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Realistic or Modern ⭐ 𝒮𝓊𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓉 𝒮𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓅 ⭐ City Of Angels, 1969
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Atmosphere
June 22nd ,
1969.
LA.
9:17 AM
The detective sat in his faceless car, his polished black shoes resting on the dashboard. A cedar-wood coloured Cuban in his mouth - which he puffed on several times before pulling it out and blowing the smoke through the rolled down window. He’d then watch it rise - thinly - into the crisp morning air. When the haze had drifted away, he would bring his attention back to the house he was supposed to watch closely. 17 Sunnyside. The biggest and oldest house this side of Venice. He put his cigar back in between his chapped lips. Mumbling, “Come on ya son of a prick.” He puffed.
Doing his routine once more. He sat in the driver’s seat. He always had to be the one to drive. Hank, his partner, was horrendously inept at being behind the wheel. The men back at the department always said he was ‘part broad’. And speaking of -
“You didn’t want sugar in yours, yeah?” Hank’s voice came full volume as he opened up the adjacent car door. Carefully making sure not to spill any of what was in the two blue mugs he held. Mugs they’d thrifted from the office. Hank slid into the seat beside him, almost spilling some of the mug’s innards on his pressed white shirt. He handed him one,
Seething hot.
“I told you about Betty, right?” The detective questioned.
Hank shut the car door behind him. “About…?”
The detective took a sip,
“She wants me off the sugar for the summer. Thinks it’ll do wonders for the heart.” The caffeine in the mug burnt his tongue. It was hot and black and bitter.
“You got one of those?” Hank cracked, drinking from his own mug.
“Ha.”
The detective rolled his eyes and brought his attention back to Number 17. They both now watched the house. The mansion, more like. It may have been the coffee but he was sick to his stomach. Seeing a rich bastard like the one they were waiting on live in a place like this. It must’ve cost …
Too much.
Its architecture suggested it was quite old. It didn’t look like any of the new colourful properties sprouting up along the beach in recent years. What did he know about architecture anyway? He was Detective Thomas Doyle. His job wasn’t to date houses like an archeologist would date a fossil. He was here to catch a man. A scumbag. “Have you seen him yet?”
Hank asked.
The two of them sat glued to their seats. Watching like hawks. Doyle shook his head as a starting response, “Not yet. The paperboy delivered his copy and all.”
“And he still hasn’t come out to collect it?”
“No.”
“What kind of sick bastard doesn’t collect his paper first thing?”
Doyle smirked, “The tax evading ones.” Before taking another gulp from his mug. It had yet to start tasting any bit better.
Hank sighed,
“We’re going to be here all day.”
“We won’t be. Give him another hour. If he’s not out by then - we go up and give his front door a good knocking. That’ll wake him up surely.”
“I don’t know Tom-”
“Look,” Doyle looked at his partner. “We’re here, so shut it. Just be thankful the chief doesn’t have us on that 10851 case.”
“The barracuda?”
Doyle nodded his head in response. There was a moment of silence between the two partners. The two detectives. Two moments. Three moments. “Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“This coffee tastes like fucking piss.”
9:51 AM
“Carlotta!”
His voice echoed in the half-empty bedroom. Its only furnishings being an unmade bed, unopened cardboard boxes and a tall wall length mirror. That of which he looked into. Watching his own reflection as his fingers fickled with his striped tie. It wouldn’t sit right - the tie. The knot just did not … could not look right. And it had to look right. Today was the day. The day he’d remember for all his life.
For the rest of it, anyway.
However long that would be.
“Carla!”
He shouted once more. Adjusting the tie once more. Each hair on his head was in its correct place. His beard was well trimmed. His teeth were pearly white, more so than usual. His suit was a sleek black and a perfect fit. He had it tailored for him back in the old country several months ago. This was his first time wearing it. And it just felt … right.
So right.
“What?” A voice finally replied to him, coming from the kitchen. The room just right next to the bedroom he was currently in. The house was newly bought. Their house. It was only one story and located a bit too far into the suburbs for his liking - but it was big. Spacious. He could raise a big family inside it. He would. If he had his way. It was seeming that Carlotta would be throwing in the towel on children after this pregnancy though.
He’d beg her for another though.
Definitely so.
“I need ya help with this … this fuckin’ tie. It won’t sit right with the shirt.” He shouted back into her. He could almost hear her eyes roll through the unpainted wall.
“Come here.”
“Carla…”
“I am not walking all the way into that room, Frankie!”
He let out a short sigh and then sauntered out of the bedroom and then entered the kitchen via the wide hallway. The kitchen and the living room were one big open area. Carlotta stood by the island counter, mixing a mixture of greens together in a salad bowl. Her stomach was huge. She was due sometime in early July. It’d really be any day now.
His excitement was as bulging as her baby bump.
“I can’t get it right.” He said, in a moany tone of voice. He approached her and wrapped his hands around her waist. She took her hands out of the bowl and quickly rinsed them before turning towards him and his attire. The television set he had just bought was blaring cartoons, in which Alfie ignored. He was too busy playing with a wooden toy cop car. Carlotta began messing with his tie.
“Alfie!” He said, in classic baby talk tone. “Alfie, look!” The toddler looked up at him and began giggling. “Look at the TV, Alf.” The boy obviously didn’t have a clue what he was saying. So he did not turn to watch the fighting between Tom and between Jerry.
“How in Francis’ name did you get this knot like this?” His wife interrogated him.
He gave a slight shrug,
“I’m just real good like that, you know.”
“Mmmhmm.”
She continued to fiddle with the tie. With the knot.
“Do you really think a salad will do?” She asked him. Her breath hitting his neck. He was always considered small but thankfully she was still smaller.
“Carlotta, it’s fine. Don’t sweat about it.”
“I just feel like your ma is going to judge me for bringing just a bunch of lettuce to this thing -”
“My ma loves lettuce.”
“It doesn’t matter if she does or not, Frankie. I just … ”
He raised an eyebrow as he looked down at her, “Stop the worrying. She doesn’t judge other women on their cooking. Or their lack of cooking.”
His wife laughed nervously, “I don’t think you know your mother all too well. She was tearing into your Aunt Janice for that casserole.”
“That casserole was shit.”
“Hey!”
“That casserole was … real bad.”
She rolled her eyes, “That’s the understatement of this century.”
“You can go so wrong with a casserole, Carla. You’re making salad. I don’t think you can fu-- mess up salad. It’s near impossible.”
She let go of his tie and looked up at him, “Whatever you say, chef.” She propped herself up on her tippy toes and kissed his lips gently.
“Do I look good?” He asked her.
“Eh, not the shabbiest Italian.”
He smiled at her. She smiled at him. He kissed her this time. His hands cupping her belly. “I love you lots” He whispered to her, tickling her ear with his voice.
“I know you do, handsome.”
Was her reply.
Simple and effective.
They embraced for a moment more before there was a knock on their front door. He knew who it was before even having to open it. One of two of his sponsors. His cousin Patrizio. Most likely in his own suit. In his own tie. One his wife likely didn’t do for him. But Frankie wouldn’t have it any other way than this.
“Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Carlotta said. Another knock coming from the door. Patty had a notorious impatience. He never won a poker game because of it. Frankie and the others would always go extra slow when he had bought himself in.
He gave Carlotta one last kiss, before jogging over to Alfie who sat on the carpeted floor in-front of the television set. He knelt down and planted a kiss on the kid’s head. “I’ll see ya, buddy.”
The boy made unintelligible gurgles and noises, drowned out by the noise of the little brown mouse on the TV running away from the cat that chased him.
That was as good as he’d get.
10:03 AM
The roses were golden yellow, as if touched by sun. They sat in fresh water in a mosaic vase centrepiece. They were the first thing their guests would lay eyes upon when entering. They always were. Whether it was roses or whether it was lilies. This was the centrepiece of their home. Offering a beautiful sight … and a beautiful scent.
Her powdered white hands rearranged the flowers carefully.
Making sure every single flowerhead faced the same way. No stem was too thorned and no petal was too mis-shapen.
Until it was, for the most part, perfect. She heard the ricket of the bannisters. The feet slumping down the stairs they were attached to -
“Is the study all prepared?” She asked him.
Her husband.
He cautiously traversed the stairs, still wearing his sleeping robe. He had been getting up later and later every morning since the doctor’s appointment. Since … the diagnosis. “It is, it is. Has anyone arrived yet?” He replied to her. Finally stepping off of the final step.
“Matteo and Gia are in the lounge with little Matty Junior. Cesare, bless him, is in the yard talking with Enzo and your uncle Monty. Gianni’s gone to fetch me more olive oil for the brusch. Alice is in the kitchen attempting to … help me and by that I mean-”
“So all is well.” Francesco interrupted her, softly.
She smiled,
“All’s well.” She went to put her dough covered hands on his cheeks but then she realised that she forgot the fact that her hands were dough covered. So they slumped down to her sides. “Are you?”
“Hm?”
“Are you feeling…?”
“Maura, it is fine. I am fine. Just a little bit light headed, forget about it.” She could see his nostrils flare the way they always would when he was annoyed. So she knew to drop it. If her husband said he was fine then he was fine. That was how it worked.
Even when it wasn’t.
“Alright. I’m going to go back to finishing the pasta. I laid your suit out on the sofa upstairs-”
“I saw.”
“- So go in and say morning to everyone and then go get ready.”
He chuckled. The circles around his brown eyes darkened as he did. “I feel like I’m a child again. I’ll get to it, don’t worry ma.”
He mocked.
She shook her head and then laughed herself, “Run along now, little bambino.” He chuckled again and then wandered past her into the lounge. It erupted with greetings and the sound of lips touching cheeks. Maurizia Vescovi looked at her hands and then back to the vase.
To the roses.
And then she headed towards the kitchen, to make sure her daughter-in-law didn’t somehow set fire to the cucumber sandwiches she was in charge of putting together.
10:11 AM
The 1967 cherry red plymouth pulled up alongside the sidewalk. Patty was in his suit and his black leathered gloves, sitting in the driver’s seat. The wheel between both his hands. Frankie was in the backseat, the metal behind him pushing into the small of his back. “There he is, Frankie.”
Patty pointed out.
Frankie leaned forward and rolled down the window. The street was strangely quiet for this time of day on a Monday morning. Frank Sinatra’s newest hit played faintly on the car’s radio. ‘My Way’. “Hey!” Frankie called out. A few passer bys looked at him funny. But he only wanted one’s attention.
A skinny lank of a guy.
With a mess of hair upon his head.
“Vito!”
Frankie called his name. The man looked up from a newspaper and his face dropped. “Vito, it’s me Frankie. Come on man. I need to talk to ya.”
“F-Frankie?”
“Yeah. Frankie!”
Vito crumpled the newspaper into his back pocket and approached the barracuda. Scratching the back of his neck rigorously. “Frankie? What’s … going on? Why are you guys in the plymouth? Didn’t it sell yet or?”
“Nah, we decided to use it as one of ours.”
“Ah, alright.”
“Get in, Vito. We need to chat.”
“I - I don’t know if I have time to … Frankie. I’m waiting on-”
“Vito, look, just get in. Quick two minute pow-wow. Patty here’s gonna drive us around the block. It’s real important, Vito. My father’s got me doing this so please cut me a bit a slack.”
Vito was doe eyed.
He scratched his forehead, before opening the car door and sitting in the back next to Frankie. Frankie fell back into his seat. His back being dug into once more. “Strap in.” He said, crossing one leg over the other.
“You serious?” Vito laughed nervously.
Frankie glanced at him.
Not saying anything.
Vito reached for his buckle and did what was asked of him.
“Drive, Patty.”
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do, kid.” His cousin said as he put the vehicle into first gear.
10:19 AM
“Coming or arrival. Six letters.” Hank spoke, holding his mug in one hand and a pencil in the other. A newspaper’s crossword sat positioned on the lap of his checkered slacks. Doyle stared out the window still. Waiting for that money bagged bastard to show his face.
Still nothing.
“Doyle?”
He pulled his gaze away from the beachside estate, “Huh?”
“Coming or arrival. Six letters. Come on.” Hank tapped the pencil against the newspaper’s sheet before putting the mug to his mouth, ready to sip the cool coffee. A hand hit on the window beside him, however, and he jolted with fright. The mug slipping from his fingers - spilling its innards out all over his white shirt … and his crossword. “Officers -”
The owner of the hand said. Doyle rolled his eyes at him, the hobo. He looked as if he hadn’t washed in months. His hair was grey and gnatted. A cardboard sign hung from a rope around his neck. He read the sign. The phrase : “Daniel 2:22” in blotchy black paint.
“Officers. We need to talk about you. You and God.” The bum said, his voice muffled through the glass. “We need to talk about how you’re going to pay for this fucking shirt getting dry cleaned.” Hank spat. He tore a dry bit of the newspaper off and began rubbing it against him.
Somehow hoping to get rid of the coffee spill before it stained. It would stain. It would stain hard. There was no saving that shirt of Hank’s.
“The advent nears. The second coming.”
“Please step away from the vehicle.” Hank shouted through the glass.
Doyle couldn’t help but crack a smile.
He loved this city sometimes. Sometimes. He shook his head, wiping the grin from his face, and turned back to his view of the house and of -
Chester W. Buckman.
