User: cashandcheck Date: 2008-03-30 17:30 Subject: open to any staff Security: Public Tags: club closed, jensen, john, johnny, scott

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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