S1, E2 | The Side That Comes from Wealth

\ Seattle - 1930 /

Her eyebrows furrowed, nostrils flaring and hands balled into fists that sway at her sides, Cathy marches through the muddy grounds of the hooverville she takes refuge in with a single destination in mind. Enjoying their time as the night grows old together, groups of people huddle together just outside their makeshift, tent-like homes chatting amongst each other, not allowing the cruel circumstances of their shared living situation keep them from living a life worth speaking of.

The ruffles on her dress shifting with each motion of her legs, Cathy carries onward without any mind paid to those that scatter amongst the various encampments she passes, a few porch-front businesses lining the path that she walks. With eyes kept on the ground ahead, the woman’s intent soon joins her in being guided to the raggedy shack a few blocks away from the same tavern she’d known her husband to frequent.

“He should be in there” the woman behind the irate wife remarks, the message she’d been sent to deliver serving as the only reason for the wife’s steady progress onward. Having forgotten about the woman’s presence entirely by this point in her journey, Cathy passes a glance over her shoulder and nods her head, “thank you” she replies before continuing forward, refocusing her attention exclusively on the hut she soon steps through the entrance of.

Passing by a few sickly or wounded gentlemen laid out on small, thin table tops throughout the shed’s interior, Cathy pursues the sight of the man she’d been called to the assistance of. Dimly lit, stingy and stuffy, the shack itself presents itself like an unorganised and cluttered maze, messy and thrown together almost as if the people responsible for its configuration gave little care toward how accessible it truly was.

Her soft skin lit briefly by the spaced-apart candles that light the sickly hut, Cathy glances at the walls and their splatters of blood, eyeing the needles that are discarded into different corners without care, and listens to the sounds of pain that emanate from around every corner. As if she were walking through the halls of a horror show, the troubled and aggravated spouse soon nears the corner her entire trip had built up to, her husband’s bloody half-smile meeting her upon arrival.

“Hey, dollface” Jimmy remarks, dropping the man he’s placed his health in the hands of- dressed in a regular suit with a pair of brown suspenders- a nickel for his troubles. The cut over his eye having been reopened and worsened, the wounded brawler spits another mixture of blood and saliva onto the ground as his wife slowly approaches, drawing closer with the least intimidating posture she can conjure.

Before long, her innocent and unimposing demeanour is set aside as her open hand swipes across the air, striking the side of her husband’s face without an ounce of hesitation. “What did I tell you about fighting!?” Cathy exclaims in a stern tone as her husband presses his own hand against the cheek that had been stricken, “why must you keep trying to put yourself into care!?”

“Relax honey, for god’s sake- it’s not like I’m six feet under, am I?” Jimmy retorts, gently rubbing the sore side of his face as it grows a brighter shade of red. “Even though that’s not the point, you’ll end up getting yourself there if you continue like this” Cathy retorts, a response that prompts her husband to hang his head, defeated and disheartened, aware of the truth behind her remark, though too fed up with the world he lives in to not desire the opposite of what is argued.

“Perhaps we’d all be better off if so” Jimmy replies slightly beneath his breath, the remark just barely loud enough for his wife to call into question the words spoken. “What was that?” Cathy inquires aloud, watching her husband’s eyes look up at her with the same depreciating look he’d held since his pay out for the week were handed off. As if he’d been clamouring for the chance to utter those same words aloud, the battered fighter repeats himself with added context.

“The only reason you're here is because of me. If I weren’t around, you could marry yourself into somewhere other than this shit hole” Jimmy replies, a vigour in his words not aimed at his wife, but at the world he calls home, “me being here is one thing, but me keeping you hog-tied like this is another one.”

“If you really believed that, you’d have thrown yourself off that bridge instead of using it to walk to the teller each day” Cathy replies, immediately dismissing the claims her husband is all-too eager to double down on. “At least then you’d be able to say you held out until death did us part” Jimmy retorts, at the end of his rope without much clarity over how he can do more than he already has to provide what little he’s offered, “you deserve so much more than this.”

“It doesn’t matter what I do- or do not- deserve. I married you and I am your loyal wife” Cathy rebukes, watching the man’s loosening face look back to her, “why can’t me choosing to be here with you be enough for you?” 

