(no subject)
Title: Big Papa’s Little Havana 1/?
Author: elise50
Pairing: Mark/Callie
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: AU Private detective Mark Sloan is hired by nightclub owner Hector Torres to follow his youngest daughter Calliope.
A/N: Yeah, I’m going there. I’ve always wanted to try something completely different from the show and this is what I came up with. I have little faith but I’m sure as hell going to try to make this as far away from ridiculous as possible. I know I’m supposed to be finishing up other stuff…but I had get this part out of me.
~*~
Private Office Building, New York City; 1946
Rain had been pounding on the streets of New York for days, and clouds hovered above the city like gloomy blankets. The weather was a reflection of the times, dark and hopeless. Organized crime and political corruption still ran citizen lives, killing dreams and crushing aspirations, almost making it impossible to find a shred of light in the Big Apple.
“Here’s your coffee.”
Swiveling away from the large blind covered window in his office, Mark Sloan turned to the familiar voice at his door.
“Black?”
“Is there any other way to enjoy it?”
Smirking, he used his right arm to pull the steaming cup closer. Adjusting his body, he finally settled into position and took a sip of his drink. Closing his eyes, Mark savored the taste as it burned down his throat. Sighing his contentment, he lifted his lids and let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting before speaking again.
“Anything?”
“Not yet.”
Dragging fingertips across his scruffy chin, Mark’s jaw clenched with tension as he nodded.
As if sensing his nervousness and need for solitude, Meredith slowly exited the room, shutting the door behind her.
Smiling in appreciation, Mark leaned down and yanked open the middle drawer of his desk. Pulling a whiskey flask from behind the small stack of useless papers that laid there, he used his teeth to rip off its top and poured the contents into his cup. Shaking his head in amusement, he stared down at the inviting drink, the fingers of his right hand stretching in its direction, then curling back and away just as quickly.
He stayed that way for minutes, anxiety building within him while he contemplated his next move.
Tightly pursing his lips Mark finally shoved the cup away, twisting back toward the window that faced the bustling street below. Scooting forward, he used his thumb and index finger to pry apart a section of the thin metal blinds obstructing his view. With uninterested eyes he looked out into the world, watching the steam from the underground vents billow up into the blackened alley at the side of the building. Scanning the lamp lighted sidewalk, he whipped his head sharply as the sound of cat screeching and the loud clatter of trashcans falling against a brick wall somewhere across the way filled the night.
It was always the same; desolate and cheerless.
Dropping his hand away from the small opening, he let the blinds fall together. Turning his back on them as they vibrated into place, he stared up and stole a glance at the ticking clock that hung at the far end of the room.
It was a quarter to seven.
Kicking out his foot, he unceremoniously clunked it at the edge of the desk. Rolling his neck, Mark reached back and grabbed the cigar and lighter hidden in his coat pocket. Tapping the capped end on the arm of his chair, he smirked and looked up at the clock again.
Crunching the Cuban between his teeth, he grabbed his cutter and sliced the tip; lighting the cigar as soon as the extra piece hit the floor. Inhaling slowly, he held the flavor in his mouth for longer than most would recommend, only letting the smoke creep away when the smaller hand of the clock moved.
A quarter to seven.
Almost the same hour when he had first seen her…
Big Papa’s Little Havana, Miami; 1946
The air was crisp and invitingly warm, an odd environment for him. He was used to dampness and the sheer cold nights of New York City.
Standing back against the lamp post, Mark pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stepped back into the shadows. Shaking off the fire of his match, he lifted his leg, flattening his foot against the wall behind him while he took a puff of the lit stick between his fingers. Reaching up with his free hand, he adjusted the wide brimmed fedora on his head and quietly watched as group after group raced into the grimy little nightclub; some dancing as they entered, others rushing in for seats.
He couldn’t fathom what was so special about this place. It didn’t look like much from its dreary outside. Then again, these joints were all the same to him; spots where notables and insignificants melded together, drank and danced the night away. There was nothing altogether wrong with that kind of entertainment, but it wasn’t his idea of an evening. In his mind, nothing beat a good smoke, a good drink and an even better woman.
But those could wait (for now), because he had business to handle.
Pulling his hand to his mouth, Mark sucked the last bit of his cigarette before tossing it to the floor and stomping it out with the toe of his scuffed wingtip shoe. Adjusting his long coat, he stared as the dolled up patrons huddled through the front doors before he slipped toward the back entrance.
