S1, E6 | A One Way Ticket to A Fresh Start

\ Seattle - 1930 /

“Forget them!” Jimmy shouts aloud, trying to lure Jesse away from the heated urge of picking another fight with their common foes before returning his attention to the wounded friend beside him, “are you alright?”

Wincing in pain with every attempt he makes at moving his arm, Stanley tries to defy the nature of his injury to no avail, soon finding himself forced to shake his head in refusal. “I can’t move it without something up there stingin’ me” the man confesses, his head slightly hung in disappointment whilst his wife kneels beside him, trying her best to be a source of comfort.

“That’s because you’ve fractured your clavicle” Wilbur remarks, following the white-coated doctor as he steps through the door, “in stupid terms, you’ve messed up the bone between your neck and your shoulder.” His hand balled into a fist as the revelation prompts him to turn away and restrain himself from dashing through the office’s door, Jesse scrunches his face with anger whilst his friend takes the lead on questions, asking only the ones that make the most sense.

“How long will it be until he’s healed?” Jimmy inquires, standing a few feet away from his wife, who sits quietly in a chair near the corner of the room. “Not for a long while. A couple of months at minimum, maybe?” the doctor replies, watching his patient wince at the slightest touch the professional takes toward his arm, “there’s not a whole ton we can do with these kinds of injuries. The best solution I can offer after you leave here would be to rest as still as you can.”

“Can he fight with it?” Jesse wonders back, pressing his arm against the doorway he leans against. “He could in theory, but I’d highly advise against it” the doctor responds, his head shaking as he steps away from the patient, “we’ll put him in a hanger, try to let the broken bone heal, and see where he’s at. These injuries can get serious, however. If he fought through it, he’ll only make the injury worse, and with it- his pain.”

“Let me fight him then” Jesse instantly quips, pulling away from the side of the room as his friends watch on, the plea offered to the mastermind behind the fights, “if Stan can’t fight that fat dick, I want to.” Reacting with a smirk in the farther corner of his face, Wilbur turns to look away from the third of his combatants before immediately having his attention called back for, the confrontational front of the once-labourer impossible to ignore.

“Look at me, you dolled-up fruit!” Jesse exclaims, reaching out and ripping the affluent gentleman’s face toward his direction, immediately earning an enraged visage for his troubles. “If you’re putting Jimmy up against that cinder dick, you’re putting me up against that cinder block- I’m not allowing anything less!” the determined fighter exclaims, forced to pull away from the cane-wielding, tophat-adorning fight promoter by the extended hand of his friend.

“He might not be putting it into words for your higher-education self to understand, but he’s not wrong” Jimmy interrupts, stepping in front of Jesse and forcing the man to step back. “The easy thing to do would be to have Stanley fight the guy I can’t, but that’s not an option right now” the brawler remarks, passing the same glance toward the man now standing behind him that the dressed-up promoter does, “you want to put on the best show, right? Jesse’s fighting that brute the same night too.”

His lips puckered as he repeats the command quietly to himself, Wilbur stares into the eyes of the man standing across from him before passing another look toward the friend just a few feet away. “Are you telling me you’re not fighting in the main event unless your friend gets his death wish granted?” the wealthy man wonders aloud, looking down at the man he stands just two feet taller than.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying” Jimmy answers, presenting his employer with the unwavering demand he wields. His face easing up as he stares back at the rage-enraptured man standing just a few feet behind the figure ahead of him, Wilbur stands up straight and places both hands atop the support of his cane, pressing its tip to the floor as he provides his answer.

“Jimmy and Arthur are main eventing, Jesse and Willard will be the penultimate fight” Wilbur declares, chin lowering just slightly, “Willard will open at the house’s favourite, and you and Arthur will open at a toss-up.” Squinting, Jesse immediately blurts out the question that lingers on his mind, “what on earth does that mean?” With the gentle shake of his head, the rich promoter steps past Jimmy and advances past his friend, “terms neither of you need to be familiar with.”

Departing just as he had entered, Wilbur enters the corridor that carries him to the next source of business he’s to attend to, soon followed by the doctor, now finished setting Stanley’s arm into a sling. “I can’t be out of work like this, man” the wounded fighter remarks, his breathing short and frenzied as the worry of what his future appears as consumes him.

“As long as Jesse and I win, you’ll be fine” Jimmy replies, his voice calm and undisturbed by the events having recently transpired, “we’ll look out for you until you get better. If the money Wilbur’s promising us is real, we’ll be able to do so without issue.” Nodding to the man with the same look of concern in his face, “yeah, if you win” Stanley replies, a reply that speaks to the concerns he buries deep down.

