S2, E4 | A One Way Ticket to a Green, New Deal

\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Saturday, 19th July 1930 /

With blood running down the side of his face from a deep gash over his left eyebrow, a victorious fighter returns to the sanctuary of his stuffy little locker room with deeply bruised knuckles. Covered in sweat, all the heavyweight really wishes to do is hit the showers, desiring to feel fresh and rejuvenated, wishing to wash himself of the battle scars that he’s painted with whilst finally stepping through the doorway of his private room.

Stopping in his tracks before he can even venture more than a pair of steps inward, the lowered-guard brawler finds a man sitting in the chair he’d occupied prior to stepping into the centre of battle. Leaning at an angle in the seat with his arms interlocked across his chest, an unfamiliar man from the faintest glance sits with his legs stretched as far out as they can reach, one ankle crossed over the other as the stranger’s head hangs over the back of the seat.

“This isn’t your locker room” the grizzled fighter remarks, sporting a dark goatee that stretches halfway down the length of his neck, earning the attention of the man that his scraping footsteps had failed to grab. “That’s correct. It’s yours, Thomas Rota” Kenny replies, widening his eyes and lifting his head, face directing itself toward the glistening skin of the now continually-stepping bruiser.

“Tom is fine, thanks” the triumphant gladiator corrects, his abdomen muscularly shredded into eight abs that grow less defined and more defined with each breath. “Sure. It’s your locker room, Tom” Kenny reiterates, patting his thighs as he steps off the chair, joining the room’s tenant in climbing to his feet.

“So why are you in here?” the well-built bruiser questions aloud, reaching into a small, paper bag in the corner of the room to retrieve a plain, white towel. Visibly unamused with the unannounced drop-in, Tom watches his visitor approach him until their eyes are level, faces looking into each other’s. “I thought I could run some business by you” the older gentleman answers honestly, inspecting the man’s physique with a nod, “I’m looking for someone to help me with a little issue that I’ve got, and I don’t think I’m gonna find another twit in this place better to solve it.”

“Yeah, I’m not interested in your little games” Tom responds, obviously reluctant to buy into what anyone around him is selling- not wanting to take the chance of being propositioned with snake oil. “I don’t know you, I don’t trust you, I don’t care what problems you’ve got going on” the muscular man doubles down, politely stepping around his wealthy contemporary with a cold shower in sight, “take your little business and run it by someone else, yeah?”

“This isn’t a trip for biscuits, Tom. I’m not fancying you sourdough here” Kenny assures, turning with the man that attempts to walk away, his follow-up at least buying him a few more seconds successfully. Silently turning back toward his guest, the successful pugilist sets eyes back upon his older colleague and waits for further information, allowing him to make his point whilst in a charitable mood.

“I’m not looking to play games, Tom. You’ve got strong hands, you lay in a wicked uppercut, and you’re just the obstacle that I need to separate myself from Jimmy Elliott” Kenny explains, watching the furrowed brows of the near-nude fighter react to him. “You insulting me?” Tom queries back, unsure of what his visitor is trying to insinuate as he steps forward, watching the shaking head of his grey-haired fellow-bruiser correct such a conclusion.

“No, I mean I need you to be a literal roadblock” Kenny retorts, squashing any chance at misapprehension as the sweating boulder of a gentleman returns within such proximity that his breath can be felt running against the older man’s chin. “Elliott and I are fighting to one-up each other. We’re giving Wilbur exactly what he wants and trying to show that we can do it better than the other” the fully-clothed fighter currently without any true next fight scheduled explains.

“I have an idea that will not only give Wilbur what he wants- which is a packed house- but make him a ton more money” Kenny concludes, doubling down on his vow as he’s quickly met with silence. Breathing through his nose with a scowl that brings out the definition of his facial muscles, Tom stares back to the man who’d dropped in on him without warning before looking to the ground, seeing the traces of dirt and sand that their respective boots had carried in.

“What’s in it for me?” Tom wonders aloud, finally opening himself up just enough to take consideration into what he’s proposed. “You made just over a thousand dollars with tonight’s fight, yeah?” Kenny wonders aloud, stepping forward with his voice lowered the slightest amount, carrying a near-whisper to avoid any possible ears lingering within the dark.

“How would you like to make nearly three thousand with one fight with the possibility of getting another few thousand from me later on?” Kenny inquires, pulling his face a slight distance away from the gentleman that stands before him, watching as the man’s eyes remain glued to the ground. “You’ll have your back covered whenever you lose. We’ll save you from getting the axe for poor performance” the ancient-in-comparison brawler explains, only for the strong voice of the opposite man to refuse such a notion.

