better.

Kohananinja · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Kohananinja** on Sun Jan 17, 2010 12:54 pm

Rosie took the offered arm without hesitation, as Frankie walked them to his car. Like his clothes, it seemed entirely unlike him, but then, he was supposed to be either dead or living up life in Europe. Riding around in limos and wearing the finely tailored suits she was used to seeing on him would hardly be conductive to keeping that assumption alive. She shot Frankie a grateful look when he opened the door for them as she helped her quickly fading nephew into the car before getting in herself. Tony yawned through more stories about him and Gianni chasing off the men from their neighborhood, which Rosie had accepted he would continue to do, as he was much too fond of telling them, and Frankie seemed quite intent on hearing them.

The drive went much too quickly for her nerves’ sake, and was already panicked enough about what he was going to tell her once they were alone, only brought on more so by his statement about incompatible schedules. In other words, she likely wouldn’t be seeing him again for a while, if again.

“Of course.” She managed without her voice shaking, as she unlocked her apartment door and led them both inside. The apartment was the most lavished or homey place in the world, but it was cozy and comfortable, perfect for accommodating one or two people living space needs. “Tony, why don’t you head to the bed and lay down, I’ll be in to tuck you in presto.” She said quietly. She couldn’t be certain what she and Frankie were going to talk about, but she could guess, and either way, her nephew didn’t need to be around to hear it. Tony nodded with droopy eyes and a yawn, waddling off to the guest room where he always slept when here. Once he was gone, Rosie turned back to Frankie, as ready as she was going to be to hear this.

“So where have you really been? I keep hearing rumors about Milan, but Florence has always seemed more like your taste to me.” She started off with some mild humor, hoping to ease into the conversation.

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Sun Jan 17, 2010 1:13 pm

Fiona arched one fair brow, reaching into her bag to tug her gloves back on. "But I am dishing out from beyond the grave, Zeyde. Over half of my fortune was left explicitly to this place, as well as all of my investments. Obviously, in the last few month, some of those will have lost their value, but there will be at least enough to keep this place well lit, warm and renovated for a very, very long time. I was--and am--disturbingly wealthy, you know."

The semi-retired gangster sighed, and set her hands at her hips. She looked off in the direction where young voices could be heard mechanically greeting their new rookery sibling. "I'll answer your last question first: The kid is young. It's a terrible age to lose your mother. He's scared now; he doesn't quite know if this is for real or if someone is trying to trick him. For the next few days he'll be convinced it's the latter. Then, probably when he's alone, he'll realize she's not going to appear and pick him up and take him home. Then he'll cry all the tears you're not seeing now. He'll feel all the pain he's been putting on hold until he decided it was real or not.

"Then, with a little luck, he'll start to heal. He's surrounded by other children who are healing from their own scars, and people who were purposefully selected when, after being told they'd be paid miserably, they still insisted on taking the job so they could help children like him. He's still young; if he's very lucky, by the time he's grown up he won't even remember any of this.

"So in answering: yes, he should be okay. And unless Wally gets caught and blabs--which I'm quite certain he won't, even if he does--Miss Knowles' fanclub has no way of knowing he's here. He should be fine." Fiona sighed again, and took her eyes away from the spot that they had been stuck on. She headed once again for the door.

"In regards to Miss Levard's family...well, that's your problem, I'm afraid. Depending on how frequently she speaks with them, they might not notice for a while longer. If you would stop whining and start contributing to the retrieval of our girls, then maybe things would move a little faster." Fiona paused, holding the door open for her victim-come-partner. "Now come on. We can wait at my place until we get that address from Doctor Bell. Unless you want to see if we can pick another fight before dinner."

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Sun Jan 17, 2010 3:58 pm

"Where's dat one go, Jo?" Alzophine pointed a little finger at a jagged puzzle piece that was splashed with red, pink and crystal blue.

"It sort of looks like a flower petal, doesn't it, Zo?" Jo replied, gingerly lifting the piece and setting it in an empty spot for the child to push into place. The roomies were lying on their bellies on the floor together, working at a jigsaw puzzle provided grudgingly by Adolpho's men. Well, Zo was lying on her stomach. Jo was tilted a bit onto her side, one hand resting over her mutinous belly in an effort to calm the beast. Her eyes weren't quite fully opened, and she had to keep her head propped up with her free hand. She felt tired. She wanted a cigarette. And all that very early morning she had emptied her stomach of leftover ravioli from the night before.

