S2, E8 | A One Way Ticket to Termination

\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Monday, 20th October 1930 /

Alone and with a scowl on his face, Kenny steps through the entrance of the Commencement Theatre with eyes held toward the well-dressed gentleman awaiting for him. “Mr. Ritter and Mr. Mountebank are waiting for you” the dark-skinned doorman remarks, wearing a proper suit with his hands folded at his lap, watching as the older heavyweight steps past him with a silent, dismissive wave.

Dressed in the finest suit he owns, the battle-ready traveller follows the corridor that separates him from the location he’s asked to, following the patterned floors and standing candles as they lead him toward his destination. Sliding over the carpeted ground, the man’s expensive, leather shoes carry him onward whilst his eyes passively glance toward the bowl his path wraps around, the unlit stage sitting at the bottom of the steps without a soul to provide it life.

Bouncing over his shoulders in defiance at the short or slicked-back style men are expected to wear, Kenny’s locks flow with each step as they carry him toward the one room within the complex presenting an open door and present lighting. Letting a breath leave through his nose, the man rounds the corner and enters the room, closing the door on his way inside knowing he’d prefer privacy to the thought of onlookers strolling by, returning the passageway he’d journeyed through to the select few who will advance through it.

“You wanted to see me?” Kenny questions aloud, standing in the centre of the room whilst Norman subdues his own dissatisfaction in the corner, looking to the ground with the hopes of keeping out of the discourse for as long as he can. Having yet to lift his gaze from the patterns left in the wood of his desk’s surface, Wilbur holds a glass of scotch into the air with one hand, leaning against one side of his seat with a reserved illustration of anger hidden behind the weight of his eyes.

Remaining silent, Wilbur lifts his chin just slightly whilst the breath he pulls in through his nose precedes a deep, weighted exhale as he leans forward. His palm pressing into the desk, the promoter seethes to himself whilst his chair squeaks, the shift of the man that it hosts leaving the sides of his arms to lean against the workspace’s edge.

“Not under these circumstances did I wish to see you, Kenneth” the low-voiced showman responds, still yet to lift his heavy eyes toward the figure that stands in the centre of his office. “I don’t understand what you mean” Kenny replies without a shift in tone, posture or attitude, watching his employer’s almost non-existent movement come to a complete halt.

Without raising his chin, Wilbur takes his eyes toward the face of the man who disrespects his intelligence, clearly holding back a great deal of incivility with how composed he’s already attempted to be. “Don’t take me for a fool, Kenneth” the showman warns in a near-growl, hunched forward like a predator stalking prey with a limp, an easy meal to earn whilst the injured animal strolls around as if there were no wound whatsoever.

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to be more...” Kenny responds after a brief pause, incapable of finishing his thought before the glass in his superior’s hand shatters beneath the sudden clenching of his fist, pouring the light brown liquor down the length of the showman’s forearm, “...specific, as I was saying.”

“I don’t care what the four of you do in that group, but I will not tolerate you disobeying my commands” Wilbur responds, completely unphased by the blood that joins his alcoholic beverage in running down his lifted arm. Patting the top of his desk, the businessman leaves his seat and casually steps around it, approaching the brazen group leader with a deep and judgemental scowl.

“I know that you’re aware of what Arthur and Willard did to Jimmy yesterday morning” the promoter assures, nodding to the man that doesn’t even care to shake his head in refusal. “I don’t know if they did it on your orders, but that does not matter to me” Wilbur continues, getting into the face of the grey-haired fighter whilst looking him in the eyes, “you know what my orders were and you directly went against them.”

Looking off to the side of the room without the care to reciprocate the direct gesture of the showman, Kenny licks his lips before lifting his hand to his chin, scratching at the hairs he’d gone weeks without shaving. Given the floor to speak in the wake of his boss’ silence, one half of the Mercer Arena’s main event thinks quietly to himself whilst staring through the nearby window, finding a decent look at the unimpressive city skyline beyond the boundaries of his employer’s blinds.

“I heard about what happened to Jimmy yesterday” Kenny finally answers, nodding to the man as he speaks, turning his face back toward his superior’s only between responses, “but I didn’t go against your orders. Arthur and Willard acted on their-” Shaking his head with an irritated smile, Wilbur hears the man’s comment out before slapping him across the face, refusing to allow his dialogue’s conclusion with light of the discourtesy it shows to him.

“You will not refuse accountability for the actions of your direct subordinates!” the assailant shouts, spit flying from his bottom lip and into the face of the unmoved Kenny, who simply lets his head take toward the direction the strike had sent it in whilst staring intently at the ground. “On their own or with your guidance, the three men in your group are your responsibility. That is the decision you made when you decided to align with them!” the showman continues yelling, only to make an effort at calming himself.

