In honor of Wachey's birthday (Happy 30th, my dear!), I decided to play in this sandbox I created some time ago but haven't really written for. I MIGHT return to this someday and write more, if people are interested, but for now, enjoy a little film noir flavor in Len's lovely voice.
"Whadda ya mean, there's already somebody waiting? It's seven in the morning."
"Been waiting since six, apparently," Sara shrugged. She wore a little smirk that told me I had a surprise waiting on the other side of that door that she found extremely amusing. Never a good sign.
Seven in the morning was early for most anyone in this town—save maybe me. And Sara. Been opening my door by seven sharp since I started up the place two years ago, but Sara always managed to clock in first. Mark of a good bodyguard, I guess.
Oh she looked like a dream, like some hot little number secretary too good for a dive like this—an old office building renting out to a dentist down one hall and an ambulance chasing lawyer down the other. But anyone who thought Sara Lance was a common dame was in for a rude awakening.
She just played the part of secretary, make people think I had to fend for myself. But I wasn't dumb. Anyone working cases on the sly from the crooked cops in this town was bound to grab the attention of the families—and not the 'home for dinner and have a cocktail' sort of families. I needed protection; Sara was it.
Spent five years overseas killing for a cause she didn't like to talk about, but she was willing to kill if she had to in order to protect me for the right fee. She also answered the phones and put most of the young women and old folks who came to my door at ease with her soft smile and pretty blond hair. It worked.
She was also loyal and a good friend, which meant I knew there wasn't some hitman with a grudge on the other side of that door, but her smirk could mean far more dangerous things.
"What is it this time?" I asked, ready to pluck the hat from my head but thinking better of it and simply taking off my coat instead to hang it next to Sara's white fur on the rack. She always did look good in white. In everything really, like a rose with poisonous thorns.
"Don't know the case yet, but you'll like the client. Just your type." She grinned like a shark with an unknowing meal in front of its teeth. Her dress was cinched at the waist today, cap sleeves, low cut, her hair curled perfectly around her face like a Hollywood starlet.
Sometimes my type was what I was looking at right there in the twist of her red lips…but it hadn't been in the cards for us. Besides, she had a lady friend whose company she preferred to any man who tried to call her 'doll', just as sultry as she was and twice as deadly. No one sane would ever get in the middle of that, unless they were very lucky.
But Sara didn't mean some knockout was in my office, not this time. "I'll take your word for it," I said, and eyed my door in suspicion before I reached for the knob.
My suit was dark blue today, vest included, blue and white silver tie, white shirt. But the hat was grey, wrapped in navy to match the suit, but still lighter to counter all that dark. Some would say too dark, with my black trench instead of something tan, like the fashion called for, but I preferred to blend into the shadows when I could.
The second I walked through the door into my office, I knew that this 'client' was worlds away from me, because he was all light.
"Mr. Snart?" a kid not much older than twenty-five turned around from being seated in the chair facing my desk. He stood with a clumsy scramble, pushing the rounded, gold-framed glasses he wore up the bridge of his nose and smiling in relief to see me. That smile. It was dimpled and crinkled his eyes—hazel green—in the most endearing way.
His bowtie was red and yellow striped, white crisp shirt, checkered sweater vest, with a uniquely shaped tweed jacket sporting larger, checkered lines like this kid was bisected every which way—and that seemed to be the truth when I saw the pain pushing through his smile.
He reached for my hand before I'd finished entering, before I could remove my hat like I should have outside. I accepted it. His hand was warm.
"Mr…?"
"Allen! Barry Allen," he smiled a little wider still, shaking my hand with both of his, eager and a little too firm. Then he let go and rubbed both hands together like he was itching to move, or maybe had had a few too many cups of coffee. He hadn't gotten any here, that was sure. Sara didn't do coffee. Said I made it better. Maybe she was right. I could certainly use some coffee now.
Barry Allen. Brunette. Too young. Too wide-eyed. Too hunched and trying to make himself small, maybe because he felt small, but I knew he'd be as tall as me if he stood up straight. This bundle of nerves and energy had his full attention on me.
I glanced at his hands, which was easy enough since he wouldn't stop playing with them. No wedding band. How young was he, I wondered? How did this kid survive in a city like Central? Place was vicious, part of why I loved it. But a kid like him should have been eaten alive years ago. Yet somehow I could tell he was local.
"I need your help," he said, because of course he did, that's how this worked, and yet, he might as well have said, "I need you," with the way his chest heaved with his breaths and he stared at me like I was his last possible savior.
Finally, I took off my hat as I crossed the room and tossed it onto the desk. Young Mr. Allen followed my movements with more precision than I would have given him credit for—a calculating, analytical mind, just like me. Interesting.
He also flushed bright scarlet when our eyes met and he got a better look at my face that had been hidden by the hat.
Shit.
This kid was going to be trouble, I just knew it. "Have a seat, Mr. Allen. What can I do for you?"
TBC?