They Will You Listen
Author: Tinhen (Tinuviel Henneth)
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I am not, nor am I in any way affiliated with CBS, Anthony Zuiker, or anybody else involved in the production of CSI.
Summary: AU - With her beloved older brother wrongfully in jail, a desperate Sara Sidle turns to a gritty private eye for help. "Fic noir," set in 1947. Un-shippy. Sara-centric. Features entire cast in revolutionary roles. Meh.
NoteOne: While I was working on my Sara/Greg casefile-that-will-not-end, I was bitten by this nasty little bunny. I spent about eight hours in one sitting doing research, and I'm hoping I've executed the hard-boiled type with my Nick, although it might not be as clear in this chapter as he's hardly even in it.
NoteTwo: As for shipping herein, the only guarantee I make is no Sara/Grissom, for reasons that will be quite apparent when he makes his entrance.
NoteThree: This is my first posted CSI fic, so I'd love nice comments... but I do prefer honesty. And I'd love a beta offer :nudges:
...on with the show...
They Will You Listen
Chapter One: The light overhead buzzed intermittently.
San Francisco, California
October 22, 1947
Sighing and straightening her cherry-red suit jacket, Sara Sidle checked the name scrawled on the index card against the one painted in peeling black letters on the frosted window of the door. They matched. She had tried to protest the location, as it was tucked in a darker end of town, but the taxi driver had assured her she was in the right place. Her mood was black enough that she could easily imagine the shady business going down around her. The hallway was dim and the light over the door buzzed intermittently. She took a deep, steadying breath and rapped three times just above the shiny brass lock.
"Come on in," a woman's muffled voice called out, sweet and tinted with a musical Texas twang. The phone rang inside as she turned the knob and the same woman's voice said, "Nick Stokes, Private Investigator." This was the right place, all right.
Sara looked around the office. The secretary's desk was tidy and sported a neat little lamp, but it was the only light in the room and the overall effect was well-executed grimy shabbiness. It was exactly as she had expected it to be. There was the lingering odor of cigar creeping under the closed door that led to the investigator's office. Another desk was shoved in the far corner, most of which was covered in at least a foot of paper and file folders and none of it looking in the least organized. A thin young man in his shirtsleeves was tipped back in his chair, Fedora covering his face. He was snoring lightly and bobbing back and forth. There was some kind of brass plaque on the clean corner of his desk, but it was too dark to read what it said. A few framed something-or-others hung on the dark paneled walls, but Sara didn't really care what any of them said.
"No, I'm sorry, Mr. Sanders is unavailable at the moment," said the secretary, a plump, middle-aged woman with a blond bun and snood. She glanced at the sleeping man with a smirk and laughed at whatever the caller said. "Of course, Mrs. Sanders, I'll make sure the boy's got his lunch. Have a nice day."
Sara stood awkwardly by the door and fussed with the chain-link strap on her pocketbook. She tugged the veil on her hat further down over her eyes, then decided against it and shoved it up and out of the way completely. The secretary hung up the phone and fixed a cheerful smile on her. "What can I do for you, Miss?" she asked.
She cleared her throat and stepped into the lamplight. "My name is Sara Sidle and I think I might have something I need investigated by Mr. Stokes," she said. She spoke with a slight Boston accent.
The secretary's lips twitched and she glanced at the closed office door. For the first time, Sara could hear voices, although it sounded like the radio to her. "Well, my name's Georgia Stokes, and Nicky's my nephew. We're a bit full lately, my dear." She glanced down at the ledger in front of her, which was full of notes written in a neat, if old-fashioned hand, with sweeping angles and loops. Sara frowned, glanced at the sleeper in the corner, and strained to hear what sounded just like the news to her. "Why don't you tell me just what it is you 're here about."
Just as Sara opened her mouth, the phone rang again. "Nick Stokes, Private Investigator," Georgia answered cheerfully. There was a buzzing and her smile flickered. "All right, Mr. Brown. Hold on just a moment, I'll transfer you right to him. Yes-- yes, Mr. Brown. I realize it's urgent. Hold on just a moment, Mr. Brown." She scowled and set the receiver down. Rising from her seat, she maneuvered her sizable bottom around the corner of her desk, crossed the lobby, and unceremoniously stuck her head into her nephew's office. "Nicky, Mr. Brown's on the phone. Sounds irate."
Sara caught a heady whiff of cigar and heard a well-developed Texan drawl say, "--always irate, though, ain't he?" before Georgia let the door close. A red light on the phone went out and Georgia returned the receiver to its cradle, shaking her head.
"Right, sorry about that, Miss Saddle," she said as she resumed her seat.
"Sidle," Sara corrected automatically.
"Of course," Georgia said graciously, flipping the page in the ledger to a clean one. "What was it you said your troubles were again?"
Sara straightened her spine and tightened her grip on her handbag. "I would rather just discuss it with Mr. Stokes, really," she said.
Something about her general unease and the way her eyes kept darting around the dark little office must have given Georgia a hint and she didn't press the case. She did, however, look apologetic. "I do wish you would have popped in even ten minutes ago. See, generally when Mr. Brown calls Nicky's got some good information and he leaves right--"
"It's not mine, Sarge, I swear! It's Kinney's, or maybe Harper's, or even DiPietro's, but not mine!" the sleeping man in the corner shouted and then fell out of his chair.
Both women whirled around to see what the commotion was as he peeled himself from the dusty floor and grumbled to himself. He flashed a them a sheepish smile and settled back in his chair, hat firmly back over his face. Sara didn't even have enough time to register what he really looked like.
"That would be Greg Sanders, Nicky's new protege," Georgia explained in a stage-whisper at Sara's raised eyebrows. "Nicky mostly just leaves him to waste away in that corner, so it just stymies me why he bothered to take him on at all."