Laughing at the blatant disregard that his rebellious brute takes, Wilbur wags his finger in the man’s face before turning around, retreating the way that he’d come in favour of more bitter matters. “It’s laughable, it really is. The fact that you want me to believe you didn’t know about this in the first place” the businessman speaks whilst rounding his workspace, watched on by the unimpressed eyes that Kenny holds upon him, “fact of the matter is, the acts they take are the acts you take by association.”

Remaining silent, Kenny watches the showman reach toward the ground to retrieve the larger glass of scotch with an irritated grin, forced to use his non-dominant hand from the open wounds of his right. “The boldness that you have to walk into my building and pretend like any of that isn’t the case astounds me” Wilbur comments, refusing to take another fragile glass into his lone healthy palm by taking direct swigs from the bottle itself.

“You and Jimmy left me no choice but to surround myself with whoever I could find” Kenny finally rebuttals, watching as the man directly opposite himself lowers the bottle from his lips, having taken three full gulps. “Jimmy has his friends and now I have mine. Because of that, you get a second headliner for Mercer” the grey-haired scallywag rejoinders whilst his superior remains silent, “you’ve gotten to promote a story so infinitely bigger than just two people with problems against each other.”

Letting free a chuckle, Wilbur scoffs whilst turning his sights toward the cabinet of liquor bottles stationed just off in the corner of his room. “I know you see that, too. It’s more than just Jimmy-verse-Kenny, it’s Jimmy’s group-verse-Kenny’s group. A tale of two sides at war- one that’s been going on for decades!” Kenny enthusiastically, yet calmly remarks, not letting his superior disregard such truth with ease, “you’re looking for things like that so much that you’ve even hired a lady to go around looking for it.”

“We wouldn’t need to hire people to keep in touch with you if we weren’t too busy to do it ourselves” Norman corrects from the corner, knowing his partner in crime to be too greatly irritated to make such a proclamation amidst his angry stupor. “The fact is that you know it’s important. So you’ve gone out of your way to pay someone to find what I’ve given you for free” Kenny responds, glancing over his shoulder at first before finishing his statement with returned eyes toward the desk-occupying spectacle maker.

“If you want to blame me for what Arthur and Willard did, that’s fine. I can’t control them and neither can you- hell, neither could Norman!” he concedes, gesturing toward the man in the corner when necessary whilst the showman watches on in silence. “Either way, it won’t change the fact that you can’t do anything about it. The fight at Mercer is already set” Kenny responds, watching the man of grandeur tongue hang his head with a smile that he soon lifts his liquor bottle toward once more.

“I’m sorry the kid got his ass beat, but he brought it upon himself starting trouble with those two rabid dogs” he furthers whilst under the businessmen’s watchful eye, “hell, you can’t blame me for deciding too, either. If you were in my position, you’d want those rabid dogs fighting for you as well... not against you.”

Wearing a straight face, Wilbur lets free a sigh at the touch of the liquor on his lips, licking it free whilst swaying his head in dissatisfaction. “It’s really such a shame that I dislike you so much” the showman confesses, watching the slight shift in the older brawler’s expression insinuate that the comment had struck the faintest chord, “you’re too smart for someone that just can’t stop getting in my way.”

Falling to the ground as he lets the remark settle within himself, Kenny’s eyes inevitably force themselves back toward the man that once more approaches him, not keen on stopping until they’re as close to each other as they’d been moments prior. “We’ll have a very diverse crowd at your fight with Jimmy. It won’t just be the American elite, but their crumbling middle class as well” Wilbur explains whilst walking, the soles of his shoes tapping against the ground like a woman’s heels.

“In a week, you and Jimmy will have the address that you put off a while back. In the weeks that follow, you’ll interact with the public how I see fit, and continue to promote the fight” he speaks further, no longer hiding his contempt for the employee. Taking in a breath deep enough to lift his chin slightly, Kenny allows the showman to continue speaking without interruption, his peace already having been provided.

“On the 29th of November, you will fight Jimmy Elliott. The arena will be packed, you will win or- most likely- lose, and you will collect your last paycheck from me” Wilbur comments, surprising the man seated in the corner with this information, details that he was neither informed of or approving of. “After that night, your services will no longer be required. You will be fired for lack of a better term” the showman concludes, looking into the visible shock and resentment that the fighter silently stares at him with, “have I made myself clear?”

