I need to vent somehow
So, just to get it out of my system, the first 1,500 words of the story that's going to claim my sanity. Really, you have no idea what this is doing to my brain. I don't see it being done for at least 6 months, and that's if I don't tug out all my hair first, run naked and screaming through the streets, and get committed. For the time being, though, I can still tell a hawk from a handsaw.
It will be F/K eventually (why does it always take at least 4k words to get Fraser naked?). It's a historical AU, set in Chicago during the early 30s, and it's called Dulce Et Decorum Est.
The first time I saw the guy, I figured him for a sap. He was standing there holding his two-dollar hat, calling me Detective Kowalski like I was on the force or something. I sized him up fast--new to the city, a sucker if there ever was one, the kind of guy who'd help an old lady cross the street. I was right on the money, of course, but I was also wrong. I missed the big flashing sign above his head that said, "Trouble."
It wasn't my fault completely. I was working on one hell of a hangover from the night before and was in danger of having to re-see the eggs I'd eaten that morning. Truth is, though, I maybe wouldn't have even picked up on it if I had been hitting on all eight. The guy was a regular boy scout, not a thing hinky about him.
Fraser was his name, Benton Fraser, and he was on the lookout for a dame.
"This must remain confidential," he said, so earnest it tugged even my worn-out heartstrings. "Discretion is paramount."
"Hey," I said, rocking back in my chair, "discretion's my middle name."
"I was assured that you are a private detective of the utmost skill and discretion."
"Yeah?" I popped a cigarette into my mouth and took my time about lighting it. "Who assured you of that?"
He cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyebrow like the question made him nervous. "I, well, that is to say that I've been instructed not to inform you of the third party's name."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "That so?" I fixed him with my best stare and made sure not to blink.
He ran his thumb over his eyebrow again and looked away from me. "Perhaps," he began, "perhaps it would be allowable for me to inform you that he is a well respected member of the Chicago police force and that while his case load was far too heavy to allow him to--"
I didn’t even let him finish the sentence. "Frannie!" I yelled, pushing back from my desk. Only one Chicago cop would ever refer a client to me, and the bastard could hang for all I cared.
"Yeah, boss?" Frannie asked, opening the door to my office way too fast, like maybe she'd been lurking right outside.
"When you get home, make sure to tell your brother to get lead poisoning."
"Ray!"
"I mean it, Frannie. I don't need his hand-me-downs. You tell that lousy son of a bitch--"
"Detective Kowalski!" That was Fraser piping in. "We're in a lady's presence. It would do you well to watch your language."
Frannie gave him her doe eyes and smoothed her hands over her hips. When she looked at me, though, the doe eyes were gone and it was pure smugness.
"I assure you, Detective Kowalski--"
"Ray," I said. "Call me Ray."
"Ray, then. I assure you that whatever disagreements you have with Detective Ve--ah, the, uh, third party, they needn't affect our professional relationship. My need is legitimate, as is my money. I've managed to procure employment, if that's what worries you."
"Ain't about the money," I said. I looked at his earnest face and Frannie's big doe eyes and shook my head. "Aw, nuts," I said. "Fine. Frannie, shut the door."
She smiled sweetly and shut the door.
"And get back to your desk," I snapped. "I don't need you eavesdropping on my clients."
"Jeez, Ray!" she cried, and I could just imagine the offended look on her face, but I did hear her stomp away, so maybe Fraser'd get the discretion he was looking for after all.
"Sit," I said, motioning to the chair in front of my desk. "You want a butt?"
He shook his head. "I don't smoke." Big surprise, there.
"So, what's your deal?"
"My deal?" he asked, like he didn't know the meaning of the word.
"Your deal, your story. What do you need me for?"
"Ah." He reached into his jacket and I tensed, reaching slow for the **** taped to the underside of my desk. He'd just been going for a picture, though, so I relaxed as he handed it across the desk to me. "I'm searching for this woman. Her name is Margaret Mackenzie."
I looked at the snapshot and, wowee. "That's one quality piece of calico," I said. "She up and split on you or what?"
"She's my sister," he said.
"Of course she is." I looked up at him, all earnest face again. "Oh. She really is your sister?"
"Yes. Mackenzie is her married name."
I looked back down at the photo. Yeah, I could see it. She looked like a blonde instead of a brunette, but the eyes were the same, the cheekbones were the same. "When'd she go missing?"
"Several months ago."
"And you're only looking for her now?"
"No. It was two weeks before news reached me that she had disappeared. I returned to our hometown in the Northwest Territories and traced her movements from there to Yellowknife, Regina, Winnipeg, Duluth, and now to Chicago where, I'm afraid, my tracking skills are of little use."
"You're from way up in Canada, huh?" I asked. "Like Jack London?"
