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Aidan's colleagues are not a bad bunch, really. They left his face pretty much out of it, and the only exterior sign of what happened is a healing split lip. Well, that and the fact that he can't sashay through life the way he usually does, nonchalant and easy. Instead he walks just like most people, regular, steady, nothing original there.
Getting the Broderick is pretty boring, past the initial rush of pain and adrenaline.
All the more reason to go enjoy a quiet drink at the Fury, really. Whiskey. What else? He didn't save it for nothing.
Not so quiet after all, the Fury's buzzing with activity. It's nice to be looking at it, seated on his own at a table with a good view of the stage and the dancefloor. In the middle of all that jazz, but not quite part of it. Just the way he likes it best. He rubs at the back of his neck, trying to soothe aching muscles; at least his breathing has gotten better. Ribs are healing up.
He's usually left alone in here, so he don't expect nobody to come walk up to him like that. He doesn't mind the way he thought he would, and actually smiles up at the intruder with his usual spark of slightly barmy.
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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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( 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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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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Where: Daniel's office
What: Discuss Saturday night and engage in a pissing contest
Rating: PGish
Warnings: none
This is my sector.
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It's been a hell of a day and Tim's looking forward to an evening at The Fury. He makes his usual quiet entrance, taking a path that keeps him along the walls. Once he's got a bourbon in hand, he strays from his usual pattern and doesn't sit at the bar. He finds a table, where his back's to the wall and he can watch the room.
Now then, for a little entertainment.
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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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"Do you ever have the feeling that something's not copacetic and you don't know nothing from nothing even though you're hitting on all sixes?" Bren asks the person next to him at the bar. He's a little bouncy, knee moving even though he's sitting, but he seems pretty damned sobber.
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Well, it has been a very dull and uninformative night. James sighs, and drums his fingers on the table. Talking to Tricia was like hitting a brick wall repeatedly; he had found out nothing except she clearly wasn't waiting for someone, no matter how disappointed she had looked when she had finally left. He's already put in a call to check her out when the sun rises. You have to know who you are dealing with to be able to put them in their place.
And now he's itching for something to do, like something crawling just under the surface of his skin. He's not too sure what, but there's something he wants, a taste just out of reach, and he watches the patrons amble by, seeking out a face or some sign that shows weakness. And then he catches a glimpse of Scott retreating into his office, and he remembers the tenseness of his neck when he mentioned customer satisfaction, and there. Perfect. Someone to talk to. In soothing tones. Something to do that might quiet the itch for a while.
He stands up and pushes his chair in, taking his drink with him - his third, and he's aware he's feeling warm. Not enough to take the edge off, but noticeable nonetheless. James flicks his eyes over to John, busy talking to a flushing bass player, and then over to Nathan, who is inundated with customers. No one seems to notice him as he slips over to the office door and knocks lightly. A man's office is sacred, even James doesn't barge in unannounced.
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"Reese, Reese, Reese Witherspooooon," Brendon drags out the os, flopping down at her table with her. "You look lovely this evening, has everyone told you you look lovely or has the darkness of the club blinded everyone to your unnatural glory?" He's serious for a moment before asking, "Reese, have you sold your immortal soul for captivating golden hair and pouty red lips. Because seriously, good deal."
Brendon is not smooth. Not ever, but especially not tonight. He is wearing a top hat, an all black suit and a ridiculous amount of eye makeup. He's bouncy- that's not unusual, but not this bouncy. This is hyper or nerves, or a combination of the two. So's the hand reaching out for Reese's, wanting physical contract to ground him a bit.
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( 'He wasn't a perfect man, but he was a damn good son.' So Tricia starts talking to people. )
That brings her right back to square one. Tomorrow she'll stop by the precinct, see if anybody there can help her out; it's time to renew her police contacts. But right now she needs to take her mind off the job, and there's no place like the Fury to take your mind off things.
So for once she walks into the joint in her day's clothes, every bit the dame in a dress cut to the latest fashion. She's not here for more than easy conversation, but Nathan's too busy with other patrons to chat (place is packed tonight) and John's nowhere in sight. She hasn't seen Scott Gill since she's been back, though she hasn't even thought about him until just now. There's an odd buzz in the room tonight, too many peope on edge alongside too many people having fun, and she finds herself still on the job, almost despite herself.
There's many a thing to eavesdrop on in a place like the Fury, and she can't quite help herself on this one. Good thing she's dressed the flapper tonight; she seems that much more like a dish without much in the brainpan. Harmless. Yes, that's her alright, harmless.
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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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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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