Leaning forward in his seat as if he were going to stand up, Norman remains within his chair, watching the discussion from afar as silence floods the room. Standing by his declaration, Wilbur remains unphased and unmoved by the comments his unfortunate adversary had made, believing that the call he’s made is the necessary one. Visibly enraged and incapable of acting upon it, Kenny steps away from the man and retreats the way he’d come, not uttering a word as he leaves the building in a fury.

“This is not going to go over well with the rest of his team, Willy” Norman interjects calmly after giving the situation a few seconds to calm down, not wanting to risk his words being overheard by the dismissed fighter. “I don’t care about what the rest of his team does, Normie” Wilbur responds, continuing to stare at the doorway whilst his body turns toward returning to his desk, unable to pull his eyes away from the room’s exit as they squint deeply, “I only care about what 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 =

\ Wednesday, 22nd October 1930 /

“I’m fine, dear” Cathy responds, politely pushing away a cold pack offered by her far worse-off husband, the swelling in her jaw impossible to not notice. “Take the bag, honey” Jimmy reiterates, forced to groan the remark as his opposite hand presses against his abdomen, feeling the weight of Willard’s heavy boots days after they’d been violently thrust into his core.

“You need it far more than I do, dear” Cathy replies, again trying to gently press her hands against the cold compress, not wanting to hurt or outright imply that she isn’t appreciative of the man’s care. “Cath’” Jimmy attempts to reason, only for the woman’s hands to gently caress the sides of his face whilst her head shakes, again offering the faintest possible rejection she can muster.

“I want you to lie down, dear. You need to” Cathy explains in a soft whisper, keeping her hands firm in their placement upon the man’s visage, not wanting to afford him the opportunity to shake his head in dismissal. “The bastard landed one punch on me. They did a whole other number on you” the woman reiterates, watching the man’s hesitant eyes hold upon her own as he’s kept from swaying his head in declination, “you’ve got the address in a week. Get whatever recovery you can, alright?”

Parting his lips as he pulls in a sigh, Jimmy attempts to refuse the woman her wishes before being kept from doing so, her palms pressing the slightest amount further into his visage. “I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. What he did to me can be solved with a little bit of makeup. You? Not so much” the woman explains, keeping his refusal from being voiced, “please just do what I-”

“Hey, yous! Open up!” Jesse proclaims from the opposite side of the apartment’s door, pounding his fist against the door as the woman within looks on with defeat, her husband using the man’s arrival as an excuse to pull away and address the visitor. “I’m on my- ah!” Jimmy calls out, groaning in pain as his steps carry him too quickly, the pain in his knee and the shift in his body proving to shoot throbbing aches up the length of his figure, “-way!”

Fighting through every ounce of his soreness, Jimmy parts the entry as Jesse immediately storms in with bags of goods in tow, immediately tossing them onto the floor as he’s granted entry. “You’ve got cold packs, dinner for tonight, alcohol for fixing the wounds on the outside, alcohol for fixing the wounds on the inside, a couple braces for your fucked up knees, a brace for your fucked up neck and some pillows” the visitor proclaims, nodding toward Cathy as he lets himself further into the flat.

“I’ve got to use the little boy’s room and then I’ll be out of yous hair” Jesse comments, having fired off the goods in quick succession as Cathy approaches the various bags, only for Jimmy to immediately try and dissuade her. “Woah, what the hell is yous doing, Jim!?” the bathroom-needing gentleman questions aloud, unable to make it far before watching his injured friend attempt to take over the unloading.

“I’m taking out the stuff that you-” Jimmy replies, yet to have bent toward the ground before his good pal’s interjection cuts him off. “I love yous, Cathy. I’m sorry you’ve got a boo-boo face and that little fuckin’ crumbs gonna pay for what he did to yous...” Jesse proclaims, returning to the couple with gentle hands extended, “...but your husband ain’t putting this crap away, yous got that? He’s gonna go lay in bed, take a nap, have a couple of drinks and kicks his feet up, yous got that?”

“I’m appreciative of you, Jesse. I wouldn’t have it any other way, now please convince my husband of that too” Cathy quickly reassures, finally provided with support that prompts her lover to listen. “She’s recovering from her own-” Jimmy replies, only to be stopped by the loud and vicious snapping of their guest’s fingers in his face, catching him by surprise and silencing him at once.

“Yous get in that fucking room before I have to beat you down myself and dump your body in that bed, yous got that?” Jesse queries, defeating his too-weak-to-battle pal well enough to convince him to march toward the bedroom. “Thank you, Jess’” Cathy murmurs, watching their friend give her a wink and a nod, having understood his assignment well before he’d even knocked at the door, always willing to be there to aid his friends.

