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\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Wednesday, 16th July 1930 / Collectively residing within the seats that line the theatre their showman presenter calls home, the wealthy figures of depression-stricken America gather around the stage that their friend in the trench coat stands upon. Now shown exactly what kind of spectacle the fight promoter is capable of putting on, the rich men and women that line the building’s bowl of seats howl and roar, applauding and cheering whenever necessary- invested in the product being offered to them. Drowning out the raucous ovations and the palpable awe, Jimmy sinks further into his seat, pressing his back into the fabric-covered seats bolted to the ground. Grasping the varnished, wooden armrests to each of his sides, the man begins feeling the weight of anger and tension within his chest alleviate from him, like the weight of water gradually lessening as the heat of the air turns it into a weightless gas. Breathing slow and prolonged breaths, the fighter watches the showman as time begins to decelerate, each motion of Wilbur’s arm appearing as if the rest of his body were hitting the brakes- moving close to a pause. Pressing his eyelids together, the brawler tries to compose himself, feeling a chill in the air run down the length of his neck, which burns hot beneath the droplets of sweat that travel down the length of his flesh. Paying no mind to those who’d accompanied him to the theatre as they watch on at the grand lead-in the showman on stage provides, Jimmy gradually speeds away from relative consciousness, travelling halfway into a mental place of peace and serenity. Gently resting over the edge of the sides of his seat, the young man’s fingers release all of their tension and simply sit over the smooth, wooden lip. As if falling out of his own body, Jimmy feels his weight disperse as he rests comfortably in the modest theatre chair, recently reupholstered to provide the guests that Wilbur hosts an even more preferable experience. Parting his lids once more, the fighter that waits to leave his seat until the call of his name had been uttered watches on at the continued motion of the two gentlemen atop the stage, unable to hear the deafening applause from the audience as his ears refuse it attention. Trapped within his own head, the only sound that his isolated eardrums take into account are the muffled breaths that Jimmy pulls in and lets free from deep within his core. Every now and again, the blood that rushes through the veins in his neck will make the faintest sound of motion, returning the brawler to the moment in which his physical body still resides within. Falling to each of his sides, the bruiser’s eyes take away from the patrolling, trench coat-wearing city conqueror and supplant themselves onto the back of his each hand. Neither trembling or swaying, Jimmy’s fingers simply remain draped over the edge of each wooden support, unable to truly be felt in a way less like the sensation of pins and needles, but something more akin to outright paralysation. Comfortably numb to it all, Jimmy can’t help but lift his heavy eyes back toward the stage as Wilbur’s figure approaches him, blocking out one of the spotlights that sit near the back of the elevated platform and shine upon the ceiling with a detailed sketch illustrated upon it. “Ladies and gentlemen... Jimmy Elliott” the showman remarks calmly, extending a hand toward the man as he sits within his seat, snapping the trance that his fighter had been lost within. Having already been requested to the stage amidst the spell that his opponent had endured, Kenny stands alone on one side of the table, ready to take his seat the moment his presence on the dais is no longer the only one. Suddenly returning all at once, the weight of Jimmy’s frame returns to his body as the man attempts to stand up, struggling to feel the sensation of touch within his hands and feet. Mustering enough strength to climb out of his chair with little issue, the oddly uncomfortable fighter begins making his way toward the small set of stairs a short distance away, allowed to do so freely as Wilbur backs away, leaving way for the crowd to applaud their defiant hero. Still feeling the moisture that coats his skin roll down his neck, Jimmy fumbles his hand upward to fiddle with his tie, trying to provide the smallest amount of release by undoing it just slightly. With his chin slightly lifted and the only one in the entire auditorium watching the state of his opponent’s posture, Kenny waits with hesitation in the place he’d been left standing, unsure that his adversary is entirely alright. Quivering, Jimmy’s bottom lip feels the harsh, gasp-like breaths leave the man’s lungs in a rush, as if every movement were both physically taxing and utterly draining. Literally trying to put his best foot forward nonetheless, Jimmy attempts to take the first step that sits in front of him, lifting his numb leg upward awkwardly as the next four stairs remain ahead. Instinctively using his adrenaline as best as he can, the fighter’s mind thinks to act too soon for the rest of his body to catch up, lifting his second leg toward the next step before his first has any opportunity to support himself. Tripping up the third and fourth stairs to the sound of the crowd’s very quick suppression of cheers, Jimmy presses his palms against the lip of the final step just ahead, barely managing to keep his face from colliding with the corner of each platform. With an eyebrow raised in curiosity of his audience’s sudden change in reaction, Wilbur turns to prized fighter with great confusion, Norman’s figure remaining standing just to the side of Kenny as he also takes notice of this odd issue. Still acting exclusively on his impulses, Jimmy makes an effort to complete his climb to the stage, successfully carrying himself off the staircase and to solid, level ground. Letting out a quick and heavy breath, the brawler begins to correct his posture, standing upright as hastily as he can before immediately widening his eyes, feeling every pound of weight that his body carries bring itself to his head, leaving his cranium to feel like a medicine ball that he can’t muster the strength to carry. “Ji-?” Wilbur wonders aloud instinctually, seeing the forward lean of his valiant fighter and noticing it to just be more of the same odd demeanour, drawing his concern. Completely ignoring the showman’s call as his body tilts forward, Jimmy’s eyes roll into the back of his head as every ounce of strength crumbles just as his legs do, throwing his body forward without warning. Dropping the charade of the eccentric promoter, Wilbur hurries to the aid of his brawler just as Norman does, hearing the awful sound of a body collapsing into the wooden platform with no restraint, able to be likened to that of dropping a twenty pound bag of sand on the kitchen floor. Following a much similar approach, Cathy rushes to her husband’s aid just as their friends do, dismissing the audible awe of the crowd as the promoters hurriedly call for their paid medics standing by. Clearly surprised at this instance as well, Kenny remains standing behind the table that he’d occupied since being brought to the stage, the bottom half of his jaw still held toward the air. With brows lifted, the older brawler turns his head toward the place within the audience that he’d emerged from, seeing a pair of unmoved and concern-lacking faces also looking in the direction of the fallen brawler. Filled with more disdain than anything else, Arthur and Willard carry their glare toward the opposite end of the stage from their new acquaintance, also passing little care of the crowd’s bewilderment just as the rest of those on stage do. Sneakily sliding a glass bottle of pills back into his pocket, the smaller of the two men eventually frees his hands to adjust the flaps of his jacket, wanting to remain appearing professional as their friend on stage looks on. = 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 = “I’m not sure, but his face is going to hurt for a bit after that fall he took” a man in professional wear replies, pulling his stethoscope away from the chest of the collapsed fighter. “I’m not giving up this opportunity. I want to get my hands on-!” Jimmy replies, shaking his head from one side to the other as he attempts to climb down from the examination table, only to be held back from doing so by both the fight’s promoter and his own wife. “You’ll get your hands on Kenny, we’re just not going to have this address tonight” Wilbur responds, offering reassurance to the dissatisfied brawler who’s too light-headed to provide much of a rebuttal. “Has he been drinking tonight? He could’ve gotten a Mickey Finn” the doctor proposes, only for the gesture to be waved off by the fighter, who continues to sit with dissatisfaction, but is successfully gestured to remain seated. “It doesn’t matter what happened, we’ll reschedule tonight’s address until next week” Norman responds, standing with his arms crossed in the doorway to the room, “he will not be allowed to drink before the address, and we’ll keep him away from the public until showtime.” Looking toward his taller, one-armed friend in silence at first, Jesse holds back his interjection as the room goes quiet, providing something pleasant enough for each of the inhabitants to accept other than himself. “No, if yous got Micky Finned, I wanna know who’s guilty!” the bachelor of the three proclaims, stepping between Stan and Cathy to approach the well-dressed public speaker. “Yous got someone going around and drugging your fighters. There better be nobody wanting more to find out who did this than yous” Jesse