d a v i s

Smokey Davis || 36 || Bootlegger "Everyone dies. Not everyone keeps their promises."

[rubyquick]

Proposition | Ruby & Smokey

[rubyquick]

As she waited at his door in the cold, a light breeze picked up. Despite the snow having melted, a chill was still in the air, so Ruby pulled her coat tighter around her, rubbing the fur collar against her cheeks. An overpowering scent, emitting from the fur, burned her nostrils slightly, causing Ruby to shake her head. What in God’s name is that? she thought, and then the familiarity of it came back to her. It was her aunt’s strong musky perfume. Ruby recalled that her aunt had wore this coat the day before when she went to the store. 

Ruby grimaced slightly, for the smell was so overpowering it was almost sickening. She reached into her purse and from within took a bottle of her own sweetly scented perfume. Spraying some around the collar of her coat, she followed by spraying some on her wrists before replacing it within the bag. As she had been spraying herself, two elderly women had been passing. The reason they caught Ruby’s attention was because one was glaring daggers at her. 

Puzzled, she turned to look at the elderly women, and despite meeting the woman’s gaze, she felt somewhat self conscious. 

What must they think; an African American woman, in a fur-lined coat, waiting at the door of a single middle-aged man’s house, spraying perfume on myself. They must think I’m a prostitute!

She couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, ashamed, judged. Ruby turned to look at the door, part of her praying Smokey wasn’t there. If he wasn’t, at least she could leave showing them she wasn’t what they thought she was, and could come back later. But she had sped the whole way from Memphis once the idea she had came to her, and didn’t want it to wait. 

Thankfully the door opened, but she wasn’t welcomed quite warmly. Ruby had not expected to be. Not only had she not seen Smokey in quite some time, but he wasn’t that kind of person. He was a very cool and reserved kind of character, much like Ruby. Preferring his own company to others, also much like Ruby. This was probably why they came to be friends all those many years ago. 

“Do you greet all your friends like this?" She said, raising an eyebrow and letting it fall. It of course was a rhetorical question because Ruby had no doubt in his mind that he did greet most people like this, unless it was Giovanni or that chunk of lead, Francesca Lombardi. He was quite like Ruby in that way, he knew how to speak to those who were the Big Cheese.  

“Well can I come in? It’s kind of important?" She said, fixing her bag onto her shoulder. Ruby made one more backward glance at the women who were further up the street, but nonetheless, one was still staring nosily back at her. 

[smokey-the-d]

He grit his teeth and turned away from the door, leaving it open so she could come in and close it herself. All the shades in his house were drawn. It looked like a cave. A nicely furnished, dusty, largely unlived in cave. He rubbed the back of his neck. He started up the stairs. With everything stuffy and unventilated, with everything smelling like it had stayed in a cupboard too long, the fresh air that the open door let in smelled wrong. Smokey wrinkled his nose. Coughed. Started up the stairs to his office. Not for the first time, he thought about maybe relocating his office. Not working where he lived. So people would stop showing up at his house unannounced. He didn't look back at her and climbed the stairs. A blotch of ink had dried in the soft meaty part where the fingernail reached the rest of his forefinger. He got to the top of the stairs and was still gritting his teeth. He wasn't aware he was doing it. Smokey jerked open the door to his office and left it open for her and went to sit behind his desk. The odor of boxed up human was stronger than the stuffiness in the rest of the house. He leaned back and crossed his arms. Ruby hadn't been around for a little while, but was always on his radar. Like a disease in remission. She looked good. Good being: not dead. Good being: not disappeared by the mob. He itched the side of his face and wondered how much dead skin was getting caught under his nails. Then and there he figured that she needed help with something. That he was some last ditch attempt at getting herself out of trouble. Because he was used to it. People he'd tolerated once coming back after not saying anything to him, asking for money. Asking for protection. Asking for whatever he had to offer. Maybe the looking good was a gentle lie of clothes and skin and hair. Maybe she was in one of those ugly situations that liked to rot from the inside out. He looked at her and squinted. Coughed again. "Say what you're going to say." His voice came out jagged and annoyed. He felt like moss that had been torn off a rock. 

[smokey-the-d]

Patrick Swayze || Smokey & Eddie

[eddie-lincoln]

"Temper temper, I’m not gonna take up your whole day." Eddie snorted, sipping some of the blackened death to perk up his senses. Getting good and comfortable in his seat he leveled his gaze on Smokey, his smile a bit more of a serious line than anything else. He knew the man knew more about Chicago’s ongoings than most and while he never pegged Davis as an information broker, he knew he could get an answer out of him. Smokey was the type that was honest, a man of conviction, and in the right situation he couldn’t lie. "I’ve heard some buzzing around the docks from my boys that somebody has it out for me. Any ideas?"

