Unholy Ground
Who: Brett and Dutch
Where: One More Round
When: Evening/Night
Brett was aware just how bad an idea this could be. There were two types of people who were actively unwelcome in the 'Round - cops, and mob guys. At one time or other in his life, Brett Trent had been both, and there were people here who would not have forgotten that fact. The party the other night at the Drake had shown pretty damn clearly that his face was known, and his story. As Eris had said last night - before the bitch walked out on him, that was - he was not an anonymous man.
But still, he was here. Because she had walked out on him last night. And because he'd been looking for her all day. And because he hadn't been able to find her. And because he'd seen the poster for the last performance of 'the Shrouded Angel' this evening. And because he knew that was her. And because the bitch hadn't seen fit to tell him about it. And because he'd promised. And because he knew she'd be here.
There were a lot of 'because's. Still - they were all reasons that wouldn't mean shit to someone who decided to take offence to Brett's very being, given what he was, what he'd been over the years.
He was standing at the back of the club, by the bar, listening to the start of her set. She was definitely there, which took the edge off a little. At least if she was there she wasn't dead in an alleyway somewhere, which had been a fear of his from the moment he found out that she'd gone, and which had grown every moment she didn't come back. That he relaxed he second she walked onto the stage on started to sing was visible, and he leaned back against the bar, stopped holding himself so stiffly as he sipped at the whiskey in hand. He rolled his shoulders a little, easing out the knots that had built up there throughout the day, a lot of the tension disappearing from his face. He watched her for a few minutes, until he finished his drink and turned towards the bar, finally taking his eyes off her so he could order another drink, aware of the people around him.
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Dutch had seen the look that Brett wore often enough, sometimes he wore it himself. More often than not, he missed it if he wasn't sober, but tonight? He'd just gotten his drinks as it happened, a bottle of beer in one hand and a gin in the other, giving the appearance of a man who might be bringing a drink to a friend. "Never thought I'd get so fond of the tunes around these parts," Dutch mused conversationally, even grinning as he looked to the stage in time to see Angelo's trumpet raise and weave subtly with the Shrouded Angel's vocals.
"Shame to see her go, though," he went on with a tilt of his bottle for a swallow of beer, "'Course, lookin' around here? I never thought we'd get one angel, let alone two." And he'd pine for the singer's loss, for the songs that made far more sense to Dutch than Angelo's stories, but that was life, right? Loss and pining and bad drinks.
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Brett tilted his head to one side to look at the guy, figuring he was being spoken to. 'Spoken to' was much preferable than, say 'punched in the face' - especially since one side of said face was still black and blue with the bruising that that 'angel' had laid on him a couple of nights ago. "Think she'll be back?" he asked, half wondering about that. About whether, despite her words, she'd decided to give up giving it up and just try to carry on the way she'd been.
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"Don't rightly know," Dutch answered before swapping beer for gin, then chasing the harsher liquid down, "Can't guess well with no clue of who she is, now can I?" He smirked a bit in Brett's direction before glancing back to the band and letting the music soothe the harsher points of Dutch's expression. "Wouldn't mind if she did, but a face like this doesn't get me a yard when it comes to influencin' a skirt. And Angel's done just fine with his boys all the nights she hasn't been 'round, so maybe she knows it's time to move on."
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"She's good," Brett commented, having ordered his drink and glancing back towards the stage for a moment. "Don't think just music can compare. Whether she knows that or not." He looked back at the other guy. "You got some influence over who plays here and who doesn't?" he asked, curiously, given the comment about influence there. He wondered if this guy was someone that he should know about, or just another propping up the bar and engaging in some wishful thinking.
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Dutch laughed at the question, never a pleasant sound even if he didn't mean it cruelly. "I figure I could if I wanted," he said as he shook his head Brett's way, "But nah, I just bring in loads of hooch every few weeks. Name's Dutch, and I'd offer a hand, but mine're tied up with greater things." That was said with a sardonic smile as Dutch went through the two-drink combo again, chasing his gin down with beer. "You oughta come back by some night, though, hear Angel and his boys do their thing. He tells these... stories, I guess? I can't make no sense of 'em, but the boy's got a good voice and folks seem to like 'em."
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"Good to meet you, Dutch," Brett said, hesitating over giving his own name, still aware of how bad an idea being here could actually be. "But stories aren't really my thing. I'm just here for her," he said, with an element of truth to it. He was just here for the girl, though not for the reasons that would probably be assumed.
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Dutch chuckled in understanding that would be wrong, most likely, nodding all the same. "You think the face matches the voice?" he mused aloud between drinks, "Lord knows I've come near to walkin' up there durin' a set just to get a look. Never did, though. I figure if she wants to stay hid, she's got the right, you know?" And there were some lines of decorum Dutch wouldn't cross, at that. He'd break a bottle over someone's head in here, sure, but daring to upset the bits of life and beauty the house musicians breathed into the Round? Not likely.
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Brett didn't think anything - he knew, but he wasn't going to betray the fact that he knew who was up there. Dutch was right about that - if she wanted to stay hid, she had that right. As long as she wasn't trying to hide from him. He'd take issue with that - he did, in fact.
"Yeah, I think the face matches the voice," he said, keeping his thoughts firmly to himself. "Guy can dream, right? You know if anyone ever manages to get backstage?" he asked, trying to tone it as if it was just simple innocent curiosity.
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"Angelo and his boys, the owner, but otherwise? No clue," Dutch answered. He'd been back there before once or twice, but never during or even near showtime. It had only been for bits of maintenance in the bar itself, otherwise he'd never caught much of a glimpse into the inner workings of the backstage area. "Didn't catch your name, friend," he added as an afterthought before washing down the rest of his gin, then swapping out the empty glass for a cigarette.
