The Lost Nightingale-Chapter 1
Title: The Lost Nightingale 1/?
Author: mothergoddamn
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG to rise to NC 17.
Characters: Kurt/Blaine
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
Summary: Kurt Hummel is missing in Tinseltown. And Blaine Anderson is on the case. 1940's noir-style AU.
The Lost Nightingale
Chapter 1
Finn Hudson was a tall streak of handsome in the right light. And my office had dimmers. He was doing just fine.
"He's been missing for about three months, Mr. Anderson." He picked up a pen from my desk and fiddled with the tip. Satisfied it was nothing more than a writing implement, he put it back down with a sigh.
"Blaine, please." I said, tapping at the wood. The sound seemed to startle him and he stared at my fingers like they knew secrets.
"Blaine. Yeah. Burt, that's my step-father, was never happy about him coming out here, but Kurt was insistent.” He had moved onto a stapler now, giving it little bursts of clicks. “He wanted to sing."
“He came to Los Angeles for fame?” I asked but it was really a statement. That’s all anyone came to this town for anymore.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He put the stapler down and began to drum at his knees in a jerky beat. “He’s been singing since he was a kid. He wanted to be like that Andy Hardy or something.” Finn took a photograph from his jacket pocket and pushed it across the desk. "This is Kurt."
Cute kid. Bright eyes. Bright face. It was a nice picture. I liked looking at it.
"When the letters stopped coming, Burt got worried. We tried calling but the number was disconnected. I came out here about a month ago." He made a clasping motion with his hand and squared his jaw. "We just want him back Mr... I mean Blaine. And we'll pay anything."
"Well. We'll get to that. What about you? Where are you staying?"
"I'm living at McKinley?" It was a question, alright. Not exactly a place you'd refer to as living.
"McKinley's a block away and you've been here a month. Either you're a slow walker, or I'm not the first private detective you've seen."
"No, no. You're not. You were recommended to me. By the last one."
"Who? I must send him a thank you card. Sending business my way like this?"
"Puckerman? On south side. He said I should come to you. He said there were places he wouldn't sink to. That you would." Hudson blushed at this, his eyes downcast and coy. An out of towner, for sure.
"It must be quite a depth if Puckerman doesn't want it. What's the story here?"
"Kurt... is. Well, he has an alternative lifestyle."
"Like a bat?"
"I'm... sorry?" His brows knitted together in confusion. It didn’t look like a particularly new expression to him.
I sighed. "Mr. Hudson, whatever you're chewing looks bitter. Spit it out."
"He's homosexual!" The words leapt from his lips and then cringed away from the light. "That's what I meant."
"Ah," I said, mainly for something to be saying.
For a moment we sat in a silence that stretched and pulsated thickly in the small room. He broke it first with a sharp braying cough. I stood up and went to the tap, I poured him a cup of water and handed him it. He inhaled it in one go.
"It's illegal in England, you know?"
"There's a lot of water between here and there, Mr. Hudson." I sat back down and folded my hands over each other. "I assume you think that due to my own alternative lifestyle, I'll be able to seek out your brother quicker?"
"Puckerman said that you knew haunts? Joints he may have got familiar with? He said you were one of the best."
I gave a slight nod and let that ride. Puckerman had clearly upset the apple cart in his investigation. He wasn't the most sensitive in our business. This was his attempt at redemption.
"I'll take the case, Mr Hudson. Provided you like my rates. But I need to know everything."
I glanced back down at the photograph and felt a chill in my throat. The image was black and white but it filled my mind with colour. I pushed it away.
"Tell me about your brother."
*
I crossed the street and made my way into the bar. Empty. I'd hit rush hour
There was only place to start in Los Angeles if you wanted information and Cheerios was it. More specifically the owner.
My feet sounded out neatly on the floor, and I smiled at the blonde behind the bar. An ice queen with a sweet rose mouth and the eyes of an angel. If I had been another type of man my head would have spun. I gave my skull a gentle tap with my knuckles. It wasn't going anywhere.
"What can I get you?" She asked, her face set in boredom. It was a template. I wagered it wasn't the only one she had.
"The manager, please," I said politely.
"She's busy," the blonde replied, her voice fussy and cold. "I can pass on a message?"
I smiled. It was my warmest. My most charming. But the ice didn't melt. "Tell her it's Blaine Anderson. And then tell her not to run. Not in heels."
Santana Lopez didn't run. But she did come straight out. She came towards me with a jaunt like a nervous tight rope walker. On any other woman that face would have withered a lesser man to the soul. On Santana? That's just how you knew she liked you.
