I'd Forget to Smile (Then I Met You) 1/5
Gift for: knowmydark
Author: mad_musing
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex and violence. Canon character death. Capital punishment.
Summary: In the age of bootleggers and speakeasies, this is the story of a gangster and the detective assigned to break him. What ends up broken is entirely different.
Author Notes: Inspired by late-night forays into 1930s gangster movies and that film-noir-esque photo of JGL in a fedora and suit (incidentally, anyone know where that’s from?). Also, a huge thank you to writteninhaste for beta-ing this massive thing and catching all those mistakes!
It’s dark and quiet in the old restaurant. A sliver of light-dim and weak from the flickering lamp outside-throws the broken, rotting furniture and the wooden packing crates in stark relief. Their shadows stretch across the marble floors and reach up the walls. The silence is broken only by two sets of footsteps clicking across the cracked marble. The shadows give way to the figures of two men, one walking in front of the other.
The man in front has broad shoulders that hunch forward ever so slightly as he walks. As he passes through the room, the faint light catches his dirty-blonde hair, illuminates his piercing blue eyes and the strong lines of his jaw. His features are contracted in an intensely concentrated expression as he walks with the sure confidence of a man who knows exactly where he’s going and what he’s going to do.
His partner is shorter, but only just, with a leaner, thinner build. He stands straight and tall, and his head turns from side to side as he peers into the deep shadows around them. Though he holds himself rigidly, there is a dangerous grace in his stride, in the way he carries himself. He might have been an actor or a dancer, but he holds his Tommy gun with too much ease and familiarity to be mistaken for either.
The two men don’t speak as they cross the room. When they reach the door at the far side, they nod once to each other before turning the knob. Once they’re through the threshold, the lights in the room flare bright, assaulting their dark-adjusted eyes. Their bodies react instinctively, ducking in opposite directions as a spray of bullets tears through the wall above their heads.
“Goddamnit! Godda-Arthur, on your right!” Cobb shouts, as he fires his own gun. At the warning, the thinner man lashes out, kicking his would-be assailant in the kneecap with deadly accuracy. He feels the familiar crunch of bone and a smirk lifts the corner of his lips as he swings around and shoots the man between the eyes. His smirk widens into a contemptuous sneer as the body slumps to the floor. Without missing a beat, he crouches behind an overturned desk and opens fire on the attackers.
Within seconds, the room becomes silent again. Dust and plaster swirls in the air, which smells of gunpowder and blood. Arthur stands, scowling at the debris and blood spatter on his coat. He turns the body closest to him onto its back; it’s the first man he shot and, looking closer, he recognizes the face under all the blood.
“Cobol,” he mutters. “They’re from the Cobol gang. Goddammit, Cobb, it was a trap,” he snarls, swinging his arm to the side and punching the wall from temper. “Saito must’ve double-crossed us, the dirty bastard.”
“Now, Arthur, we don’t know that for sure. I don’t think he set us up. I got a good feeling about him when we met.”
“Tell me, Cobb, did your good feelings warn you about this ‘cause we almost got killed and someone’s bound to have heard all that noise and called the bull. Shit.” Arthur punctuates the curse with another punch that cracks the old plaster.
“Then stop complaining and let’s get out of here.”
Arthur’s mouth thins and his jaw works, as if he’s holding back an angry retort but he follows Cobb out of the room just the same. They leave the way they’d come but their movements are more hurried than before; both men walk as quickly as they can without breaking into a run. Once outside the restaurant, they affect a more casual attitude and stroll down the dark street, careful to keep hidden in the shadows.
Arthur shivers in the cold night air and stuffs his hands deep in his pockets. He hates winter in Chicago and, as he always does when he’s too cold, wonders what the weather is like in Los Angeles, wonders whether he might be able to move there someday to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. The scream of police sirens fills the night air, interrupting his thoughts, and he and Cobb melt deeper into the shadows until the cars pass and the sound fades with distance.
“I don’t like being out like this,” Arthur says, touching Cobb on the shoulder. “I’ll go back to my place, get changed.”
“Meet me at Mal’s.” Arthur nods in affirmation, and they part ways.
-
Alone in his apartment, Arthur rolls his neck; it cracks satisfactorily but none of the tension drains from his shoulders. There is too much to do. He’ll have to ditch the suit; there’s no way he’ll be able to get all the blood off it. He needs more ammunition, he needs to cover his and Cobb’s tracks so they’re not definitely linked to the four bodies they’d left, he needs to find out what happened and why he and Cobb walked into an ambush, why they were almost killed.
As he undoes his tie, frowning ruefully at the ruined silk, the telephone rings and he picks it up, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand.
“Cobb?”
“No, it’s Johnny. Listen, Arthur, you’ve gotta believe me, Cobb’s gone crazy.” Johnny’s voice on the phone is high with fear, and Arthur can hear the muffled sound of banging and shouting. “You gotta help me out here.” Arthur stills in the middle of slipping off his shirt.
“What?” His voice is flat. “What did you do, Johnny?”
“I was drugged, Arthur, I swear to God. They musta slipped somethin’ in my drink or somethin’ but I didn’t mean to,” Johnny’s breath hitches in his throat as Arthur hears the sound of a door being broken off its hinges. “I didn’t mean to, I swear!”
“Was it you? You sold Cobb out to Cobol?” Arthur’s fingers clench around the phone and there’s a steely edge to his tone.
“No, no! I didn’t mean to,” Johnny’s voice is a pleading sob. “Please, you gotta believe me.” There’s a yell of terror and a scuffle, and Johnny’s voice becomes distant, an indistinct shouting in the background.
“Who is this?” A rough voice echoes down the line and Arthur identifies it as one of Cobb’s hired muscles.
“This is Arthur.”
“Oh! Oh, sorry, Sir, didn’t know it was you.”
“Obviously,” he remarks coolly. “Don’t kill him. Bring him to Cobb and wait for me to get there.”
“Can we rough him up first?”
“Do what you must to subdue him,” Arthur instructs coldly, “but he better be alive when I get to him or it’ll be you I pump full of lead. Hear me?”
“Yessir,” the man answers. Arthur drops the phone back on its cradle and curses. There won’t be time to wash up-not with that muscle out for blood-so he strips quickly. Scowling as he puts a fresh suit on his unwashed body, Arthur places a fedora on his head to hide his dusty hair and dons his heaviest coat.
It’s still not enough to ward away the bitterly cold wind, and this drives Arthur’s already tense nerves that much closer to actually snapping. He prides himself on his ability to keep a firm grip on his rage, which always strikes white-hot and fast, but he feels his fingers twitching with a carnal need to curl into a fist and pound a face into a bloody pulp.