"Ah. Well, Jack London was, in fact, from California."
"Yeah, but you ride dog sleds and stuff?"
"Of course. In the Arctic, any other means of transportation would be impractical the majority of the year."
Aw, jeez. Talk about your country bumpkins. I had to help him, just to make sure the city didn't eat him alive. "So I'm guessing she don't want to be found."
"I, well..." He rubbed his eyebrow again. I reminded myself to never let him play poker. "I can't say that for sure, of course, since we've been out of contact for nearly ten weeks."
"Seems to me she's on the move. Her husband treat her bad?"
"No. No, Mark treated her very well while he was alive. Unfortunately, he died six months ago."
"Sorry to hear that."
He nodded. "By all accounts, Margaret arrived in Chicago three weeks ago, but I've been unable to trace her movements since she moved out of the Upton Ladies' Hotel last week."
"Look, seems to me maybe she just wanted a change of scenery. She's on the move, so what makes you think she's still in Chicago? She could be on to Kansas City by now."
"She's in Chicago," he said firmly.
"How do you know?"
"Because her husband, Mark, was originally from Chicago, and she believes that the men who killed him also reside here. She left this letter for me." He reached into his coat again and pulled out at letter, addressed to him. "You may read it if you wish."
I spent a moment looking over the letter and then whistled low. She didn't say it outright, but the gist of the thing was that she knew that the men who shot her husband were Chicago gangsters and that she was gunning for revenge.
"Do we know the names of the gunmen?" I asked.
Fraser shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. Mark's murder remains unsolved. I've no idea how Maggie learned their identities."
I ran my fingers through my hair. "If she's right, and the guys she's looking for are part of the Chicago Outfit, well...let's just hope she never finds them. Capone may be in Alcatraz, now, but that don't make the Outfit any less dangerous."
"Indeed," he said, and he didn't seem like such a rube no more. He just seemed like a regular guy worried for his sister.
"So," I said, folding the letter up and handing it back to him. "The charge is forty dollars, plus expenses."
He swallowed hard and nodded. "And is that per week or per day?"
"Neither. Jeez. I ain't out to rob you. That's total, though if you're not happy with my work I'll refund the whole amount."
"I'm sure I'll be quite satisfied," he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of double sawbucks, peeled off two and set them on the desk. "Forty dollars," he said. He peeled off another and set it on top of the other two. "Plus expenses. I trust you'll let me know if you need more."
"You walk around with a wad like that in your pocket all the time?" I asked in disbelief.
"No," he said. "No, usually I keep it in my hat."
It will be F/K eventually (why does it always take at least 4k words to get Fraser naked?). It's a historical AU, set in Chicago during the early 30s, and it's called Dulce Et Decorum Est.
The first time I saw the guy, I figured him for a sap. He was standing there holding his two-dollar hat, calling me Detective Kowalski like I was on the force or something. I sized him up fast--new to the city, a sucker if there ever was one, the kind of guy who'd help an old lady cross the street. I was right on the money, of course, but I was also wrong. I missed the big flashing sign above his head that said, "Trouble."
It wasn't my fault completely. I was working on one hell of a hangover from the night before and was in danger of having to re-see the eggs I'd eaten that morning. Truth is, though, I maybe wouldn't have even picked up on it if I had been hitting on all eight. The guy was a regular boy scout, not a thing hinky about him.
Fraser was his name, Benton Fraser, and he was on the lookout for a dame.
"This must remain confidential," he said, so earnest it tugged even my worn-out heartstrings. "Discretion is paramount."
"Hey," I said, rocking back in my chair, "discretion's my middle name."
"I was assured that you are a private detective of the utmost skill and discretion."
"Yeah?" I popped a cigarette into my mouth and took my time about lighting it. "Who assured you of that?"
He cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyebrow like the question made him nervous. "I, well, that is to say that I've been instructed not to inform you of the third party's name."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "That so?" I fixed him with my best stare and made sure not to blink.
He ran his thumb over his eyebrow again and looked away from me. "Perhaps," he began, "perhaps it would be allowable for me to inform you that he is a well respected member of the Chicago police force and that while his case load was far too heavy to allow him to--"
I didn’t even let him finish the sentence. "Frannie!" I yelled, pushing back from my desk. Only one Chicago cop would ever refer a client to me, and the bastard could hang for all I cared.
"Yeah, boss?" Frannie asked, opening the door to my office way too fast, like maybe she'd been lurking right outside.
"When you get home, make sure to tell your brother to get lead poisoning."
"Ray!"
"I mean it, Frannie. I don't need his hand-me-downs. You tell that lousy son of a bitch--"
"Detective Kowalski!" That was Fraser piping in. "We're in a lady's presence. It would do you well to watch your language."