"Blaine Anderson. Where's the rest of you?"
"Short jokes already? Cute."
"I can be cuter?"
"I haven't the time and you haven't the energy." I placed the picture on the bar, my finger nail tracing Kurt Hummel's crown. "I'm looking for a boy."
She grinned. That one was too easy and we both knew it. She left it to grow cold and shrivel away. "What makes you think I'd know where to find one?"
"In this town? You know where to find everything."
Her gaze fell down and landed on the photograph. A small suck of breath and then recognition leapt into her eyes, saw me peeking and leapt back out.
"I don't know him. But you look like you want to. Your eyes are all big and hungry. You look like Bette Davis, but less butch."
"Pity you can’t you can’t act like her. Come on. You've seen the kid before. Where?"
She crossed her arms, fingers casually playing with the gold chain at her throat. "Okay. I've seen the picture before. Not the kid. There was a dick in here last week. Same pretty boy. Same question. Different manner."
"And what did you tell him?"
"Nothing. He didn't have your lovely build." Her laughing face turned sour and she stared over my shoulder. To the stage. I followed her gaze to a lovely brunette singing a sweet little Berlin number, her eyes closed, her fists clenched. She meant every word.
"She's good," I offered, but Santana didn't want it.
"She's okay."
"She'll go far," I teased. "To the top."
"And it won't be far enough. She's new in town. She'll learn."
"They always do. But you could help her?"
"And make her soft?" Santana scoffed. "This town makes you or breaks you. I owe it to her to let her find out for herself."
I tutted. "Casting couch blues?"
"I hate men."
"You don't hate me?"
"You don't count."
I threw her a look and she caught it in her teeth. "You know what I mean. Although it is a shame. I often wish you'd climb over into my garden."
"They do say it's greener there."
"There's nothing about me that's green." She leaned forward. "But, Blaine, you should taste the dew."
My eyebrows ran into my hairline and she laughed. It always pleased her to make me blush. I didn't blush easy. "How about you point me in a direction, Santana? For old times sake. The kid's got a family worried about him."
That got her. "You're not going to like it." She sighed. "The Fury."
"That dive? Karofsky's place?" My mouth went dry. "Why there?"
"That friend of yours that used to be on the force with you? He works the door now. Guess the gutter wasn't low enough."
"Sam? Sam is working for Karofsky?"
She rolled her eyes damn near out her head and inspected her nails. They were as sharp as her mind. "He was in here about two months ago. He has a thing for my girl." She shot a look at the blonde, busy cleaning glasses and pretending not to listen. "He drinks too much and talks too much. You can guess the rest..."
"He mentioned this Kurt?"
"Not by name. But he said that a new kid had started. A fresh milk dud just like in this." She pushed the picture back to me. "That it wasn't fair. That all the kid had wanted to do was sing. I got the feeling something had gone down and it wasn't something good." She bit her lip. "It might not be your boy?"
"And it might be." I took the picture and tucked back in my jacket. Over my heart. "If what you say is right than the kid is mixed up with Karofsky and that only leads to dutch."
"Well, you know the way," she smiled as cold as an attic in winter. "Why don't you stay awhile? Avoid the long sleep for just that bit longer? I'll have Rachel sing you another number. Something you can really swing to?"
"My dance card is full." I put my hat on my head and gave the rim a tap. "And I promised the next one to Karofsky."
*
Light was yawning into dark and the vampires were out in full flow. Bundling my coat around me, I walked up to The Fury. It was a cheap little place for cheap little people. God knows how a kid like Hummel had ended up here. Karofsky's minions stood guard outside the door, letting in the dames they could only imagine being with. In another life Sam would still have been the dishcloth at the precinct, but at least he was a dishcloth with a wife and kid. Like I said, another life.
He saw me first and for a moment his face broke into a grin. Then the memories came rushing back. The smile died. "Blaine," he said, pressing a hand to my chest. "You can't go in there."
"Not at the moment, no. You appear to be blocking the way."
"You know what I mean," he sighed and looked at the large boy next to him, "It's okay, Azimio. I know this guy."
"My mouth is dry and my legs are knocking, how about you let me remedy that inside?"
"You don't drink and the entertainment isn't up to your standard. I'm doing you a favour."
"I'm not looking for MGM Technicolour, Sam. Just a place to rest my getaway sticks."
"Whatever you're really here for," his voice dropped low and a plea crawled into it. "Let it go."