~*~
Getting past the club flunkies was harder than he had expected, the four tanned monsters and the beefy Scottish brute had looked to be nothing more than moving muscle. But the way they led him through the back of the club, successfully blocking his vision, making him blind to any unethical practices (not that he’d turn them in anyway, he was done with glorified police work; Shepherd had made sure of that); he thought that there might be more up there than the dim floating bulb he had originally suspected.
“Wait here.”
Shrugging, Mark sunk into the wall as the big Scott slipped into the closed door they stopped in front of. Straightening himself, he observed the space; it was quiet and secluded, perfect for the shady dealings that happened in nightclubs. He wondered what kind of callous and sinister business standards were set here.
Sliding a hand into his trench coat pocket, Mark’s fingers played with matchbook inside it; tips scratching against the rough tip at the top. What he wouldn’t give for a swig of scotch, or a finely shaped woman; either would satisfy the hunger his impatience was causing.
“Get in.”
Lifting his head at the sound of the opened door and sudden, thick accented order, Mark raised a brow at the demanding voice. Knowing that his disobedience would cause more trouble than he needed, he pulled his hand from his coat and sauntered through the doorway, following the piercing, dangerous eyes of the mean redhead as he went.
“He may be menacing, but Owen does his job.”
Turning, Mark finally brought his attention to the room and its occupant.
The office was extravagant, well furnished, decorated with imported goods, cigars littered the mahogany desk, half empty bottles of liquor were held on display; it was a poor man’s dream and rich man’s envy.
In the center of it all was a smiling Hector Torres, better known to club clientele as Big Papa. He was a tiny man, half bald, in slacks and a cream colored guayabera. He looked harmless, but the again, so did Owney Madden.
Leaning back in his oversized chair, Mr. Torres pulled one of the freshly clipped cigars to his fingers, dancing it between them as he studied Mark. “So you’re the man all my friends in the city have been raving about? I was expecting someone with a more…harrowing presence.”
Smirking at the flung insult, Mark stared down at the seated man. “So was I.”
Hector eyed him for a few moments before throwing his head back and bursting into laughter. Bald head gleaming, he waved his free hand at the guard beside him, “Alexander get Aria to bring in some drinks.”
Nodding the younger man went, giving Mark a once over as he passed.
“Sit,” Hector motioned to one of the chairs in front of his. Moving around the furniture, Mark settled in the spot directly across the show runner. Pulling a match from beneath his desk, Hector struck the red nub against the edge of his desk and let the flame hiss before bringing it to the tip of his Cuban. Expertly releasing a puff of smoke, his stare settled on Mark.
But before either could say a word to each other, the door opened behind them.
Seconds later, a finely dressed, beautiful woman strolled past him, balancing a tray of empty crystal glasses as she successfully maneuvered through the room.
“This is my step-daughter Aria.”
In true mannered fashion, Mark tipped his hat to her; taking the opportunity to ogle the goods she carried. She was a beautiful woman; brown eyes, dark hair, pearls adorning the neck, slender body draped in a simple black dress falling just below her knee, tight enough to show off her enticing frame.
Her movements were exaggerated and screamed for attention; something he was willing to give if he knew should would keep her high maintenance attitude (oh yes she was high maintenance, he had been around enough broads like her to know) away from their romp.
Eyeing him, she slide his glass of whiskey across the desk, holding his gaze for longer than necessary.
“That will be all Aria.”
Turning she glanced at her father, seemingly miffed by the easy dismissal. With an undignified huff, she placed the bottle at the edge of Hector’s desk before making a show of her departure.
“Alexander,” shifting his gaze from the retreating backside of his boss’ step-daughter, the young sentinel stationed beside them, returned his focus to the calling man. “Leave us.”
As displeased with the command as the woman had been, the strapping goateed body guard hesitated for a moment before following his given orders.
Watching as he left, Mark stayed silent until he heard the soft click of the door. “You paid my way here from New York, what is it you want me for?
Smiling Hector held the clear glass to his mouth, swirling the colored liquid. Pausing, he lifted the drink to his lips and sipped away the remnants of the cup. Grabbing the left behind unlabeled bottle, he poured himself half a glass. “Straight to business…that’s an admirable quality.”
Tired of the man’s tiptoeing, Mark leaned forward making sure to the older man understood his seriousness. “What’s this about Mr. Torres?”
Three quick knocks broke his concentration.
Standing, Mr. Torres unwrinkled his shirt and patted down the sides of his gray hair before reaching over and dropping a dark fedora over his head. Stubbing out his cigar in the ivory ashtray behind him, he slinked around and away from his desk. Passing Mark, he made it to the door before turning back to his guest.