[smokey-the-d]

Smokey crossed his arms but didn't take another sip of the coffee. Lincoln reminded him of a sore that filled up with pus if it wasn't tended to. "I've heard some buzzing around the docks from my boys that somebody has it out for me. Any ideas?" That wasn't surprising. If Smokey was a cop he'd have it out for Lincoln too. In every version of his life, Smokey would've been rubbed the wrong way by Lincoln. He coughed into his hand and swallowed before he spoke. "Don't make a habit of talking to cops. Don't make a habit of being down at the docks. You want gossip, go to someone who does. Not me." It was a door slam in words. He coughed again and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand and glared at the coffee. It was dark and ugly like the hole in an old toilet. He didn't stand up because he didn't want to go through the effort of sitting back down and listening to whatever else Lincoln had to talk about. Instead he gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles went white. "That it?"

[rubyquick]

Proposition | Ruby & Smokey

As the skyscrapers that were being constructed in Chicago came into view, Ruby had to admit; she was glad to be back. The week before she had drove to Memphis in Tennessee to stay with her aunt Nellie on her farm, and although she had enjoyed the first two days or so, it soon grew boring. She had a lot of time to think while there, and her money troubles were often a thought. Despite making money with the mob, as of late she found that she had more money going out of her pocket than into it. She had bought herself a car, which was expensive to keep, with gas and repairs, and she had also recently had to bail her father out and pay the arrears on their family home. As she looked around at the huge expanse of land her Aunt had, and how peaceful and quiet was, an idea came to her. A brilliant idea in fact. 

Reaching Chicago, Ruby didn’t take her usual journey to her apartment, or to her father’s house for that matter. No. Instead she made her way downtown, because she had someone to see. She was going to see her friend Smokey. Ruby first met Smokey when she first started working for the Mob. She was young, and just starting out. He too was only a couple of years older, and working under his father. They became fast friends and remained so over the years. Now, after his father’s death, Smokey had taken over the Moonshine business. It was a proposition relating to his business why she was going to see him.

Ruby was so lost in her thoughts, while she was at the lights, she had not noticed them change from red to green. It was the horn blowing from the car behind her that brought her back to life. She jumped, startled, and quickly began to take off. That was until she heard the man in the car behind her other the words. 

Stupid Women Drivers.

Ruby was furious. Women tended to get a lot of slack from men still, despite coming into a new age where they were being recognized as equals more. Not many women drove, however, and it had taken a lot of courage from Ruby to do so. “How about you go fuck yourself!” She shouted, which led to gasps from pedestrians on the footpath. She knew she was being downright rude herself, but he had angered her. 

Her tyres screeched as she tore off, and after two or three blocks she arrived at the townhouse in which Smokey lived. She locked her car and stepped out onto the walkway. Even though Ruby had spent the passed week in the dusty Memphis, she still looked as ravishing as ever. Her hair was styled in the Bob of the 20s fashion with finger curls. She wore a green coat with sandy sable fur lining, a brown dress beneath, and a pair of black shoes. Her purse was clutched to her side, which contained her pistol. 

She took a deep breath and walked up to Smokey’s front door. Taking a deep breath, she knocked. He didn’t know she was coming, unless he had seen her out the window, so she hoped he was in..

[smokey-the-d]

He blinked and realized that he did not remember the last time he left his office. The phone was still in his hand, and he looked at it. He looked past the phone. A plate of breakfast waiting to be taken away by his housekeeper. Two or three mugs of what had been coffee, but was now viscous brown liquid making rings of filth in the cups. Papers littered his desk. The shades were drawn, and a small lamp was lit on his desk for him to work by. The entire office had the stale odor of borrowed clothes. Or of an old trunk. Smokey coughed and grimaced. He stood up from behind his desk and went to straighten his tie. His hand grapsed at nothing but wrinkled collar. He pushed his fingers through his hair. When they came out the other side, they shone. He parted the shades and looked out the window. The remnants of snow had melted. The layer of clouds had cleared. The sun was shining. His pupils contracted to pinpoints, and he covered his eyes and shut the shade. It'd been a while. Time had slid through his fingers in the dark, large room. Not that he had been expected anywhere. Maybe they'd missed him down at the Stingray, sitting in his seat and not doing much else. He didn't tip. Why pay someone to bring him a glass of his own liquor? No. He hadn't been missed. His reemergence wouldn't bring any curious conversationalists to him. There was gentle relief. And still the odor of borrowed clothes. He thought about opening a window. He didn't. No reason to catch a cold. Smokey rubbed his face and coughed and opened the door to his office. The hall hadn't changed any. The warming temperature didn't change things inside. He padded down the stairs and rounded the hall to his kitchen. He didn't know what he was going to do when he got there. Maybe wash his face. Maybe shave. A knock at the door. Smokey grit his teeth and dug a finger in the corner of his eye to get out the crust. He turned around and stomped down the hallway and jerked open the door and thought about hiring someone just to answer the door and send people away. The bald annoyance in his face receded only a little. He thought of rusty sawblades whittling away at the inside of his head as he squinted in the sunlight. "Why are you here?" It came out flat, like an appraisal, rather than a question. He tolerated Ruby. That was why he hadn't shut the door in her face. He coughed.