Life as a captive was not being kind on her nerves.

Still, the time she had spent with cute little Alzophine Bruyere had been about as fun as it could be when imminent death and uncertainty of her lover's fate loomed at the end of every minute. Jo had deduced, by the way the Italians (and a few others; it seemed Adolpho had begun outsourcing with the dissolve of his family's empire) tip-toed around Zo, that Adolpho must want something from Lady Luck. If he just wanted to lure her in, he'd have no reason to be taking such good care of the girl. Jo even suspected that the reason she was still alive was exactly what Zo had first suspected: she was a nanny. Meant to keep to child company; to keep her happy.

As long as she remained in Zo's good graces, the toughs who served her up such ill-meaning leers would leave her alone. Fortunately for Jo, they seemed to get along swimmingly.

"Jo?"

"Yes, Zo?"

"When Momma comes an' gets moi, do you wanna come to our 'ouse an' have supper? Papa makes real good gumbo." Alzophine carefully pushed in another piece, and beamed at her friend as the picture was coming together.

Jo smiled, and ruffled Zo's white hair a little. "That's awful, awful sweet of you, Zo. Maybe you can come to my apartment and have supper with me and Ben."

"Dat your cher?"

"Yeah, he's my cher." Jo smiled impishly and tickled Zo's collar bone. "Have you got a 'cher?'"

Tickling, giggling, and denying commenced. It went on for a few minutes, until the door opened with a bang. Jo was quick to pull Alzophine onto her lap and wrap her arms around her, fixing the entrant with a scowl. A man who Jaws had called 'Emeryk' lumped in with a sneer and tossed a few fresh (if old fashioned) clothes onto the bed. Some for each of them. He spoke in a thick slurring accent, all but spitting on the floor, "For the little princesses."

"Steal those from a nun, did you?" Jo spat back. If she had been feeling more up to snuff, she might have been able to dodge or even counterattack, but as it was she only had time to jerk Alzophine out of the way as Emeryk stumped forward and flashed the back of his hand against her face. He snorted and marched out the door as Alzophine shrieked half-French outrage at him, trying to leap out of Jo's arms.

Jo carefully felt her face--it was already swelling into what was probably going to be a very fine black eye. It was always good to know where one's limits were.

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Sun Jan 17, 2010 5:22 pm

((Double post!))

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Sun Jan 17, 2010 5:23 pm

"'Stop whining'?" repeated Ben incredulously as he walked outside into the cool air of New York City. "You're a real piece of work, Muirenn. I could be 'whining' a hell of a lot louder than I apparently am now. I could be 'whining' all over the front page of the New York Times."

He'd decided to ignore Evie's request that he stay behind to talk to her. Fiona hadn't seemed to grasp that him telling Jo's family about her disappearance would simultaneously involve him telling them about Fiona Muirenn's reappearance. Still, if they could be avoided for a little while longer then he could delay the date when he would invoke both the wrath of the former (for allowing Jo to get kidnapped) and the latter (for telling more people than was necessary about her non-death).

"But don't worry," he added sarcastically, as he hailed a cab. "Next time I bother asking you before I tell Evie Levard that you have a habit of drugging her sister-in-law then letting her get taken by Italian mobsters."

A blur of yellow slowed to a halt beside Ben's outstretched arm and he opened the door to the back-seat and got inside. Despite the constant, sickening worry about Jo's fate, he could not help but let a few of his thoughts settle on what Fiona had said about Tommy.

'He's still young;' she'd said. 'If he's very lucky, by the time he's grown up he won't even remember any of this.'

Ben disagreed. He might have been four but hell, Ben could still remember things from when he was four. He could remember when he'd been ill with the 'flu and had had to take a few days off school. How Missy had sneaked into his room and spent the entire afternoon sitting on his bed in an attempt to contract the disease to get a few precious days off school herself.

And even the things that he didn't remember still had an impact on his life. He didn't remember his father dying.

Maybe Tommy wouldn't remember his mother's death. But Ben was certain it would leave a mark that would never completely heal, no matter what.

"Where to, mac?" said the taxi driver, lifting Ben out of his reverie.

"Don't ask me," he snapped. "She's the boss."

