Slade Hoffman straightened out his vest, grinning at himself in the glass of the car shop before brushing a stray strand of black hair from his forehead and tucking it in with the rest. His thin lips pulled up in a grin and he pulled the trilby he was wearing farther down over his eyes, continuing on his way down the sidewalk. Polished shoes clicked as he walked, the grin disappearing as his lips puckered in a whistle. He stuffed both hands in his pockets, tilting his head back to stare at the stars above. Soon he was out of the main part of town, the sounds of jazz music and singing dissipating behind him. His pointed noise wiggled as he sniffled, almost certain that there was a cold brewing in the depths of his body. Scowling, he turned to the building he was closest to, pulling open the door. Above the doorway hung a sign that read 'BILLING AND LOAN', illuminated by three lights over it. Bells jingled above him, the sound landing on silence. He smiled to himself and continued inside, past five desks and to the electrical closet. He pushed the door open, his eyes falling on the usual; wrenches, hammers, nails, and cleaning supplies. Pulling the door shut behind him, he turned to his right, where another door handle was bolted to the wall. Twisting and pushing the second door open, he was greeted by a chorus of men calling his name and holding up their mugs. He grinned and tipped his hat.
"Evening, gentlemen," he strode forward and took a seat at the bar, holding up one finger. The man behind the bar nodded and scurried off to get him a drink and he sat back, removing his hat and rubbing his eyes.
"It's pretty late for you to be out, isn't it?" A familiar voice asked and he looked up, a trio sitting only a seat away. He laughed and nodded to the bar tender as he set down his drink and hurried away.
"It's never too late for a cheap drink," he replied, tilting the sweet elixir to his lips. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"Depends on how much money you got," the one on the end retorted. "Dumb prohibition's got all this booze costing about a million a pint."
"Oh get over it," he muttered. "Just be grateful you get any. I heard three speakeasies got raided yesterday."
"You're kidding."
"I rarely kid."
"Damn," the man sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. Slade smiled as he pounded the drink back, coughing into his fist. He pulled out a cigar and leaned forward on the bar, only waiting a moment before the bartender came with a lighter. "Don't you have somewhere to be tomorrow?" He asked, looking back up. A slow smile came to Slade's mouth and he took in a deep breath of the smoke before answering.
"But of course. It's the first birthday of my older brother's son," he replied, the smile turning into a bitter sneer. "The little bug is going to have a shot at the oil before me. Can you believe it?" The bartender stopped in front of him, wiping a newly-cleaned mug dry.
"Yeah, I can," he nodded, making the man cringe. "Your brother was born before you and your father left the company to him while you were still in your momma, meaning if anything happened to the brother, he'd leave the company to his son before – "
"Thank you, Johnny," Slade snapped, biting down hard on the cigar. Shrugging impassively, the man behind the bar turned to put the mug away. Burying his face in his hands, Slade let a labored breath out of the side of his mouth, smoke seeping through his lips like dry ice under water. He grumbled to himself as his own mug was refilled. "The last thing I needed was a reminder of my big brother's freaking success. What a joke," he laughed to himself, scowling at the mug. "What a fucking joke."