Smash!
by Memphis Lupine
--~--
She had slipped into a cozy sleep perhaps an hour into the drive, pillowing her cheek on her cradled hands. The honey brown halo of her hair, long forgotten by the laced hat wrinkled in her lap, pressed against the window by her side, eyes tilted to the elongated front of the automobile. Eyelashes tickled her face, dark gold on palest peach, and she was the image of childish innocence as she slept, long limbs tucked carefully in so as not to be in the way. The moonlight brushed over her, glowing on the white length of the dress she wore, and it stole whatever dreams had captured her fancy amidst the past three or four hours. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she shifted her weight slowly, relying a little more on the smooth glass of the window.
Nicholas echoed the sentiment, yawning wide enough to threaten the general safety of his jaw, though it made a cracking noise but once. He shook his head doggedly, fingers tightening about the wheel as he strove to cast off the drowsy numbness his senses were gradually being absorbed by. "Two more miles," he told himself firmly, keeping his voice low out of respect for the tall girl, "just two more miles." He blew air out noisily, hazarding glances at the shadowed trees lining the road like proud warriors ever watching, and he fervently wished he could light one of the cylinders in the carton by his heart. Unfortunately, as he saw with some relief the sudden sharpness of the city line fast approaching and noted the heavy clouds of promised rain advancing on the moonlight, he had strong suspicion he'd crash the car trying to light it.
A low growl, almost indiscernible over the clanking and jolting of the automobile, sounded from the quiet world outside the simple warm one within, and he narrowed dark blue eyes at the clouds. "Oh hell no, don't you start raining on me," he breathed dangerously, gauging the short distance left until he merged into southwest Winchester. The lights came abruptly brighter, flaring shades of gaudiness coating the tawdry buildings, and he felt an unperceived knot of tension slowly unravel as the city limits were breached with one final leap of the automobile.
Driving along the travesty filled streets of downtown Winchester, he felt the kind of tranquility that comes naturally with a return to one's homeland. A grin of varying emotions curved his lips behind the faint darkness of untrimmed whiskers and he made it a game as he sought out the memory of the hotel to label each business he remembered. Mostly bars stood out prominently in his mind, cheap establishments with equally cheap beverages, and he drummed his fingers along the stretched hide on the steering wheel, spotting an intersection well paved by honking automobiles and giggling couples. The policeman, long resigned to his unenviable duty of directing traffic in the seedier part of town, waved his white glove for their side of the cross to stop, the silver whistle in his mouth shrieking an additional warning. Waxen streetlight glinted on the rows of golden buttons lining the officer's dark uniform and he looked about as deeply exhausted as the twilight-shaded man driving felt.
A twinge of pity fell quickly to the heels of alarm, Nicholas' keen eyes catching the obscene perversion of a Victorian gown outfitting a woman strutting brazenly into the street toward him. The policeman showed remarkable apathy to her, and he experienced the oddest sense of regret mingled with relief, ethics warring with his familial occupation. On a different night, had he not been as tired and desperate for a cigarette, he might have taken the brothel woman's offer. Turning to face the policeman and praying he would motion them forward before she could finish crossing over, he came close to swearing at the tense knot gathering between his shoulder blades once more.
From the corner of his eye, he could see the pure, unadulterated Victorian gown clasped cleanly around the slumbering woman hidden by the doorframe, and a form of residual guilt spurred him forward. He had seen several innocents lose that sanctity making them so unique, and even if he technically had only known Miss Melissa Thompson for a mere six hours, he would do his damnedest to see her safely to her hotel.
The prostitute glowered for a moment at the tail end of the automobile fast abandoning her, clenching her fist and jaw irritatedly, before she spotted a new, inebriated potential customer. With a reluctant sigh, the policeman shifted his stance and blew the whistle a second time, motioning for traffic to switch roads.
Thankfully, Milly had slept through the entire, more or less soundless ordeal, perfectly quiet except for the occasional muted sniffle. He snorted softly, mouth forcing cruelly open for another pained yawn that pulled the skin about his mouth tight, his eyes closing dangerously for the moment or two needed to complete it. The automobile swerved and he caught the wheel in a flash of desperation, quickly handling it in the opposite direction until the path had been righted and the first of a last pair of turns approached. Slowing carefully to politely allow a pair of stately men in tuxedos pass, their decorative canes swinging from gloved wrists and top hats a shining black under tall street lamps, Nicholas swept the automobile about the easy curve. The hotel filled his vision, a radiant shimmer from the vast amounts of lights circling it and glowing from its interior levels, and he promptly whistled lowly.