states, pointing his finger in the direction of the sighing showman. “I know I wear many different hats, but that truth doesn’t extend to my profession. I’m not a detective, Jesse” Wilbur retorts, watching as his drugged fighter’s wife gently pulls their bachelor pal away from the wealthy show-stealer. “I doubt we’d come anywhere close to finding out who’s responsible for this, but if we did manage to pull off a miracle-” the extravagant businessman explains, only to find himself interrupted by the sound of a distant voice emerging from behind Norman. “What about Kenny’s new friends?” Velma inquires, holding a set of papers close to her chest with crossed arms, gaining the full attention of those inside of the room. “Why would Kenny want to Micky him tonight? Wouldn’t he wait until the actual fight?” Stan questions back, struggling to find any motivation for the odd timing. “Are Kenny and his new friends still around?” Norman inquires, genuinely intrigued in getting to the bottom of this dilemma. “They were supposed to stick around for post-address comments, but I was told they were just about to leave” Velma answers, watching Norman immediately drop his reserved posture and politely squeeze past her, venturing deeper into the building with his mind set on answers. “Who are Kenny’s new friends?” Jesse questions aloud, wanting an answer to the question that he had been refused the day prior. “I’m under strict order by Mr. Ritter not to tell you who-” Velma begins to reply, only to be cut off by her employer’s voice. “Arthur and Willard. The big guy and his smaller friend that he brought to commencement night the other month” Wilbur interjects, shrugging his shoulders and swaying his head from one side to the other at his newest employee, “I’m sorry to steal your limelight, Velma. I’m not too bothered with discretion in light of tonight.” “No need to apologise, sir. Most of our clientele is incredibly wealthy and there aren’t even many people betting against Jimmy in the first place” Velma assures, stepping further into the hospitable and clean sideroom. “As far as motivation, there isn’t really one present for tonight. If this were a fight night, it’d make more sense to weaken Jimmy. But not an address event” the woman carries onward, “there aren’t many suspects with adequate motivation to attempt a Micky Finn.” “If they’re the ones who did this, I want to fight the small one that Jimmy beat a few weeks ago on the same night of the Kenny fight” Jesse remarks, calling his shot without the need for further information, drawing conclusions where they’re important. “Velma’s already told you about the ‘side versus side’ promotion, so I’m all-too-inclined to give you that fight and make it a spectacle” Wilbur responds, addressing the bachelor before redirecting his focus upon the man seated on the table. “Go home, get rest, and keep away from Kenny and his pals” Wilbur orders, listening to the rummaging of the doctor’s hands through the set of tools he uses in his practise. “My orders to refrain from getting involved with Kenny until I say so remain in place. I will cut you out of this completely if you-” he doubles down, unable to finish his command before the professional’s patient vows his understanding. “You don’t need to worry about m-” Jimmy responds, attempting to climb off of the table before his knees immediately give out, throwing his body into the awaiting arms of his wife and boss. Struggling to get the man back to the patient’s table, the pair remain silent to allow the ironic follow through of their brawler’s statement. “You were saying, sir?” Wilbur sarcastically replies, earning a defeated glare, the drugged bruiser fighting to regain his breath as he rolls his eyes. | “He’ll be off his feet long enough for the address to get postponed” Arthur replies, walking behind his taller friend as their grey-haired accomplice remains to his left. “As long as I have time to do some digging on the fighters this Saturday, that’s all I need” Kenny assures, brushing shoulders with members of North America’s elite as he passes them by, allowing his new mountain of an acquaintance to lead the way through the crowd and toward the building’s front doors. “Why not just let us get a good shot in on him instead?” Arthur questions back, unsure of the motivation behind taking such a civilised approach, “he’d be banged up well and good for your fight.” Shaking his head dismissively, Kenny stares forward and parts his lips, attempting to speak before apologising to the rich lady that he accidentally bumps into mid-step. “Because I don’t want Jimmy hurt, I simply needed to buy more time” the grey-haired mastermind answers, squinting his eyes as he struggles to focus on the direction in which they head, surrounded by dim, mood lighting on all sides of himself. “Rota’s fighting this Saturday, and if I can get a little bit of time with him man-to-man, he might go for my plan” he continues, his each word striking his scheming partner’s bemused ear. “Why do we need to add Rota to all of this? I thought the point of pairing up was to get rid of Jim’s numbers advantage?” Arthur questions back, keeping his head low and voice more subdued, not wanting those that they pass to overhear as the exit grows closer. “If we can add him, that’d be great. But that’s not the plan that I was talking about” Kenny corrects, drawing further puzzlement from his fellow traveller. “You have a second plan? What for?” Arthur questions, their shared dialogue being passively overheard by the tower of a human that they follow for added leverage in splitting through the audience. “Because our alliance serves a purpose beyond the fight with Jimmy” Kenny responds, lifting one hand from his side whilst his contemporary tucks both into his pockets, the older, long-haired brawler gesturing to each of the three men in their group including himself. “If we stick together, we’ll have an advantage over almost every other fighter that Wilbur can throw into that cesspool of a fighting ground” the intelligent and stubborn aggressor remarks, “but I want more than to just even the odds against Jimmy. I want an advantage of my own.” “And how exactly do you plan on doing tha-?” Arthur questions back, embracing the heat of the Pacific Northwestern night as they step through the building’s front doors, entering the sweltering evening as he’s interrupted by the grasp of a hand on his dominant arm. Torn free from his pocket with the medicine bottle in his palm, the hand of the party responsible for tonight’s early conclusion to the address is shown to the world with evidence to boot. “Your tall friend is a lot easier to notice than you must’ve thought to think you could leave our building without being seen” Norman comments, snatching the bottle from Arthur’s hand before the criminal can be given the chance to drop it, hoping for the shattering of it into bits to be capable of exonerating him from whatever charges their employers may see fit. “Did the three of you think you could just Micky another fighter and nothing would happen?” Norman questions aloud, prompting the ringleader of the circus that he interrogates to approach with a scowl. “If anything, you should count yourself lucky that we didn’t go through the traditional route of taking our enemy out at the knees instead” Kenny retorts, getting in the face of the slightly-shorter businessman, “we got what we wanted without Jimmy having to walk around with a black eye or a cast on his leg.” “What exactly was it that you wanted out of tonight, Ken? What was all of this about?” Norman questions back, sliding the hand he carries the bottle with into his pocket to protect it from any action of his untrustworthy pals. “We just needed the address rescheduled to another night. You’d told us about it after you started shelling out admission” Kenny argues, defending his stance without much effect on the stone cold-faced promoter. “So you thought that drugging one of our fighter’s drinks was going to be the smartest way to-?” Norman questions back, only to receive a scoff and interjection from the opposite party in return. “Wilbur wants to make as much money off of these fights as you do. That requires giving people a reason to show up, and what better way to do that than by using this to promote?” Kenny challenges, defying his employer and standing firm in his position. Smiling, Norman holds back his laughter for a few seconds as he looks toward the ground, letting it leave his mouth in a subdued, yet noticeable manner. Sliding his left hand free from the slot of his pants to scratch at his skin, the businessman turns his eyes toward the departing crowd of people that, one after another, walk away with their guaranteed refund. “I know that you and Wilbur have this affinity for Jimmy and his pals because of how much their fights drew the last time around, but I’m not going to stand around and watch the two of you play favourites with-” Kenny begins to continue, only for the weight of Norman’s hand to shove him back, cutting his words off the second that his honour and dignity are called into question. “Do you see all of the people that you’ve just given a complete refund to?” Wilbur’s right hand man shouts, questioning his fighter aloud as some passersby take a glance in their direction, unable to see for certain what the altercation is about or who is involved, and choosing to carry on with their night. “Your actions lost us money tonight. Unlike Wilbur, I don’t care about the grandeur...” Norman proclaims, taking a step forward to occupy the space that his defiant opposition had just recently been pushed from, “...I only care about profits.” “Don’t put your hands on him again” Arthur comments, stepping further ahead of their grey-haired