S2, E7 | A One Way Ticket to the House of the Lord and the Den of His Debaucherous Men

\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Thursday, 18th September 1930 /

“That’s the point, sir. I can’t find them” Kenny explains, watching children play around a water fountain in the centre of the town’s park whilst addressing the man beside himself. “She took off in the middle of the night with the children and I haven’t heard from her since aside from this letter” he continues, pointing to the envelope he’d already placed into the hands of the other, mostly-unfamiliar figure, “I don’t know where she sent it from or where she is. That’s why I’m hiring you.”

“The envelope has a postal mark, that shouldn’t be too difficult to track down” the second gentleman replies, wearing mostly black clothing as he focuses his sight on the specific fountain that the children play around. “Does she have family that lives out of state? Relatives or friends?” the curious stranger asks aloud, unaware of the silent nod that he receives from the man paying him, “maybe the two of you lived elsewhere before relocating to Washington?”

“Yes, she has family in the southern states. Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana” Kenny replies, his eyes following the children that play roughly twenty yards away, “we met in Washington, but we lived in Oregon for a little over a year before the crisis hit.” Nodding to himself, the man removes a notepad from his pocket and begins taking the tip of his pencil to it, jotting down only what sticks out.

With a heavy chest, Kenny watches the children from afar as they play just as his own once did, enjoying life whilst their parents stand by or handle business of their own. “Was she intimate with anyone else in the months leading up to her disappearance?” the bowler cap-wearing inquisitor asks, only to receive an instinctual reply. “Don’t use that word” the grey-haired brawler corrects, gently motioning his chin in the man’s direction whilst wearing sorrowful eyes, “she didn’t disappear, she ran off.”

“We can sit around and run up a tally about what words to use, but she’s still out there somewhere. Let’s stay focused on the questions I’m asking, alright?” the unknown, suited figure remarks, striking enough of a chord within his client to bring him around to the point. “She wasn’t involved with anyone to my knowledge. I can’t be entirely sure, but I’m as close to it as I can be” Kenny assures with the sway of his head, “I wasn’t exactly sober for much of those last months.”

“Did she ever give you an ultimatum?” the stranger inquires, watching the confused narrowing of his client’s eyebrows turn toward him for emphasis, “did she ever tell you to stop drinking or else she’d leave?” Nodding in silence, Kenny looks to the man as he takes the first bob of his head to be conclusive enough of an answer. “Did she ever tell you where she’d go? To stay with specific family members or anything?” the follow-up is questioned.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be hiring a private detective” Kenny rebuttals, drawing the ire of the man who already has a handful of cash paid to him for the services he attempts to complete. “No, she didn’t” the hopeful client concludes, aware that he’d begun to get on the nerves of the man he requires help from, not wanting to ostracise him any further than he already had, “I’ve told you everything that I know. I don’t know what else I can give you, I was hoping you’d be good enough at your job to fill in the rest.”

“You better hope that I am in that case since you’ve already paid me” the private eye responds, closing his folded pad before tucking it into his pocket and stepping off of the bench, “I’ll get back to you when I know more, Mr. House.” With the tip of his cap, the stranger walks off into the broader public whilst Kenny stays behind, lowering his eyes to the ground for a moment before looking forward, sombre eyes carried back to the children amidst the enjoyment of their youth.

Letting a sigh slowly roll through his nose, Kenny presses his eyelids shut and simply focuses on the young lads playing, their laughter and palpable joy bringing him memories of the children he’d lost contact with at the same time as his wife. Squeezing through his lid, a tear begins to roll down the man’s cheek before being swiped at by his hand, eyes opening as he forces himself away from the deep memory and steps away from the bench, carrying himself the way that he arrived and back through the wealthy part of Seattle.

= 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, 1st October 1930 /

“Yous see this? These are ten sawbucks” Jesse whispers, pressing the tips of his fingers against a stack of paper bills that he slides to the side of the counter that his server occupies the opposite end of, “I want that membership yous was talking about the other day, understand?” Nodding in agreement, the man takes the cash and places a plain, white card on the table where the check for the patron’s meal would normally reside, walking off without uttering a word with the cash in tow.