After a brief struggle of convincing the man to fully descend into bed, Jesse finds success in putting his friend out of commission, sentencing him to the bed for the rest of the day. Returning to the living room a few moments later, the visitor helps the woman continue to put away the gifts he’d brought along with himself, earning her vocalised appreciation in the process.

“Seriously, thank you for helping me with that” the woman remarks, earning a gentle pat on the back from the bachelor, who quickly strides from one side of the room to the other depending on what goodie needs to be tucked away. “I’m nothing if not loyal. My father made damn sure of that before I fled the nest” Jesse replies, still wearing the suit jacket he’d adorned for a more casual attire, “and with that, I don’t want yous on your feet for too much longer today. You took a wicked shot too.”

“I’m fine. I just took a shot-” Cathy interjects, refusing to be put out of commission like her husband without much in the way of a choice. “Yous shouldn’t have taken no shot. Only scum hits a lady and I get to teach this scum some god-given manners” Jesse interjects, wagging his finger in the woman’s face as their paths cross once more, “if I came over here to get Jimmy to take it easy, yous ain’t getting anything less out of me yourself. Yous got that?”

Letting out a sigh as her shoulders fall, the woman’s head falls toward the ground as their friend takes her by the shoulders and gives her a friendly kiss on the forehead. “Yous and the mister take it easy while I cover some business” Jesse concludes, completing their chore of setting aside the groceries and accessories before setting for the front door, quietly borrowing Jimmy’s hat from the nearby coat rack in the process, “these twits hurting my friends ain’t gonna fly.”

|

“I’ve got what you’re looking for” Rota remarks, sliding the white card through the locker door’s slot before pausing, his arms crossing over his chest as he waits for the clear word. “Anyone follow you here?” the doorman questions aloud, recognising the voice on the other end before begging the question, his voice muffled by the metal shield between himself and the visitor.

“Nope, it’s just me. I came alone, checked my back and shut the door” Rota responds, waiting an additional few seconds before hearing the mechanisms within the door shift, freeing the entrance for him to step through. “We had a scare the other day. We’re just trying to make sure we have ourselves covered” the smaller in stature worker responds, handing over the white access card to its rightful owner before squeezing to the side, a smile carried on his face.

“You’re looking wonderful, Mr. Rota” the sheepish coverage-overseer remarks, putting a smile on the well-built entry’s face. “Don’t try to flatter me, sir. I only have so much room in my bed” Rota quips back, sliding past the man in favour of the bountiful journey that resides on the opposite of the carving in the wall. Embraced by the nightlife in spite of it being the early afternoon beyond the boundaries of the windowless building, the muscular fighter gives a polite nod to the scantily clad women that pass him before briefly inspecting the gentlemen of similarly-little clothing as they do the same.

“Hiding away from me, crumb?” Jesse calls out from just beside the bar, watching the rival fighter advance to the liquor counter without taking immediate notice of the adversary. Caught by surprise at the foul-mouthed, axe-to-grind brawler, Rota looks on at first with confusion before immediately becoming overwhelmed with guilt.

“Just a reminder, Mr. Jesse... There’s no fighting in the building” Henry whispers, his words failing to meet the ears of the visitor that drowns them out, only focused on confronting the lone individual unaccounted for days prior. “I had nothing to do with what happened to your friend, Jesse. I wasn’t told what was happening and I wouldn’t have agreed to it” Rota immediately remarks, offering a defence for himself that doesn’t really sit with his intended-nemesis’ ears.

“Yeah, yous had nothing to do with it, Kenny had nothing to do with it- that’s what I keep hearing” Jesse replies, nodding disapprovingly as he steps forward calmly, slowly drawing closer to the body builder, “what I’m not hearing is a reason why I should believe yous.”

“Because I don’t have a problem with Jimmy, and I don’t have a problem with you- or yous, in your words” Rota responds, his attempt at humour failing to find the mark of the man who reserves much more anger than he’d intended to. “Yous say that, but my friend can’t walk real well right now. I remember hearing about how yous didn’t have a problem before that. So what did yous have?” Jesse questions aloud, watching the opposite man’s lips part in an attempt to reply.

“To make matters worse, it’s not just him that’s walking around with a wound, is it?” the loyal acquaintance of his battered pal interjects, refusing to allow the man he scolds a chance to answer the prior question. “Yous put your hands on him, he’s at least about to defend himself...” Jesse carries forward, seeing a disheartened look take shape on Rota’s face the closer that he approaches, “...but they put their hands on his missus? That’s a line yous just don’t cross.”

