How Do You Sleep While The City Is Burning? Part One
Title: How Do You Sleep When The City Is Burning?
Fandom: Bandom
Band(s): Panic! at the Disco/The Young Veins, William Beckett, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy/various acts, various others
Pairing(s): Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross, mention of Brendon Urie/Amanda Palmer
Word count: 20,445
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: character deaths (both secondary)
Disclaimer: Don't own anyone. Song is from Fire on the Mountain by Rob Thomas.
Summary: The year is 1933. The Great Depression hit back in 1929, but it’s still affecting the US. Prohibition still exists, and plenty of illegal speakeasies operate to help people forget their own problems. Organized crime is rampant, and some notable mobs even have plenty of corrupt cops in their pocket. Ryan Ross is a reporter who works for the Chicago Journal. When his boss assigns him to get the scoop on a well-publicized scandal of a politician taking bribe money from a local mobster, he quickly finds out that he’s in over his head when the woman he’s supposed to interview turns up dead and the last person to see her alive just so happens to be the mobster’s right hand man.
Ryan Ross was a reporter. He knew he wasn’t necessarily the best at what he did - he was sure Dutton, who seemed to be the go-to guy when it came to whatever nonsense was coming out of Hollywood, held that prestigious title - but he knew he was far from the worst the Chicago Journal had to offer. At least he never seemed to have to be in a thousand places at once, like Valdes practically had to be, as one of the paper’s better photographers.
If anything, Ryan was in search of what could possibly be the story to make it onto the front page and make his career. He knew that the Depression was still big news, but he also knew that if he had to write one more damn story about it, he was going to scream. And possibly introduce at least one of his bosses to one of the printing presses.
There was sudden silence from the desks around him - the desks for the beat reporters like Ryan at the Chicago Journal were shaped in a horseshoe fashion, for reasons Ryan had never fathomed. He glanced up from the paperwork he was mindlessly shuffling around in his effort to look busy, to find the beat reporters all staring in his direction. He glanced down quickly, wondering if he’d managed to get ink or some shit on his clothes before looking up. His head fell back against the back of the chair as he stared up at one of his bosses, as if the thought of Ryan’s thoughts had manifested him.
Patrick’s arms were crossed over his chest and he was frowning down at Ryan as if he knew that Ryan was pretending to look busy instead of actually being such. Ryan managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere, and knew it was more of a grimace than an actual smile. Patrick frowned at him again, and Ryan briefly wondered what he was in trouble for.
He managed to get out a shaky, “Yeah?” and was proud of the fact his voice didn’t tremor as much as he thought it would.
If there were one thing true about the Chicago Journal, it was that Pete Wentz was the owner and head editor, but it was very well known that Patrick Stump, the co-owner, really ran the paper.
There were also plenty of rumors - never spoken aloud where Stump could hear them, though - that Patrick Stump had ties to the local mob. Ryan Ross was actually more than a little scared of his boss.
It was another long moment before Stump finally seemed to make up his mind and uncross his arms. He tossed a piece of paper onto the mess already on Ryan’s desk. “Wentz wants you to do this story. If it’s good, he’ll see you get front page with it.”
Ryan stared blankly at Stump before the other man turned and walked back toward the main office. He turned his blank gaze from the closing door to the folded piece of paper tossed carelessly onto his desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the beat reporters on either side of him scoot closer in their curiosity.
“What’s the special scoop?” Greenwald, to Ryan’s right, finally broke the silence, grabbing the paper and unfolding it. Ryan watched him, blinking when Greenwald cursed loudly, staring back at Ryan with very wide eyes.
He snatched the piece of paper back, reading it a few times until the words finally sunk in.
“What is it?” Dutton asked irritably from the desk a few desks over.
Ryan’s mouth worked uselessly for a minute or two, trying to form words, as his eyes rose to meet those of the reporters staring back at him. Dutton finally grabbed the paper out of Ryan’s limp hands. His mouth moved as he silently read the paper before staring up at Ryan.
“You know what this means, right?” Dutton asked carefully, looking quietly nervous at his fellow reporter. Greenwald nodded, mirroring Dutton’s nervous expression. The other beat reporters, the ones that hadn’t seen the paper, gave all three reporters dirty looks as they waited to hear what the big story was about. One cleared his throat demandingly, but Dutton ignored it, eyes going to the wooden clock affixed to the wall just to the left of the office’s door. “You’ve got half an hour to get your ass uptown, Ross, if you’re gonna make this appointment. Make tracks, fast.”
Ryan’s eyes followed Dutton’s gaze to the clock before he jumped up, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and his bag from under his desk, scrambling for the front door to make his appointment in time.
If this story took off the way he was hoping, it’d be a good day for the readers. But if he were late to this appointment, it wasn’t a good day for being a reporter for the Chicago Journal.
Ryan made it to the hotel with ten minutes to spare. It cost him a little extra, and more than a little gripe from the driver, but it was with considerable relief that he walked into the lobby of the Palmer Hotel. He rechecked his appointment and made his way over to the elevators.
His finger was hovering over the up arrow when suddenly, the doors opened. Ryan took a step back in surprise, seeing his surprise mirrored briefly on the face of the young man that getting off the elevator. After a moment, the other man shook himself, nodded politely to Ryan and stepped around him, heading for the door.
Ryan watched him go, taking in the cut of the stranger’s obviously expensive suit, before shaking himself when he realized what he was doing. He stepped into the elevator, giving the operator the floor number. He watched the floors go by, and glanced toward the silent man.
“Your floor, sir,” the operator finally said as the elevator came to a stop. Ryan gave him a faint smile as the doors were opened and he got off.
Ryan paused once off, looking up and down at all the doors before double checking his appointment. He mouthed the room number to himself, hurrying down the hall and coming to a halt outside the right room.
He took a deep breath, knocking on the door. “Miss Palmer?” There was no answer and he hesitated before knocking louder, repeating his inquiry. “It’s, uh. Ryan Ross. From the Journal?”
His hand lowered a bit before he reached for the doorknob, turning it slightly. To his surprise, it turned and the door swung open. He glanced around, trying to see if he were alone on the floor before he adjusted his bag. He was almost tempted to stay outside, but the newshound in him urged him into the darkened room.
“Miss Palmer?” Ryan called as he crossed the threshold. He poked his head into the bathroom as he passed it, flicking the light on and finding nothing more than a bathroom that seemed to be as large as his bedroom over in Bucktown.
He flicked the light switch back off as he moved away from the bathroom, and made it a couple steps before he stumbled over something in the dark. He cursed softly, hand fumbling for a light switch, a lamp, something before his blind search rewarded him with a switch, flooding the dark room with light.
Ryan glanced down to see what he’d tripped over and bent down to pick up the discarded pump, turning it over in his hands as he looked around to see where it came from. He turned to put the pump on the dresser the room provided and saw that the mirror was askew. He frowned, reaching a hand out to put the mirror to rights and froze when the angle he was aiming for showed something pale under the bed.
Turning slightly and moving carefully, he bent down, fingers reaching for the dust ruffle and lifting it up.
Half underneath the bed was a very dead woman.
Ryan quickly scooted back from the bed, eyes wide and feeling himself start to hyperventilate.
Somehow, he managed to pull himself to his feet, stumbling out of the room. The rational part of his brain, the only part that seemed to be getting air, was setting off warning signals, telling him to call the police.
Ryan found a phone resting on a table a few doors down, and dialed the number for the police with shaking fingers. When the operator came on, he tried to tell her as calmly as he could that he’d come across a dead body and gave the address of the hotel. He wasn’t quite sure how he did it, or what her response was, but a few minutes later he was returning the phone to the cradle and walking toward the elevator. He hesitated once there, finger hovering over the down button before turning and walking back toward the hotel room.
Back at the room, he considered going back inside into the room and nearly backed out of the idea, but before he could, the reporter in him convinced himself to go back in.
He wasn’t quite sure how long he stood there, looking down at the dead body. He knew without ever having met her, that he was looking down at who he had come to see: Amanda Palmer, daughter of the owners of the Palmer Hotel.
Ryan shook himself, moving out of the room again. He didn’t know how she died, didn’t want to find out, but he knew he didn’t want to stay in there any longer. No sooner had he walked out of the room, then the first of the coppers came out of the elevator.
He bit his lip, making sure he wasn’t near the hotel room before quickly heading for the stairs. He knew he was fleeing the scene, but with the rep the Journal had because of Pete and his bizarre ritual of having his reporters collect souvenirs of their big stories, by any means possible, he was pretty sure he’d be made into a patsy for this. Especially when it came out that he’d been scheduled to meet with the dead woman.
As he came out onto the street, he rubbed his arm nervously, watching the meat wagon pull up to the curb, surrounded by more coppers. Just beyond them, he could see a crowd already starting to gather, and he thought he saw Greenwald near the front, trying to get the attention of one of the coppers.
Suddenly, being here seemed like a bad idea, even if he hadn’t done anything. He made his way through the crowd of people already gathered, catching a taxi as soon as he could. He gave the driver his address, and rested his head against the seat cushion, staring up at the ceiling.
“What do you suppose happened to bring this crowd?” the driver asked conversationally as he pulled away from the curb, glancing at Ryan in the rear view mirror.