Frannie gave him her doe eyes and smoothed her hands over her hips. When she looked at me, though, the doe eyes were gone and it was pure smugness.
"I assure you, Detective Kowalski--"
"Ray," I said. "Call me Ray."
"Ray, then. I assure you that whatever disagreements you have with Detective Ve--ah, the, uh, third party, they needn't affect our professional relationship. My need is legitimate, as is my money. I've managed to procure employment, if that's what worries you."
"Ain't about the money," I said. I looked at his earnest face and Frannie's big doe eyes and shook my head. "Aw, nuts," I said. "Fine. Frannie, shut the door."
She smiled sweetly and shut the door.
"And get back to your desk," I snapped. "I don't need you eavesdropping on my clients."
"Jeez, Ray!" she cried, and I could just imagine the offended look on her face, but I did hear her stomp away, so maybe Fraser'd get the discretion he was looking for after all.
"Sit," I said, motioning to the chair in front of my desk. "You want a butt?"
He shook his head. "I don't smoke." Big surprise, there.
"So, what's your deal?"
"My deal?" he asked, like he didn't know the meaning of the word.
"Your deal, your story. What do you need me for?"
"Ah." He reached into his jacket and I tensed, reaching slow for the **** taped to the underside of my desk. He'd just been going for a picture, though, so I relaxed as he handed it across the desk to me. "I'm searching for this woman. Her name is Margaret Mackenzie."
I looked at the snapshot and, wowee. "That's one quality piece of calico," I said. "She up and split on you or what?"
"She's my sister," he said.
"Of course she is." I looked up at him, all earnest face again. "Oh. She really is your sister?"
"Yes. Mackenzie is her married name."
I looked back down at the photo. Yeah, I could see it. She looked like a blonde instead of a brunette, but the eyes were the same, the cheekbones were the same. "When'd she go missing?"
"Several months ago."
"And you're only looking for her now?"
"No. It was two weeks before news reached me that she had disappeared. I returned to our hometown in the Northwest Territories and traced her movements from there to Yellowknife, Regina, Winnipeg, Duluth, and now to Chicago where, I'm afraid, my tracking skills are of little use."
"You're from way up in Canada, huh?" I asked. "Like Jack London?"
"Ah. Well, Jack London was, in fact, from California."
"Yeah, but you ride dog sleds and stuff?"
"Of course. In the Arctic, any other means of transportation would be impractical the majority of the year."
Aw, jeez. Talk about your country bumpkins. I had to help him, just to make sure the city didn't eat him alive. "So I'm guessing she don't want to be found."
"I, well..." He rubbed his eyebrow again. I reminded myself to never let him play poker. "I can't say that for sure, of course, since we've been out of contact for nearly ten weeks."
"Seems to me she's on the move. Her husband treat her bad?"
"No. No, Mark treated her very well while he was alive. Unfortunately, he died six months ago."
"Sorry to hear that."
He nodded. "By all accounts, Margaret arrived in Chicago three weeks ago, but I've been unable to trace her movements since she moved out of the Upton Ladies' Hotel last week."
"Look, seems to me maybe she just wanted a change of scenery. She's on the move, so what makes you think she's still in Chicago? She could be on to Kansas City by now."
"She's in Chicago," he said firmly.
"How do you know?"
"Because her husband, Mark, was originally from Chicago, and she believes that the men who killed him also reside here. She left this letter for me." He reached into his coat again and pulled out at letter, addressed to him. "You may read it if you wish."
I spent a moment looking over the letter and then whistled low. She didn't say it outright, but the gist of the thing was that she knew that the men who shot her husband were Chicago gangsters and that she was gunning for revenge.
"Do we know the names of the gunmen?" I asked.
Fraser shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. Mark's murder remains unsolved. I've no idea how Maggie learned their identities."
I ran my fingers through my hair. "If she's right, and the guys she's looking for are part of the Chicago Outfit, well...let's just hope she never finds them. Capone may be in Alcatraz, now, but that don't make the Outfit any less dangerous."
"Indeed," he said, and he didn't seem like such a rube no more. He just seemed like a regular guy worried for his sister.
"So," I said, folding the letter up and handing it back to him. "The charge is forty dollars, plus expenses."
He swallowed hard and nodded. "And is that per week or per day?"
"Neither. Jeez. I ain't out to rob you. That's total, though if you're not happy with my work I'll refund the whole amount."
"I'm sure I'll be quite satisfied," he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of double sawbucks, peeled off two and set them on the desk. "Forty dollars," he said. He peeled off another and set it on top of the other two. "Plus expenses. I trust you'll let me know if you need more."
"You walk around with a wad like that in your pocket all the time?" I asked in disbelief.
"No," he said. "No, usually I keep it in my hat."