“I don’t fail, cinderdick” Tom interrupts, pressing the tip of his heavy finger into the mastermind’s chest, watching the man’s lips press shut and voice go quiet, his eyes slightly widening as they watch the brute’s digit pull away. Stepping back with the towel still in hand by his side, the locker room’s tenant for the evening takes another glance around the mostly-empty space, thinking quietly to himself as Kenny waits.

“I’ll give it some thought” the partially-clothed powerhouse responds, speaking not another word before leaving the room, stepping off in the direction of the showers as the man he leaves behind begins to smile. “Let’s do business then” Kenny whispers to himself, nodding as he takes another look at the seat he’d waited upon before walking off, venturing down the opposite direction from where his potential acquaintance had come from with eyes on the immediate future.

= 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 =

\ Wednesday, 23rd July 1930 /

“Ladies and gentlemen, your opening favourite... Jimmy Elliott!” Wilbur proclaims, hearing the roar of the audience that his Commencement Theatre hosts as the prize fighter steps through the curtain, entering from behind the stage whilst his promoters occupy it. Casually placing his hands together, Norman subdues any partisanship in the name of fair representation, though internally- he burns with pleasure at the idea that the stage’s newest-occupant will do what he’d wished to a week prior.

Claiming ownership over the side of the table he’d meant to sit behind seven days earlier, Jimmy takes his seat and presses the sides of his hands against the table. Allowed to continue their ovation, the audience affords their odds-on-favourite an opportunity to survey the bowl that surrounds their stage. In the same seats they’d occupied the last time they’d made an attempt to hold the address, Jimmy’s friends applaud with the rest of the populace, his wife the most eye-catching amongst them.

From one side of the humanity horde to the other, men dress in their finest of attire as do the ladies. With professional caps on and cigars in most of their mouths, the gentlemen wear solid-coloured dress jackets over button up shirts, a pair of slacks falling down the length of their legs. Much more vibrant, the women adorn more colourful garb, hats with longer brims- some draped over by vails, and long dresses in a litany of patterns that all sway with the movement of their hands.

Listening to the applause from her front row seat on the direct opposite side of Jimmy’s closest pals, Velma lights a cigarette with one leg politely crossed over the other, watching the air cloud with a haze of potent smoke as she shakes out the match’s flame. “Jimmy’s opponent has a record mirroring the fighter’s own- an undefeated one-and-oh in hand-to-hand combat” the spectacle-creator declares to the audience, “as of now, it’ll be the fight with the highest-stakes that we’ve ever put on.”

Clearing his throat with a slight lean forward, Jimmy presses his lips as close to the microphone as he can get them whilst his employer parts his lips- attempting to speak. “It’s going to be the quickest fight you’ve ever put on, too” the seated heavyweight doubles down, earning a re-ignited ovation from those in the audience who have predicted the man’s victory with the assistance of a handful of cash.

Humoured, Norman wears a grin with amusement whilst Wilbur laughs aloud, joining those within his audience in reacting whilst Velma delicately taps the tops of her fingers with one hand against the palm of the other. “That’s a man, Jim!” Stan remarks with pleasure, nodding in approval whilst Cathy gently nudges his unwounded side with her elbow.

“Nonetheless, there needs to be an opponent for you to quickly battle as well!” Wilbur declares, pressing the base of his walking cane against the hardwood stage, standing directly in front of the table his fighter patiently waits behind. “Ladies and gentlemen, equally undefeated, this is your second chance to welcome Kenneth House to the stage!” the showman announces, gaining a chorus of cheers from slightly less than a quarter of the crowd- the remainder of the audience jeering outright.

Shining into the audience, the spotlight that Wilbur’s fixed to where the theatre platform’s curtain rod would normally reside finds its way to an empty chair, its red, velvet-like upholstery having gone the entire evening without being occupied. Having prepared to round the table without shaking the hand of the man who they’d exchanged pleasantries with one week prior, the businessmen catch the open seating out of the corner of their eyes, noticing the lack of presence from the opponent.

“Where’s Kenny?” Wilbur wonders aloud, asking the question toward Norman whilst Jimmy watches on from his seat, looking around the audience with as little insight as his employers do. Glancing back from the comfort of her seat, Velma furrows her brows at the man’s absence just as well, the friends that Jimmy had brought along remaining within their own places just as she does, though with much greater dissatisfaction.