Arthur knows Cobb won’t be pleased and knows that he will take the brunt of Cobb’s explosive temper-but he also knows he deserves it. They can’t afford to make mistakes if they want to stay alive, Arthur can’t afford to make mistakes. Johnny’s betrayal-coerced or not-and their subsequent ambush fall into this realm of things that should never occur. Cobb is the Boss, the one with the power, the control; the radical notions that have pushed his gang to the top. He is responsible for their infamy and is the face of their operations, the man at the center of attention.
Arthur, though, Arthur is second-in-command. He’s right where he wants to be, partially hidden in the shadows. Cobb’s enemies consistently underestimate him, and it is that, more than anything else, that brings about their downfalls. Arthur prides himself on his accuracy and his speed, his thorough attention to detail and his knowledge. He may remain in the shadows of Cobb’s limelight but the shadows are where he works best, able to watch the actions of others while remaining unseen and unheard.
In Mal’s Paradise, Cobb’s biggest and most lucrative nightclub, he breathes easier. It’s warm and bright inside, and Mal’s singing is soothing. He nods to the bartender and several others but otherwise ignores the club’s patrons. When he nears the stage, Mal glances at him out of the corner of her eye and he nods reassuringly, touches the brim of his hat in a gesture of acknowledgement. She beams at him, a blindingly beautiful smile then transfers her gaze to the crowd before her. Arthur ducks behind the deep red curtain that separates the main floor of the club from the backstage area. He descends down a dark staircase and enters the basement.
There’s just enough light for him to assess the room’s occupants. Johnny is on his knees, clutching at his belly and whimpering slightly. Dark drops of blood fall from his face to the concrete floor beneath him, and a tall, overly muscled man stands over him with his hand clenched in a meaty fist. Cobb’s sitting by the light, watching the proceedings with a faintly interested air, his fingers meeting in a steeple under his nose. Two other men-more hired goons-stand by the door, in case their prisoner makes a run for it.
“Arthur,” Cobb says, beckoning his second-in-command to him with the slightest movement of his head, “Johnny here says he was drugged. Says the Cobol boys put something in his drink to make him talk. Problem is, I don’t believe him. I think he went to them on his own, tried to sell me out so he could make it big with them.” He sounds patient, almost amused, but his anger is palpable.
“Sounds about right,” Arthur agrees, walking to stand at Cobb’s side.
“Want me to kill ‘im, Boss?” the muscle asks eagerly, kicking Johnny in the side.
“No,” Cobb says, staring thoughtfully at the man writhing on the floor. “No, don’t kill him.”
“Thank you, boss. Oh, thank you,” Johnny gasps, attempting to crawl toward Cobb with his arms outstretched.
“Don’t thank me, Johnny,” Cobb tells him, blue eyes gazing at the opposite wall. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m not going to have one of my boys kill you. No, we’re going to let you go and see how you do against Cobol.” Johnny’s breath becomes an agonized wheeze and his eyes widen with fear.
“See, they’ll know by now that I’m still alive. They’ll know that Arthur and I killed four of their guys. If I know him-and rest assured, I do-Cobol will think the double-crosser double crossed him, and he’s gonna come after you.”
“No, no, please! Please, boss, I’ll do anything!”
“Yes, you showed us that already,” Cobb sneers. “Get him out of my sight.” The muscle heaves Johnny up from the floor, ignores the man’s scream of pain, and drags him through a door that leads to the bitter cold outside. The two men at the door follow behind them.
“Don’t you think it would be easier just to kill him?” Arthur asks. He keeps his voice quiet, though the two of them are alone. Arthur may enjoy the respect and esteem of his boss but this does not take away from the fact that Cobb’s authority should never be questioned in front of their men.
“No,” Cobb muses, pressing his hands together again. “No. Killing him ourselves would be merciful.” Cobb looks up at Arthur with icy blue eyes. “And I don’t feel like being merciful tonight.”
“You really don’t think Saito had anything to do with this?”
“I don’t. He’s smart; he knows we’re the best. If he wants to smuggle his booze into this city, he’s gonna have to go with the best.”
“Dom? Are you finished yet?” A purely feminine voice floats through the air and both men look up. Mal stands at the entrance of the room, having come from the club. Cobb stands immediately and goes to her with the zeal and adoration of a less dangerous man.
“Mal,” Cobb breathes, resting his forehead against hers. Their eyes slide shut, and Arthur looks away, gritting his teeth. Mal is Cobb’s heart, but men like he and Arthur can’t afford to have one. The heart is weak, and there is no room for weakness in their line of work. Cobb has caused the downfall of many a man but Mal will cause his.
“Arthur!” Mal cries when she sees him. She breaks away from Dom and deftly skirts the droplets of Johnny’s blood to pull him into a warm, familial embrace and he responds in turn, smiling in spite of himself. “Ah, Arthur, it is lovely to see you.”
“A pleasure as always.” He means it, too. Despite his reservations about their love affair, their family, he sees how Cobb is a better man for it-and he can’t begrudge Cobb something that brings him so much joy.
“I am finished upstairs, Dom. Are you ready to go home now?” she asks, turning back to her husband. Cobb smiles, warm and gentle and genuine, and nods as he wraps one arm around her waist.
“Let’s go home,” he murmurs. They turn and leave, and Arthur is left alone with the dark and the blood.
-
“Got another one!” The cheery announcement is followed by the slap of a file on a desk. Its occupant looks up with bleary eyes from the cup of coffee he’s nursing like it’s a lifeline and stares at the file as if it’s personally offended him.
“Yusuf, it’s 8 in the bloody morning, you couldn’t have brought me better news?”
“Detective Eames, this is probably going to be the best news you’ll get all day. Cherish it for what it is.”
“Christ. Just one day, one day,” Eames sighs, runs a hand wearily through his hair and sets his coffee cup on the old desk in favor of the file. When he opens it, he’s confronted with a bloody scene. “Can’t those arseholes stop killing each other for one bloody day? I’ve seen enough dead bodies to last me a lifetime.”
He counts four dead, slumped over gunshot-riddled furniture. The one closest to the door has a shattered kneecap and a bullet between the eyes; blank eyes stare up at the camera and a rivulet of blood divides the man’s face in half. It’s impressive, he thinks grudgingly to himself, and terrifying that someone could shoot with such accuracy, even in the middle of a gunfight.
