The club's closed during the daytime. It gives the staff a chance to get the place set for the night, keep it secure, and means there's a secure rehearsal space.
Sometimes it means there's a place for John to entertain favored guests during the day, but not right now. Right now, he's off that kind of duty, and it's making him all kinds of antsy. That's what's got him down there when it's barely past noon, sitting at the piano, working through a new number.
Sure would be easier if they'd got a regular piano player. He's not sure what happened to Jimmy, but he's got suspicions that it involves the dame he'd been carrying a torch for, a couple deep games, and a short trip to the big house. Either way, it leaves John picking out a melody he half knows of a duet he'll half sing.
When the door swings open behind him, he swivels on the stool, abandoning the keyboard. "This ever gonna work, you think, or am I wasting my time here?"
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Nathan's fully recovered, well, as fully recovered as he needs to be to get back to work. The cuts and bruises have mostly healed, and he can walk without pain. His shoulder's a little touchy, but as long as he makes no sudden movements it'll do.
It's time and past that he's back behind the bar. He's missed being here, missed chatting with the staff and customers, worried that Mike might not be able to keep up... He's heard whispers of confirmation on that last in the short time he's been back, and has vowed to himself to work with Mike. Can't have The Fury's reputation shot to hell because a barkeep can't mix a proper cocktail. Might seem to be a minor thing with all the other troubles in the air, but it's the only one he can do anything about, so he will.
The joint's really jumpin' tonight. Card tables full, dance floor fuller, sounds of music and conversation fill the air. Yeah, he's missed being here, and the smile on his face as he greets his next customer shows just how happy he is to be back.
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He can't go to Scott's place. That's a stupid move, risks revealing Scott's address, and confirms the strong (and accurate) rumors about their relationship beyond business. Going to the club...yeah, it's stupid, but it's less stupid. At least, less stupid since Aidan's message got passed on.
So John goes to The Fury. Keys still in his pocket, going in through one of the back entrances very few people, even staff, know about, and making his way through to front of house. Very, very careful. Tread light, touch nothing. Someone's done some cleanup work, but there's still a fair amount to be done before they can open to the public again.
Primarily, getting Aidan his money for distribution.
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Nathan takes another drag on his cigarette, the one provided by Det. Walsh, using the opportunity to give thanks the man had been in tonight. He'd not had much contact with the detective before, tended to keep to himself which Nathan respected, but what he'd seen tonight, he'd liked. And not just because he'd kept them all from being hauled downtown. Turns out, 'Sandy' has a rather quirky sense of humor, and Nathan likes that in a person.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he turns to the bouncers, sending Rob off in search of Scott and setting the other two to righting the tables and chairs, before joining Kate and Bren.
"Let's see about cleaning this joint up some, shall we."
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( Tic, tac, toe, let's see who's made detective here. )
"We have orders to bring the staff in," Officer Soontobewrinkled retorts. "Orders from a detective."
Oh. That complicates matters. But it's nothing Aidan can't deal with and he knows for a fact (or hopes with all his heart, anyway) that there will be a lot of gratitude down the line for the hushed conversation he's now having with the officer. Well, there will be a lot of gratitude if Roth doesn't just decide to cut off his hands for having let this happen in the first place. Could go either way.
He finally talks the officer around and looks at the people that have been rounded up. That one, the bartender, in conversation with the pretty singer and the funny kid, but the barkeep's probably the most trustworthy one and Aidan heads for him, gait relaxed. "Word in private." Not a question, but a statement.
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This week was just going from bad to worse, and it was only Tricia's instincts that prevented her from getting nailed. The police, in the Fury? She'd never seen that or heard of that before. It was mayhem inside, and she ran with the crowd, only much less blindly.
She was almost forced to deck a bull standing in her way, but then someone else did it for her, which was all well and good. She wanted out, but she wasn't sure it was worth the risk of knocking out one of the fuzz. Or trying, at least, her right hook wasn't that good.
She made it outside and stood still for a second, people running away in all directions. This was the oldest question in the world, but where had she put her bike? She remembered and set herself into motion, hardly breaking into a run that she'd collided into someone. Please, not a copper.
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Zeta's done what any self-respecting girl would do when the coppers raid a joint: She's hidden herself neatly away in a broom closet down by the dressing rooms.