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Sun Jan 17, 2010 5:46 pm

Fiona sat back in the cab and rattled off carelessly the address of the safe house; that abandoned camelback that her father's company would doubtlessly never sell. There, she spent the rest of the evening making preparations: she cleaned and loaded all of the weapons she could fit on her person without them being detected (after years of practice, she had managed to fit quite the arsenal beneath her clothes), she rested her muscles for quick bursts of action, she ate a light supper, and she kept Goldberg out of her hair by handing him the journals Jo Levard had worked on while she'd been held in light captivity.

Then, around midnight, Fiona slipped off for about twenty minutes. She reappeared with a new car, complete with new license plates that, strangely enough, were not the same level of dirty as the vehicle itself. She staunchly refused to hear any protests, and off they went to the general hospital to meet with Doctor Bell either directly after or right in the middle of his 'date.'

Fiona parked the new car around the corner from the hospital, and then it was only a matter of breaking in through the window that Bell (or his aides) had given up on fixing long ago. Midnight found Fiona Muirenn sitting with restraint on the edge of the good doctor's desk.

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Sun Jan 17, 2010 6:54 pm

Reading Jo's journals was infuriating. Ben had come to know her handwriting almost as well as his own over the last decade of working with (and occasionally) against her and to have her writing, but its creator, within reach of his fingertips was frustrating. Still, it occupied the few tense hours before it was time to get into yet another car with Fiona Muirenn and take a brief trip through the midnight city to the hospital.

They'd been waiting in the silent surrounds of Dr Bell's wooden-panelled office for several minutes when there came a timid knock at the door. It was pushed open to reveal a boy, probably around sixteen years old or so, uncertainly clutching an envelope. His nose and cheeks were pink from the outside air and there was a 'New York Globe' badge pinned to the lapel of his shabby jacket.

"Er... Mrs B, right?" he ventured, his brow screwing into an expression of anxious confusion as he took a few steps into the plush office. From the looks of him, Ben thought, he'd probably never been in a room this nice in his life. "I'm a paper boy; don't usually do personal deliveries but the doc gave me five dollars now and five for-"

He stopped himself, perhaps conscious he was rambling. "I've got a letter for you," he said, holding it out to Fiona. "The Doc said er- he said he sends his apologies. Yeah, that was it; he said he was going to be 'otherwise occupied' for the rest of tonight." The boy grinned to himself, proud of his ability to remember the doctor's words.

Inside the envelope there was a scrap of paper; a blank prescription note from Bell's own notebook across which was deftly written only one thing: an address.

The boy watched Fiona and Ben with nervous expectancy. "Can I go now?" he said, casting a glance back down the corridor outside as if expecting to be interrupted at any moment.

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Mon Jan 18, 2010 1:38 am

Fiona accepted the paper without a word. She traced the familiar, curt hand of Doctor Bell carefully. After a moment, a smile tugged at her lips. She reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a crisp twenty dollar bill: a rarity in these post-crash times. She handed it to the boy who had delivered the note, and rose to her feet as she clapped him on the shoulder. "Good lad. You take care out there, now...the streets are dangerous around this time."

Once the kid had taken off with his next month's rent in hand, Fiona led the way out and back towards the car. She had to fight her impulse to crumple the note with the address up in her hand--she was anxious enough that she didn't trust her memory to get it right after a few blocks. "Alright, Goldberg. With any luck Adolpho won't see us coming and won't be out. If we catch him with his skivvies down then it shouldn't be all that hard to..."

Fiona trailed off as she climbed into the car, waiting only long enough for Ben to get his door partially closed before taking off down the street. She licked her lips and thought.

Rushing into a situation like this was the viciously tempered youngest son of your oldest foes wasn't just brash, it was stupid. Reckless. But how long had Adolpho had Alzophine in his possession? Too long. Much too long, even if it had only been an hour. And Fiona knew that waiting around for too long could lead to the enemy making plans of their own.

Besides, once she did get Alzophine back...she was still on that deadline with Goldberg and the photos. She still had Prime to think of, back in New Orleans. If the whole city found out about her living and kicking...At least she had sent Remy back to take care of him and the rest of the Bruyeres.