The Southeast Winchester Hotel was a massive construct, curvaceous lattices and glowering gargoyles jutting out up and down the sheer height it sported. An envious twenty-four levels shone into the night sky, many of the windows lit though the hour fast approached half after midnight, and he reflected it had been a few levels shorter when he left the city. Careful to follow the curling road leading to the glorious front arches, the doors enameled glass streaked with iridescent light, he drank in the forgotten sight of women in furs and glittering evening gowns, men in starched black suits and elegant hats. He motioned for an overeager busboy to move to the side, shifting the automobile into a suitable braking stance and freezing its wheels in place before the arches. Gold light swamped the region, the velvet red carpet spread across the fresh sidewalk trampled from its twelve-hour shift, hidden beneath the protective sprawl of a wide awning posted on silver staffs.
He allowed himself a scant few seconds of light dozing, tilting his head back so his loose shirt was drawn a bit around his torso, eyes closing to the world far too shortly. It took a forceful reminder of his passenger to stir him from the position and he rolled his head forward, sitting up and clipping the door open. He planted one foot outside, the rough leather skidding fractionally over the pebbled pavement, and he turned, placing one large hand gently on her broad, ivory-draped shoulder. Shoving with as much gentility as he had touched it, he moved her relatively swiftly into a blinking consciousness. "C'mon, we're at your hotel, honey," he said quietly, remembering how most people were unappreciative of loud voices upon waking.
"Honey?" she murmured, twisting her back upright and blinking rapidly at the intrusion of aching light, tightening her fingers on the lapel of her hat. "Oh, are we eating?" she continued in the same distanced voice whilst she absently arranged the brimmed pillbox hat on her locks, white on browned gold. "I don't feel as if I've eaten."
He laughed, a subdued chuckle, and stepped the rest of the way out of the driver's seat, digging in his pocket urgently as he pushed the door closed. Pulling a tinderbox from the trousers, he fought the carton temporarily for a single cigarette and popped the metal box open. Ten seconds of careful prying resulted in one match alighting with a small mandarin flame, the tip of the cigarette hanging from his thinned lips pressing into the bending heat. A whiff of smoke came from it and he clicked the box shut, flicking the match so it became a dulled, blackened splinter and tossing it to the lightly littered street.
"Finally," he heard himself mutter, inhaling the whispering trickle of grey smoke and shifting to see Milly's progress. The same busboy motioned aside held his hand for her to grasp, the tip of his flamboyant crimson overcoat visible around the black front of the automobile, and she moved, accepting it thankfully. She spoke her thanks and plucked the small pouch of her purse from the seat, clapping the door into its locked place. "Have a good evening, Miss Thompson," he called, tipping his head and picking the cigarette from his mouth to speak clearly.
She glanced at him, a flicker of surprise or something spearing through the sky blue orbs serving as crystal eyes, and she beamed a generously wide smile. Scooping the meager fabric of her modest skirt in her hands, she curtsied with startling grace, seemingly unaware of the red mark on her cheek brought by sleeping heavily on it. "My name is Milly, Mister Wolfwood," she cried, standing up and still wearing the powerful smile. "And may the good Lord bless you!" With that, she curtsied a second time and spun on her heel, alarming the busboy as he saw his aspirations to escort her through the door dissipate with her every confident motion.
He grinned, knowing she was safer in the southeast section of Winchester than anywhere else, and, walking some distance from the awning, turned his gaze skyward, squinting up at the darkened heavens. The heady shades were broken only by flickering streams of lightning, streaks of yellowed white, and he felt a strong wetness strike his eyebrow, splitting in the dark hairs and causing his eyes to blink reflexively. Another clear pearl dripped out of the skies as an ominous grumble emerged, this one landing perfectly on the ember smoking tip of his cigarette and effectively muffling it. With a sigh, he plucked the cylinder away from his lips and let it plummet to the ground, crushing it under his foot. "Welcome home," he said wryly and set off back to the car.
--~--
"Those goddamned Nazis," someone voiced among the many, adding to the bloodshot fervor coloring one small, cluttered end of the bar in the Silver Bell's cousin, the Closet Ruby. The stage normally occupied with star-dotted showgirls was cloaked by the heavy drapes signifying the soon arrival of closing time, but the men continued to nurse their beloved alcohol. "League o' Nations ain't got one fig of a notion on how'ta take care of it." More than one man attempted an agreeing nod, with a sloppy, drunken method, and the speaker pounded his fist on the varnished counter. "And them Italians!" He made a derisive noise that was both rude and throaty, a phlegmatic sound of displeasure.
The woman standing at the back of the counter, half shrouded by the deeply pooling shadows cast according to dimming lights, the fancy bulbs fading as the electricity was slowly cut for the business front, frowned. Her eyes sparked slate fire, sharp embers threatening but unseen due to the shadows. She dipped the cloth clutched tightly in her hands along the curves of stained glass mugs, swilling away foam and brown specks, pieces of chewing tobacco removed with a grimace. Those sleet greyed-blue eyes never left the cluster of men, a smoldering anger settling on the compact, slender frame of the small woman with fashionably bobbed ebon hair.
