May 1st, 2014 - Sing Sing Sing
ARTIST: alfiewithfries
AUTHOR: backwardswriter
May 1st, 2014 - Sing Sing Sing
It was this bloody prohibition. It gave him a right headache trying to get good liquor around here. And not the good kind of headache either, the kind that the good liquor gave him. No, this was one of those "I'm tired and I want to go to bed but I can't without a shot of scotch first" headaches. The kind that always came up after a day of work he'd been volunteered for.
He still had no idea why they thought he was the best man for the job. They knew he had a drinking problem. He knew he had a drinking problem. Everyone knew he had a drinking problem. But they decided to send him to the only bloody country in the world that outlaws alcohol. Honestly.
Needless to say, it made his job that much harder. Well, maybe not the specific job he'd been assigned to- Capone might have been behind a few speakeasies they'd busted, though those hadn't really been relevant to the case- but working as a whole was much more conflicting. He was a detective of Scotland Yard sent over to help these ruddy Americans get rid of some crime lord taking over the whole city. It would be nice if they'd at least tell him where they kept all the liquor they confiscated. Maybe then he'd be a little more inclined to help move the case along.
Either way, things were moving slow, and it didn't look like he would be going home anytime soon. So he'd finally decided to hell with conflict of interest. He was going to have a drink and he was going to like it. He'd left his badge and any authoritative paraphernalia at home, donned his favourite trenchcoat with the collar turned up against the bitter Chicago wind- and against any who might recognize him- and gone scouting for one of the speakeasies he'd heard one of the younger detectives talking about. Apparently, he wasn't the only corrupt officer on the force.
A rap of knuckles against the door, a murmur of the secret word- Hollocher? Honestly, these people didn't have any mind outside of drinks and sports- and he was suddenly engulfed by the smell of body odor and homemade liquor. God, he hoped they at least had a decently aged Scotch.
It was more crowded than he'd expected an underground tavern to be. Then again, that might have been his own fault for underestimating the human tendency towards corruption. He squeezed his way through two busty flappers and a pair of even bustier men with drinks overflowing with some foul smelling liquid. I wrinkled my nose in distaste and tried to find where exactly the bar was. I just wanted a drink. I didn't need to associate with these people very long. Just long enough to have my sip and get the hell out.
Of course nothing was that easy.
I managed to find where people were getting their drinks with more difficulty than I'd hoped. But eventually I was hidden away in a corner, drinking what the barkeep had claimed was scotch but actually tasted a bit more like southern moonshine. Whatever. I had been assured the alcohol content was more than satisfactory and, in the end, that was all that mattered. I was actually starting to enjoy myself, watching the loads of men and women dance and drink and ultimately make utter fools of themselves. There was a slight buzz in the back of my head that told me the alcohol was doing its job. I snagged another, but before I could make it back to my reclusive table, I was stopped by a tall man that somehow managed to be even louder than the entirety of the rest of the party.
"I don't think I've seen you around here before," the man said, a huge grin on his lips.
I stared up at him, only an inch or so up, but up nonetheless. He was handsome, by conventional standards, and not the type I would expect to see in a place like this. He seemed more the "mother's little angel" type, with his wide, innocent, blue eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses and a smile that nearly lit up the whole room. But there he was, glass of questionable liquid in one hand while the other was tucked into the front pocket of his trousers. He had the confident-yet-casual stance of someone who should be negotiating business over a glass of wine, not chatting up a stranger in a shady tavern surrounded by ne'er-do-wells and a handful of desperate men.
I stared up at him for only a moment before turning and brushing past him, not really in the mood for conversation. But I was already beginning to think that two drinks would not cut it tonight. But I'd only be so lucky to run into the only man in the whole tavern who seemed determined to chat up someone who clearly was not there for the company. "Hey!" he yelped, and I could hear him shuffling through the crowd in a mixture of "excuse mes" and "sorrys" even as I tried to get away. "Wait, I was talking to you."