“Do we know who they are?” He pulls a notebook from his desk drawer and scrawls words haphazardly over the pages, never taking his eyes from the photographs in front of him.
“Cobol’s guys,” Yusuf replies. “One of them’s his brother-in-law.”
“Mm, then it was most likely Dom Cobb’s gang who did this,” Eames scribbles ‘Cobb’ in the notebook. “Makes sense. All these guys are Cobol?”
Yusuf nods in affirmation, and Eames has to stop a grin from rising on his face. Much as he hates to admit it, the Cobb gang operates with the tightly controlled kind of skill and accuracy that has allowed it to rise to the top of the criminal world. It would be admirable if Eames didn’t think it morally repulsive.
“Eames!” Browning’s voice cuts across the squad room’s hubbub. “In my office! Now!”
Once inside the bare room, Browning motions for him to shut the door and he does, catching a fleeting glimpse of his fellow officers’ curious looks.
“So, chief,” he says, dropping unceremoniously into a chair, “you wanted to see me?” He slouches in a posture of relaxation, as if he couldn’t care less that he’s being watched with stern eyes, as if there isn’t a bad feeling curling in the pit of his stomach. He’s got a hangover and it’s too bloody early in the morning to deal with whatever the Chief of Police has to hand to him. Eames smirks to cover up any concerns he may have and Browning’s big, doughy face reddens just slightly.
“Listen up, Eames, you’ve done good for yourself in my department and I appreciate it. You’re quick on your feet and adaptable and you’re a helluva of an actor so I’m giving you an assignment. It’s important and you better give it all you got, hear?” He slides a thick file, labeled with the name “Arthur,” across his desk at Eames, who sits up to take it. When he opens it, a blurry photograph greets him. It looks like it was taken from a great distance, or that there was fog collecting on the lens of the camera because Eames can’t even really tell what he’s supposed to be looking at.
“Arthur?” is what he says after several moments of perplexed staring.
“Dominic Cobb’s right-hand man. He’s the one keepin’ Cobb’s operation going, the one who puts the plans into motion-”
“I thought Cobb was the Boss.”
“He is, but Arthur keeps him in check and the rest of ‘em too.”
“And you want me to-?” Eames looks back down at the file in front of him and grimaces, already knowing he’s not going to like what he’s about to hear.
“We want you to follow him around, watch him. Get him for a hidden weapon or possession or something. Break him and Cobb’s whole operation falls to pieces. Get me?”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m already on a case. We just got it this morning and they need my help.” He protests without thought and is just as surprised as Browning appears to be.
“Drop everything you have and get to work on this. We need you on this. Don’t tell me you can’t do it ‘cause I won’t like it.”
“Sir, I don’t want to be on this. I can do it but I won’t.”
“You don’t get a say in this, Eames.” Browning’s face is becoming redder by the minute and his voice deepens into a displeased rumble. “You do this or you’ll be outta here so fast your head will spin. We clear?” Eames opens his mouth again, to argue more, but he knows it would be a waste of breath.
“As a bell,” Eames sighs. He leaves the chief’s office with the file, which he studies for the rest of the day. From a file so full, Eames learns surprisingly little about this mysterious ‘Arthur.’ He learns that Arthur’s been with Dom Cobb since the beginning, that Arthur is the action behind Cobb’s grand schemes, that Arthur is smart and capable and competent.
He learns, too, that Arthur might as well be a ghost. None of the photographs in the file are very good, capturing the man just as he turns away or through a cloud of steam, so all Eames can figure is that Arthur is thin but impeccably dressed. In a city of thousands of men in sharp suits, though, this isn’t anything special.
Eames scrubs his face with his hands and groans in frustration. He doesn’t know Arthur’s weaknesses or how he could possibly “break” him-hell, he doesn’t even know what Arthur looks like. All he has is a name and the connection to Dom Cobb.
-
Three weeks later, Eames still hasn’t found any leads in his search. All he gets when he asks about “Arthur” are blank stares or naked panic. He’s been shooed away and vaguely threatened, and he’s tired of chasing this ghost of a man around Chicago. Eames is becoming annoyed and frustrated, and these feelings are compounded by growing unease in the pit of his stomach.
He’s spread Arthur’s file all over his desk and has taken to staring at each page in the hopes of learning something more about this man he’s never met or seen. One night, after hours of poring over the photographs of Arthur, he’s on the verge of tearing out his hair, which means it’s time for a walk. He puts on a coat and heads out the door.
It’s an icy night and, as the wind bites at his face, Eames wishes he lived somewhere warmer. He’s used to the cold but he likes hot summers and mild winters and, for once, wants to live in a place where he won’t have to trudge through mountains of snow for months each year. For now, though, he’s stuck in Chicago, stuck on an assignment that sets his teeth on edge.
As he walks aimlessly down the sidewalk near Union Station, he catches sight of a man standing just outside the pool of light cast by a nearby street lamp. Eames can’t really see his face or really any of him but a frisson of excitement jolts through his body, stopping him in his tracks. That posture is familiar, as it should be. He’s been staring at photographs of it for weeks.
“Arthur.” He says the name like an exhalation, a breath that leaves his body in a whisper.
The man appears to be younger than Eames had imagined. Something about the sharp cut of his three-piece suit accentuates a surprisingly youthful quality that Eames had not been expecting from a man so feared in the criminal world. He stands in a manner that suggests a severe acuity to his surroundings, born from a profession where the barest hint of danger can mean the difference between life and death. His fedora casts a shadow on his face but Eames knows with every fiber of his being that this man is Arthur. It is certainly not a feeling he would be able to justify to Yusuf or Browning, but he knows.
Arthur seems to sense someone watching him, or maybe he’s heard Eames’ murmur, because he turns slowly, peering curiously around him. In doing so, he moves slightly more into the yellow light of the lamp, and Eames inhales. Arthur’s face is thin and solemn-and beautiful. Eames is drawn to him, immediately. It’s the sharply wary look in the man’s eyes as he gazes through the dark and the way he holds himself as if trying to appear older and more intimidating than he really is. It’s the way the shadows play across his features, which are strong but delicate, the somewhat jaunty angle of the fedora and the aura of both confidence and fear that emanates from the mysterious young man.
Eames could do something-pull out a gun and end it right then-but he turns on his heel and walks the other way, leaving Arthur standing on the street in the pool of light, framed by a halo of smoke and grit.
-
The next time he sees Arthur, Eames follows. He’s careful to be as casual as possible, trail behind several feet while always keeping an eye on his mark. He has to be careful not to be made but he can’t afford to lose him either.