“Do I look like I know?” Ryan said, watching the streets change as the taxi made its way over to Bucktown, thankful when the driver took the hint that he didn’t want to talk. As soon as the driver pulled up in front of Ryan’s apartment building, Ryan breathed a sigh of relief as he paid the man on his way out of the taxi.
After letting himself into his apartment building, Ryan ran up the couple of flights of stairs to his floor, quickly letting himself into his apartment before anyone saw him. Some of his neighbors, like Mrs. Blaszczyk next door, were nosier than he was, and he was the damn newshound.
“You’re home early.”
Ryan started at the sound of his roommate’s voice, staring dumbfounded at Spencer for a moment before shaking himself. He set his bag on the counter before throwing himself on the couch next to him, trying to shake the mental image of Amanda Palmer lying dead on the hotel room floor. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about what he’d seen with Spencer, even though he was sure that Spencer had seen worse at the Black Canary, where he worked as a skin tickler. Ryan had never been to the cabaret, but he’d heard plenty of snazzy things about it. For one thing, the Black Canary was rumored to also be a speakeasy. Of course, rumors like that always flew, especially if there were suspicions that a place had ties to the mob. And the two owners of the Black Canary, Brendon Urie and Gabriel Saporta, were hinted at having ties to one of the biggest mobs in the city. “Had an appointment that didn’t pan out.”
Out of the corner of Ryan’s eye, he could see the skeptical look Spencer gave him, but to his relief, that Spencer didn’t follow through with any questions.
After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the usual sounds of the building settling down as the late afternoon made its way into evening, Spencer patted Ryan’s thigh. “Come with me to the Black Canary tonight. You’ve earned a night off.”
Ryan grinned faintly despite himself. The idea of going out sounded a lot better than sitting at home, trying to get the image of Amanda’s dead body out of his head. “Break my wrist, will ya? I’ll go.”
“Good.” Spencer patted Ryan’s thigh again before standing up, heading to his room. “Change your clothes. You look like a newshound, and I’m pretty sure Urie ain’t gonna allow you near the place looking like that if he’s in tonight.” He paused by his bedroom door, turning a bit toward Ryan. “Get togged to the bricks, will ya?”
The Black Canary, Ryan knew, was located over in the Black Belt, half hidden in the shadow of a theater that called the building next door home. For a moment, Ryan thought Spencer was going to lead him right to the front door, where people were steadily going in, but Spencer led him to an alleyway almost unnoticeable between the theater and the Black Canary and to a nondescript door.
“Here we are,” his roommate smirked, knocking on the door. A few moments later, the door swung open, held open by a large man who gave Spencer a small nod, but eyed Ryan as if he knew what Ryan did for a living. He didn’t say anything, merely watching them as Ryan followed Spencer into a brightly lit hallway.
The hallway seemed to be out of place for a cabaret rumored to be a speakeasy as well, but Ryan stayed quiet as he followed Spencer down the length of it, finally coming to a door that opened onto the main floor of the cabaret. Spencer led him over to the bar, where the bartender - a shorter man with an easy smile half hidden behind a trimmed beard - reached out to shake Spencer’s hand.
“Spencer.” The bartender grinned wide, turning the grin on Ryan. “And who’s your friend? He ain’t a stoolie, is he?”
“This is my roommate, Ryan. And he ain’t. He just needs a night out.” Spencer patted Ryan’s shoulder, steering him to a stool. “I gotta get backstage. The big man in tonight?”
The bartender snorted, setting a glass of water in front of Ryan before he even asked for it. “He ain’t the only big cheese in here tonight. Saporta’s here, and him.”
Ryan couldn’t help it; the way the bartender was talking, and the way Spencer paused to look at him piqued his attention. He wondered just who the bartender meant and was about to ask when Spencer shook himself, patted Ryan’s shoulder and headed off back the way they’d come.
Ryan watched him go before turning back to the bartender. “Who’s the ‘him’ you were talkin’ about, fella?”
The bartender fixed him with a look. “I like your look, my friend, but some things you don’t futz around with. You dig?”
Ryan chewed his lip but nodded, looking down at his water. “I dig.”
The bartender gave a curt nod in response, starting to move away. Ryan paused before catching his shirt sleeve.
“Hey, friend, where’s the restroom around here?”
The bartender gave Ryan another look before pointing in the direction Ryan had come in. Ryan nodded, thanking him and heading in that way.
He hadn’t gotten far down the hallway when he heard the sound of voices coming from a closed room. Part of him knew that he should just continue on walking and finding the restroom, but the newshound in him took over and made him take a step closer, trying to hear what the voices were saying.
They were too low to be heard through the thick door, but Ryan could just barely make out that they seemed to be arguing about something. He pressed his ear against the door, trying hard to make out what the voices were saying when he heard someone clear their throat directly behind him.
He froze briefly before turning around and finding himself nose to chest with the man who’d let him and Spencer in earlier. He swallowed, wondering if he should try for a smile, make himself likeable, anything. But before he could come up with a solution, a reason why he’d be snooping around, the bouncer had grabbed him by his shirt collar and knocked on the door. The bouncer didn’t wait for a response from inside the room before he opened the door, pushing Ryan inside and following him in.
Ryan stared wide eyed at the two men inside the office. He recognized both of them immediately. The taller man was William Beckett; he’d seen the man’s picture countless times in the Journal, at all the big parties that were thrown by the biggies of the city. He was also pretty sure that Stump had ties to the man. He didn’t know the other man by name, but he knew where he’d seen him before: the Palmer House Hotel, exiting the elevator.
And, judging by the look the unknown man was giving him, the other man clearly recognized him too.
Ryan was only vaguely aware that the man he didn’t know had said something before William Beckett settled into the leather chair situated behind the messy desk. He was also vaguely aware of the bouncer leaving, only fully realizing it when the door shut with a click behind him.
“So, you’re a newshound,” Beckett began casually, studying Ryan with an unreadable look. Ryan swallowed under that gaze, feeling a lot like a mouse would under a predator’s stare. The man he didn’t know settled on the corner of the desk, looking briefly at Beckett before back to Ryan. Ryan was starting to wonder if he’d say anything, or if Ryan himself should respond to Beckett’s statement when Beckett continued.
“You don’t look like much, newshound. What paper are you with?”
Ryan swallowed again, wanting nothing more than to start staring at his loafers, but continued to keep his eyes on Beckett. Some part of him knew that this was one man one didn’t look away from. “The Chicago Journal.”
The man Ryan didn’t know bent down to retrieve a notepad from the floor that Ryan hadn’t even noticed, his dark eyes scanning the open page before he tossed it to the desk. Ryan’s eyes followed the notebook, the newshound in him curious to know what was in it, especially when Beckett leaned forward to tap it with one finger.
“The Journal seems to already have its story regarding the Palmer dame, and you seem to have seen Urie here.” Beckett indicated the man sitting on the desk, even as the man kept his gaze fixed on Ryan. “You wouldn’t have written this story now, would you?”
Ryan licked his lips, more than sure that if he weren’t careful with his words, they might be his last. At least now he knew what the mysterious Brendon Urie, the owner of the Black Canary, looked like. Which meant that, if Urie were deferring to Beckett as he seemed to be doing, then Beckett himself might very well be his tie to the mob.
The silence in the room stretched while Ryan tried to think of something to say before Urie spoke up, glancing at Beckett. “No, of course he didn’t. If he had, there’d be mention of me in the story.” Urie’s dark eyes turned toward Ryan. Ryan didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look more coolly confident of themselves than Urie did right now. “Am I correct?”
Ryan nodded mutely before taking a deep breath. “After I found the Palmer dame after seeing,” he paused, unsure how to address Urie before settling for gesturing toward the other man. “I hightailed it home to my place. Didn’t want the coppers talking to me, and finding out that I was supposed to be meeting the Palmer dame for a story of my own.”
As he spoke, he saw in his mind’s eye Greenwald trying to get one of the coppers at the Palmer Hotel to talk to him about what was going on. He was sure that the story Beckett was so concerned with had to be Greenwald’s doing. There was no other explanation he could account for.
Beckett’s fingers twined together where they rested against the desk, studying Urie thoughtfully even as Urie kept his gaze silently fixed on Ryan. Ryan, for his part, kept his gaze fixed on Urie. He felt that, even though Beckett could, in his position, make it so that Ryan could disappear without a trace, Urie was currently the bigger threat to him because the man held not only Ryan’s fate, but Spencer’s as well.
Ryan wasn’t sure how long they stayed in the tableau before Urie turned to Beckett, silently looking at the other man. After a moment of unspoken communication, Beckett looked toward Ryan.
“I’ll make you a deal, newshound. Let your superiors know that the story can run, but I want you to make sure that there’s no mention of Urie in any story that your paper runs regarding this.” Beckett studied Ryan for a long moment like he wasn’t used to his deals not being taken.
Ryan licked his lips, taking a deep breath. After all, he hadn’t yet heard what he’d get out of agreeing to such a deal, and he wasn’t dumb enough to agree to something without knowing all the details. “And what do I get in return?”