[smokey-the-d]

Patrick Swayze || Smokey & Eddie

[eddie-lincoln]

Eddie chuckled or at least tried to stifle the one that had edged up at Smokey’s scowl, “Sit down, I’ll get us a pot.” Even if Smokey had wanted to leave, Eddie was up so quickly and back just as fast from the room across the hall with a pot of coffee and two mugs. They always kept a pot of strong black steaming for him because they knew he’d throw a royal fit without it. Plopping down at his desk, he nodded for Smokey to sit again, “I’ve got plenty important to say, my friend, trust me on that.” And while the conversation he’d wanted to have with Smokey was one he’d been tossing around for a few brief days, he still thought it great the man had shown up. While the nature of their meetings was strictly monetary, this particular visit was taking a turn.

[smokey-the-d]

He stood there and squinted down at the leather chairs in front of Lincoln's desk. He didn't want to sit. He didn't want this conversation to be long enough to even warrant sitting down. Smokey wanted a standing conversation, the one that could be cut short quick with him just turning around and walking out. When Eddie came back with the coffee he was still standing, studying the chair. "I've got plenty important to say, my friend, trust me on that."

He figured that whatever Eddie had to say was important to only Eddie. Self centered people worked like that. Smokey braced himself for annoyance. He dumped some coffee in one of the mugs and sighed and sat down. The color reminded him of swept up, dead hair in a barber's closet. And there was no cream. Or sugar. Smokey set the mug on Lincoln's desk and leaned back. "Go. Don't want to be here all day."

[smokey-the-d]

[smokey-the-d]

Patrick Swayze || Smokey & Eddie

[eddie-lincoln]

As he spun around in his chair, arms wide and presenting himself to Chicago like some man turned god, his face first dropped and then scrunched. What in the hell was Smokey doing here..? Oh wait, yes, his bribe. His late bribe. It wasn’t as if he was hurting for money so he wouldn’t make a scene about the money being late, it was just in poor taste all around to do so. So instead he welcomed Smokey with open arms, his face relaxing into a lazy smile. "Have to entertain myself somehow, right?" Leaning forward in his seat he held out his hand for the envelope, “Got a minute for some coffee?”

[smokey-the-d]

"Got a minute for some coffee?" He coughed and looked at Eddie like he was something a doctor kept in a jar of formaldehyde in his office. He did have a minute. He wasn't due anywhere for another couple of hours. He had quite a few minutes. Enough minutes for a cup of coffee in the police station. Because he'd just drink one somewhere else. Or he wouldn't drink one at all and would regret it when he was left rubbing his eyes and stifling yawns behind his desk. "Yes," Smokey said, and coughed. "Have time for a cup of coffee." There was also the idea that a cup of coffee was never just a cup of coffee. It meant that Eddie wanted him around longer to talk about something important. With every criminal in the city meeting to talk over a cup of coffee, it was a wonder the Women of Temperance weren't trying to get that outlawed too. They'd gotten it all wrong, liquor wasn't the root of all crime and corruption, coffee was. He looked down at Lincoln. "You asking me because you want to say something important?" In Smokey's opinion, Eddie talked a lot and didn't say too much. His nerves were being ground down by the atmosphere of the office. Irritation crept into his face, but it wasn't much of a change from the scowl that was already plastered there.

[therighthandwoman]

Merry Happy || Charlotte + Smokey

[therighthandwoman]

Charlotte watched as he prepared her cup. She didn’t like the color of the result. From the looks of it, it would have been better to prepare her own rather than count on someone else to do it, just like with everything else. Without a word, walked over and took the bottle of cream and added just a little bit more, then sipped at it.

"Fucking cold." She muttered, the liquid still somewhat in her mouth, and she set the mug down on the counter again, and then watched as he rubbed at his eyes. It had been some time since Charlotte had seen him so phenomenally exhausted, and truth be told, she didn’t quite know how was best to react, so she simply nodded as he spoke, his words having already repeated in her own head despite her best wishes to not sound or seem like such an ignorant fuck-up.

The words, “Get some fucking rest, Smokey. I’ll come back later,” formed in her mouth and nearly escaped her, but then he was talking again, and despite her apologies - mostly meaningless, particularly when the fuck-ups kept on coming - she was already treading on relatively thin ice, so she simply shut up and continued listening.

Charlotte couldn’t help but wonder if this was his own small way of comforting her, but the thought was pushed away quickly and she simply responded with another nod. Once again, he was on about things she already knew - or should have already known and properly acted on - and she couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief when he commented on something else entirely unrelated.

"Yeah, they’re supposed to match the tie clips from last year," she responded, bracing herself against the counter. "Noticed a cat outside on your porch. Pick up a new friend in New York?"

