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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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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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It's just a day since the raid. John's not heard from Mr. Palin, but he's not expected to. After a raid, everyone goes to ground. And after that, going back to the club's a fool's move.
He's got to get news somewhere, though. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere that doesn't involve going to the Fury, contacting James, or exposing Scott. That's why the next morning (late morning) finds him at Rosa's, lingering over a plate of eggs and a mug of coffee strong enough to bend the spoon that's resting in it after stirring in more sugar than most people would stomach.
When someone slides into the booth next to him, he doesn't look up at first. Just raises his hand for Mitzy's attention, nods, and waves at his companion. "Put it on my tab."
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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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Zeta's done what any self-respecting girl would do when the coppers raid a joint: She's hidden herself neatly away in a broom closet down by the dressing rooms.
She waits until the sounds of chaos have drifted away and sneaks a peek through the barely-opened door just as she hears footsteps. She's about to pull it shut again when she recognizes who it is.
"Pssst. John!" she whispers to get his attention.
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