Beckett got up from the desk, smiling quietly as if from at a private joke, and crossed to the door, pausing by Ryan and glancing at him. “Well, isn’t it obvious? You get to live, newshound.”
Even though the tone was polite, Ryan felt a chill run down his spine. Suddenly, he knew for certain that Beckett was not a man to trifle with. Even as he tried to keep calm and show that Beckett’s seemingly idle threat didn’t turn him yellow, Ryan heard the door behind him open and then shut behind Beckett.
When the sound of Beckett’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Urie stood up from where he sat, walking around the desk and sitting down. Ryan wasn’t entirely sure if he had been dismissed with Beckett’s leaving, or even if he could leave. He was about to ask if he could, when Urie looked up with a faintly skeptical look.
“You do intend to keep that deal, right, newshound?” He paused as if it had suddenly occurred to him that Ryan had an actual name and retrieved a piece of paper from a tray on the desk. “Excuse me, it’s Ryan Ross, isn’t it?”
“How - “ Ryan started before stopping, mind already racing as it tried to figure out how someone he’d never met would know his name, as well as what that piece of paper said.
The other man smiled, as if Ryan’s thoughts were radio broadcast into the air. “You mentioned before that you had an appointment with the Palmer dame. You newshounds have your sources, we’ve got ours.”
He put the piece of paper back down in the tray that he’d gotten it from, turning his attention to the paperwork that littered his desk. Once more, Ryan felt like he’d been dismissed, but he was also reminded once again that, while Beckett might seem like the one Ryan should look out for, Urie was equally dangerous.
He studied Urie for a long moment, aligning what he saw - a young man, not much older than Ryan was, with dark brown hair and brown eyes, the faint hint of a tan - with what he knew and had heard about the co-owner of the Black Canary. For one, Urie looked younger than he’d have imagined a cabaret-speakeasy owner would look, much less someone supposedly tied to the mob.
As the silence stretched on and Ryan found himself wondering if that bouncer was still outside the door, he finally felt like he had to break the silence and cleared his throat. There wasn’t any sign that Urie had heard the sound, loud as it was, other than that the fact the papers he was looking at paused briefly in their rustling, but Ryan was pretty sure that Urie was still very much aware that Ryan was still in the room.
“How do you know that I’m just gonna go along with your deal, huh?” Ryan was well aware that copping an attitude probably wouldn’t help his situation, but judging from the mild surprise that crossed Urie’s face as he focused on the papers before him, the other man, like Beckett earlier, hadn’t seemed to think that Ryan wouldn’t go along with the offer.
The papers were lowered to the desk and Urie rested his hands on top of them, mirroring Beckett’s earlier posture, although the smile was a bit warmer on Urie’s face - but not by much.
“Well, Mr. Ross, I’d imagine that even to a newshound like yourself, the story’s not worth your life. Besides, if it were to come out that you saw me at the Palmer Hotel, it would come out that you were also there. As you said, you didn’t want to be blamed for the Palmer dame’s murder, and, from what I know about your boss Wentz, he could just as easily ruin your reputation as he could mine.” He spread his hands out, the very gesture of a merciful benefactor, even as his words washed over Ryan calmly. “After all, Wentz likes a sensational story. What could be more sensational than one of his own newshounds being at the same hotel as such a prominent citizen as Miss Palmer herself at the time of her murder?”
Ryan stared, even as the words registered with him. After all, his boss Pete Wentz did have a reputation for wanting his newshounds to steal bits of their more sensational stories to add to the morbid collection Wentz had started when he’d been a newshound himself. Granted, Wentz always asked that every stone they brought back was acquired by honorable means. Some of the newshounds at the Journal chose to be less than honorable rather than risk displeasing Wentz, which gave the honorable ones the same reputation. Everything Urie said in such a calm, collected and friendly tone rang true.
He was about to open his mouth to say that he would agree with Beckett’s deal when Urie’s smile broadened, but the friendly warmth in this smile made Ryan’s blood run cold.
“Besides, newshound, with the resources at my disposal, you aren’t that hard to find.”
After Urie’s warmly offered threat, Ryan had found himself dismissed from the man’s office. The bouncer led Ryan back down the hall to the cabaret proper, making sure that Ryan was firmly seated on a stool at the bar before he headed back the way the pair had come.
“Long piss,” the bartender offered conversationally as he set down a glass of water in front of Ryan, who stared numbly at it. “Or did you not find the gents?”
Ryan stared at the glass of water some more, not quite hearing the bartender before he shook himself, getting to his feet. “I gotta go.” He paused, suddenly remembering that Spencer had told him to have a night off. Coming face to face with William Beckett and Brendon Urie, and being told to keep Urie out of the story involving the Palmer dame was definitely not taking the night off. “Actually, could you relay a message for me?”
The bartender gave him a skeptical look before he nodded amiably. Ryan asked for a piece of paper and a pen, writing Spencer a quick note explaining that he had to go home because something had come up.
“Can you see that my roommate Spencer gets this?” he said, handing it over to the bartender.
The bartender gave the piece of paper a thoughtful look but nodded. He also waved off payment for the two waters Ryan had had, saying that, as a friend of Spencer’s, the drinks were on the house.
~~~
Brendon Urie was, if nothing else, a man used to getting his own way. He knew he was young, and that plenty of people didn’t take him seriously because of it. There’d been plenty of people back in New York who had been of that same opinion, had thought that he had gotten as far as he had because he was his father’s son.
He wondered how many of the detractors had reacted when he’d gotten that letter, requesting him to come out here to Chicago at William Beckett’s request. He’d heard plenty of things about the man before he’d come out - after all, Beckett’s reputation in Chicago had reached ears in New York - and he’d yet to find any lies in the whole mess.
There were days Brendon wondered what happened to the man he’d been brought in to replace, but he’d learned early on in his experience that one didn’t ask questions one didn’t want the answer to.
Brendon leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his desk and burying his face in his hands. To say that he was having a bad day was a gross understatement. His policy of staying out of the general view of the public had gone awry, and he wasn’t even positive that the newshound that had been in his office earlier would hold up his end of the bargain.
He shook himself, getting to his feet. There was no room for worrying about things like whether or not that newshound would keep his end of the deal. He had plenty of other things to do, like finding out who killed the Palmer dame.
He placed his hands against the surface of his desk and took a few deep, calming breaths as the image of the dead dame flashed through his mind again. He’d seen plenty of dead bodies in his lifetime, not all of them coming from his line of work, and plenty by his own hand. He was certainly not squeamish about death. But this time, it felt personal.
His eyes closed as he concentrated on the memory, taking a few more deep breaths to calm himself, trying to remember the scene. After a few minutes of trying to recall the details, see if he’d missed anything, he shook himself and opened his eyes. He stared across the room toward the opposite wall, his gaze unfocusing and not seeing the artwork and other décor that lined the far wall, as his fingers curled into the wood of the desk.
Brendon wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there before he slammed his fist down on the desk with a curse, shaking himself from his thoughts. He straightened up, slamming his fist into the palm of his other hand.
What he needed was someone to talk this out with.
He toyed briefly with the idea of talking it over with Saporta, but knowing him, the man was probably busy enjoying the perks of running a speakeasy inside a well-known cabaret. After all, there were plenty of liquor and pretty dames to be had at the Black Canary, and Saporta was one of the most hedonistic men that Brendon had ever met. He also had never been supportive of using the Palmer dame as their go-between - because of the connections she had through her family - in the first place. Even though Saporta and Brendon were on good terms with one another, Brendon was fairly sure that Saporta would believe that Brendon had murdered the dame just to get out of the arrangement, until proven otherwise. No, Saporta was definitely not an option to talk this out with.
Hall was also out of the question; the big man was Brendon’s bodyguard first and foremost, and occasional bouncer to the Black Canary when Brendon was in, but Brendon hadn’t yet told him about the new details about the Palmer affair. He wasn’t even sure how Hall would take the news: he knew that Hall’s moll Carol was on good terms with the Palmer family, so Hall would hear about it soon enough, if he hadn’t already. On top of that, Brendon wasn’t actually supposed to leave Hall’s sight unless he was in his apartment, and the appointment with Amanda Palmer had been made behind Hall’s back, so that was the other reason Brendon hadn’t mentioned it.
He was kidding himself if he thought he’d get away scotfree when, sooner or later, Hall found out. Brendon might be the superior, but Hall was very good at his job, and very protective of his charge. Although, Brendon did have to admit that Hall was a good man to have at one’s back.
Brendon started to pace the office, going over a mental list of people he knew and could trust.
Beckett was out; Brendon’s boss was not entirely convinced Brendon hadn’t murdered Amanda Palmer, if their earlier conversation had been any indication. There weren’t many people in the cabaret that he felt comfortable enough to talk to, although the majority of the staff was aware of the ties their employers had, and half of those that did were members of the same mob.
He tried to think of anyone outside of the cabaret he could talk to, and after considering and discarding every name he could think of, he was left with no one.
Except, maybe, that newshound.
He hadn’t been around to see exactly what the newshound had seen, or even how long he’d stayed. They just had the guy’s word that he’d left after finding the body.
He punched his fist into his palm again, taking solace in the sound. If he went to talk it out with the newshound, he could use that conversation to implement a two-fold plan: find out just what the newshound knew, and make sure the guy kept his end of the bargain.