Pressing the corners of his lips together, Jimmy steps closer to his friend than he had since escorting him to the theatre’s backstage area, a hand placed on the injured fighter’s intact shoulder. “We’re going to win” the man replies, the tone shifting from one of calm presentation to that of an invigorated demeanour, “count every last dollar that you’ve got and bet it on us. Come fight night, there is nothing holding us back from beating those two goons into paste, do you understand?”

Hesitant, Stanley looks his friend in the eyes and pauses for a moment, keeping his mouth shut before answering with a single nod of his head. “Good” Jimmy replies, pulling his sights away from the broken brawler’s self and setting them upon his wife, their eyes meeting just as they had in the theatre minutes prior, “that cinder dick ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em.”

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

Looking past the smoke that emanates from the tip of the butt pressed between his lips, Kenny reads off the inked scrawlings atop a small stack of letters that beckons for his attention. Flipping one after another in passing, the man’s eyes briefly look over the words scrawled along the front of the paper envelope before moving onto the next, taking note of one name after another without much consideration.

Its orange glow brightening, the snipe fills the man’s lungs with a rush of tobacco smoke at the gentlest pull, remaining tilted slightly downward as its holder stares at the stack of mail. Yet another envelope passed over in favour of another, only one remains yet unchecked, its discoloured grey appearance catching the apartment owner’s eyes immediately.

Furrowing his brows just slightly, Kenny reads the text on the front of the concealed document before sitting with the name on its front in the back of his mind, unable to convince himself to move for a brief moment.

Sitting on the couch with an infant girl in her arms, a lady in a blue dress sits in the centre of the living room as the mechanisms of the door begin to shift at the turn of a key on the other end. Turning her back toward the entrance just slightly to conceal the exposed breast her daughter feeds off of, the woman maintains her dignity as Kenny walks in, quick to keep his eyes averted from the woman’s position.

“You’re home?” the lady wonders aloud, curious to the man’s entrance so early in the afternoon, her presence barely noticed by the man in anything other than his response. “Yeah, I just ran out to get a few groceries” Kenny replies with a dismissive tone, placing a few small bags of good atop the nearest counter, his focus set primarily on the one envelope atop all the others, hands freeing themselves of the store-bought goods in order to open the concealed document.

“I thought you went to work?” the woman responds, looking over her shoulder whilst the baby continues nursing, watching her roommate tear into the fold of an envelope, hurriedly racing to retrieve whatever is left for him to find within. “I told you last week that I left the project, Pearl” Kenny replies, ripping a gash in the top of the letter before reaching inside, fumbling around for the small object concealed.

“The fight club is a real thing?” the woman questions back, a confused look coming upon her face before taking notice of her fellow resident’s defeated reaction to the item he recovers, “what’s wrong?” Pressing his elbows into the countertop’s surface, Kenny hangs his head in his hands as the envelope slides out of his hand, falling to the floor with little to be said for.

“Kenny?” Pearl wonders aloud for a second time, seeing little change in her roommate’s glum demeanour, his defeated visage more than speaking toward his current mood. Letting a short few moments pass with silence, Kenny unburies his head from within his hands, running his fingers through his lengthy head of hair whilst staring at the small object in the palm of his hand.

“Is this about Vivian?” the woman inquires as the man pulls away from the counter, leaving the rest of his mail behind before tossing a ring over toward his roommate’s place on the couch. Watching the small object fly through the air before colliding with the ground just a few short feet away from her, Pearl remains quiet as her friend approaches the nearest window, peering through the blinds of their flat at the city below.

“She’s not coming back” Kenny remarks with a rather fair amount of bitterness, his face stricken with the lines of sunlight that break through the window’s obstruction. Pulling another drag from his dart before allowing his dominant hand to reclaim it, the man frees a bundle of smoke into the air whilst trying to unchain his mind from the resentment he’s all too tempted to carry with him.

Aware that her input will solve none of the issues that plague her acquaintance, Pearl opts to remain silent, eyes drifting between the child in her arms, the ring on the ground, and the conquered man standing near the end of their shared residence. “I know it was bad, but I never thought it was that bad” Kenny murmurs beneath his breath, shaking his head whilst he stares out at the streets below, their cramped roadways mostly filled with people, though a car rolls through every few minutes.