Almost a half-hour away from the hospital, the new borrowed car glided to a stop outside of an immense apartment building on the far-east side of the city. Fiona had shut off the lights well across the street, and now shifted and squirmed until she pulled a loaded .38 from out of the dark. She carefully handed it over to Goldberg. "Don't keep your finger on the trigger, and don't shoot anything unless it strikes you as absolutely necessary. Adolpho's no lion; if we scare him enough he'll fold without a fuss."

She slid out of the car, easing the door shut to avoid drawing attention from anyone that might be listening for a clamor. "Try and let me do the talking. And remember: regardless of how much you do or don't like it, we're on the same side right now. Don't let Adolpho try to sweet-talk you into doing anything stupid."

Fiona took a breath and headed for the front door. She could see the elevator through the revolving glass. Eight floors up they would find their objective...or, at least, the way to it. "Are you ready, Zeyde?"

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Mon Jan 18, 2010 11:01 am

Ben took the gun cautiously. He still had his own, of course, but another bean-shooter wouldn't do any harm, right? He could always hand one over to Jo if he got the chance.

Thinking that Fiona's warning not to shoot unless necessary was a little rich coming from her, he silently followed her across the street, his heart beating hard inside his rib cage. He wasn't cut out for this... He was a journo, one who would go a long way to get a story but a journo all the same. Invading mobster's strongholds armed with a loaded .38 wasn't his style. Sneaking around with a notepad and a pocket camera, maybe...

"As I'll ever be, a chumann," said Ben, darkly, feeling distinctly unready. He tried to focus on the thought that Jo, and Fiona's little girl, would be up there somewhere, in one of the rooms masked by the gothic stone façade of the looming building. Despite his determination, his inner journalist continued to ask what were the odds of two people (one of whom had only ever fired a gun once before) against a building's worth of gangsters.

He stood aside to let Fiona lead the way.

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Mon Jan 18, 2010 12:09 pm

"Right then. Let's get a wiggle on." Fiona stepped into the posh lobby of the complex. It had carpet with swirls of gold that sucked down on your foot when you stepped in it, a few scattered, plush chairs that most medium-income families couldn't afford to sit in, and an extremely bored looking kid at the books. Fiona didn't even have to flash him her dazzling smile and offer a tip to get into the lift; he didn't so much as glance towards the house dick's office. So the place was ritzy, but not secure. Good for them, unwise for Adolpho.

The dusky old man who worked the elevator smacked his lips and opened his eyes for just a moment to make sure all were aboard. It was a late hour and he was doing his best to get his winks in while he was still being paid for it.

"Eight floor, please," Fiona smiled unnecessarily. The man had already shut his eyes, using the click of the wheel to guide him to the eighth slot. The lift glided upwards with none of the obnoxious clanking that the older models would use: the rich residents of the den didn't want to be disturbed by their neighbors coming and going, after all. Another mistake on Adolpho's part.

They arrived, and Fiona stepped out without bothering the sleepy lift worker with any more words. She took a final studious glance at Doctor Bell's address. Then, just in case, she crumpled it up, pulled out a silver lighter and dropped its fast burning remains into an ash tray. If things went poorly, there was no need to inconvenience the good doc with gangsters pounding on his door wanting to know what Lady Luck was doing with his prescription paper. Heel-to-toe, Fiona tread silently through the hall. Her eyes switched back and forth to each door, just waiting for some sneering Italian to launch out and start shooting.

Apartment 835 was drawing closer...one door away. There it was. Fiona pulled out the .45 from her shoulder holster, cocked back the hammer as silently as she could, and pulled out the wire she was going to try and pick the lock with.

The door to apartment 834, across the hall, opened wide. Fiona spun around--and winced in distaste. It was Jaws, Adolpho's number one, only he wasn't even half so pretty as he had been the last time she'd seen him. His nose looked like someone had tried to use a hammer to coax it to the other side of his head. There were fine and deep scratches all over his face, and numerous minute bruises in various stages of patched yellowing. Even under the numerous bandages, it was sore to look at. Before he could even sneer at her about the late hour of the visit, Fiona chuckled and shook her head. "Why, Jaws, have you started dating again?"

A burst of ugly fury passed through his eyes. The gun he managed to heft up was much larger than anything Fiona had on her, and despite the nice quality of the floor he still felt compelled to spit on it. "Si. I have a very pretty new mignotta. Sour tempered, but any woman can be made sweet by a firm enough hand."

"You're a real piece of work."