leader to now step in the face of the promoter, who presents a wide smile in return. “Who’s going to stop me, you fruity gunsel?” Norman queries, meeting the man’s effort by stepping closer to him, getting in his face just as he had, “I don’t think you understand how fast I can wipe you and your entire family off of the face of the planet.” “Step back, Arthur” Kenny remarks, extending a hand toward his teammate’s shoulder before finding defiance, the brash and brazen subordinate in this chain of command refusing to follow the orders he’s given. “No, Ken. This guy isn’t going to just get in our face and boss us around like this” Arthur responds, his valiant rebuttal to his employer backed up by the redirection of Willard’s focus, who aids in staring down Wilbur’s partner in crime. “You mean like a boss? Because I sort of am your boss” Norman replies, unphased by the outnumbering that he faces, caring not for whatever physical altercation he may find in the present knowing what leverage he could wage in its aftermath. “I’ll say it one more time...” Arthur defiantly responds in a near-whisper, getting so close to the promoter’s face that the tips of their noses are no further than five inches apart, the loose cannon’s breath wafting over the businessman’s face. “...you aren’t going to boss us around.” Flaring his nostrils, Norman utters not one word as he holds his defiant stare in the face of his aggressors, watching as their leader gradually gets them to back away. “Go wait in the car, I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute” Kenny interrupts, defusing the situation at hand in hopes of preventing any escalation greater than what he was anticipating the evening to hold. Folding to their leader’s wishes, Arthur and Willard step away, continuing to scowl at the unmoved promoter as they walk toward the vehicle that now waits for them at the side of the curb. “Listen, I don’t have a problem with Jimmy. Bringing those guys over here was just a business call, and pairing up with them is the same thing” Kenny explains, gradually re-earning the full attention of the man whom his disorderly accomplices had irritated beyond the point of disrespect. “The kid’s a good one and he’s coming from a rough background. I don’t hold ill will toward him the way he holds it for me” Kenny continues, watching as the professional opposite himself remains nearly motionless. “I needed this thing held off for a couple more days at minimum. We decided that this was better than jumping him” the older brawler explains, speaking as if he’s the civilised one in this scenario, “the kid doesn’t deserve that.” “Do you think that makes what you did any better? Do you think that makes you come across like the good guy here?” Norman questions aloud, a deep squint carried toward the man he shakes his head at. “You brought them here, and Stanley has his arm in a hanger because of it. You’ve teamed up with them, and now Jimmy’s in the infirmary” the businessman rebukes, forcing the grey-haired criminal to bow his head in shame, “if there’s any bad guy in this scenario... it’s you.” “My wife ran off with our kids and cut off all communication, Norman. Do you know what that does to a man?” Kenny swiftly switches topics, defending himself with whatever he sees fit to. Standing in silence as the comment goes without response, the older gentleman lifts his eyes toward the city’s night sky, trying not to speak with anger in the face of mending fences with the man whom his acquaintances had used the night to put off. “I don’t blame the kid for that, and I don’t want to see him hurt... but he’s in my way” Kenny remarks, nodding to himself as his fingernails scratch at his stubble-covered chin. “This- the fighting stuff- is what will give me a chance at getting my kids back. Maybe it’ll give me a chance at getting my wife back” the man confesses, at least offering an explanation the promoter can find sympathies for, “I ran her off by finding more time to get to the bottom of a bottle. I can make that right now by making this work.” “As much as I can appreciate that, I find it hard to feel sorry for someone who’s willing to step on the toes of everyone he comes across for his own interests” Norman replies, only to draw a smirk out of the older gentleman opposite himself. “Oh, come on. Norman, are we really going to pretend like you and Wilbur are doing anything different than me” Kenny rebukes, staring forward with a grin at his employer’s unchanged visage, “how many people have the two of you already walked all over to get where you are.” “Wilbur and I haven’t even come close to stepping on the last pair of toes we’ll ever need to cross to get what we want...” Norman responds, refusing to finish his thought at that, “...but unlike you, if I were in your shoes- I wouldn’t feel sorry for myself either.” Immediately feeling defeated in the point that he looks to prove, Kenny parts his lips to disregard his intention. “I’m not trying to get you to-” the man begins to counter, only for silence to leave his lips as his employer interrupts, cutting to the chase without offering the man the space to speak. “You’ve lost us hundreds- maybe thousands- tonight. You’ve driven away people that we can’t guarantee will come back the next time around” Norman points out, refusing to let his newly-minted troublemaker refuse any blame for the evening. “If you want to keep setting a terrible example for your children by showing them how willing to stab people in the back their father can be- that’s fine with me” Wilbur’s right hand man concludes, returning the point of his finger to the chest of the next big show’s headliner. “But let me make myself clear... you will not lose us money ever again” Norman finishes, taking a step back as he prepares to venture back for the theatre, “the last thing that Wilbur and I need to do is cut you and your friends off because you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Turning away, the well-voiced investor in the fighting organisation walks off for the way he’d come, leaving the main eventer to his lonesome whilst the rest of his posse watch on from the car. Wearing a scowl accompanied by furrowed eyebrows and the tip of his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth, Kenny watches his employer walk off as his loose hairs are blown around by the mid-summer breeze, the evening having come to a close with him receiving what he’d wished for. == Seattle Noir ==
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\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Saturday, 5th July 1930 / “What does the history between yourself and Willard look like?” Velma queries, seated opposite the sweat-covered and bloodied gentleman, who sits upon a wooden seat within the confines of a dingy, poorly-lit room with a smile. “We’re labourers- just like most of the other chumps you’ve got fighting here” Arthur responds, both hands pressing against the tops of his knees as he shakes his head with a grin, “listen, hot mama. I just slid that crumb out there a new pair of teeth. What’s with all these questions?” “Are you hard of hearing? I’ve already told you twice now” Velma answers without much joy in her face, displeasing the victorious fighter that now grows less pleasant with the crass remark. “What did you just say to me, dollface?” Arthur questions aloud, climbing out of his seat before approaching the well-paid, yet un-established lady that shows him disrespect, “don’t talk out of line now, pearl.” “I’m employed by Wilbur Ritter himself. I have complete freedom to say whatever I want to you” Velma replies, standing out of her seat whilst meeting the advancing brawler halfway, not shying away from an altercation beneath the coverage of her employer’s protection. “You just won your fight, and you’ve likely gotten back into his good graces with that. Don’t fall out of them now” she doubles down, staring at the now-angry bruiser as he seethes in his place, “answer my question if you want your paycheck for tonight.” Holding his disgruntled scowl upon the lady, Arthur remains standing halfway between the two seats in which they’d occupied seconds prior, watching her return to the chair, but kept from taking her seat back upon it. “Excuse me, doll” a voice remarks from the doorway to the unpleasant locker room, catching the attention of both figures inhabiting its interior. “I understand that you’ve got orders from your boss to carry out, but would you mind letting me speak to our winner over here in private real fast?” Kenny wonders aloud, sporting a tweed overcoat and a professional, full suit piece with a cap atop his long, grey locks of hair. “What the hell for?” Arthur questions aloud, watching his fellow well-dressed fighter enter as Velma leaves in disappointment, again kept from carrying out her duties. “Because I don’t know that there’s a better time for us to talk than now” Kenny replies, keeping his words to himself for a moment as he waits for the woman to walk off, continuing to pause as her shoes tap along the solid ground outside, assuring the new entrant that she’d fully left. “I’ll ask again... What for?” Arthur queries, standing with both of his taped hands hanging at each side whilst the new arrival tucks one into his pocket and rests the other one across his chest. “For the purpose of seeing whether or not the two of us can help each other out” Kenny responds, using the hand outside of his pocket to tap the sweaty brawler on the chest, “do you know how much you’re getting paid tonight?” “I’m getting paid what I’m owed” Arthur replies, only to carry a deep squint when he watches the older gentleman’s head shake from one side to the other in refusal. “No, Jimmy Elliott got paid what he was owed... twenty-five