[smokey-the-d]

He pictured the cat sitting out there on the stone stairs waiting for a chance to slip inside his house. He pictured himself opening the door a crack and slipping in quick to block out the cat until the end of time. He pictured a full scale move across the city, like the cat was an infatuated lover, like the cat was church people who kept knocking on his door, like the cat was an iron salesman referred by his mother. He pictured all that and coughed into his hand and gripped the counter with the other until the blood was forced out of the end of his fingers, leaving them that ugly pressure white. "No. Just some cat. Don't let it in on your way out." He didn't say it casually because he didn't say anything casually. Everything sounded like a bad weather report, a falling stock, a terminal diagnosis, coming from Smokey. He almost opened his mouth to say that there are no friends in New York, not the kind you pick up anyway. Instead he grunted and picked up the mug of mostly cream and took another sip. Smokey licked his lips which were cracked and segmented like some kind of desert dwelling bug. Five years slipping into six and the six was a little less than one sixth of his entire life. He knew that. He'd thought about it one day behind his desk, on the phone, listening to someone tell him things he already knew. He didn't know what it meant. Probably, it meant nothing. Most of those snaking little thoughts don't mean much. Like dreams. Or pamphlets that get left in mailboxes. He looked at her and looked at the floor and pushed off the counter. "Gotta go sleep. You want the coffee then take it, get the mug back later." He coughed. "Or dump it down the sink." Drunks were ejected from bars with more grace.

[smokey-the-d]

Two Cent Paperback || Smokey & Lucas

[lucaspark]

Some days were good. Those were the days when Lucas’ little room was filled the the sound of click-clacking as he typed away, his fingertips calloused from their brushes against the not-quite-new, not-quite-old typewriter sitting atop his small desk. He’d bought it as a gift to himself when his second book had been published. He’d written the first two on his dad’s typewriter, but it was old and clunky and falling apart, so he’d stuck it up on the shelf in his closet. He used it for sending letters back home, but that was about it. He didn’t want it to get ruined.

Today, however, the air was not full of click-clacking. It was full of silence and sighing and stubborn groans as Lucas wracked his brain for ideas, details, anything that would help kickstart his new novel. The last one had done so well that it was almost as though he’d been drained of his ability to write something decent. Even after consorting with the mob and living in a new city, Lucas still couldn’t think of a story compelling enough for people to want to read.

After about three and a half hours of frustration he’d finally given up for the day and grabbed his jacket, planning to walk off the encroaching failure he felt stirring in his gut. He’d gone two blocks away when he thought of visiting the bookstore nearby to see how sales were doing. Nothing like basking in your former glory to soften the edge of reality, right?

The bell jingled when he entered the store, and he looked around a bit before heading to the counter. The owner was there; he gave Lucas a warm smile as the novelist approached.

“Joshua Thompson,” said the man warmly, a wide grin spreading across his face. “How’s it going? Making any progress on that new book of yours?”

Lucas ignored the question but returned the smile, replying, “It’s going alright. I was wondering how Ahab’s Adventures was doing?”

[smokey-the-d]

He coughed and ran his finger along the spines of the books, looking at the letters of the titles but not really reading them. There were two books in his other hand, both of them bearing short, hard titles. He hadn't even bothered opening them to a page to ensure quality. They would either be good or they wouldn't be. He was dimly aware that someone else had entered the store. Smokey prickled and figured he would stay at the shelf long enough for the man at the counter to go about his business and leave, and then he would go up. He hated standing in line. Joshua Thompson. The name rang a bell. He turned it over in his head for a moment before casting it aside. Lots of names rang bells when you knew lots of people. As far as Smokey knew, Joshua Thompson was just the name of a man not hurrying up when he ought to. New book. That didn't pique his interest either. If he had a dime for every talentless self styled author wannabe in Chicago... he didn't know how many dimes that would make. He assumed it would make a heafty enough bag though. Smokey coughed and let his frown deepen. Ahab's Adventures. He stood upright and blinked and then turned around. It didn't take much to put it all together. Smokey plodded to the front of the store and squinted at the scene playing out in front of him. He nodded to the short guy. Short, some kind of easterner. Like far easterner. "You wrote Ahab's?" It came out sounding more confrontational than he'd intended. As if he was going to slap the guy with a glove and challenge him to a duel if he answered yes. He coughed and his eyes slid from Joshua Thompson to the owner and back. The scowl retreated from his face a nano inch.

