Tricia Hauer (callmetricia) wrote in thatjazz, @ 2008-04-09 21:35:00 |
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Current mood: | productive |
Current music: | I Wish I could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate |
Entry tags: | club open, complete, james, tricia |
Open to James (and to interruptions and walk-ins, though!)
"He wasn't a perfect man, but he was a damn good son," Tricia is being told, and the elderly woman sniffles. Tricia extends a handkerchief to her; the woman takes it, daps at her nose. "I just know it in my guts, the way only a mother can. You got any children, miss?"
Tricia shakes her head. Children are a bridle, and she wants to be all that she can.
"You just know, and I know something's happened to my Willy. The police don't care, they barely listened to me, but he's my boy."
Willy Walker was 38 and, Tricia soon comes to learn, was pretty damn fond of booze, gambling and cheap women (he never could afford the expensive ones). Still, she believes his old woman. He was her boy, and he's gone missing.
There are too many crimes in Chicago these days for anyone to investigate them all, so a good reporter must know how to pick 'em. On this one the human angle talks to her, that old woman's love for her son, who doesn't seem like he was worth it at all. Motherly love isn't qualifiable, though, it just is, and the old woman probably saw things in her boy nobody else did. That's the angle she'll be going for, under all the scandalous muckracking every good citizen of Chicago will be looking for.
So Tricia starts talking to people. That's what she's good at, getting people to talk to her, because she's a woman who knows when to play at being dumb, and when to show that she can hold her own. Because she's a pretty face and a pair of long legs and that will get tongues to loosen way quicker than you'd think. Because she's not afraid to ask the tough questions, and smart enough to know when it's better to keep them quiet.
It's the end of a long day and she could use a drink. She's gone round Willy's few friends - acquaintances - some of which he actually owed money to, and they're not too happy to know he's gone. They're not good enough to be faking it, and Tricia crosses them off her list of suspects in a murder she's not even sure has happened. There were chippies, but none in particular. She visits bookies, she talks to her connections, but the name doesn't ring a bell further than the bets taken, the money owed. Willy Walker wasn't on the nut and had the reputation to pay his debts; chilling him would be pointless to them.
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.