hundred dollars. The exact same as me” Kenny responds, keeping his voice low enough to evade the ears of anyone who could be listening in, “I saw the checks that Mr. Money Bags is going to cut you all. Just over a thousand.” “What!?” Arthur shouts, immediately enraged before being gestured to lower his tone by the finger that his elder visitor places beyond his lips- which still sports a cut from weeks prior. “Wilbur’s already told all of you that you get paid based on how much money you’re able to peddle. Gambling wages, admission wages, liquor wages, all of it” Kenny replies, breaking bread with the man who stands opposite himself, “if you can get more people to show up, you’ll get a bigger paycheck.” Grimacing as he looks toward the door, Arthur clears the space of being occupied by anyone other than himself and the guest, irate and forced to subdue his anger. “I can get you in fights with big crowds. I know what the people come out for, and I can make sure you’re on the cards that draw well because I’ll be on them too” Kenny explains, regaining the younger brawler’s full attention with this vow, “but if I’m gonna make that work for you, I’m gonna need something in return.” “You want your piece of the pie too, right?” Arthur assumes, surprised to find the shake of the older bruiser’s head reply to him immediately. “You can keep every last cent he pays out to you. You win your fight, you keep your cabbage, we all eat really good” Kenny assures, letting his free hand join the pocket directly opposite the other one, “but I want you and that big guy that you’re friends with looking out for each other.” “What does that mean?” Arthur questions back, his anger having dissolved in the face of his confusion, unsure of what’s being proposed to him. “Jimmy and I have some problems. Our issues are for the same reasons that you and your big friend are here” Kenny answers, clarifying his point whilst adjusting his stance, taking a more firm and upright posture, “Jimmy’s got friends that are watching his back. If he’s gonna have his friends, then I’m gonna need some of my own.” “You want us to work with you like a team?” Arthur queries, earning a nod from the man directly opposite himself as their minds reach the same internal passageway, discovering the same destination they now venture through. “The big advantage that Jimmy and the other fella who beat your boy a couple of weeks ago have are the allies they make with each other” Kenny reiterates, stepping back toward the chair of the woman he’d politely requested leave them on their own. “If the three of us work together, we’ll be able to get the most out of it. Wilbur won’t just be promoting me to the audience, he’ll be promoting all of us” the proposition-proposing gentleman remarks, climbing off of his feet to take the interviewer’s unoccupied seat. “That means more people show up for all of us. We get paid more and Jimmy’s friends don’t have their precious advantage anymore” Kenny carries forward, shrugging with ease at the offer, “everyone of us wins.” Staring at the ground with a slight parting of his lips, Arthur sits with his thoughts for a moment as the still air makes it impossible for the sound of anything other than their collective breaths to meet his ears. “So...” Kenny questions back, crossing one leg over the other before coupling his hands atop his lap, his long locks flowing over the coat to the gentle sound of ruffling with each motion of his head, “...what do you say?” = 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 = \ Thursday, 10th July 1930 / “Thank you for taking this meeting with us, Mr. Nichols” Wilbur remarks, shaking the hand of the politician that stands opposite himself and his business partner before taking a seat at the empty restaurant’s table when appropriate. “Gentlemen, for the sake of transparency- I wasn’t sure that I should take this meeting” the city’s mayor replies, folding his hands opposite the pair that take seats with him, “the two of you haven’t been very quiet about wanting to wet your feet on my shores.” “You say that like we floated here in a boat from across the ocean” Wilbur jokes, the only one of the trio holding a genuine grin, Norman’s face holding a polite smile to the showman’s right whilst the politician opposite them retains an emotion nothing of the sort. “Well, I don’t want to waste any of our time, so I’ll just state myself clearly and beyond misapprehension” Mayor Nichols remarks, lowering his chin slightly as his serious visage deepens, “I know that you’ve been breaking federal law.” Caught by surprise at the bluntness in which their adversary speaks, the pair of businessmen opposite the relatively-unknown candidate turn toward each other in silence, unsure of what to say next. “Do either of you gentlemen wish to respond?” the mayor queries, staring past the candlelight in the middle of the table to the pair of faces that soon look back to him, their freshly-shaven jawlines wearing shadows cast by their angle toward the open flame. “Well, you’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Mayor...” Wilbur begins, taking the helm of the conversation as he leans into the table, coupling his hands together atop the cloth-covered bench, “...we’ve broken several.” Turning his chin upward slightly, the politician takes surprise in this confession as he furrows his brows, needing a moment before nodding toward one of the officers stationed beside himself. “So the two of you are admitting to this? On the record and without interrogation?” the mayor questions back, watching as Norman nods silently whilst his eccentric business partner puts their claims into speech. “Of course! What’s the fun in turning a city into our personal playground if we can’t have any fun with it?” Wilbur queries, taking a glass standing just a short distance away into his possession, swirling the red wine that sits within it as he continues. “As I- myself- have stated clearly, we didn’t come here just to lay our roots down. We’ve come here for infamy” the showman carries onward, “we’ve bribed officers, bribed the dock workers, served liquor in the age of prohibition... all of it for the sake of infamy.” Caught completely off guard by the ease in which this discourse has taken its course, the mayor pats the table’s top and stands out from his seat, his eyebrows raised and hand waving toward the officers accompanying him. “I believe that’s all I needed to hear gentlemen” the mayor explains, looking toward the policeman beside him with lips parted, prepared to order a pair of arrests before being corrected by his criminal foe. “You’d be wrong in that belief then, Mr. Mayor. I’d even argue that you’ve barely heard the first thing” Wilbur replies, finishing his sip whilst Norman lifts a finger in the direction of a server, preparing to not only have a conversation within the establishment, but enjoy a meal as well. “The two of you are no-good criminals, gentlemen. I have no reason to hear you out” the mayor replies, doubling down on his disregard as he continues his attempt at leaving, “officers, arrest these-” Attempting to return the way in which he’d entered, the city’s mayor stops in his tracks as the palm of law enforcement’s hand presses against his chest, forcing him to remain within the presence of those who join him for dinner. “What are you doing?” Nichols questions, looking to the cop he’d made an attempt at ordering around, shocked to find that it isn’t his command that they follow. “He’s doing what we paid him to do, Mr. Mayor” Wilbur replies, prompting the politician to turn back toward him with wide eyes, continued shock carried through his troubled visage. “We knew it’d only be a matter of time before word got around that two novices to the area had paid off everyone worth a pretty penny to skirt past the rules” the showman carries on, taking lead of the conversation whilst his business partner requests a menu from the well-dressed server. “When word gets around, it’s only a matter of time before the mayor hears about it. And, in due time, the governor will have heard of our presence as well” Wilbur explains, extending a hand toward the seat the politician had intended to leave, gesturing for him to return to it. “When that day comes, we’ll take care of him just as we’re taking care of you now” the top hat-wearing fight promoter explains with a sadistic grin, “please, Mr. Mayor... reclaim your throne.” Glowering in the direction of the intelligent and poised criminals, the mayor concedes to the orders placed upon him with little alternative to choose from, reluctantly descending back into his chair. “We’ve broken laws left and right up to now, and we will continue to shatter them after we’ve taken care of business tonight” Wilbur clarifies, reaching for a cloth napkin off to his sides before wiping his hands on them, “the entire police department in this city is on strict orders to refrain from putting cuffs around these wrists.” “You’ve broken the laws of prohibition. That’s a federal crime...” Nichols rejoinders, earning a shrug for his troubles whilst doing so, “...that’s not pissing on Washington state, that’s going against the will of Washington D.C.” Continuing to wear his smile, Wilbur tosses the towel back upon the table whilst taking one of the menus that the waiter returns to them with, placing it in front of himself for later use once he’s concluded speaking. “Within due time, Hoover himself can sit in the exact seat that you’re occupying right now and he’ll have just a little power in the matter” the showman assures, placing the palms of both hands against the smooth, glossy cover of their dinner cards. “I want everything. I own your police department, I want to own your population, your city’s wealth, your