Smiling, Jesse waits for a few seconds as the server returns to his duties, pretending that he doesn’t even exist, nor that the conversation ever even happened. For a few further moments, the well-paid fighter waits around before suddenly clearing his throat, sliding the white card into one of the flaps of his suit jacket and climbing off the stool he’d used for a seat. 

Making toward the bathroom, the combatant alters course when he rounds the corner, dipping into a side room once away from the public’s eye and shutting the door as quickly as he can manage. Letting a deep breath leave through his lips, Jesse fixes his hair and approaches a large, metal container that he gently taps his knuckle against.

“Card” a voice replies from the other end of the structure, his voice carried to the brawler through the slots in the top of its locker-like door. Shrugging, Jesse slips his hand back into his attire and retrieves the solid indicator, slipping it through the slot in the structure’s top for the mysterious hand that resides behind to take ownership of. For a few seconds, nothing is said and no sound is made aside from the breathing of the well-dressed bachelor, who waits for his payment to pay off.

“Welcome” an attractive young man greets, opening the cabinet-like piece of furniture to reveal a cramped passageway for his establishment’s patron to venture through. “Sorry for the squeeze, we didn’t have much to work with” the concealed doorman explains, pushing against the inner wall of the locker so Jesse can squeeze past, “no need to apologise” the paying gentleman assures as he ventures onward, ducking into an equally large hole in the wall to what the hidden entrance is.

As if entering another world, Jesse emerges on the other side of the squeeze into a room just as big as the dining area of the diner he’d just left behind, finding mood lighting to surround the building that hosts scantily clad women and well-dressed men in an environment worthy of loosening their ties in. “Welcome, sir” a blonde woman in nearly no clothing of note seductively remarks on her way past the brawler, smiling at him as she ventures further onward.

Tempted to follow after her, Jesse’s momentary pause allows him to become the subject of yet another passing chirp, one from a tan-skinned brunette in silk nightwear, her eyelashes fluttering as she looks the patron in the eyes, gently running her finger up the length of the man’s wrist. “Good evening, mister” she whispers, close enough to the club’s exclusive member to kiss the side of his face.

Just as quickly as the first girl had continued on, the second follows suit in strolling through the window-less premises, leaving the young bachelor to take notice of how many beautiful women line the place few even know exists. “Welcome, sir. Care for a drink?” a young man questions from behind a bar counter whilst wiping the inside of a glass, dressed in a similar attire to what those in the diner next door wear, only his dress shirt and tie are coloured a contrasting black and white as opposed to the diner’s red and blue uniform.

“Only if it’s your finest” Jesse replies, approaching the counter with eyes glancing in the direction of the main room, which expands further than what it seems like the building would even be capable of reaching from the outside. “You’re in a speakeasy, sir. All we have is the finest” the pale-skinned young man replies, earning a smile from the new customer who approaches his table with a nod.

“I like the sound of that...” Jesse replies, pausing as he points toward the gentleman who’d made the offer, leaving the door open for an introduction. “I’m Henry, sir” the younger man replies, setting his class down to shake the speakeasy’s newest client. “Henry! It’s good to meet yous, Henry. I’m Jesse” the chipper and eager patron remarks, reciprocating the young man’s gesture before pointing toward a transparent bottle of liquor, “I’ll take a glass of that funny clear stuff, okay?”

“Just straight?” Henry wonders aloud, only for his question to be completely misunderstood by the new patron. “Well, yeah. I ain’t no gunsel” Jesse responds, seeing the confused look in the bar runner’s face before assuming that he’d taken offence, “I mean, I ain’t got a problem if you are. It’s just not the life that I live, you know?”

“I’m confused, sir” the server confesses with a slight shake of his head, only to prompt the patron to chuckle to himself. “Yeah, I’m hearing a lot of people think it’s just confusion themselves. What’s with-?” Jesse queries, unable to finish his thought before assistance is provided from another patron. “He’s asking if you take your drink straight or if you want a specialty” Rota interjects, approaching the counter with his finger pointed toward Henry, “he’s not insinuating that you’re gay, he’s asking if there’s a specific type of drink you want.”