Arthur leads him away from the busy main street down a quieter one. There’s still a steady trickle of men and women dressed to the nines milling about but the atmosphere is thick and tense. Eames follows Arthur to an unassuming brownstone. It doesn’t look like anything special but one of the windows reads, in an elegant script “Mal’s Paradise.” Arthur knocks three times and steps inside. Eames follows suit. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before and he lets out a low whistle as he takes in his surroundings.
The walls are made with a deep, rich mahogany that gleams under the soft glow of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The unabashed grandeur of the place, with the crystal that sparkles on every table, the polished silverware, the intricate woodwork of the cornices, takes his breath away. He feels distinctly out of place wearing his old tweed coat and scuffed shoes among the crisp silk suits and felt hats that speak of obvious wealth.
Arthur sits at the bar so Eames takes a seat at a table not too far away from him. He orders a drink as a woman walks onstage. She begins singing and her voice is clear and strong, perfectly suited to carry the soaring music accompanying her. Unlike the current women’s fashion of loose, boxy dresses, she’s wearing a gown that clings luxuriously to every curve of her body, the fabric caressing her skin like it knows how privileged it is to do so. She is lovely, Eames thinks, his eyes tracing the soft lines of her figure, the shadow between her breasts, the way her curls hang loosely around her beautiful face.
The song ends, and her audience snaps out of its captivated daze to applaud her. She acknowledges them with a wide smile, and Eames sees quiet happiness in the spread of her lips, the tilt of her head. It’s alarming to him, how genuinely joyful and appreciative she is as she nods. She doesn’t think or doesn’t know just how enchanting she is because she drops her eyes as the applause rings around her, laughs a little in delighted embarrassment. She is lovely.
Eames catches himself smiling along with her, caught up in her beauty, as she is joined onstage. This new girl is younger, all innocence and bright-eyed enthusiasm, but she’s captivating in a way that is completely different from the other woman. Her voice is softer, slightly coarse, but nonetheless appealing. He’s appreciating the way their voices harmonize, the way each woman shines onstage without overpowering the other, when he feels the barrel of a gun press between his shoulder blades.
He looks up slowly, and his stomach twists when he sees Arthur frowning down at him, a harsh expression in his dark eyes. Arthur grins in a way that would seem friendly to the casual observer but Eames sees the menace behind the expression, lurking behind the veil of camaraderie. He knows better than to show his fear and two can play at that game so he leans back in the chair, toward Arthur, and smiles lazily, fondly.
“Hello, pet,” he says, his tone honeyed with affection, “fancy meeting you here, of all places.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow and sneers in Eames’ face as he leans down.
“Come with me. And don’t say a word or I’ll blast your spine into pieces.” Arthur’s voice is deep, rich in timbre, and it trembles with malice, with the promise of pain.
“If you say so,” Eames agrees easily, shrugging. What he will do if Arthur takes him into a dark alley to shoot him in the back of his head, he doesn’t know. His mind is abuzz with ideas and his heart races with fear but his hands are steady when he picks up his glass tumbler, brings it to his lips and finishes his drink. Arthur’s eyes follow his every move, and he jerks his head to tell Eames to stand once he’s swallowed.
“Where are we going,” he asks curiously as Arthur leads him through the crowd. The gun is pressed against the middle of his back and he can feel Arthur’s chest brushing against his left arm.
“I said, not a word,” Arthur all but growls and Eames’ heart picks up its pace for an entirely different reason than fear.
“If I had known you’d be so pushy, I don’t think I would have followed you,” Eames sighs dramatically. He’s slipped so easily into this casual disregard for his personal safety as a way to mask his fear, and he can’t bring himself to stop. Arthur grits his teeth so hard, Eames can hear them grind together.
“Arthur!” A handsome young man approaches them with a smile. “So good to see you.”
“Fischer,” Arthur says, all stiff formality.
“Oh, come on, Arthur, you couldn’t call me by my first name? It’s like you’re talkin’ to my old man.” Fischer still looks like a boy, a fresh-faced child who hasn’t known a hard day’s work in his life. But there is something decidedly adult in the way he looks at Arthur, the way he clasps Arthur’s shoulder. Fischer’s blue eyes flick to Eames.
“This is Mr. Brooks,” Arthur answers the unspoken question, “an associate of mine.” Arthur is polite, almost friendly, but he presses the gun still firmer against Eames’ back as he speaks, daring the man to say otherwise.
“Ahh. Brooks, good to meet you.” Fischer extends his hand to Eames but the tone of his voice is anything but pleased.
“We’ve got to be going now. He’s pretty beat, so I’m setting him up in a swanky place.”
Fischer smiles vaguely and waves them off as he walks away to greet someone else. Eames decides that this Fischer must be pretty dim not to notice the obvious threat in Arthur’s voice and body language.
Arthur steers Eames to the back of the club, down a dark stairwell, and Eames knows this isn’t going to end well. He nearly falls on the stairs, unable to see, but Arthur just continues to push him.
He’s led into an empty concrete room and thrown roughly to the floor. Arthur is smaller than him in build but what he lacks in size, he makes up for in strength. Eames is kicked onto his back and he wheezes as he clutches the spot under his ribs where the toe of Arthur’s shoe had hit him.
“Tell me who you are,” Arthur demands, pointing his gun in Eames’ face. “Tell me who you are and why you’re following me.” There is raw, infinite anger emanating from the man, as he looks down his nose at Eames.
“I’m just a guy,” Eames says calmly, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Name’s Eames. I’m looking to join you and Cobb, see? I’m a forger-art is my specialty but I do money too-and I’m the best in the world. Heard about you lot when I lived in New York and figured that you could put my talents to good use. I’m the best at what I do and so are you. Heard from a friend of mine that you were the man I should talk to.”
“I think you’re a cop,” Arthur snarls. “I think you’re a cop who got cocky and decided to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.”
“No, I told you, I want to join you. I’m not a cop,” Eames spits the last word with as much contempt as he can. Arthur just curls his lip and tightens his finger around the trigger. Eames just closes his eyes. There’s nothing more he can do, short of begging for his life, which he absolutely refuses to do. If he’s going to die, he’ll at least do it with a bit of dignity.
“Wait.” The new voice is not as rich as Arthur’s but it rings with authority. Eames looks up, and there’s Dom Cobb standing at the door. Arthur looks like he wants to protest but he lowers his gun and steps aside.
“I heard what you were telling my man Arthur,” Cobb says, hunkering down. He cuts a less intimidating figure than Arthur does but he is nonetheless menacing. Eames realizes anew, meeting Cobb’s bright blue eyes, how dangerous these men are and how precarious his situation.