[smokey-the-d]

Two Cent Paperback || Smokey & Lucas

He scowled at the two cent paperback on his desk. He'd gone to pick it up and read a few pages before getting back to work, and found that he'd reached the end the night before, and forgotten. The pirates had been vanquished. The plucky protagonist sailed into the sunset on a raft awash with riches. He sighed at the book. He looked out one of the windows on the far side of his office and sighed at that too. Then he coughed and stood up, because it was time for another trip to that bookstore. The cheap books he bought were always short, always adventure stories, and never anything that required concentration to read. They were for the small lapses in working during the day, when he wasn't worn out enough to just nod off. Some of them were bad. Bad enough that he'd throw it away when he was done. But he never left any of the books he bought unfinished. He'd been reading the slim volume on his desk for the better part of two months, sometimes on the toilet but mostly behind his desk. It hadn't been good. He'd finished. The traffic in the city wasn't bad. March was a gray month, but there was no biting cold. It was something. He got out of the backseat of his car after his driver had parked. Walked into the bookstore. It was the only one he went to because it was the only one he knew. He pushed the door open and kept his head down and walked to the fiction section and coughed. It smelled like old paper. Smokey never paid attention to the people in the store. No one ever paid attention to him. After a few minutes he always grabbed a couple books with interesting titles, slapped some coins on the counter, and left. He squinted at the shelf he was standing in front of, and cocked his head to the side to read the titles.

[smokey-the-d]

Patrick Swayze || Smokey & Eddie

It was that time of the month. Or rather, about half a week after that time of the month. The time when Smokey tromped into the police station in all his glory, and dropped off an envelope of six thousand dollars to Eddie Lincoln. One of his least favorite people. He was hesitant to brand the man as his least favorite person. The pool of people that Smokey disliked was getting large enough that everyone in it was awful in their own sorts of ways. Incomparable crimes. Lincoln wasn't quite at the bottom of the pool. More off to the side, because his dislike only really flared when he was dropping off the bribe. Other times he just chose to forget that Lincoln existed at all. There were more constant annoyances. Like people who talked at the pictures. He weaved through police officers and finally got to the hallway where Lincoln's office was. The envelope was folded in half in his breast pocket, unmarked. He got to the door with the commissioner's name stenciled on the frosted pane of glass. He put his ear to it. Eddie was talking. He squinted through the glass, but couldn't see another person there. Strange. Or maybe the transparent but not translucent pane was blocking his view of this other person. Maybe. Probably not. He wouldn't put it past Lincoln to enjoy talking so much, that he talked to himself. There was something sad about it. Like a mediocre band who no one saw to play. Smokey grimaced and coughed. Then he barged in without knocking. Figured Eddie would've seen him outside. Figured he could just save time on the whole, 'come in!' exchange. He let go of the doorknob with one hand and began fishing the envelope out of his pocket with the other. Eddie was alone. Smokey stood in the doorway, the envelope in his hand. "Talking to yourself." It was a statement, not a question. He coughed and held up the envelope.

[therighthandwoman]

Merry Happy || Charlotte + Smokey

[therighthandwoman]

Charlotte watched in silence as he prepared his own mug of coffee, not sure if there was anything substantial for her to say, especially given his relative lack of words. She looked around the kitchen, trying to see if anything was different since the last time she had visited. When he turned around, her gaze returned to him, eventually resting on his mug of coffee. “Don’t remember you taking it so light.”

It seemed Smokey didn’t remember how she took it either.

When he finally spoke, Charlotte found herself desperately craving the yet-unmade coffee. That, and a strong cigarette. She felt so stupid for everything she had said, especially in her belief that his frustration had stemmed solely from her relationship with Rory. Everything that she had never wanted to hear, he was saying. The inevitable truth of it all, of how one day, Smokey would be incapable of handling his business, and she’d have to take responsibility, as well as the undeniable truth that had provided the basis for her life for the past few years - how incredibly fortunate she was to have been essentially taken in by Smokey and finally provided with an escape from the sheer boredom her brother now called his own life.

She felt foolish for everything she had said, especially in her belief that his frustration had stemmed solely from her relationship with Rory. In all honesty, Charlotte just felt plain stupid. Stupid for letting her emotions or desires or whatever the fuck was going on in her brain get in the way of what had always preoccupied her time and her mind - work, and by somewhat distant extension, Smokey. She had said it earlier, that if he had any reason not to trust Rory, then she had one too - and yet nothing that came out of her mouth had seemed to prove that. 

"I’m sorry, Smokey." Charlotte finally responded, this time directly to him rather than to the unfeeling coldness of the kitchen floor. She expected little more than a cough in response.

Christ, was she tired of having to apologize to him. Even more so, she was tired of continuously fucking things up. The feeling was becoming far too familiar for her liking, and any more of the kind would likely sever her already-suffering relationship with Smokey.

Charlotte kept quiet for a few moments longer, shifting in her place before speaking again. “Two spoonfuls of sugar and just a bit of cream.” She said somewhat hesitantly, though she gestured to the mug designated for her with a slight nod of her head anyway.