Completely caught off guard by the rival fighter’s presence and oddly calm demeanour when addressing him, Jesse stares at the man who’d fallen to his pal just weeks prior before the bartender doubles down on the statement. “Mr. Rota is correct, Jesse. I can just pour you a glass of vodka and give it to you if you’d like” Henry explains, regaining the new patrons full attention, “or I can make you a-”

“Just pour him a glass of vodka, then make him a Cape Codder” Rota interjects, waving his hand toward the bartender, who shrugs and does as instructed whilst the patron remains speechless. “A cave what?” Jesse questions back, watching the rival fighter chuckle before reaching over the countertop, picking up a paper sheet with a variety of drinks listed upon it.

“I see that white card sticking out of your jacket. Since you’re a fully-fledged member and the drinks are free, go down this list while you’re here and figure out what drinks you do and don’t like” Rota instructs, handing a semi-folded piece of paper to the man that members of his group would like for him to hate. “What is-?” Jesse questions aloud, only to be kept from asking a question as a pair of drinks are laid out in front of him, one as transparent as the beverage he’d chosen whilst the other is a deep, red colour.

“This one is regular vodka- which I’d try first if I were you, and the other one is a Cape Codder” Rota explains, pointing to each beverage correctly for the man to give a shot. As suggested, the bachelor of Jimmy’s group takes the straight vodka drink into his hand and sips from it, tasting a wonderful swig of exactly what he’d expected. “Now compare it to the Cape Codder... Or the big, red vodka drink if you’d rather call it that” the muscle of Kenny’s group remarks, gently sliding the beverage into Jesse’s hand.

Hesitant, the member of Jimmy’s group wraps his hand around the tall, slender glass without picking it up at first, staring at the beverage with concern before looking toward the man beside him. Letting his eyes fall for a moment before scratching his neck, Rota sits with his thoughts for a second before lifting his hands in a show of surrender.

“Your boy beat me fair and square. I’m not here on a mission and neither are the rest of them” Rota confesses, trying to clear whatever suspicions he knows the rival group member to hold, “it’s like I’ve said- I don’t have anything personal against you guys. I’m just showing you what a specialty drink is.”

Amidst his silent pause, Jesse holds his gaze upon the opposite gentleman for a few further seconds before finally looking back to the drink in his hand, contemplating whether or not to trust the word of the man he refuses to associate with. Pulling in a long breath before expelling it for an equally prolonged period of time, the reluctant brawler finally lifts his beverage from the counter and takes a fair sip, licking his lips of the incredibly tasteful drink.

“That’s why they call them specialty drinks. The paper I gave you has a list of every specialty drink they make here... which is all of them” Rota remarks, watching the wide-eyed new patron look back to him with great impression, surprised at how much he enjoyed the lone sip he’d taken. “I’m sure you still don’t like me, so you can pretty much ask anyone around here about whatever it is that you need to know” the no-longer undefeated brawler comments, “but come find me in case you’d rather ask someone you at least recognise.”

Nodding toward the adversarial competitor before doing the same toward Henry, Rota wanders off into the speakeasy’s hall, returning to the company of multiple women and men that share conversation as the jazz music begins to play from the speakers throughout the building. Struck by multiple whirlwinds of change in the span of five minutes, Jesse stammers away from the bar with a passing nod paid to its attendant, retreating deeper into the speakeasy with only his Cape Codder.

|

\ Thursday, 16th October 1930 /

“I’d like you to be more specific when you use those words” Norman responds, seated on the opposite side of his friend’s desk, sipping bourbon just as his showman pal does. “We need to expand. How much more specific would you like me to be, Normie?” Wilbur questions back, his feet sitting atop his desk, crossed over the other whilst his dress shirt sits without a trench coat over it just as the spectacle creator’s head sits without a tophat upon it.

“Are we expanding into new industry? Are we expanding into new ways to leverage our hold on local government?” Norman questions aloud, swaying his head as he sits with both feet seated upon an unoccupied chair just ahead of him, “what exactly are we expanding into?” Downing what remains of the brown liquor in his glass, Wilbur politely places the empty cup to the table as he savours the potent taste, reaching for an open bottle of liquor stationed just beside himself for a refill.

“I want to expand the pit on the cove for more spectators” Wilbur replies mid-pour, topping off his drink whilst his colleague awaits the continuation of that idea, “as wonderful as selling out Mercer Arena is, it’d be a lot more profitable if we just gradually booked the pit to hold as many people as the arena.”