"Yes, but you see, I'm not really here to talk," I said, channeling every ounce of blunt energy I had as I continued to slide between the mass of humanity. "I'm just here for the liquor."
"Neither is anyone else," the handsome man said, suddenly appearing in front of me with a much too excited look on his face and now no glass of liquid in hand. "I mean, no one is here to talk. They're all here to drink. I guarantee none of these people have ever met before tonight."
I spared him a slightly longer glance this time before deciding that no, he was not in fact worth my time, and turning to take a different course back to my corner. Unfortunately, and despite his looks, he was apparently a smart one and anticipated my escape, sidestepping to block my path. "Is there something specific I can help you with?" I asked shortly, letting my temper shine through finally. "Or are you just here to bother me until I hand you my drink and leave?"
Oddly enough, the boy actually seemed hurt by my words. I didn't have the stomach for that and I sighed, rubbing the heel of my hand against my damp forehead. The room was starting to get unbearably warm. "What is it you want?" I asked, biting out the words in what I hope at least appeared to be an attempt at patience.
He perked up a bit at that and held out his hand. "A dance," he said, jerking a head at the throng of men and women throwing themselves about. "You and me."
My eyes widened and my jaw dropped and if it weren't for the flush already glowing about my cheeks I'm sure that would've been an obvious change as well. "I beg your pardon? I don't dance with other men."
As I desperately tried to ignore the way my heart was racing in my chest despite the best efforts of the alcohol in my system, the brazen lad before just tipped his head back and laughed. Outright laughed, as if I'd said something extremely hilarious. "Calm down, it's not like anyone is gonna see us! No one pays attention in there. I'm pretty damn sure the girl in the yellow would've been arrested a dozen times over if anyone cared. Come on now, gimme an honest answer. Dance with me?"
I opened my mouth to give a very, very honest answer, but nothing came out. I don't know if it was the way his smile hooked to the side a little bit or if it was how honestly excited those blue, blue eyes looked at the prospect of dancing with me or if it was something inside myself that had me drawn to him. Either way, something caused me to knock back what was left of my drink and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. "Only if you buy me another drink afterwards," I grumbled. "Lord knows I'm going to need to be properly drunk to forget tonight."
He laughed again, a full, deep sound that seemed loud even in our raucous surroundings. He snatched my empty glass up and shoved his hand into a crowd, pulling it back empty like a magic trick. "Everyone's desperate for a lick of something," he said in answer to my astonished expression.
I was going to give some sort of proud snark of an answer, but before I could say anything, I was dragged onto the dance floor. And it soon became clear that I would not need that other drink tonight.
We danced. I don't know how long it went on, but it was the most confusing, maddening, exhausting and exhilarating all at the same time. I lost myself in the twirling and the kicking and the dancing and before I knew what I was happening I'd lost myself in him as well. That perfectly strange stranger that had the audacity to laugh and smile and seem wholeheartedly happy as he dragged me around the dance floor and between sweaty bodies of raunchy prostitutes and morbidly obese men.
"What's your name?" he shouted over the music and shrieks of the dancers around us.
"Arthur," I shouted back without even thinking and by God I was smiling like a fool for that stupid boy. "And yours?"
I saw his lips move as he said his own name, but the music was so loud and I was so drunk from the liquor and the atmosphere and from him I couldn't hear what he said to me. But I didn't care. It added to the thrill, no knowing his name. It added mystery and beauty to him that suited him better than any name could.
And it wouldn't matter what his name was anyway because halfway through the night my memory left me. I kept drinking, I know that for a fact, and I kept dancing and the whole time I know, I know I was with him. And I don't know why I was so drawn to him but I was. And I don't know a lot of things about that night or what happened when back at my flat or what happened the next morning. But I know he was there for all of it.
And when I woke up the next morning with the hangover of my life and legs that felt like lead, I somehow didn't mind at all. Not when I saw note beside my bed with the scrawled words, "Guess you weren't just there for the liquor."