"Italian pigs," another man snarled, his lips slowed by drink and forming the words sluggishly, "think th' can just g--," he swallowed to clear his mouth of the cotton stiffness, "get away with sleepin' with 'itler." He nearly toppled from his stool, blinking owlishly one eye followed by the other, and she spitefully flicked the radio playing mutely behind the bar into a noisier rabble. The easily recognizable tune of 'Star Dust' filled the air and the seven or eight men paused, staring and narrowing eyes to identify her. The tight-blouse and sleek skirt, long and swirling around her shins, identified her as the bartender's assistant, and little else could be determined.
The first man shrugged dismissively and returned to more important matters. "If we Americans knew what we were doing," he declared loudly, to a clatter of obnoxious calls, "we'd send them Germans'n'Italians, and them damn Japs back over to their own countries so they can do what they wanna."
When someone made a raucous agreement, an obscenity proudly tacked on to the traditional land of romance and Venice, the barmaid flicked the radio off and brandished one of the polished mugs as she might a gun. "The bar is closed!" she screamed, a cry pitched high enough to cease the crude chatter and grant a stunned silence. "And you would do well to remember that the Italian people built this city from the ground up!" One or two noted her coloring and dark hair as she stepped forward, face burning livid shades of overwhelming flame, and a rude comment was mumbled underneath breath. She exploded, slamming the mug down on the counter almost hard enough to shatter the hefty glass as she furthered bluntly: "Get out!" and then: "Dollar-and-five, each, and I don't care how much you need the money, you drank it!" Gone was the usual tab or bargain deal sentenced with the Great Depression, a kindness to help those who needed it.
"Italian bitch," a jeer came and she came close to snarling, her fingers barely kept from straining for the revolver kept hidden in one of the cubbyholes at her back. The coats, cheap ones patched for lack of money wastefully used on drink, were ripped from the dented hanger near the door and a flood of coins was showered on the counter. As the door slammed at the heels of the last, she scattered the pieces of metal with a sweep of her hand, sending them hurling to the floor.
She knew she would need to pick them up in a moment, to count and insure the right amount had been paid, but the adrenaline, the ethnic outrage within her, was still too strong. Breathing exercises memorized to control her easily triggered temper came to mind and she locked her arms at the base of her spine. Leaning into a backwards arch she stretched, inhaling through clenched teeth in hopes of calming her furiously pounding heart. As she did so, she could make out the distinct sound of the door sliding open and she snapped from her strenuously relaxing position. She reached back into the cubbyhole, slipping her small hand under the forest green wine bottle obscuring the glint of metal, and wrenched free the revolver. It took a remarkably short amount of time for her to swivel on her heel and point the barrel squarely at whatever imbecile had returned for whatever revenge.
What she saw was her older brother raising an eyebrow at her and showing a sardonically amused smile.
"My, my, what a charming sister I have," Nicholas announced, coming incredibly close to skimming a smirk, and she lowered the revolver with an exasperated groan. The pounded metal thumped on the inner counter, lowered for the bartenders, and she shared a friendly scowl.
"I thought you were still in Utah," she spoke, deciding to avoid sharing her recent encounter with closed minds. "Earning money with a federal job and so on. You could have sent us a letter." She smiled, then, a tiny curve of her lips at the corner, and she leaned over the counter to offer him a hug. As she was a good half-foot shorter than he, it took some stretching and shifting of weight to toes in order to accomplish.
"Wanted to surprise you," he responded, hugging back and letting her go before the bar cut through her abdomen. "And the legit job was killing me. I hate the west, it's still stuck in the Dust Bowl." He grimaced, frowning darkly and scraping at loose trousers tanned with scouring browns. "You breathe and eat and drink dust, sand, and dirt. It felt like I'd fallen into a sand dune and couldn't climb back out."
"Pleasant," she commented, picking up her rag and finishing up one of the mugs, shining away a spot of sticky beer. "Papa wanted to know if you got married. He and Mama were constantly nagging me to write you about some pretty Italian girls here."
"I came back for the family," Nicholas found need to remind her. "I do not need a woman at this time in my life." He exhaled, a quiet implosion of warm air hitting a night-chilled atmosphere, and added roughly, his voice shifting into gruff tones, "And Dominique is your mother, not mine, Meryl."
"True," Meryl conceded, stacking the mugs together and patterning them for the wash duty in the morning. "But she is my mama, and I don't want you talking bad about her." It hung as a teasing threat and she smiled again, saying, "I'm glad to see you again, Nicky."
"And you, too," he agreed, sliding onto the stool warm yet from the man who abandoned it earlier, a nameless individual sent back into the night he had come from. "What's this I hear about you singing at Dono's place?"
"Ah!" she cried, pointing a finger accusingly at him, her elbow pressed to her hip as she scrunched an eye up at him. "Who told you, the fink?" And then she laughed, her elbow still trapped at her side and her finger tipping over as she gave rare way to an impulse.
