S2, E5 | A One Way Ticket to a Skyline Receipt

\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Thursday, 31st July 1930 /

With her hands coupled at her lap, Cathy emerges from her shared bedroom with a slight narrowing of her brow. Quiet and calm, the apartment’s hallways host nothing more than the sound of the woman’s own footsteps, each passing inch trailed over leading the woman further toward her living room. Glancing over the chesterfield with a slight wonder, the woman finds her husband with his knuckles pressing into the floor, holding the rest of his body upward as it leans parallel to the ground.

With the slightest frown, the man’s wife watches the beads of sweat drop from his face, falling to the hardwood floors and gathering into a middling puddle. Unaware of the woman’s presence, Jimmy continues suspending himself above the ground, his eyelids pressed shut and breaths forced into a steady, repetitive process. Transported into a mental state that completely forgets about the strenuous activity he partakes in, the couple’s breadwinner forgoes physical satisfaction in favour of pushing his body to its limits.

Protruding from his arms, the definition within Jimmy’s arms begins to show as his body tenses up, his hands shaking against the ground that he remains hovering over. Veins showing through the skin of his neck, the man continues to prevent himself from giving into the tempting desire to call it quits, refusing to fail in ensuring that the only way he returns to the ground is when his body physically cannot handle the stress any longer.

Watching along without being noticed, Cathy stands by and waits for her husband to conclude the draining exercise, the steps she’d taken toward the living room having been completely unnoticed just as her presence is. Pressing his teeth together as it grows gradually harder to breathe as efficiently as he had, Jimmy feels the trembling of his extremities begin to increase, dying to give in to the will of gravity and allow the fighter to crater into the floor.

Parting his lips slightly as it becomes too difficult to breathe through his nose, the heavyweight begins breathing through the tiny slot between his two front teeth, creating a sighing, hiss-like sound with each attempted breath. Clearly displeased with the pain that her husband forces himself to go through, Cathy fights the urge to intervene and offer reassuring words in the name of letting the man follow through with what his will keeps prolonging.

Shaking violently, the man’s arms continue to quake beneath the weight of his body as they beg for release, the man’s knees beginning to burn at their joints as his hips start sagging like a wooden board that had spent three weeks floating in a lake. No longer able to breathe without it throwing him off, Jimmy pulls in as much as he can manage as his eyelids part, pupils holding down the miniature lake of sweat that had gathered below, falling from the tip of his nose and awaiting his plunge.

Angrily staring at the ground with a refusal to quit, the propositioned bruiser looks deeply into the puddle of sudor with the assistance of the Seattle sunlight peeking through the curtains of his window. Reflecting the room in ways he can barely notice, the collected droplets present the brawler with an illustration of himself, one that details cannot be made out of, but- to Jimmy- are undeniably a depiction of himself.

Quickly letting out a deep gasp as he fights to hold onto every last second of elevation that he can manage, Jimmy parts his eyelids as far as he can without any option but to look at the reflected outline of himself. Shaking his head as his left knuckle rolls to the side just the slightest amount, the man’s balance is thrown off without any possibility of being brought back, sending him crashing into the floor, face dipping into the puddle, and back rolling onto the floor with dissatisfaction.

“Damnit!” he proclaims in aggravation, covering his face with the palm of one hand whilst taking the opposite into a ball, slamming it against the floor as he regains his breath. Muzzling any less pleasant comment she can make, Cathy looks toward the spot in which her half-nude husband had suspended himself, the sweaty spots from where his knees and fists had pressed into the floor remaining where they’d been cemented.

“Is this for your fight against Rota?” she wonders aloud, earning the attention of her husband as he finally takes notice of her presence. Swiping his sweaty hair back with the palm that had covered his face, Jimmy groans as he attempts to sit up, propping himself slightly-forward beneath the power of an elbow pressing against the floor. “What else would this be for?” he asks, curious as to what other answer he could receive from the woman, assuring her accuracy without actually doing so.