"Step inside, won't you? Signore Seccarinni will no doubt be thrilled to see you." Jaws jerked his battered jaw towards the door.

Fiona glanced at Ben, considering whether it would be best to insist that he could remain safely in the stairwell or to offer for him to come inside. Jaws could have easily shot them both by now, if that was Adolpho's intention. She could have shot Jaws by now, if she didn't worry about attracting a fleet of his friends. In the end she carefully lowered her hand to the doorknob, and opened it slowly. She backed inside.

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Mon Jan 18, 2010 4:40 pm

The silence of the lift and their tread down the carpeted hallway was disconcerting and, despite himself, Ben's hand strayed to the gun concealed underneath his jacket. As such, Ben jumped at the sound of a door behind them opening and span around, fingers on the handle of the pistol. He scowled at the sudden appearance of Jaws, the man who had taken Jo. At the back of his mind, he hoped that she might be responsible for the state of his face.

This thought was rudely interrupted by Jaws' savage reply to Fiona's quip. Ben didn't know much Italian; he was no fluent speaker, but growing up in the Bronx, where half of his neighbours were first- or second-generation Italian immigrants, he'd picked up a few things. And you didn't have to be a genius to work out the gist of what Jaws had said.

Pale with rage, Ben instinctively took a few steps towards the other man but common sense told him that no punch, no matter how hard or anger-fuelled, would connect when he was holding a gun like that. With great self-control, he halted himself and tried to feel satisfied with clicking the safety catch on his own gun back.

Fixing him with a pale blue glare, Ben followed Fiona inside, not turning his back on Jaws, inwardly wondering if it would be worth a gunshot wound just to feel the other man's nose crack under his knuckles.

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Tue Jan 19, 2010 12:42 am

Fiona turned at the sound of a rustling paper. There, reclining in a chair that made the ones in the lounge look like torn up wicker, was Adolpho Seccarinni. He was darkly handsome, like his elder brother, but lacked that particular polished carriage that had made Francisco so special. He looked ill-placed in the smooth red smoking jacket he wore, and even though he'd had seven years of practice, he didn't appear to be enjoying having to sit so still. He tossed his copy of the Globe to the floor and rose to his feet.

"Lady Luck. So good to see you."

"Where's my daughter?" Fiona took a hasty step forward, all of the fury she had bottled up since her initial discovery flaring to life in her eyes.

"She is safe and quite content," Adolpho took a step back, raising a hand to ward the bearcat off. "She has been catered to very nicely."

"You squid-faced baboon! If you don't hand her over immediately-!"

"Calm yourself, Lady! This is not what you think." Adolpho took another step back. Jaws made a move behind Fiona, but Adolpho shook his head.

"What I think is that you've taken something from me that's worth a thousand of you. You have no idea what a grand mistake you've made." Fiona's arm, still in possession of the .45, shifted.

"And I have your attention now, si?" Adolpho lifted what was supposed to be a calming hand. "You have my word, your daughter has been taken care of."

Fiona's breath was dangerously shallow. But she had the backwards sense to demand, "And the redhead? Josephine Levard?"

Jaws, who had been gleefully smirking at the outrage Ben had been staring at him with, smirked a little wider. He winked.

"She is with the girl," Adolpho rested his arms carefully by his sides again, "in this very building."

"Take us to them."

"Even better: Jaws, go and retrieve our guests. Lady, you and I have much to discuss." Adolpho returned to his seat, and gestured across from himself to a similar one. Fiona gave him a look that would have killed a toad, but slowly took it. She said over her shoulder, perhaps just to keep the score even, "Goldberg, go with him."

Jaws looked at Adolpho, who shrugged. Jaws smirked again and set his cannon down on an ivory table top. He headed out into the hall, into the stairwell, and down towards the basement...

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Tue Jan 19, 2010 5:12 pm

They were greeted with the sight of a man, sitting in an (undoubtedly expensive) red smoking jacket watching with a shark-like attitude. Or at least, he probably thought it was shark-like. In fact, the name of the newspaper he had casually thrown to the floor was a perfect metaphor for the impression he gave off to Ben. As much as Adolpho (of course, it couldn't have been anyone else) tried to play the smooth, slickly handsome Italian mob boss, he hadn't managed to get a few details quite right. The Globe instead of a more reputable paper was one of them. The ever-so-slightly awkward way he lounged in his chair was another. And the garish jacket was the most obvious.