--~--
Limbs, lengthy and strong, slid down to the stabilizing floor of the train, toes curling in the cages of shined boots. The man was tall, a lanky sort of leanness that needed to hunch in order to bend out of the seat. Embroidered, ornate decorations colored in shades of red spiraled with gold threads in Asian tapestries covered the seats, curved iron backs to them and globes of delicately carved light swaying with the inertia of the train's halt. He yawned, his mouth creaking open just the smallest bit, and he ran a hand through wildly spiked blonde hair, the result of too much shampoo and odd follicles. The crimson rain slicker he wore ended up having been a wise decision and he watched the steady downpour on one side of the train with nothing short of fascination. He regretted the common sense design of train stations, with the train emptying its belly of passengers under the stretching roof of the building in place of the slippery rain.
Prying his scuffed suitcase from the overhanging bins, chiseled wood panels sliding up to grant him access, he followed the yawning others out, stepping grandly down the trio of carpeted steps. Walking a suitable distance from the train car into the elegant structure designed with an Italian beauty in mind, he dropped his suitcase to the ground. He ignored the sight he made, a man of unusual height and blonde hair in long spikes, dressed in a rumpled brown suit under the stretched rain slicker, and tilted his head back. A deep inhale of the eastern air, he welcomed the excited niggling in his stomach at the foreign smell of moisture that clogged his lungs. The scent of rain was stronger than the dust stubbornly clinging to his suit and it pervaded more than the smog of cities.
He grabbed his suitcase up again and jogged over the mosaic tiling, tripping at the foot of the marble stairs leading up straight to the earliest morning Winchester. Catching his balance, he planted his free hand firmly on the banister splitting the staircase in half and sped his stiff legs faster. The glittering revolving door, made silver by the rain streaking it, beckoned and he checked his speed, slowing enough to fit into an empty space and push eagerly forward. Emerging into the rain, he avoided opening his suitcase under the little dry space under the ledge above the entrance, too entranced by the downpour to remember the rain cap tucked between ledgers of paper and a few pairs of trousers.
Into the rain he stepped, careful, slow movements into the puddles on the sidewalk, and he saw the buggies slipping by along wet roads, driving slowly for safety. Long cab fronts, hoods pulled up, and a steady blend of white or black, the automobiles were scarce in the insecurity of rain.
He loved it, his chest swelling as if he might explode, and he threw his arms to the side, cheering without words into the rain. Water filled his mouth, glorious water in opposition of the shifting sand in Nevada, and he spit it out happily, willing to face the opportunity to drown. "Good morning, Winchester!" he bellowed, giddiness lighting his entire body with the joyous glow slowly reclaiming the country in place of darkness. Quieter, in a whisper meant for his ears alone, as if speaking it louder might jeopardize it beyond recognition, he added, "I'm writing you a Great American Novel."
--~--
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own 'em, according to the current copyright laws. I own this story and all the good (or bad) things that entails. Like OOC.
Author's Notes: Oh, geez, Quincy-san, I didn't mean to sound rude with the reviews=chapter thing. *winces* I've avoided doing that in the past, but I've encountered difficulty posting fics in the past two months. Long story: AOL decided that 'Mature Teen' parental controls could not access 'Document Manager,' so I've been having to get special permission at school from teachers and the librarians to upload chapters/stories through the school's ISP. Sometimes I'm not allowed to use a disk (which is, after all, the only way I can move a chapter from my computer to the school's), or the library's being used by a class, or something else I happening. So, overall, it's a hassle at times trying to get a story updated, and if nobody seems to want me to update a story, I'm not going to go through the stress of working it out at school. 0o; If that makes sense…But, in any case, I apologize deeply for sounding such.
Expository chapter, introduction of characters, and an expression of my inability to communicate past eras. I'll be working on that…
No! Don't praise Ryan! He's an awful Muse, really, he is. *glares at Ryan* He throws bowling balls at me, but at least he kills my writer's block. Which, actually, is rather helpful. Unfortunately, he never does anything else Muse-like, the JERK! *yells at Ryan and is promptly beaned by a bowling ball*
The references to the 'Axis of Evil' (as alter dubbed) were slanted anti-Italian, which may or may not be a falsification of pre-WWII attitudes. Certainly there was a strong anti-Japanese and anti-German emotion running through the country, but Italy was also a threat (due to Mussolini). The significance of the drunks' babbling is that this story begins in late spring (May-ish), and Mussolini met with Hitler in May of 1938 to show the unity of the axis between Rome and Berlin. I, of course, mean nothing by the remarks (just to be safe). I love the Italian people as my best friend is half, and I grew up with her loud, boisterous Italian family. Lovely people.