His friends called him Chuck. If he had any friends left after all the scummy shit he’d been dawdling in over his years and years as Hollywood’s King. He owned the biggest production company in the city. In the entire of The United States, even. The world. When someone said ‘filthy rich’ … they most likely meant it about Chester. He was rich. He was filthy.
“It’s him.” Doyle said, quickly. Grabbing Hank’s attention.
“Holy sh-”
“Come on.”
Doyle opened the car door as fast as he could - and stepped out. His shoes clicking against the road beneath them. The sun shone down warmer than usual. There was a slight wind, which flowed through the leaves of the tall palm trees that lined the street.
Doyle beelined for the house.
For the large front lawn. Its grass was obviously artificial. Greener than real green could be. Green like money. Doyle put one hand on the back of his firearm and another in his pocket - ready to whip out his badge to shove in that fuck’s face.
His shoes clicked.
Clacked.
Clicked.
Clacked.
Hank was stumbling behind him as the hobo still shouted his chants and verses. His warnings. Of God. And of God’s punishment. Doyle looked dead at Buckman. This was God’s punishment right here.
“Chester Buckman?”
Doyle spoke. Hank right behind. Buckman was wearing a long brown robe and tighty whities. He was half bent down, about to pick up the paper left for him by the delivery boy over an hour ago. “What can I do for ya?” Was all he said. His tone was curious. His eyes unsuspecting.
Doyle whipped his hand from his pocket,
Revealing the golden plate badge.
“I’m with the LAPD. You’re under arr-”
Before he could even finish his sentence, Buckman flew. Ran. His two legs moved faster than lightning. He almost stumbled back through the door to his mansion and disappeared inside. Doyle was quick on the draw though. He unsheathed his gun and begun to pursue,
“Go around!”
Hank stood there like a coffee covered dope, “What? Do-”
“Go the fuck around, Hank!”
The front door was half closed. Doyle quickly kicked it fully open and entered the mansion.
“Buckman!”
He shouted. Checking behind every corner. A quiet melody was coming from a record player down the large entrance hall - in the living area.
The Supremes sang.
“Buckman, come on out!” Doyle shouted, once more. Louder than the last time. The living area was empty of life. There were some footsteps coming from upstairs. “Chuck, honey?” A woman’s voice. “Chuck, what’s going on?” Doyle didn’t pay attention to the voice.
The stairwell was right by the door and he didn’t think Chester headed up them.
“Chucky?”
The woman continued.
Her voice and that of Diana Ross’ singing simultaneously with one another in a choir chorus. He heard a rattle coming from behind a door that led into another room, so he raised his firearm. Pointing it at the direction of the noise.
“Come out, Buckman.”
“Now.”
Doyle tightened the grip on his weapon.
Ready to fire.
10:21 AM
“I don’t understand, Frankie. I -”
Itchy Vito was what they called him. He itched when he was nervous, and he was nervous a lot. He sat in the backseat with Frankie, scratching his cheek red. Vito was an associate for them. Someone who helped one of his father’s Capo’s in finding relatively new cars. Stealing them. And then either selling them on or stripping them of their parts.
Vito was good at it.
Key word being was. Their latest find - the very same car they currently sat in - had been … messy. Vito had provided false information about the car itself. And its owner. The car belonged to one of his father’s friend’s goomahs. And she had reported it stolen.
“The mafia don’t steal from the mafia, Vito. What don’t you realise about that?” Frankie asked, sitting against the seat of the car still.
Pat had stopped driving now. They were parked at a street’s end. Not a single soul walked by them. Which was always a good thing when … discussing business. “That’s what I’m saying though, Frankie. I didn’t realise it. I didn’t do my check properly. How was I supposed to know t-that it belonged to some wise guy’s bit on the side?”
Frankie stared Itchy down,
“You were supposed to know. That’s why you do this for us. That’s why you get a share of the profit. It’s how shit works, Vito.”
“I know. I know. I know.” Vito nodded his head repeatedly. He was pissing himself, no doubt. “Look - Frankie - I’m sorry. You know I’m sorry. I just … I just fucked it. I fucked up.”
“You did, Vito.”
“I’m so sorry, Frankie.” His hands slowly came together as if to pray. He wasn’t praying though. He was begging. He had heard the stories. He had known the life. You don’t get many a chance to fuck up in the mob.
Next to none, sometimes.
“Vito…”
“Frankie, please. I am so sorry.” He pleaded.
Frankie sat forward, the pressure on his back lifting. He inched closer to the guy. To Itchy Vito. “Please.” The guy said once more. His voice was trembling. His hands were wet with sweat. His skin red from his fingernails. His scratching.
Frankie looked at Patty.
And then back to Vito.
And then to Patty again. Before he burst into laughter. A shrill laughter, like some hyena at a zoo enclosure. He cackled. Snorted. Tears swelling in the corners of his eyes. Patty soon joined in, chuckling himself. Vito was flabbergasted. His eyes wide. His mouth gaped. “I-”
“Vito, Vito, Vito. I’m fucking with you.”
“What?”
“I mean, you fucked up bad but … look you’re fine. You’re fine.” Frankie reached his right hand out and placed it on Vito’s knee. Squeezing it lightly.
“Oh Jesus.”
Vito exhaled more air than the car could hold. Patty still laughed. “Just-” Frankie continued. “Be more careful next time when you’re finding us something, alright? We don’t want to be stealing from our own.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Of course, Frankie. Of course.”
“My father’s associate has already been compensated and his lady has a brand spankin’ new car. So bada-bing. It all worked out.”
“Thank Christ, ha.” Vito rubbed his forehead and began laughing himself.
Frankie let his knee go,
“We’re good.”
“Good. I’m not going to lie, Frankie. You had me worried there.”
“Did I?” Frankie smiled brightly.
“I was shittin’ my pants man.”
“Ehh well I think Patty’s got a spare pair in the trunk. Don’t ya Pats?” Frankie asked his cousin, who simply gave him the finger. Frankie chuckled at that, as did Itchy Vito.
“Ha. Well, do you mind if I … head out? I - I got stuff to do.”
Frankie’s jaw dropped slightly,
“Aren’t you gonna wish me luck, Vito?”
“Luck?”
“It’s my baptism today. Earning my badge finally.”
“Oh! I knew that was coming up sometime soon. A big congratulations to ya Frankie, no one deserves it more than you do.” Vito smiled. His lips thin and pale. Frankie’s right hand found itself reaching into the back of his suit trousers, taking out a revolver.
“Thanks pal.”
He pointed it at Itchy Vito and pulled the trigger. Once. BANG. Twice. BANG. It was ear piercing, especially at such close quarters. There was a ringing in his ears. Blood and skin and brain painted the car window with a splash. The stuff slowly trickling down the glass.
“Fuck me, kiddo.”
Patty said as he threw him a small washcloth. Frankie caught it and put it against his face, rubbing off any unnecessary bits.
“Haul a cab, yeah?”
Patty nodded, “Let’s get to it. Waste of parts though.”
Frankie let the cloth drop from his face and his cousin and he both stared at the corpse of Itchy Vito. His face grotesquely wounded. Spitting red. Gushing it too. His knee twitched. He could feel his breakfast creep up through his stomach, but ...
Frankie wouldn’t let it. He wasn’t vomiting while in this fucking suit.
“The car, I mean.” Patty added. “Itchy - not so much.”
“We should get.”
“Alright, kiddo. Big day and all, eh?”
10:23 AM
“Buckman?”
Doyle called out once more. Entering a huge lounge-like room. Open and airy. Tall windows and a glass sliding door to his left, leading out to a patio and what he assumed to be the backyard. There was a half hung banner on the wall wishing someone a ‘happy birthday’. The walls that weren’t lined with windows were instead lined with bookshelves and a plethora of movie posters.
The hits.
All produced by this bastard.
Doyle still held his gun as if it was a spare limb. “Buck-”
A figure came out from behind a pillar and pushed past him. Doyle pulled the trigger, the bullet bouncing off of a shelf filled with statuettes and golden-coloured awards and then hitting the ceiling chandelier. The gun dropped from his grasp as he buckled over.
Buckman was making a run for it.
Barreling right towards the sliding door.
Shit.
The door slid open and Doyle stumbled up after him. But thankfully, Hank had pulled through. He saw as his partner lept out and tackled Buckman to the ground on the back lawn. A woman entered the room as Doyle stood up properly,
“Oh my God! What is going on? What are you doing?”
The woman from upstairs.
Brunette and panicked.
Doyle gave her a nod before screaming,
“You’re under arrest, Buckman. For tax fraud and evasion.” He began to walk through the sliding door. Stopping when his polished black shoes were at Chester’s head. Hank knelt on top of him, cuffing the rich man’s wrists with hard metal. Doyle spat on the grass.
The green, green lawn.
“And resisting arrest.”
He added.
Smugly.
It was that moment that Doyle knew he could use a cup of coffee right about now.
With a few sugars, definitely.
11:11 AM
“Ma!”
“There he is!” Maurizia fell into him. Her youngest boy. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him in a hug. They had just come in, Patrizio and he. Frankie. Junior. She studied him with proud eyes, “You look so dashing in your suit. Bello!”
He kissed her cheek,
“Thanks Ma. Is Carla here?”
Maurizia nodded frantically,
“She’s in the kitchen assisting me with some last minute preparations for the food. She brought a wonderful salad, piccolo pollo. She’s been such a big help.”
“That’s good to hear, ha.”
“Patrizio, you look wonderful.” Maurizia said as he came in behind her son, closing the front door as he did. He blew her a kiss and she laughed. Her eyes brought themselves back to her son and his suit and -
She noticed it.
A small splotch of red on the collar of the shirt under his suit jacket. She looked up at him with worry. He looked at her and smiled. Maurizia smiled too, before putting her thumb to her mouth and licking it. She then pressed the thumb to his collar and rubbed it.
Removing the wet red.
Making her son perfect.
“You ready, son?”
A voice came. Both Maurizia and Frankie looked up at the stairs to see him. Francesco. Frankie’s father and namesake. Maurizia’s husband and lover. The man who gave them both everything and more. He was dressed in his own suit now.
“I’m ready, pa.”
Frankie spoke softly.
“Get Patty and follow me up. We’re all ready for you in the study.” Don Francesco Vescovi told. Frankie nodded and pulled away from his mother, going into the adjacent lounge to find Patty for the ceremony. The initiation. Maurizia looked up at her husband.
He looked down at her from the stairwell and smiled.
She smiled back at him.
Hollywood was about to gain another made man.
★
Last edited:
dendygar
chicken dender
DONABELLA VESCOVI
LOS ANGELES
3:36 A.M.
The beach was white and pristine, the smell of the saltwater as blue as Julian's eyes. As blue as the bruises he'd left up and down her arms, spotting her face and body- they weren't there any longer. Holding out her tanned arms, she looked them over slowly, the world seeming distant and far away. Even though Dona could hear the music, she couldn't find its source. "Dona." A voice, soft against her ear. Her slender shoulders relaxed, instinctively leaning back into Michael's chest as she stood. "I won't ever leave you.." His hand slid from her hip up her body, then grasping around her throat. "... I won't ever forgive you." The voice had changed into one she knew too well. His hands dug into her neck, searching for her pharynx to snap like popsicle sticks. Dona's hands reached up, clawing desperately at her skin as her lungs caught fire. Smoke poured from her mouth like some sort of mythical dragon. before-
Her body bolted straight up in bed, her white satin nightie drenched in sweat, the thick and coarse hair of her scalp sticking to her neck and temples. The makeup that had been too difficult to remove the night before was easy now, running down her face and smearing around her glassy dark eyes. Her lower lip trembled wildly, knowing exactly what time it was without having to look at the clock. This had happened every night for the last two and a half weeks, since Julian had died. Bringing her knees to her chest, Dona's hand went into her damp dark hair, lightly biting down on her nightie to stifle herself. Lying in bed next to her was Michael, one of the only men in her life who truly seemed to get it. Just all of her, the circumstances, and he had saved her life. If Julian hadn't gotten her, the up and coming starlet would have offed herself. Her trembling hand went under her nose, closing her eyes and trying to calm down. Donabella felt awful about waking Michael up in the middle of the night, every night. And yet he stayed.
The lithe little thing stood up and quickly fluttered to the bathroom, the moonlight coming in through the blinds mixed with the queer sepia hue of the streetlights could have easily been mistaken for some sort of ghostly apparition. Turning the knob and closing it so that the handle wouldn't click and wake Mikey up, she sat down on the toilet and began to run a scalding hot shower. What day is it today? Another wave of panic smacked her right in the chest. There's a fuckin' function today, isn't there? She thought in her best friend's voice, Ford. Sweet, sweet Ford. Good thing I remembered now. Her hand went to her chest, and then to her neck, crudely digging the two trembling manicured fingers into her jugular, feeling her pulse slow. Michael had been helping her off of the valium, too.
Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up..
TAGS:
Awesome_Nemo
D
Derpitus
LOS ANGELES
3:36 A.M.
