Disclaimer: CSI is not mine. The lines aren't even mine. Hey, but everything in between them is. I typed all those words. That makes 'em mine. Particularly 'the'. I type that word a lot. So I've decided it's mine.
Rating, Beta Props, etc. – See Chapter 1.
A/N: Here comes Grissom. This is GSR, remember? First and last lines of the YTDAW Improv challenge were provided, and are italicized. Microsoft Word says 1,990 words.
The cat stared at Grissom with an evil glare. Grissom glared back at it. "Don't start with me, feline," he spat. "I've had a bad day."
He'd had quite a few bad days recently. For the past six weeks, Warrick and Sara had Thursday nights off. Together. He didn't remember signing the approval forms for them, but he must have, because they couldn't take off otherwise. Something was up between the two of them.
Bets had been placed on whether the two were an item. Warrick was tight-lipped about what they were doing, but he had reassured Nick that they were friends only. Grissom had lucked out in overhearing that tidbit from Greg, who was present when Nick started pounding Warrick for information. Greg had, of course, felt the need to share said information with Jacqui, and then Bobby in ballistics.
Sara had said nothing. But she was happier. Her smile appeared more quickly now, and her laugh was heard more often in the lab corridors. Something was up.
To make it worse, Grissom suspected that Nick and Greg had just recently found out the big secret. Both had been talking in the kitchen during break the night before; Grissom had heard their attempts at whispering from the hallway. The conversation had ceased when he entered the room.
It was eating Grissom alive. And tonight, while he was short two CSIs, they'd been swamped with cases. Two trick rolls, a B&E, and a mugging in an alleyway near some bar off the strip. Catherine was on the B&E, Nick was on both rolls by himself, and Grissom was up to his ankles in garbage, filth, and the stench of cat urine in the alley, looking for evidence while Brass stood behind him, interviewing their drunken victim.
He heard music coming from the lounge nearby. A melancholy piece, considering the melody. He walked closer to the back door of the lounge, listening while searching for traces of their perp. It was possible that the mugger left through the back door of the lounge, for whatever reasons, and surprised the drunken man and his girlfriend in the alleyway. Or, the couple had left, and the perp was waiting back here in the shadows. Either way, the lounge deserved a second look.
Grissom walked back to the front of the building, snagging Brass in the process. Jim filled him in quickly. "Guy says he and his girlfriend came outside for some 'air'. By the looks of her, they were doing a little more than breathing. Anyways, he claims someone came up behind them from the shadows, and put a gun to her head. He demanded all their money, and jewelry, so they gave it to him. Our guy claims the mugger was wearing a ski mask, and he didn't smell so good. His lady love agrees."
"So," Grissom stated, "we're looking for a guy with a bad case of B.O. in a ski mask."
"Good luck finding him," Brass replied. "You want to check out the bar? Chat with the bartender, maybe? You never know. Maybe ski-mask-wearing smelly guys hang out in this place."
Both Grissom and Brass showed their badge to the bouncer at the door. He immediately went to retrieve the owner, and Grissom found himself in a conversation with what could only be described as a beached walrus trapped in a man's body. A very dark-skinned, smooth-talking beached walrus.
"Samuel Clemson," the walrus said, holding out his paw. "A pleasure to meet you both. Please, do come inside. Something to eat or drink, perhaps? Non-alcoholic of course. No? Your choice."
Clemson led them through the bar, heavily themed in what Grissom considered 'Dark Elvis.' Black and red were prominent colors, and the place was filled with a light haze of smoke. The owner led them to a table off in a corner, away from the stage and the main seating area. The music Grissom had heard earlier had stopped, and he assumed the band must be on their break. That was disappointing, because he would have liked to have heard more. He'd only caught bits and pieces of the lead singer's voice, but she sounded spectacular.
"What brings you to the Black Velvet, gentleman?"
"We're here about an incident that occurred outside of your establishment," Grissom replied. "A man and woman were assaulted and their valuables were stolen. They claim a foul-smelling man in a ski mask was their attacker."
Samuel Clemson scowled deeply, looking more like a walrus than ever. "Old Joey McNaulty hangs out in our alley, and believe me; he hasn't had a decent bath in months, maybe years. He's homeless, and for the most part, harmless. My sister is the cook here, and sometimes she'll give him stuff to eat. But really, he's harmless."
Brass spoke up. "The assailant was reported to have pointed a gun at a young lady's head. Any idea if this McNaulty might have gotten one recently?"
More frowning by the walrus. "No, I have no idea. This is truly upsetting for me. I run a clean establishment here, and I was concerned about having him residing in our alley. But my sister assured me he was okay. 'Harmless' was her exact description. I see now my instincts were correct."
"Well," Brass replied, handing Clemson a card, "if you can think of anything else, don't hesitate to call. Is your sister back in the kitchen?"
"No, she's gone home for the night. The kitchen closes at ten."