Without a word and with a noticeably understanding expression, Cathy offers a small smile to her husband before turning away, walking off to attend to other matters within the home. Not receiving any reply of note, Jimmy is left to again let his energy spend itself, the arm he’d propped himself up with returning him back to the floor with a sigh. Falling to the floor alongside the other, the sweat-stained set of fingers that he’d run through his hair slap at the ground and leave him lying beneath the window bathing his living room in sunlight.

Glistening in the glow of the afternoon sun stabbing into their home, the fighter’s abdomen continues to lift and drop repeatedly with each recaptured breath. Defeated by forces beyond his control, the man with a test on the horizon continues to sit with his thoughts as they run wild, influenced by the adrenaline he’d spent on attempting to defy what humans were not meant to- unsure of why he even cares to try as much as he does.

= 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 =

\ Tuesday, 19th August 1930 /

“That’s not what I’m sayin’” Jesse responds, shaking his head dismissively as he twirls the prongs of his fork around a mountain of sauce-covered spaghetti, staring at the plate whilst he does so. “Then talk better, you buffoon!” Stanley replies, slicing at his plate of prepared fish with the knife in his healthy arm whilst gingerly stabbing at it with the hanger-freed arm he’d wounded not too long ago.

“I’m not interested in settling down and watching a broad pop out babies left and right” Jesse retorts, sliding the pasta off his fork with his lips before speaking as he chews, “I like drinking and spending time with yous and Jim and Cath.” Shaking his head with a smirk, Stanley chews with his mouth shut whilst his wife offers a rejoinder, politely dipping her metal spoon into the bowl of soup she’d waited slightly longer than her pals for.

“You won’t be able to drink and spend your nights in the gentlemen's club for the rest of your life, Jesse” Josephine comments, watching an arguable scowl take shape over the fighter’s face as he shakes his head. “That’s not true! There’s a smooth old guy that’s down in the middle of town every night throwing dough at every broad that walks up and down the joint, yeah?” Jesse rebuttals, earning a light chuckle out of the woman’s husband, “he’s living life big time! So will I!”

“I highly doubt that, you pill” Josephine jokes, earning another hint of amusement out of her husband as the man opposite her ironically lives up to the comment. “I’m no pill! Yous just not right!” Jesse responds, swallowing his bite of pasta with the fork’s prongs held toward the woman’s direction, “I won’t even just live in the parlour either! I’ll own the damn thing, damnit!”

“You’ll be dizzy with a dame before Josie and I even pop out the first baby” Stanley responds, arguing the complete opposite of his friend with a smile, drawing amusement and refusal out of the group’s bachelor. “Don’t yous put that curse on me, Stanley!” Jesse proclaims, turning the prongs of his fork against the still-recovering acquaintance as he shares in their laughter, standing by his point, “I’ll own gentlemen's clubs from here to the other coast while you send your kids off to school!”

Sharing in each other’s amusement, the trio enjoy their night of fine dining amidst the public, embracing the night of a dying summer outside on the patio before the sound of a deep, masculine voice catches their ear. “You two Jimmy’s friends?” Rota wonders aloud, gaining their full attention as he stops along the side of the road, having been walking through town before taking notice of the fighters one hip-high gate away from him.

Without saying a word, Jesse throws his fork to the table and stands from his seat, letting the utensil bounce a few times before carelessly falling to the floor. “Stand down, stand down! I’m not here for a fight you damn hooligan!” Rota proclaims, stepping back with both hands lifted in a show of surrender, eyebrows furrowed as the hairs of his growing beard touch upon the collar of his buttoned shirt.

“What yous want!?” Jesse quickly questions aloud, balling his hands into a fist that hangs by each side, approaching the small-in-stature gate separating himself and his friends from the street that their adversary occupies. “Nothing. I was just heading home” Rota responds, his grizzly tone at least carrying a calm and collected reflection within it, suggesting he truly did not intend to start trouble.

“And yous just noticed us and dropped in to say ‘hello’?” Jesse questions back, watching the man roll his eyes and shake his head, eyes taking toward the road he still has yet to travel. “No, I noticed you and took it as a chance to remind you that I’ve got nothing personal against you” Rota responds, doing nothing to convince the fight-ready man that his words are spoken from a place of sincerity.