She waits until the sounds of chaos have drifted away and sneaks a peek through the barely-opened door just as she hears footsteps. She's about to pull it shut again when she recognizes who it is.
"Pssst. John!" she whispers to get his attention.
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It was early in the day, enough that the Fury was mostly empty.
Early enough that Bren was practicing on stage, tap dancing across the stage absently.
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Brendon's early; it's Sunday and it's barely noon. He's not in costume; his jacket's off and he's just in his shirt and trousers, though at least he's wearing shoes. He'd stiffened himself up for this with a drink before coming around to Scott's office and knocking on the door, waiting for an answer and not quite sure if he's hoping Scott's there or hoping he isn't.
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After a terse phone call from Scott just forty minutes ago, Nathan's at The Fury hours earlier than usual, with good reason. Seems someone absconded with their latest shipment of booze, and Scott wants to know the exact amount of hooch they still have available. With good reason.
Oh, not that they don't have a goodly amount on hand - as Nathan counts off each of the bottles in the cellar, he marks it on his inventory sheet, which he'll turn in to Scott as soon as he finishes - but if something happens to the shipment tomorrow night? Getting through the weekend is going to be a challenge.
Watering down the drinks is out of the question. One of the reasons their customers keep coming back is that they know they can trust the quality of their drinks. Change that, and soon you're on a downward spiral of lost business, closed doors, and joblessness. Not to mention regular encounters with the more unsavory aspects of life in Towertown. So skimping is out of the question.
As is a change in hours, or any other solution he can come up with. Which makes him extremely glad he's not the one who has to decide these things. He'll just do what Scott tells him to. Like getting on with this inventory so Scott knows how the situation stands.
He rubs his eyes, and gets back to counting bottles.
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It's been a long night.
Not physically long - the hours are the same as ever, set list same length, still the same stragglers left to be hoarded out at the end of the night for closedown, but it's harder to keep the facade up when the knowledge of the stiff from earlier's haunting the back of his brain. Which makes it a relief to shoot the bolt on the door behind the last customer, kiss the final performers goodnight and usher them out the back, then head down to the hall for a last check.
It's not quite empty. John's not seen Mr. Gill since the afternoon, but he's positive that Mr. Gill's still in the club. Probably in the office with the firmly closed door.
Nathan's still there, too, and John heads across to the bar, sits down heavily on a stool, and rests folded arms on the polished wood. "Hell of a night, huh?"
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Bobby sits, in the dark, feeling slightly woozy. He thinks he was at an apartment somewhere downtown, but can't remember how he got from there to here. Although the blond in the bed might have some recollection. Somehow he doesn't want to wake her up, as he has a strong memory of a very annoying nasal whine issuing from her mouth. Just another dumb chippy he'll have to get rid of sometime later. And of course he's wide awake, even if certain parts of his body feel half-asleep. Must be the snow. Or that stuff they were smoking. Or the gin, gin always makes him unable to get some shut-eye.
You know what will make him feel better? Talking to a pal. That's always swell. A compadre, a fellow gossip, a lover of wine, women and song.
Well, wine and song at least.
It takes him a little while to find the phone under the bed, how did it get there? and Bobby rubs his eye with two fingers, stretching his face in a yawn and then shaking it abruptly to help him focus on the numbers. Round and round his fingers go, and his eyes follow them before remembering he's not alone, and so with effort, he picks himself up off the floor and struggles over to the window sill, his shirt undone and trousers loosely buttoned, rooting about for a deck he knows he has in his pockets and lighting up, blowing smoke out the window.
"So ya know, I was thinkin'," he starts as soon as he hears John's slightly irritated voice on the line, "you an' me, we could make a killing selling your memoirs. All those people, the dames, the daisies, all under a nom de plume, of course, we couldn't draw attention to you that much, but all the intimacies, the whispers in the dark, the looks, the touches. Hey, and if you wanted we could make some of it up, heck, I do for god's sake, some of the time, and I'm sure you must do otherwise you're the busiest boy in town." He pauses for a tiny moment. "Are you busy now, John? Cos if you are, I can ring back, later, maybe, or come in this evening, I can do that if you'd rather, but you know, I'm sat here thinking about the fact I can't even remember how we met the first time apart from your smile and the way you flipped me a quarter for a drink, that was impressive, I gotta tell ya."