Many thank-yous to my reviewers and an apology for the shortness of the chapter. And the length of the author's notes…I'll thank you each personally next chapter, okay? *beams*
by Memphis Lupine
--~--
She had slipped into a cozy sleep perhaps an hour into the drive, pillowing her cheek on her cradled hands. The honey brown halo of her hair, long forgotten by the laced hat wrinkled in her lap, pressed against the window by her side, eyes tilted to the elongated front of the automobile. Eyelashes tickled her face, dark gold on palest peach, and she was the image of childish innocence as she slept, long limbs tucked carefully in so as not to be in the way. The moonlight brushed over her, glowing on the white length of the dress she wore, and it stole whatever dreams had captured her fancy amidst the past three or four hours. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she shifted her weight slowly, relying a little more on the smooth glass of the window.
Nicholas echoed the sentiment, yawning wide enough to threaten the general safety of his jaw, though it made a cracking noise but once. He shook his head doggedly, fingers tightening about the wheel as he strove to cast off the drowsy numbness his senses were gradually being absorbed by. "Two more miles," he told himself firmly, keeping his voice low out of respect for the tall girl, "just two more miles." He blew air out noisily, hazarding glances at the shadowed trees lining the road like proud warriors ever watching, and he fervently wished he could light one of the cylinders in the carton by his heart. Unfortunately, as he saw with some relief the sudden sharpness of the city line fast approaching and noted the heavy clouds of promised rain advancing on the moonlight, he had strong suspicion he'd crash the car trying to light it.
A low growl, almost indiscernible over the clanking and jolting of the automobile, sounded from the quiet world outside the simple warm one within, and he narrowed dark blue eyes at the clouds. "Oh hell no, don't you start raining on me," he breathed dangerously, gauging the short distance left until he merged into southwest Winchester. The lights came abruptly brighter, flaring shades of gaudiness coating the tawdry buildings, and he felt an unperceived knot of tension slowly unravel as the city limits were breached with one final leap of the automobile.
Driving along the travesty filled streets of downtown Winchester, he felt the kind of tranquility that comes naturally with a return to one's homeland. A grin of varying emotions curved his lips behind the faint darkness of untrimmed whiskers and he made it a game as he sought out the memory of the hotel to label each business he remembered. Mostly bars stood out prominently in his mind, cheap establishments with equally cheap beverages, and he drummed his fingers along the stretched hide on the steering wheel, spotting an intersection well paved by honking automobiles and giggling couples. The policeman, long resigned to his unenviable duty of directing traffic in the seedier part of town, waved his white glove for their side of the cross to stop, the silver whistle in his mouth shrieking an additional warning. Waxen streetlight glinted on the rows of golden buttons lining the officer's dark uniform and he looked about as deeply exhausted as the twilight-shaded man driving felt.
A twinge of pity fell quickly to the heels of alarm, Nicholas' keen eyes catching the obscene perversion of a Victorian gown outfitting a woman strutting brazenly into the street toward him. The policeman showed remarkable apathy to her, and he experienced the oddest sense of regret mingled with relief, ethics warring with his familial occupation. On a different night, had he not been as tired and desperate for a cigarette, he might have taken the brothel woman's offer. Turning to face the policeman and praying he would motion them forward before she could finish crossing over, he came close to swearing at the tense knot gathering between his shoulder blades once more.
From the corner of his eye, he could see the pure, unadulterated Victorian gown clasped cleanly around the slumbering woman hidden by the doorframe, and a form of residual guilt spurred him forward. He had seen several innocents lose that sanctity making them so unique, and even if he technically had only known Miss Melissa Thompson for a mere six hours, he would do his damnedest to see her safely to her hotel.
The prostitute glowered for a moment at the tail end of the automobile fast abandoning her, clenching her fist and jaw irritatedly, before she spotted a new, inebriated potential customer. With a reluctant sigh, the policeman shifted his stance and blew the whistle a second time, motioning for traffic to switch roads.
Thankfully, Milly had slept through the entire, more or less soundless ordeal, perfectly quiet except for the occasional muted sniffle. He snorted softly, mouth forcing cruelly open for another pained yawn that pulled the skin about his mouth tight, his eyes closing dangerously for the moment or two needed to complete it. The automobile swerved and he caught the wheel in a flash of desperation, quickly handling it in the opposite direction until the path had been righted and the first of a last pair of turns approached. Slowing carefully to politely allow a pair of stately men in tuxedos pass, their decorative canes swinging from gloved wrists and top hats a shining black under tall street lamps, Nicholas swept the automobile about the easy curve. The hotel filled his vision, a radiant shimmer from the vast amounts of lights circling it and glowing from its interior levels, and he promptly whistled lowly.