At Fiona's mention of Jo, Ben's attention was drawn away from the Jaws to Adolpho's features. He didn't miss Jaws' wink, however, and he inwardly vowed that he would not be leaving this building without adding to the piker's motley collection of bruises.

Initially, he wasn't sure if he should leave Fiona alone with Adolpho. But he soon checked himself. What are you thinking, Goldberg? She can- has fired a gun a thousand times more than you. This sort of thing is her bread and butter. If anything, you should be more concerned about yourself.

Resolutely holding onto his own gun, Ben shrugged at Fiona then followed Jaws downstairs, knuckles white on the handle of the pistol, gaze drilling a hole into the back of the other man's head. Despite his tension, he could not help a little bit of hope flutter in his chest at the thought that Jo might be just yards away.

Apostophe · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Apostophe** on Tue Jan 19, 2010 6:43 pm

"Talented and modest. Isn't she an angel, Howie?" Nate smiled generously. Her tone almost sounded genuinely surprised. Almost. But Nate wasn't fooled. He'd been working as a director long enough to know that most of the acting happened not in the spotlight, but offstage. It was all well and good to be able to fool an audience, but if you could fool the people that really mattered...then you had it made. Nate, having dabbled in such social matters for so long, let only a fragment of measured sarcasm seep into his tone. Howie, who was nodding his head in wholehearted agreement, certainly didn't seem to notice. (Frankly, Howie didn't seem to notice anything.) But Nate was pretty sure that Sofia would pick up on it. And if she didn't...well, then perhaps he had overestimated her.

"Let's ankle, then," he said, fighting a smirk as he cut off Howie's babbling response. (Was it just him, or had Sofia looked a little bit too pleased with herself as she'd complimented the screenwriter?) He gave a nod of expertly feigned sympathy to his companion, before starting towards the door.

Outside, the air was cool and fresh. After the dimness of the theatre the sunlight seemed unnaturally bright, the pale pavement impossible to look at without squinting. Once his eyes had adjusted, Nate glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Sofia was following. With a coolly arched eyebrow, he said, "Really? That's odd, because I don't think I've ever seen your name in the tabloids."

It was a lie, of course. As of late, the director couldn't read two articles without seeing the name Sofia D'Elia someplace or another. But he couldn't resist taking a stab at her ego, even if said ego was far too inflated to be affected. Not all that unlike Nate himself, come to think of it.

Nate continued at a brisk pace down the street, expertly dodging a gaggle of women that looked as though they might start foaming at the mouth at the mention of a famous actress. Their destination was a chic coffee shop, the kind that sold fancy biscotti and pastries alongside overpriced caffeine. It was nothing fancy, but they were less likely to be attacked by paparazzi there than at the ritzier joint around the corner.

He held the door with a polite smile, allowing Sofia to enter first. To an onlooker, Nate may have appeared the perfect gentleman. Which he was...in theory. Technically speaking, he was someone who pretended to be a gentleman, when the occasion called for it. But that was a rather insignificant detail; he was good enough at pretending that there was a hardly a difference between the two.

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Tue Jan 19, 2010 7:52 pm

Fiona and Adolpho stared hard at each other as Ben and Jaws left the room. Their voices picked up in harsh conversation just as the two men stepped onto the landing, and out of hearing.

It was a long walk down the stairs of the apartment. Eight flights was a long distance, even going down, when there was such a goal in mind, and when there was enough animosity between the trekkers. Jaws' smugness only seemed to increase with each step he took. He considered baiting Lady Luck's news hawk friend further, but decided each time that leaving him with nasty, vague hints was better.

Finally they reached the basement floor. Jaws pulled a key from around his neck to let them into the boiler room. Past the hissing coils that kept the elite in warm bathwater, around a final corner with scraped-at mold, and finally there was a bland wooden door. Jaws pulled a second key from around his neck, and jiggled it inside the doorknob. He turned to sneer at Ben, "Un momento, mi amico. Let us say our goodbyes, eh?"

Inside the room, on the single bed with the scratchy cotton blanket, a woman with corkscrew red curls and a badly bruised eye slept on her side. A little girl with pale hair and positively cherubic features was snuggled in with her; the woman had a protective arm wrapped around her small friend, who had a fist affectionately entwined in the auburn twists. Jo had finished moaning into a bucket only about an hour earlier, her stomach protesting the fact that they were apparently housed on a boat.