Decision made, Brendon grabbed his keys from the desk, locking his office door and making his way to the main area of the cabaret. The band was still playing jazz, and it looked like the new piano player he’d hired was working out nicely. Good; he hadn’t been entirely sure of that when he’d come in earlier that evening and the kid wasn’t bad looking….
He shook his head, clearing it of the path his mind was currently traveling, even if it was a tempting path. He wanted to find that newshound and talk everything out with him. Any other jobs could wait until later.
He scanned the room, his mind taking note of how jumping the joint had become since he’d left to go to his office. Tonight would definitely be a good night all around, which would be a welcome relief from the day he was having. He couldn’t see the newshound anywhere, but that didn’t mean he’d left yet.
Brendon made his way through the crowd, pausing only to talk to people who were worth talking to, smiling all the while, before he came to a stop by the bar. Walker was busy helping a customer - Brendon made a minute gesture for Walker to go for the less expensive hooch when he glanced at the customer in question - but, as soon as he was done, Walker came over to Brendon, wiping his hands on a bar towel.
“What can I get you, boss?” Walker asked, all smiles. Saporta had hired Walker, on Beckett’s recommendation, to cover the bar end - and the illegal alcohol end - of things. He was an exceptional employee, Brendon had observed over the course of his employment at the Canary, and he had grown to like and trust the man. Under other circumstances, Brendon might have confided his little problem to Walker, but Walker couldn’t leave the bar while the cabaret was open, except in case of an emergency.
“Information.” Brendon leaned in conspiratorially, waiting until Walker had done the same. “There was a newshound in here earlier. Do you remember him?”
Walker rubbed his beard as he racked his brain. Brendon waited until the bartender snapped his fingers. He wasn’t sure why he had to wait, because he knew that Walker never forgot a face and was only drawing it out for his own amusement.
“There was a man in here earlier, looked like a stoolie.” Walker shrugged, smiling and wiping down the bar top in front of him. “His roommate vouched for him, said he ain’t a stoolie. Didn’t say he was a newshound, though, but he might’ve been.”
Brendon raised an eyebrow, interested. “The newshound I’m looking for did look a bit like a stoolie. Who’s this mysterious roommate?”
Walker dropped the towel to the bar top, pointing briefly to the stage before picking his towel back up and returning to his wiping. “Smith.”
Brendon glanced at the stage before nodding, straightening up. “Thanks, Walker. I’ll have a talk with him. You have yourself a good night.”
Walker gave a small wave, already turning to a new customer.
Roughly half an hour later, Brendon was making his way across town to Smith’s apartment in a cab. As the cabbie pulled up in front of the building, Brendon double checked the piece of paper that he’d written the address on, before paying the man as he got out.
He looked up at the building, wondering if he should have let Hall know he was going out and where he was going. Granted, he could always call the man, but he didn’t want a baby sitter tonight.
He made his way up the stairs, finding Smith’s apartment with little effort on his part. He knocked on the door, looking around with mild interest - Bucktown was, after all, not really in the same category as the neighborhood The Copeland was in - before the door opened and the newshound from earlier peered out at him with a mild frown on his features.
“Can I help you?”
“May I come in?” Brendon gave the man his most charming smile. “After all, it’s the middle of the night, and there’s a strange man on your doorstep. Although, I don’t know what happens in Bucktown here, but where I come from, people are pretty skilled at pretending to not see what they’re actually seeing.”
The newshound paused at that, biting his lip briefly as he leaned out into the hallway, looking around as if he were expecting to see his neighbors out there before he took a step back to let Brendon in and shut the door behind him.
Out of habit, Brendon looked around to get an idea of all possible exits as he walked in before he stopped in the middle of the small living room. He smiled toward the newshound - Ryan Ross, his mind supplied, he may as well get the man’s name right instead of just calling him the newshound all the time - before taking a seat in one of the chairs.
Ross frowned at him again, but took a seat on the couch, looking at him pointedly. “What do you want? I already told you what I knew about the Palmer dame’s death. I didn’t do it.”
Brendon held up his hands, trying to look as innocent and inoffensive as he could manage, and kept smiling. “Don’t worry, I’m not here about that. Although…” He paused, looking around the apartment again before resting his forearms against his knees and leaning forward toward Ross.
Ross, for his part, gave Brendon a look, as if he didn’t want to hear anything else Brendon, or his boss, had to say to him, but he stayed silent. Brendon took the silence as an invitation to continue.
“See, it’s like this. I’m wondering just why a reporter would want to be talking to the Palmer dame.” He paused dramatically, trying to gauge Ross by his expression. “Surely, you newshounds have the market on the glitz and glam comin’ out of Hollywood these days.”
Ross made a face at his comment before shaking his head. “I don’t write those kinda fluff pieces.” He paused, glancing toward the coffee table, which Brendon could see had a few pieces of crumpled up paper scattered across the surface, and sighed. “Well, that’s a lie. I have, but they’re not my kinda pieces.” He looked down at his hands. “I just. I wanted a story so badly. Something that wasn’t about the Depression, because I’m so.” He paused before taking a deep breath, glancing up at Brendon. “I’m sick of writing about how bad the country’s gettin’, and how it’s startin’ to improve, so I just. I wanted a story, like I said.”
Brendon leaned back in his seat, bringing his hands up to steeple his fingers, studying Ross over the tips. He was pretty sure that he knew where this was going, but he needed verbal confirmation. “So, you wanted to talk to write a fluff piece on local socialites?”
Ross shook his head. “No. My boss gave me this story about how the mob’s bribing a local politician and I just. Despite being surprised over gettin’ such a scoop, I could see it becoming front page news.”
What Ross was saying lined up with what Brendon was thinking, but he still hadn’t gotten verbal confirmation on whether or not Ross knew how Amanda Palmer had been connected. “And Miss Palmer? Wouldn’t you just talk to the politician involved, or an aide perhaps?”
Ross shook his head again. “My boss had a lead that said that Miss Palmer was the go-between between this corrupt politician and that local mob.”
There it was, the verbal confirmation Brendon was looking for. He didn’t know Stump personally, but he knew the man by reputation - and Beckett, who did know Stump personally, had nothing but positive things to say about the man - and he wasn’t entirely surprised that Stump would know about Miss Palmer’s being the connection between the mob and the politician Beckett was definitely paying off, while Brendon’s boss was working on getting the man reelected.
He tapped his fingers together absently, studying Ross. He wasn’t entirely sure how much he was willing to divulge to a newshound, but this conversation was definitely clearing up some questions he was having. Like how much the Chicago Journal actually knew. “So, like myself, you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and found her dead.”
Ross’ shoulder went up and down in the universal gesture that said he wasn’t entirely sure. “I guess.”
Brendon nodded a bit, closing his eyes as he considered. The silence stretched for a few minutes, broken only by Ross’s foot absently tapping against the floor, as Brendon considered his options. One option, the one that was starting to become more and more appealing to him by the second, was one that Beckett might be upset over later on, but Brendon was sure that the same option could also be used as leverage to make sure that the mob - and Brendon especially - would stay out of any future stories about Miss Palmer’s death.
That thought made up his mind and he leaned forward, eyes opening again. “Mr. Ross, I’ll make you a deal. Call it sweetening the bargain you made earlier with Beckett.”
Ross gave him a skeptical look. “What’s the deal?”
“I’ll give you your story. Your front page earning story. A story that’ll sound like it came right outta Hollywood in all its glitz and glamour.”
Ross looked at him, and Brendon could see that the skeptical look Ross had earlier was gone, replaced with an almost needy expression at the very thought. The newshound shook himself, crossing his arms over his chest as he forcibly tried to look professional. “What’s the catch for such a great story? How is that sweetening my earlier bargain?” He paused. “Not that I’m gonna back out of that one, especially now that you know where I live.”
“I’ll tell you everything I know about Miss Palmer, the mob, and corrupt politicians, but,” Brendon paused, making sure that what he was about to say would sink in. “But, you can’t name your source in your story. You can’t name me and you can’t name anyone that I say you can’t mention by name.”
“I’m a good reporter, and I’m discreet. I don’t disclose my sources.” Ross made a face before nodding. “Alright. I’ll agree to your conditions. But I have one of my own: I’m the only one allowed to write this story.”
Brendon smiled, and knew he actually meant it. “Mr. Ross, I don’t do interviews on a regular basis. You’ve got exclusive rights to this story.” He reached over to the coffee table, grabbing one of the discarded pieces of paper, smoothing it out before pulling a pen out of his suit coat and writing down the number and address for The Copeland Hotel. “This is where I live, and the number for the front desk.” He handed the paper to Ross, who looked down at it as if he were trying to memorize both for future reference. “Although you can leave any messages for me at the front desk and they’ll get to me, I do ask that you only call or visit me in the event of an emergency.”
Ross nodded, folding up the piece of paper and letting it rest on his knee. “So, when are we doing this story?”
Brendon looked at his watch. It was getting late, and he wanted to let Beckett know what he was about to do with a newshound. A surprised Beckett was not a very kind man, after all. “Tomorrow evening. Say, six in the hotel lobby?”