“Why don’t I just show you?”
Tilting his head in curiosity, Mark remained seated for a few seconds before standing and following the lead.
~*~
The place was packed; circular tables lined the walls, going from one end of the room to the other. The décor of the club was predictable; styled after the streets of Havana (but with less dirt and depression). Everywhere he looked people were socializing. Men in their suits and spectator shoes, waving their complimentary cigars; women dressed to the nines…hats, gowns, slim white cigarettes resting in the 'V' of their gloved fingers.
They strolled through the entertained crowd, stopping occasionally to offer greetings and hellos to the more indulging customers. He was slightly surprised by the warm reception Hector Torres received from his regulars, but it was usually true that the most charismatic and well liked individuals, were also the ones who would quickly pull the knife to your back, and drag it down your spine for fun.
When they finally arrived at their table, a small circle resting away from the chatting throng of people, a young waiter, dressed in a perfectly fitted uniform (obviously eager to please his boss) lifted a half full bottle of rum into their line of vision. “May I offer you and your guest a drink Big Papa?”
Mark’s lip curled at the ridiculous name.
“No, no Tony. We’re fine.” Hector waved the offer away and looked past the boy to the empty stage.
Suddenly, the band quieted and the spotlights lowered, forcing the room into near complete darkness. The loud chaos calmed quickly and the audience dropped to a hushed silence as a shadowed figure stepped out onto the stage.
Seconds later, the lights brightened enough to reveal to spectators the silhouette of a tall, curvaceous woman at the mic.
With a raise of her hand, the band at her left began to play; prompting the gentle sway of her hips. They carried a soft rhythm that flowed with the music, engaging him and the dozens of onlookers in the crowd.
Alone from night to night you'll find me
too weak to break the chains that bind me
Her voice killed him; the raw emotion, the beauty. He’d never heard anything quite like it before, it truly left him speechless; and brainless. She was like a siren, playing his last song.
All he could do was listen, all he wanted to do was listen.
I need no shackles to remind me
I'm just a prisoner of love
Just as he figured his impression of her couldn’t get better, the spotlights moved and completely illuminated her.
He thought he might double over from the second blow to his heart. She was gorgeous…amazingly so.
She was tall, with legs that stretched a welcoming distance, their length only interrupted by generous curves, the kind even the most experienced men hadn‘t tried. Her floor length, strapless gown clung to her like a second skin, highlighting every envious feature of her lovely body. The deep red of the dress played well off her bronzed shoulders and perfectly styled midnight curls.
He held back a groan as he watched her satin covered fingers slide up and down the mic stand. She was a pin-up, hiw onw live pin-up with more than the talent of beauty.
She felt music deeply, any idiot could tell by the way she stood center stage, with her eyes closed and mouth moving into the boxy microphone. The way her body got lost in the soft beats. She enthralled him, kept him lured until the very last line drifted from her delectable lips.
The sudden sharpness of a thundering applause finally pulled him away from his salacious thoughts.
“Thank you,” the woman offered appreciatively, taking a small bow before turning to the band and asking for something more lively.
“She’s very special isn’t she?”
Mark drew away from his trance hesitantly, shifting his mind and attention from the tempting skirt performing. The distraction could wait, he would find and have her sing for him later. Gathering himself, he cleared his throat and turned to the aged man across him. “She’s good.”
The demanding sound of horns and flutes wafted through the air again, and he fought the strong urge to ignore everything around him and watch her go at another number.
“What exactly does this have to do with my job?”
“It has everything to do with your job,” smirking, Hector stared back at the woman on stage, emitting a mixture of pride and lament as the crowd cheered to her shaking hips and sultry rendition of an unfamiliar Cuban melody. “Calliope is my daughter, my only child.”
Eyeing the now rowdy gaggle of men she sang for, it became apparent to him why the man had summoned someone from so far. “You want me to protect her. I don’t do that kind of work.” Damn shame too, he thought to himself as he looked over at the beaming smile singer.
Amused, Hector sat back and watched as his Calliope unwittingly sucked in another male. Leaning forward, he shook head, “Detective Sloan, I want you to follow her.”
Narrowing his eyes, Mark turned back to the man.
“I want to know everything about her day; where she goes, who she’s meeting with, what she does.” Pausing, Hector dropped him steel eyes, “everything.”
Shifting his attention back to the stage, Mark turned in time to see the woman pull a young man from the audience on stage to dance with her.
“Why?”
Laughing, Hector ‘Big Papa’ Torres moved his hard gaze to the lighted duo.
“Because she’s trying to have me killed.”