“He didn’t even show up!” one man howls out from the audience as the somewhat mixed reaction settles down, earning a complete rebirth of jeers as even those who’d put money on the man now turn their support against him. “This is not going to happen” Wilbur calmly speaks, his comments being brought on with just enough volume for those he shares the stage with to overhear, “this rat is not going to cost me another-”

Disobeying his cue, Kenny emerges from the arch that sits at the very top of the theatre’s staircase, staring out at the audience for a few seconds before the light that had fallen upon the chair he was meant to occupy begins to lift toward his actual figure. Re-earning the outnumbered cheers that he had been receiving, the man’s appearance puts a silence upon the semi-relieved promoter, who lets free a sigh knowing that his plans for the evening won’t be ruined once more.

“What is that twit doing?” Jesse inquires, asking around to his pals without receiving any answer, just as uncertain and confused as those on the stage are. Continuing to revel in the reception, Kenny pans his line of sight from one side of the aisle to the other, stretching his glare all the way to the opposite half of the building’s main bowl before even taking the first step toward the centre of each seat’s focus.

“I think he’s giving you a run for your money, Willy” Norman jokes, watching the attention that the older-looking brawler commands, the mixture of applause and refusal wafting over the grey-haired warrior like a cool breeze on a hot, summer’s day. “Please, the silver wolf can’t out-dandy m-” Wilbur retorts, only to stop himself silent as he repeats what he’d just uttered aloud himself internally, dawning a smile upon his face as his eyelids inch closer together, “the silver wolf.”

Continuing to receive the crowd’s reaction as vehemently as when he’d first stepped through the arch, Kenny remains put without any end in sight, allowing the audience all the time in the world to provide him with exactly what his employer wants them to- their attention. “Once again, ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome the equally undefeated...” Wilbur howls, earning the grey-haired mastermind’s line of sight once more, “...the Silver Wolf! Kenneth House!”

Amplifying ten-fold, the audience roars at the man’s repeated introduction, watching a smirk lift in the corner of the former labourer’s mouth before he finally begins to descend the staircase. Having hidden shortly behind and away from the path of the spotlight’s luminosity, Arthur and Tom begin to follow the man shortly behind whilst Willard lingers around in the back, accompanying the men to the very end of the descent as their reinforcement.

“Which one is that!?” Stan questions aloud, looking on with great inquisition as he follows the foursome down the length of the audience, their each step closer to the bottom of the stage watched on with great suspense. Not caring over the matter, Jesse’s ire is simply drawn toward the group as a whole, the anger of himself and his pals feeding off of the source that their stage-residing friend wields.

“Thomas Rota is with them?” Norman questions aloud, carrying a squint toward the quartet before looking in the direction of his partner in crime, the wide smile that the trench coat-laden gentleman wears being impossible to hide. “This just keeps getting better, Normie” Wilbur cheerfully remarks, passing a glance to the man whilst their prize fighter remains paused, trying to refrain from putting a look of anything other than composure upon his visage.

Eventually making his way to the steps that separate himself from being level with his promoters and opponents, Kenny gives a nod to his acquaintances, who couple their hands together at their laps and remain put. With a scowl on his face, the grey-haired soldier of intelligence approaches his employer with eyes of stone, reaching out his hand with parted fingers.

Assuming this to be a display of respect, Wilbur reaches out to shake the man’s hand before watching the digits carry past his open palm, instead reaching for the moving coil microphone that resides within the other one. Tearing it away from the showman, Kenny presents an unpleasant demeanour rigid enough that even the grandeur-speaking businessman is taken back, watching their golden boy’s adversary depart with eyes facing the audience.

“You... girl...” Kenny speaks into the audio piece, his stretching digit held in the direction of the smoking woman employed by the man he’d just torn the talking stick away from, “...when is my fight with Jimmy scheduled for?” Admittedly not clued in on the answer, Velma stares with surprise at the way in which the dubbed ‘silver wolf’ speaks, everything from the cadence to his posture reading like a man more full of himself than anything people had known him to be, only able to muster the shake of her head with loss.

“Halfway through September” Norman answers instead, watching the confrontational fighter spin around at the sound of his voice, which is carried through the second stick that hadn’t managed to be snatched, “the 13th of September, to be more specific.” Standing at the front of the stage- well ahead of the trio who’d occupied it long before he had- Kenny nods to himself and looks toward the air before pointing toward his posse.

“Jimmy’s going to fight Tom Rota on that night instead” he answers, immediately eliciting a wave of confusion from the wealthy onlookers that he presents himself to. Finding a squint from the now empty-handed showman, the brazen group leader steps forward, making his case to the man that he knows will look to do whatever makes the most amount of money.

