Give me a chance. I'm getting better at this. I think. Making the transition from my PotC fic to this is no easy task. Um.. Yeah. Velma gets her own small part in this chapter, too. Sorry to disappoint those of you here for Billy.(Who is, by the way? I want to know who else digs the bastard. If anyone ever reads this, that is.) =p
Disclaimer: Same as always.
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Ringmaster
Chapter Two - "Velma Kelly"
The evening was bleak. Had a blizzard raged a path across Illinois, the weather couldn't have conjured up a more dreary atmosphere. The wind howled up and down the streets, whipping up coats and scarves and brutalizing the bare faces of the few souls who dared to venture outdoors. A few motorcars puffed and labored along the icy shell encrusting the majority of the road. Two small figures, a girl and a boy of similar age, trailed gloomily behind their frail, pneumonia-ridden mother.
If it had any relevance to anything whatsoever, Billy would have seen this from the car's partially fogged window; he would have wondered at the woman's decision to brave the streets in such conditions. As it turned out, it didn't and he didn't; Billy Flynn was possessed of a notoriously single-track mind. Instead, he found himself staring vacantly into the back of the chauffeur's head for the duration of the drive from his building downtown to the jail. His thoughts, though, were in no way inspired by Joe zilch's scalp hygiene. Kelly.. Double homicide, wasn't it? Ought to be interesting. Show me five grand, doll, and I'm yours. He grinned wolfishly. It wasn't until the automobile literally slid to a stop that frozen December reality flooded back to him. The driver hastened to disengage the engine, hopping out to get his employer's door. The man was familiar with Mr. Flynn's temper; he wanted nothing to do with it.
Billy blinked out of his reverie, shaking his head as he unfolded himself from the back seat. He turned to the driver as his heels clicked on the icy asphalt and touched the brim of his hat lightly.
"I'll have Miss Morton inform you when I'm finished here." This said, he smoothed his tie and pulled the front of his overcoat closed to ward off the chill preying upon any patches of skin bold enough to remain bare. He turned, trotting up the steps. The Cook County Jail peered ominously from the gloom as it swallowed the lone figure.
If nothing else could be said about the previous twelve hours, she had certainly fed the ravenous gossipmongers of Chicago. Double Homicide - V. Kelly Bumps Off Husband and Sister. Damned right. Still, it didn't change the fact that she'd landed herself in a mess; there was no doubt in Velma Kelly's mind that the next stage she danced on could be a gallows.
As always, she had maintained perfect composure throughout the ordeal. When interrogated following her(what she considered) dramatic arrest, Velma had stuck to her story without a hitch: I passed out. No, I don't remember. I have no idea who did it. After an exchange of doubtful looks, the cops had her shipped off to the big house. Swell. From there, she had been questioned at least three and a half more times, stripped down and measured, photographed, and generally shoved around until she had finally landed a cell. The difference between the temperature outside and that of the cell block was negligible. Might as well have left all the windows in the joint wide open. It goes without saying that the flapper's first night as a felon was not an easy one.
The next morning's papers, however, almost made the entire thing seem worthwhile; her face, in the brilliant medium of fresh ink, stared out from the cover of every last one.
She had been looking over one such publication when a rather large person intruded on her self-admiration.
"Velma Kelly." She started, the paper falling to her lap as she turned. A heavy, dark-complexioned woman stood just beyond the bars of the cell, neck craned to read over the jazz diva's shoulder. "You've certainly stirred things up, dearie. Good for you."
The woman was clothed in a dull gray uniform, her dark hair hugging her scalp in tight, irregular curls. Velma's lips softened, offering what she assumed to be a pleasant smile.
"Good morning, Miss Morton." She knew the matron by reputation alone. Morton gasped, clasping her hand over her heart in mock offense.
"Please; call me 'Mama.'" Velma peered through the grid momentarily, quirking a slim brow.
"If you say so, Mama." She scooped up the newspaper, turning to the second page.
"Would you like the others, too? I can get you all of today's papers." Velma didn't look up.
"Yeah? How much will that cost me?" They understood eachother perfectly.
The Kelly kid definitely had dough. She wanted the best. Mama Morton wasted no time in fetching him.
The jail house was as disgusting as ever. No surprise. Women were everywhere, some milling about their cells while others were absorbed in various tasks. They looked up curiously at his entrance; some even waved. Again, no surprise.
"Hey, Billy." One or two would call. He'd tip his hat, forcing a passably genial smile.
"Good evening, ladies." He wended his way along the row of bars, eyes forward. He wasn't keen on attracting more attention than was necessary; if the inmates weren't murderers, they always seemed to come in one of two other varieties: whore and dope fiend. Or both, God forbid. Their eyes would tail him greedily until he turned out of sight, humming nonchalantly. Swell joint.
Chicago's newest celebrity had spent her first day of fame well. Very well. Other than her brief exchanges with Mama, Velma hadn't bothered to speak a word or lift a finger. This arrangement suited her just fine.
She chuckled softly, rolling to her back. The bedclothes, partially twisted around her thighs, rustled with the movement. Footsteps rapped on the grating outside. She would have liked to have enjoyed the remainder of the evening in the much the same way; it would have been nice. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to go her way for long.
"Velma," the matron whispered sharply, "Velma, get your keister in gear. Your lawyer's waitin'." Lawyer? Five more minutes, goddamnit.. More footsteps. Then, "Velma!" Mama had bent over her. Velma could feel the wind as the woman bellowed. "Don't make me shake you. This cat don't give a shit about your damned beauty sleep." The figure occupying the cot turned its head with an indignant groan, its eyelids parting company reluctantly.
"I'm awake, Mama."
"About time. He's waitin' downstairs. I'll let him know you're coming," she turned to make good on her word, "I'd get my skinny ass down there if I was you."
"Yeah, yeah." Velma scowled after her.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Velma paused before descending the staircase. Her eyes scanned the room below the platform; no men in sight. Before she could puzzle over her attorney's conspicuous absence, the matron's face appeared from between a set of double doors occupying the far wall. Spotting Velma, Mama beckoned her over.
After hastily issuing the diva into the room beyond, Mama promptly disappeared again, calling, "Don't do anything stupid," and shutting the doors behind her before Velma could utter a protest. A male throat cleared itself impatiently as she began to turn and confront the room at large, alerting her to the presence of the second party before her eyes could even fall on him. He was perched on the edge of the much-abused table set up in the center of the floor space, arms folded loosely across his chest and feet dangling just above the concrete. He was clothed in a ritzy slate business suit, intaglio carved onyx studs glinting from his cuffs. There seemed to be a pattern of grays and blacks with him; his hair, slicked back rakishly, was almost uniformly the color of ash. His eyes were of the deepest, coldest brown. The sight of the sharply dressed attorney seated on the wobbly, peeling table was almost too much; she tried to stifle a short bark of laughter, failing miserably.
"Something funny, Miss Kelly? It is Miss Kelly, isn't it?" He remained seated, inclining his chin a few degrees to peer at her. She regained her composure briskly, offering him a deliciously phony smile as she allowed her shoulder to sink back against the door.
"I am. Other than a lawyer," Her eyes flashed over him a second time, "Who are you?" He finally stood, sliding from the tabletop; its uneven legs clunked hollowly back into place as his weight shifted.
"My name is Billy Flynn," he smiled. It was charming, in an odd sort of way; the man was dangerously charismatic.
I can't write from Velma's point of view. Can you tell? Unless it's absolutely necessary later on, it won't happen again.
The purpose of Velma receiving her own section here was pretty much to allow for an outsider's view of Billy. I like to describe him; he's Richard Gere, what can I say?