“Taking standing room into account, our pit holds around a thousand people in total. A hundred and fifty or so sit along the fixed catwalk and a hundred more use standing room” Norman replies, pressing his elbow into the side of his chair as he addresses the concept head-on. “We’d grow the building to four times its size just to match the capacity of Mercer alone” he carries forward whilst his partner remains mute, “you’d be better off buying Mercer outright at that rate.”

“I already inquired about that” Wilbur responds, shaking his head as he reclaims his glass, leaning back in his seat.

“And?” Norman rejoinders, watching his acquaintance pause with a glance of uncertainty to his side.

“And what?” Wilbur queries back, looking for emphasis as he lifts the beverage to his lips.

“Oh, for the love of- what did they say when you asked to buy the joint?” Norman proceeds to rephrase, his business partner’s eyes widening with realisation.

“Oh!” the showman enthusiastically sighs, his facial expression big and wide before returning to its resting state, “they called me the devil and told me to find Jesus.”

“And here I thought this wasn’t the northeast” Norman responds, looking off to the depths of the office as he sinks further into his seat, dismissively shaking his head with disappointment. “We own the land this thing is built on anyway. There’s nothing the government could do about even if we were to let them” Wilbur carries onward whilst his buddy takes another sip, “I’m thinking we expand the warehouse to seem more like a genuine arena. Maybe set up a few offices while we’re at it.”

“Why not just throw our money down on renovating the docks so we can take on heavier shipments while we’re at it?” Norman wonders aloud, offering the suggestion sarcastically before immediately finding intrigue in his own idea. “And here I thought you were done giving me reasons to be proud of myself in choosing to bring you along with me up here!” Wilbur proclaims with glee, watching his wealthy friend chuckle with amusement as his own work.

“We’ll fix up the docks, expand the warehouse, build some space for offices... we’ll shoot for the moon!” the showman continues to explain, planning it out within his head whilst speaking it into existence through parted lips. “Do you remember what you asked me about a few months ago at our second show? I think it was our second show, at least” Wilbur queries, watching his quiet friend ponder into the distance about what could be of the man’s mind specifically, “the idea about opening up a speakeasy?”

“I don’t think I suggested a speakeasy, but I did propose something similar” Norman corrects, a squint carried in his eyes as he dismissively waves at the idea, “carry on regardless.” With a smirk, Wilbur taps the rim of his whiskey glass whilst taking another swig, wetting his lips with the bitters to a satisfying sigh. “What if we just decided to own everything on this side of the cove?” the grand-planning rich gentleman questions.

“What if we buy up thousands of acres and build shops, and homes, and restaurants, and speakeasies, and everything you can imagine a city having?” Wilbur proposes, prompting his wealthy friend to hesitantly go along with imagining the proposal, “instead of just having a small plot of land, we can run an entire district.”

“We’re insanely wealthy and we may just be able to convince some of our friends to throw in plenty of money on such an investment... yes” Norman responds, shaking his head with great reluctance, “but renovating everything we own now to turn the warehouse into an arena, upgrade the docks and build an office is barely what we can afford.”

Swiping at the air, Wilbur dismisses the concern as of no importance, thinking bigger, better, and far more sly. “We’ll approach our mayoral friend and ask for donations from the city to improve the quality of long-suffering residents” he reiterates to the response of an intrigued gleam in his friend’s eye, “and if he doesn’t give us what we want, we’ll release those pictures to the public, force him to resign, and replace him with someone who will.”

“You’d be opening us up to getting on the wrong side of the governor at that point...” Norman responds, watching the shrug that he’s reacted to as it casually dismisses the worry. Not yet finished with his point, the more sensible, less eager to be the figure of public interest businessman looks into the distance with strong consideration, eventually prompting a smile to creep in over his face.

“...that sounds like we’re making the perfect enemies” he concludes to a shared look of satisfaction with his fellow criminal mastermind, their glasses lifting into the air to salute each other’s defiant boldness.

|

\ Sunday, 19th October 1930 /

“They’ve been healing very well, thank you” Jimmy responds to an older couple, who collectively praise the more presentable appearance of the man, “my wife is very good at making sure I recover well.” Exchanging pleasantries, the younger couple are approached by the man in the colourful garments, his welcoming expression bringing ease to the couple that take up his focus.

