A/N: Some of you might wonder why I'm staring a new story when I already have one going. You have a fair point.
Now although I am enjoying the direction that Paper Cuts is headed in, I feel like I rushed the relationships. While I'm hardly the biggest fan of slow-burners, 2 chapters is too quick for the reader.
Combine that with my love of film noir, jazz and blues music, murder mysteries, Mickey Spillane, and 50's pop culture, and you've got yourself 'Bourbon and Smokes', a mid-speed murder mystery featuring Rellie (Ellie/Riley), and a murder mystery sub-plot that takes place on the dark streets of New York by night, set in the autumn/winter of 2012. Hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer
I Kaien Crosszeria, do not in anyway own any aspect of the Last of Us, or the artists mentioned. The plot is my own. If a copyright holder would like me to retract their property I shall do my best to accommodate their desires. Please note that there might typographical errors.
Chapter 1: Burning
Burning. That was what I felt the minute I put the tumbler to my lips. The scotch was cheap, and had a rough finish, but it did its job. I looked around me after I slammed my now empty glass back on the table.
Fat Mike's was a quiet little bar, hidden on a street a little ways off 5th Avenue. It was a dark little place, famous for its cheap liquor as opposed to its quality, along with the lack of smoking bans, which I was taking considerable advantage of.
I looked over at the bar. Fat Mike, who was standing behind the counter, fit his nickname perfectly. He was huge, further showcased by the fact that the glass in his hands was tiny.
"Hey Mike!" I called out. He looks up. "More scotch please!" I shouted. He nodded and turned round to grab the bottle.
Normally I wouldn't drink this much, but working in the murder division of the NYC really fucking sucked, specially when some psycho was going around brutalising people. And that last body… I feel like throwing up just thinking about it.
I'm snapped out of my thoughts when I hear my name called. "-iley! Riley!" I look over at the bar. Fat Mike's looking at me. "I ain't your fuckin' waiter! Come ova 'n get yer damn whiskey!" his thick New York accent permeates his sentence. I walk over to the counter, and grab the glass. "Thanks, Mike." He looks at me with mild concern. "This better be yer last glass, Riley. You don' wanna be walkin' home smashed, specially with some weirdo killin' peeple left, right 'n centre." he says quietly. I smile at him. "I know Mike." I say, "It's just… that last body at the station. This guy's a real sicko. I just needed the drink." 'or 4.' I think to myself. "I know." he said. "Just, be careful 'aight? You're my favourite custumer. Have a safe walk home." I smile my thanks, and, following a quick goodbye after grabbing my things from my booth, I walk out into the crisp October air.
Walking down Wanamaker St at night was always a treat, the neon signs standing out against the beautiful, dark back drop of the sky. All walks of life were about, as there should be on a Saturday night in downtown New York. I head toward the metro station. I catch the last train, and head home.
XOXOXOXOXO
My dingy little apartment in Queens was about what you could expect from a salary like mine. It was a cramped little studio apartment, on the 9th floor of my apartment building.
'I ought to really clean this place up.' I think to myself. A large canvas took up one of the walls. Unfinished and rough as it is, I never find the energy to cover it up. I head through to the kitchen and open the fridge. 'Let's see… pizza leftovers sound good.' I pull out the box and place the leftover pizza on a plate and then stick it in the microwave. I go strip down, and once it's finished heating up, I head over to my window, and eat as I look over the lights of the city. I look down at the street. I can see people down on the street, as high up as my apartment is. I see people my age, laughing, having fun. I sigh deeply.
I turn and head back into my apartment. I put on a tape, an old Woody Allen soundtrack, and grab my laptop. 'You're not lonely Riley.' I think to myself. 'After all, who needs friends, and fun, and big nights out when you've got lesbian porn?' And like that, I strum myself to the sound of old jazz and two girls moaning their hearts out. Who needs more, right? Right?
XOXOXOXOXO
Ring Ring, Ring Ring, Ring Rin-
I lazily hit the snooze button on my phone. I got up, groaning all the way to the kitchen. 'The fuck is wrong with me? I know I hardly live healthily, but my back should not be that bad.'
I put on some coffee and go over to my bathroom to take a shower and get ready. After a quick wash, I get out and look at myself in the mirror. My black hair, hanging just below my jawline, looked slightly rough, and in need of a trim. My skin was super fucking pale, due to a mixture of Asian genes and my fucking bat lifestyle. I looked over my body. I stood at a depressing 5 foot 2, and annoyingly enough, that whole 'short and curvy' shit was complete bullshit, as evidenced by my B-cups. At least my ass was pretty nice. I sighed, and then turned back to the mirror above the sink.