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The phone call Scott has to make doesn't take long to make. He calls Mr. Callis, lets him know (definitely but without detail) that there is a problem at the club. Anything more would mean taking risks he doesn't feel like taking.
Once the phone call is concluded he heads to the back door to greet Mr. Callis himself. There are people there, of course, employees of the club and employees of the mob getting the dead guy the hell out of his club. When he hears someone approaching does a quick check and opens the door for Callis.
At least inside The Fury he doesn't have to worry about shifting allegiances.
Probably.
Days like this he thinks he needs a raise.
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John's not usually the first to arrive at The Fury.
It's not unknown, though. Coming down in the afternoon to open up, get some rehearsal time in. Sometimes audition a new act, if he's not had the chance (and he rarely does) to get over to whatever joint they're currently playing and size them up.
Today, he's got new numbers to work on for his own set. George and Ira have been busy bashing them out over in Tin Pan Alley, and he's got to keep the club up on the latest hottest music. Fascinating the rhythm might be, but it's a bitch to learn.
He turns down the alley to the club entrance, and stops. There's a shadowed heap by the doorway, old tarpaulin carelessly thrown or drawn over something. Someone. He can just pick out a hand protruding from under the tarp. Well, it's not the first time that some ossified bum's decided to sleep it off in their doorway.
This one doesn't respond to being kicked. Or shouted at.
Senses sharp, stomach heavy, John bends, peels back the tarp, and rocks back on his heels. No. This one's not going to respond to anything this side of the pearly gates again. This one's bitten the big one.
It's not a drunken hobo. This guy drinks - used to drink - in The Fury. Not every night, not often enough that John knows his name, but often enough to be recognizable. And now, he's been bumped off and left on the doorstep wrapped in a tarp.
Carefully, John folds the tarpaulin back over the corpse's face, covers the hand, and heads back to the main avenue, heading for the nearest public telephone booth. Requests a call be placed through to Mr. Gill, and doesn't fool himself there aren't a dozen taps on the line.
"Sir? I think you'd better come in to work. We've got a situation."
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It's late.
It's so late, it probably classes as early in most people's lives. John's life isn't like most people's, and he's just had a very forceful reminder of that.
It's a trade he makes. Willingly. Protection and security for his talent to entertain, his ability to charm, his quick wits.
His body.
It's his body that's been on loan this evening. Someone Mr. Gill can't afford to offend. Needs to please. Someone who doesn't have any complex or even particularly unpleasant demands, and physically, it's no trouble for John to accommodate him. Emotionally, it adds another smut to the tarnish coating what used to be his idealism. Long lost, but he's still in the showers behind the dressing rooms, hoping the rapidly cooling dribble of water is going to be enough to clean off the physical effects.
Anything else is three Hail Marys and more time on sore knees.
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Brendon chews on his pencil, leaving teeth marks in the wood as he reads through what he'd written earlier. He's not even really dressed yet, bracers holding his loose trousers on over his undershirt. His hair's sticking up on one side and he has a trace of raspberry lipstick smudged across his lower lip; he's gotten distracted mid-way through getting ready. He mouthes the words, shifting on the stage to curl his feet under him comfortably. He's still working on this piece, the phrasing isn't flowing right, it isn't funny, it's not fun. Usually he wouldn't overly concern himself, he would just let it flow on stage. But he's tried this on stage already and it flopped. He hates failing on stage, not getting a laugh for twelve solid seconds.
Brendon switches some words around, changes the inflections in his head before trying it again, voice flamboyant, outrageous, obviously an affectation. He takes a deep breath before saying in a more normal tone, his real voice, though it's quiet; he's only talking to himself.
"Now, am I subtle or clever with this?" He chews his bottom lip, looking as young as he actually is, "Or do I sound like a complete punk?"
He spins around to call out into the room, at the others getting ready for the patrons who'd be there soon, "Hey! Do I sound like a punk?"
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It's a quiet night. It's always a quiet night at this time. Before the club opens, after the stores close, after the office workers have gone to their safe little homes and before the nightowls hit the streets. It's quiet, and some people would love that, but for John, it's just the start of his day.
( Some people start earlier )
Hands shoved into his pockets, John saunters down the stairs, past the gaming tables and over to the bar, one foot resting against it as he leans against one of the barstools. "Open for business, Fillion?"
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