She was rudely awakened from much desired sleep by a rough hand gripping her shoulder (the one with the cast on its arm, the piker!) and shaking her like she was covered in bugs. She gasped and tried to sit up, tried to wrench away from the unwanted alarm clock, and a moment later Alzophine was rolling away and protesting vehemently.

"You not s'pposed to be in here, cooyon! Go 'way! Don't you touch my fren!" Zo shrieked, slapping at Jaws' forearm.

"Zo!" Jo hurried to catch the girl up in her arms, then snarled at Jaws, "What the hell do you want?"

"Is time to go," Jaws sneered back, giving her shoulder a hard enough shove that she fell back, taking Zo with her. Jo felt a thrill of fear race through her, which only increased as Jaws gripped her good arm and hauled her off of the bed. Alzophine grabbed onto Jo's dress and dug her heels into the ground as Jaws dragged the both of them towards the door.

"Get your hands off! Damn you!" Jo cried, struggling furiously, kicking at Jaws' apparently steel legs (it was hard to do any damage when your shoes were missing), and at last stumbling as he gave her a hard shove out the door. She tripped, and caught herself on--

Jo's eyes grew wide with disbelief. Alzophine caught onto her legs and started to wail about how the lanky man with the messy dark hair couldn't take her 'fren' away. Jo felt her own tears starting up as she ignored Jaws' snickering and whispered the first stupid thing she could think of, not quite able to bring her trembling hands to rest on his face lest this turn out to be some nauseous dream. "Oh my God what happened to your ear?"

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Wed Jan 20, 2010 10:57 am

There was a commotion from inside the room into which Jaws had disappeared. Then, the sound of Jo's voice. Ben's heart lifted. He advanced but stumbled backwards as someone fell into him in a blur of copper curls and threadbare clothes. He barely noticed the golden-headed child clutching at her skirts.

"Jo?" he managed, unable to hold back a broad smile at the sight of her. He pulled her to him in a tight hug and it was as if a missing part had clicked into place to let relief flood into him. "Huh-? Oh, this?" His hand flew to his ear briefly but then settled back at her cheek. "It's nothing, I-"

His features quickly transformed from obvious relief into a deep frown as he realised that dark bruises clouded the side of her face about her eye. And the more he looked, the more drawn she appeared, the more obvious the sickly flush in her cheeks. Before, he hadn't allowed himself to consider how well she'd been treated, trying to convince himself only that she was alive to be treated well or badly. Now that he was satisfied of the latter, the former impressed upon his consciousness.

"Are you alright? Who did this to you?" he said, turning her cheek so he could see the full extent of her injuries and running the pad of his thumb gentle across the crest of her cheekbone. The bruises bloomed in pale purples and sickening yellows on her skin like pollution spread in a once-clear stream and anger echoed it in the pit of Ben's stomach. "Was it him?" he said, suddenly, turning his gaze back towards the sniggering Jaws.

"Did you do this?" he demanded, letting go of her and instinctively advancing towards him. He seized the front of Jaws' shirt, all the anger and frustration he'd suppressed over the past few days bubbling to the surface.

"Then I shall consider myself very lucky," Sofia said ambiguously.

She of course knew that Nate was lying, trying to wind her up or bring her down a peg or two. Trying to exert his authority over her. In a way, it would have been a bigger boost to her ego if he'd been telling the truth. She was well aware her celebrity had played a significant part (if not the only part) in securing her the role she'd just auditioned for; a part that was probably larger than the one played by her raw talent.

That and people tended to prejudge her based on what they'd read in tabloid columns. Whether rightly or not, Sofia couldn't possibly speculate, but they did.

Sofia kept pace with Nate until they arrived at an inconspicuous little coffee shop on the next block. She was mildly surprised by his choice; if it had been her, she would have chosen a far more obvious venue. After all, if they were glimpsed together, so soon after a scheduled audition, the speculation as to whether she was starring in his next play would be excellent publicity. But he was only a young director, so perhaps, for all his attempts on her ego, he was still a little less experienced than he liked to think himself.

She sat down at a table next to the window, arranging her dress about her and crossing on shapely leg over the other.