After putting a minuscule amount of make-up on, I get dressed in my white dress shirt, black slacks and a sweater. No matter what, I refused to wear a skirt in any situation, and today was no exception. I went back to my kitchenette and took the pot off of my coffee maker. I poured myself a cup, made some toast, and started reading the news.
Soon enough my leaving alarm went off, and I thus headed towards the metro. Towards work. And the bodies. My skin was already crawling.
XOXOXOXOXO
Monday was a shitty day at any job or school, but working in a police murder department just seemed to make it worse. Combine the shitty attitudes from my co-workers, the building gathering enough dust over the weekend for it to feel just sufficiently depressing, and the fact that no one wants to look over the evidence, mainly because that requires energy, something no one has enough of on a Monday morning, and you get a massive fucking mess.
At around 12, my boss, a gruff old man named Joel Miller, calls my name.
"Riley! I have a job for you!" he shouts across the room. I walk over. He hands me a file. "I need you to break the news of the last XYZ victim to her niece. She's in that folder." Riley grinned at Joel. "Thanks for just giving her to me in a folder! You've just made my job a hundred times easier!" I quipped. He grunted out a laugh. "Well done, smartass. Read. Then ask any questions."
I opened up the folder. Inside was a profile. The picture of the woman inside looked like a thinner faced Ellen Page with coppery hair. It grew 'till just above her shoulders. 'Cute.' She read over the folder.
'Lets see… Ellen Williams… huh, she's even got the same first name as Ellen Page… She's 22, same age as me… Living in Brooklyn. Okay.'
"Where does she work?" I asked Joel. "She's a musician, so she doesn't have a set work address. We did comb through the websites of all the bands she's in though. Her next gig is with a band called the Capulet Darkjazz Ensemble at a place called Smalls Jazz Club. She's on drums. It's on 10th Street, number 183 this Friday. I want you to try to catch her there, break the news." Joel said. "Alright." I said sadly. "I'll try to catch her there."
I went back to my desk.
XOXOXOXOXO
Friday came round quick, and before I knew it, I was stood in front of my mirror, deciding what to wear.
'If I go in jeans and a t-shirt, I'll probably look like I didn't put any effort into it, but I don't want to overdress.' After weighing up my options, I made a decision.
'Screw it. I'll go for a mixture of the two. Jeans, a black dress shirt, and my leather jacket. If some old fart doesn't like that, They can go suck one.' I thought.
I go over to my bathroom to get ready. After a shower, some make-up, and clean teeth, I get dressed and head out towards the metro to catch a train to Greenwich Village.
XOXOXOXOXO
After waiting for about an hour at a Greenwich street corner, I finally got in. And boy was it a treat.
Smalls Jazz Club was a really cool place. There was a bar in the corner and a few tables dotted around. The stage was very much the star of the show. There were a few bands on before the Capulets, as I'd started to call them. They were okay, nothing too fantastic but still pretty good.
Eventually, about half an hour after I'd first arrived, the presenter came on as the previous band left. A few people came on with him, carrying saxophones and guitars.
"Now wasn't that a great performance? Please give a round of applause to Nebulous!" There was a polite smattering of claps, nothing to loud or quiet, but definitely something.
"Now, for our headliners." announced the presenter. This group, originally from Bronx, have toured the country, released their first album, and are now welcoming a new drummer after 4 years active. They have played in a variety of venues, from house parties to the fanciest clubs on Broadway. Now, without further ado, could we please welcome on the Capulet Darkjazz Ensemble!"
There was a chorus of cheers and loud claps as a number of other people came on. A percussionist stood behind a set of bongos. Two saxophonists stood near the back, as did two trumpet players. A bassist picked up his double-bass from its case, and then, a minute later, She came on. And my heart almost stopped. 'Jesus. She is fucking gorgeous.' Although she carried a set of drumsticks in her hand, she stood up by the microphone, pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. She looked back at her band memebers, who all seemed to be nodding at her. She looked back at the audience, her big green eyes giving away her anxiousness. She opened up her piece of paper, opened her mouth, and then, she spoke.
XOXOXOXOXO
A/N: Riley is supposed to look like Samantha Nishimura from Tomb Raider, and Ellie like adult Jodie from Beyond Two Souls. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. All reviews are appreciated.