Ross nodded again, getting up as well when Brendon stood up. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”
Part Two
Fandom: Bandom
Band(s): Panic! at the Disco/The Young Veins, William Beckett, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy/various acts, various others
Pairing(s): Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross, mention of Brendon Urie/Amanda Palmer
Word count: 20,445
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: character deaths (both secondary)
Disclaimer: Don't own anyone. Song is from Fire on the Mountain by Rob Thomas.
Summary: The year is 1933. The Great Depression hit back in 1929, but it’s still affecting the US. Prohibition still exists, and plenty of illegal speakeasies operate to help people forget their own problems. Organized crime is rampant, and some notable mobs even have plenty of corrupt cops in their pocket. Ryan Ross is a reporter who works for the Chicago Journal. When his boss assigns him to get the scoop on a well-publicized scandal of a politician taking bribe money from a local mobster, he quickly finds out that he’s in over his head when the woman he’s supposed to interview turns up dead and the last person to see her alive just so happens to be the mobster’s right hand man.
Ryan Ross was a reporter. He knew he wasn’t necessarily the best at what he did - he was sure Dutton, who seemed to be the go-to guy when it came to whatever nonsense was coming out of Hollywood, held that prestigious title - but he knew he was far from the worst the Chicago Journal had to offer. At least he never seemed to have to be in a thousand places at once, like Valdes practically had to be, as one of the paper’s better photographers.
If anything, Ryan was in search of what could possibly be the story to make it onto the front page and make his career. He knew that the Depression was still big news, but he also knew that if he had to write one more damn story about it, he was going to scream. And possibly introduce at least one of his bosses to one of the printing presses.
There was sudden silence from the desks around him - the desks for the beat reporters like Ryan at the Chicago Journal were shaped in a horseshoe fashion, for reasons Ryan had never fathomed. He glanced up from the paperwork he was mindlessly shuffling around in his effort to look busy, to find the beat reporters all staring in his direction. He glanced down quickly, wondering if he’d managed to get ink or some shit on his clothes before looking up. His head fell back against the back of the chair as he stared up at one of his bosses, as if the thought of Ryan’s thoughts had manifested him.
Patrick’s arms were crossed over his chest and he was frowning down at Ryan as if he knew that Ryan was pretending to look busy instead of actually being such. Ryan managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere, and knew it was more of a grimace than an actual smile. Patrick frowned at him again, and Ryan briefly wondered what he was in trouble for.
He managed to get out a shaky, “Yeah?” and was proud of the fact his voice didn’t tremor as much as he thought it would.
If there were one thing true about the Chicago Journal, it was that Pete Wentz was the owner and head editor, but it was very well known that Patrick Stump, the co-owner, really ran the paper.
There were also plenty of rumors - never spoken aloud where Stump could hear them, though - that Patrick Stump had ties to the local mob. Ryan Ross was actually more than a little scared of his boss.
It was another long moment before Stump finally seemed to make up his mind and uncross his arms. He tossed a piece of paper onto the mess already on Ryan’s desk. “Wentz wants you to do this story. If it’s good, he’ll see you get front page with it.”
Ryan stared blankly at Stump before the other man turned and walked back toward the main office. He turned his blank gaze from the closing door to the folded piece of paper tossed carelessly onto his desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the beat reporters on either side of him scoot closer in their curiosity.
“What’s the special scoop?” Greenwald, to Ryan’s right, finally broke the silence, grabbing the paper and unfolding it. Ryan watched him, blinking when Greenwald cursed loudly, staring back at Ryan with very wide eyes.
He snatched the piece of paper back, reading it a few times until the words finally sunk in.
“What is it?” Dutton asked irritably from the desk a few desks over.
Ryan’s mouth worked uselessly for a minute or two, trying to form words, as his eyes rose to meet those of the reporters staring back at him. Dutton finally grabbed the paper out of Ryan’s limp hands. His mouth moved as he silently read the paper before staring up at Ryan.
“You know what this means, right?” Dutton asked carefully, looking quietly nervous at his fellow reporter. Greenwald nodded, mirroring Dutton’s nervous expression. The other beat reporters, the ones that hadn’t seen the paper, gave all three reporters dirty looks as they waited to hear what the big story was about. One cleared his throat demandingly, but Dutton ignored it, eyes going to the wooden clock affixed to the wall just to the left of the office’s door. “You’ve got half an hour to get your ass uptown, Ross, if you’re gonna make this appointment. Make tracks, fast.”
Ryan’s eyes followed Dutton’s gaze to the clock before he jumped up, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and his bag from under his desk, scrambling for the front door to make his appointment in time.
If this story took off the way he was hoping, it’d be a good day for the readers. But if he were late to this appointment, it wasn’t a good day for being a reporter for the Chicago Journal.
Ryan made it to the hotel with ten minutes to spare. It cost him a little extra, and more than a little gripe from the driver, but it was with considerable relief that he walked into the lobby of the Palmer Hotel. He rechecked his appointment and made his way over to the elevators.
His finger was hovering over the up arrow when suddenly, the doors opened. Ryan took a step back in surprise, seeing his surprise mirrored briefly on the face of the young man that getting off the elevator. After a moment, the other man shook himself, nodded politely to Ryan and stepped around him, heading for the door.
Ryan watched him go, taking in the cut of the stranger’s obviously expensive suit, before shaking himself when he realized what he was doing. He stepped into the elevator, giving the operator the floor number. He watched the floors go by, and glanced toward the silent man.
“Your floor, sir,” the operator finally said as the elevator came to a stop. Ryan gave him a faint smile as the doors were opened and he got off.
Ryan paused once off, looking up and down at all the doors before double checking his appointment. He mouthed the room number to himself, hurrying down the hall and coming to a halt outside the right room.
He took a deep breath, knocking on the door. “Miss Palmer?” There was no answer and he hesitated before knocking louder, repeating his inquiry. “It’s, uh. Ryan Ross. From the Journal?”
His hand lowered a bit before he reached for the doorknob, turning it slightly. To his surprise, it turned and the door swung open. He glanced around, trying to see if he were alone on the floor before he adjusted his bag. He was almost tempted to stay outside, but the newshound in him urged him into the darkened room.
“Miss Palmer?” Ryan called as he crossed the threshold. He poked his head into the bathroom as he passed it, flicking the light on and finding nothing more than a bathroom that seemed to be as large as his bedroom over in Bucktown.
He flicked the light switch back off as he moved away from the bathroom, and made it a couple steps before he stumbled over something in the dark. He cursed softly, hand fumbling for a light switch, a lamp, something before his blind search rewarded him with a switch, flooding the dark room with light.
Ryan glanced down to see what he’d tripped over and bent down to pick up the discarded pump, turning it over in his hands as he looked around to see where it came from. He turned to put the pump on the dresser the room provided and saw that the mirror was askew. He frowned, reaching a hand out to put the mirror to rights and froze when the angle he was aiming for showed something pale under the bed.
Turning slightly and moving carefully, he bent down, fingers reaching for the dust ruffle and lifting it up.
Half underneath the bed was a very dead woman.
Ryan quickly scooted back from the bed, eyes wide and feeling himself start to hyperventilate.
Somehow, he managed to pull himself to his feet, stumbling out of the room. The rational part of his brain, the only part that seemed to be getting air, was setting off warning signals, telling him to call the police.
Ryan found a phone resting on a table a few doors down, and dialed the number for the police with shaking fingers. When the operator came on, he tried to tell her as calmly as he could that he’d come across a dead body and gave the address of the hotel. He wasn’t quite sure how he did it, or what her response was, but a few minutes later he was returning the phone to the cradle and walking toward the elevator. He hesitated once there, finger hovering over the down button before turning and walking back toward the hotel room.
Back at the room, he considered going back inside into the room and nearly backed out of the idea, but before he could, the reporter in him convinced himself to go back in.
He wasn’t quite sure how long he stood there, looking down at the dead body. He knew without ever having met her, that he was looking down at who he had come to see: Amanda Palmer, daughter of the owners of the Palmer Hotel.
Ryan shook himself, moving out of the room again. He didn’t know how she died, didn’t want to find out, but he knew he didn’t want to stay in there any longer. No sooner had he walked out of the room, then the first of the coppers came out of the elevator.
He bit his lip, making sure he wasn’t near the hotel room before quickly heading for the stairs. He knew he was fleeing the scene, but with the rep the Journal had because of Pete and his bizarre ritual of having his reporters collect souvenirs of their big stories, by any means possible, he was pretty sure he’d be made into a patsy for this. Especially when it came out that he’d been scheduled to meet with the dead woman.
As he came out onto the street, he rubbed his arm nervously, watching the meat wagon pull up to the curb, surrounded by more coppers. Just beyond them, he could see a crowd already starting to gather, and he thought he saw Greenwald near the front, trying to get the attention of one of the coppers.
Suddenly, being here seemed like a bad idea, even if he hadn’t done anything. He made his way through the crowd of people already gathered, catching a taxi as soon as he could. He gave the driver his address, and rested his head against the seat cushion, staring up at the ceiling.
“What do you suppose happened to bring this crowd?” the driver asked conversationally as he pulled away from the curb, glancing at Ryan in the rear view mirror.