“You sided with Kenny and kept Jimmy from getting his revenge” Jesse replies, allowing his tension-filled arms to slowly release his palms from the heavy grasp of his squeezing fingers, “that’s personal to us.”

“Then, listen, I’m sorry that another man can’t do business without the three of you thinking this is something personal” Rota rebukes, his comment intriguing both the recovering fighter and the man’s wife. “Kenny offered me a huge pay if I fought Jimmy and a cut of what he’ll make if Jimmy beats me... Which he won’t” the well-built brawler confesses, offering information that his adversaries had already come to assume, “he made a strong argument and it would’ve been stupid to turn him away.”

“So you make a deal with the devil and expect the good guys not to hold it against yous?” Jesse counter-argues, surprising the man opposite him at first. “What makes the three of you think that you’re the good guys?” Rota questions aloud, casually approaching the gate to close the distance between himself and the opponents now that their conversation has become more naturally civilised, “I’m not saying you aren’t, but what makes us the bad guys?”

“Your big friend and his little buddy broke my friend’s arm a few months ago and now Kenny’s dodging a fight he deserves by putting yous in the way” Jesse answers, throwing his hands out at either side with a shrug, “what kind of good guys do that?”

“From what I understand, the same good guys who only fought you and broke his arm on that first night because you picked a fight with them before that” Rota retaliates calmly, aware of his physical superiority to the instinctually angry gentleman on the opposite side of the gate that neither of their upper bodies are separated by. “We didn’t pick that fight” Jesse rebuttals, only to watch as the much more dominant-appearing gentleman scoffs at the notion.

“Nobody wants to be the person that started the issue when people that know nothing have to take sides” Rota replies, only to draw the ire of the opposite friend group’s bachelor. “What makes yous think that your buddies- whatever their names are- weren’t the ones that started it?” Jesse questions aloud, his assumptions being corrected at the first chance the body builder-appearing bruiser is given.

“I’m not saying they did. They probably did honestly, but that doesn’t matter” Rota answers, swaying his head in refusal at the idea that it is worth any concern, “the point is we’ve got no good guys in this. There’s just you with your motives and us with ours.” Not satisfied with that response, Stanley takes a step around the table, not fearing that his safety or long-suffering recovery are in danger at the brute’s hands.

“What’s your motive?” Stan wonders aloud, stepping up to the side of his younger, shorter friend with genuine curiosity held in his stare. “I want to make sure I keep getting paid, and that I keep getting paid a lot” Rota answers honestly, stepping away from the waist-high iron fence without care over having any further dialogue with the professional foes, “I just wanted to let you know that I don’t have an issue with you. Maybe the people in my team do, but I don’t.”

Walking backward for a few steps, the large competitor corrects his direction and begins venturing in the way he’d initially set out to carry himself through. Watching on without uttering a word, Stan and Jesse wait for the figure to disappear within the crowd he walks alongside, taking a long while before the large frame can fall from their line of sight. Sceptical to the man’s claims, the sense he makes out of the situation is difficult for either man to not at least take into consideration.

|

\ Saturday, 23rd August 1930 /

“I don’t care if you don’t have a problem with them. We do” Arthur responds, wearing the most bitter expression that his face can host as he addresses the well-built man seated beside him, “that means all we care about is you winning.” Crossing his arms as he sinks further into his chair, Rota takes the man’s comments into his mind without actually addressing them, offering them silence in return for their vocalisation as he focuses his attention on the fight occurring below.

“The kid’s scrappy. He’s not going to stay down unless we make him stay down” Kenny assures, sitting to the muscular brute’s left whilst addressing the shorter man to Rota’s right, the giant enforcer they carry on as backup sitting on the opposite end of the quarter as the grey-haired leader. “Give me a brick and keep an eye out... I’ll make sure he stays down” Arthur retorts, watching the unamused expression that the mastermind reacts to him with as it’s passed along.