economy... I want to own Seattle” Wilbur explains, stopping at nothing short of the big prize, “and as long as you’re in office here... you’re going to let me.” “Why would I do that?” Nichols challenges, prompting the showman’s eyes to fall and shoulders to roll. “Because if you don’t, I’ll democratically install someone in your place that will” Wilbur answers, holding the keys to a kingdom he’s yet to legitimately stake claim of the throne to, holding out grand dreams of one day fitting its Pacific Northwestern crown atop his own head, “you’ll either play ball or you’ll be pushed off of the court. I will, gradually, come to control everything in this city.” “You speak with the cadence of an emperor” Nichols retorts, immediately watching the head of his opposition shake with glee. “I prefer dictator. The quiet kind of dictator, but dictator nonetheless” Wilbur argues back, continuing to speak whilst he opens the menu, pointing to a dish at random for the server that awaits him. “I will fund the infrastructure projects, own fields, own properties, feed the poor, everything the Hoover administration has failed to provide this country” the grandeur-laiden, master-schemer proclaims, “and you will not get in my way.” “With what you’re claiming to have done already, I’m not sure I see how I’m supposed to stop you” Nichols explains, pleasing the showman that points his finger forward. “That’s the spirit! But, Norman and I are both aware that you’d still try unless all of this was made clear to you” Wilbur confesses, pressing the fabrics of his expensive coat into the wooden seat hosting him, “so, we decided to explain to you how things would work from here on out in person.” Hanging his head whilst gently scratching at the top of his eyelid, the mayor sits quietly with his thoughts whilst the pair of men opposite himself await his continued attention. Stationed around the table with their hands held at their laps, the policemen do nothing to intervene, taking their orders from the private citizen that may as well have bought the land to which the city was built upon by now. “You will leave through the front of this establishment where the public can see you” Wilbur explains, jotting down each of the politician’s next steps in real time. “Someone with a camera will photograph you leaving this expensive establishment with a police escort whilst the public withers away and starves in your commander-in-chief’s camps” Norman carries on, finally taking his turn to speak, “and if you ever decide to act accordingly against us- those pictures will make national headlines.” Troubled and anxious, the mayor finds himself at the mercy of those directly opposite himself, wearing the exact opposite posture as the pleased, powerful and upright-seated havers-of-wealth. “You will never inform the governor about our little meeting here. When we want something done, your office will get it done. When we want blind eyes turned toward us, your office will suddenly go blind” Wilbur takes the helm once more, “and if we ever smell descent coming from you, we will kill your political career and leave you in those squatter’s camps ourselves. Understand?” “You know that I don’t have a choice” Nichols angrily rejoinders, still speaking with a calm tone as the men opposite him nod in approval of that claim. Concealing their smiles as best as they can, the policemen await their marching orders as the suited politician- already in the bad will of his suffering populace- finds himself within the possession of more powerful owners. “I understand” the mayor responds, conceding defeat without a leg to stand on, pleasing those who do business with him as they nod approvingly. With the wave of a hand, Wilbur gestures for the borough master to step away from their table and rejoin his armed enforcements, freeing the powerful criminals to enjoy their evening of fine dining and lavish luxuries in peace. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Ritter” Norman quips, extending the hand that his partner in crime reciprocates the gesture of. “Much the same, Mr. Mountebank” Wilbur retorts, claiming ownership of the seat that their mayoral chess piece abandons in his exit, retaking the cloth he’d wiped his hands with earlier before tucking it into the collar of his dress shirt, addressing his friend whilst clinking the rims of their glasses together, “now, let’s celebrate.” | \ Tuesday, 15th July 1930 / “Will you be joining us at Wilbur’s theatre tomorrow?” Cathy wonders aloud, looking across the table to their peers with a glass of wine in hand, a candle and some plates of food separating them beyond the wooden length of the surface itself. “We’d never leave our pal out in the cold” Jesse assures, tilting his head back to take one quarter of his wine glass’ contents down at once, licking his lips with a satisfied sigh. “Have they told you anything about when the fight’s scheduled?” Stanley inquires, seated beside the shorter-in-stature acquaintance whilst looking toward his longtime friend. “I haven’t spoken to the doll since she broke into our home. Wilbur sends one letter every few weeks and I haven’t gotten one of those since before the fight” Jimmy responds, shaking his head as he reaches for his own wine glass, “I’ll know tomorrow, though. He’s not chiselling, that’s what counts.” “Do you think he’ll have me fight with yous that night?” Jesse queries, receiving a shake of his host’s uncertain head in response. “He won’t even tell me when my own fight’s happening until tomorrow, how would he be telling me anything about yours?” Jimmy wonders aloud for the sake of voicing rationality, only for the laughter of his wife and his mate’s lover to fill the room. “I’ve not clue, do I!?” Jesse proclaims, amusing Jimmy and prompting Stanley to chuckle whilst gesturing his hand toward the wine bottle in silence. “How’re you healin’ up?” Cathy questions aloud, passing the tall, glass of beverage to the bachelor’s hand without notice whilst addressing the good friend sitting directly opposite herself. “The Big Man’s doctor says it’ll take quite a bit longer, but I’m not looking too bad right now” Stanley answers, passing a sly look toward his wife with a flimsy grin, “the broad and I have made it work, though. Haven’t we, Josie?” Heavily insinuating adult activities to the tune of the group’s larger amusement, Stanley prompts his wife’s playfully embarrassed grin to take toward him just as a knock at the door interrupts their fun. “We expecting company, Jim?” Jesse questions aloud, the first to let his laughter die out in the name of bringing attention to the obvious at the flat’s entrance. “Aside from the three of you- no” the prize fighter responds, climbing out of his seat with a towel in hand, wiping the grease from around his mouth before making toward the door, wanting to take on the appearance of someone professional. Sifting across the floor whilst those that remain around the table wait patiently for further insight, Jimmy’s feet carry themselves across the apartment and to the door, opening it to a look of uncertainty. “Can I help you?” the apartment’s primary tenant inquires, only to step aside and allow the woman that approaches a free route inward. “Velma. I’m Mr. Ritter’s employee” she answers, taking six steps into the flat without interruption before turning back to the most notorious fighter that her boss has employed to date. “The woman that broke into our home the other week?” Cathy questions aloud from the table, joining her husband in rising to her feet at the lady’s appearance. “It doesn’t take much effort to pick a lock, darling” Velma answers, watching the three visitors that had seated opposite the main couple join their friends in standing upright- led by Jesse. “When is my next fight!?” the man on his second serving of red wine wonders aloud, hurrying around his seat with such speed that he even steps further ahead than his friend’s also-approaching wife. “You don’t have another fight scheduled yet. Wilbur will send you a latter when he decides you’re needed next” Velma answers, furrowing her eyebrows as she takes a step back, creating distance between herself and the slightly-buzzed brawler. “Is there a purpose behind you making this visit?” Jimmy questions aloud, redirecting the conversation to the purpose he’s more interested in, continuing to stand by the door he hopes his unexpected arrival will soon step through to leave once more. “Yes. You’re outmatched now” the visitor replies, leaving her statement both open-ended and vague as she stands with her hands coupled together at her lap, staring at the apartment’s owner in the face as she finds his expression to sport confusion. “What’s the story, morning glory?” Jimmy queries back, one eyebrow raised higher than the other as he requests clarification, watching the woman casually stroll further into the home. “You and this drunkard over here are allies. Stanley doesn’t really matter right now because he can’t fight” Velma answers, gesturing to the significant other-less Jesse at the start of her statement. “Kenny has put together a group of people to serve the same purpose that this man and Stanley serve to you” she carries on, again gesturing to the somewhat inebriated gentleman prior to pointing out the tall, wounded brawler. “I don’t understand, the three of us are friends” Jimmy retorts, gently closing the door before crossing his arms, addressing the woman’s comments without much of a choice but to, “what are you getting at?” “In the world that surrounds these fights, friends serve more of a purpose than just being buddies. They’re allies. In times of trouble, you’ve got people watching your back instead of taking shots at it” the well-dressed, polka-dot sporting employee of