The beach was white and pristine, the smell of the saltwater as blue as Julian's eyes. As blue as the bruises he'd left up and down her arms, spotting her face and body- they weren't there any longer. Holding out her tanned arms, she looked them over slowly, the world seeming distant and far away. Even though Dona could hear the music, she couldn't find its source. "Dona." A voice, soft against her ear. Her slender shoulders relaxed, instinctively leaning back into Michael's chest as she stood. "I won't ever leave you.." His hand slid from her hip up her body, then grasping around her throat. "... I won't ever forgive you." The voice had changed into one she knew too well. His hands dug into her neck, searching for her pharynx to snap like popsicle sticks. Dona's hands reached up, clawing desperately at her skin as her lungs caught fire. Smoke poured from her mouth like some sort of mythical dragon. before-
Her body bolted straight up in bed, her white satin nightie drenched in sweat, the thick and coarse hair of her scalp sticking to her neck and temples. The makeup that had been too difficult to remove the night before was easy now, running down her face and smearing around her glassy dark eyes. Her lower lip trembled wildly, knowing exactly what time it was without having to look at the clock. This had happened every night for the last two and a half weeks, since Julian had died. Bringing her knees to her chest, Dona's hand went into her damp dark hair, lightly biting down on her nightie to stifle herself. Lying in bed next to her was Michael, one of the only men in her life who truly seemed to get it. Just all of her, the circumstances, and he had saved her life. If Julian hadn't gotten her, the up and coming starlet would have offed herself. Her trembling hand went under her nose, closing her eyes and trying to calm down. Donabella felt awful about waking Michael up in the middle of the night, every night. And yet he stayed.
The lithe little thing stood up and quickly fluttered to the bathroom, the moonlight coming in through the blinds mixed with the queer sepia hue of the streetlights could have easily been mistaken for some sort of ghostly apparition. Turning the knob and closing it so that the handle wouldn't click and wake Mikey up, she sat down on the toilet and began to run a scalding hot shower. What day is it today? Another wave of panic smacked her right in the chest. There's a fuckin' function today, isn't there? She thought in her best friend's voice, Ford. Sweet, sweet Ford. Good thing I remembered now. Her hand went to her chest, and then to her neck, crudely digging the two trembling manicured fingers into her jugular, feeling her pulse slow. Michael had been helping her off of the valium, too.
Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up..
TAGS:
Awesome_Nemo
D
Derpitus
Awesome_Nemo
The Awesome Captain of the Nautilus
Michael Giardina
Los Angeles
3:38 A.M.
With Dona it was normal to get sleepless nights. In truth they were just as sleepless before he started sleeping with her. A creaking floorboard, a car driving by, a rustling curtain, they all made Mikey crack an eye open and make sure the gun under his pillow was still there. Normally it was a six shot snub-nosed revolver- far easier to pull the hammer back under the pillow- but tonight his hand clasped the familiar grip of his Makarov, the one he carried around with him, as opposed to his bedroom pistol. Peaking through half closed eyes, the slice of light coming from the bathroom door left ajar was like a bleeding wound over a white shirt.
Poor Dona. That bastard Julian had really done a number on the young girl. Her fitful dreams and early mornings were familiar enough to Mikey. Memories of himself when he was younger. Goddamn when he was younger. He felt almost wrong sleeping with a dame like Dona, not just because her father would have him take a long walk off a short pier is he found out though that helped. No, mostly it was because he was old. Old enough to be her uncle, not her father though. He for Hell wasn’t that old.
Dragging himself from the covers, scarred and skin illuminated by the streetlights, and then by the flip lighter as he lit a cigarette between his lips. The smoke dancing in the dim light and the embers making the wrinkles on his face look deeper. It was going to be a long day. There was that dinner for Franky Jr. and Dona was going on last night about the function she’d have to sit through. At least Mikey wouldn’t need to shoot anyone.
Flicking some ash into the tray on the nightstand, he stood up and sauntered over to the bathroom, like a moth to flame, the steam from the bath being drawn starting to leak out from the room. Absentmindedly he reached up to knock, only then noticing the pistol still clenched in his hand. Poor force of habit. Tiredly he set the Makarov back on the nightstand next to the ash tray before knocking, taking a drag off the cigarette.
Tags:
dendygar
Los Angeles
3:38 A.M.
With Dona it was normal to get sleepless nights. In truth they were just as sleepless before he started sleeping with her. A creaking floorboard, a car driving by, a rustling curtain, they all made Mikey crack an eye open and make sure the gun under his pillow was still there. Normally it was a six shot snub-nosed revolver- far easier to pull the hammer back under the pillow- but tonight his hand clasped the familiar grip of his Makarov, the one he carried around with him, as opposed to his bedroom pistol. Peaking through half closed eyes, the slice of light coming from the bathroom door left ajar was like a bleeding wound over a white shirt.
Poor Dona. That bastard Julian had really done a number on the young girl. Her fitful dreams and early mornings were familiar enough to Mikey. Memories of himself when he was younger. Goddamn when he was younger. He felt almost wrong sleeping with a dame like Dona, not just because her father would have him take a long walk off a short pier is he found out though that helped. No, mostly it was because he was old. Old enough to be her uncle, not her father though. He for Hell wasn’t that old.
Dragging himself from the covers, scarred and skin illuminated by the streetlights, and then by the flip lighter as he lit a cigarette between his lips. The smoke dancing in the dim light and the embers making the wrinkles on his face look deeper. It was going to be a long day. There was that dinner for Franky Jr. and Dona was going on last night about the function she’d have to sit through. At least Mikey wouldn’t need to shoot anyone.
Flicking some ash into the tray on the nightstand, he stood up and sauntered over to the bathroom, like a moth to flame, the steam from the bath being drawn starting to leak out from the room. Absentmindedly he reached up to knock, only then noticing the pistol still clenched in his hand. Poor force of habit. Tiredly he set the Makarov back on the nightstand next to the ash tray before knocking, taking a drag off the cigarette.
Tags:
dendygar
Elucid
Pearannoyed
June 22nd 1960, 217 East 61st Street L.A., 10:07 AM
Act I: Riposte
They say that a man's only about as good as his word, personally, Dick though they'd best append that with some mention of a man's abode. After all, it would seem almost self evident that the way someone lives says a lot more about one's character than anything as fickle as words. Wasn't that something Shakespeare said? He'd have to look that one up sometime. Anyhow, Dick certainly did pride himself on knowing how to live well. Just yesterday he'd installed that rather agreeable little teak wood bar near the fireplace, a welcome addition to the home according to his close friend and confidant Jim Cragge who was right at this moment in the midst of preparing an early morning pick-me-up of gin and tonic. Dick liked having writers around, they were certainly the least judgmental of folks, besides everyone knew that you couldn't hope of writing a semi-decent script in this town without being a raging alcoholic. Now, if only he could find a few of those 'journalists' to be pals with, he'd probably be set.
Dick was sat watching an episode of Gunsmoke on that rather pricey television set he'd been persuaded to buy, one that doubled as a record player which he thought was quite economical. On the coffee table he'd left a half eaten sandwich and a glass of untouched OJ and was instead smoking a Du Maurier, a taste he'd acquired when touring the many European capitals.
"Here's your drink, Dick." Jim interrupted, with a rather sullen tone.
"Hey! move over, it's the best part, the marshal's arrived!" said Dick swatting him away from the TV.
"I'll honestly never understand how you're able to watch drivel like this, it's made to appeal to the lowest common denominator" Jim proclaimed with a sigh. Taking a seat on the sofa next to him while sipping from a glass of whiskey.
"You know I'm in the middle of shooting a Western right now, yes?"
"Yes." Jim replied, a slight smirk appearing on his rather plain face.
"You know, you've been like this ever since Eduardo left you on the curb."
"He didn-"
"The guy's probably half way across the Atlantic with that broad he discovered. What'd I tell you? The Mediterraneans are never to be trusted."
Jim Cragge didn't reply, he just walked up-to the bar and got himself a few more ice cubes. Dick was more than a little concerned about his friend, a week of moping around was tolerable but this, this had gone on for far too long, and besides Dick couldn't have a negative Nancy come by all the time, it'd affect his aura.
"You know what you need Jim? a muse. Yes, that's it."
"A wha-"
"Come on, I'm going to go start the car, put on a nice jacket and come back down. Don't worry, you can borrow one of mine just ask Henrietta to fetch you one."
"I don't think this is a very good idea Dick" Jim said hesitantly.
"Just go, and bring that script with you, we'll be needing it."
Dick owned a white Toyota 2000GT, decked out to resemble the one that Sean Connery rode in You Only Live Twice, he'd been a big fan of the franchise ever since he was allowed to watch them. He was still waiting on the studios to offer him the role of the next Bond, and he'd even spent some time practicing a British accent for the part. It didn't take Jim long to come on out, especially after Dick's incessant honking, He was wearing a plaid red jacket and white trousers which made him look a bit ridiculous but they'd have to make do.
"Where even are we going?" asked Jim with a sense of alarm in his voice.
"Evelyn's Place."
"Evelyn who?"
"Evelyn Cross"
"The Evelyn Cross?!"
"Yeah, she's got a daughter that'd be perfect for that script of yours."
"A daughter?"
"Have I ever told you that I bought this place off of an exiled Russian Prince?" said Dick, pointing towards the general direction of his home before promptly stepping on the pedal.
"What?!"
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dendygar
chicken dender
DONABELLA VESCOVI
LOS ANGELES
3:40 A. M.
The age thing didn't bother Dona, even though it bothered everyone else. She'd tried bringing up dating older men with her family, some of them laughed, some of them expressed disgust, but most expressed worry and disdain. Age was just a number to her, but it meant a whole hell of a lot more to others. Her dad would never approve- he was already pissed off enough when Julian got dusted, and if he found out that the man who dusted him was practically living with his daughter..? It would be over for both of them. Her elbows on her thighs, she sat on the toilet and felt the steam entering her lungs.
Dona wished more than anything that she could take Mikey with her that day as her own, arm-in-arm and giggle and laugh with her in-laws and talk about things that happy spouses do. But sadly, it would be another day of forcing her envy for them down and tucking it away for later. Burying it so deep that she could hopefully forget about it by the end of the night. Her head shot up when he entered the room, her big brown eyes softening and seeming to relax, exhaling a small breath out of her mouth through pursed lips.
Outside a car honked. "I'm sorry for waking you up." Same line, different day. Dona stood up and opened the door wider, inviting the vampire in. Her delicate, willowy arms wrapped loosely around his neck, the adrenaline starting to fade, leaving a sickly feeling in her gut and an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. "Nightmare again."
Gently taking the cigarette from his lips, she puffed on it as well before using two fingers to push it back gently between his lips. Dona exhaled out of her nose. She'd gotten hooked on the cancer sticks after a commercial she'd done about a year back for Camel. "God, I don't wanna go today.." She groaned softly, pressing her forehead into his chest and shaking her head.
LOS ANGELES
3:40 A. M.
The age thing didn't bother Dona, even though it bothered everyone else. She'd tried bringing up dating older men with her family, some of them laughed, some of them expressed disgust, but most expressed worry and disdain. Age was just a number to her, but it meant a whole hell of a lot more to others. Her dad would never approve- he was already pissed off enough when Julian got dusted, and if he found out that the man who dusted him was practically living with his daughter..? It would be over for both of them. Her elbows on her thighs, she sat on the toilet and felt the steam entering her lungs.
Dona wished more than anything that she could take Mikey with her that day as her own, arm-in-arm and giggle and laugh with her in-laws and talk about things that happy spouses do. But sadly, it would be another day of forcing her envy for them down and tucking it away for later. Burying it so deep that she could hopefully forget about it by the end of the night. Her head shot up when he entered the room, her big brown eyes softening and seeming to relax, exhaling a small breath out of her mouth through pursed lips.
Outside a car honked. "I'm sorry for waking you up." Same line, different day. Dona stood up and opened the door wider, inviting the vampire in. Her delicate, willowy arms wrapped loosely around his neck, the adrenaline starting to fade, leaving a sickly feeling in her gut and an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. "Nightmare again."
Gently taking the cigarette from his lips, she puffed on it as well before using two fingers to push it back gently between his lips. Dona exhaled out of her nose. She'd gotten hooked on the cancer sticks after a commercial she'd done about a year back for Camel. "God, I don't wanna go today.." She groaned softly, pressing her forehead into his chest and shaking her head.
Hypnos
L'Empereur
Cesare Vescovi
10:20 am
10:20 am
An uncomfortable taste pressed against Cesare’s tongue as the billowing cloud of grey smoke shot softly from the man’s lips, a violent cough following several instances of gentle wheezing, clean fingers pressing the glowing bud harsh against the arm of the lawn chair.
‘It’s strong stuff. Good though. I like it.’
A white lie. Innocent enough, though barely concealed beneath a hum of indignant spluttering. It was awful. Vile. Like an industrial chimney had just taken a shit right into his gaping maw and he’d thanked it for the privilege, but the cigars had been expensive and foreign, and he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.
‘You’ll have to bring some over for when me and Ali move into our own place. Give it that new home smell.’
If there was one thing that Cesare had not missed about LA culture, it was how everyone smoked like a bonfire.
He’d picked up the habit himself when he was fourteen, it was hard not to when cigarettes were more plentiful than leaves on trees, yet he’d managed to kick it soon after he’d left for college. Now he was back however, and like an unwanted pregnancy, it seemed that the smoking craze was here to stay. It was a delicate problem.