The Southeast Winchester Hotel was a massive construct, curvaceous lattices and glowering gargoyles jutting out up and down the sheer height it sported. An envious twenty-four levels shone into the night sky, many of the windows lit though the hour fast approached half after midnight, and he reflected it had been a few levels shorter when he left the city. Careful to follow the curling road leading to the glorious front arches, the doors enameled glass streaked with iridescent light, he drank in the forgotten sight of women in furs and glittering evening gowns, men in starched black suits and elegant hats. He motioned for an overeager busboy to move to the side, shifting the automobile into a suitable braking stance and freezing its wheels in place before the arches. Gold light swamped the region, the velvet red carpet spread across the fresh sidewalk trampled from its twelve-hour shift, hidden beneath the protective sprawl of a wide awning posted on silver staffs.
He allowed himself a scant few seconds of light dozing, tilting his head back so his loose shirt was drawn a bit around his torso, eyes closing to the world far too shortly. It took a forceful reminder of his passenger to stir him from the position and he rolled his head forward, sitting up and clipping the door open. He planted one foot outside, the rough leather skidding fractionally over the pebbled pavement, and he turned, placing one large hand gently on her broad, ivory-draped shoulder. Shoving with as much gentility as he had touched it, he moved her relatively swiftly into a blinking consciousness. "C'mon, we're at your hotel, honey," he said quietly, remembering how most people were unappreciative of loud voices upon waking.
"Honey?" she murmured, twisting her back upright and blinking rapidly at the intrusion of aching light, tightening her fingers on the lapel of her hat. "Oh, are we eating?" she continued in the same distanced voice whilst she absently arranged the brimmed pillbox hat on her locks, white on browned gold. "I don't feel as if I've eaten."
He laughed, a subdued chuckle, and stepped the rest of the way out of the driver's seat, digging in his pocket urgently as he pushed the door closed. Pulling a tinderbox from the trousers, he fought the carton temporarily for a single cigarette and popped the metal box open. Ten seconds of careful prying resulted in one match alighting with a small mandarin flame, the tip of the cigarette hanging from his thinned lips pressing into the bending heat. A whiff of smoke came from it and he clicked the box shut, flicking the match so it became a dulled, blackened splinter and tossing it to the lightly littered street.
"Finally," he heard himself mutter, inhaling the whispering trickle of grey smoke and shifting to see Milly's progress. The same busboy motioned aside held his hand for her to grasp, the tip of his flamboyant crimson overcoat visible around the black front of the automobile, and she moved, accepting it thankfully. She spoke her thanks and plucked the small pouch of her purse from the seat, clapping the door into its locked place. "Have a good evening, Miss Thompson," he called, tipping his head and picking the cigarette from his mouth to speak clearly.
She glanced at him, a flicker of surprise or something spearing through the sky blue orbs serving as crystal eyes, and she beamed a generously wide smile. Scooping the meager fabric of her modest skirt in her hands, she curtsied with startling grace, seemingly unaware of the red mark on her cheek brought by sleeping heavily on it. "My name is Milly, Mister Wolfwood," she cried, standing up and still wearing the powerful smile. "And may the good Lord bless you!" With that, she curtsied a second time and spun on her heel, alarming the busboy as he saw his aspirations to escort her through the door dissipate with her every confident motion.
He grinned, knowing she was safer in the southeast section of Winchester than anywhere else, and, walking some distance from the awning, turned his gaze skyward, squinting up at the darkened heavens. The heady shades were broken only by flickering streams of lightning, streaks of yellowed white, and he felt a strong wetness strike his eyebrow, splitting in the dark hairs and causing his eyes to blink reflexively. Another clear pearl dripped out of the skies as an ominous grumble emerged, this one landing perfectly on the ember smoking tip of his cigarette and effectively muffling it. With a sigh, he plucked the cylinder away from his lips and let it plummet to the ground, crushing it under his foot. "Welcome home," he said wryly and set off back to the car.
--~--
"Those goddamned Nazis," someone voiced among the many, adding to the bloodshot fervor coloring one small, cluttered end of the bar in the Silver Bell's cousin, the Closet Ruby. The stage normally occupied with star-dotted showgirls was cloaked by the heavy drapes signifying the soon arrival of closing time, but the men continued to nurse their beloved alcohol. "League o' Nations ain't got one fig of a notion on how'ta take care of it." More than one man attempted an agreeing nod, with a sloppy, drunken method, and the speaker pounded his fist on the varnished counter. "And them Italians!" He made a derisive noise that was both rude and throaty, a phlegmatic sound of displeasure.
The woman standing at the back of the counter, half shrouded by the deeply pooling shadows cast according to dimming lights, the fancy bulbs fading as the electricity was slowly cut for the business front, frowned. Her eyes sparked slate fire, sharp embers threatening but unseen due to the shadows. She dipped the cloth clutched tightly in her hands along the curves of stained glass mugs, swilling away foam and brown specks, pieces of chewing tobacco removed with a grimace. Those sleet greyed-blue eyes never left the cluster of men, a smoldering anger settling on the compact, slender frame of the small woman with fashionably bobbed ebon hair.