Without much in the way of saying, the abandoned husband takes another pull off his cigarette and backs away from the window, tilting his head back to better stare at the heavens that have forsaken him with such poor results. “I’m sorry, Ken’” Pearl speaks softly, watching the subject of her apology run his hands down the sides of his own face, eyes guiding him to the set of bedrooms near the back of the apartment, the desire to be left alone all that fuels him.

|

“No, no, no! What are you doing!?” Wilbur exclaims, his palms pressing into the railing on the side of the catwalk that overlooks the fight pit, “that’s standing room only! I don’t want a single chair in that box!” Watched on by Norman, who leans against the same bannister just a few feet off to the side, the affluent operator continues to watch over the crew he’s tasked with laying out the seats, sipping on a glass of gin whilst his associate juts his chin toward the entrance.

“You’ve got company, Willy” Norman murmurs aloud, directing his friend’s attention toward the warehouse’s entrance, a pair of men- one towering over the other in height- stepping through the doors. “Are you lost, gentlemen? Perhaps you’re in need of a map? Or a more accurate way to keep track of the date?” Wilbur wonders aloud, peering over the edge to find his unrequested visitors looking back up at him, “the show isn’t for another eleven days.”

“We’re not here to fight” Arthur responds, his hands tucked into the pockets of his denim overalls, no further response added to make sense of his presence. “Then why are you here?” Wilbur responds, taking a pause to inspect both men from high above the floor, able to read out the paint stains on their shirts and the overall disorganised nature of their clothing, “and why do the two of you look like you just went one-on-one with a paint mixer and lost?”

“When people don’t have money, they work for a living. You do know what a job is, correct?” Willard retorts, watching the smirk spread from one side of the promoter’s face to the other. “Yes, I’m well aware of what I pay people to do. I’m more curious as to why the two of you have one” Wilbur replies, pulling away from the railing before slowly setting one foot in front of the other, guiding himself toward the stairs that will eventually lead him back to ground level.

“I only agreed to fight for you because I want to get my hands on that crumb from the other night” Arthur responds, watching as the wealthy businessman traverses the overhead walkway, “I don’t know how legit you are. I may fight one night and not see a cent for it.” Sliding his hand along the smooth bannister he walks alongside, the promoter nods to himself and chuckles low enough to keep it from his visitor’s ears.

“Yes, because I’d go through all the trouble of building out this warehouse to be an arena for combat just to alienate my fighters and be left with no one to put a card together with” Wilbur rebukes, “please, gentlemen- if you’re going to accuse me of being untrustworthy, at least make the implication make sense.”

“From what we’ve heard, you dragged the other fighters out of that hooverville downtown” Willard replies, shrugging his shoulders as he watches the promoter begin descending the nearest flight of stairs, “why couldn’t you just toss them a couple bucks to replace the people you screw over?”

“Because I’m not far enough along in my ventures up in the pacific northwest to get away with grifting people en masse yet” Wilbur replies, his words only quickly provoking a response from the men just a short distance away. “But you would be willing to chisel?” Arthur rebukes, earning a chipper assertion from the man drawing closer toward them.

“Oh, absolutely! You don’t forge an empire without cutting a few corners every now and again” Wilbur assures, a smile still worn proudly upon his face as he reaches the bottom-most step, retrieving the cane that rests along the railing’s side. “But as I just made clear, I, nor my business partner standing up there like some physical manifestation of god, have the reputation to sustain any long-term grift just yet” the affluent gentleman remarks, “consider yourselves lucky you found me early.”

With a squint in his eye, Willard inspects the confident posture of the man they’ve sworn to business with- if even just for one solitary night as of now- whilst remaining silent. “Then what’s the plan with the fighters that lose?” Arthur wonders aloud, his inquisition brought to a pause as the promoter turns his sights away from the pair, tending to more urgent matters momentarily.

“No! What did I tell you just minutes ago!?” Wilbur shouts at the men a few levels deep into the pit, “standing room only! If I see one chair in that box, I’ll have your manhood sliced off and fed to the dogs!” Hastily running toward any other environment than the specifically-designated nook of the warehouse, the paid labourers tasked with setting up seats hurry for an area that won’t bring about such threats they’re aware aren’t made with an idle mind.

“To answer your question, I can make money off of anyone. If you keep losing, the payout is even greater the moment you win when no one expects you to” Wilbur replies, spinning his focus back around to the individuals at hand, “if you can keep winning and winning and winning, I can do more to market you than any talent agency could possibly even conjure up in a wet dream.”

“And why this? If you’re looking to make your name around these parts, why start by opening up a fight club?” Arthur doubles down, still not entirely convinced by the presentation of the man across from him. 

“Putting the police on my payroll keeps them under my palm, letting the wealthy gamble nets me connections with the elite, and letting people throw hands inside this emporium of brutality keeps them from doing so outside of it” Wilbur answers, “in every walk of life, the hands of the people in Seattle are- and will be for as long as I live- directly guided by me.”

