He can't go to Scott's place. That's a stupid move, risks revealing Scott's address, and confirms the strong (and accurate) rumors about their relationship beyond business. Going to the club...yeah, it's stupid, but it's less stupid. At least, less stupid since Aidan's message got passed on.
So John goes to The Fury. Keys still in his pocket, going in through one of the back entrances very few people, even staff, know about, and making his way through to front of house. Very, very careful. Tread light, touch nothing. Someone's done some cleanup work, but there's still a fair amount to be done before they can open to the public again.
Primarily, getting Aidan his money for distribution.
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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 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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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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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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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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It's late.
It's so late, it probably classes as early in most people's lives. John's life isn't like most people's, and he's just had a very forceful reminder of that.
It's a trade he makes. Willingly. Protection and security for his talent to entertain, his ability to charm, his quick wits.
His body.
It's his body that's been on loan this evening. Someone Mr. Gill can't afford to offend. Needs to please. Someone who doesn't have any complex or even particularly unpleasant demands, and physically, it's no trouble for John to accommodate him. Emotionally, it adds another smut to the tarnish coating what used to be his idealism. Long lost, but he's still in the showers behind the dressing rooms, hoping the rapidly cooling dribble of water is going to be enough to clean off the physical effects.
Anything else is three Hail Marys and more time on sore knees.
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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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