Things seem to be running just as smoothly as usual in the Fury. Good to see it back on track.
James didn't need Stellan tonight, so he decided to come over and swill down vodka. He's on his own, seated at a table with a bottle and a glass. He doesn't dance; he used to, when he was younger, but that was years and years ago. Before the war. He doesn't play cards; too much is left up to chance, and he likes for things to be more certain than that. He doesn't chat dollybirds up; not been his style for a while.
He keeps a semi-professional eye as he winds down from his day. If there's trouble, he's here. He's definitely enjoying the music, though, and he's not asocial, as anyone would find out if they decided to join him.
He'd probably even share the vodka, which is about as important to him as eating his eggs in the morning.
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Kate is all smiles as she walks in and sees how busy the place is tonight. It's her night off from performing but she's in the mood for a good time and everyone knows this is the place to be for that. She smiles and nods at the staff members she knows while heading toward the tables. Before settling herself at one, she stops and chats briefly with several people. Once she sits down, she orders a dry martini and leans back in her chair to watch the show, both on stage and off.
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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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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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John's busy, sure, but that doesn't mean that he's not aware of the sudden noise of movement outside in the corridor - and neither's his guest. Twisting free, he grabs for the key, unlocks the door, sees the commotion - and yeah, there's not many things to cause that scale of panic.
He makes sure the client's dressed and safely out, then heads back - stupid, maybe, but Scott's probably still in there and he wants to know what the hell's going on - so grabs for the nearest person, catching them by the arm, and pulling them against the wall out of the path of folk running by.
"What's the story?" he demands, without preamble, and completely ignoring the fact that he's only wearing pants, suspenders hanging loose around his hips. No shoes, no shirt. It's not a time to hang around worrying about modesty.
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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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Tonight, Tricia is determined to leave her curiosity at the door. It's a professional weakness not to want to incriminate the Fury in her investigation, but she can't help it.
Tonight, she's going to relax. She dances to a few tunes, then joins a card game. You rarely get sharped on at the Fury, and when you do you can be sure that the unfortunate soul won't be doing it again, not here.
The game progresses nicely until the hick that's been losing since the beginning decides that it's her fault rather than that of his bad luck and poor decisions. Alcohol makes him much louder than necessary and she starts to wonder, during a particularly loud and insulting tirade of his, whether he'll be stupid enough to raise a hand against her. That would be sure to get him the Broderick from a bouncer.
She's not afraid; the Fury looks out for its customers. She's annoyed, though, quickly growing into irritated and then plain angry, and she stands up, leans close to the palooka, and quietly hisses, "The only reason you've been losing is because you're a fool, and a drunken fool at that. I don't sharp, and nobody would need to cheat to beat you at cards."
The guy obviously doesn't take that kindly and shoots to his feet, nearly foaming at the mouth. "Ain't nobody calls me drunk, roundheels."
That's when somebody steps in.
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Chris walks down the street, a small bounce to his step. He's got enough money in his pocket tonight for a couple of drinks at the Fury; those suckers at the place before hadn't even known what hit them. He's likely to drop by there again.
But, well, the drinks were less than par - maybe too watered down or something, Chris doesn't really know - and the company even less appealing. Besides, you never slept with the people you sharped. First rule of the game. There wasn't anything to regret, though, because The Fury always offered a better time anyway - and life was just too short to go for anything less than the most fun. Maybe The Fury just spoiled him for anywhere else.
Whatever the reason, he finds himself sliding through the doors and making his way through the bar with a smile on his face. Once he's got a drink in his hands, the night starts to look up even more. He relaxes back into his chair and turns his attention to the dance floor, eyes scanning the crowd for someone or something interesting - dancing, talking...whatever really. And if it leads to something else then, well, all the better for him.
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Tim hasn't had time to come into The Fury in a while, his boss has been keeping him busy playing messenger boy, which although Tim does it. It's not his favorite job. Too many pissing contests which require him to keep his temper and use words instead of bullets or fists.
Despite the fact that he threatened Daniel, Tim knows that there's almost no chance he'll ever get an order to take the man down. Daniel's good and it would create waves and disrupt business and in this case? Waves were bad.
He's looking forward to a relaxing night off, gets a drink and finds an empty table. Tim lights a cigarette and exhales slowly, eyes gazing around the room checking for trouble before he relaxes a little.
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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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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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It's late afternoon when Tim wanders into The Fury and bellies up to the bar. His gaze runs over the crowd as he waits for his drink, noting those he knows and cataloging those he doesn't. When his glass gets there, he takes a quick swallow and exhales slowly. He hears someone walking toward the bar and looks over before he turns so that his back is not to them.
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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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Tricia doesn't come here much at all anymore. A few years back she
would have been called a regular, but life takes you places, and her
life has definitely been taking her a lot of places. Not that she's
complaining, not one bit.
Still, it's nice to be home, which is what Chicago is, home away from
home. Her first real freedoms were found in this city, and a lot of
them she used to exercise at the Fury. It's good to be back.
The bouncer remembers her; it's always nice to know she's made an
impression. Might just be that even here, you don't see that many five
foot ten blondes riding Harleys, but she doesn't mind that either. She
smiles at him on her way in, and keeps smiling on her way down, but
not at anyone. Not unless you're going to think of the Fury as
someone. Tempting, when it feels so alive. Vibrant. Vibrant with the
sound of the piano, the rumble of conversation, and she's hoping that
John is up for a set soon; she hasn't heard him in too long. If he's
even still here.
She spots a free stool at the end of the bar, and who is she to refuse
that perfect location. She can relax, enjoy a drink, and bask in the
memories as she surveys the room. There's a bit of nostalgy from the
time she used to spend here, the life she used to have here, but it
ain't a bad thing. She tilts her fedora back a little, shrugs out of
her trenchcoat and wraps it on the arm of the barstool. Now she'll
just have to wait for the bartender to head over her way, and her eyes
are scanning the crowd to check for familiar faces.
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Nathan's standing behind the bar, sleeves of his white shirt rolled down and buttoned at the wrists, wiping down a glass as he surveys the room. It's a busy night, as usual, but at the moment no one's in need of a refill, so he's able to take a moment to listen, really listen, to Brendon's routine. He laughs along with the crowd when Brendon hits the punchline with just the right note. Looks like the time John took to help him out is paying off.
Placing the clean glass with the rest, he hangs the towel on its designated rack and wipes his hands on the apron he wears to protect his trousers before pulling his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and tapping one out of the packet.
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