His Alice had told him that he ought to stay strong, that his long term health was far more important than fitting in with a couple of his Pa’s goombahs, and at first he’d thought that principle was sound, but it soon came apart at the seams.
If you don’t smoke, you don’t head outside with the men whilst the women clear the table, and clean things up. If you don’t head outside, you don’t get to hear the latest word about who was about to get whacked, and who had just fallen out of favour.
One awkward question about the empty chair at dinner was more than enough for him.
If you don’t smoke, you were out of the loop, and Cesare hated being out of the loop.
‘Show ‘em off to Pa after the meal. You know he loves a Cuban, you might just see him smile.’
Giving his compatriot a pat on the shoulder, Cesare stood, stretching his legs as he looked around the yard, a sea of suited masses. He wasn’t sure how they did it.
The LA sun was excruciatingly hot, and even today on Frankie’s big day, he’d found it difficult to get fully dressed up. His suit jacket had been abandoned about ten minutes after he’d put it on, and his shirt was already down more than a few buttons, tie slinked lazily under the collar, both ends hanging loose over his shirt. He’d forgotten just how hot a California summer could be, and whilst it made for great beach weather, it was hardly the sort of climate you wanted for a warm, sit-down dinner.
‘I’m parched. Need something to wet my whistle.’
Half excuse, half desperation for relief from this blazing inferno, Cesare moved himself off the lawn and towards the kitchen where he knew his Ma was working tirelessly to make Frankie’s big day a success.
A made man.
A part of the family.
Part of him couldn’t help but be jealous, but this wasn’t exactly a life he coveted.
Not that it was one he seemed able to escape from either.
Avoiding his Ma’s gaze whilst she was distracted with his father, Cesare slunk into the kitchen, moving slowly behind the gentle form of his wife as he moved up on her from behind, the woman clearly too distracted with her current task to notice as he wrapped his arms around her from behind.
‘Fuck me, Che! You frightened me. Not whilst I’m holding a knife. I coulda stabbed you in the gut.’
‘If the way you handle that cucumber is any indication of your aim, then I ain't particularly worried bout it.’
Even if he could not see her face as he rested his chin upon the top of her head, he could practically feel her scowl.
‘Your mother’s got me running around like a scullery maid. You know I don’t cook.’
‘Ma’s just very traditional like that. Thinks women ought to help out in the kitchen. Come’on Ali. It’s Frankie’s big day, you gotta put in some effort.’ Cesare motioned with one hand to the rough and uneven chunks of vegetable in front of her.
‘If you want to make it so special then I can lop off your cock, and you and me can switch places.’
It was hard for Cesare to keep a straight face as she threateningly brandished the knife. ‘You know what? I think I’ll have to pass on that, ta. Not one to enjoy pissing through a tube.’
‘Well you’re on thin ice.’
Cesare relinquished the grip upon his wife to move towards the kitchen sink, pulling a plain glass out from one of the cupboards and pouring out some water.
‘How is Frankie, anyway? Have you spoken to him yet?’ Alice turned to face him.
‘Not recently.’ Cesare took a swig. ‘Him and his Mrs. have that new baby coming round to worry about.’
‘And yet they think now’s the time to get deeper into the family business?’
This time it was Cesare’s turn to scowl. ‘It’s important, Ali, Frankie’s becoming a man.’
‘You need one of these to become a man, eh? That mean I’ve been married to a boy all this time?’
‘No! I mean, well, yeah. Technically, but…’ His face went red. ‘It’s a Catholic thing, you wouldn’t understand it.’
‘Well my family’s Anglican and we fucking hate each other. Seems like a much easier system.’
‘You know, I think you’d really get along with my sister.’
‘Donnie?’
‘No, Lucy. I’ll have to introduce you sometime.’
‘I didn’t know you had two sisters.’
‘It’s complicated.’
Finishing his drink, Cesare frowned once again.
‘Anyway, I should probably head back out to the lawn for when Gianni arrives. Don’t want to miss an exciting war story.’ He gave his wife a quick peck on the lips. ‘Stay strong. Don’t let yourself be beaten by a cucumber.’
‘Fuck off!’
Cesare fucked off.
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JPTheWarrior
♥ Jack of Hearts ♥
James Benedict
7:00 pm
After a few minutes of discussing details, rent prices and so on, James finally got the key to his room. The building had three floors, each on with five rooms to choose. James ended up in the last on, room number 11. Opening the door, he entered his new home and welcomed it with disdain. The smell again was horrible and the walls were exactly like the ones outside. At least the bed had a pillow and a matress. James closed the door and put his bags on the bed, opening them. It would be a long night of putting his clothes and other things in the drawers and closet. The room had a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom, with a small radio on a table. No TV, but that was to be expected. Grabbing his white but red stained shirt and other dirty clothes he put them in the washing machine, turning it on. He took out his jacket and other shirt, ready to put more comfortable clothes for the long night ahead of him. However, he remained shirtless for someone had knocked on the door. Another deep breath, this time of annoyance. He walked to the door and looked through the small hole. A woman stood in front of it, beautiful, of short black hair and hazel eyes, curved thin eyebrows and small pointy nose, under it lied her lips, pale pink colored. James place his hand on the circular handle and opened the door with a little twist. "Good evening miss?"
The woman's eyes opened wide when James opened the door, her pale cheeks getting a small taint of red "My name's Alicia Rodriguez, good sir" her voice stood out. Foreign, of latin roots. From where James could not tell. Spanish? Mexican? Cuban? "I am the maid here. If you need anything, I am yours- I mean I can help you." she said and looked down, not to his naked torso, but to his feet. James smiled and nodded "Thank you, Alicia. That's a beautiful name. I'll make sure to call you if I need something." Alicia nodded and added "Thank you, the number is 132 on the telephone. It should be next to your bed" She smiled and with a small bow quickly walked away. James closed the door still smiling and finished what he had been doing before.
Sitting in a chair next to a small table he opened a box that James had brought from New York. Inside were a bunch of files. Reading each one carefully, James took note of everything that was inside: information that he had to give to City Hall about himself, documents about this 'Vescovi' family's case and Dali's too. There were also Jame's own documents, with his credit card, between other things. Finally, there was a small piece of paper, where many passwords had been written down, so James wouldn't forget them. James smiled "An organized man" he said.
8:00 am
Getting up from his bed, this night had been sleepless, spending it around the tower of files James had brought with him. The room was a mess, pieces of cut paper and photos layed on the wooden floor. In the wall directly in front of his bed there was board James had put up. On the right side it was the mob family's case, with many pictures, papers and newspapers' entries all connected by dots and pieces of red and black string. To the left side it was smilar, although the information there was about Dali. Before leaving his house, he made sure to clean everything up, burning up the trash that piled up during the night. He put on a black suit and white cleaned shirt, ready to start the day. Grabbing his black briefcase with everything he needed there, hiding inside his jacket his own gun and its holster.
He left his house half an hour later. Before calling a taxi he bought the newspaper of the day. "Take me to 200 N Spring St" James said to the drive. Sitting in the backseat, James he read the newspaper. The only information he cared about spoke about a man found in a river, naked and the skin of the face peeled off, the fingers chopped off, from hands and feet, and teeth removed. The muscles had also been cut and carved, midway peeled. With the tongue streched out, the head resembled an orchid flower. Dali's work, no doubt. The body was unrecognizable and it marked the start of an era, the beggining of Dali's artshow in LA.
After a long trip inside the taxi, the car finally reached City Hall and James got out, paying the driver. With a long deep breath, he walked towards the building, ready to welcome himself to the police force of Los Angeles.
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Enzo Bianchi
10:20 A.M.
He was snapped out of his reverie by Cesare's cough, and did his utmost to suppress a snicker, making a valiant attempt of it, really- the most that came out of him was a strangled, faintly amused cough.
The kid hated cigarettes- it was plain to see, but good on him for being polite, he supposed. In truth, Cesare struck him as... sort of soft, really.
But there were worse things to be than soft. Far, far worse. The family had plenty of hard, violent men. Himself. Frankie. Gianni. It could use a touch more softness. Cesare had a hell of a mind on him besides. Smart kid. Outrageously smart, in fact. That was good - it'd get him farther than any number of bruised knuckles and empty shells. Now, Enzo didn't have a mind for none of that physics nonsense, but he fancied himself something of an amateur historian, he liked a good philosophy book. It was enlightening. And besides- it made him seem smarter. Academics were nothing to be scoffed at.
And so, despite the perceived softness, Enzo could certainly respect Cesare- even if the younger of the pair had atrocious taste. Honestly- how do you disdain a cigar like this one?
He chuckled, as Cesare attempted to excuse himself, and waved him off. "Yeah, alright, kid," he responded, waving him off with a friendly gesture.
Enzo's eyes turned to the ground. "Show ‘em off to Pa after the meal. You know he loves a Cuban, you might just see him smile," the kid had said.
Old Don Francesco was getting up there in years. It was only a matter of time before something got to him, but Jesus, it weren't pretty.
No. No, Enzo wouldn't be giving the man any cigars. If he had it his way, Old Don Francesco was going as clean as he could be. In his state, man was more likely to drop dead after a Cuban than give him a smile.
Not that he'd let anyone know.
Christ, but the kid was right. It was fucking blazing out here. Enzo stood, buttoning up his shirt, rolling down the sleeves and slipping his cufflinks on, and pulling on his jacket.
Gianni was bound to be back soon, and he wanted to stick close to the kid. He'd only been back for a couple of months. Still unstable, Enzo could tell.
He still thought about slitting the rat bastard officer's throat who told Enzo he was getting discharged before Gianni. It was a real shit thing, that Enzo couldn't have been there for Gianni when he finally broke out of that god-forsaken place. He sure as shit knew he could've used it.
Well, he could make up for it now.
~
Ford Williams
6:45 A.M.
Screaming, as rows of guns and bayonets charged straight at them, blood splattering and bullets soaring.
And that god damn fire. It was everywhere.
If there was one thing the war had taught him - it was that the Japanese were fucking crazy. And he was just as mad for volunteering to fight them.
One hell of a fucking publicity stunt that was. And look where it got him- a lavish mansion, more money than he knew what to do with, and no one who knew his name.
Ford awoke with a yell and a thud, as he fell ass-over-teakettle off the bed, and right onto that pretty hardwood floor he hated so fucking much.
The impact knocked over a whiskey bottle on his nightstand he'd emptied last night, and sent it smashing to the ground, a piece of glass flying into his foot.
"Ah, fuck!" Ford screamed, grabbing his foot, and looking over the damage. He gingerly pulled the shard of glass out, and tossed it into the nearby trashcan, before rummaging around in his nightstand, triumphantly pulling out a roll of bandaged, which he quickly wrapped around his foot, grimacing all the while.
What a fucking mess. Ford needed a dixie biscuit. And a burger.
He glowered at the wall before him, contemplating that most important of life choices, before coming to a decision.
Burger first. Then the cocaine.
He stood up cautiously, testing his weight on his injured foot, and found the result satisfactory. He limped forward to his closet, snatching a shirt and a pair of pants out, and dressing himself quickly.
He pulled on a pair of shoes gently, forgoing the socks.
What had socks ever done for him anyway?
He sighed, looking over the mess he'd made in his room.
Fuck it, he'd clean it up later.
Now, to find a burger place that was open. This was fucking L.A., surely there was fucking somewhere.
idalie
ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ
Giovanni Vescovi
8:15 AM
The room was dark, hazy with tobacco and the acrid scent of scrag; the good ‘Nam stuff from those flattened poppy fields out East. He wouldn’t have slept without it, settling his stomach with whiskey till he felt his eyes droop. Things hadn’t been the same for a long time now, you came home and home hadn’t waited. Gianni couldn’t even remember who he had been before the jungle, as if his whole persona had become disjointed. Separated. He was here but Giovanni Vescovi wasn’t.8:15 AM
Sprawled over the bed, twisted in the sheets with a sheen of sweat that drenched the mattress and pillows, Giovanni winced. Trembling and nauseated he propped himself up on his elbows, twisting his body to reach the edge and sit. Bare soles of his feet on the wooden floor conducted the cold up into his calves, staggering to wrench the curtains back and throw open the window. The light was blinding, prying open his skull to a thundering headache. A long suffocated inhale followed, hanging over the sill.
It was Frankie’s big day.
Fuck.
With a shower and a handful of aspirin sprinkled over black coffee, he would start to pass as something more human.
Pleased to dig out one of his best unwrinkled suits, Gianni pulled the jacket over his broad shoulders and stretched his arms forward to fix the cuffs. It was nice to see his clothes starting to fit again, when they’d carted him home he’d been a skeleton with a rosy complexion and a far off stare. Didn’t stay like it for long, not with the women in his life. Now he was trying to gain what he’d lost and if he wasn’t medicated up to his eyes, he was lifting weights. No goddamn yellow-faced son of a whore would get the better of him a second time.
He flicked a pair of sunglasses open, snatching some fine aged whiskey from his cabinet collection as a half-hearted present and found himself behind a wheel. The directions home already ingrained into the back of his head, so much so he could drive it drunk or blind. The Los Angeles heat hit with a muggy breeze, rolling down the glass of the drivers door for a little air. Calm before the real storm - a house full of Italians.