“Damnit, it is enough. It’s always been enough for me, Cathy- but it isn’t enough for you” Jimmy replies, his voice taking a self-loathing turn as he corrects his remark, “at least it shouldn’t be.” Letting a breath leave through her nose, the grizzled man’s faithful wife bows her head and couples her hands at her lap whilst the unqualified doctor carries on with his treatment, dabbing a cloth against the brawler’s open cuts and wiping the dirt that sits around it.

“I don’t need money. I don’t need opulent wealth and a fancy, big home” Cathy retorts, taking her husband’s stance to heart before correcting his conclusion, “I want a husband who loves me and cares about me. You treat me well even without having all the means to do so the way others could. I love you and that is all that it takes for me to stay.”

Though as moved by her confession of devotion as he was on their wedding day, Jimmy’s disheartened visage is unable to be cleansed the way his skin can be of the muck that covers it. “Now, I will not hear anymore of whomever this man in front of me is. This man is not my husband- he’s some drunk that takes out his pent-up aggression on other local crumbs” Cathy concludes, a metaphorical foot placed down where she stands, “if I have to see anymore of him- there will be problems.”

Though it can only muster itself in the corner of his mouth, a grin appears upon Jimmy’s face before the rest of his head bows, taking toward the ground as his doctor pulls away. Discarding the wet rag he runs across his patient’s face, the untrained medical hand pats his client on the back and clears him to return home. “Keep that thing clean if you can. If it swells or gets discoloured, come to me and we’ll take it from there” the carer remarks, watching Jimmy hop off the table he sits at the edge of.

“Thank you” the fighter appreciatively quips, wrapping his arm around his wife’s waist before walking off the way they’d both entered, their home all that either of the couple can think of in such a moment. Nodding to himself before scribbling down something on a piece of paper, the doctor steps out of the open area with a candle in his hand, stepping into the next room over before preparing for his next client.

“What hurts?” the man inquires aloud, setting a stack of papers in the corner whilst placing the source of candlelight a few feet away from his assumed patient. “I’m not here for care” Wilbur replies, sitting close to his small room’s entry with eyes on the departing couple, a squint in his eyes presented from a place of deep-rooted determination.

“Why are you here then?” the doctor questions back, not receiving his response until after Jimmy and Cathy round the closest corner in search of the exit, their bodies vanishing from the wealthy man’s line of sight. “I’m scouting, doc” Wilbur replies, still bleeding from an open wound along the top of his forehead in addition to his nose. Though his tooth is cracked, the man of luxury flashes a smile at the untrained caretaker before reaching for his hat, placing it atop his head and departing.

= Seattle Noir is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward =

\ Three weeks prior /

“That’s foolish, Norman” Wilbur remarks whilst exhaling a cloud of smoke he’d taken in from a drag off his cigar, staring intently at the chips he holds. “You say that, and yet here the two of us are- in Seattle” Norman responds, holding a cigar of his own between the two primary digits on his right hand whilst glancing at the assortment of colour-coded numbers atop the table they stand beside.

“You say that as if your career back in Hollywood were panning out as planned” Wilbur retorts, pressing his lips upon one of Cuba’s finest before holding it there, freeing his hands to disperse the chips amongst the plethora of tiles. “Trying to make it on the silver screen were less of a plausible route than venturing into the Pacific Northwest for untapped potential” Norman rebukes, preparing to take another pull off his cigar as he pauses to double down on his claim.

“We could have been comfortable in California, but you decided our time was better spent spending our money on dingey alleyways and nightwalkers” the wealthy gentleman remarks, putting out a few chips in different sections of the board. “Who needs comfort when you can have luxury?” Wilbur replies, his lips moving to form the words as best they can with the cigar still placed between them.

“Luxury and comfort are words interchangeable with one another” Norman retorts, only placing a few chips on the board whilst his friend aims a little higher than necessary. “Not at the level we’re sitting on” Wilbur rebukes, finally pulling the cigar from his lips as the final chip is placed, time having already begun to run out before the wheel is spun to start the next round, “comfort belongs to the people with wealth, and luxury belongs to the people with money to waste.”