the wealthy showman explains. “If they’re more than just allies- like friends- that’s great. But the important thing is that they serve the purpose of an advantage” she carries on, “Kenny’s decided to find allies of his own.” “And who are they?” Jimmy wonders back, going along with the line of discussion now that it’s proven to be worth hearing. “Wilbur has disclosed to me that I’m not allowed to give you the answer to that question, but you will find out at tomorrow’s conference from what I understand” Velma replies, prompting the tenant’s head to lower as his wife’s hand rests upon his shoulder, “the conference is sold out and will host the most wealthy of our clientele. We will put tickets to your fight with Kenny up for offer at-” “I don’t care who’s going to be there. Why bother coming here to tell me that Kenny found some friends to watch his back if you’re not going to tell me who they are?” Jimmy interjects, raising the only inquiry that matters to him in the moment. “Because Mr. Ritter is going to market this as being more than just you facing Kenny” Velma answers, allowing her prior point to fall to the wayside in favour of addressing the fighter’s concerns head-on, “it’s my job to inform you of-” “What is he ‘marketing’ this fight as then?” the undefeated fighter proceeds to interrupt again, irritating the professional woman enough to force a sigh out of her, the hat on her slightly-hung head lowering itself forward alongside the headwear. Gathering her composure following the disrespect, the woman presses her teeth together and gathers her breathing under control. “He’s marketing this as your side against Kenny’s side” Velma concludes, again biting her tongue and addressing the prominent question head on with a collected tone of voice. “My side against his side?” Jimmy questions aloud, still crossing his arms over his chest as the woman’s face lifts once more, her eyes connecting with the fighter’s own as he continues, “is that all?” “That’s all I came here to tell you” Velma assures, capable of hearing the silence that she’s immediately met with as the flat’s owner nods his head, looking off to the side as he takes the woman’s comments to heart. “I apologise for the rash way in which my husband speaks” Cathy remarks, finding sympathies for the woman who’d come only to do her job, “there’s a lot on his plate and he’s been very eager to get his hands on Kenny.” “It doesn’t help that she introduced herself to us by breaking into our home” Jimmy clarifies, looking at his wife with raised brows before turning to find Velma’s beleaguered expression staring at the floor. Collecting himself, the apartment’s owner uses the break in their collective speech to gather himself before the woman that stands before him shatters the illusion of quiet first. “I would just like some people to stop walking all over me so I can just do my job” Velma answers, again keeping herself together as she looks toward the apologetic lady off to her side, “I’m not in a world that’s very polite to me.” Continuing to press his lips together, Jimmy looks to the floor as his breathing steadies, his tongue’s tip slamming against the roof of his mouth as the air goes quiet once more. “I’m sorry, miss. I could be more courteous to you” Jimmy concedes in a soft tone of voice, earning the slightest grin out of the lady whose preferred rock-solid demeanour had broken down over the duration of their discourse. “Thank you” Velma replies with an equal hush to her tone, appreciative of the man’s concession before gradually clearing her mind of as much of their dialogue as possible, “now, if you’ll excuse me.” Following her own lead to the door, Wilbur’s employee ventures onto her next unscheduled appointment, leaving the group with the food for thought that they will be forced to sit through for at least one calendar day. “Alright. We’ve got work to do” Stanley remarks, earning a collective nod from his peers as the same conclusion had been drawn amongst each of them. == Seattle Noir == Season 2 Premiere
\ Seattle - 1930 / \ Tuesday, 10th June 1930 / “We’d be doing better business if we set this shop up as a speakeasy during the off-days” Norman replies, his forearms pressing into the cold cylinders that prevent himself and any other party of luxurious wealth from falling into the pit countless yards below. “In due time, brother. All good things come to those who wait” Wilbur promises, joining his fellow in staring over the edge, watching those they’ve employed to clean the joint do as their hourly pay is earned through. “This is the key to venture number two, which is the key to venture number three, and so on” the trench coat showman remarks, reaching within his long attire to retrieve a pair of cigars. “We’ve got the dicks under wraps, the docks covered and the goodie bags went home happy. We got a win” Wilbur assures, handing over one of the wrapped smokes to his partner in crime, “let’s not go around trying to turn our money mill into a gin mill, alright?” Begrudgingly accepting the toast, Norman lights the end of his cigar and gently taps the stick against that of his Californian friend’s own, watching the crew below take soapy water and mops to the variety of blood stains and splattered spit that their centre of attention hosts. One after another, labourers swiftly ready the battlefield for this Saturday night’s next round of matches, doing so under the supervision of the civilians just beginning to get their feet through the door of the untapped, Pacific Northwestern market. “So, Kenny-versus-Jimmy next?” Norman wonders aloud, pulling away from the railing so as to take one of the wooden chairs behind himself, “we’ve got a lesser-quality card in a few days to see just what kind of draw those boys are. How long do you think you’ll go holding this off?” Licking the taste of high-quality, strong tobacco from the soft flesh of his upper lip, the showman squints whilst remaining leant against the catwalk’s overlook, a shake of his head preceding another hit from the imported dart. “We don’t want our deep-pocketed friends making tracks before we can get the ball rolling. We need these marketable fights while we got them” Wilbur answers, pressing his side against the bannister whilst looking toward his business partner. “People will come to see Jimmy and Jesse throw hands separately. I’m sure people will do the same for Kenny” the showman concludes, looking his acquaintance in the eyes as he speaks aloud, “it’s best to keep them all apart for as long as we can.” “You want us to not put on our markee fights?” Norman inquires out of intrigue, unsure he follows the line of thought that his partner in crime presents. “We don’t want to run out of markee fights is what I’m sayin’” Wilbur corrects, crossing one arm inside the one that carries his cigar whilst leaning his back against the platform’s lip, “if people will keep showing up for those three, let’s keep them from fighting each other until the people can’t wait any longer. We don’t want to run out of our payload too soon.” “Then let’s see if we can get even more guys in that category” Norman answers, presenting his pal with a proposition yet to be thought of. “I beg your pardon?” the showman queries, pulling the cigar back toward his lips whilst the seated businessman explains himself. “If people don’t need Jimmy to fight someone he’s got an issue with to convince them to show up, let’s make more Jimmy’s” the brains of the operation responds, “let’s get people our clientele will show up for because of their name alone.” “Like a crowd worker?” Wilbur questions aloud, earning little more than a shrug for his troubles. “We’ll keep an eye on guys that just keep winnin’ or pulling off the biggest shocks- like Jesse did- and start spitting their name around town. Get the word out that them showing up is worth the price of admission alone” Norman doubles down, prompting his showman partner to stare off at the distance with a look of intrigue carried through his porcelain visage, “we can have them fight nobodies in between the fights we’ll make big money off of.” With parted lips, the man of grandeur-tongue slowly nods to himself with both arms crossed, taking a hit from his cigar once more before directing its tip toward the pale-skinned pal beside him. “This is why I wanted you to come up with me from California, Normie” Wilbur concludes with a grin, only for the operation’s intricate mind to shrug with satisfaction, already aware of his worth as it now proposes a way in which their operation can get out of the starting gate already aiming for the next level. = 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 = \ Saturday, 14th June 1930 / “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this fight! Thomas Rota!” the suited announcer proclaims to an obvious mixture of cheers and jeers, pleasing the eyes of some whilst others watch their potential winnings flush themselves out of reality at the lifting of the victor’s free hand. “That makes him level, correct? One win to match last week’s loss?” Wilbur queries, watching Norman nod in silence to answer him, not wanting to battle for verbal supremacy with the outrageously loud audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this fight! Sam Rowe!” the gentleman with the microphone explodes into a shout one, full match later, pointing the folded-up paper toward the victor of the fight to a mostly-ecstatic audience. “That didn’t take long” Jesse murmurs, sitting in his seat with his arms crossed, thoroughly unimpressed with the bout put up by the triumphant fighter’s adversary, speaking to his fellow winner without earning much of a response, Jimmy’s seat remaining taken amongst the crowd within the descending bowl. In his own seat directly