"Italian pigs," another man snarled, his lips slowed by drink and forming the words sluggishly, "think th' can just g--," he swallowed to clear his mouth of the cotton stiffness, "get away with sleepin' with 'itler." He nearly toppled from his stool, blinking owlishly one eye followed by the other, and she spitefully flicked the radio playing mutely behind the bar into a noisier rabble. The easily recognizable tune of 'Star Dust' filled the air and the seven or eight men paused, staring and narrowing eyes to identify her. The tight-blouse and sleek skirt, long and swirling around her shins, identified her as the bartender's assistant, and little else could be determined.
The first man shrugged dismissively and returned to more important matters. "If we Americans knew what we were doing," he declared loudly, to a clatter of obnoxious calls, "we'd send them Germans'n'Italians, and them damn Japs back over to their own countries so they can do what they wanna."
When someone made a raucous agreement, an obscenity proudly tacked on to the traditional land of romance and Venice, the barmaid flicked the radio off and brandished one of the polished mugs as she might a gun. "The bar is closed!" she screamed, a cry pitched high enough to cease the crude chatter and grant a stunned silence. "And you would do well to remember that the Italian people built this city from the ground up!" One or two noted her coloring and dark hair as she stepped forward, face burning livid shades of overwhelming flame, and a rude comment was mumbled underneath breath. She exploded, slamming the mug down on the counter almost hard enough to shatter the hefty glass as she furthered bluntly: "Get out!" and then: "Dollar-and-five, each, and I don't care how much you need the money, you drank it!" Gone was the usual tab or bargain deal sentenced with the Great Depression, a kindness to help those who needed it.
"Italian bitch," a jeer came and she came close to snarling, her fingers barely kept from straining for the revolver kept hidden in one of the cubbyholes at her back. The coats, cheap ones patched for lack of money wastefully used on drink, were ripped from the dented hanger near the door and a flood of coins was showered on the counter. As the door slammed at the heels of the last, she scattered the pieces of metal with a sweep of her hand, sending them hurling to the floor.
She knew she would need to pick them up in a moment, to count and insure the right amount had been paid, but the adrenaline, the ethnic outrage within her, was still too strong. Breathing exercises memorized to control her easily triggered temper came to mind and she locked her arms at the base of her spine. Leaning into a backwards arch she stretched, inhaling through clenched teeth in hopes of calming her furiously pounding heart. As she did so, she could make out the distinct sound of the door sliding open and she snapped from her strenuously relaxing position. She reached back into the cubbyhole, slipping her small hand under the forest green wine bottle obscuring the glint of metal, and wrenched free the revolver. It took a remarkably short amount of time for her to swivel on her heel and point the barrel squarely at whatever imbecile had returned for whatever revenge.
What she saw was her older brother raising an eyebrow at her and showing a sardonically amused smile.
"My, my, what a charming sister I have," Nicholas announced, coming incredibly close to skimming a smirk, and she lowered the revolver with an exasperated groan. The pounded metal thumped on the inner counter, lowered for the bartenders, and she shared a friendly scowl.
"I thought you were still in Utah," she spoke, deciding to avoid sharing her recent encounter with closed minds. "Earning money with a federal job and so on. You could have sent us a letter." She smiled, then, a tiny curve of her lips at the corner, and she leaned over the counter to offer him a hug. As she was a good half-foot shorter than he, it took some stretching and shifting of weight to toes in order to accomplish.
"Wanted to surprise you," he responded, hugging back and letting her go before the bar cut through her abdomen. "And the legit job was killing me. I hate the west, it's still stuck in the Dust Bowl." He grimaced, frowning darkly and scraping at loose trousers tanned with scouring browns. "You breathe and eat and drink dust, sand, and dirt. It felt like I'd fallen into a sand dune and couldn't climb back out."
"Pleasant," she commented, picking up her rag and finishing up one of the mugs, shining away a spot of sticky beer. "Papa wanted to know if you got married. He and Mama were constantly nagging me to write you about some pretty Italian girls here."
"I came back for the family," Nicholas found need to remind her. "I do not need a woman at this time in my life." He exhaled, a quiet implosion of warm air hitting a night-chilled atmosphere, and added roughly, his voice shifting into gruff tones, "And Dominique is your mother, not mine, Meryl."
"True," Meryl conceded, stacking the mugs together and patterning them for the wash duty in the morning. "But she is my mama, and I don't want you talking bad about her." It hung as a teasing threat and she smiled again, saying, "I'm glad to see you again, Nicky."
"And you, too," he agreed, sliding onto the stool warm yet from the man who abandoned it earlier, a nameless individual sent back into the night he had come from. "What's this I hear about you singing at Dono's place?"
"Ah!" she cried, pointing a finger accusingly at him, her elbow pressed to her hip as she scrunched an eye up at him. "Who told you, the fink?" And then she laughed, her elbow still trapped at her side and her finger tipping over as she gave rare way to an impulse.