“Is that why we’re at a casino?” Norman questions aloud, their shared conversation heard by those that line the table around them, all paying half-mind to their discourse. “We are men of luxury that will use our wealth to create an empire” Wilbur replies, watching the attendant’s hand reach for the nearest spoke to set the next round into motion.

“And we couldn’t create that empire in California for what reason?” Norman questions aloud, reaching for a nearby glass of water as the wheel rips into motion. “You don’t want the actual answer to that question” Wilbur warns, smiling as he leans against the table, watching the circle in the centre of it spin and spin with desires of winning big.

“Of course I do. Tell me why I shouldn’t yearn for the reason behind why I travelled north with you in search of greener pastures” Norman retorts, watching the wheel gradually begin to slow to a stop as a ball is tossed in, allowed to freely close in on whichever compartment of the revolving platform it chooses. Eyes soon veering to his friend, the still-upright man watches Wilbur look up at him with his smile intact, “I wanted a change of scenery” the man answers honestly.

“Why shouldn’t I be surprised?” Norman wonders aloud, staring toward the heavens with his head shaking in disapproval, though his tone does not appear to present Wilbur with any sense of true disappointment. Tucking his free hand into his jacket pocket, the standing gambler looks back toward the wheel as it slows to a near-halt, the ball finally reaching the number that the majority of his chips were placed atop of. 

“Seventeen!” the casino attendant exclaims, looking up at Norman whilst his friend chuckles to himself, standing up from his lean before pressing his cigar between his lips once more. “Well, Hollywood” Wilbur remarks, patting his victorious friend on the shoulder as he prepares to venture off further into the hall of wagers, “it looks like your luck is already beginning to change for the better- or should I say, gambler?”

Having wasted a few hours placing pointless bets, the night grows too late for them to ignore a hearty meal any longer, the California-raised gentleman having found their way to the finest dining establishment the city has left to offer. With silverware in hand and their steaming meals set atop the plates before them, Norman and Wilbur dine beneath candlelight and are surrounded by equally well-dressed gentlemen and ladies in all directions.

“Like I said, it’s in the name ‘Panko-Crusted Pike’” Wilbur replies, sliding off a piece of his own meal and holding the tongs of his fork to his still-open mouth, “it’s common up here.” Jostling his head as he carves off another slice to follow that of his first, Norman- impressed in the flavour of his plate- nods to himself in pleasure. “I never said Seattle had nothing good to offer” the man corrects, sliding another piece of the fish between his teeth, easily pulling it from the utensil.

“You’d be wrong if you did, so that’s good” Wilbur jokes back, arms pressing into the rounded corners of the dining table they occupy, listening to the colliding of silverware with the ceramic plates in each direction his eyes turn toward. After a few minutes of enjoying their individual platters in silence, a thought comes across the mind of the man sitting across from his equally-wealthy travel partner, still intrigued by what has yet to be said.

“Alright, you’ve got me intrigued enough for me to ask” Norman remarks, swallowing his most-recent bite whilst his friend looks up, still chewing on his own, “this empire you’re speaking of- what exactly is it being rooted in?” Eyes veering off to the side, Wilbur stares at the distance as he finishes eating the forkful he’d just shovelled into his mouth, covering his mouth with the knuckle of his index finger, “money” he replies after swallowing.

“Don’t give me that- I want none of that” Norman rebukes, watching his friend cut off another bite and shovel it into his mouth as the man across from him reiterates. “It clearly wasn’t just a change of scenery that brought us here, Willy. There’s something more to it” the man- simply along for the ride to see where it takes them- remarks, “are you here for the docks? We working against Volstead?”

Shaking his head in refusal, Wilbur carries out his chewing without needing to pause, prompting his pally into further spoken-aloud consideration. “Well what is it? Drugs?” Norman questions aloud, seemingly on board with the various directions he proposes, though has as much certainty to each as any clueless wanderer would. “We’re not taking on the docks” the gentleman with the answers replies, having finished his newest bite in time to speak, “what we’re doing is dry.”

“But it is illegal, no?” Norman questions aloud, offered an answer quickly before another bite can be taken. “Not entirely” Wilbur answers honestly, pulling off another piece of the soft fish upon his plate and relishing in the taste, yet to pay any mind to the look of loss on his friend’s face.