Lifting their chins just slightly, Arthur and Willard soon take their eyes toward each other, hearing the gravelly tone behind the presenter’s voice and the confidence behind each syllable he utters. Soon finding a slight sense of assurance behind their shared visage’s, the fighters have their attention stolen once more by the man’s continued voice.

“Now I want the two of you to answer my question” Wilbur remarks, pressing both hands against the cane’s handle and thrusting it into the concrete foundation for which the trio stand upon, “how did you get into my theatre home, who invited you, and what were the two of you doing there?”

“We had an open invite” Arthur quickly retorts, shrugging his shoulders as he reaches into his overalls, retrieving a near-empty pack of snipes from within the closest inner pocket. “We’ve been repainting this one apartment for the last couple of days and one guy who lives in it mentioned the event he was invited to” Willard doubles down whilst his friend presses his lips to the cigarette’s body, striking a match to light a flame, “he had two plus-ones and offered us the tickets.”

“Who?” Wilbur soon questions, watching the squint of confusion come upon Willard’s face as the dart’s smoke reaches his nostrils, “who took you along as his plus-ones?” Shrugging his shoulders as he pulls the snipe from his lip, Arthur blows free a puff of smoke into the air whilst responding. “Some older dude with longer grey hair. We found him at Old Eddy’s the night before” the man replies, his revelation provoking intrigue from the promoter, “he said he was fighting for you.”

Pausing for a moment as his eyes veer off to the side, Wilbur sits with his thoughts in silence before his hand moves the cane toward his side, its end no longer pressed against the hard floor. “Thank you gentlemen, you may go now” the promoter replies, motioning his chin toward the way the pair had entered, watching the extended hand of his smaller brawler offer him the dart.

With a nod of appreciation, Wilbur takes the snipe and watches the pair traipse off into the burning daylight, returning him to the company of his acquaintance and those paid to prepare the warehouse for their grand debut. “Correct me if I’m misremembering here, but do we not have only one long, grey-haired gentleman fighting for us on opening night?” Norman inquires from above, hands folded as he leans over the railing, forearms pressing into the bannister’s top.

Pulling in the most satisfying drag from a cigarette he’s ever taken, Wilbur crosses his arms with the lit end facing upward, a smile on his face as he exhales, blowing smoke through his nose. “Norman, won’t you remind me who Kenneth’s opponent is for that evening?” he wonders aloud, continuing to stare at the still-open warehouse entrance whilst his business partner shrugs, lips puckered as he scans his brain for the answer he’s already well aware of.

“I believe he’s our second fight in the evening, and it’s against Samuel Rowe” Norman replies, immediately prompting his acquaintance to look over his shoulder with a squint. “Who?” Wilbur replies, continuing to let the smoke slowly lift from the burning end of his dart. “One of the randoms we brought in from the labourers with James and the others” the catwalk-occupying affiliate responds, earning yet another shrug from the man below.

Lifting the snipe back to his lips, Wilbur takes another drag and calls out his partner’s name before letting the smoke leave his lungs. “Do me a favour and send someone off to let Kenneth know that we’re giving him the debut night off. We’ll pay him the same we would’ve if he’d have won his fight just to keep him happy” the affluent businessman remarks, lifting the cane to rest just over his shoulder, “I’ve got a plan for him. It’s best if he takes that night off to keep in tip-top shape.”

|

“And it’s within walking distance of Smith Cove?” Jimmy inquires, holding his wife’s hand within his own as they follow a third man, who dresses in a suit and a white bowler’s cap. “Within walking distance? Buddy, have you taken a look to your left yet?” the third man wonders back, pointing his finger toward the body of water just a few hundred yards to their collective left, “it’s close enough that you can swim to it. Oh hell, it’s better than that- you can practically touch it!”

With the briefest smile on his face, Jimmy nods to himself as their journey continues onward, carrying them down a long stretch of sidewalk before inevitably ending in their preferred destination. Through the halls of a well-lit corridor they do walk, the couple with a last name to share follow their realtor toward the flat near the back of the complex they venture through, listening to his keys jangle as he fits them into the lock of the home they hope to soon call their own.

“Here we are” the broker remarks, the first to step into the rather quaint, yet spacious home he soon moves to the side of, letting his clients experience the scale of the place with their own two eyes. “Woah” Cathy mutters aloud, her voice breathy and faint, the look of wonder that spreads across her face presenting the awe that is the thought that they’ve potentially found a place worth more than just laying awake at night with the hopes of one day being able to afford.