--~--
Limbs, lengthy and strong, slid down to the stabilizing floor of the train, toes curling in the cages of shined boots. The man was tall, a lanky sort of leanness that needed to hunch in order to bend out of the seat. Embroidered, ornate decorations colored in shades of red spiraled with gold threads in Asian tapestries covered the seats, curved iron backs to them and globes of delicately carved light swaying with the inertia of the train's halt. He yawned, his mouth creaking open just the smallest bit, and he ran a hand through wildly spiked blonde hair, the result of too much shampoo and odd follicles. The crimson rain slicker he wore ended up having been a wise decision and he watched the steady downpour on one side of the train with nothing short of fascination. He regretted the common sense design of train stations, with the train emptying its belly of passengers under the stretching roof of the building in place of the slippery rain.
Prying his scuffed suitcase from the overhanging bins, chiseled wood panels sliding up to grant him access, he followed the yawning others out, stepping grandly down the trio of carpeted steps. Walking a suitable distance from the train car into the elegant structure designed with an Italian beauty in mind, he dropped his suitcase to the ground. He ignored the sight he made, a man of unusual height and blonde hair in long spikes, dressed in a rumpled brown suit under the stretched rain slicker, and tilted his head back. A deep inhale of the eastern air, he welcomed the excited niggling in his stomach at the foreign smell of moisture that clogged his lungs. The scent of rain was stronger than the dust stubbornly clinging to his suit and it pervaded more than the smog of cities.
He grabbed his suitcase up again and jogged over the mosaic tiling, tripping at the foot of the marble stairs leading up straight to the earliest morning Winchester. Catching his balance, he planted his free hand firmly on the banister splitting the staircase in half and sped his stiff legs faster. The glittering revolving door, made silver by the rain streaking it, beckoned and he checked his speed, slowing enough to fit into an empty space and push eagerly forward. Emerging into the rain, he avoided opening his suitcase under the little dry space under the ledge above the entrance, too entranced by the downpour to remember the rain cap tucked between ledgers of paper and a few pairs of trousers.
Into the rain he stepped, careful, slow movements into the puddles on the sidewalk, and he saw the buggies slipping by along wet roads, driving slowly for safety. Long cab fronts, hoods pulled up, and a steady blend of white or black, the automobiles were scarce in the insecurity of rain.
He loved it, his chest swelling as if he might explode, and he threw his arms to the side, cheering without words into the rain. Water filled his mouth, glorious water in opposition of the shifting sand in Nevada, and he spit it out happily, willing to face the opportunity to drown. "Good morning, Winchester!" he bellowed, giddiness lighting his entire body with the joyous glow slowly reclaiming the country in place of darkness. Quieter, in a whisper meant for his ears alone, as if speaking it louder might jeopardize it beyond recognition, he added, "I'm writing you a Great American Novel."
--~--
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own 'em, according to the current copyright laws. I own this story and all the good (or bad) things that entails. Like OOC.
Author's Notes: Oh, geez, Quincy-san, I didn't mean to sound rude with the reviews=chapter thing. *winces* I've avoided doing that in the past, but I've encountered difficulty posting fics in the past two months. Long story: AOL decided that 'Mature Teen' parental controls could not access 'Document Manager,' so I've been having to get special permission at school from teachers and the librarians to upload chapters/stories through the school's ISP. Sometimes I'm not allowed to use a disk (which is, after all, the only way I can move a chapter from my computer to the school's), or the library's being used by a class, or something else I happening. So, overall, it's a hassle at times trying to get a story updated, and if nobody seems to want me to update a story, I'm not going to go through the stress of working it out at school. 0o; If that makes sense…But, in any case, I apologize deeply for sounding such.
Expository chapter, introduction of characters, and an expression of my inability to communicate past eras. I'll be working on that…
No! Don't praise Ryan! He's an awful Muse, really, he is. *glares at Ryan* He throws bowling balls at me, but at least he kills my writer's block. Which, actually, is rather helpful. Unfortunately, he never does anything else Muse-like, the JERK! *yells at Ryan and is promptly beaned by a bowling ball*
The references to the 'Axis of Evil' (as alter dubbed) were slanted anti-Italian, which may or may not be a falsification of pre-WWII attitudes. Certainly there was a strong anti-Japanese and anti-German emotion running through the country, but Italy was also a threat (due to Mussolini). The significance of the drunks' babbling is that this story begins in late spring (May-ish), and Mussolini met with Hitler in May of 1938 to show the unity of the axis between Rome and Berlin. I, of course, mean nothing by the remarks (just to be safe). I love the Italian people as my best friend is half, and I grew up with her loud, boisterous Italian family. Lovely people.
Many thank-yous to my reviewers and an apology for the shortness of the chapter. And the length of the author's notes…I'll thank you each personally next chapter, okay? *beams*