(no subject)
Barry Lewis exits out the back door of the film studio where he works, into an alley cast in shadow. It's been a long day. He's worked ten hours and his bones are aching. On the way home, maybe he'll stop buy a liquor store, pick up some Jim Beam, ask a couple of the boys to play cards. Kick back and relax, that's for sure. His hands are still damp, smell strongly of Dial and something metallic. He couldn't wash the blood completely from his hands; had no idea that a human body contained that much.
He pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds, taps one out and lets it hang from his mouth. He fumbles in his jacket for a lighter, but before his fingers close around it he's shoved up against gritty bricks, head smashing back against them so hard that white spots blur his vision.
"What the fuck d'you want?" Barry snarls, trying to push the man off him, but he must be made of steel or some indestructible metal because he isn't moving an inch. "Who the hell are you? Get off me! Get your filthy fuckin' hands off me, sonuva--" He struggles, tries to wriggle free, starts to yell loudly for help. Leather-sheathed fingers close calmly around his windpipe, and he immediately stops.
"Did you kill Rena Rembrandt?" the man asks mildly, so soft that it sends chills down Barry's spine, he's never heard anyone talk that quietly while he's teetering on the brink of death.
"What?" Barry asks quickly, nervously, stalling for time. "Who's that?"
"I think you know."
"I don't--" Barry pushes harder against the man's chest now, tries to pry the fingers off his throat by digging grubby nails into them, still he doesn't move. "I don't know who that is, how the--how the hell would I know, I'm just a producer--" He swallows with difficulty, his voice beginning to crack. "Let me go, please--"
He swiftly reaches into Barry's jacket, moving so quickly that Barry doesn't have time to stop him and pulls out a necklace, Rena's necklace. It catches the moonlight a little bit, glows between the two of them. "What's this, then?" Barry's looking around wildly, and the man moves his fingertips to rest on Barry's adam's apple. "What's this?"
Barry doesn't answer, just keeps trying to get away. The man exhales almost impatiently and slams him up against the wall again for emphasis. "By the way, Jared says hello."
"Jared?" This stops Barry's struggles momentarily. "Jared Goldman sent you?"
"You act like you're surprised. You shouldn't be." The man watches him for a moment. Barry feels uncomfortable under the dark green gaze, squirms a bit but the man only tightens his grip. "Rena was Jared's prodigy, his star. His big ticket to fame." Softly mocking, "you really hurt him." The man laughs, low and husky in his ear. "Too bad you won't be around to apologize."
Panic rises in Barry's throat, fast and furious. "Please let me go," Barry's voice is puncuated with hiccuping sobs, "you don't understand--"
"What don't I understand?" the man asks, and there's something about him that's dark and incomprehensible, driving Barry insane with fear. "She was getting too popular, wasn't she? You killed her because she was competition. Eliminated the threat, isn't that right?" The man's breath is hot against his ear as he leans in. "Did you rape her before you killed her, you son of a bitch?"
Barry won't admit the truth, but the way his knees buckle and his pupils dilate tells the man everything he needs to know. "I--I didn't," he's lying and gasping now. He's at a dead end, nowhere to turn, to run and hide. "I didn't do anything."
The man smiles darkly, his gaze blackening. "Priyatnyh snov," he whispers, and suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against his forehead. He squeezes the trigger with no hesitation or apprehension, and the silenced bullet makes barely a sound. Barry slumps to the ground, eyes wide open, blood trickling down his face in streaming scarlet rivulets, different kind of gasp now, gasping until his breath stops and his head lolls to the side. He opens his eyes with pained difficulty one last time.
Nicholas is gone.
Nicholas says 'sweet dreams' to Barry in Russian.
He pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds, taps one out and lets it hang from his mouth. He fumbles in his jacket for a lighter, but before his fingers close around it he's shoved up against gritty bricks, head smashing back against them so hard that white spots blur his vision.
"What the fuck d'you want?" Barry snarls, trying to push the man off him, but he must be made of steel or some indestructible metal because he isn't moving an inch. "Who the hell are you? Get off me! Get your filthy fuckin' hands off me, sonuva--" He struggles, tries to wriggle free, starts to yell loudly for help. Leather-sheathed fingers close calmly around his windpipe, and he immediately stops.
"Did you kill Rena Rembrandt?" the man asks mildly, so soft that it sends chills down Barry's spine, he's never heard anyone talk that quietly while he's teetering on the brink of death.
"What?" Barry asks quickly, nervously, stalling for time. "Who's that?"
"I think you know."
"I don't--" Barry pushes harder against the man's chest now, tries to pry the fingers off his throat by digging grubby nails into them, still he doesn't move. "I don't know who that is, how the--how the hell would I know, I'm just a producer--" He swallows with difficulty, his voice beginning to crack. "Let me go, please--"
He swiftly reaches into Barry's jacket, moving so quickly that Barry doesn't have time to stop him and pulls out a necklace, Rena's necklace. It catches the moonlight a little bit, glows between the two of them. "What's this, then?" Barry's looking around wildly, and the man moves his fingertips to rest on Barry's adam's apple. "What's this?"
Barry doesn't answer, just keeps trying to get away. The man exhales almost impatiently and slams him up against the wall again for emphasis. "By the way, Jared says hello."
"Jared?" This stops Barry's struggles momentarily. "Jared Goldman sent you?"
"You act like you're surprised. You shouldn't be." The man watches him for a moment. Barry feels uncomfortable under the dark green gaze, squirms a bit but the man only tightens his grip. "Rena was Jared's prodigy, his star. His big ticket to fame." Softly mocking, "you really hurt him." The man laughs, low and husky in his ear. "Too bad you won't be around to apologize."
Panic rises in Barry's throat, fast and furious. "Please let me go," Barry's voice is puncuated with hiccuping sobs, "you don't understand--"
"What don't I understand?" the man asks, and there's something about him that's dark and incomprehensible, driving Barry insane with fear. "She was getting too popular, wasn't she? You killed her because she was competition. Eliminated the threat, isn't that right?" The man's breath is hot against his ear as he leans in. "Did you rape her before you killed her, you son of a bitch?"
Barry won't admit the truth, but the way his knees buckle and his pupils dilate tells the man everything he needs to know. "I--I didn't," he's lying and gasping now. He's at a dead end, nowhere to turn, to run and hide. "I didn't do anything."
The man smiles darkly, his gaze blackening. "Priyatnyh snov," he whispers, and suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against his forehead. He squeezes the trigger with no hesitation or apprehension, and the silenced bullet makes barely a sound. Barry slumps to the ground, eyes wide open, blood trickling down his face in streaming scarlet rivulets, different kind of gasp now, gasping until his breath stops and his head lolls to the side. He opens his eyes with pained difficulty one last time.
Nicholas is gone.
Nicholas says 'sweet dreams' to Barry in Russian.