“What does that mean?” Norman questions aloud, nodding his head appreciatively to the server that refills his glass. Covering his mouth, Wilbur glances toward the depths of the intimately-lit dining room with the intention of replying, only for his attention to be caught by the sultry voices that approach their table. “Are the two of you new here?” the first woman, dressed in a shiny red dress with loose strands at the end, wonders aloud to the young-ish pair.

“That depends on who you’re asking on behalf of, kitten” Wilbur replies, putting a momentary end to the conversation he’d been amidst in favour of speaking to the ladies that approach. “We’re not prostitutes” the lady in red replies, joined by her blonde friend, who wears a dress similar to that of her own, though in an almost-reflective silver.

Having also chosen to set his discourse aside, Norman stares at the women for a moment inquisitively, allowing his friend to keep the words moving. “What are the two of you doing out here then, huh?” Wilbur continues to question, pointing his fork in a random direction of the dining room, “the two of you a moll or something? Maybe a couple of grifters?”

Shaking her head in silence, the brunette in the red dress flashes her smile at the sharp-dressed man and leans forward, her voice maintaining its soft tone as her hand wraps around the man’s red and white striped tie. “I’m whatever you want me to be, sugar” the woman replies in a seductive manner, flashing her teeth to the man that visibly appears to be as into her as she is to him, the silver, blonde-haired lady presenting the same demeanour to the man across from him.

“Well, if you ain’t with anyone, I suppose-” Wilbur begins to reply, feigning his interest for a few more seconds as their faces near closer, only for his charming smile to fall aside, a stoic display of disinterest presented as he breaks from the pause in his words, “-you ought to find two other chumps to latch onto instead.”

Pulling away and gesturing his hand for the woman to depart, Wilbur reclaims his fork and turns his full attention back to the dinner sat before him. “Wh-?” Norman wonders beneath his breath, looking across the table in surprise as the blonde woman joins her friend in walking away out of disgust, shocked at the dismissive presentation he’d put forward, “what the hell was that!?”

Pulling another piece of fish off his fork, Wilbur waves his hand at the man he accompanies for dinner and covers his mouth mid-chew, “as evident by your dinner, there are better fish in the sea” the man replies, continuing his indulgence of the meal. “Who cares!? We’re not marrying the ladies!” Norman retorts, watching his friend’s fork dart toward the ladies as they make it to the other side of the dining room, venturing off at the man’s behest.

“If you wanna go give yourself some shrivel-dick making whoopee with the tramps, be my guest” Wilbur replies, leaving his friend the choice to head off in search of what he’d so casually sent on their way. Looking over his shoulder at the exiting ladies, Norman clears his mind of the sensual thoughts that had supplanted themselves in his head and returns to his questioning of the man he travels with.

“Alright, what is it with you already!?” Norman inquires, watching the man he joins for a meal cover his mouth and smile, holding back his laugh from being seen by the man across from him. “You would’ve jumped at those cats back in California, but all of a sudden- you’re too good for it” the man reiterates, watching Wilbur look up at him with the same full-mouthed smile, “you’re not telling me something, and I wanna know what that is.”

With his grin ever-widening, Wilbur finishes his bite and wipes his mouth with the cloth his silverware had come wrapped within. “You really wanna know?” the man questions aloud, looking Norman in the eyes and seeing the determined nod he receives, given all the assurance he needs to continue forward, stepping out of his seat and pushing his chair out, “come with me.”

Allowing the night to roll into the next morning seamlessly, the wealthy businessmen in sight of new ventures stand at the edge of Smith Cove, staring out at the moonlight just over the waterfront. “I thought you said what we were getting into was dry” Norman remarks, a curious gleam in his eye as he waits for the man beside him to further elaborate on the environment they stand within, “why are we at the docks?”

Letting a deep breath of salty air leave his lungs, Wilbur smiles at the rippling waters that reside just beyond the metal links serving as a minimalist barrier between the seaside and the cove. “It just so happened to be where the property was” the man answers honestly, staring out at the enchanting sights as his business partner’s mind takes closer to the remark he’d just made.