“If Jimmy can beat Tom, then he can have his fight with me” the man proclaims, only to watch Norman step forward with a microphone lifted toward his lips. Without caring to think twice, Kenny follows through on his mission by slapping the talking stick away from the hand of Wilbur’s business partner, adamant about addressing the showman himself directly.

Taking immediate retaliation to this, Norman throws his hands into the fighter’s chest and violently shoves him back, nearly taking him off his feet before the rest of the onlooking group joins their shot-caller on the stage. Getting between the grey-haired ticket seller and his own partner in crime, Wilbur shoves them both back and refuses any further hostility, throwing his finger in the faces of both Tom and Arthur as the first men to come to Kenny’s aid.

“If you want to make money, this is how you do it!” the Silver Wolf proclaims, shouting in the showman’s face as the crowd reacts accordingly to the appearance of outright, boiling-over tension. With wide eyes, Wilbur gets in the face of his subordinate and presses his forehead against the man’s own, angrily breathing through his nose at the lack of respect shown for his colleague.

“If the kid wins, then he’s earned the fight that he wants! If he loses, then he doesn’t! It’s as simple as that!” Kenny howls into the mic, veins protruding from his neck as he steps in front of Arthur, pressing his hand against the acquaintance’s chest to hold him back just as Wilbur does with Norman, “those are the ground rules! And if any of these people want to see Jimmy and I fight, they’re gonna need to buy a ticket to see Jimmy fight Tom for that right!”

Steering clear of the immediate trouble, Jimmy stands from his seat and remains behind the table, earning a passing glance from Kenny whilst Jesse climbs up to the stage, joining beside his friend whilst the grey-haired brawler remains fixated on the showman promoter. Wanting to get his hands dirty with the villainous mastermind, Norman tries to push past the reach of his wealthy friend before being carried back.

Wrapping his arms around his pal’s torso, Wilbur drags Norman back to somewhere private, taking him by the shoulders before speaking in confidence. “We’re not going to let the inmates run the asylum around here, Willy!” the crafty businessman remarks, trying to look past his anger for Kenny in the name of making the right call in the moment.

“We’re not, but I can’t deny that he’s got a great point!” Wilbur corrects, watching his friend’s face begin to sour at the idea that common ground had been found amongst the two. “Making Jimmy run the gauntlet to get to Kenny would help us delay the real big fight and still get people to show up in droves!” the spectacle-dependent provocateur confesses, immediately recognising the displeasure carried in his pal’s eyes.

“And if Jimmy loses, we don’t get the real big fight at all!” Norman reiterates, providing the strongest counterpoint that can be made to the proposition at hand, one that his colleague does not shy away from accepting. “Yes, and if that bridge happens to come upon us, we’ll address it when we have to. But for now, this is brilliant!” Wilbur remarks, pulling his buddy’s face back toward his own as it tries to veer off to the altercation-starter awaiting response.

“This is the smart move. It’s ballsy, but it’s smart” Wilbur concludes, making his point without fear that his acquaintance is too high on adrenaline to see the sense in it. “We came up to the Pacific Northwest for the purpose of owning it. There is no bigger gamble than that one” he continues, doubling down on the reassurance that their decision now needs to set the standard for what they carry forward with, “we’re taking a risk with this one, but it’s far from the heaviest gamble we’ve ever taken.”

“No one gets rich without taking chances” Norman quickly responds, watching a smile overtake the showman’s face as their minds reach the same track. “That’s why I chose to bring you up here with me!” Wilbur proclaims, patting his partner on the shoulder before turning back toward the scene of chaos with a smile, taking notice of the raucous crowd for the first time since involuntarily drowning them out minutes prior.

“I see that smile on your face, but I’m not done...” Kenny finally carries on, seeing the grin that spreads from one side of his employer’s face to the other and taking it as the sign that his proposition has caught the right set of ears. “If the kid beats Tom on September 13th, then I’ll fight him on the last Saturday of November...” the Silver Wolf continues, watching the showman’s chin lift with intrigue amidst the pause, “...but I don’t want it happening in that pit you’ve got down by the water.”

Puzzled, the spectacle-maker passes a glance over his shoulder to the equally-bewildered Norman, who restrains his displeasure for those that wield the microphone and the centre of attention. Remaining quiet, Wilbur turns his face just to the side as if to gesture a continued explanation, wanting to hear out the mind that proposes his change in plans.