9:40 AM
Giovanni arrived early to mingle with his siblings and give respects to the Don. Called him Sir since the day he could talk and anything more familial was reserved for the occasional striking moment. Greeted with kisses and smiles, the old place had a childhood charm about it, bustling with the energy of the big day. He could remember his own. The thrill of joining something bigger than yourself and the fear of making an ass of the moment.
Gianni didn’t manage to get a glimpse of Frankie anywhere before he was sent out on errand, leaving the whiskey on the hallway table as he hopped back into his car. Some sleek new number he couldn’t remember the specifics of. He couldn’t even remember buying it.
Heading to a trusted local place downtown, it would’ve been quicker if he hadn’t stopped for a drink along the way.
10:25 AM
A brown paper bag in hand, he parked up and got out. The second and perhaps more eventful return of the prodigal son with a bottle of olive oil. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to speak to anyone, but Enzo on the lawn was a welcome sight. Enzo had tailed him in Vietnam, probably his father's idea but that didn’t matter in his eyes. In the beginning he was a little irked, sure, but Enzo had saved his ass more times in the jungle than Gianni could count on both hands. His resting scowl softened up into a smile.
He moved to shake hands with a rough grip, clapping a shoulder in that machismo expression of affection.
“You ready to stand around and look pretty? I sure fuckin’ ain’t.” Giovanni grinned, “Nice to see Frankie gettin’ in on the business though. He really is the spittin’ image of dad, huh?”
Tucking one hand into his pocket he nodded toward the house, “I gotta pass this olive oil on before I get cuffed, that's if Cesare's dame ain't burnt the kitchen down yet."
Yarrow
Senior Member
Stefan Morris
tags:
JPTheWarrior
Matteo Vescovi
tags:
Hypnos
TheFool
_amaranth_
JPTheWarrior
Matteo Vescovi
Hypnos
TheFool
_amaranth_
ailurophile
hm
Evelyn Cross
Smoke curled in long tendrils from the end of the last cigarette in the pack. The stubbed remains of its brothers spilled out of the ashtray, creating an acrid ring of waste on the mahogany table with just one circle of purity: that, of course, was where Evelyn's glass had been resting while she'd been asleep.
Perhaps sleep was too generous. She'd sprawled across her chaise lounge for the best part of an hour, glassy eyes fixed on a stain on the ceiling, waiting for the room to come back into focus. It'd been a long time since she'd really slept-- nowadays, a lot of Evelyn's rest came from points when her body would shut down involuntarily. Usually, she'd wake up in bed, surrounded by freshly laundered sheets, in clean clothes, with whatever wound she'd acquired from falling down dressed and on the mend. Those were surreal moments.
Being doted on again, even for the wrong reasons, was nice. Her Lizzie was such a good girl.
She heard the distinct rumble of an engine in the driveway. Fuck. Had she forgotten some sort of appointment?
Eyes rimmed with yesterday's makeup scanned the room. Cigarette butts everywhere, burns in the fabric of the couch. An army of empty bottles, a shattered glass that she hadn't yet cleaned. Lipstick on the mirror, a scattering of kisses and then--
Miss Evelyn Cross,
America's Sweetheart,
Hollywood's Crown Jewel
Naturally, she recognised her own handwriting, but she didn't recognise the face that stared back at her through a haze of smoke. That was not the face that'd been printed under the headline scrawled across the glass. She wiped her right eye with the back of her free hand and left a dark streak of liner across her cheek before smearing the lipstick to erase the writing. As she stumbled back towards the table to pour another drink with shaking hands, she called out.
"Lizzie? Lizzie, baby? Mama needs you!"
Had her voice always been so rough?
"Now, my angel!"
The last of the bottle was drained in a few gulps and Evelyn felt better. Her face broke into a smile as her youngest daughter appeared in the doorway.
Lizzie's expression did not match Evelyn's. Wrapped in her silk robe, feet bare -- in her haste, she hadn't even though to find her slippers -- she stared at her mother and the mess she'd created. There had been no party the night before, but Evelyn was clad in one of her best evening gowns, with diamonds danging from her throat and earlobes.
"Mama, are you--?"
"I'm fabulous! But I think we have visitors. Oh, be a good girl and tidy up while I go to find them?"
"Mama, you'll have to use the lounge." Lizzie explained, her voice quivering. "I can't fix this in the time it'll take you to answer the door. Get changed, I'll answer it."
As though the girl had cracked a joke, Evelyn laughed shrilly. "What do you mean, get changed? What's a more appropriate outfit to receive company than this? You know, I wore this to a premier--"
"I know. Mama."
Rolling her eyes, Evelyn flicked the remainder of her cigarette onto the pile and sauntered out of the room. She could hear the soft, padding steps of Lizzie following her, but that was to be expected. Such a bright-eyed, curious girl, probably so excited to catch a glimpse of the life of a star.
Lizzie's a star.
A bigger star than you, now.
Perhaps bigger than you ever were.
With a flourish, Evelyn pushed away the thoughts that plagued her and threw open the door, leaning against the frame. Yet again, her mouth curled into a smile and she waved, immediately put into better spirits by the sight of the car outside.
"Dick? Oh, what a beautiful surprise, do come in!" She exclaimed, beckoning the man from his vehicle. Behind her, Lizzie peered over her shoulder. "Who's that with you? What a treat. Come, come, I'll get Lizzie to make some tea. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Elucid
Awesome_Nemo
The Awesome Captain of the Nautilus
Michael Giardina
Los Angeles
3:41 A.M.
Mikey was never much one for talking people through problems. He was never much one for talking in general. But when Dona pressed her head into his chest like this, he did try to make an attempt. Wrapping the woman in his arms, a calloused hand coming around to rest on her should, he seemingly engulfed her. He made a point to be gentle, holding her like if he squeezed to tight she’d shatter. The water filling the tub and drowning out the sound of his slow breaths.
After holding her like this for a moment, he pressed a kiss into her dark head of hair. “We all have our duties, Dona,” he said, Mikey’s mouth pressed against her temple. He realised just then how much that reminded him of his uncle, and hurried to change his words. Best not to relive such memories. “Your brother is becoming a man today. If I had a brother, I’d want to be there.” And he leaned back to look down at her. “And besides, I’d have to be there as well. You wouldn’t be going alone.” He knew that was only half true. They would be at the same event together, but they wouldn’t be there together. To hold each other in public or dance with each other. As far as the rest of the family knew, they had barely even spoken to each other. It was such a farce. Luckily Mikey knew how to handle farces.
He just worried for Dona. Since her husband died, her nightmares had started. When he was woken, it seemed she woke most mornings terrified than rested. Michael could only hope that they’d stop, as opposed to just getting accustomed to them. Like someone else he knew.
Tags:
dendygar
Los Angeles
3:41 A.M.
Mikey was never much one for talking people through problems. He was never much one for talking in general. But when Dona pressed her head into his chest like this, he did try to make an attempt. Wrapping the woman in his arms, a calloused hand coming around to rest on her should, he seemingly engulfed her. He made a point to be gentle, holding her like if he squeezed to tight she’d shatter. The water filling the tub and drowning out the sound of his slow breaths.
After holding her like this for a moment, he pressed a kiss into her dark head of hair. “We all have our duties, Dona,” he said, Mikey’s mouth pressed against her temple. He realised just then how much that reminded him of his uncle, and hurried to change his words. Best not to relive such memories. “Your brother is becoming a man today. If I had a brother, I’d want to be there.” And he leaned back to look down at her. “And besides, I’d have to be there as well. You wouldn’t be going alone.” He knew that was only half true. They would be at the same event together, but they wouldn’t be there together. To hold each other in public or dance with each other. As far as the rest of the family knew, they had barely even spoken to each other. It was such a farce. Luckily Mikey knew how to handle farces.
He just worried for Dona. Since her husband died, her nightmares had started. When he was woken, it seemed she woke most mornings terrified than rested. Michael could only hope that they’d stop, as opposed to just getting accustomed to them. Like someone else he knew.
Tags:
dendygar
dendygar
chicken dender
DONABELLA VESCOVI
LOS ANGELES
3:45 A.M.
"Even though I'm not going to be there alone, I won't be there with you." Donabella wished more than anything that her family would understand how happy Mikey made her. But alas, that would take a lot more time and a lot more understanding than Dona thought was capable of her family. Someday they would understand. "Let's go back to bed." Having calmed down considerably, she retired back between the sheets with her lover, kissing him until they fell asleep.
8:30 A.M.
Perfection took time. Dona never rushed getting ready for big events, especially ones with family, because they scrutinized each other more than the press or cops did. Rising out of bed, the young woman walked into the kitchen and cooked up some breakfast for she and Mikey. Eggs, bacon, toast, and french toast with fresh dripped black coffee and tea. Eating her fill and reading over the newspaper, Donabella multitasked. A body? Dumped in the river? Her interest was piqued, and she signed the cross over herself and prayed for the man's soul. Downing a small cup of coffee, she walked back into the bedroom and kissed her boyfriend awake, her soft lips and the smell of her hair almost intoxicating. "I made breakfast, baby."
Then, Dona hoarded the bathroom for an hour and a half. She heated some rollers and put them in her hair while she applied her makeup, the sweet smells of the products wafting throughout the bedroom mixed with the tantalizing scents of the freshly prepared food from the dining room. There were certainly worse ways to wake up. Filling in her dark eyebrows and donning her war-paint (eyeliner), she applied rouge to her soft and round cheeks before snatching the perfume she wore religiously out of the cupboard and spritzed herself before taking the rollers out carefully, not to burn herself. Swiftly sashaying into the bedroom once more, she threw open her closet and pulled on something respectable for the family gathering. A cranberry colored shirt and high-waisted trousers with some heels.
"I'll see you there, okay? Love you." Patting Mikey on the chest, she grabbed her car keys and flew down the flight of stairs, she hopped into her iridescent green Aston Martin Zagato and sped off towards the funciton.
10:30 A.M.
Pulling up the long driveway and parking, Miss Donabella Vescovi slid out of her car and adjusted her purse, walking straight into the house that she grew up in. Nothing had changed- it was still as dysfunctional as ever. "Ma!" Dona called, easily tracking her down and finding her. "Sorry if I'm late, had a hard time sleeping last night." She kissed each of the cheeks belonging to the woman she resembled so closely. "Ces-" Dona began to say, catching her brother out of the corner of her eye, her face lighting up.
Dona thrived in the company of her family. "Cesare, how've you been?" She asked. The last two weeks or so she'd been lying as low as possible. "Your wife come?" She asked, her dark eyes twinkling.
LOS ANGELES
3:45 A.M.
"Even though I'm not going to be there alone, I won't be there with you." Donabella wished more than anything that her family would understand how happy Mikey made her. But alas, that would take a lot more time and a lot more understanding than Dona thought was capable of her family. Someday they would understand. "Let's go back to bed." Having calmed down considerably, she retired back between the sheets with her lover, kissing him until they fell asleep.
8:30 A.M.
Perfection took time. Dona never rushed getting ready for big events, especially ones with family, because they scrutinized each other more than the press or cops did. Rising out of bed, the young woman walked into the kitchen and cooked up some breakfast for she and Mikey. Eggs, bacon, toast, and french toast with fresh dripped black coffee and tea. Eating her fill and reading over the newspaper, Donabella multitasked. A body? Dumped in the river? Her interest was piqued, and she signed the cross over herself and prayed for the man's soul. Downing a small cup of coffee, she walked back into the bedroom and kissed her boyfriend awake, her soft lips and the smell of her hair almost intoxicating. "I made breakfast, baby."
Then, Dona hoarded the bathroom for an hour and a half. She heated some rollers and put them in her hair while she applied her makeup, the sweet smells of the products wafting throughout the bedroom mixed with the tantalizing scents of the freshly prepared food from the dining room. There were certainly worse ways to wake up. Filling in her dark eyebrows and donning her war-paint (eyeliner), she applied rouge to her soft and round cheeks before snatching the perfume she wore religiously out of the cupboard and spritzed herself before taking the rollers out carefully, not to burn herself. Swiftly sashaying into the bedroom once more, she threw open her closet and pulled on something respectable for the family gathering. A cranberry colored shirt and high-waisted trousers with some heels.
"I'll see you there, okay? Love you." Patting Mikey on the chest, she grabbed her car keys and flew down the flight of stairs, she hopped into her iridescent green Aston Martin Zagato and sped off towards the funciton.
10:30 A.M.
Pulling up the long driveway and parking, Miss Donabella Vescovi slid out of her car and adjusted her purse, walking straight into the house that she grew up in. Nothing had changed- it was still as dysfunctional as ever. "Ma!" Dona called, easily tracking her down and finding her. "Sorry if I'm late, had a hard time sleeping last night." She kissed each of the cheeks belonging to the woman she resembled so closely. "Ces-" Dona began to say, catching her brother out of the corner of her eye, her face lighting up.
Dona thrived in the company of her family. "Cesare, how've you been?" She asked. The last two weeks or so she'd been lying as low as possible. "Your wife come?" She asked, her dark eyes twinkling.
Enzo Biancchi
10:30 A.M.