“We’re not taking the kid out at the knees, Artie” Kenny rebukes, watching as the shorter man’s eyes roll at the refusal, his back leaning into the chair as he stews with the dismissal. With palms pressing against his slack-covered thighs, Arthur simmers quietly as the conversation dies for the moment, affording him an opportunity to watch the elegant dodging of strikes from those a few rows of seats below.

The dust being kicked off of the wooden platform they brawl atop finding its way to illumination beneath the heavy spotlights, Arthur’s eyes follow its ascent higher and higher, rising into the air above the level of his head and carrying on. “I don’t understand why you’re still trying to be a good lad about this, Ken” the irritated man finally quips back, regaining the ‘Silver Wolf’s attention, “he’s got a gripe with you. This should be personal for you, too.”

“The kid’s right. I brought you both here because I wanted to prove a point to Wilbur. Stan’s a decent fellow, and he got hurt because of the decision I made” Kenny replies, displaying a self-awareness that his acquaintance doesn’t align with, “if he wants a fight with me, he has a reason to.”

“And you’ve got a damn family to bring back that he’s threatening” Arthur hastily counters, watching the sway of the older man’s head suggest the comment hadn’t quite landed where he’d wished it to. “Coming at you trying to get back at what happened to his big lug of a pal puts your place here in danger” the bold and ruthless right hand man reiterates, “you can try to make yourself irreplaceable all you want, but once you start losing- it’s game over.”

“He’s not going to win” Kenny responds, only to overhear the amused laughter that his lower-ranking subordinate reacts with, disrespecting the man’s claim as his eyes set back toward the intricate brawl occurring below. “The kid is a scrappy bastard who will hit like a ton of bricks, but he’s not going to beat me” the older gentleman doubles down, prompting the unconvinced hot head to completely disregard the comment.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you” Kenny warns, looking around Rota- who’d been minding his own business and watching the fight up to this moment- to find the hot head continuing to refuse any change in his dismissive attitude. Crossing his arms tightly against his chest, Arthur remains fixated on the swings and kicks thrown a short distance away as he hears the group’s leader step out of his chair, politely squeezing around the muscular gentleman between them.

“I told yo-” Kenny begins to repeat himself, grabbing at the younger man’s arm to lift him toward his feet, only for the action to have been well-expected ahead of time. Swiped away viciously, the out of line brawler pushes himself from the seat he’d occupied and gets in the leader’s face, writing off the comments that his superior wished to reiterate by cutting him off.

“You’ve got no way of guaranteeing that you’ll beat Jimmy” Arthur shouts back, able to get away with doing so amidst the sea of noise coming from the hot crowd, their chants and jeers overwhelming the conversation kept between the present foursome. “You’re trying to show respect to someone who shows you none. You’re too calm to be the leader that you think you’re trying to be” the dissenting gentleman comments, catching the grey-haired shot caller by great surprise.

Remaining kept to himself without much of a true dog in the fight, Rota keeps his hands tucked into his arms as those above him continue to bicker, a slight smirk carried on his expression as he shakes his head at the lack of organisation already displayed. “Is that right?” Kenny challenges, nodding his head at the concept that his grudge-wielding subordinate is further ahead of the curve than him.

“Jimmy isn’t coming to just beat you, he’s coming to send you a message” Arthur argues, finding success so far in arguing that they’ve already become behind the curve in their preparation. “All it takes is one injury for you and you’ll be done for here” the hot head continues, finding no further movement in the head of the man whom he answers to, “you can’t risk pretending to be an upstanding citizen fighting a clean fight when you’ve got someone who wants to put you out of commission.”

“I’ll tell you one last time... I don’t have an issue with Jimmy” Kenny restates, continuing to find a lack of give in the reception he receives from the man who stares him down, Willard’s tall frame also standing from his seat to show support for his friend’s argument. “And I’ll tell you one last time... you should” Arthur replies, falling just as silent as the group’s leader does whilst their eyes remain glued upon each other, separated just enough for Rota to continue watching the fight without issue as the ultimate blow is dealt.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your winner... Sam Rowe!” the bowtie-wearing announcer declares to a hail of cheering, the odds-on favourite having pulled out the victory to net the audience the slightest of profits for their troubles. In the same breath as the declaration is made, the proclamation provided by both warring sides of the same party comes to a close, their polite returns to their own chairs putting a momentary halt to the entire argument.