“Jesse, if I had anything to do with it, then I wouldn’t be standing here while you accost me” Rota retorts, only to watch the shorter-stature gentleman shake his head in disapproval. “I don’t know what that word means, but you’re still on their side” Jesse replies, throwing his hands into the chest of the man without much force, sending a message in the first shove as Henry steps around the counter, “their side just isn’t sitting pretty right now. At least not if I have a say in the matter.”

“Mr. Jesse, I wouldn’t-” Henry comments, trying to dissuade the situation from rising any further than it had before watching the man shove his foe back once more in between comments. “Jesse, don’t get yourself kicked out of this place” Rota calmly remarks, trying to keep the situation from escalating beyond the point of control, unsure of just how well his efforts will work.

“Why should I believe what yous telling me?” Jesse questions aloud once more, shoving the larger man back one further time before shoving the hands of Henry away as the bartender attempts to interfere. “Because Kenny made the plan last Friday night. I wasn’t there because I was here taking that guy back to my apartment” Rota answers, pointing in the direction of a nearly-nude, light-skinned man dancing off to the side of an incredibly intoxicated man in a suit.

Looking to the direction in which the larger man points, Jesse stares in confusion at the figure in question, watching him traipse around for other men without certainty over what’s being alluded to. “I’m not sure I follow how that makes yous not guilty here, honestly” the confrontational, speakeasy novice confesses, shaking his head as he looks back to Rota.

“On Friday night, when Kenny called us to talk to him, I told him I couldn’t meet because I had family over” Rota responds, doubling down on his prior statement as the altercation begins to settle, “I was actually here, picking up that guy to take him back to my place.”

“How the fucks do yous know that guy? Does he owe yous money or something?” Jesse questions back, his mind thrown off the trail that he’d thought he was following in order to make sense of the new branching pathway. “Mr. Rota is a homosexual, Mr. Jesse” Henry remarks, doing his best to clear up the confusion that the slightly less-enraged brawler had worn across his face, “he’s saying that he was here bringing that gentleman back to his apartment for sex while this plan you speak of was being made.”

“I didn’t know that was the plan they were making until we met at the Commencement Theatre earlier for this Saturday’s address” Rota doubles down to the still-bewildered brawler, remaining firm in his stance, “he said he’d been fired, but that he’d convinced Wilbur and Norman that the other had not acted on his behalf.”

“Hold on, yous a fag?” Jesse respeaks with a deep squint in his eyes, holding a pair of fingers in the larger gentleman’s direction whilst the question’s subject rolls his eyes. “Is it really that difficult to believe that a man of my size would be attracted to other men?” Rota questions aloud, not having intended for his sexuality to be the primary focus of the discussion.

“Well, yeah. Fags aren’t usually built the way yous are. People like yous can get any woman you’d want, I don’t see why yous rather...” Jesse answers honestly, trying to make sense of the unexpected revelation, “...I mean, I ain’t gonna judge yous. Whatever yous want to-”

“Yes, Jesse... I’m a fag” Rota interjects, offering assistance to the man that twists himself into a verbal pretzel trying to explain himself before returning to the original line of speech, “the point is, I didn’t know they’d planned to attack your friend until about two hours ago- well after it happened.”

Brought down from his puzzlement, Jesse swipes his mind of the new information in favour of returning his focus to the reason for his presence tonight, looking to the ground at a loss. “Not that it really matters, but when they’d told me about it earlier- I told them that I didn’t support that” Rota explains, watching the adversary look him in the eyes once more, “now that Kenny’s getting fired and the others are probably on Wilbur’s last nerves, I don’t see how it makes much of a difference anyway.”

Assisted through the homosexuality revelation, Jesse’s rage greatly diminishes in favour of a civilised understanding, trying to find any resemblance of comfort from what he’d been told. “Listen, I’m sorry about what happened to Jimmy. I wish I would’ve known sooner so I could talk them out of it, but what’s done is done” Rota explains, seeing the face of his fellow speakeasy goer take on a more visibly accepting visage, “don’t waste your time on me. The problem that you’ve got is with them.”

Walking off without anything else to say, Rota’s brickhouse-like frame approaches the dance floor whilst a hesitant Henry begins stepping back for the bar, leaving the still-fuming brawler to himself. “Fucking twits” Jesse whispers to himself whilst staring at the ground, finding it within himself to begrudgingly accept the man’s account of events whilst refocusing his anger on the three that he knows to be responsible, wanting retribution in whatever way he sees fit.

== Seattle Noir ==