The lights began dimming and it seemed the band was returning. Grissom focused his attention towards the stage, but Clemson and a side wall were obstructing his view. A deep woman's voice echoed across the room, thanking the crowd for their applause at her return.
"Last set, folks. You know what that means; time to pay homage to the roof over our heads. You ready?" The woman's voice was sultry, and seemed to drip sexuality. Both Grissom and Brass focused on the stage.
Samuel noticed their interest. "That's our newest addition. I call 'em 'Ebony and Ivory' but I don't think they have a name. They're new to the scene and the lady there can sing like there's no tomorrow. You should stay for a while and listen."
The woman was still laughing softly and conversing with the patrons, hyping them up for the show.
"No thank you," Brass said. "We'll be leaving now. Tell your sister we'll be in touch." And with that, Brass rose quickly and seemed very intent on ushering Grissom out of the lounge – via the back door.
"Why are we leaving this way, Jim?"
"I… uh… wanted to check out the kitchen before we left. And really, we should be going."
"In a minute, I want to hear her sing. I heard her before, from outside."
"You did?" Brass seemed shocked, "And… you were okay with that?"
"Um… why wouldn't I be?" Grissom asked sarcastically.
Brass grimaced before saying, "I think you should sit this one out. I don't think she's that good. Time to go, Gil." Brass was practically shoving Grissom towards the kitchen door.
"Jesus, Jim. What is it?"
"All right," Brass sighed. "Go ahead, just don't do anything stupid."
"Jim, what are you talking about? Why would I do anything…?" Grissom's voice trailed off as he got a good view of the stage. There stood Sara, clad in a deep blue gown that revealed most, if not all, of her right leg, including her thigh and hip bone. Behind her was a black baby grand piano, polished to an almost blinding sheen. Grissom could almost make out the brown fluff of hair sitting at the keys. Another young black man Grissom didn't recognize sat behind a trap set, complete with snare and bass drums.
He walked towards the center of the bar, which conveniently faced the center of the stage. As he was walking, Warrick started to play, the young drummer started a deep, rhythmic beat, and Sara started to hum softly. The chatter within the whole room ceased.
She sang, the lyrics flowing out of her like a fine wine.
'Mississippi in the middle of a dry spell…'
'Jimmy Rogers on the Victrola up high…'
'Momma's dancing with baby on her shoulder…'
Grissom gaped. He stared. A trickle of saliva started to creep over his lower lip, so he swallowed. Then he returned to gaping and staring. Sara could sing. Sara was singing. Right there in front of him, in a dress that should be illegal.
'Black Velvet and that little boy smile…'
'Black Velvet with that strong southern style...'
'A new religion that'll bring you to your knees…'
'Black Velvet, if you please.'
Brass grabbed Grissom's shoulder tightly. "C'mon, Gil. We've got work to do."
"That's… that's Sara."
"Yes, Gil. I know."
"She's singing."
"I see that."
"No, you hear it," he corrected. "You see Sara in her dress. Do you see that dress? That dress is ridiculous, Jim," Grissom growled through his half-babble. "She shouldn't be wearing that in public."
"What Sara Sidle wears on her nights off is not your concern. Time to go."
Grissom couldn't pry his eyes away from Sara on stage. This was probably a good thing, since three-quarters of the men in the audience were also drooling over her as well, and if he saw them eyeing her the same way he was – he probably wouldn't have been a very happy man. Brass knew this, and was very eager to remove Grissom from harm's way.
"Leaving now, Griss. Time to go. Gotta catch those criminals. Remember them? The bad guys?"
"Okay. But I'm talking to both of them tomorrow night about this."
"No, you're not. What they do on their own time is their business. If they want to dance around in pink bunny suits and play polka on accordions, that's their business. Not yours."
Grissom scowled so fiercely his jaw hurt. "I'm their supervisor. It is my business."
"Only if it affects their work, which it does not. This is their one night off a week, and it is their choice in how they want to spend it. They both do an excellent job for you while they are on the clock. Now let's go."
Grissom followed Brass out the back door after running a halfhearted search for evidence on the kitchen. Brass knew Grissom was done for the evening, so they headed back to the lab. True to character, Grissom retreated to his office and shut the door. He didn't return to the real world until shift was over, and then it was only to drop off his report on the mugging, walk to his car, and drive off with a slight squeal of tires.
Greg was standing next to his own car, chatting with Jacqui when Grissom tore out of the parking lot. Both of them looked at each other in confused surprise. Jacqui spoke first, voicing what was on both of their minds.
"What was that all about?"
… continued next chapter ->
More Important Disclaimer Info: The lyrics above are obviously to the song 'Black Velvet', for which this fic is titled. I love this song. And it is not mine. Here's who it belongs to:
'Black Velvet'
Written by: Christopher Ward and Dave Tyson
Performed by: Alannah Myles off her self-titled 1989 debut album
Produced by: Dave Tyson and is copy written (most likely to Atlantic Records).
The snippets of lyrics for this song were taken from Alannah Myles website.