I decided to play it straight. "Hummel." It was like shooting a bullet in a nunnery. "I'm looking for Kurt Hummel."
Sam's face paled and his Adam's apple struggled to escape from his skin. "Don't know the name."
"Then you won't mind me going in there and asking a few questions? That should be just dandy, right?" I made as if to move past him and he sidestepped in front of me. “There’s that blockage again. You should look into that.”
"I said no, Blaine. If we were ever friends..." Shame came into his eyes and the sentence retreated. "No."
"Let the boy in, Sam." A voice said from behind me. I'd have known it anywhere. I'd heard it in enough court rooms. I'd heard it whoop and hollar at enough not guilty verdicts. "Anderson."
"Karofsky." I nodded and smiled at the girl at his side. She gave a shy one back and pressed her face against his arm. The same arm that had put the force into his fist, and delivered that fetching bruise on her cheekbone no doubt.
"You want to come inside? We'll jar." Karofsky placed a clammy hand on my shoulder and gave a squeeze. It wasn’t a question.
We entered the club and the contrast to Cheerios was overwhelming. Except even Santana wouldn't want this type of custom. On stage the spotlight caressed a young woman like an over eager lover. She was singing a Peggy Lee song like it had only ever been on loan.
"That's Mercedes Jones," Karofsky said, thumbing over his shoulder. "My newest star." He dropped into a seat and gestured to me and the girl to follow suit. I pulled out a chair for her and Karofsky gave a snort. "Don't treat her like a lady, Blaine. You wouldn't know what to do with one." He gave a dry laugh. "And Tina may develop a liking for it. I'd hate to disappoint her."
Karofsky was a dreamboat, for sure.
"Why don't we cut right to it?" I said waving a no to an enquiring waitress. "Just between us girls in the powder room. Where's Kurt Hummel?"
The muscles twitched in his cheeks, and his hand, thrown casually around his girl's shoulders, clenched into a fist. Once. Twice. And relaxed.
"Ain’t no one here by that name, bub." He smiled, slow and sluggish. "Sorry to disappoint."
"There isn't at the moment, I'm sure. But there was, wasn't there?" The girl, Tina, met my eyes by accident and looked to the floor quickly. “What happened to him, Karofsky?”
“I’m starting to think you’re sweet on me, Anderson. Seems you’re always dogging my shadow.”
“You play so hard to get. I can’t resist.”
“Let this one slide, Anderson. You need to learn when to keep out of other people’s business.”
“I can’t help it. I’m kind of cute like that.”
I pushed Hummel’s picture across the table, mindful of the previous owner’s spillage. He tried to keep his eyes on mine but the urge was too strong. He looked down. He looked down for some time.
I frowned. Karofsky’s face was full of an emotion I could only attribute to regret. It didn’t belong on him. Not on that face.
“You’re leaving.” Karofsky said in a low voice. “You’re leaving now.”
“But I just got here. And I’m soaking up the atmosphere.” Arms found their way under mine and I was being dragged to my feet. “Then again maybe some air would do me good?”
Karofsky placed his hand on the photograph and slid it towards him. It disappeared from the table and into his pocket. “Do you mind if I have this?”
I didn’t get to voice my opinion on the matter. Karofsky’s goon was rapidly showing me the exit. Head first.
I hit the ground and the ground hit back. A foot rolled me over and I found myself staring up into the sneering face of Azimo.
"You ain't wanted round here, Anderson. Go back up town. This ain't no place for nice boys like you." He gave a savage kick to my hip for good luck and then moseyed on back to the club, a low whistle under his breath. A man happy in his work. It was a joy to see.
I lay there for awhile feeling lazier than Norma Shearer’s eye. But staring at the sky wasn’t going to find me my boy. Not now I knew I was onto something. I stood up and dusted myself down. They could keep the hat. I'd be back for it soon enough.
"Hey, you!" A woman called from behind in a sharp hiss. I gave a spin on my heel. Mercedes Jones. "Is it true you're looking for Nightingale?" I tilted my head and she gave a soft sad smile. "Kurt. Are you looking for Kurt?"
I looked behind her and satisfied myself that no one was listening. "Yes, you got the headline right.” I approached her slowly and realized a slow shake was vibrating through her body. I placed a hand to her shoulder and she touched over it with her own. “Do you know where he is, Ms Jones?” I asked gently.
She looked up at me with watery eyes. “I think he saw something he shouldn’t have.” A moan of pain tumbled from her mouth. “And I think he got killed for it.”