“I’m glad to see you doing better, Mr. Elliott” the priest explains, flattering the gentleman that immediately turns attention toward his lawfully wedded. “I can only look as good as she lets me... And it’s never better than how she looks” Jimmy jokes, earning a playful elbow to his arm from the woman in question, her hand shaking that of the father’s before her husband’s palm follows the same course.

“You should be far more careful on that bridge with how badly you were wounded. No one can really be able to afford being out of work these days” the priest explains, cautioning the parishioner to take better measures in protecting his well-being. “I will try my best, but the boss needs us to make progress on that thing with the time it took to replace the boys who left” Jimmy explains, shrugging without much of another option, “we all had to put in overtime. I couldn’t afford to not put my best foot forward.”

“Well whatever feet you place forward, make sure they’re touching upon solid ground” the church’s sermon-provider warns, taking genuine care in the man’s continued good health, “the last thing we need is to lose a beloved member of our congregation because he lost his footing.”

“I promise, you will never need to worry about me falling off that bridge” Jimmy assures, receiving a hopeful nod as their priest carries on, advancing toward an older gentleman who attends the mass alone. “It surprises me how easily they were convinced you sustained those wounds by just walking into a beam” Cathy remarks, earning a smile and a breathy laugh from the man that walks alongside her, embracing the start of fall by emerging from within the church.

Politely joining their fellow morning birds in stepping beyond the building’s exit, the younger couple depart from the majority of the worshippers by advancing toward the modest parking lot ahead of them, hands coupled within each other’s. “Elliott!” a strong voice proclaims from across the way, calling for the young man’s attention from a few dozen yards away. Confused just as the rest of the departing church-goers are, Jimmy turns toward the source of the shout, unable to clearly see who’s calling out for him.

“Yeah, that’s him!” the voice doubles down, barking out from within the crowd once more reassuringly, earning a more-centred focus upon the man’s eye as he steps away from his wife, approaching the source of the trouble. “Oh, Geez-!” Cathy proclaims in a hurry, only the distance of a couple steps away from the man as she’s violently pushed into the side of her car by a far superior force, taking her off her feet as she topples onto the ground.

Just in time to witness the events unfold, Jimmy turns back just as soon as he falls back, his feet taken out from beneath him as he’s slammed into by a far larger frame that his build is maintained through. In formal wear and all before the eyes of his congregation, the young, secretive brawler collides with the ground before feeling his head slam against its asphalt surface, thrust against it by the force of a blow from a heavy fist against the side of his cranium.

“Someone stop this!” an old lady howls from within the assortment of far older individuals, adding to the frenzy that surrounds the sudden attack they’re forced to watch. Hurrying from within their ranks, Arthur dashes along the parking lot’s ground and joins his much taller friend in laying waste to Jimmy, kicking him whilst he’s doing and striking at whatever vulnerable parts are exposed to their assault.

Unable to do much in the way of retaliation, Cathy climbs off the ground and begins swinging her purse at Arthur as his back is turned toward her, trying to run him off with the opposite of success. Turning back with annoyance, the hot head of Kenny’s group spins around and cracks the woman’s jaw beneath the weight of a firm right hand, not excluding anyone from the onslaught that he’d been sent to perpetrate.

Amidst commotion, the congregation continues to watch on without the ability to stop the much younger, much tougher pair of men from bludgeoning their fellow worshipper. Nevertheless, a few older gentlemen without care over their frail state step up to make whatever assist they can launch, slowly advancing toward the man before the priest comes dashing through the doors and splitting his fellow believers like Moses split the Red Sea.

“He’s got an axe, go!” Arthur proclaims, taking once glance at the robe-adorned priest before shoving Willard in the direction that he’d made the jump from, their scurry carrying them into the woodlands just nearby as the father sprints toward them with a fire axe. “Cath!” Jimmy groans whilst wincing in pain, pressing his wrist against his chest whilst turning onto his opposite side, pulling away from the attendance of the priest as he watches the woman stir in shock on the ground.

“Help her! Help her!” the greatly wounded man proclaims, demanding that assistance be forgoed for himself in favour of the woman who needs it far more. Catching up as best as they can, the other parishioners assist the dazed Cathy and brutally battered Jimmy as best they can whilst their assailants make a getaway, hurrying into the bramble without anything more than a beating left in their wake, a message sent and point proven beyond any doubt.

== Seattle Noir ==