Enzo smiled as he spotted Gianni, crow's feet sprouting on his weathered, the marks of an aging man. 10:30 A.M.
But Enzo counted himself lucky. It wasn't many that started out like he did and got to age so finely in this business.
He approached Enzo, his smile blossoming into a grin, as he shook the man's hand, and endured the clap on the shoulder, before wrapping him into a one armed hug.
He liked Gianni. What of it?
He pulled away, smirking at the younger man, and grabbing at his beard. "Nice to see you too, mountain man. The fuck's this, eh? You're gonna scare the women. Or god forbid, get the kids to climb up into that rat's nest. If they get lost, we're lookin' there first."
He snickered to himself, and elbowed the man in the ribs lightly. "Seriously though, Jesus, you couldn't 'a trimmed the thing a little? It's unsightly."
He reached into his jacket pocket, and retrieved two cigarettes, one for himself, and one for Gianni, lighting them both, taking a deep pull.
The white smoke billowed out of his mouth and nostrils in plumes. The stench was likely to offend God up in heaven, but, well, Enzo'd done plenty of that already. What was one more time?
He hummed his agreement, "Yeah, yeah, Frankie sure is. A little too much like your old man, if y'ask me. I worry about him sometimes."
There was just nothing to cool the nerves like a good cigarette. Well, except for the China White, the real pure stuff from Vietnam, but Enzo'd cut that shit out a long time ago.
Gianni hadn't, he knew, but that was a matter they could discuss another time.
He stifled a laugh as Gianni mentioned Cesare's wife, hacking up smoke as he did. "Gianni, look who you're talkin' to. Lookin' pretty's practically all I do all day, and God knows I do it well at my age. Good thing that's part of the job description, huh? And hey, be nice to the poor woman. She's doing her best! Besides, your ma's there too. Trust me, she'll rescue it."
He chuckled to himself, "Assumin' there's anything left to rescue," he muttered, and nudged Gianni. "Come on, let's not keep 'em waitin'. Yer ma's damn terrifying when she's frustrated in the kitchen."
He motioned for Gianni to follow, and made his way into the kitchen, knocking on the doorway before stepping in.
"Hey, Maurizia, look who I found out front. You want I should shoo him away?" he teased, before his eyes caught a new figure, and the grin that threatened to split his face returned once more.
"Well, well, if it ain't our young Donna. Nice t'see you again, I suppose," he crossed his arms, feigning a poor mockery that lay somewhere in the region of aloof disinterest. It might have been half-way convincing if he hadn't been smiling.
"Suppose I don't warrant a greeting, eh?"
Ford Williams
8:15 AM
This town was going to hell in a fucking handbasket.8:15 AM
No- scratch that, the whole country was. It took Ford a whole god damn hour to find a burger place that was open at this time, and another 30 minutes to get served.
City that never slept, his ass. Whole place seemed good and fucking groggy to him. Eh, but the food was good, so who was he to complain?
The problem was, though, with silent meals in a dumpy diner somewhere south of wherever anyone important went to die was- all you had to do in a place like that was think.
Ford didn't much like his thoughts.
The truth was that somewhere within that cocaine-addled wreck was an educated man.
No, really. Somewhere between the cocaine, stardom, and the ministrations of time was a man who had gone to university.
No one was more surprised than Ford whenever he came out to play. Ford hated that prick.
The problem was this educated man liked to wax philosophical- and he had compared Ford to Icarian success story.
Oh, Ford had flown too high alright, and he'd pissed on the sun when it tried to melt his wings. Ford didn't take shit from nobody, certainly not that big ball of gas.
He'd flown good and high, and nobody could stop him, except the cocaine crash.
But maybe, that educated man thought, that tumble into the sea was the best thing that happened to Icarus.
Maybe Ford should have fallen into the sea, a mangled heap of wax and feathers.
Sometimes he still heard that siren song. He only hoped it'd sound so pretty when it sang for his funeral, whenever the hell it came. It would come, no doubt. And likely soon.
But Jesus, Ford had gotten old. He could still just about remember a time when a future meant more to him than whatever pit of wrinkled, defeated retrospection he'd fallen into.
The promise of tomorrow, it seemed, just wasn't what it used to be.
It used to be red carpets, paparazzi, and pearly white teeth.
Now it was just cocaine, a hangover, and the stench of whiskey and cigarettes.
But that was enough philosophizing for one day. Ford cleaned himself up with a napkin, and dropped a crumpled wad of bills on the table before heading back out to meet that morning glare.
Jesus, and no one in the diner had even recognized him. How the mighty had fallen.
Whatever, he had a birthday party in a couple hours. It wasn't for a long time, but shit, Ford was a mess.
It'd take some cleaning up for him to look anywhere near presentable. And if there was anyone he wanted to look presentable for, it was the good old Vescovis. At least he still had some friends, dirty as they were.
Good bunch, though. Even if most of them were on the shorter side. That Italian blood, he guessed. If they were American, they'd have been taller.
He liked them well enough. Especially that Dona. Sweet girl. They'd probably be back in another dumpy diner, practically identical to this one, eating a burger that tasted exactly the same, and chuckling over some bullshit that had gone down at the party or on set. Talented actress, too.
She humored a old, tired man, and he was grateful.
That kind of patience didn't come common these days.
The Vescovis were alright by him.
Last edited:
TheFool
Member
★
Joan
She was awake for about twenty six minutes before she finally brought it upon herself to look at the little red clock on her side’s bedside locker. Her eyes lingered on the time. Tick tock. “Shoot.” She sat up in a fluster. Joan Wallace was late for filming. Her legs slid out from under the sea-blue blanket and reached towards the floor, her toes caressing brown carpet. She looked at the clock once more -
As so to make sure she was seeing it correctly. And … she was. She most definitely was. She heard a groan coming from the bed to the left of hers. “Muri.”
Joan said, in a hushed whisper.
The girl in the other bed groaned once more. The girl was Joan’s best friend. Her … only friend, more like. They had known each other since they were in kindergarten - yet sometimes it felt as if Joan barely really knew her. A couple of hundred play dates throughout the beginning of both of their lives meant that they were joined at the hip forever. A childhood curse. Though some’d see it as a blessing, surely.
“Muriel”.
Joan repeated.
“What?” The girl issued an audible and coherent response for once. Joan, now standing up, was in a hurry. She had hastily put on some buttoned pants. Her feet now currently being shoved into a pair of old mud-covered boots that she’d neglected to wash and wear since they had left Indiana. “I need you to get up, Muri.”
Another groan graced Joan’s ears.
The girl, now in shoes, made her way over to the room’s one window - which was right by Muriel’s bed - and drew back the moth-eaten quilted curtains. The sun came through. Particles of dust danced through the air. Joan spotted the clock again,
“Shoot!”
She shook her head. “Muri, I need you to get up and drop me to the set. Shoot, I’m going to be so late.” Joan rushed over to the peach pink tiled bathroom - which was a glorified broom closet. The mirror over the lime green sink was cracked. ‘Probably from the overuse that Muriel gave it’, she thought as she picked up a comb and began running it through her bed headed hair.
“Muriel!” Joan continued. Brushing through the knots and the wispy curls. “God darnit, Muri, I am being very serious. They’ll kill me if I’m late again.”
It was less so brushing,
More so strangling the strands of hair into their correct places. Until she looked … like an actress? She didn’t. She still looked like that soft little girl from the midwest. The one whose only yet achievements in life were a decent high school report card and a shiny ring on her finger.
She stopped brushing.
And looked at her hand briefly. Her engagement ring glittered in the bathroom’s fluorescent light. She’d have to remember to take it off before getting to set. “Muriel!” Joan rolled her eyes and slammed the comb back down onto the sink’s ledge.
She walked out of the bathroom,
“Muriel, I swear to goodness. Get up right now or … or … I’ll” She didn’t know what she would do. She couldn’t do anything. She could maybe ring up Muriel’s family and tell them where they’ve both run off to. Two little girls off in the city of the angels. But -
If she did that,
Her own family would hear too. And she didn’t want that.
She didn’t want that one bit.
“Up, up, up. Come on!” Joan looked over at the dresser, cluttered with bits and bobs belonging to the two of them. She grabbed Muriel’s car keys and hurled them at the big lump under the blankets. She couldn’t be late again. She just couldn’t.
She shouldn’t have been so careless.
Carelessness meant she’d have to rely on the careless. And Muriel was that. Outrageously careless.
★
TheFool
Member
★
Maurizia Renata Vescovi
The egg’s shell cracked, picture perfectly. The pieces falling away like leaves to a gentle wind. She pulled on it - just a tiny bit - so as to open it up more. The yellow gooey yolk slithered out, falling in with the mixture of other gooier egg yolks. Maurizia then whisked as fast as she could.
Whisk.
Whisk.
Whisk.
She stopped when she heard the ding of the oven. “Alice, darling, could you get the cannolis out of the cooker there?” The older woman ordered, placing the bowl down on the counter and putting down the whisking spoon for a sliver chopping knife. She began to quickly slice through garlic halves.
“Use a towel!”
She nagged at her daughter in law. “The last thing we want is a sore thumb.” She cut through the little garlics with ease. The stench was intoxicating to her. She bathed in it. The kitchen was alive with all kinds of smells and all kinds of sounds. The whole house even.
“Chessy!” She called as she stopped cutting.
“Chessy, I need you to set the table. Twelve sitting at the big table, ten outside and then set places for the kids on the sofas.” She looked at him as he stood in the doorway. She gestured her hand at him and then towards the drawer with all the cutlery.
When he followed her orders, almost unenthusiastically, she blew him a kiss. “Muah. Thank you, chestnut.” She turned back to the food.
Oh,
The food.
All of the food.
The food was her top priority for but another moment, before voices called for her. She recognised Enzo’s immediately. She turned to face him and her eldest. The prodigal son himself. With the precious olive oil in hand. “By Francis’ name. Did you go all the way to Palermo for that olive oil?”
A stern look held itself on her face before she cracked a smile.
She moved towards the two men and kissed her eldest son on his cheek, taking the bottle from his hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
She put the oil on the countertop, next to her chopped garlic and her bowl of mixed egg.
“Enzo, have a cannoli. You too, Gianni. And you Chestnut - once you're done!” She shouted. “I want honest feedback now. And when I say honest feedback, I mean you better honest-to-God shut up if it tastes awful.” She opened the cap off of the olive oil as Cesare’s wife took the tray out of the oven and placed it by the sink.
“Have one too, Alice. My food doesn’t discriminate.”
She smiled still.
Her smile widened at the arrival of her daughter. Likely the only of her two daughters who’d she see today. A fact which saddened her, but Maurizia wouldn’t let any of that sadness show itself. Not now. Not on this of all days.
"Ah, guarda chi è. My baby Donabella.”
Maura embraced her daughter as she walked through the kitchen’s archway. They exchanged kisses. “What do you mean you didn’t sleep?” She asked her daughter, curiously. “Have a glass of warm milk before bed. Always does the trick. You used to always need one when you were younger.”
She looked between Dona and Gianni.
“You AND him.”
She rolled her eyes, “The most restless kids on God’s good planet. Enzo can vouch for all the times me and your father had to drag ya all back to bed. Buon dio!”
She was lost in her nostalgia for a moment, before she brought her focus once more to the food. It had to be perfect.
It would be.
★
Hypnos
L'Empereur
Cesare Vescovi
Turning himself briefly in the opposite direction to the kitchen, Cesare didn’t make it two steps into the hallway before
the low rumbling of his mother’s thick Italian drawl could be heard emanating from the still open doorway, swivelling almost instantly on the spot to return from whence he had just come, and giving a quick smile and a nod to Frankie and Cousin Matty who had gathered to converse just outside of the room. Even following his brief absence, Cesare was still painfully aware of just how highly his Ma regarded the idea of a family dinner, and he knew that everything had to be arranged perfectly, else everyone suffer the resulting storm. In many ways, in the kitchen, his Ma could be much scarier and more authoritative than even the Don himself, though Cesare could never dare admit that in either of their companies.
‘I’m coming, Ma! Give me a second!’
As he stuck his head back in the doorway, he could see Alice knelt down by the oven, a kitchen towel wrapped around one hand as she struggled with an enormous tray of cannoli, the middle Vescovi moving close enough to playfully flick the back of her hair before himself opening up the cutlery draw, and grabbing as many knives and forks as could fit in both of his hands. With the amount of guests present, and including those who had yet to show up, setting the table was certainly going to take a few round trips, if not an extra pair of hands, though it seemed like an easy enough task to complete. At least it got him out of the sweltering heat.
On the second trip back to the kitchen, a new figure had arrived, flanked closely by two more. The family was starting to trickle in.
‘Donnie! It’s always nice to see everyone back home.’ With his hands still full of forks, he could only offer his sister a rigid embrace, his head still turned in her direction as he moved back and forth from the kitchen draws. ‘It’s been good, me and Ali have been looking at places in the area. Somewhere not too far from here.’
Another white lie. Cesare had been exceedingly lazy since his return from the east coast, and he’d honestly found it hard to settle back into a regular routine. Despite his long history with the city, Los Angeles wasn’t exactly his scene, and it certainly wasn’t the place he’d envisioned himself spending his future.