“Then you must know I’m only here to help you,” he says.
“I don’t take kindly to strangers. Normally, I’d paint the floor with your brains but I’m interested. Prove your worth to me and I’ll consider letting you join my team. Arthur will be in charge of you.” Then Cobb stands, says something into Arthur’s ear and leaves.
-
Arthur realizes he’s being followed when he catches sight of the same man with broad shoulders and a terrible coat several times in a row. He’s being followed and it irritates him because there isn’t any way to tell if this man is one of Cobol’s guys, waiting for a chance to carry out a hit, or one of the cops. His hand twitches toward the revolver he always keeps on his person and he has half a mind to take it out and fire point-blank at his tail but the sound of a little girl’s cry of delight stops him. He remembers that the sidewalk is full of people, families heading home after a day out, young men and women looking for a night of fun on the town. So he decides to wait before he strikes.
Leading the guy to Mal’s is his best bet. Nobody from Cobol would dare step inside, too afraid of what Arthur could do on his own territory. But it’s risky if the guy’s a bull; Mal’s Paradise is the gang’s biggest club and Cobb would not be pleased if his wife’s namesake was shut down by law enforcement.
“Evening, Arthur,” Tom greets him from behind the bar, nodding. “Cobb’s waiting for you downstairs.” Arthur shakes his head minutely and sits at the bar, his mouth thin and his body tense.
“What’s goin’ on, Arthur?” Tom asks quietly, on the pretense of pouring Arthur a drink.
“I got a tail so I’m not going to see Cobb until I can shake him or get him. Is he in here? Guy with broad shoulders, kinda big, muscular. Wearing a worn-out tweed?”
“He’s here but he’s watchin’ the stage. Not paying any attention to you or me, that’s for sure. What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m curious about what he wants so I’ll take him out back. Maybe to Cobb.”
“You better get to it before he remembers what he came here for,” Tom advises as Mal’s song ends. Arthur finishes his drink and approaches the man from behind, presses a gun between his shoulder blades.
The man is recklessly brave, with his words and his casual indifference to Arthur’s menace. It tests his ability to maintain control of himself, looking into the hazel eyes of the man who claims to be named ‘Eames’. Arthur is a hair’s breadth away from pulling the trigger to end his life when Cobb stops him and grants Eames a chance.
“If he’s as good as he says he is, we could use a guy like him. I know you don’t like it but trust me.” Then his boss is gone and Arthur is alone with the man still sprawled on the floor.
“Get up,” he commands. “Go home. I’ll ring you in the morning.”
“Seeing as I don’t have a telephone, Arthur, there may be a bit of a problem with that, don’t you think?” Eames smirks.
“Fine. I’ll have someone get you in the morning. Don’t even think about skipping town because I will find you.”
“You have appallingly little faith in me, darling.” Eames sighs melodramatically and presses the back of his hand to his forehead. Before he knows it, Arthur’s clutching at Eames’ collar.
“Listen, you. Cobb likes you, for a reason I won’t deign to fathom, and it is the only reason I’m not pumping you so full of lead you wouldn’t be recognizable as a human being. I don’t have faith in you, I don’t trust you, and I certainly don’t like you. Hear me?” He releases Eames’ collar with a slight shove.
“Right, then, I’ll be heading home. Good night.”
This time, it’s Arthur who does the following. He is exceptionally better at it than Eames, though, and follows the man through the sleeping city. Eames’ building is run down and dingy, but there is charm in its architecture. He follows Eames up several flights of stairs, keeping his footsteps quiet and his breathing quieter.
“You know, Arthur dear, if you wanted to know where I live, you might have asked,” Eames says, pausing at his door. He doesn’t turn to face Arthur but there is a hint of a smile on his voice. Arthur raises an eyebrow and the corners of his lips twitch.
“Look at the pot calling the kettle black,” he retorts. Eames chuckles and disappears into his apartment.
Arthur stakes out the building that night. He doesn’t think Eames will betray Cobb-there’s too much to lose and not enough to gain from it-but he can’t bring himself to stray too far from the building. Arthur groans, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Eames is everything Arthur can’t stand in a man: brash and arrogant, reckless and irritating. Yet, Arthur finds himself compelled by the man. Eames, whose hazel eyes shift color just as easily as his facial expressions change character, intrigues him and infuriates him at once. He had felt an astonishingly fierce rush of emotion when Eames had first locked eyes with him, had smiled luxuriously at him with those obscene lips. Arthur is proud of the way he controls his emotions but being near Eames seems to strip him of that ability; he had been so close to blasting the man’s brains all over the concrete floor.
He stays awake all night, eyes glued to the top floor of the building, where Eames is supposedly sound asleep.
Arthur spends the night thinking about what he’d do if Eames betrays Cobb to distract himself from the anxiety that curls like a monster in the pit of his stomach.
Part Two
Author: mad_musing
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex and violence. Canon character death. Capital punishment.
Summary: In the age of bootleggers and speakeasies, this is the story of a gangster and the detective assigned to break him. What ends up broken is entirely different.
Author Notes: Inspired by late-night forays into 1930s gangster movies and that film-noir-esque photo of JGL in a fedora and suit (incidentally, anyone know where that’s from?). Also, a huge thank you to writteninhaste for beta-ing this massive thing and catching all those mistakes!
It’s dark and quiet in the old restaurant. A sliver of light-dim and weak from the flickering lamp outside-throws the broken, rotting furniture and the wooden packing crates in stark relief. Their shadows stretch across the marble floors and reach up the walls. The silence is broken only by two sets of footsteps clicking across the cracked marble. The shadows give way to the figures of two men, one walking in front of the other.
The man in front has broad shoulders that hunch forward ever so slightly as he walks. As he passes through the room, the faint light catches his dirty-blonde hair, illuminates his piercing blue eyes and the strong lines of his jaw. His features are contracted in an intensely concentrated expression as he walks with the sure confidence of a man who knows exactly where he’s going and what he’s going to do.
His partner is shorter, but only just, with a leaner, thinner build. He stands straight and tall, and his head turns from side to side as he peers into the deep shadows around them. Though he holds himself rigidly, there is a dangerous grace in his stride, in the way he carries himself. He might have been an actor or a dancer, but he holds his Tommy gun with too much ease and familiarity to be mistaken for either.
