Two days since the raid, and the doors reopen. There's little sign that the police were ever here, except as customers, and the bar's freshly stocked with the hooch delivered safely from the dock.
Nathan's still home, recovering, but Mike's behind the bar, a capable replacement, kept busy serving the steady stream eager to return to The Fury after a weekend's closure. The band's playing, the dancefloor's full, and the staff are busy.
John's on stage for his opening set, waiting for the cue to sound for Zeta to join him for handover, and everything's as it was a week ago.
Back in business, and ain't it grand. Let the good times roll.
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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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Bren's a high strung person at the best of times. These are not the best of times. He's all but jittering, hands wrung together. He still has on his stage makeup, of course, he hadn't even gone on yet, but he's taken off his tie, his hat is long gone and he's pacing like he can't sit still. He can't. Brendon's balled out and scared.
He'd been on his own for a while, but dealing with the fuzz in a business way was new to him and he wasn't dealing well.
He was actually quiet.
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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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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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"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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"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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Thomas pauses just inside the door, wondering for a second if he shouldn't just call it a bust and go home. His informant is two hours late and Thomas knows that means he won't show at all; something had spooked him. Pretty much par for Thomas' course on a day where bad had become worse with every passing second.
He actually takes a step back, ready to turn and face the oh so pleasant bouncer he'd encountered on his way in, but the lure of a stiff drink is stronger than the empty apartment he'd be heading home to. Squaring his shoulders, he heads deeper into the club. He's calm and relaxed, but his eyes miss nothing. He's learned the hard way that trouble always comes when you're not actively looking for it.
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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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