“I told you that I wanted to prove that I was invaluable. I can’t be replaced by other fighters you’ve got working for you, and this is why...” Kenny declares, another dismissive stare carried in the direction of Jimmy, who stands by without wanting to defy the orders set upon him by Wilbur, “...If he and I fight, I want it taking place in front of five thousand people out at the Mercer Arena.”

Leaning forward slightly in her chair, Velma attempts to disregard the howling of the audience that foams at the mouth for the chance to gain admission to the fight, the limited capacity of the Smith Cove pit having refused most the opportunity to do so without infinitely deep pockets. Immediately looking on with surprise at the proposal before instinctively veering his line of sight toward the audience, Wilbur finds each soul hosted within the bowl appearing more like dollar signs than actual people.

Admittedly finding great intrigue in the prospect of running such a massive show, the direct howling of approval from the crowd serves enough to convince Norman that his adversary may have a point too good to refuse. Watching as his now-potential opponent make a name for himself whilst he does nothing, Jimmy ignores the questions that Jesse asks of him whilst waiting for the showman’s answer.

For a few moments, Wilbur remains utterly quiet as he gazes out at the audience, finding their ovation to be too lustful to ignore. Gently reaching out to reclaim the talking stick, his scratches at the soft part of his neck just beneath his chin and looks the grey-haired combatant in the eyes. “You’ve got a deal” he answers to a deafening cheer from those now practically guaranteed a seat at the biggest fight yet to be offered, watching as the men shake hands on the agreement whilst an angry Jesse and an oddly-composed Jimmy stand by.

|

“This is ridiculous!” Jesse shouts, more angry than the rest of his friends are disappointed, their collective stroll away from the Commencement Theatre being spent within each other’s palpably quiet company. “Yous got your damn shoulder messed with because of the dumb fucking twit!” the bachelor comments toward Stan, receiving nothing more than an agreeing nod before looking toward Jimmy, “and yous just got fucked! Your match with Kenny is off because of the-!”

“It’s not off, it’s just delayed” Jimmy interrupts, correcting his friend’s conclusion with an almost care-free and casual tone in his voice, puzzling those that he walks with- his wife included. Walking in silence for a few seconds, the group continues along their way whilst the man’s declaration is taken to heart, the circumstances that surround it not lost on anyone.

“What’s going on with yous, Jim?” Jesse wonders aloud, speaking calmly with obvious dissatisfaction carried in the way his quandary is presented, “Kenny just walked up and told you to fight some other crumb just for the right... the right... to fight him.” Understanding very well what had just happened, Jimmy nods in agreement without uttering a word, “talk about the balls he must have to suggest something like that” Jesse tacks on.

“And is it going to fucking stop me from getting my hands on the filthy bastard?” Jimmy chops back, taking a quick step ahead of his peers before spinning around, preventing anyone from continuing to walk as he addresses the man. “I don’t care if he puts the fucking Japs ahead of me. I’ll run through their whole fuckin’ empire just to wrap my hands around his throat” the man carries onward, shaking his head in defiance as he approaches his lady-less friend.

“I’m not meaning to speak out of character, brother. But don’t ever talk to me like I can’t take on some fucker if I’ve got to” the young, married gentleman calmly warns. “I wasn’t, Jim. None of us are” Jesse quickly responds, assuming he’d been misunderstood the first time around, “we know you’re gonna wipe the floor with the bastard.”

“I’m gonna get paid a fat chunk of dough by beating muscle man in a couple of weeks... And I’m going to beat muscle man in a couple of weeks” Jimmy explains, shaking his head at the man who now stands in silence- hearing him out. “I know you don’t means to be telling me that I can’t beat him, but talking like this is a problem because I have to beat him to get at Kenny might as well be you talking like I can’t beat him...” the group’s leader assures, a defiant and confident stare carried through his pupils, “...and I will beat him.”

Pulling his head back just slightly, Jimmy lifts a finger toward Jesse out of wanting to prevent the man from using his silence to speak. Digging a carton out of his pocket, the young man pulls a smoke free from within before offering up one to each of his contemporaries, passing around matches that they all use to light their tobacco stick. With a satisfying pull, the group sits in the sweet stench of their darts as the light and puffy-looking clouds waft through the air from their lungs.

“I’m not going to just fight Kenny, I’m going to beat him into apology” Jimmy declares, crossing one arm over the other as he stares out at the waterfront they travel through night beside, watching lights of street lamps reflect off the rippling waters as a soft breeze rolls through. “He can delay what’s coming for as long as he wants, but I will not let him get away” the young man concludes, earning a few rolling nods of approval from those who join his company as he looks to them, “sooner or later... all roads will lead back to me.”

== Seattle Noir ==