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Brett wondered about the chances of his being able to get backstage tonight. It was either that, or hanging out by the stagedoor. He wasn't just going to let her walk away. he looked around, pulled out of his thoughts by the question. He hadn't offered his name earlier, but he wasn't going to refuse a direct question, and to lie would be foolish. Too easy to be caught out. "Brett," he said, giving his first name rather than his surname which normally he would have given. He wouldn't lie, but he wasn't going to highlight who he was either.
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"Good meetin' you, Brett," Dutch greeted with a nod, half-watching the show onstage and half focusing on this encounter. "Won't claim I'm the sharpest of sorts, even before I've had a few? But I've never seen you 'round here before." And only part of that came from paranoia; the Round actually did a fair amount of business, but with no tithings to any gang? There was always a worry of someone edging in on neutral ground. First, Babylon had fallen. Then, Ian Sullivan had dared to show his face in here a few days back. Dutch didn't expect instant trouble, but he wasn't going to be willfully blind either. "Hope it won't be the last time, though," he urged, "Aside from dodgin' a thrown glass now and then? Ain't too bad of a bar."
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"Work keeps me away more than I'd like," Brett said, glancing at Dutch of the corner of his eye, then looking back at the stage again. In truth, he'd only been here the once. At New Year, when he'd found her last time. And even then, he didn't stay for long. Just long enough to assure himself that it was her. Then he'd gone to break into her apartment upstairs and wait for her. He wasn't going to admit that toe Dutch though, not when they'd just been talking about the fact that Brett was only here for the girl.
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Dutch just shrugged at that as he blew a cone of smoke out, wishing he had that problem. "Greener grass," he sighed into the mouth of his beer bottle, "What line of work you in, Brett?" Dutch was actually jealous, but he always had room for that little niggling voice that wanted him to drink less. If he had some kind of job that didn't leave room for either making or drinking alcohol, he knew he'd be in better health. Of course, he'd probably be a mental mess without the buffer around his grief, but no solution was perfect except for one, and that one? Was impossible.
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Brett considered giving the vague answer that he was a 'businessman', but he'd heard his superiors with the O'Malleys use that one once too often to think that it was a good idea in a place like this. People who were cagey about their source of income usually meant that it was illegal, and in this city, that meant mob ties. "I run an escort agency," he said, instead, telling the god's honest truth.
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That got a definite pause from Dutch as he swigged more beer to keep his expression even. Brett didn't look like a pimp, his clothes weren't gaudy enough. "Barkeep, two more of the same, plus whatever he's havin'," Dutch called over a shoulder when he finally broke away from the bottle, "Can't say I've met a whole lot of folks in that field. Doesn't sound like a bad label for a work day though, I spend all day with a bunch of greasemonkeys like myself... your scenery wins in spades." Maybe he was a brothel head? But if so, where was the accent? Again, where were the nicer clothes? And why would he be here? It didn't make enough sense for Dutch to be on edge, he was just curious.
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Brett turned enough to put in his order before answering. “Appreciated. And yeah, the scenery’s not bad. Though, being surrounded by women all day has it’s downsides,” he allowed. Over the last week or so, there’d definitely been times when he would have killed for some decent male company. But then again, Eris’ girls were still reacting to having him as their new boss – or one of them anyhow – and half of them were testing the limits. He noticed the other guy looking him over again, but didn’t call him on it. That was one of the things about the ‘Round – people took an interest in who and what youw ere. That was one of the facts that made this place dangerous to certain elements of society.
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That got a proper, coarse laugh from Dutch that he backed up with a leer at a patron nearby who glared at the intruding sound. "I can only imagine," he told Brett, shaking his head, "Think I'd go 'bout an hour before either they were all tryin' to kill me or I was beggin' to climb back under a car." Even the few women he was friends with made Dutch immensely self-aware, anxious even, but that was the inevitable result of social isolation like his. "But hell, where you set up at?" he asked, "A few boys on my crew're the sort who'd need to hire a date, not that I do much better. I figure I could aim some business your way."
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Now it was Brett's turn to check out the other guy, though he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, handing it over. "Uptown, though - we don't come cheap. And a date would be what they'd be hiring. Nothing more. most of our customers are men who need someone to look good on their arm at public functions," he said, thinking that this guy looked more like the type who wouldn't just want a face and some polite conversation, but trying not to offend for once in his life.
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Lucky for Brett, Dutch didn't take offense easily from things like that. He just chuckled as he pocketed the card, nodding. "If your girls look sharp enough, I'm sure I've got a boy or two who'll blow a weeks' pay for a night out," he assured Brett, "Won't be me though, no offense. I've got a mug that spooks the skirts, and I don't pay for what I don't need. Unless my mailbox starts fillin' up with invites to the galas and museums, I'll stick around here. But..." He trailed off with a sigh, patting himself down from pocket to pocket until he found a card of his own. "You ever got car problems, come on by. Or if there's an issue with your building? I do repairs too, but that runs a bit more for housecall jobs."
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Brett took the card and glanced at it before tucking it away in his pocket. "I'll do that," he promised. And he would, as well. He was out a number to call for car troubles these days. He could fix some things himself, but bigger jobs were out of his league and for the past few years, he'd gone to the O'Malley's guy. That door was closed now and he had no wish whatsoever to open it again.
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"Maybe I'll be hearin' from you then," Dutch said as he turned to claim his new drinks from the barkeep, handing over a bit of cash, "'Til then I think I'll let you keep an eye where you came in lookin' to aim it. Enjoy the show." And with a drink in each hand, Dutch nodded lightly to Brett in parting before he took a step back from the bar and pushed into the loose crowd of people. A well-placed glower could get him a private corner to enjoy these drinks, and few people in this neighborhood could glower quite as well as Dutch.