[smokey-the-d]

He blinked and heaved himself off the counter top he had been leaning on. He'd supposed she'd want to make her own cup. He dumped water over the brown bits of instant and then stirred in the sugar. When he was done adding the cream, the coffee was the color of dried mud. Whatever burst of energy he'd gotten from anger had ebbed away, leaving him more tired than before. Like if he blinked too long he'd fall asleep standing. The car ride back from New York seemed long ago. He rubbed one of his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Apologies don't mean much if you keep having to say them." The coldness in his voice didn't surprise him. Not anymore. For her sake, he wished it hadn't been there. Jagged and heavy like steel cut and left to freeze. But if wishes were fishes, everyone would be casting nets. "You're not dispensable. Too much training, work, time has gone into you. But. Don't want to be getting yelled at in my house. Or anywhere. Other people wouldn't take it." Other people would've kicked her to the curb years ago. Business prowess or no. Other people wouldn't have taken her on to begin with. He coughed and picked up his coffee and sipped it. So much cream had been dumped in that it had grown cold and thick in the space of a few minutes. He had a bad habit of letting half drunk cups ferment on his desk for days and then drinking them. He'd gotten sick a few times. Not throwing up. But clenched bowels, rumbling stomach sick. The kind of sick that made him happy there was a bathroom adjacent to his office. Smokey sighed. Everything between them in the past few months had either been brisk business or arguments. Not that it had ever been very much more. But at least it had been... friendly wasn't the right word. By his own admission he wasn't friendly. It had been civil. Things lost either come back or they don't. He coughed into his hand and leaned back on the counter top. "Cufflinks are nice," he said after a long while.

[smokey-the-d]

Track || Smokey & Sandy

[sandy-mckenzie]

It seemed Mr. Davis was a difficult man to bargain with — not like Sandy was surprised. He did business with the man, after all, so he at least had some knowledge of his usual practices. Still, the sound of fifteen hundred was much, much better than a thousand. But was he willing to let Smokey walk? After a moment’s consideration, he decided that he wasn’t. Sandy put up a good front, though he figured with Smokey it wasn’t necessary. He went back and forth about it, looking reluctant to accept the already preposterous offer, before he finally said, “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Davis, but fine. A thousand it is.” He went to stick out his hand for the man to shake, but he was already counting out bills. Ah, why couldn’t there be more businessmen like Smokey these days?

[smokey-the-d]

He nodded and crammed the wad of crisp fifties into Sandy's hand and coughed into his own. And then pushed past him. He made a beeline for the chair and stood beside it. His expression had not changed. He breathed in and out and rubbed his hands together in preparation. Smokey could have gotten one of his own men to lift it to his car. Or taken Sandy up on his offer. But he didn't want anyone else touching the chair. It had been his for forty five seconds, and he was already possessive. He cracked his knuckles and looked the chair up and down. Not knowing quite where to grip it. With a grunt he picked it up, one hand on an arm and the other on a leg. Not heavy. Just hard to hold, he told himself, even as a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. He was determined to end the affair as quickly as possible, and marched past Sandy again with the chair in tow. His breathing was quick and shallow. "Thanks." He grunted. Smokey came to the door. His hands were full. He could wait for someone to come around and open it for him. Or he could open it himself. He shifted the chair and put up a leg and began assaulting the door knob with his foot. He somehow managed to twist and pull it with the toe of his shoe, and thrust it open. Small streaks of dust were left on the door. Sweat trickled down his face. He coughed. Breathed. Coughed. And then damn near killed himself walking off the ledge at the threshold. The four and a half inch drop was almost enough to send him sprawling. He regained his balance. The chair was heavier than it looked. Maybe more than a hundred and fifty pounds of awkward, zebra skin weight. By the time he got to the car, his knees were threatening to unhinge and dump him onto the asphalt. His driver had the trunk open. Smokey slid in the chair and leaned against the car, catching his breath. "You're bringing that in." He informed the driver and clamored into the backseat.

[smokey-the-d]

Track || Smokey & Sandy

[sandy-mckenzie]

Ah, Smokey. He was never one to waste words, was he? While Sandy appreciated that about him, it was still quite contrary to what he was used to. And what was even more confusing was the topic Smokey apparently had come all this way to discuss with him. "A chair?" Sandy repeated, furrowing his brows in confusion. He couldn’t remember such a chair upon first mention. The Siren had been a labor of love, of course, but Sandy would be damned if he could recall every bit of furniture he’d purchased for the place. Sandy couldn’t hide the shock on his face at the sort of money Smokey was willing to throw at him for one lousy chair. But who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? Smokey was a peculiar man. For all he knew, he had some sort of fetish for zebra upholstery that he didn’t dare share with a business partner. Whatever his interest, Sandy was more than willing to deal with that sort of offer on the table. "Zebra skin chair…" he murmured under his breath, trying to think how and why on Earth he had such a thing. But as he racked his brain for answers, the whereabouts of the aforementioned piece of furniture finally came back to him. A gift from a paramour who specialized in exotic pieces, Sandy had been searching for something to do with the damned thing for ages. A bit haphazardly, he’d thrown the thing in one of the sitting rooms in The Siren as the opening date drew nearer. He hadn’t been completely happy with the look it set for the room, but with its color palette it at least hadn’t been too obtrusive. So, a thousand dollars for a chair he didn’t really want? Sandy could deal with that. Didn’t mean he was going to settle for Smokey’s first offer. "Ah, yes, of course! That chair. You must forgive me. It’s been quite the long day. But yes, that chair is one of a kind. You’re not going to find anything else quite like it in these parts, so you’ll understand that I’m a bit loathe to give it away. Still, for a business partner, I’m willing to make a deal." Sandy paused for a moment, pretending to think over a reasonable price when he’d already made up in his mind what he wanted. "How about we call it fifteen hundred dollars and I’ll have one of my boys take it out for you?"