The two men don’t speak as they cross the room. When they reach the door at the far side, they nod once to each other before turning the knob. Once they’re through the threshold, the lights in the room flare bright, assaulting their dark-adjusted eyes. Their bodies react instinctively, ducking in opposite directions as a spray of bullets tears through the wall above their heads.
“Goddamnit! Godda-Arthur, on your right!” Cobb shouts, as he fires his own gun. At the warning, the thinner man lashes out, kicking his would-be assailant in the kneecap with deadly accuracy. He feels the familiar crunch of bone and a smirk lifts the corner of his lips as he swings around and shoots the man between the eyes. His smirk widens into a contemptuous sneer as the body slumps to the floor. Without missing a beat, he crouches behind an overturned desk and opens fire on the attackers.
Within seconds, the room becomes silent again. Dust and plaster swirls in the air, which smells of gunpowder and blood. Arthur stands, scowling at the debris and blood spatter on his coat. He turns the body closest to him onto its back; it’s the first man he shot and, looking closer, he recognizes the face under all the blood.
“Cobol,” he mutters. “They’re from the Cobol gang. Goddammit, Cobb, it was a trap,” he snarls, swinging his arm to the side and punching the wall from temper. “Saito must’ve double-crossed us, the dirty bastard.”
“Now, Arthur, we don’t know that for sure. I don’t think he set us up. I got a good feeling about him when we met.”
“Tell me, Cobb, did your good feelings warn you about this ‘cause we almost got killed and someone’s bound to have heard all that noise and called the bull. Shit.” Arthur punctuates the curse with another punch that cracks the old plaster.
“Then stop complaining and let’s get out of here.”
Arthur’s mouth thins and his jaw works, as if he’s holding back an angry retort but he follows Cobb out of the room just the same. They leave the way they’d come but their movements are more hurried than before; both men walk as quickly as they can without breaking into a run. Once outside the restaurant, they affect a more casual attitude and stroll down the dark street, careful to keep hidden in the shadows.
Arthur shivers in the cold night air and stuffs his hands deep in his pockets. He hates winter in Chicago and, as he always does when he’s too cold, wonders what the weather is like in Los Angeles, wonders whether he might be able to move there someday to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. The scream of police sirens fills the night air, interrupting his thoughts, and he and Cobb melt deeper into the shadows until the cars pass and the sound fades with distance.
“I don’t like being out like this,” Arthur says, touching Cobb on the shoulder. “I’ll go back to my place, get changed.”
“Meet me at Mal’s.” Arthur nods in affirmation, and they part ways.
-
Alone in his apartment, Arthur rolls his neck; it cracks satisfactorily but none of the tension drains from his shoulders. There is too much to do. He’ll have to ditch the suit; there’s no way he’ll be able to get all the blood off it. He needs more ammunition, he needs to cover his and Cobb’s tracks so they’re not definitely linked to the four bodies they’d left, he needs to find out what happened and why he and Cobb walked into an ambush, why they were almost killed.
As he undoes his tie, frowning ruefully at the ruined silk, the telephone rings and he picks it up, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand.
“Cobb?”
“No, it’s Johnny. Listen, Arthur, you’ve gotta believe me, Cobb’s gone crazy.” Johnny’s voice on the phone is high with fear, and Arthur can hear the muffled sound of banging and shouting. “You gotta help me out here.” Arthur stills in the middle of slipping off his shirt.
“What?” His voice is flat. “What did you do, Johnny?”
“I was drugged, Arthur, I swear to God. They musta slipped somethin’ in my drink or somethin’ but I didn’t mean to,” Johnny’s breath hitches in his throat as Arthur hears the sound of a door being broken off its hinges. “I didn’t mean to, I swear!”
“Was it you? You sold Cobb out to Cobol?” Arthur’s fingers clench around the phone and there’s a steely edge to his tone.
“No, no! I didn’t mean to,” Johnny’s voice is a pleading sob. “Please, you gotta believe me.” There’s a yell of terror and a scuffle, and Johnny’s voice becomes distant, an indistinct shouting in the background.
“Who is this?” A rough voice echoes down the line and Arthur identifies it as one of Cobb’s hired muscles.
“This is Arthur.”
“Oh! Oh, sorry, Sir, didn’t know it was you.”
“Obviously,” he remarks coolly. “Don’t kill him. Bring him to Cobb and wait for me to get there.”
“Can we rough him up first?”
“Do what you must to subdue him,” Arthur instructs coldly, “but he better be alive when I get to him or it’ll be you I pump full of lead. Hear me?”
“Yessir,” the man answers. Arthur drops the phone back on its cradle and curses. There won’t be time to wash up-not with that muscle out for blood-so he strips quickly. Scowling as he puts a fresh suit on his unwashed body, Arthur places a fedora on his head to hide his dusty hair and dons his heaviest coat.
It’s still not enough to ward away the bitterly cold wind, and this drives Arthur’s already tense nerves that much closer to actually snapping. He prides himself on his ability to keep a firm grip on his rage, which always strikes white-hot and fast, but he feels his fingers twitching with a carnal need to curl into a fist and pound a face into a bloody pulp.
Arthur knows Cobb won’t be pleased and knows that he will take the brunt of Cobb’s explosive temper-but he also knows he deserves it. They can’t afford to make mistakes if they want to stay alive, Arthur can’t afford to make mistakes. Johnny’s betrayal-coerced or not-and their subsequent ambush fall into this realm of things that should never occur. Cobb is the Boss, the one with the power, the control; the radical notions that have pushed his gang to the top. He is responsible for their infamy and is the face of their operations, the man at the center of attention.
Arthur, though, Arthur is second-in-command. He’s right where he wants to be, partially hidden in the shadows. Cobb’s enemies consistently underestimate him, and it is that, more than anything else, that brings about their downfalls. Arthur prides himself on his accuracy and his speed, his thorough attention to detail and his knowledge. He may remain in the shadows of Cobb’s limelight but the shadows are where he works best, able to watch the actions of others while remaining unseen and unheard.
In Mal’s Paradise, Cobb’s biggest and most lucrative nightclub, he breathes easier. It’s warm and bright inside, and Mal’s singing is soothing. He nods to the bartender and several others but otherwise ignores the club’s patrons. When he nears the stage, Mal glances at him out of the corner of her eye and he nods reassuringly, touches the brim of his hat in a gesture of acknowledgement. She beams at him, a blindingly beautiful smile then transfers her gaze to the crowd before her. Arthur ducks behind the deep red curtain that separates the main floor of the club from the backstage area. He descends down a dark staircase and enters the basement.