‘She’s down by the ovens if you wanna say hi.’ He gestured with his elbows, barely holding back a similar question about Dona’s own spouse, forgetting for a moment the awful fate that had met him. Not that he hadn’t seemed to deserve it, but Cesare had still not acquainted himself with the fact that old friends and familiar faces were prone to falling like flies in this town.
‘You wanna gimme some help with these forks?’
As he passed back by the kitchen island, his Ma was trying to force food down their throats once more, and he attempted to heartily refuse, though like always his mother’s stubbornness always won out in the end.
By this time, Alice was finished handling the tray of pastries, so she helped drop a piece of cannoli into his mouth whilst his hands were still occupied, taking a piece herself as well.
‘It’s perfect, Ma. Just like always.’
TYPE
Now what?
I Z A K - B E R N S T E I N
-------------------
“…There’s so much I feel that I should say. But words can wait, until some other day. Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again… It’s been a loong, loooong time…” The words faltered out of his mouth, dripping into existence throughout plumes of smoke and darkness. The cracked voice producing them could offer but a pale imitation of the sweet tones spilling from the gramophone in the corner, which had been playing since one.
One in the morning.
The small tea table that normally stood in the centre of his apartment, long since stained by ice cooled whisky tumblers and hastily retrieved cups of tea, stood shifted to the side, while the smell of sweet tomato sauce on the burner scented the smoke-filled room. The halfway closed curtains struggled to keep the sunlight out, the rays peeking through, their long journey finally disrupted, and their form finally distorted by the hazy suffocating interior.
Izak Bernstein was dancing.
His body moved through the smoke, the small turns disrupting their lazy wafts, as he made another, less than enthusiastic round along the small, oval rug that decorated his living room. As the soft crooning of Kitty Kallen came to a close, so did the slow waltz he had been doing, prompting him into bowing with a somewhat sarcastic flourish to the Mediterranean beauty he had conjured up for a partner, kissing her hand, before he finished off his second to last cigarette. As the music turned to something a bit more energetic - Benny Goodman he believed, he took the hand of a charming British soldier with a sullen smile, the two of them making quick work of the distance to the kitchen with an impromptu quickstep.
The sudden muted thuds blurred well with the tune, most likely a broom shaft meeting the ceiling of the floor below. The calls for an immediate cease and desist fell on distractingly willing deaf ears.
Entering, the kitchen light revealed him in all his restless, dour splendour. The newly made pair of trousers were as perfect as trousers could be, with elegant and pristine stitching, the cut flattering his thin, lanky form. They were being kept up with suspenders that looked old, but well taken care of, with leather shoes that had a blinding sheen to them. In a room just down the hall there lay the bunched-up corpse of some scissored black fabric, dangling unceremoniously from a sowing machine. The light in the room remained on, revealing the hastily scribbled texts decorating the jotted notebook, still splayed open on the desk. These jottings? The various wisdoms of his father having come to him the night before.
------------------------------------------
He had been sitting at the man’s side, who seemed ancient even in his youth. His wonderous fingers producing as through magic a tie from a single piece of fabric. When Izak had first seen the scarring on the arm, he had realised it was a dream. Fearing it a nightmare in the making, he forced his eyes to look only on the sewing machine’s needling, uncovering a memory that had seemed so very… very far away. “A man who can make something is never without work… Izak. And a man who makes clothes is never without a customer. Remember that.”
It had never actually turned into a nightmare. In a way, that had been worse. He had woken at midnight, feeling the warm sunlight of his youth upon his face, his father’s kiss on his forehead, and he had cried as he had not cried in years. And when the crying would not stop, he rushed into the room he used for storage to the side of his, throwing things off tables, grabbed a pen and paper, and written down everything he could recall from what the old clothes-smith had taught him.
The memories were growing distant by the moment, as they always did. The bloody past seeping, as though time was turning inversely, back behind the red door in his mind. It was a door seldom opened, and when it was, it brought through very little that could be trusted, very little that could be humoured… Some realities too horrific to be memories. Some memories too horrific to be reality…
Then, even for a moment, his mind suggested that this was all false. That this was just a dream… a memory conjured. Suddenly the diagrams, the numbers, the measurements… they all seemed impossible. As if some spontaneously manifested fiction of his own making. Finding his mother’s old machine below some old suitcases filled with her belongings, he went to his bedroom, pulled down one of the black curtains, and set to work. About two hours past he was stood in front of his mirror in halfway formal dress – save a shirt and shoes… exactly the same cut the old man had worn.
He had always worn such beautiful clothing. And his shoes… they always shone so brightly…
He had rushed to his wardrobe and pulled out some dress shoes. Settling down on the edge of the bed, having gotten an old piece of cloth and shoe polish, he set to work getting them to shine like his father’s had. The movements monotonous and calming, as his quickly fraying mind seemed to cling to anything that would hold his attention.
All the while smoking, all the while drinking, he could finally see himself in the reflective surface. He quickly put them on, before grabbing one of his nicer shirts, frowning at the creases that had resulted from laying it in an unneat heap to the side.
Running to the kitchen, setting up the ironing board and fetching the iron, he put on some coffee and some music, dancing in the centre of the kitchen as he smoothed out the white fabric. Another drink passed, along with another cigarette.
The creases slowly ceded to the heated metal, the steam rising up, producing faint droplets on his reading glasses. This made finding the creases ever-more difficult, as he tried to peer past the droplets, and secure a smooth surface upon every pane of fabric. Having spent nearly thirty minutes trying to point the front of the iron into every nook and cranny, having particular difficulty with the buttons, he took off his glasses, and held up the shirt.
“Perfect.”
When he finally got to the mirror, he stood in awe of himself. The suspenders, the shoes, the… trousers. Reaching over to the bowler hat, hanging off the side of his mirror, he smiled at himself. Just like his father. In a way.. just like... Just like an old-school Italian… Mafioso…
Fuck…
His father would have shamed him. For what he was doing. For what he knew he was doing. For what he was pretending he was doing… Out of habit he had looked up at the sky, before shaking his head. Before him stood not his father. Not even a shade of his father. A disgusting moral maleficus… a factotum of failure… a simpering simulacrum… good for naught but pretence.
“Blessed is he who refuses to accept divinity… For he need not know the shame of his forefathers, but endure only the shame he instills upon himself.” The words felt bitter in his mouth, as he stared at the figure in front of him. There would be no charm and no further pleasure for him in these works…
But…
He needed to show his mother. She knew nothing. Innocence has deemed it so she might find comfort in that which he had ruined for himself... Love. Health. Peace… Heaven. And now… memories.
He could go in the morning…
No.
A surprise.
She had so few surprises these days. Something unexpected.
Yes.
He should see if she still recognised them. Which meant he needed a different reason to go to her. Still in the formalwear, he made his way to the kitchen, cutting up tomatoes for Shakshuka. The ingredients were simple, and the methodology well trained into his mind. The dough forced him to roll up his sleeves, having to jump around slightly to keep the flour from spilling onto his shoes.
Then he had to wait for the dough, and for the sauce to cook, then… And then he found himself dancing. His eyes every now and then falling towards the timer that stood ticking away at the side.
His mother had insisted that his reading would make him a hedonist. How right she was. More often than even she realised…
------------------------------------------
Quickly taking out the finished meal, he frowned at the large amount present.
At this point? Still? Was he making the meal portions intentionally large because he wanted to talk… or was it because he did not know how to reduce the portions? Would it be different? His eyes turned to the small booklet; his mother’s fine, spidery writing barely visible. She had written them down from her mother, and she from hers. The recipe was made for big families. Easily feeding ten to fifteen.
Would making it for two… ruin it?
Was it already ruined? The idea of it? Was his unwillingness to create the family required for them… traitorous? Or a mercy…
Considering his actions… his associates… what he had seen. And heard. And done… Enriching the monsters… the parasites… the leeches that they are. Getting at along the underbelly of the world, too cowardly to do so much as peek into the light.
Could he still lie enough to himself that he was part of that light? Was that the reason he swathed himself in black so eagerly? His soul unable to stand luminance for there was none to be found within itself.
His chest constricted for a second, as he walked out of the room, backwards, the shadow of the hallway consuming him, the kitchen feeling utterly too bright suddenly.
His back touched the wall. It was cool. It felt nice. Unforgiving. Reliable. Slowly sliding down it, till he was sat in the corridor, he felt himself tilt, till his shoulder lay harshly against the tile, and his left temple felt the cool, smoothness his back had only a second ago.
He was slipping. He could feel it. The world around him turning slick with oil… his mind too fragile to keep hold on any of it.
“What goes up, must come down…” His murmurs into the floor went unheard above the noise of the music – which in itself had become a dull, muted affair in the back of his mind.
Did he have time for this? No… He had work to do. He could not afford this. He needed to see his mother. He needed to see the boss… And yet, here – alone in the cool wastes of his apartment, clothed as his father and smelling the loving works of his mother, it seemed such an easy task, to close his eyes… and imagine the tile below him as the tile from his youth. So easy a task, to imagine the music in the distance coming from the front room… where the gramophone stood. So easy a task, to throw off thirty-five years of agony… and imagine himself happy.
“Down and down did Alice go… Fond was she of falling, so... Little did that lassie know… Where rabbits go… snakes also…” His eyes were blurry, every breathy word having the dust on the floor float up into the air, turning and dancing, before resting once more. None of this was visible to him. Instead he was travelling throughout time. Behind the bloody red door, he had fashioned himself. The room where the dark things dwelled.
…
…
…
He sat up with a shock. It was late afternoon. His shoulder was killing him, and the record had stopped playing hours since. Slowly rising up, he struggled towards the kitchen. When he looked into it, instead of a fire, he saw the food done. Placed neatly into containers. He saw the kitchen had been scrubbed clean. The house was curiously neat. The plates had been organised. The sugar bowl, levelled out, and flattened. He walked over to the dustbin, and found that the various pieces of paper, or carton, had been neatly folded and placed in the bottom.
As quickly as his pained body could, he rushed to his work desk. Neatly stacked next to his typewriter, was a finished script. His hands were scrubbed clean – and he could not help but notice the red, irritated skin.
A sigh escaped him.
And then another.
He walked over to his phone.
A few numbers.
“Solomon. The… I finished the script you wanted the rewrite for. Yes… I know I got it yesterday. It is done. I… had some free time… I made some… Yes. You know me. Yes, I am taking her some as well. The rest will sort me for the week. Maybe I’ll tempt Lucia. Do you want to come pick it up? Or… Should I bring it?”
He turned his head to the side, his eyes hurting from the sun. realising that there were no curtains on the windows.
“You… I know this sounds strange… But you don’t need some trousers, perhaps?”
------------------------------------------------
RayPurchase
- Solomon
------------------------------------------------
RayPurchase
- Solomon
dendygar
chicken dender
DONABELLA VESCOVI
LOS ANGELES
"Uncle Enzo!" Dona's face lit up again like a light bulb, her cheeks starting to hurt from how much she was smiling. But something was missing. Someone was missing. Lucia.. the realization hit her hard, and the familiar sting of not being good enough. Nobody in the family was good enough for miss Lucy Waters. Even though the house was still bustling and lively, her absence was felt, especially with her mother. She hugged the older man tightly, burying her face into his chest like she did his knees when she was a child. Enzo was practically her second dad, and she felt so blessed that she had the privilege to have two strong father figures in her life. "You look glorious, as usual." Pulling back, she looked over at Cesare.
At her mom's comments, Dona lightly bumped her hip playfully as she bustled over to help her brother out with the silverware. "I can't help it! Restlessness comes from the fact that he and I always feel like we could be doing something more productive than sleep." Taking the silverware from Cesare, she looked over at Alice and flashed a warm, happy smile. The girl looked absolutely over her head with the Italian family, but was coping well enough. "Hey, Alice. Good to see you, you look lovely," She complimented the other woman truthfully. The only spouse of her siblings she was downright opposed to was Jack.. or was it Jim..? The white-collar snobby bastard that Lucia married. "I didn't think to try the warm milk trick, Ma. I'll try it again. Can I have one?" She asked Alice, referring to the tray of fresh cannolis. Taking a dainty bite, Donabella rolled her eyes back and nodded. "Bellisima."
Walking into the dining room, she prepared the table with her brother, placing the silverware carefully and the proper way. Forks and knives on one side, the table napkins folded into neat triangles. "Where were you thinking of buying a place?" Dona asked, her dark eyes flickering up to her brother. "And when are you gonna make me an auntie, hm?
LOS ANGELES
"Uncle Enzo!" Dona's face lit up again like a light bulb, her cheeks starting to hurt from how much she was smiling. But something was missing. Someone was missing. Lucia.. the realization hit her hard, and the familiar sting of not being good enough. Nobody in the family was good enough for miss Lucy Waters. Even though the house was still bustling and lively, her absence was felt, especially with her mother. She hugged the older man tightly, burying her face into his chest like she did his knees when she was a child. Enzo was practically her second dad, and she felt so blessed that she had the privilege to have two strong father figures in her life. "You look glorious, as usual." Pulling back, she looked over at Cesare.