“Do I look like I know?” Ryan said, watching the streets change as the taxi made its way over to Bucktown, thankful when the driver took the hint that he didn’t want to talk. As soon as the driver pulled up in front of Ryan’s apartment building, Ryan breathed a sigh of relief as he paid the man on his way out of the taxi.
After letting himself into his apartment building, Ryan ran up the couple of flights of stairs to his floor, quickly letting himself into his apartment before anyone saw him. Some of his neighbors, like Mrs. Blaszczyk next door, were nosier than he was, and he was the damn newshound.
“You’re home early.”
Ryan started at the sound of his roommate’s voice, staring dumbfounded at Spencer for a moment before shaking himself. He set his bag on the counter before throwing himself on the couch next to him, trying to shake the mental image of Amanda Palmer lying dead on the hotel room floor. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about what he’d seen with Spencer, even though he was sure that Spencer had seen worse at the Black Canary, where he worked as a skin tickler. Ryan had never been to the cabaret, but he’d heard plenty of snazzy things about it. For one thing, the Black Canary was rumored to also be a speakeasy. Of course, rumors like that always flew, especially if there were suspicions that a place had ties to the mob. And the two owners of the Black Canary, Brendon Urie and Gabriel Saporta, were hinted at having ties to one of the biggest mobs in the city. “Had an appointment that didn’t pan out.”
Out of the corner of Ryan’s eye, he could see the skeptical look Spencer gave him, but to his relief, that Spencer didn’t follow through with any questions.
After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the usual sounds of the building settling down as the late afternoon made its way into evening, Spencer patted Ryan’s thigh. “Come with me to the Black Canary tonight. You’ve earned a night off.”
Ryan grinned faintly despite himself. The idea of going out sounded a lot better than sitting at home, trying to get the image of Amanda’s dead body out of his head. “Break my wrist, will ya? I’ll go.”
“Good.” Spencer patted Ryan’s thigh again before standing up, heading to his room. “Change your clothes. You look like a newshound, and I’m pretty sure Urie ain’t gonna allow you near the place looking like that if he’s in tonight.” He paused by his bedroom door, turning a bit toward Ryan. “Get togged to the bricks, will ya?”
The Black Canary, Ryan knew, was located over in the Black Belt, half hidden in the shadow of a theater that called the building next door home. For a moment, Ryan thought Spencer was going to lead him right to the front door, where people were steadily going in, but Spencer led him to an alleyway almost unnoticeable between the theater and the Black Canary and to a nondescript door.
“Here we are,” his roommate smirked, knocking on the door. A few moments later, the door swung open, held open by a large man who gave Spencer a small nod, but eyed Ryan as if he knew what Ryan did for a living. He didn’t say anything, merely watching them as Ryan followed Spencer into a brightly lit hallway.
The hallway seemed to be out of place for a cabaret rumored to be a speakeasy as well, but Ryan stayed quiet as he followed Spencer down the length of it, finally coming to a door that opened onto the main floor of the cabaret. Spencer led him over to the bar, where the bartender - a shorter man with an easy smile half hidden behind a trimmed beard - reached out to shake Spencer’s hand.
“Spencer.” The bartender grinned wide, turning the grin on Ryan. “And who’s your friend? He ain’t a stoolie, is he?”
“This is my roommate, Ryan. And he ain’t. He just needs a night out.” Spencer patted Ryan’s shoulder, steering him to a stool. “I gotta get backstage. The big man in tonight?”
The bartender snorted, setting a glass of water in front of Ryan before he even asked for it. “He ain’t the only big cheese in here tonight. Saporta’s here, and him.”
Ryan couldn’t help it; the way the bartender was talking, and the way Spencer paused to look at him piqued his attention. He wondered just who the bartender meant and was about to ask when Spencer shook himself, patted Ryan’s shoulder and headed off back the way they’d come.
Ryan watched him go before turning back to the bartender. “Who’s the ‘him’ you were talkin’ about, fella?”
The bartender fixed him with a look. “I like your look, my friend, but some things you don’t futz around with. You dig?”
Ryan chewed his lip but nodded, looking down at his water. “I dig.”
The bartender gave a curt nod in response, starting to move away. Ryan paused before catching his shirt sleeve.
“Hey, friend, where’s the restroom around here?”
The bartender gave Ryan another look before pointing in the direction Ryan had come in. Ryan nodded, thanking him and heading in that way.
He hadn’t gotten far down the hallway when he heard the sound of voices coming from a closed room. Part of him knew that he should just continue on walking and finding the restroom, but the newshound in him took over and made him take a step closer, trying to hear what the voices were saying.
They were too low to be heard through the thick door, but Ryan could just barely make out that they seemed to be arguing about something. He pressed his ear against the door, trying hard to make out what the voices were saying when he heard someone clear their throat directly behind him.
He froze briefly before turning around and finding himself nose to chest with the man who’d let him and Spencer in earlier. He swallowed, wondering if he should try for a smile, make himself likeable, anything. But before he could come up with a solution, a reason why he’d be snooping around, the bouncer had grabbed him by his shirt collar and knocked on the door. The bouncer didn’t wait for a response from inside the room before he opened the door, pushing Ryan inside and following him in.
Ryan stared wide eyed at the two men inside the office. He recognized both of them immediately. The taller man was William Beckett; he’d seen the man’s picture countless times in the Journal, at all the big parties that were thrown by the biggies of the city. He was also pretty sure that Stump had ties to the man. He didn’t know the other man by name, but he knew where he’d seen him before: the Palmer House Hotel, exiting the elevator.
And, judging by the look the unknown man was giving him, the other man clearly recognized him too.
Ryan was only vaguely aware that the man he didn’t know had said something before William Beckett settled into the leather chair situated behind the messy desk. He was also vaguely aware of the bouncer leaving, only fully realizing it when the door shut with a click behind him.
“So, you’re a newshound,” Beckett began casually, studying Ryan with an unreadable look. Ryan swallowed under that gaze, feeling a lot like a mouse would under a predator’s stare. The man he didn’t know settled on the corner of the desk, looking briefly at Beckett before back to Ryan. Ryan was starting to wonder if he’d say anything, or if Ryan himself should respond to Beckett’s statement when Beckett continued.
“You don’t look like much, newshound. What paper are you with?”
Ryan swallowed again, wanting nothing more than to start staring at his loafers, but continued to keep his eyes on Beckett. Some part of him knew that this was one man one didn’t look away from. “The Chicago Journal.”
The man Ryan didn’t know bent down to retrieve a notepad from the floor that Ryan hadn’t even noticed, his dark eyes scanning the open page before he tossed it to the desk. Ryan’s eyes followed the notebook, the newshound in him curious to know what was in it, especially when Beckett leaned forward to tap it with one finger.
“The Journal seems to already have its story regarding the Palmer dame, and you seem to have seen Urie here.” Beckett indicated the man sitting on the desk, even as the man kept his gaze fixed on Ryan. “You wouldn’t have written this story now, would you?”
Ryan licked his lips, more than sure that if he weren’t careful with his words, they might be his last. At least now he knew what the mysterious Brendon Urie, the owner of the Black Canary, looked like. Which meant that, if Urie were deferring to Beckett as he seemed to be doing, then Beckett himself might very well be his tie to the mob.
The silence in the room stretched while Ryan tried to think of something to say before Urie spoke up, glancing at Beckett. “No, of course he didn’t. If he had, there’d be mention of me in the story.” Urie’s dark eyes turned toward Ryan. Ryan didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look more coolly confident of themselves than Urie did right now. “Am I correct?”
Ryan nodded mutely before taking a deep breath. “After I found the Palmer dame after seeing,” he paused, unsure how to address Urie before settling for gesturing toward the other man. “I hightailed it home to my place. Didn’t want the coppers talking to me, and finding out that I was supposed to be meeting the Palmer dame for a story of my own.”
As he spoke, he saw in his mind’s eye Greenwald trying to get one of the coppers at the Palmer Hotel to talk to him about what was going on. He was sure that the story Beckett was so concerned with had to be Greenwald’s doing. There was no other explanation he could account for.
Beckett’s fingers twined together where they rested against the desk, studying Urie thoughtfully even as Urie kept his gaze silently fixed on Ryan. Ryan, for his part, kept his gaze fixed on Urie. He felt that, even though Beckett could, in his position, make it so that Ryan could disappear without a trace, Urie was currently the bigger threat to him because the man held not only Ryan’s fate, but Spencer’s as well.
Ryan wasn’t sure how long they stayed in the tableau before Urie turned to Beckett, silently looking at the other man. After a moment of unspoken communication, Beckett looked toward Ryan.
“I’ll make you a deal, newshound. Let your superiors know that the story can run, but I want you to make sure that there’s no mention of Urie in any story that your paper runs regarding this.” Beckett studied Ryan for a long moment like he wasn’t used to his deals not being taken.
Ryan licked his lips, taking a deep breath. After all, he hadn’t yet heard what he’d get out of agreeing to such a deal, and he wasn’t dumb enough to agree to something without knowing all the details. “And what do I get in return?”
Beckett got up from the desk, smiling quietly as if from at a private joke, and crossed to the door, pausing by Ryan and glancing at him. “Well, isn’t it obvious? You get to live, newshound.”