"I'm growing mushrooms over here," Sanders added, his voice muffled. "Big, fat toadstools, growing out from between my toes."
Sara was mildly disturbed and she wondered idly if she wasn't developing whiplash from turning back and forth so rapidly.
"We think he was a bit damaged in the war," Georgia said in an undertone, tapping her temple with her index finger. Sanders either ignored it or appeared not to have heard at all. She seemed to remember the phone call from earlier and sat up a tad straighter. "Oh, Greg, your mother called, too. She wasn't sure if you'd brought your lunch with you." He groaned but didn't respond. His chair creaked as she shifted positions.
"Right..." Sara cleared her throat and fiddled some more with the handle of her purse. "Should I just come back tomorr--"
She didn't even get the chance to finish before the door to Mr. Stokes' office burst open and he stood in the doorway looking particularly stormy. There were large windows in there, lighting him from the back and casting an impressive shadow upon Sara. She shrank back a step. Greg fell out of his chair again. "Warrick's got nothin', Georgia. Nothin' at all. Damn all of it. Bezich is just gonna git away with this."
"Ya can't win all the time, Nicky," she replied, sounding rather bored.
"I need a real strong cup of black coffee," Mr. Stokes growled, looking back over his shoulder. He didn't seem to be smoking anything, and Sara resolved to assume nothing. She also resolved to, perhaps, find herself another investigator, although Brass had said there was no one better. Brass had been bartending down the street from her apartment longer than she'd been alive, so she trusted his knowledge. Even so, this Stokes place seemed just the least bit insane.
"And who do you want to answer the phones while I make that happen?" Georgia asked in a very saccharine voice, as though he was nine and asking for a lollipop.
All three of them turned and looked at Sanders in the corner, who groaned again and took off his hat to glower at them. He certainly looked no older than maybe nineteen, and Sara thought he was just as cute as a puppy. He looked like he'd fought with a bottle of peroxide and lost, as his neatly combed hair was at least four varying shades of brown and blond. Or, his formerly neatly-combed hair was, because sleeping with the hat over his face had rumpled the front of it rather beyond repair.
"Fine, fine," he said. "Glorified errand boy to the rescue. It's a good thing I live ten minutes away." He stood up, removed his suit jacket from where it was arranged over the back of the chair, shook it out, and shrugged it on. He glanced at Sara. "How is it out? Still about to rain?"
She blinked and didn't respond for a second. "Uh--er, it's gray out."
He grinned, and although she couldn't see his face all that well, his teeth were very white. "Coat it is," he said, turning and taking a black raincoat off the hat-rack in the corner. He knocked another man's hat to the floor and froze, glancing over at his shoulder at Stokes, who was leaning against his aunt's desk and discussing something with her in a very low voice. Sanders flipped the hat into the air with his foot and hastily hung it back on the hook. He shot Sara another grin and slipped out, tugging his own hat down over his eyebrows as he went.
"Did Warrick say anything constructive at all?" Georgia asked, changing her tack.
He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. "Just that I should go talk to Mugs-- really put the screws to her this time." He jumped off the desk and snapped his fingers. "That's the ticket, Georgia," he said. "I'm gonna do just that."
He took a step back towards his office but must have seen Sara in her bright red wool suit for the first time because he stopped and stared at her. Georgia put down the ledger and looked at the young woman as well. Sara stood there for a moment before she realized she was the subject of both Stokes' attention. She immediately turned pink and looked at the floor.
"This here is a Miss Sara Saddle and she's got some issue she wants to take up with you in private," Georgia said, exaggerating her own drawl and getting Sara's name wrong again.
Stokes' face cracked into a smile that, to Sara, looked mightily uncomfortable. His jaw was wide and square and he needed a shave and a pressing. His dark hair looked like he'd raked his fingers through it several times in frustration and had not expected polite company afterwards. He might have been handsome, too, given ample time to prepare himself and affix a genuine smile on his lips. He stepped forward and offered her a hand the size of a dinner plate, "Nick Stokes, Miss Saddle. How are you this morning?"
"Actually, it's past three, and my name's Sidle, not Saddle," she said, shaking his bear paw with her own dainty hand and then glancing at Georgia, who watched them far too avidly. "Your aunt here said you were far too busy with all your current clients, although I can't imagine you have much business with your office in the slums like this. My problem is rather dire, I must admit, and I do think it's worth your time." She had to remind herself not to wring her hands.
"Tell me on the way?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. She looked startled but he cut her off before she could refuse. "Good. Let me get my slicker."
After he disappeared back into his office, Sara turned to Georgia with big eyes. "He can't expect me to go with him!" she said desperately.
Georgia laughed. "Sorry, babe, but that might be the only way you get your story heard today. Anyway, it's just Mugs. She's an old moll with a mean ol' bark but not much of a bite. We deal with her all the time."
Not feeling at all reassured, Sara deflated and she pulled the veil on her hat down over eyes. Her case simply couldn't wait for tomorrow and she resigned herself to the fact she would be having an adventure. Stokes reappeared right then and he plucked his hat off the hat rack in the corner by Sanders' hopelessly messy desk. "Greggo dropped it, didn't he?" he asked no one in particular, dusting imaginary dirt from the brim and then tugging it down onto his head.
"Have fun, Miss Saddle," Georgia called as the office door closed behind Sara.
...chapter fin
Dedicated to the old friend Katie with whom I haven't spoken since freshman year
In Chapter Two... there will be visits to Catherine and Archie, as well as more Greg-being-Greg. And plenty of Hard-Boiled!Nick.
posted July 21, 2005, by tinhen.