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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This week was just going from bad to worse, and it was only Tricia's instincts that prevented her from getting nailed. The police, in the Fury? She'd never seen that or heard of that before. It was mayhem inside, and she ran with the crowd, only much less blindly.
She was almost forced to deck a bull standing in her way, but then someone else did it for her, which was all well and good. She wanted out, but she wasn't sure it was worth the risk of knocking out one of the fuzz. Or trying, at least, her right hook wasn't that good.
She made it outside and stood still for a second, people running away in all directions. This was the oldest question in the world, but where had she put her bike? She remembered and set herself into motion, hardly breaking into a run that she'd collided into someone. Please, not a copper.
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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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"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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( '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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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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