“What property?” Norman questions aloud, turning to look at the man that has already spun around and begun walking toward an unmarked building closeby. “It was a factory for a while before it caught fire. The city put in the funds to renovate it, but the company had already found somewhere better suited and moved out permanently” Wilbur remarks, brushing aside any further question until he can finish his brief look into the lot’s past, “the city’s been looking for a buyer ever since.”

“I don’t understand” Norman murmurs, joining his friend in walking along the factory’s grounds, having entered through the rear door and now being surrounded by nothing more than open space. “You bought a factory for- what, exactly?” the curious traveller wonders aloud, following Wilbur deeper into the building, nothing more than concrete flooring to be seen.

“For fighting obviously” Wilbur replies, finally revealing his true motivations for the journey northbound in spite of the dismissive chuckle his friend responds to him with. “I figured I’d get a crew in to dig out a good chunk of the floor, set up some seats around the pit and rent out the catwalks overhead to high-rollers and those with the deepest pockets” the man with lofty expectations begins to remark, each word he utters gradually making his friend realise the truth behind his revelation.

“The fighting won’t get us in trouble, but the gambling will. I figured the pigs out here would be tickled pink well enough to get a decent cut out of the earnings we make each night” Wilbur continues, allowed to finish as his shocked friend watches on from behind, unsure of how to respond, “from there, we’ll set a fight card three weeks in advance and send it out to our most-frequent visitors. The fighters will get a hefty cut, we’ll take the rest and keep moving from there.”

Pleased with his description that illustrates the walls of peeling paint and dirt-covered floors as a worthy hole to sink their cash into, Wilbur throws his arms outward and turns back for his friend, “what do you think?” Having already stopped walking alongside the man long ago, Norman looks at his fellow California-native with widened eyes and a brief shake of the head.

“I think you’ve fallen off the wagon, pal” the hesitant man replies, beginning to resume his walk as the distance between himself and his friend closes in, “do you suppose we defy prohibition whilst we’re at it? Maybe give the Italians out east a run for their money?” Looking out at the wide walls and shattered windows that line them with a semi-confident nod, Wilbur shrugs his shoulders and extends his lower lip, “that isn’t a bad idea now that you mention it” he replies.

Rolling his eyes as he nearly does a full three hundred and sixty degree spin, Norman shakes his head and breaks into a laugh, unable to free himself from the surprise he takes in the man’s certainty. “Why the hell do you think any of this would work?” the man calls into question, incapable of preventing himself from listing the things that work against him, “we have no credibility here, we’d have to pay off countless people to get this off without a hitch, and we don’t even have fighters!”

Chuckling to himself briefly, Wilbur’s amusement finds itself tacked onto what’s littered with inquiries. “You find that funny?” Norman wonders aloud, knowing the last quips to be what sprouts amusement in his colleague, “we could’ve done all of this in California if we really wanted to! There was no reason to head all the way north for something like this!”

“Sure there is” Wilbur replies, tucking his hands into his pockets as his dominant one pulls out a packet of smokes, placing one between his lips as his friend obliges with the other end of the discourse. “What’s the reason?” Norman wonders back, shrugging his shoulder as he too tucks his hands into his pocket, graciously accepting a dart handed to him by the man’s extended hand, “-and don’t simply blame it on wanting a change of scenery either.”

Striking a match and lighting his friend’s cigarette before taking the flame to his own, Wilbur pulls a drag off the dart and holds it in his lungs for a moment, only blowing it out upon the vocalisation of his reply, “the hooverville.” With a shrug of his own, Norman lets his drag steady and holds it down whilst his follow-up question is voiced, “what about it?” he asks before freeing the smoke from his lungs.

“Those fuckers will do anything to climb their way out of the rubble the banks stuck us in” Wilbur answers honestly, staring out at the moonlight from beyond the farthest window the building has to offer, its glass panes the most shattered of all. “I say we charge admission on top of the wagers, give ten percent of our weekly earnings to the pigs outright, pay out sixty to the high-rollers, and split the remaining forty evenly with the fighters” the plot’s mastermind proposes.