[smokey-the-d]

He clenched his teeth. He hadn't offered a sliding scale. He'd offered one thousand dollars or a free month. People who tried to squeeze more money out of an already good deal grated on his nerves. Smokey dealt with them daily. He started high to save time. If he walked in and started at five hundred, he'd eventually get to a thousand anyway because of haggling. If he started at a thousand, many would just take that thousand. Except for people like Sandy. There was a word for people like that. He couldn't remember it. Snatching up opportunity. Taking advantage of supply and demand. It wasn't business, it was more like subtle theft.

Besides. He'd only brought one thousand cash. Fifteen hundred was out of the question because he didn't have it nestled in his breast pocket. And there were certain men he did not want to ever owe anything, even if it was for a few hours until the bank opened. "One thousand. I take it out myself. Or I walk." He doubted he would have to walk. One thousand dollars is better than nothing. If he did have to leave empty handed, maybe Sandy would reconsider. Or maybe he'd just forget about the chair and that would be the end of it. He could go without. It was rare for something other than his work or the errands surrounding it to get his attention. The harsh practicality inside him had stomped out all but a few of his interests. But he could do without. He wouldn't like it, but he could do it. He coughed and dug his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and took out the wad of fifties which was crisp and clipped together. There was something about fifties that Smokey liked. More modest than hundreds.

[smokey-the-d]

Track || Smokey & Sandy

[sandy-mckenzie]

Contrary to popular belief, Sandy rarely spent evenings at The Siren. While it would make sense to some for him to be there when business was busiest, it didn’t to Sandy. After all, he wasn’t a whore. He didn’t need a john. So for what reason would he be there when the johns came to see their girls? No, he spent most of his day in the office, balancing his accounts and collecting money from his girls. And then when evening came, it was time for him to go home — just like everyone else. Simply because his profession wasn’t one that was considerable “average” didn’t mean he operated under the cover of night. No, Sandy would much rather spend his nights doing much more interesting things. He turned out the lamp in his office and headed out, his guard following after him as he headed for the exit. It was as he was pulling on his coat that he laid eyes upon a familiar face. So Smokey Davis had finally crawled out of that booze-filled hole he’d buried himself in? He instructed his guard to wait for a moment, striding over to the man with a smile on his face. “Smokey, good to see you,” he greeted, holding his hand out for the man to shake. “I wasn’t expecting you. Was just on my way out, in fact. But I’m glad that I  caught you before I left.”

[smokey-the-d]

Sandy's smile was like looking into a pit of broken glass. Not that his teeth weren't nice- they were. It was something unseen. Like a knife hidden in a soft blanket. Smokey grunted and shook his hand. Glad wasn't the word in most people's heads when Smokey showed up, he knew that. Either way, a not entirely honest smile was better than a kick in the pants. He let go of Sandy's hand and slid his own back in his pocket. "You have a chair. Made of Zebra skin. I want to buy it. Couldn't find one just like it anywhere. Figured it was one of a kind. One thousand dollars, or a month of paying me. Either one." He'd seen the chair at the opening of The Siren. And at first he thought it was tasteless. Garish. Ugly. He recoiled from it. Mentioned it in the sparse conversation he'd had at the event. All the while questioning Sandy's sanity. Or if not his sanity, than his interior decorating prowess. As far as Smokey was concerned, they went hand in hand. And after he'd left, the image of the chair still didn't leave his mind. He thought about it while dozing off at his desk. He thought about it while doing paperwork. He thought about it while listening to some self proclaimed prophet drone on a street corner while he made a phone call from the druggist. And then he knew he would have to buy it. There was the question of going about it. He'd picked up the phone and put it back down. If Sandy was willing to sell, he'd have to go over there anyway. The phone call would be superfluous. So he made the trip without notice. And probably wore on the nerves of some of the guests. He was going to get that chair if it was the last thing he did. And he would put it in his office, maybe in the corner behind his desk. He coughed into his hand. "The cash is in my pocket. Made room in my trunk." Smokey was all ready to include the chair in his life.

[therighthandwoman]

Merry Happy || Charlotte + Smokey

[therighthandwoman]

Her arms folded in front of her chest as she listened, the air growing more and more uncomfortable between them as the water rose to boiling level. She shifted awkwardly in her place, unsure of how to respond, or if responding was even worth the effort at this point. Smokey had clearly made his mind up over the matter, and though she disagreed with his logic, he was still one of the most rigidly stubborn, mistrusting people she had ever met.

