Written: 5/18/05 - 5/24/05
Word Count: 100, 200, 100, 100, 100, 100, 100, 200.
Rating: T for sexual references in part 2 Notes: Written for Weekly Challenge #29: Noir. This particular plot bunny wanted to be split up into seven parts.
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The speakeasy smelled like cigarettes and bootleg liquor. In a far corner, a brunette sat, leaning over a piano, his slender, clever fingers making up their mind as they picked their way across the ivory keys. The music floated gently over the crowd, intermingling with good-natured conversation over brandy glasses and the laughter of women and moans of men losing hard-earned money at poker.
The musician heard it all. He let the synergy and emotions gathering in the room flow through him and pour though his fingers into the piano.
All the while thinking about his dead lover.
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Kit--or
Kitty, as he had called her--had been his first love. She had also been
his sister. Well, technically his step-sister, but "A sister is a
sister is a sister" his mother had told him.
She had been beautiful, dark brown hair and green eyes, porcelin skin and had the voice of an angel. A voice that would sing out in pleasure when they made love.
He called her Kitty from the scratches she left on his back.
Kitty was also passionate about everything in life. Whenever she had her heart set on something, she did it.
When they were both nineteen, she had decided to slit her wrist. And Kitty never failed. Never.
Three long years had passed since the day he had found her, lying in her own blood. The note had said it wasn't his fault, but how could he believe that?
Emerald eyes parted slowly, white and black keys slowly sharpening into focus. He noticed that his music had taken on a melancholy turn.
Clever fingers wove, spinning and dancing.
Within a few bars the music was light again.
---
Gene didn't own the speakeasy, but he drank for free.
Partly because he was a regular.
Mostly because he was the provider of all the illegal alcohol.
A gambler, he lived on the other side of the law, but shades lighter than his brother, who ran with the mob.
Hell, everyone bootlegged.
The barkeep knew what he liked--whiskey on the rocks--and he kept them coming. As the night wore on, his wallet got fatter and fatter as his cigarette case got thinner and thinner.
At the end of the night he would sit, drink and listen to Harry's playing.
---
Gene and Harry met in the most unlikely place.
Church.
Actually, on reflection, it probably wasn't that strange. The gambler had two dead parents and a brother in the mob, the musician had a dead lover.
And aren't funeral rites more for the living than for the dead?
The two young men quickly became fast friends, and eventually were rarely seen without the other. Naturally, the two began bootlegging together, Harry being the polite cover-up face and the redhead slipping bribes to the cops.
These two, brought together by loneliness, managed to make it every day because they were needed.
---
Simon was Peter's name before he was Jesus' rock.
This Simon was no longer driven by faith.
He had been once, practically a lifetime ago. He had worn the robes of a priest-in-training with pride.
The day before he was to take his vows, his father had been killed.
Now Simon was a PI, driven by revenge.
The speakeasy was a mob hangout, so Simon drank here nightly, unwinding after a long day while gathering information.
And after everyone left, the pianist would come down among the tables and he, Gene and his partner would play poker.
---
Greg was a good PI and he knew it. He was quick with a gun and even quicker with his mouth.
But he was young, so no one would hire him. He was lucky Simon had taken him on as a partner. Although sometimes it was hard to remember, especially when he was staring down the barrel of Simon's gun.
Thank God for Simon's "no loaded weapons in the office" rule.
Greg had two weaknesses: Good music and a good game of cards. And Harry was the best.
But Greg liked it more when he was sitting across the poker table.
---
Gene
always dealt. The redhead made beautiful, perfect bridges between his
hands, the shuffle of the cards soft. With quick wrist flicks five
cards slid across the table at the other three.
The cards were picked up and eyes focused on their hands, friendly conversations starting up.
"So, Greg, I heard you handled your first case by yourself. Congratulations."
"Thanks! It was easy, but hey, it was a case, y'know?"
"Simon, have you got any leads recently?"
Cards were slid back and forth, hands changing, the game flow shifting. "Yeah, a good one. But I need some people to come with me."
"Where?" Green eyes looked at the blonde over the cards.
"West." The violet gaze was focused on his hand, rearranging the cards over and over.
Gene and Harry looked at each other. "Well, we have been looking at maybe setting up something in Chicago..." Gene said slowly, a smirk on his face.
"It'll be nice to get out of this city for a while," Harry agreed.
"So you're coming!" Greg asked, perking up.
"Sure, why not, we don't have anything else more important to do," the red-haired man said, shrugging.
"Fine," Sampson agreed. "Show."
Twenty cards hit the tale. Greg groaned.
"Damn, Harry, you always win"
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