"One coffee, please," she said with a smile, as a waitress approached them, notepad in hand. "Black, one sugar."

Jadeling Hawkins · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Jadeling Hawkins** on Wed Jan 20, 2010 12:22 pm

Alzophine had stopped--or at least tempered--her crying when she realized that Jo was not struggling to get free, but in fact look like she was considering welding the man's lanky arms around her body. Jo was looking up at the wonderfully crisp, familiar features of her beau with the same fondness of a lost pine cone looking up at its tree. She cradled the back of his hand with one of her own as he examined her, and she repeated his words: "It's nothing, it's nothing..."

She didn't care about her damn black eye. Against the odds, Ben was here, right outside of that bland little room. And his face was in one piece (mostly). All of that sickening, indescribable emotion that had taken her over at Jaws' response to being jilted seemed to zip through her, just to remind her of what she didn't have to experience. A single blink of her eyes sent a handful of glassy tears down her cheeks, and she tightened her grip on Ben's shoulders.

To her surprise, however, she found her hands suddenly empty. She watched Ben advance on Jaws, and suddenly became aware of Zo clinging to her. She dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around the girl, who sniffed and rubbed her eyes and was then quite better.

Jaws, for his part, was taken by surprise. He opened his mouth to respond, but was at first cowed by the raw anger in the other man. With a glance at the two hostages, he reaffirmed his position enough to sneer, "One forgets."

"Ben!" Jo called from the floor, trying to brush both her and Zo's tears away. Her voice was tight. She really wouldn't have minded watching Ben pummel Jaws a little, after the nasty Dago had made her think...But they weren't out yet, as one might surmise from the dank, rusted metal smell that surrounded them in what appeared to be a very dark basement. "Ben, please...look at his face, I already taught him a lesson. Let's just get out of here...please."

Zo lightly tugged at Jo's sleeve, drawing the older woman down to whisper in her ear, "Is dat your cher?"

Jo smiled a little and nodded, like she would have gladly spread Ben out and rolled around in him. She answered with that tone, "Yeah, he's my cher."

To Jo's surprise, Alzophine suddenly turned in her arms and pointed a stern finger at Ben and Jaws. "He's a abdominal! He grabbed-" And here Zo used a few words and phrases that Jo would have never imagined coming out of the mouth of a four-year-old, but which accurately described how Jaws had earned his messy face, "-an' 'e hit moi, too! He's a cooyon an' my Momma gonna put him in a big time-out!"

Jaws' lip curled at the impertinent child. He spat out at Ben, "Get your hands off of me, -" and here another word hardly appropriate where a child was concerned, "-unless you want to spend all night in this basement!"

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Wed Jan 20, 2010 6:26 pm

Fiona's daughter had a strange accent, no doubt an amalgamation of her mother's Irish-Brooklynese and her father's Southern twang, but Ben understood her well enough.

"I'll think I'll risk it," he hissed at Jaws, before levelling his best right hook at the man's jaw. It impacted with a satisfying dull thwack that stung his knuckles. Ben was not used to fighting. In his younger days, the few scraps he'd been in had been primarily for self-preservatory purposes when a tab hadn't been paid on time or his tipsily uninhibited sarcasm had started a bar brawl. Now, for the political editor of The New York Times to be seen to be engaged in a fist-fight would certainly set tongues wagging and elicit a telling-off from Edison (or at least instructions to be more discrete next time). For some people, however, he was happy to make an exception.

Seizing the keys from around the other man's neck, Ben shoved him backwards. His now-bruised hand went to his gun (just in case Jaws decided to try to make good on his promise) and he gestured to Jo.

"Come'on, Levard," he said, grabbing her hand and attempting to herd the outraged Alzophine towards the door. "Let's give Valentino here a taste of his own medicine." He grinned grimly at Jaws and dangled the keys to the basement from his trigger finger, the metal glinting in the dim light.

Once they were outside, Ben slammed the door shut triumphantly and deftly turned the key in the lock.

"You sure you're alright?" he said, again, squeezing her hand. It was odd how something as simple as the feel of her palm against his could make things seem so much better. He began to lead the way back upstairs.

Then he said to Zo: "Your mama's upstairs, you know? But you're gonna have to stay out of her way because she doesn't want you getting hurt anymore, OK? So just stick with me and Jo..."

Life After Noir

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