across the fighting pit from the coupled group of friends, Kenny pays those that he’d used to get his foot through the door no mind, continuing to scout those that may eventually find themselves opposite himself in the pit. “You keeping an eye on the old dog?” Stanley queries, his wife’s hand held within the palm of his own as he raises the question. “I’d be whacky not to” Jimmy answers, wearing the facial scars of the previous week’s bout that makes him such a heralded star within these parts of Seattle as his eyes lift from the older man he’d once worked in labour beside. Venturing high, the battle-proven figure that the fight pit’s inauguration has been centred upon guides his eyes toward the creators of the sport, finding the trench coat wearing gentleman from within the crowd as the showman continues to spectate and chat amongst western America’s elite. “I’m not suggesting Mr. Money Bags pick up some nightwalkers off the street, but a few lookers walking around this joint wouldn’t hurt” Jesse mutters aloud, crossing one leg over the other as he drags on his dart. “He’s too busy talking with the other big boys to care about arm candy, Jess” Jimmy rebuttals, continuing to watch the laid-back figure of opulent wealth intermingle with the rich until the moment that their target of interest gets up, climbing out of his seat without company. “The point of this place is to watch the fight and throw money around, not to pitch woo with some snaggle-low” Stanley rebuttals, addressing the concern of the man opposite Jimmy, his arm wrapped around Josephine as she watches the crews prepare the pit for the next round of fights. “I’ll be back” the centre-most man remarks, getting out of his chair before shimmying down the row of seats with his subject of interest in mind, “stay puts, the two of yous.” “Where are you off to?” Stanley questions aloud, gently grabbing his pal by the wrist before he can step too far past him to continue on unevaded. “Our old dog’s making tracks for the water bowl, I’m gonna keep that eye I’ve got on him” Jimmy answers, tugging his hand away from his acquaintance’s reach before setting off for the crowd at large. Turning his face toward the direction of the pit just in the nick of time, Wilbur catches a glimpse of Jimmy attempting to enter the broader public, unsure of why until he notices the long, grey locks of hair that do much the same a few rows below him. “Would you like another drink, sir? I can go get one for you” the showman quips, taking the glass of the wealthy, appreciative figure he’d spoken to before heading off to the commons area. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Norman questions, prompting his business partner to lean forward as he’s amidst his retreat. “Our big match setting itself to meet in the middle? Of course I’ve noticed, Normie. Do you really think I’d be making a refill trip like a server if it wasn’t for a reason?” Wilbur queries back, speaking just loud enough for his acquaintance to hear, “I’m protecting our investment.” | “Good going out there” a woman quips, wearing a tailored suit more akin to what men would wear than the dames themselves, catching the returning fighter off guard. “Yeah?” Sam Rowe queries back, one eyebrow raised higher than the other as he approaches the woman, who immediately extends the palm of her hand toward his chest. “I’m not looking for you to bed me... I work for Wilbur” the lady explains, nipping any chance the sweaty brawler had at flirting with her in the bud before offering a handshake. “You work for Wilbur doing what?” Sam questions back, unsure of what specifics come with the open-ended assertion. “I’m in charge of promoting the shows. Finding guys with actual issues behind the curtains you just came back from and seeing if that can be brought to the pit” the woman rebuttals, again offering the hand she extends without reciprocation. “My name is Velma” she greets, wearing a dainty hat over her curly, blonde locks, a ruffled, polka-dot dress worn beneath a long, trench coat-like jacket and skirt, “I understand that you’re Samuel Rowe.” “Sam Rowe. Samuel was my father’s name and I don’t want whatever those funny things at the end of people’s names on mine” Sam replies, crossing his arms across his hairy, sweat-covered chest as he again refuses to reciprocate the woman’s present hand. “I believe you’re referring to suffixes” Velma corrects, only to receive an indifferent shrug of the man’s head for her troubles. “Alright, so you know big words. Congratulations” the man rejoinders, wearing a curious glare that can only be considered lost and uninterested, “can I go back to my lockers?” Slightly furrowing her eyebrows, the woman looks away from the man’s face and toward the hand that she holds out to him, only to again receive disinterest in the man opposite her. “Sure” the woman finally concedes, aware that she’s getting nowhere with the reserved fighter before stepping aside, allowing the man to carry on with his evening whilst she watches on, waiting for his figure to disappear around the corner before nodding with satisfaction and making tracks herself. | “Whichever one your hand gets to first, I don’t care really” Kenny answers, pressing his balled knuckles into the wooden countertop that separates him from the bartender. As instructed, the well-dressed server takes a glass bottle of simple shape and pours a steady glass, garnishing it with a mint leaf before handing it over to the man who’d ordered it. “Thanks for that!” Jimmy proclaims with appreciation as he cuts the pair off, snatching Kenny’s drink from the worker’s hand before downing it all at once, drawing the disapproval of the older brawler beside him. “Can you keep those filthy paws away from my fucking drink, yeah?” the grey-haired fighter queries with a disgruntled expression in his face, only for the adversary to sprout a smile toward his direction. “It’s funny that you should be asking me to keep my filthy paws out of your business” Jimmy rejoinders, sporting a stiff, grizzled mug in the direction of his older contemporary. “Do you and I have a goddamn problem, Jim?” Kenny inquires, stepping away from the tavern counter to approach the man that he can’t get to in time, cut off by the interjection of the well-dressed fight promoter. “If either of you touches the other, I’ll have both of you thrown out of here in opposite directions just to keep you from killing each other along the way” Wilbur declares in a grunt, pressing the palms of his hands into the chests of both men. “What’s your story, morning glory? I thought you wanted to give people a good show” Jimmy questions back, extending his arms out at either side as he turns his inquisition toward the man who provides his post-fight payment. “I want to give people a good show between two healthy fighters” Wilbur corrects, turning his front fully toward the man who’d main evented last week’s card, “what I don’t need is people getting a free look at what they should be paying to see.” “Are either of you dicks gonna clue me into what the problem here is?” Kenny wonders aloud, only for the showman’s trench coat-laden back to be turned toward last week’s main eventer and, instead, toward the man responsible for creating the rift between the two. “He knows about you letting Arthur and the big guy in on his pal’s being present at commencement night” Wilbur answers, snickering at the older gentleman as his ire is offered a direct aim. “Whether it was your intention or not, he’s got a friend who can’t move an arm for months because of you. Yeah, there’s a problem between the two of you” the wealthy gentleman proceeds, only to further irritate the older brawler. “Hey, I did you a favour. The only reason he isn’t walking around like a nobody right now is because I know exactly what you need to make this place work” Kenny counters, pressing the tip of his finger against the showman’s chest in the process. “It wasn’t my intention for Stan to get hurt, but it happened. You got a lot more money on opening night than you would’ve without me” the fighter continues, speaking whilst the man opposite him lets his face fall toward the floor with a heinous smirk. “Besides, if we’ve got a problem- I’m fine with that. I can accept putting Stan in that arm hanger, and I’ll take the young gun on” Kenny doubles down whilst the crowd begins to cheer in anticipation, “we’re in a fighting hall. Let’s fight.” “First of all, if you ever lay your hands on me like you’re the one in charge here, I’ll burn them off with a hot piece of metal. Is that understood?” Wilbur queries back, defiantly stepping closer toward the man so as to illustrate the dynamic of power that separates them. “Second of all, you’re going to fight. It won’t be tonight, and it won’t be for at least a few weeks, but you will fight” the showman carries onward, “and if the two of you try to throw hands behind my back, I will find out and I will-” “Everyone shut your mouths! I’ve got somethin’ to say!” Jimmy orders, catching both Kenny and the figure of wealth who he’d cut off by surprise, silencing them like he does with the rest of the crowd as his voice is projected through the building’s surrounding speakers. “If you don’t know me, that’s fine. If you do, then you saw what I’m gonna do to the next guy up after last weekend” the bruised brawler comments, standing in the centre of the pit with the cord microphone in his hands. “Last weekend, Jesse wasn’t supposed to fight that big guy. Our pal, Stanley, was” Jimmy explains, directing his hand toward the friends that now become the spotlight’s centre of attention. Watched on from afar, both Wilbur and Kenny remain as quiet as the majority of the crowd does, the audience’s voices only raising to the sound of