Chapter 2
Author: mothergoddamn
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG to rise to NC 17.
Characters: Kurt/Blaine
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
Summary: Kurt Hummel is missing in Tinseltown. And Blaine Anderson is on the case. 1940's noir-style AU.
The Lost Nightingale
Chapter 1
Finn Hudson was a tall streak of handsome in the right light. And my office had dimmers. He was doing just fine.
"He's been missing for about three months, Mr. Anderson." He picked up a pen from my desk and fiddled with the tip. Satisfied it was nothing more than a writing implement, he put it back down with a sigh.
"Blaine, please." I said, tapping at the wood. The sound seemed to startle him and he stared at my fingers like they knew secrets.
"Blaine. Yeah. Burt, that's my step-father, was never happy about him coming out here, but Kurt was insistent.” He had moved onto a stapler now, giving it little bursts of clicks. “He wanted to sing."
“He came to Los Angeles for fame?” I asked but it was really a statement. That’s all anyone came to this town for anymore.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He put the stapler down and began to drum at his knees in a jerky beat. “He’s been singing since he was a kid. He wanted to be like that Andy Hardy or something.” Finn took a photograph from his jacket pocket and pushed it across the desk. "This is Kurt."
Cute kid. Bright eyes. Bright face. It was a nice picture. I liked looking at it.
"When the letters stopped coming, Burt got worried. We tried calling but the number was disconnected. I came out here about a month ago." He made a clasping motion with his hand and squared his jaw. "We just want him back Mr... I mean Blaine. And we'll pay anything."
"Well. We'll get to that. What about you? Where are you staying?"
"I'm living at McKinley?" It was a question, alright. Not exactly a place you'd refer to as living.
"McKinley's a block away and you've been here a month. Either you're a slow walker, or I'm not the first private detective you've seen."
"No, no. You're not. You were recommended to me. By the last one."
"Who? I must send him a thank you card. Sending business my way like this?"
"Puckerman? On south side. He said I should come to you. He said there were places he wouldn't sink to. That you would." Hudson blushed at this, his eyes downcast and coy. An out of towner, for sure.
"It must be quite a depth if Puckerman doesn't want it. What's the story here?"
"Kurt... is. Well, he has an alternative lifestyle."
"Like a bat?"
"I'm... sorry?" His brows knitted together in confusion. It didn’t look like a particularly new expression to him.
I sighed. "Mr. Hudson, whatever you're chewing looks bitter. Spit it out."
"He's homosexual!" The words leapt from his lips and then cringed away from the light. "That's what I meant."
"Ah," I said, mainly for something to be saying.
For a moment we sat in a silence that stretched and pulsated thickly in the small room. He broke it first with a sharp braying cough. I stood up and went to the tap, I poured him a cup of water and handed him it. He inhaled it in one go.
"It's illegal in England, you know?"
"There's a lot of water between here and there, Mr. Hudson." I sat back down and folded my hands over each other. "I assume you think that due to my own alternative lifestyle, I'll be able to seek out your brother quicker?"
"Puckerman said that you knew haunts? Joints he may have got familiar with? He said you were one of the best."
I gave a slight nod and let that ride. Puckerman had clearly upset the apple cart in his investigation. He wasn't the most sensitive in our business. This was his attempt at redemption.
"I'll take the case, Mr Hudson. Provided you like my rates. But I need to know everything."
I glanced back down at the photograph and felt a chill in my throat. The image was black and white but it filled my mind with colour. I pushed it away.
"Tell me about your brother."
*
I crossed the street and made my way into the bar. Empty. I'd hit rush hour
There was only place to start in Los Angeles if you wanted information and Cheerios was it. More specifically the owner.
My feet sounded out neatly on the floor, and I smiled at the blonde behind the bar. An ice queen with a sweet rose mouth and the eyes of an angel. If I had been another type of man my head would have spun. I gave my skull a gentle tap with my knuckles. It wasn't going anywhere.
"What can I get you?" She asked, her face set in boredom. It was a template. I wagered it wasn't the only one she had.
"The manager, please," I said politely.
"She's busy," the blonde replied, her voice fussy and cold. "I can pass on a message?"
I smiled. It was my warmest. My most charming. But the ice didn't melt. "Tell her it's Blaine Anderson. And then tell her not to run. Not in heels."
Santana Lopez didn't run. But she did come straight out. She came towards me with a jaunt like a nervous tight rope walker. On any other woman that face would have withered a lesser man to the soul. On Santana? That's just how you knew she liked you.