There’s just enough light for him to assess the room’s occupants. Johnny is on his knees, clutching at his belly and whimpering slightly. Dark drops of blood fall from his face to the concrete floor beneath him, and a tall, overly muscled man stands over him with his hand clenched in a meaty fist. Cobb’s sitting by the light, watching the proceedings with a faintly interested air, his fingers meeting in a steeple under his nose. Two other men-more hired goons-stand by the door, in case their prisoner makes a run for it.
“Arthur,” Cobb says, beckoning his second-in-command to him with the slightest movement of his head, “Johnny here says he was drugged. Says the Cobol boys put something in his drink to make him talk. Problem is, I don’t believe him. I think he went to them on his own, tried to sell me out so he could make it big with them.” He sounds patient, almost amused, but his anger is palpable.
“Sounds about right,” Arthur agrees, walking to stand at Cobb’s side.
“Want me to kill ‘im, Boss?” the muscle asks eagerly, kicking Johnny in the side.
“No,” Cobb says, staring thoughtfully at the man writhing on the floor. “No, don’t kill him.”
“Thank you, boss. Oh, thank you,” Johnny gasps, attempting to crawl toward Cobb with his arms outstretched.
“Don’t thank me, Johnny,” Cobb tells him, blue eyes gazing at the opposite wall. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m not going to have one of my boys kill you. No, we’re going to let you go and see how you do against Cobol.” Johnny’s breath becomes an agonized wheeze and his eyes widen with fear.
“See, they’ll know by now that I’m still alive. They’ll know that Arthur and I killed four of their guys. If I know him-and rest assured, I do-Cobol will think the double-crosser double crossed him, and he’s gonna come after you.”
“No, no, please! Please, boss, I’ll do anything!”
“Yes, you showed us that already,” Cobb sneers. “Get him out of my sight.” The muscle heaves Johnny up from the floor, ignores the man’s scream of pain, and drags him through a door that leads to the bitter cold outside. The two men at the door follow behind them.
“Don’t you think it would be easier just to kill him?” Arthur asks. He keeps his voice quiet, though the two of them are alone. Arthur may enjoy the respect and esteem of his boss but this does not take away from the fact that Cobb’s authority should never be questioned in front of their men.
“No,” Cobb muses, pressing his hands together again. “No. Killing him ourselves would be merciful.” Cobb looks up at Arthur with icy blue eyes. “And I don’t feel like being merciful tonight.”
“You really don’t think Saito had anything to do with this?”
“I don’t. He’s smart; he knows we’re the best. If he wants to smuggle his booze into this city, he’s gonna have to go with the best.”
“Dom? Are you finished yet?” A purely feminine voice floats through the air and both men look up. Mal stands at the entrance of the room, having come from the club. Cobb stands immediately and goes to her with the zeal and adoration of a less dangerous man.
“Mal,” Cobb breathes, resting his forehead against hers. Their eyes slide shut, and Arthur looks away, gritting his teeth. Mal is Cobb’s heart, but men like he and Arthur can’t afford to have one. The heart is weak, and there is no room for weakness in their line of work. Cobb has caused the downfall of many a man but Mal will cause his.
“Arthur!” Mal cries when she sees him. She breaks away from Dom and deftly skirts the droplets of Johnny’s blood to pull him into a warm, familial embrace and he responds in turn, smiling in spite of himself. “Ah, Arthur, it is lovely to see you.”
“A pleasure as always.” He means it, too. Despite his reservations about their love affair, their family, he sees how Cobb is a better man for it-and he can’t begrudge Cobb something that brings him so much joy.
“I am finished upstairs, Dom. Are you ready to go home now?” she asks, turning back to her husband. Cobb smiles, warm and gentle and genuine, and nods as he wraps one arm around her waist.
“Let’s go home,” he murmurs. They turn and leave, and Arthur is left alone with the dark and the blood.
-
“Got another one!” The cheery announcement is followed by the slap of a file on a desk. Its occupant looks up with bleary eyes from the cup of coffee he’s nursing like it’s a lifeline and stares at the file as if it’s personally offended him.
“Yusuf, it’s 8 in the bloody morning, you couldn’t have brought me better news?”
“Detective Eames, this is probably going to be the best news you’ll get all day. Cherish it for what it is.”
“Christ. Just one day, one day,” Eames sighs, runs a hand wearily through his hair and sets his coffee cup on the old desk in favor of the file. When he opens it, he’s confronted with a bloody scene. “Can’t those arseholes stop killing each other for one bloody day? I’ve seen enough dead bodies to last me a lifetime.”
He counts four dead, slumped over gunshot-riddled furniture. The one closest to the door has a shattered kneecap and a bullet between the eyes; blank eyes stare up at the camera and a rivulet of blood divides the man’s face in half. It’s impressive, he thinks grudgingly to himself, and terrifying that someone could shoot with such accuracy, even in the middle of a gunfight.
“Do we know who they are?” He pulls a notebook from his desk drawer and scrawls words haphazardly over the pages, never taking his eyes from the photographs in front of him.
“Cobol’s guys,” Yusuf replies. “One of them’s his brother-in-law.”
“Mm, then it was most likely Dom Cobb’s gang who did this,” Eames scribbles ‘Cobb’ in the notebook. “Makes sense. All these guys are Cobol?”
Yusuf nods in affirmation, and Eames has to stop a grin from rising on his face. Much as he hates to admit it, the Cobb gang operates with the tightly controlled kind of skill and accuracy that has allowed it to rise to the top of the criminal world. It would be admirable if Eames didn’t think it morally repulsive.
“Eames!” Browning’s voice cuts across the squad room’s hubbub. “In my office! Now!”
Once inside the bare room, Browning motions for him to shut the door and he does, catching a fleeting glimpse of his fellow officers’ curious looks.
“So, chief,” he says, dropping unceremoniously into a chair, “you wanted to see me?” He slouches in a posture of relaxation, as if he couldn’t care less that he’s being watched with stern eyes, as if there isn’t a bad feeling curling in the pit of his stomach. He’s got a hangover and it’s too bloody early in the morning to deal with whatever the Chief of Police has to hand to him. Eames smirks to cover up any concerns he may have and Browning’s big, doughy face reddens just slightly.
“Listen up, Eames, you’ve done good for yourself in my department and I appreciate it. You’re quick on your feet and adaptable and you’re a helluva of an actor so I’m giving you an assignment. It’s important and you better give it all you got, hear?” He slides a thick file, labeled with the name “Arthur,” across his desk at Eames, who sits up to take it. When he opens it, a blurry photograph greets him. It looks like it was taken from a great distance, or that there was fog collecting on the lens of the camera because Eames can’t even really tell what he’s supposed to be looking at.