“I don’t want to get my hopes up too soon” Jimmy mutters aloud, quickly setting aside the same astonishment that his wife shares by turning back toward their realtor, “what’s the price on this place?” Gently closing the door shut behind himself, the realtor removes his hat whilst responding, placing it atop the coat rack stationed in the nearest corner of the room.

“Twenty-two dollars a month for rent, another two and a half for the hot water and heat” the realtor replies, passing a look and a nod toward the metal box in his clients arms, “I’d need the first two months worth of rent and amenities to start with. After a year, if you keep the place looking spick and span, I’ll drop the rent down by two dollars.”

“The price goes down if we don’t damage things?” Cathy questions back, spinning around having now made it to the centre of the room. “It seems bleak, but the market’s on a downslope. I don’t know how, but I trust in god that everything will make itself right again” the realtor assures, crossing his arms and kicking one foot in front of the other as he leans into the nearest wall, “when that happens, I want my clients happy. Others will come with big promises, I’ll be coming with a reputation.”

“A ‘look after my back and I’ll look after yours’ policy” Jimmy mutters aloud, nodding to himself as the realtor jostles his head toward the side, a simple bow of his chin assuring him of just that promise, “that’s a good plan.” Tucking his hands into his pockets, the realtor’s eyes take toward various corners of the room whilst the couple inspects the property, looking around different half-walls and peering through the various windows that comprise the building’s exterior from ground level.

“This place is so much nicer than the last one” Cathy whispers to her husband, who follows her lead closeby whilst their realtor hangs back, remaining patient whilst the pair inspect the premises. “Anything would be nicer than that shed back at camp” Jimmy whispers back, following the woman to the room near the farthest point in the apartment, a pair of windows set up facing the body of water that separates him from the warehouse arena, “I will miss Old Eddy, though.”

“You act as if living twenty minutes away by foot will keep you from going out after the fights are over” Cathy jokes, a smile paid to the man that she passes a glance toward from over her shoulder, “I know you well enough to see-” Falling silent as she steps through the doorway of the master bedroom at the back of the flat, the woman’s voice disappears as her feet quickly carry her to the window she’d underestimated the view from.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Cathy murmurs through wonder, placing her hand against the wooden border that wraps around the window, looking out at the sun’s rare reflection off of Smith Cove, the nearly-still waters shining a ray of light across the surface from the unobstructed light in the sky. With a smile, Jimmy hangs back, watching his wife stand in front of the same view she expects him to join her in looking out at, his hands tucking themselves into his khaki pockets.

“Ain’t that a pretty thing?” the man wonders aloud, his voice sounding too far from her for it to be considered close, prompting the woman to spin back and look at him. “You’re not even looking at it!” she giggles, her teeth an unmistakable shade of bright white. Shaking his head, Jimmy presents a smile of his own before concealing it behind his lips, which he takes a moment before parting to respond, “I wasn’t talking about the view.”

Consumed by the pleasure she takes in seeing her husband more sufficed than he’d been in years, Cathy walks away from the window and throws her lips into those of the man’s own, her hands wrapping around his neck whilst his wrap around her waist. “Have you made your decision or should we keep loo-?” the realtor wonders aloud, stepping into the room only seconds later before falling silent, apologetically lifting his hand for the unintended interruption.

“My apologies” the man murmurs, bowing his head and keeping his eyes glued to the floor, the sight he had accidentally walked into now the one that he turns away from. “It’s fine, we’ll take it” Jimmy beckons, finishing the kiss before beckoning for the realtor to remain where he stands, keeping his wife held within his arms 

With cash in hand and the clientele happy with the space they’ve been left with, the realtor tips his cap, hands the keys off to the apartment’s new residents and carries on with his day. Through a smile, Jimmy closes the door upon the departure and locks the deadbolt, his eyelids pressing close together as he listens to the sounds of the mechanisms shifting within, the mechanisms that now belong to himself and his wife.

“Here’s to a fresh start” Cathy speaks aloud after just a few seconds, watching her husband turn around to see a pair of snipes extended toward him, offering him one in a show of celebration. Teeth presenting themselves in lieu of a laugh, Jimmy reaches into his back pocket and frees a small pack of matches from them, graciously accepting one of the darts before placing it between his lips, striking a match and lighting his wife’s cigarette before his own.

With a satisfying puff, the couple breathe the tobacco smoke that soon fills the air, leaving through the lips that part to voice the beginning of a new dawn. “Here’s to a fresh start” Jimmy repeats, pulling his wife in close for another kiss in the flat they now call their own, a home- a true one- worth living out their days together in.

== Seattle Noir ==