applause as the wounded fighter and his giant-slaying bachelor friend are presented in the house lamp’s glow. “Stanley didn’t get to fight, though. If you were present in Mr. Ritter’s home before that, you’d know that he got smacked up pretty bad by the big guy. So, the fight was a no-go” Jimmy carries forward, spitting the taste of tobacco out and onto the blood-stained, sweat-covered wooden stage in the pit’s centre. “The only reason the big guy was there was because of that man” the wounded, yet victorious fighter declares, pointing back to the men who he’d left the company of seconds prior, “Kenneth House.” Wearing a deep squint, the older gentleman turns to look at the businessman responsible for putting this entire system of matches in order, though Wilbur’s face remains entranced by the gentleman who’d taken it upon himself to step into the pit. Hanging his head for a moment as he steps closer to the side of the fighting stage that his next opponent occupies, Jimmy sprouts a smirk and holds off on speaking any further, waiting until he’s as close to their end of the building as its layout will afford him the chance to be. “Kenny House put my friend’s arm in a hanger. He can’t work, he can’t provide for his wife, and he can’t do what he wants to do... Which is to get in this pit and fight” the late-twenties man explains, speaking to a silent audience that reserves their judgement for the grey-haired brawler. “Hey, Wilbur. The rest of these guys won’t understand what this means, but I know that you do” Jimmy continues forward, directing the tip of his index finger in the wealthy gentleman’s direction whilst the audience- including Norman and his friends watch on. “You said Kenny wanted to prove that he wasn’t replaceable like a lot of us are. That’s fair. You want me to get on your good side? That’s fair too” the man with the microphone declares, redirecting the aim of his finger toward the grey-haired former labourer beside the trench coat promoter. “How about this for getting on your good side?” Jimmy questions aloud, taking inspiration from the man who’d been the most-recent man to pay him money by turning up his degree of showmanship. Climbing into the first layer of seats beside the pit, the as-of-yet undefeated fighter ascends further into the audience, leaving the front row in favour of the second, and the second in favour of the third. “These people want to throw dough around on big time fights, so I say we give them a big time fight” Jimmy proclaims, throwing his hand out at one side to the sound of an audience roaring in applause, eager to see the bout presented to them like spectators to a duel in the ancient coliseum. Taking a look around the arena, Wilbur finds the variety of clapping hands and towering voices projecting themselves from all directions, trying to subdue a smirk that begins forming in the corner of his mouth. “I think they want to throw dough at a fight between me and Kenny, and I think they want to do it sooner than later!” Jimmy declares, re-earning the intrigued line of sight that the businessman hosts as the audience’s roar grows even bolder. Tossing the microphone back into the hands of the well-suited announcer, the crowd-pleaser continues to embrace the love of the event’s attendees as they pat him on the back and invest their care into the proclamation wagered. Satisfied with the interest that his fight pit’s success had been built off the base of, Wilbur nods his head approvingly as he stares down at the mid-audience crowd-worker. “I think you may have some competition in the ‘irreplaceable’ business, Kenneth” the showman proclaims, fetching a tall bottle of liquor from the mill-runner before returning the way he’d come, providing a pleased nod in the direction of the standing fighter. “Hey, Wilbur. Is this fight actually going to happen?” the wealthy gambler that the businessman returns with a bottle of liquor for questions aloud, only to receive a silent nod of assurance from the promoter. “Do me a favour and let me know before anyone else. I want to be in on the fight before the house odds start swinging with a seat reserved” the rich spectator requests, handing over a ball of cash to the gentleman in the trench coat, exchanging it for the bottle of liquor. “I can certainly make that happen, sir” Wilbur assures, pleasing the gentleman before passing a glance toward Norman, quietly nodding to the business partner that wears just as much delight in the turn of events as he does. | \ Sunday, 29th June 1930 / Dressed in proper church attire, Jimmy joins his wife in exiting the pew alongside those who he’d joined for mass. One after another, the congregation files out of the chapel and to their respective modes of transportation, some gathering together in line for the bus whilst a select few others begin approaching their private vehicles. Along the way to their home directly opposite the end of Smith Cove that their bloodsport career is hosted within, the couple decide to take a quick stop directly outside of the camp they’d once used to inhabit. “So much has changed in such little time” Cathy mutters aloud, seated in the passenger’s seat with eyes taking toward her window, those of her husband’s own following much the same action. “It certainly has” Jimmy concedes, aware of the pace in which the quality of their lives has taken, finding it impossible to look back at the hardships in which they faced without smiling at how it all turned out. Climbing out of their vehicles with proper clothes and a proper life to live, the couple stare out at the encampment they used to reside within, unable to do so without taking pleasure in the fact that their nice shoes and unstained clothes do not need to step any further toward it than they do now. “I feel awful for the people that still live there” Cathy confesses, wearing furrowed brows at the thought before feeling her husband’s hand gently rubbing at her lower back, comforting her in the fact that it’s all behind them now. “Let’s just not forget that we got lucky. We could be one of them right now if it wasn’t for a few good things happening” Jimmy clarifies, watching as the love of his life spins in his arm and places the soft palm of her hand against his face. “Let’s just never lose sight of that for as long as we live” the man concludes, not needing to utter any further word before his wife’s lips press against his own, her eyes locking on his whilst they embrace. Having visited their past, the couple moves on in favour of their present and future, returning to their apartment and opening the door to the scent of tobacco smoke. “Salutations, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott” Velma remarks, sitting in a chair near the centre of their commons area with one leg draped over the other, her formal wear remaining of a simple skirt and a soft, silk, polka-dot top. “Why are you in our home?” Jimmy questions aloud after a brief pause in his doorway, not having expected the hazy cloud that coats the air of his living room upon entering. “Because Wilbur has a key to everyone’s property and he likes making sure he can get business handled when needed” the unexpected guest responds, letting her elevated leg fall to the ground as she steps off of the seat, approaching the fighter and his elegantly-dressed wife. “How was the mass?” Velma inquires, completely switching the topic of conversation whilst carrying a folded piece of paper in the hand that doesn’t carry the filterless cigarette. “It was just as you’d expect it to be. We gave love to our god and came back home, why?” Jimmy questions, still standing like a statue in the centre of his doorway as the visiting woman attempts to speak further on the matter. “Why are you here?” the homeowner asks instead, staring the smoking figure in the eyes as he questions the nature of her presence, refusing her any alternative line of dialogue. “Because Wilbur would like to inform you of your next scheduled appearance” the woman answers, handing over the folded piece of paper to the man whose eyes it was meant for. “You and Kenny will sit at a table on opposite sides of Mr. Ritter as you address the crowd at his home” Velma continues, only for her claim to be interrupted by the homeowner once more. “I thought he was calling it the ‘Commencement Theatre’ from now on?” Jimmy questions aloud to the response of a quiet nod, the assurance that he receives satisfying that aspect of his concern. “You will meet at the Commencement Theatre in three weeks time for a sit down to address your fight and any questions that will be had from whoever will be there” Velma carries forward, not wanting to leave anything up for interpretation, “the date of your fight isn’t scheduled yet, but Wilbur will have it decided by then.” “And who are you again?” Jimmy questions, looking into the smiling face of the woman that stands opposite him within his own home, her hand extending toward him just as it had to everyone that she’d meet. “Velma Sharp, I’m in charge of helping Wilbur discover which fighters have real animosity between each other in order to-” she answers, only for her title to fall by deaf ears as the fighter and his wife move aside. “I don’t care what you’re in charge of, Velma- please, leave my home” Jimmy interjects, slightly disappointing the woman who’d attempted to remain civilised and professional, her hand falling slowly to her side before her head nods in return. “Be there in three weeks” Velma concludes, stepping forward and through the entrance she’d initially entered, hearing the door slam shut on her way out as the work she’d been sent to complete becomes another chore she’d satisfied the responsibility of. == Seattle Noir == |
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