Even though the tone was polite, Ryan felt a chill run down his spine. Suddenly, he knew for certain that Beckett was not a man to trifle with. Even as he tried to keep calm and show that Beckett’s seemingly idle threat didn’t turn him yellow, Ryan heard the door behind him open and then shut behind Beckett.
When the sound of Beckett’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Urie stood up from where he sat, walking around the desk and sitting down. Ryan wasn’t entirely sure if he had been dismissed with Beckett’s leaving, or even if he could leave. He was about to ask if he could, when Urie looked up with a faintly skeptical look.
“You do intend to keep that deal, right, newshound?” He paused as if it had suddenly occurred to him that Ryan had an actual name and retrieved a piece of paper from a tray on the desk. “Excuse me, it’s Ryan Ross, isn’t it?”
“How - “ Ryan started before stopping, mind already racing as it tried to figure out how someone he’d never met would know his name, as well as what that piece of paper said.
The other man smiled, as if Ryan’s thoughts were radio broadcast into the air. “You mentioned before that you had an appointment with the Palmer dame. You newshounds have your sources, we’ve got ours.”
He put the piece of paper back down in the tray that he’d gotten it from, turning his attention to the paperwork that littered his desk. Once more, Ryan felt like he’d been dismissed, but he was also reminded once again that, while Beckett might seem like the one Ryan should look out for, Urie was equally dangerous.
He studied Urie for a long moment, aligning what he saw - a young man, not much older than Ryan was, with dark brown hair and brown eyes, the faint hint of a tan - with what he knew and had heard about the co-owner of the Black Canary. For one, Urie looked younger than he’d have imagined a cabaret-speakeasy owner would look, much less someone supposedly tied to the mob.
As the silence stretched on and Ryan found himself wondering if that bouncer was still outside the door, he finally felt like he had to break the silence and cleared his throat. There wasn’t any sign that Urie had heard the sound, loud as it was, other than that the fact the papers he was looking at paused briefly in their rustling, but Ryan was pretty sure that Urie was still very much aware that Ryan was still in the room.
“How do you know that I’m just gonna go along with your deal, huh?” Ryan was well aware that copping an attitude probably wouldn’t help his situation, but judging from the mild surprise that crossed Urie’s face as he focused on the papers before him, the other man, like Beckett earlier, hadn’t seemed to think that Ryan wouldn’t go along with the offer.
The papers were lowered to the desk and Urie rested his hands on top of them, mirroring Beckett’s earlier posture, although the smile was a bit warmer on Urie’s face - but not by much.
“Well, Mr. Ross, I’d imagine that even to a newshound like yourself, the story’s not worth your life. Besides, if it were to come out that you saw me at the Palmer Hotel, it would come out that you were also there. As you said, you didn’t want to be blamed for the Palmer dame’s murder, and, from what I know about your boss Wentz, he could just as easily ruin your reputation as he could mine.” He spread his hands out, the very gesture of a merciful benefactor, even as his words washed over Ryan calmly. “After all, Wentz likes a sensational story. What could be more sensational than one of his own newshounds being at the same hotel as such a prominent citizen as Miss Palmer herself at the time of her murder?”
Ryan stared, even as the words registered with him. After all, his boss Pete Wentz did have a reputation for wanting his newshounds to steal bits of their more sensational stories to add to the morbid collection Wentz had started when he’d been a newshound himself. Granted, Wentz always asked that every stone they brought back was acquired by honorable means. Some of the newshounds at the Journal chose to be less than honorable rather than risk displeasing Wentz, which gave the honorable ones the same reputation. Everything Urie said in such a calm, collected and friendly tone rang true.
He was about to open his mouth to say that he would agree with Beckett’s deal when Urie’s smile broadened, but the friendly warmth in this smile made Ryan’s blood run cold.
“Besides, newshound, with the resources at my disposal, you aren’t that hard to find.”
After Urie’s warmly offered threat, Ryan had found himself dismissed from the man’s office. The bouncer led Ryan back down the hall to the cabaret proper, making sure that Ryan was firmly seated on a stool at the bar before he headed back the way the pair had come.
“Long piss,” the bartender offered conversationally as he set down a glass of water in front of Ryan, who stared numbly at it. “Or did you not find the gents?”
Ryan stared at the glass of water some more, not quite hearing the bartender before he shook himself, getting to his feet. “I gotta go.” He paused, suddenly remembering that Spencer had told him to have a night off. Coming face to face with William Beckett and Brendon Urie, and being told to keep Urie out of the story involving the Palmer dame was definitely not taking the night off. “Actually, could you relay a message for me?”
The bartender gave him a skeptical look before he nodded amiably. Ryan asked for a piece of paper and a pen, writing Spencer a quick note explaining that he had to go home because something had come up.
“Can you see that my roommate Spencer gets this?” he said, handing it over to the bartender.
The bartender gave the piece of paper a thoughtful look but nodded. He also waved off payment for the two waters Ryan had had, saying that, as a friend of Spencer’s, the drinks were on the house.
~~~
Brendon Urie was, if nothing else, a man used to getting his own way. He knew he was young, and that plenty of people didn’t take him seriously because of it. There’d been plenty of people back in New York who had been of that same opinion, had thought that he had gotten as far as he had because he was his father’s son.
He wondered how many of the detractors had reacted when he’d gotten that letter, requesting him to come out here to Chicago at William Beckett’s request. He’d heard plenty of things about the man before he’d come out - after all, Beckett’s reputation in Chicago had reached ears in New York - and he’d yet to find any lies in the whole mess.
There were days Brendon wondered what happened to the man he’d been brought in to replace, but he’d learned early on in his experience that one didn’t ask questions one didn’t want the answer to.
Brendon leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his desk and burying his face in his hands. To say that he was having a bad day was a gross understatement. His policy of staying out of the general view of the public had gone awry, and he wasn’t even positive that the newshound that had been in his office earlier would hold up his end of the bargain.
He shook himself, getting to his feet. There was no room for worrying about things like whether or not that newshound would keep his end of the deal. He had plenty of other things to do, like finding out who killed the Palmer dame.
He placed his hands against the surface of his desk and took a few deep, calming breaths as the image of the dead dame flashed through his mind again. He’d seen plenty of dead bodies in his lifetime, not all of them coming from his line of work, and plenty by his own hand. He was certainly not squeamish about death. But this time, it felt personal.
His eyes closed as he concentrated on the memory, taking a few more deep breaths to calm himself, trying to remember the scene. After a few minutes of trying to recall the details, see if he’d missed anything, he shook himself and opened his eyes. He stared across the room toward the opposite wall, his gaze unfocusing and not seeing the artwork and other décor that lined the far wall, as his fingers curled into the wood of the desk.
Brendon wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there before he slammed his fist down on the desk with a curse, shaking himself from his thoughts. He straightened up, slamming his fist into the palm of his other hand.
What he needed was someone to talk this out with.
He toyed briefly with the idea of talking it over with Saporta, but knowing him, the man was probably busy enjoying the perks of running a speakeasy inside a well-known cabaret. After all, there were plenty of liquor and pretty dames to be had at the Black Canary, and Saporta was one of the most hedonistic men that Brendon had ever met. He also had never been supportive of using the Palmer dame as their go-between - because of the connections she had through her family - in the first place. Even though Saporta and Brendon were on good terms with one another, Brendon was fairly sure that Saporta would believe that Brendon had murdered the dame just to get out of the arrangement, until proven otherwise. No, Saporta was definitely not an option to talk this out with.
Hall was also out of the question; the big man was Brendon’s bodyguard first and foremost, and occasional bouncer to the Black Canary when Brendon was in, but Brendon hadn’t yet told him about the new details about the Palmer affair. He wasn’t even sure how Hall would take the news: he knew that Hall’s moll Carol was on good terms with the Palmer family, so Hall would hear about it soon enough, if he hadn’t already. On top of that, Brendon wasn’t actually supposed to leave Hall’s sight unless he was in his apartment, and the appointment with Amanda Palmer had been made behind Hall’s back, so that was the other reason Brendon hadn’t mentioned it.
He was kidding himself if he thought he’d get away scotfree when, sooner or later, Hall found out. Brendon might be the superior, but Hall was very good at his job, and very protective of his charge. Although, Brendon did have to admit that Hall was a good man to have at one’s back.
Brendon started to pace the office, going over a mental list of people he knew and could trust.
Beckett was out; Brendon’s boss was not entirely convinced Brendon hadn’t murdered Amanda Palmer, if their earlier conversation had been any indication. There weren’t many people in the cabaret that he felt comfortable enough to talk to, although the majority of the staff was aware of the ties their employers had, and half of those that did were members of the same mob.
He tried to think of anyone outside of the cabaret he could talk to, and after considering and discarding every name he could think of, he was left with no one.
Except, maybe, that newshound.
He hadn’t been around to see exactly what the newshound had seen, or even how long he’d stayed. They just had the guy’s word that he’d left after finding the body.
He punched his fist into his palm again, taking solace in the sound. If he went to talk it out with the newshound, he could use that conversation to implement a two-fold plan: find out just what the newshound knew, and make sure the guy kept his end of the bargain.