"Blaine Anderson. Where's the rest of you?"
"Short jokes already? Cute."
"I can be cuter?"
"I haven't the time and you haven't the energy." I placed the picture on the bar, my finger nail tracing Kurt Hummel's crown. "I'm looking for a boy."
She grinned. That one was too easy and we both knew it. She left it to grow cold and shrivel away. "What makes you think I'd know where to find one?"
"In this town? You know where to find everything."
Her gaze fell down and landed on the photograph. A small suck of breath and then recognition leapt into her eyes, saw me peeking and leapt back out.
"I don't know him. But you look like you want to. Your eyes are all big and hungry. You look like Bette Davis, but less butch."
"Pity you can’t you can’t act like her. Come on. You've seen the kid before. Where?"
She crossed her arms, fingers casually playing with the gold chain at her throat. "Okay. I've seen the picture before. Not the kid. There was a dick in here last week. Same pretty boy. Same question. Different manner."
"And what did you tell him?"
"Nothing. He didn't have your lovely build." Her laughing face turned sour and she stared over my shoulder. To the stage. I followed her gaze to a lovely brunette singing a sweet little Berlin number, her eyes closed, her fists clenched. She meant every word.
"She's good," I offered, but Santana didn't want it.
"She's okay."
"She'll go far," I teased. "To the top."
"And it won't be far enough. She's new in town. She'll learn."
"They always do. But you could help her?"
"And make her soft?" Santana scoffed. "This town makes you or breaks you. I owe it to her to let her find out for herself."
I tutted. "Casting couch blues?"
"I hate men."
"You don't hate me?"
"You don't count."
I threw her a look and she caught it in her teeth. "You know what I mean. Although it is a shame. I often wish you'd climb over into my garden."
"They do say it's greener there."
"There's nothing about me that's green." She leaned forward. "But, Blaine, you should taste the dew."
My eyebrows ran into my hairline and she laughed. It always pleased her to make me blush. I didn't blush easy. "How about you point me in a direction, Santana? For old times sake. The kid's got a family worried about him."
That got her. "You're not going to like it." She sighed. "The Fury."
"That dive? Karofsky's place?" My mouth went dry. "Why there?"
"That friend of yours that used to be on the force with you? He works the door now. Guess the gutter wasn't low enough."
"Sam? Sam is working for Karofsky?"
She rolled her eyes damn near out her head and inspected her nails. They were as sharp as her mind. "He was in here about two months ago. He has a thing for my girl." She shot a look at the blonde, busy cleaning glasses and pretending not to listen. "He drinks too much and talks too much. You can guess the rest..."
"He mentioned this Kurt?"
"Not by name. But he said that a new kid had started. A fresh milk dud just like in this." She pushed the picture back to me. "That it wasn't fair. That all the kid had wanted to do was sing. I got the feeling something had gone down and it wasn't something good." She bit her lip. "It might not be your boy?"
"And it might be." I took the picture and tucked back in my jacket. Over my heart. "If what you say is right than the kid is mixed up with Karofsky and that only leads to dutch."
"Well, you know the way," she smiled as cold as an attic in winter. "Why don't you stay awhile? Avoid the long sleep for just that bit longer? I'll have Rachel sing you another number. Something you can really swing to?"
"My dance card is full." I put my hat on my head and gave the rim a tap. "And I promised the next one to Karofsky."
*
Light was yawning into dark and the vampires were out in full flow. Bundling my coat around me, I walked up to The Fury. It was a cheap little place for cheap little people. God knows how a kid like Hummel had ended up here. Karofsky's minions stood guard outside the door, letting in the dames they could only imagine being with. In another life Sam would still have been the dishcloth at the precinct, but at least he was a dishcloth with a wife and kid. Like I said, another life.
He saw me first and for a moment his face broke into a grin. Then the memories came rushing back. The smile died. "Blaine," he said, pressing a hand to my chest. "You can't go in there."
"Not at the moment, no. You appear to be blocking the way."
"You know what I mean," he sighed and looked at the large boy next to him, "It's okay, Azimio. I know this guy."
"My mouth is dry and my legs are knocking, how about you let me remedy that inside?"
"You don't drink and the entertainment isn't up to your standard. I'm doing you a favour."
"I'm not looking for MGM Technicolour, Sam. Just a place to rest my getaway sticks."
"Whatever you're really here for," his voice dropped low and a plea crawled into it. "Let it go."