“I’m glad we’ve got no confusion about who’s in charge” Rota sarcastically remarks, drawing the ire of the man to his right whilst wearing a cheap grin. “I don’t need your snide comments, Mr. Moderate” Arthur passively quips, keeping his arms locked together as he simply enjoys his evening whilst those who’ve taken it upon themselves to elicit his services stew with their own mounting pits of dissatisfaction.

|

\ Friday, 29th August 1930 /

Entering the Commencement Theatre to find the lights shining brighter upon the elegant walls than they normally would, Jimmy looks around without a soul to guide him, stepping alone in a move he’d rarely make when out and about in public. Fancy candles lining each stretch of walkway to assist in the already-dim lights that would normally provide mood-inducing illumination, the scar-healed fighter carries on toward the steps of the theatre without much in the way of anticipation.

Stepping through the archway and past the unattended bar counters, Jimmy descends the first few steps of the building’s main bowl before realising that the stage isn’t only empty, but it is entirely unlit in the way he knows it to be. Whilst the fountains outside continue to circulate water through their architecture and the building appears fit for residence, the odd lack of life prompts him to take on an eerie feeling made present through the deepening pit in his stomach.

Not allowing it to show, the fight-ready traveller returns the way he’d come, not wanting to take the chance of getting lost by wandering past the stage and into the even darker hallows of the businessmen hosts’ home. Not wanting to intrude upon whatever conversation or duty may be underway, Jimmy quietly keeps to himself as he follows the passageway to whatever lies at the end of it, figuring he’d just take to the opposite direction if this track fails to suit him adequately.

For minutes, seemingly without end, the man continues to wander through the mostly-unfamiliar building, finding stretches of walkway ending at sets of staircases and dead ends that refuse to allow him any continuation. Discovering more of the same in the opposite direction, the visitor begins growing disheartened, aware that he can easily call out the names of those who wish to see him, but unable to bring himself to the belief that he can’t find them on his lonesome.

In what feels like circles, Jimmy continues to walk with more attention paid to tiny passageways and missed entrances, peering into one room after another without knowing exactly what he’s looking for. Growing more impatient the longer he strolls, his hand takes to the knob of each entrance before finally pulling at one that isn’t locked, the barrier it belongs to swinging inward gently to reveal a set of stairs within the darkness that the fighter is afforded the chance to climb.

Pausing with obvious reluctance, Jimmy squints as he attempts to look through the darkness, not sure where the staircase is meant to lead him or what lies at the top of it. With great hesitation and already equally strong annoyance, the man gives into the call of the corridor and steps in, allowing the door to slowly close behind himself after scaling as many steps he could whilst the light was still present.

Finding his way through the dark, the man carries onward, feeling like he’d already come too far to go back- and likely being correct in that assessment. For a short few moments, the man tries to follow the mental image he’d taken just prior to the light vanishing, growing more comfortable with each accurate step he takes. One foot in front of the other, Jimmy continues to lift his rubber boots upward until he finally does so with no result, the sole he brings down surprisingly coming to the same level as what he’d already stood at.

With his climb complete, Jimmy begins wandering forward like a man born without eyes, his hearing and touch strengthening in lieu of being literally kept in the dark. Like a member of the undead roaming without a clue of where it’s headed, the man holds both hands out as he carries forward, inevitably pressing his palms against the outside of a door that it takes another moment for him to find the handle to.

With the faintest difficulty, the man opens the entrance to the rooftop to the sight of a dying day’s sunlight, the glowing star at the precipice of the sky beginning to fade beneath the surface to put an end to yet another set of the callender's twenty four hour blocks. Forced to shield his face at first, Jimmy looks beyond his hand at the modest skyline of the Pacific Northwestern city, its growing population promising to adorn the sight with much greater pieces of eye-catching wonder in the years that should follow.

