| Pass the ketchup. |
[01 Sep 2007|06:57pm] |
"Bobby-Sue, yer order's up!"
The vulture behind the counter at the small diner was a woman in her late forties who could have passed for a senior citizen had she not smoked at least two packs a day. Her leathery skin hung off her thin face, wisps of frizzled red hair framed her wrinkled brow, and one would have been able to tell that her eyes were green if not for the massive globs of thick black mascara.
Maybe she was born with it. No, it was definately Maybelline.
Bobby-Sue was a waitress of about eighteen. She hadn't done this table serving gig that long, but it paid the bills enough for her to keep a leaky roof over her head. Customers weren't so bad, although the older men who couldn't keep their hands to themselves prooved to be a bit of a nuisance for the soft spoken and oftentimes clumsy girl who spent most of her shifts avoiding Wilma, the women whom everyone referred to mainly as "Red".
The order in question was a turkey sandwich, served with a side of fries and a watery scoop of coleslaw to go with. Bobby-Sue, with her eyes to the ground, avoided the penetrating gaze of Red as she meekly took the plate from the kitchen counter.
"Get yer ass in gear, girlie," Red barked in command to the shy younger woman, who openly winced when the words were spat forth from overly rouged lips. "Don't keep those damn Pigs waiting, I know fer certain that one over there's a real mean piece of shit. Get a move on."
Swallowing hard, a deep breath was taken and the plate was carried across the small diner. The burly cop in the booth at the back of the restaurant sat alone, his nose buried in yesterday's newspaper. He was nursing a cup of coffee which had turned lukewarm as he waited for his meal, and occasionally he'd avert his eyes out the window to the pitch black darkness of the night outside.
"One turkey salad, side of fries, Officer," Betty-Sue interrupted as she set the plate down on the table, "Can I refill your coffee?"
Casually, Levi folded the paper in his hands and set it aside, "You can get me a new one," he muttered, pulling the plate forward towards him, "This one's cold."
( 'Been awhile. )
"Good evenin' to ya, sir." Reuben tried to glower a hole through the side of the law dog's head, then dug some money out of his pocket and dropped it onto the table between himself and Grace, who hadn't ordered anything. He unfolded his deceptively skinny frame out of the booth and adjusted his coat on his shoulders. It was late, but it wasn't that late.
"Come on, woman," he said in a rough voice, holding his hand out to his childe. "We got us some dancin' to do. I wanna go find a tonk." "Tonk," Grace agreed, the single word almost a bark as she hauled herself up and draped Ruben's arm across her shoulders. They sauntered past Levi like the world's oldest juvenile delinquents, headed out into the night where they could make some real noise.
Las Vegas was a great city to be undead in.
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| Stool Pigeons |
[01 Sep 2007|08:17pm] |
Star was ruined.
Sure, the results of the investigation into her club weren’t public yet. Not even the heiress knew what had been determined. But while she and the tabloids waited with baited breath, a bunch of bureaucrats took their sweet time. Tongues wagged, rumors got more and more twisted, and her reputation as a Vegas ‘It Girl’ was down the toilet.
Estella ‘Star’ Tomlin was now a ‘Has Been’.
In the meantime she lived off a meager allowance. After all, her fortune might get sued from underneath her. She joined the ranks of the unemployed. And she shacked up with Leah, trying not to notice that lately the place reeked of sex, and god only knew why. As far as Star knew, no action ever went on there.
But penniless or not, she could still afford a fashion mag and a milkshake. Depression demanded chocolate and brain candy. It was like a rule or something.
In a bad mock-up of a 1950s diner, Star sat on a swivel stool and wiled away the afternoon. Her straw made rude noises. It dripped chocolate on the pages of Vogue. She mopped at the latest splotch with a napkin and balled it up.
"That girl."
In the 1950s and into the decade beyond, many a young woman parked themselves in the soda shops at Hollywood and Vine, drank sodas and pretended to read magazines. Charlie Chaplin's had an office nearby. Will Rogers too. Studios were within walking distance. So it was the hope of every starstruck girl that a movie producer would walk by, glance into the window, be mesmerized by their mere presence, and strike those fabled words.
Whistler far from fit that bill.
If anything, he walked along the less known path that the Los Angeles section was known for: Haunted Hollywood. If he concentrated, he could see not necessarily the ghosts of what came before, but where the living were headed. And as an Agent for the Powers That Be, sometimes he was instructed to do exactly that.
Never was he allowed to examine his own path. That was a bone of contention; if he'd had a heads-up that The Witching Hour was to implode a few months back, he would've socked away more of his paychecks. He would've picked up more double-shifts to line what little of a nest-egg he had. And he sure as hell would've gone in earlier to get the last of the payroll.
Hands stuffed in (non-jean clad) pockets, he scuffed his way through the more brightly-lit areas of Las Vegas, occasionally peeking up to look for 'help wanted' signs. The worn notice at the 50s diner caught his attention. The woman seated with her back to the window. "That girl."
( The Reason For Going Inside )
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| Not Yet |
[01 Sep 2007|11:54pm] |
Jill didn’t really know what she was doing here.
Sure, the Bellagio was one of the nicest hotels in Vegas, bordering on palatial, but what was there for the lawyer here? Aside from an ex-squeeze vampire who may or may not have truly been here? Or an apparent ex-boyfriend with all the money in the world and even more rage?
Like many things the past few days, Jill just didn’t know.
Yet here she stood at Victoria’s door. For minutes she stood in silence, wrestling with herself over whether to knock on the door or just turn and walk out. In a way, she wanted to do both, and some part of her figured if Vicky was in this room, she knew Jill was there. That whole smelling thing.
If that were the case, then Vicky would know Jill was lost, confused. Scared, even. But the question remained … would she care? Jill couldn’t blame her if she didn’t; after all, they’d left on bad terms and what little the lawyer had to say about the vampiress in recent months was … unflattering at best. And it seemed just like Mallory to go yapping to her undead squeeze about what the big, bad lawyer bitch said …
But whatever. Jill had to make a decision, and soon. She figured she’d make the wrong choice either way – she always seemed to – so with a deep breath and a tug on the black business skirt, the attorney lightly wrapped on the door, torn between wanting Vicky to answer or not.
( But you will. )
With that, attorney gave vampire a peck on the cheek, and it appeared her grin grew a little. Did Jill want to be a vampire again? She wasn’t sure, and that was another question for another night. For now, she was back on track in figuring out who Jillian Andersen was and what she wanted out of her life.
Not being attached to anyone romantically anymore was a very promising start. And, in spite of the disappointment she felt over Victoria’s decision to remain faithful, Jill would not be deterred.
“You most certainly will.”
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