“That still counts on us being able to attract the right clientele” Norman rebukes, crossing his arms and pressing his back against the concrete column he leans against, “even though I’m sure the pigs will bite, I’m not familiar enough to know they bring the hammer down.” Cutting his hand through the air, Wilbur squints toward the distance as he takes another drag, shaking his head as he lets the next breath of smoke leave his lungs.

“I’ll have that taken care of- don’t you worry” the brainchild replies, his left eye opening wider whilst the lids of the right press closer together. “As for the fighters, I’ll have that covered as well” the plot’s creator concludes, his squint lessening as his eyes turn toward Norman, his lips forming a devious grin in the corner of his mouth as the next comes to an end, restless planning for their Pacific Northwest plot enveloping their next three weeks before Wilbur sets the wheel in motion.

Crafting an image of himself in the eyes of the less fortunate, Wilbur plays the disdain-inducing role he was born to present, dressed in the garb of endless wealth amidst those forced to brave the elements just to have sanctuary awaiting them. The night he’d been waiting for the arrival of having finally dawned, the man crafts his most toxic expression and dares anyone to deliver him the physical harm he’d been begging to receive for weeks- the anyone he’d set out for finally showing himself.

“Wilbur, he’s not having a-” Old Eddy begins to remark, reaching out for the man that slowly ascends from the stool in confrontational fashion, kept from speaking further by the remarks paid back to him. “I don’t care what his excuse is. People don’t talk to me like that” Wilbur replies, taking his hat off and placing it upon his seat as Jimmy stands out of his own, pulling his arms away from the hesitant reach of Stanley and Jesse, both realising their friend is in over his head.

Having gone silent once more, the display of the wealthy gentleman and his clearly much-poorer adversary standing with the same thought in mind baffles and enthrals the crowd of patrons, all wanting to have a good night and believing what’s about to unfold will only ensure one. “I gave the man a tip for his troubles, I don’t see what your trouble is” Wilbur responds, aware that this interaction only appears to be headed in one direction as he takes off his coat.

“You impolitely demanded my friend serve you. I find it odd that you can throw around cabbage, but can’t afford to throw around a ‘thank you’” Jimmy retorts, rolling his sleeves up in lieu of any worthwhile clothing he’d fear having to dirty. “By the looks of you, I don’t assume you can’t afford much of anything” Wilbur retorts, not one to hold back on the manner of insults as their confrontation only runs deeper, “I suppose you wouldn’t be able to afford getting into a scrap with me, either.”

Without a hint of reluctance, Jimmy swipes his hand through the air and slaps the wealthy man across the face to the collective sound of gasps and sighs from those watching on. With widened eyes and his hand pressing against the side of his face, Wilbur looks toward the ground as his rage simmers to a boiling point, his still rolled-down sleeves left unattended in the wake of the disrespectful show.

Wasting little time in considering the condition of his wardrobe, Wilbur’s eyes dart back to his assailant seconds prior to his fist following the same trajectory, cracking his opposition across the face with ease.

Thrown back onto one knee, Jimmy leans over the ground and momentarily tends to the side of his face, listening to the footsteps that approach before anything else. Though his broken nose and busted lip had already begun to heal, the smile of getting back in the saddle pre-empts his follow-up attack. Throwing his hand forward, the labourer catches Wilbur on the jaw and knocks him off balance for a moment, waiting for a few seconds for the field to even just in the name of avoiding excuses.

Feeling the weight of the strike within his molar teeth, Wilbur stands in the quickly-widening circle that the speakeasy hosts, staring at Jimmy as the crowd he’d walked through minutes prior pulls as far back as they can, applauding the action unfolding before them with glee. His own smile matched by the well-dressed adversary, Jimmy balls his fists and corrects his posture, prepared for the battle that wages on between himself and the affluent gentleman.

Their strides matched, Jimmy and Wilbur cut the distance between each other shorter with each passing step, prepared to deliver strikes back upon the other as if their lives depended on it. Forced to sit back with the rest of the speakeasy’s crowd, Stanley and Jesse take their drinks and indulge in them whilst they can as their friend battles with a man born from the unknown, both men- from completely separate sides of the tracks- now running toward each other with heinous intent in mind.

== Seattle Noir ==