(no subject)
(takes place sometimes after this, right before this)
Nick's apartment is closing in on him. Death by claustrophobia, he thinks, with a certain amount of satisfaction and a tiny, nagging doubt that he is insane. He doesn't hug the walls as he makes his way to the kitchen. We're all insane, though. Each to his own.
He sifts through a small stack of mail, all to different addresses, all meant for him. He opens one addressed to John Zhivago and scans the letter's contents disinterestedly. He uncaps a pen with his teeth, scribbling a curt return message on the back of the letter. Folding it, he sticks it back inside the envelope and re-seals it. He can take care of it tomorrow, no worries. Dick (Richard, sorry) Grierson is definitely not at the top of his priority list.
He has to review the brief back in his bedroom, but he's got a pretty good idea of the case. Off him, man, a man with a thick accent and a breathy voice had husked over the phone, you understand, man, you know what I'm sayin'? He was my brother, right, and happy with this girl and then this motherfuckin' punk entered the picture. He can't be allowed to live, man, I'm glad we've got people like you to take care of punks like that, you understand?
Go see the girl, that'd be the most logical thing to do. He remembers working being in the same circle, the same building with Ivy St. Clair for a short period of time, but he can't remember her face. They were never formally introduced, never said hello when they passed. That's then, he guesses. Some widows, widowers that Nick has worked for wanted their offenders to go to jail rather than to just be 'offed'. He sucks the pen cap between his teeth, flicks the nub with the tip of his tongue, and makes the decision to go speak to Ivy St. Clair sometime soon.
From what seems like far away, he thinks he catches the scent of a familiar perfume, and wonders how Nikki is.
He spoke to Johnny Depp over the phone, and yeah: what a character. I'm having a party, darling boy, come if you want to, whatever, Depp had drawled lazily. Nick had laughed, and a few more minutes of pleasant exchange had carried on without any tension or malice from either end. Rare. Maybe he'll go. His eyes drift to the letter from Dick.
Yeah, fuck this shit.
Nick's apartment is closing in on him. Death by claustrophobia, he thinks, with a certain amount of satisfaction and a tiny, nagging doubt that he is insane. He doesn't hug the walls as he makes his way to the kitchen. We're all insane, though. Each to his own.
He sifts through a small stack of mail, all to different addresses, all meant for him. He opens one addressed to John Zhivago and scans the letter's contents disinterestedly. He uncaps a pen with his teeth, scribbling a curt return message on the back of the letter. Folding it, he sticks it back inside the envelope and re-seals it. He can take care of it tomorrow, no worries. Dick (Richard, sorry) Grierson is definitely not at the top of his priority list.
He has to review the brief back in his bedroom, but he's got a pretty good idea of the case. Off him, man, a man with a thick accent and a breathy voice had husked over the phone, you understand, man, you know what I'm sayin'? He was my brother, right, and happy with this girl and then this motherfuckin' punk entered the picture. He can't be allowed to live, man, I'm glad we've got people like you to take care of punks like that, you understand?
Go see the girl, that'd be the most logical thing to do. He remembers working being in the same circle, the same building with Ivy St. Clair for a short period of time, but he can't remember her face. They were never formally introduced, never said hello when they passed. That's then, he guesses. Some widows, widowers that Nick has worked for wanted their offenders to go to jail rather than to just be 'offed'. He sucks the pen cap between his teeth, flicks the nub with the tip of his tongue, and makes the decision to go speak to Ivy St. Clair sometime soon.
From what seems like far away, he thinks he catches the scent of a familiar perfume, and wonders how Nikki is.
He spoke to Johnny Depp over the phone, and yeah: what a character. I'm having a party, darling boy, come if you want to, whatever, Depp had drawled lazily. Nick had laughed, and a few more minutes of pleasant exchange had carried on without any tension or malice from either end. Rare. Maybe he'll go. His eyes drift to the letter from Dick.
Yeah, fuck this shit.