At her mom's comments, Dona lightly bumped her hip playfully as she bustled over to help her brother out with the silverware. "I can't help it! Restlessness comes from the fact that he and I always feel like we could be doing something more productive than sleep." Taking the silverware from Cesare, she looked over at Alice and flashed a warm, happy smile. The girl looked absolutely over her head with the Italian family, but was coping well enough. "Hey, Alice. Good to see you, you look lovely," She complimented the other woman truthfully. The only spouse of her siblings she was downright opposed to was Jack.. or was it Jim..? The white-collar snobby bastard that Lucia married. "I didn't think to try the warm milk trick, Ma. I'll try it again. Can I have one?" She asked Alice, referring to the tray of fresh cannolis. Taking a dainty bite, Donabella rolled her eyes back and nodded. "Bellisima."
Walking into the dining room, she prepared the table with her brother, placing the silverware carefully and the proper way. Forks and knives on one side, the table napkins folded into neat triangles. "Where were you thinking of buying a place?" Dona asked, her dark eyes flickering up to her brother. "And when are you gonna make me an auntie, hm?
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JPTheWarrior
♥ Jack of Hearts ♥
James Benedict
2:00 pm
And so a long hour passed until it was finally James' turn. Giving his papers to the woman, she took a brief read through them. "Oh, detective, I apologize for not taking care of you right away." she gave him indications and the number to Stefan's room. With a nod and a small smile, he wished her a good continuation of her good work and took the elevator until he finally reached the desired floor. He wasn't alone in this short trip, a blonde young woman was inside speaking with a hairless older man. The two seemed to be colleagues, by the way they spoke of work. Again, they did not peek James' attention. He walked for a few more minutes, counting the numbers that appeared on the top of each door, until he finally reached the one he was looking for. Giving two small knocks with his right fist, James slowly opened the door.
Standing in front of him was a man in a suit, wearing black glasses and a watch James guessed was way out of his own wallet's reach. "I apologize for my lateness, the trafic plus the long lines down there slowed me down. Detective Benedict, here" James streched his hand with a little folder carrying all of the necessary information. "I came from the FBI, of New York, of course." a last piece of information Stefan did not need. James was the only FBI agent they were sending after all. "I hope we can work together in these dark times. The FBI has all the pleasure to help you and your City Hall in this case, although they have a few requests." James added. It could leave a sour taste in Stefan's mouth, but better to start with the most problematic subject matters first.
Yarrow
BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
Lucy Waters, Casting Director
Lucia Vescovi
location: SoF set company: n/a
location: SoF set company: n/a
early morning
Standing in front of a mirror, curling her hair between her fingers and staring blankly did little to quell Lucy's rising nerves. She thought it'd be wise, as she'd heard from a friend of a friend who was a psychiatrist, that it could help. Grounding. Centering. But it did little, as it appeared. She'd been debating for the last hour and a half whether or not to attend her little brother's omertà. The fact that they posed it as a party, and got the whole family there, made Lucy sick to her stomach. She knew exactly what it was, and knew enough to figure what it meant. The very idea of going back into that house, even if it was in some mock celebration that would reconnect her with her family, made her pale. She'd been invited. Her mother would be disappointed.
But the horrifying images that flashed through the woman's mind, mere fragments of the memories that were drilled in, were strong enough to stop her in her place. Jack wouldn't understand, he never did.
It wasn't like she told him either.
She stood in her opaque white nightgown, and he lay in bed half-tossed in a white shirt and even whiter briefs. Spying him in the reflection of the mirror, her gaze softened seeing his half-open mouth breathing a light snore into the still bedroom. LA was loud, but they were away from the city. It had been one of Lucy's wishes when she'd married Jack; three years ago, almost. He'd done whatever he could to get her away from it all, damn the commute she'd have to make to get to any kind of studio downtown or in Hollywood. Mulholland Drive had been a good choice, and Lucy'd wondered how he'd manage to score a neat little mansion within the hill. Jack had connections, and as he'd said he would do anything for his bride; anything to make her smile. Lucy loved that about Jack. She loved how in love with her he was... but she resented the lack of deep-seated devotion she had for him.
The thoughts kept her up usually, hence the early morning wake-ups. Her sleeps were often restless, with a swirling stomach of guilt for every action she'd ever taken against the people who cared about her. It was usually for a few hours, sometimes she'd pretend to be asleep next to her husband, or she'd give up entirely and make some tea to sit on their patio. This morning kept her locked in place, like some porcelain gargoyle, trapped in a mirror.
She didn't think she'd be able to make it to the family gathering this morning.
Looking back at Jack through the mirror, Lucy nearly jumped out of her skin to see his half-lidded eyes gazing back at her. He breathed slowly, but didn't move. A small frown found his face after a moment of realization, and he reached out a hand to pat the empty space next to him. Still creased from her restlessness.
"You scared me!" Lucy whispered with raised eyebrows, whipping her head around to look back at the man in bed. Jack shrugged and continued to pat the sheets.
"Come back to bed, would ya? It's not even five. You've got at least five more hours to sleep, and so do I," he said, and Lucy couldn't help but bite her cheek.
"Jack... I told ya my family's having a... get-together this morning, right? For my brother?" Lucy's hands clasped together and she fiddled with the ring on her finger, slowly moving back toward the bed. Jack made a noise in response, nodding his head. "I don't think... I don't think I'll be goin'. I know I said I was gonna think about it, because it's my baby brother... but I don't think I've got the nerve to head back. Kind of like stumbling down a tightrope, it's hard to go backward once you've already moved so far way from the ledge. And, uh, right now I'm feelin' like I'm pretty dang far in the middle. Going back... putting everything back together... I just don't think it'll be good for my health," she muttered, continuing to twist the ring tightly against her finger. She sat lightly on the sheets and Jack's warm hand found her back. Lazy, half-awake pats came from him. She wanted to roll her eyes, and roll away from him, but she relished in the touch for a moment.
"Your health? That's ridiculous, they won't come at you with a knife, will they?" He asked. Lucy narrowed her eyes, looking back over at him.
"Not my health health, but my... you know," she tapped a nail against Jack's head. His face, burrowed in the pillows, murmured something before turning toward her.
"Well, you know, if you... don't wanna... you don't gotta, you know? No one's forcin' ya, no one's got a gun to your head. I think?" Lucy sighed at her husband and nodded, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and laying back down. Jack immediately snaked his arm around her waist and pressed himself to her side. For someone half awake, she had to give him credit for at least forming a few sentences, and having some comprehension of the situation.
In reality, he really didn't. No matter how things went, or how much she tried to tell him, he'd never really get it.
Somehow she began to snooze again.
current time
Jack had his work to do and Lucy was heading to set that day. When they awoke again, the two tangled and untangled as they made their way through their morning routines. Lucy woke up a bit earlier than her husband to prepare a bit of breakfast, and then when Jack headed down to get his breakfast, she made her way to the bathroom to get ready. There was little issue between the two with their rare encounters while getting ready for their days. Passing by Jack would press a kiss to her forehead, or maybe squeeze her shoulder if they had a moment lapsed between floating about.
Despite being Casting Director for the film, Lucy found herself running more errands to communicate between all the positions higher than her. A message between Buckman and Solomon, perhaps, despite being at the same location and merely on the other side of the studio, or maybe to fetch some rewrites from Mr. Bernstein. She hated to be a glorified assistant in most cases, but that was as it was to be a woman. She'd heard of a few friends in the industry rubbing their thumbs and worrying, wanting to try their hand at directing or majorly writing, but ultimately being shut out. Lucy wasn't one to complain to the big man about it, because well-- it got her paid. Much less than she'd like, but more than she would have made being a legitimate assistant. Casting Directors hardly existed, a newfangled term, and she'd been lucky to be given the right to pave the way. She doubted the other men ever remembered the role she had in casting their film, or liasioning between the entitled actors and their even more entitled agents.
But Lucy did it, and she did it with little complaint. She aspired to be an actress, this she told no one, but would settle being behind the scenes for now. It was safer this way, and there'd be less chance for her father to have his hand in pushing her toward the top. She wanted to earn her way, and not be soaked any deeper in the blood money that polluted the Vescovi name.
"I'll catch ya tonight darling," Jack said as he pressed a smooch to her cheek. Lucy gave a far-away smile, and Jack rushed out with his briefcase in hand. A few hours later she rounded her things to make her way out as well.
The drive was her favourite. Mulholland Drive. It was beautiful, and had that certain... view of the city below that made a wanting hole open in her stomach. How far away could she get? If things got too much, could she just pack up to the east coast and forget about everything? Make like the Skywayman, and forge checks across the country.
She'd be no better than the criminals she strove to escape in that alternate world, however.
Lucy arrived on set, smoothing down her button up and slacks. A bit of murmuring she could detect from the staff and errant passerby.
"Has anyone seen Mr. Buckman?"
ailurophile
hm
Scarlett Smith
In her dream, the cameras flashed.
In her dream, the lights were blinding.
In her dream, the crowds cheered.
In her dream, Muriel Smith was a star.
Yet she woke to reality, to her motel room, again. Just as she had every morning since arriving in this place. Granted, it was an upgrade from the beginning -- she and Joan now had two separate beds -- but it was nothing compared to the life she'd envisioned. It was supposed to be easy: arrive, be discovered, and claim her fame. Just like that. But it hadn't happened.
At least, not for Muriel.
She groaned, but didn't get up, instead opting to curl into a tighter ball and listen to the sound of Joan fluttering around the room in a panic. Good, she thought. Let her worry.
For that, she scolded herself, and felt immediately ashamed. It was horrible of her to resent her friend, her best friend, for her success.
Joan was her only friend. Here, and back home. Her only friend. Nobody had ever understood her the way Joan did, and she loved her for it. They were as thick as thieves, closer than Muriel had ever been to any of her numerous sisters, and they knew everything about one another.
And yet--
Muriel had always noticed that Joan got everything. The stick-thin figure, the boy, the coveted role.
Not to mention the taxi ride, apparently. With one last groan, Muriel hauled herself from her bed, not bothering to set the covers right. What did it matter? It wasn't as though either of them could have any visitors in their close quarters, unless they were willing to stand outside or suffer being present, which they'd both agreed they were not. She dressed quickly, cursing the mediocre quality of her clothing, none of which fit quite right, and paused in front of the mirror.
The one thing she had bought was lipstick. Bright red.
Scarlett.
She slicked it on. That was better.
"Christ alive, Jo, will you calm down? I'll drive you now." Muriel poked her tongue out mockingly as she went to fish her keys from a tangle of blankets. The moment she'd clasped her fingers around them she turned the tables, scurrying to the door and planting her hands on her hips. "Well come on, then! I haven't got all day to be your driver."
As they headed for the car, that word stuck with her: driver. What if that was all she ever amounted to?
No, that wouldn't happen.
Because Joan would find somebody else to do that.
Muriel swallowed the bile in her throat and jumped into the driver's seat.
"So, excited? You gotta tell me everything. Have you met anyone big?"
TheFool
idalie
ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ
Giovanni Vescovi
Batting at Enzo’s invasive hands, Giovanni laughed, “Harsh words for a fella with a face like yours, might start givin’ me a complex.”
Standing together on the drive with bickering like they shared blood, Gio took the cigarette offered gratefully. The tobacco gave a bitter kiss to the tongue as he puffed thoughtfully, chewing on the filter, “I uh, I could’ve. Yeah, I could’ve but y’know how things get. To tell the truth, old man - this whole party? Forgot til’ morning rolled around. Losin’ time like I got a hole in each pocket.” The eldest Vescovi shook his head, scarred fingertips rolling the cig between them as it smouldered.
Gianni removed his shades, folding them in one hand before hanging them on the breast pocket of his jacket. “Ain’t such a bad thing, Don got himself a real clever kid to handle business the way he likes. My prayers are with his wife n’ family, lotta weight on small shoulders.” The shift in the mood was forgotten again as joking and laughter returned. This was a time of celebration, it wouldn’t be forgotten.
“One day you’ll be wide enough we’ll start callin’ you Skinny for all that sittin’ around you do,” He chuckled, “Howsabout that for a nickname?” Shifting to face the house, Giovanni then pulled an unsure expression, “Enzo, youse know I love my sister in law, but I ain’t eatin’ ‘round that house even if you paid me a million bucks. I choose life.”
Agreeing that it was best not to leave his mother for too long in fear of anger they headed inside, out of the Los Angeles heat. Practically pulled into the kitchen by some subconscious sense of childhood relish and the beckoning of Enzo, he found where most of the Vescovi siblings had gotten to. He should’ve known they’d all flocked to the heart of the home. Maurizia began with her stern routine and Gianni found himself grinning, “Only the best for you, ma,”
He leant in for her affectionate welcome, one which predictably turned into cannoli sampling. He couldn’t refuse, or rather, you didn’t dare refuse. Without much elegance he’d snapped one up and wolfed it down in a second that defined Gianni’s manners. He didn’t have many unless there was the threat of a slipper.
Dona swept in, her presence marking the almost complete set. Except Lucia. Nobody mentioned Lucia. She didn’t know he was back, didn’t know a lot of things and Gianni couldn’t help having a chip on his shoulder. They’d been close, as far as siblings go. Nevertheless, Gio was returned from his thoughts, “Hey! Mama, come on, I wasn’t so bad. Me an’ Dona? Only perfect children you really managed outta this rabble,”
