S2, E1 | A One Way Ticket to the Next Level

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.”

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“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.

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“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.

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\ 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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