Decision made, Brendon grabbed his keys from the desk, locking his office door and making his way to the main area of the cabaret. The band was still playing jazz, and it looked like the new piano player he’d hired was working out nicely. Good; he hadn’t been entirely sure of that when he’d come in earlier that evening and the kid wasn’t bad looking….
He shook his head, clearing it of the path his mind was currently traveling, even if it was a tempting path. He wanted to find that newshound and talk everything out with him. Any other jobs could wait until later.
He scanned the room, his mind taking note of how jumping the joint had become since he’d left to go to his office. Tonight would definitely be a good night all around, which would be a welcome relief from the day he was having. He couldn’t see the newshound anywhere, but that didn’t mean he’d left yet.
Brendon made his way through the crowd, pausing only to talk to people who were worth talking to, smiling all the while, before he came to a stop by the bar. Walker was busy helping a customer - Brendon made a minute gesture for Walker to go for the less expensive hooch when he glanced at the customer in question - but, as soon as he was done, Walker came over to Brendon, wiping his hands on a bar towel.
“What can I get you, boss?” Walker asked, all smiles. Saporta had hired Walker, on Beckett’s recommendation, to cover the bar end - and the illegal alcohol end - of things. He was an exceptional employee, Brendon had observed over the course of his employment at the Canary, and he had grown to like and trust the man. Under other circumstances, Brendon might have confided his little problem to Walker, but Walker couldn’t leave the bar while the cabaret was open, except in case of an emergency.
“Information.” Brendon leaned in conspiratorially, waiting until Walker had done the same. “There was a newshound in here earlier. Do you remember him?”
Walker rubbed his beard as he racked his brain. Brendon waited until the bartender snapped his fingers. He wasn’t sure why he had to wait, because he knew that Walker never forgot a face and was only drawing it out for his own amusement.
“There was a man in here earlier, looked like a stoolie.” Walker shrugged, smiling and wiping down the bar top in front of him. “His roommate vouched for him, said he ain’t a stoolie. Didn’t say he was a newshound, though, but he might’ve been.”
Brendon raised an eyebrow, interested. “The newshound I’m looking for did look a bit like a stoolie. Who’s this mysterious roommate?”
Walker dropped the towel to the bar top, pointing briefly to the stage before picking his towel back up and returning to his wiping. “Smith.”
Brendon glanced at the stage before nodding, straightening up. “Thanks, Walker. I’ll have a talk with him. You have yourself a good night.”
Walker gave a small wave, already turning to a new customer.
Roughly half an hour later, Brendon was making his way across town to Smith’s apartment in a cab. As the cabbie pulled up in front of the building, Brendon double checked the piece of paper that he’d written the address on, before paying the man as he got out.
He looked up at the building, wondering if he should have let Hall know he was going out and where he was going. Granted, he could always call the man, but he didn’t want a baby sitter tonight.
He made his way up the stairs, finding Smith’s apartment with little effort on his part. He knocked on the door, looking around with mild interest - Bucktown was, after all, not really in the same category as the neighborhood The Copeland was in - before the door opened and the newshound from earlier peered out at him with a mild frown on his features.
“Can I help you?”
“May I come in?” Brendon gave the man his most charming smile. “After all, it’s the middle of the night, and there’s a strange man on your doorstep. Although, I don’t know what happens in Bucktown here, but where I come from, people are pretty skilled at pretending to not see what they’re actually seeing.”
The newshound paused at that, biting his lip briefly as he leaned out into the hallway, looking around as if he were expecting to see his neighbors out there before he took a step back to let Brendon in and shut the door behind him.
Out of habit, Brendon looked around to get an idea of all possible exits as he walked in before he stopped in the middle of the small living room. He smiled toward the newshound - Ryan Ross, his mind supplied, he may as well get the man’s name right instead of just calling him the newshound all the time - before taking a seat in one of the chairs.
Ross frowned at him again, but took a seat on the couch, looking at him pointedly. “What do you want? I already told you what I knew about the Palmer dame’s death. I didn’t do it.”
Brendon held up his hands, trying to look as innocent and inoffensive as he could manage, and kept smiling. “Don’t worry, I’m not here about that. Although…” He paused, looking around the apartment again before resting his forearms against his knees and leaning forward toward Ross.
Ross, for his part, gave Brendon a look, as if he didn’t want to hear anything else Brendon, or his boss, had to say to him, but he stayed silent. Brendon took the silence as an invitation to continue.
“See, it’s like this. I’m wondering just why a reporter would want to be talking to the Palmer dame.” He paused dramatically, trying to gauge Ross by his expression. “Surely, you newshounds have the market on the glitz and glam comin’ out of Hollywood these days.”
Ross made a face at his comment before shaking his head. “I don’t write those kinda fluff pieces.” He paused, glancing toward the coffee table, which Brendon could see had a few pieces of crumpled up paper scattered across the surface, and sighed. “Well, that’s a lie. I have, but they’re not my kinda pieces.” He looked down at his hands. “I just. I wanted a story so badly. Something that wasn’t about the Depression, because I’m so.” He paused before taking a deep breath, glancing up at Brendon. “I’m sick of writing about how bad the country’s gettin’, and how it’s startin’ to improve, so I just. I wanted a story, like I said.”
Brendon leaned back in his seat, bringing his hands up to steeple his fingers, studying Ross over the tips. He was pretty sure that he knew where this was going, but he needed verbal confirmation. “So, you wanted to talk to write a fluff piece on local socialites?”
Ross shook his head. “No. My boss gave me this story about how the mob’s bribing a local politician and I just. Despite being surprised over gettin’ such a scoop, I could see it becoming front page news.”
What Ross was saying lined up with what Brendon was thinking, but he still hadn’t gotten verbal confirmation on whether or not Ross knew how Amanda Palmer had been connected. “And Miss Palmer? Wouldn’t you just talk to the politician involved, or an aide perhaps?”
Ross shook his head again. “My boss had a lead that said that Miss Palmer was the go-between between this corrupt politician and that local mob.”
There it was, the verbal confirmation Brendon was looking for. He didn’t know Stump personally, but he knew the man by reputation - and Beckett, who did know Stump personally, had nothing but positive things to say about the man - and he wasn’t entirely surprised that Stump would know about Miss Palmer’s being the connection between the mob and the politician Beckett was definitely paying off, while Brendon’s boss was working on getting the man reelected.
He tapped his fingers together absently, studying Ross. He wasn’t entirely sure how much he was willing to divulge to a newshound, but this conversation was definitely clearing up some questions he was having. Like how much the Chicago Journal actually knew. “So, like myself, you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and found her dead.”
Ross’ shoulder went up and down in the universal gesture that said he wasn’t entirely sure. “I guess.”
Brendon nodded a bit, closing his eyes as he considered. The silence stretched for a few minutes, broken only by Ross’s foot absently tapping against the floor, as Brendon considered his options. One option, the one that was starting to become more and more appealing to him by the second, was one that Beckett might be upset over later on, but Brendon was sure that the same option could also be used as leverage to make sure that the mob - and Brendon especially - would stay out of any future stories about Miss Palmer’s death.
That thought made up his mind and he leaned forward, eyes opening again. “Mr. Ross, I’ll make you a deal. Call it sweetening the bargain you made earlier with Beckett.”
Ross gave him a skeptical look. “What’s the deal?”
“I’ll give you your story. Your front page earning story. A story that’ll sound like it came right outta Hollywood in all its glitz and glamour.”
Ross looked at him, and Brendon could see that the skeptical look Ross had earlier was gone, replaced with an almost needy expression at the very thought. The newshound shook himself, crossing his arms over his chest as he forcibly tried to look professional. “What’s the catch for such a great story? How is that sweetening my earlier bargain?” He paused. “Not that I’m gonna back out of that one, especially now that you know where I live.”
“I’ll tell you everything I know about Miss Palmer, the mob, and corrupt politicians, but,” Brendon paused, making sure that what he was about to say would sink in. “But, you can’t name your source in your story. You can’t name me and you can’t name anyone that I say you can’t mention by name.”
“I’m a good reporter, and I’m discreet. I don’t disclose my sources.” Ross made a face before nodding. “Alright. I’ll agree to your conditions. But I have one of my own: I’m the only one allowed to write this story.”
Brendon smiled, and knew he actually meant it. “Mr. Ross, I don’t do interviews on a regular basis. You’ve got exclusive rights to this story.” He reached over to the coffee table, grabbing one of the discarded pieces of paper, smoothing it out before pulling a pen out of his suit coat and writing down the number and address for The Copeland Hotel. “This is where I live, and the number for the front desk.” He handed the paper to Ross, who looked down at it as if he were trying to memorize both for future reference. “Although you can leave any messages for me at the front desk and they’ll get to me, I do ask that you only call or visit me in the event of an emergency.”
Ross nodded, folding up the piece of paper and letting it rest on his knee. “So, when are we doing this story?”
Brendon looked at his watch. It was getting late, and he wanted to let Beckett know what he was about to do with a newshound. A surprised Beckett was not a very kind man, after all. “Tomorrow evening. Say, six in the hotel lobby?”
Ross nodded again, getting up as well when Brendon stood up. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”
Part Two