“It looks rather bland, doesn’t it?” Wilbur wonders aloud, catching the fighter he’d invited by surprise as he stands a few paces behind, the base of his cane pressing into the structure that they stand upon. Carrying a squint toward the view, the showman remains standing in silence, waiting for his crowd-drawing brawler to look back toward the view he speaks so poorly of, offering a response on the grounds of what he takes away from it.

“I don’t get to see any of it from this high up. Well, I hadn’t gotten to before” Jimmy answers, providing a remark that the wealthy figurehead had already come to expect, snapping out of his presentation-fitting posture to approach the building’s edge. “I don’t plan on leaving this place looking like a broom closet forever, Jim” Wilbur comments, walking past the man he’d purposefully led to the building’s very top in favour of approaching its very final stretch.

“This city already pretty much answers to Norman and I, but that isn’t enough for me” the showman comments, the lack of breeze allowing his trench coat to remain steady as he glances back toward his acquaintance from over his shoulder, a smirk carried in his expression, “I’m sure you already knew that, however.”

Comfortable enough in his ability to draw an audience that he can step forward without fear of being shoved off the ledge, Jimmy strolls up to the side of his employer and looks out at the sea of rooftops ahead of them, the vast majority of the buildings within the city not reaching a height of the one they currently occupy. “They don’t have buildings here like the ones they have in New York” the bruiser originating from the northeast responds, passing a look to the man beside him, “is that what you’re referring to?”

“It will be someday” Wilbur answers with a nod, continuing to stare out at the world ahead of him whilst his employee’s face eventually takes to the same direction. “I’m imagining a few towers in the distance. A big platform people can view the city from right along the water... Piercing into the sky like a needle” the performer carries on, extending the palm of his hand into the distance, “a world perfectly marked by my hand and my wealth. One that carries my name without being named after me.”

“I’m not an architect if that’s why you called me here” Jimmy states, hoping not to lead his employer down the wrong line of thought, “I did work on a bridge, but I didn’t design the bridge. There’s not much that I can help you with here.” With a smirk, Wilbur shakes his head in refusal before stepping away, spinning around to retreat the way in which he’d first come.

“No, I just wanted to let you know that the fight between Kenny and yourself is sold out for the Mercer Arena. I’ll have to provide my patrons with the money back if it doesn’t go on as scheduled” Wilbur comments before again spinning around, looking toward his prize fighter with a lifted, left eyebrow, “I’d appreciate it greatly if you didn’t force me to hand them their money back.”

“I’m going to beat Tom Rota, and then I’m going to beat Kenny House. You better not expect anything less” Jimmy responds, guaranteeing his victories in succession without any shred of doubt, receiving a confident nod from the man opposite himself. “Alright then” Wilbur replies, nodding with approval before venturing toward the rooftop entrance, preparing to return the way in which he’d arrived.

“Is that all you brought me here to talk about?” Jimmy calls out, watching the door fly open at the behest of Wilbur’s hand as he pauses, knowing that he can simply descend into his theatre home without answering, “what’s the point of telling me about what you want the city to look like if that is all you wanted to talk about?”

Wearing a grin, the showman looks to the rooftop for a moment without speaking, nodding to himself before finally carrying his line of sight toward the fighter. “We both know that I have the power and the leverage in this city to make every single one of those buildings I talked about happen” Wilbur responds, taking the first step back toward the theatre’s interior before finishing his thought, “I wanted to remind you of what I’m capable of just in case you thought losing to Thomas Rota was an option.”

Without speaking, Jimmy watches the man carry on with his departure as the door remains open, leaving the brawler alone with only his thoughts to accompany him. For a moment, he questions Wilbur’s motivations before disregarding them as unimportant, his desire to beat Rota and guarantee himself a shot at getting his hands on Kenny remaining as strong as it’s always been, his chin lifting higher as he stares into the Seattle skyline once more, determined and focused.

== Seattle Noir ==