As things were, Franz found himself haunting the speakeasy once more. After the fight, things had gotten worse for the German... His appearance had improved as noticeable wounds were traded for less noticeable ones, but despite this, his clientele were more sporadic than they had ever been. His hair - still in the bluntly chopped style of the immigrant children who resided in this city - curved under the warm light. One piece had sectioned off from the rest - a soft, burnished scimitar which stood shining against his pale skin. His flushed face was turned toward the light in the rare bloom of true absence...
The headline of every paper in town was a variation of the same theme. Most of them read something like this: A Hitch in Commissioner Greenstreet's Reelection Plans?
They were accompanied by one of two sets of photographs. The first being Police Commissioner Irving Greenstreet looking very cross and waving angrily at the gathered press. The other was a lovely shot of his wife Madeline, smiling happily and escorting a rather tall and furious looking Russian man out of the downtown station of city's finest.
Yes. Quite the hitch indeed.
"Ha!" Madeline cried happily, slamming the paper onto the bar. "He's not gonna get reelected! And I did it! This my dear friends is a very good night! More drinks, more drinks for everyone!"
A young man sitting next to Madeline at the bar leaned over, pointing to the newspaper, "Hey Missus... ain't that your husband?"
Madeline wheeled around in an unsteady arc to face the boy. "Yeah? What's that got to do with it?'
He shrugged, "Well, it sounds like you hate him."
Madeline laughed, "Of course I hate him! The fact that we're married has nothing to do with it! Nothing to do with it at all. Hey... Hey Sasha, baby. Get me another drink will ya? This guy's making me thirsty!"
(OOC: Welcome back everyone!!!!!!)
Cursing herself for being unable to prevent her customers from being hauled in, Julia wandered through the fallen at a quick pace. She arrived at the back office, which appeared to be empty.
"Lindsey?" She called carefully, heading towards the shelves which held a fairly well stocked medical kit. A trembling 'here' was her only answer.
Rounding the desk, Julia found Lindsey curled up as small as possible clutching a sheet of paper. As she persuaded him to get up, she realized what was written on it.
"Lindsey, please tell me you didn't call it? Please?" Julia said, worry in her voice.
"I didn't, Miss Julia... I swear... I would never..."
Satisfied with his answer and preoccupied with the matter at hand, Julia lead him slowly towards the main room, talking in a cheerful tone as they walked. "Somebody's got to run the clean-up here, yeah? And you're good at gettin' things all orderly. So it'll be a snap." Reaching their destination, she paused and then shouted "If you're hurting and can't or won't go to a doctor, I got some bandages and what-have-you here. If you got somebody next to you who ain't moving, make sure he's breathing."
As the customers began to move towards the door, the bandages, or check on their fallen comrades, Lindsey turned back over to Julia. "Why can't you do this? You're so much better at it. I don't know anything about medical matters."
Julia frowned. "Some of ours aren't gonna do so good in there. I've going to get them out of that precinct house quick as possible."
As she strode towards the door, she added: "If they come back, call the number. Tell whoever answers you got a club full of coppers and... and... and Julia sends her love."
When she had passed out of sight, Lindsey sighed and slumped against the wall. The Lucky 13 was a mess, and he was frightened of the blood spattered people around him. But Julia's prorities were correct. He hoped her previous experence at extricating people from the police's clutches would hold her in good stead.
At the back of the precinct, there were two small cells reserved for drunks and hooligans to cool down, and occasionally take taunts and abuse by officers who were having a slow night. One side or the division was for men, the other for women.
Even though Bo was offering no resistance to being hauled in, the cops felt the need to be rough with her. Ever since her wig was torn off as they entered the building, she'd taken additional verbal abuse, shoving, and some saliva. They pushed her into the birdcage-like cell. She took off her shoes and sat against the wall. She began to resent her social obligation to make sure the patrons got out of the Lucky 13's raid safely, which led to her capture. She wondered who else would be brought in. So far she was the first. Hopefully Sasha or Julia would remember to come and get her in the morning.
(OOC Up to you whether your characters were hauled in or not..)
Four men in long coats swaggered past the doorman into the Lucky 13.
They were regulars, but usually kept to their own devices, which was almost always four double scotch whiskeys. They were usually the healthy hecklers of the stage acts, and occasionally were a bit too friendly with the wait staff. They were considered atmospheric and harmless.. usually.
Tonight however, they arrived agitated and became more and more violent as the whiskeys disappeared. One of them (the stockiest and
blondest but not the tallest of the four) decided to swagger his way over to the owner for a quiet but intense chat.
Sasha and the man exchanged some stiff and subdued dialogue before the Russian let out a patronizing laugh.
"Dear sir, *you* are enjoying *my* hospitality! You are not ridiculous enough to think I would pay you."
"Stupid foreigner," The man said, gritting his teeth dramatically.
Then he opened his coat, gesturing to the police badge inside. "You need my protection, see."
As Sasha leaned down to peer at the gleaming metal, the cop tossed his whisky into his face. As if by reflex alone, Sasha gave the man a swift and hard slap which caused him to stumble. In turn, the cop grabbed Sasha by his hair and slammed him face first into the bar counter.
At this point in time, the other three patrons took their cue to upset the table they had been sitting at, sending flappers scrambling away and causing the band to halt their music.
Blood arced from Sasha's nose as he stood again, and engaged the first cop in a full on brawl. Bo Blithe, who had been behind the bar at the time, caught sight of the gun hanging from the man's belt as he fought. She knew exactly what to do in this situation. It was inevitable. Bo climbed onto the bar so everyone would be able to see her, the cupped her hands around her mouth to give the warning call.
"RAID!"
'Why do I work here, again?' Lindsey mentally asked himself. 'Because they pay you twice what sane people would.' his brain helpfully supplied, as it usually did at times like these.
He had arrived to find neither of his employers had come downstairs yet, despite it being their scheduled day to go over the books. Nevertheless, he settled into his office and had began going through the numbers, making notations next to items he thought particularly required their attention. After an hour had passed, he wandered out into the main area of the club to wait, and soon heard footsteps on the stairs.
It was Julia, still in her dressing gown and slippers. She looked, Lindsey thought, like she was on the verge of swooning. She managed a "Hey, Lindsey. Sorry I..." before her eyes went almost comically wide and she rushed past him towards the washroom.
A quick debate with himself later, Lindsey was standing at the closed door. The gagging sounds had fortunately ceased soon after his arrival. He knocked softly, and said "Miss Julia? Is there anything I can get you? Should I fetch Mr. Demechev?"
Julia opened the door, looking slightly less wilted and with a freshly washed face. "Nah," she replied "Sash was still dead to the world when I came down. And if you'll excuse me, I'll go try and get ready for opening, sorry 'bout skipping the meet-up." She suited words to deeds, oblivious to Lindsey's watching her with growing concern.
She had fled the burning lights as soon as she could, the echo of the melody shivering down her skin, heels clicking softly against the tarnished wood. Trying to press shaking hands into graceful movement, the redhead pushed herself against the warm wall behind her - a burnt out cigarette lay at her feet...
OOC: I apologize for taking so long, I have not been able to access the internet for a while.
A crowd of regulars had gathered around Julia, since rumour had it she was often at her wittiest (and most vulgar) when completely splifficated. She'd forgotten the punchline to the joke about the debutante, a tennis instructor, and very non-regulation use of various equipment, and so covered by pointing past her cirle of amused onlookers and called out:
"You! Yeah, over there. Do you work for me?" She made a dismissive gesture with her left hand. "It ain't no matter. You can fetch me a whisky either way, yeah?"