Then again, people could say the same thing about her.

"Isn’t it fucking wonderful how, when it isn’t about you, it’s still about you? For fuck’s sake, Smokey! For the past days or weeks or however fucking long it’s been, he obviously knew more about you than I did. He knew where you were and why, or at least could figure it out, seeing as he was the one to give you the information. I just learned about all that today. Today.”

Charlotte found herself nearly out of breath once she finished ranting.

Anyway she looked at the situation, all signs led to the obvious conclusion - that this was all entirely pointless, and with their stubbornness combined, no equally satisfying solution would be reached. Despite wanting desperately to somehow fight back and retaliate, she knew this and recognized it easily, having been in the situation plenty times before. Much to her dismay, all those times managed to end horribly, and Charlotte knew just how fucked she would be if the same thing happened here and now. So, she took a moment to collect her thoughts rather than simply respond back at every little thing he said.

Shit, it had really been a long time since they had last spoken with each other. The space between them felt unfamiliar, not in the way that awkward silences tended to develop among friends who hadn’t been in each other’s company for a long time, but rather in a way similar to business associates who had ended fucking each other over in selfish acts of supposed self-improvement and were now left in a room to deal with each other. And, unfortunately enough for Charlotte, her own fuck-up wasn’t even done intentionally, nor with the hopes that she’d ignite the flames of her own blazing trail in the business. She sighed and scanned the room for something to eat, a sudden pang of hunger hitting her stomach.

Her voice lowered, returning to a more suitable level for conversation as the kettle hissed, signaling that the water was nearly done boiling up. “He hasn’t asked anything about you, nor your work. Hasn’t inquired once about anything that I’ve got to do with or what I know. If he asks about me again, tell him to go to me directly, and I’ll be the one to decide what information he gets to know and what he doesn’t.” She let out a sigh before continuing on, hoping desperately that Smokey hadn’t revealed the entirety of how she came to work for him. As much as she was loathe to admit it, some of that history was rather embarrassing on her end.

"Whatever’s between you and him is strictly business. Whatever’s between he and I is personal. I’m not intent on mixing the two together, and if that’s what ends up happening, you can bet a pretty penny that I’ll cut the cord immediately. If I find out anything that I think you should know, then you’ll know. Up until now, that’s the same courtesy that you’ve extended to me. But I need you to trust that I can handle this myself. I need you to trust me."

Charlotte spoke before she even realized her own words, the thought and statement both things that she never really expected to form or say, least of all to Smokey. She was almost scared of his response. Even still, that was precisely what the situation boiled down to - a lack of trust, on the part of everyone involved.

[smokey-the-d]

He sighed and the water popped and rolled and boiled. In the silence after her diatribe, he'd told himself that if she started yelling at him again, he'd tell her to leave. Because there was only so much yelling a man could take in his own house. He'd told himself that he'd turn around, point to the door, and tell her to leave until she'd regained an inside voice and also some sense in her head. He'd told himself that he'd drink a cup of coffee and her cup would be empty and he'd leave it out and then go sleep in his desk chair like he did every night. But she didn't yell at him. And the water was popping and rolling and boiling. He took out a spoon and put some instant coffee- those brown specks that dissolve in hot water and taste like bitter nothing- in both mugs. Then water. And he diluted his with cream until it was white and then spooned in three spoonfuls of sugar and stirred it. He'd turned towards her but was looking at his coffee, even though any visual changes from stirring had happened in the first couple go arounds. It dawned on him that their working relationship was battered and vacant. Smokey didn't know how to fix it. So he scowled into his coffee. He hadn't realized he'd still been clenching his jaw, and when he released it, his back teeth seemed to spring up at the lack of pressure on them. He coughed. Set the unsipped coffee on the counter. He almost dragged out that tired old phrase, the one that goes, trust is something that has to be earned before it is assured. But he knew that he didn't really work that way. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. Just endless suspicion. Five minutes had slid right through his fingers. Maybe because he was tired. He coughed. Picked up the coffee. Sipped it. "Trust you as much as I can. You're in my house. On my payroll. Don't know what else you want. Look, my entire business, right in the palm of your hand. When I can't run it anymore, you will. Don't know how much more trust you want. That's all the trust I have." Smokey grimaced at the kitchen floor.

[smokey-the-d]

Watchmen AU: Part II

George - Ozymandias

Sarah - Sally Jupiter

Stella - The Silhouette

Smokey -Rorschach

Francesca - Janey Slater

Daniel - Dollar Bill

Giovanni - Moloch the Mystic

[smokey-the-d]

Watchmen AU: Part I

Charlotte - Silk Spectre II

Rory - Mothman

Roy - Captain Metropolis

Victor - Hooded Justice

Sandy - The Comedian

Ollie - Doctor Manhattan

Aidan - Nite Owl II