I decided to play it straight. "Hummel." It was like shooting a bullet in a nunnery. "I'm looking for Kurt Hummel."
Sam's face paled and his Adam's apple struggled to escape from his skin. "Don't know the name."
"Then you won't mind me going in there and asking a few questions? That should be just dandy, right?" I made as if to move past him and he sidestepped in front of me. “There’s that blockage again. You should look into that.”
"I said no, Blaine. If we were ever friends..." Shame came into his eyes and the sentence retreated. "No."
"Let the boy in, Sam." A voice said from behind me. I'd have known it anywhere. I'd heard it in enough court rooms. I'd heard it whoop and hollar at enough not guilty verdicts. "Anderson."
"Karofsky." I nodded and smiled at the girl at his side. She gave a shy one back and pressed her face against his arm. The same arm that had put the force into his fist, and delivered that fetching bruise on her cheekbone no doubt.
"You want to come inside? We'll jar." Karofsky placed a clammy hand on my shoulder and gave a squeeze. It wasn’t a question.
We entered the club and the contrast to Cheerios was overwhelming. Except even Santana wouldn't want this type of custom. On stage the spotlight caressed a young woman like an over eager lover. She was singing a Peggy Lee song like it had only ever been on loan.
"That's Mercedes Jones," Karofsky said, thumbing over his shoulder. "My newest star." He dropped into a seat and gestured to me and the girl to follow suit. I pulled out a chair for her and Karofsky gave a snort. "Don't treat her like a lady, Blaine. You wouldn't know what to do with one." He gave a dry laugh. "And Tina may develop a liking for it. I'd hate to disappoint her."
Karofsky was a dreamboat, for sure.
"Why don't we cut right to it?" I said waving a no to an enquiring waitress. "Just between us girls in the powder room. Where's Kurt Hummel?"
The muscles twitched in his cheeks, and his hand, thrown casually around his girl's shoulders, clenched into a fist. Once. Twice. And relaxed.
"Ain’t no one here by that name, bub." He smiled, slow and sluggish. "Sorry to disappoint."
"There isn't at the moment, I'm sure. But there was, wasn't there?" The girl, Tina, met my eyes by accident and looked to the floor quickly. “What happened to him, Karofsky?”
“I’m starting to think you’re sweet on me, Anderson. Seems you’re always dogging my shadow.”
“You play so hard to get. I can’t resist.”
“Let this one slide, Anderson. You need to learn when to keep out of other people’s business.”
“I can’t help it. I’m kind of cute like that.”
I pushed Hummel’s picture across the table, mindful of the previous owner’s spillage. He tried to keep his eyes on mine but the urge was too strong. He looked down. He looked down for some time.
I frowned. Karofsky’s face was full of an emotion I could only attribute to regret. It didn’t belong on him. Not on that face.
“You’re leaving.” Karofsky said in a low voice. “You’re leaving now.”
“But I just got here. And I’m soaking up the atmosphere.” Arms found their way under mine and I was being dragged to my feet. “Then again maybe some air would do me good?”
Karofsky placed his hand on the photograph and slid it towards him. It disappeared from the table and into his pocket. “Do you mind if I have this?”
I didn’t get to voice my opinion on the matter. Karofsky’s goon was rapidly showing me the exit. Head first.
I hit the ground and the ground hit back. A foot rolled me over and I found myself staring up into the sneering face of Azimo.
"You ain't wanted round here, Anderson. Go back up town. This ain't no place for nice boys like you." He gave a savage kick to my hip for good luck and then moseyed on back to the club, a low whistle under his breath. A man happy in his work. It was a joy to see.
I lay there for awhile feeling lazier than Norma Shearer’s eye. But staring at the sky wasn’t going to find me my boy. Not now I knew I was onto something. I stood up and dusted myself down. They could keep the hat. I'd be back for it soon enough.
"Hey, you!" A woman called from behind in a sharp hiss. I gave a spin on my heel. Mercedes Jones. "Is it true you're looking for Nightingale?" I tilted my head and she gave a soft sad smile. "Kurt. Are you looking for Kurt?"
I looked behind her and satisfied myself that no one was listening. "Yes, you got the headline right.” I approached her slowly and realized a slow shake was vibrating through her body. I placed a hand to her shoulder and she touched over it with her own. “Do you know where he is, Ms Jones?” I asked gently.
She looked up at me with watery eyes. “I think he saw something he shouldn’t have.” A moan of pain tumbled from her mouth. “And I think he got killed for it.”
Chapter 2