“Arthur?” is what he says after several moments of perplexed staring.
“Dominic Cobb’s right-hand man. He’s the one keepin’ Cobb’s operation going, the one who puts the plans into motion-”
“I thought Cobb was the Boss.”
“He is, but Arthur keeps him in check and the rest of ‘em too.”
“And you want me to-?” Eames looks back down at the file in front of him and grimaces, already knowing he’s not going to like what he’s about to hear.
“We want you to follow him around, watch him. Get him for a hidden weapon or possession or something. Break him and Cobb’s whole operation falls to pieces. Get me?”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m already on a case. We just got it this morning and they need my help.” He protests without thought and is just as surprised as Browning appears to be.
“Drop everything you have and get to work on this. We need you on this. Don’t tell me you can’t do it ‘cause I won’t like it.”
“Sir, I don’t want to be on this. I can do it but I won’t.”
“You don’t get a say in this, Eames.” Browning’s face is becoming redder by the minute and his voice deepens into a displeased rumble. “You do this or you’ll be outta here so fast your head will spin. We clear?” Eames opens his mouth again, to argue more, but he knows it would be a waste of breath.
“As a bell,” Eames sighs. He leaves the chief’s office with the file, which he studies for the rest of the day. From a file so full, Eames learns surprisingly little about this mysterious ‘Arthur.’ He learns that Arthur’s been with Dom Cobb since the beginning, that Arthur is the action behind Cobb’s grand schemes, that Arthur is smart and capable and competent.
He learns, too, that Arthur might as well be a ghost. None of the photographs in the file are very good, capturing the man just as he turns away or through a cloud of steam, so all Eames can figure is that Arthur is thin but impeccably dressed. In a city of thousands of men in sharp suits, though, this isn’t anything special.
Eames scrubs his face with his hands and groans in frustration. He doesn’t know Arthur’s weaknesses or how he could possibly “break” him-hell, he doesn’t even know what Arthur looks like. All he has is a name and the connection to Dom Cobb.
-
Three weeks later, Eames still hasn’t found any leads in his search. All he gets when he asks about “Arthur” are blank stares or naked panic. He’s been shooed away and vaguely threatened, and he’s tired of chasing this ghost of a man around Chicago. Eames is becoming annoyed and frustrated, and these feelings are compounded by growing unease in the pit of his stomach.
He’s spread Arthur’s file all over his desk and has taken to staring at each page in the hopes of learning something more about this man he’s never met or seen. One night, after hours of poring over the photographs of Arthur, he’s on the verge of tearing out his hair, which means it’s time for a walk. He puts on a coat and heads out the door.
It’s an icy night and, as the wind bites at his face, Eames wishes he lived somewhere warmer. He’s used to the cold but he likes hot summers and mild winters and, for once, wants to live in a place where he won’t have to trudge through mountains of snow for months each year. For now, though, he’s stuck in Chicago, stuck on an assignment that sets his teeth on edge.
As he walks aimlessly down the sidewalk near Union Station, he catches sight of a man standing just outside the pool of light cast by a nearby street lamp. Eames can’t really see his face or really any of him but a frisson of excitement jolts through his body, stopping him in his tracks. That posture is familiar, as it should be. He’s been staring at photographs of it for weeks.
“Arthur.” He says the name like an exhalation, a breath that leaves his body in a whisper.
The man appears to be younger than Eames had imagined. Something about the sharp cut of his three-piece suit accentuates a surprisingly youthful quality that Eames had not been expecting from a man so feared in the criminal world. He stands in a manner that suggests a severe acuity to his surroundings, born from a profession where the barest hint of danger can mean the difference between life and death. His fedora casts a shadow on his face but Eames knows with every fiber of his being that this man is Arthur. It is certainly not a feeling he would be able to justify to Yusuf or Browning, but he knows.
Arthur seems to sense someone watching him, or maybe he’s heard Eames’ murmur, because he turns slowly, peering curiously around him. In doing so, he moves slightly more into the yellow light of the lamp, and Eames inhales. Arthur’s face is thin and solemn-and beautiful. Eames is drawn to him, immediately. It’s the sharply wary look in the man’s eyes as he gazes through the dark and the way he holds himself as if trying to appear older and more intimidating than he really is. It’s the way the shadows play across his features, which are strong but delicate, the somewhat jaunty angle of the fedora and the aura of both confidence and fear that emanates from the mysterious young man.
Eames could do something-pull out a gun and end it right then-but he turns on his heel and walks the other way, leaving Arthur standing on the street in the pool of light, framed by a halo of smoke and grit.
-
The next time he sees Arthur, Eames follows. He’s careful to be as casual as possible, trail behind several feet while always keeping an eye on his mark. He has to be careful not to be made but he can’t afford to lose him either.
Arthur leads him away from the busy main street down a quieter one. There’s still a steady trickle of men and women dressed to the nines milling about but the atmosphere is thick and tense. Eames follows Arthur to an unassuming brownstone. It doesn’t look like anything special but one of the windows reads, in an elegant script “Mal’s Paradise.” Arthur knocks three times and steps inside. Eames follows suit. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before and he lets out a low whistle as he takes in his surroundings.
The walls are made with a deep, rich mahogany that gleams under the soft glow of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The unabashed grandeur of the place, with the crystal that sparkles on every table, the polished silverware, the intricate woodwork of the cornices, takes his breath away. He feels distinctly out of place wearing his old tweed coat and scuffed shoes among the crisp silk suits and felt hats that speak of obvious wealth.
Arthur sits at the bar so Eames takes a seat at a table not too far away from him. He orders a drink as a woman walks onstage. She begins singing and her voice is clear and strong, perfectly suited to carry the soaring music accompanying her. Unlike the current women’s fashion of loose, boxy dresses, she’s wearing a gown that clings luxuriously to every curve of her body, the fabric caressing her skin like it knows how privileged it is to do so. She is lovely, Eames thinks, his eyes tracing the soft lines of her figure, the shadow between her breasts, the way her curls hang loosely around her beautiful face.
The song ends, and her audience snaps out of its captivated daze to applaud her. She acknowledges them with a wide smile, and Eames sees quiet happiness in the spread of her lips, the tilt of her head. It’s alarming to him, how genuinely joyful and appreciative she is as she nods. She doesn’t think or doesn’t know just how enchanting she is because she drops her eyes as the applause rings around her, laughs a little in delighted embarrassment. She is lovely.
Eames catches himself smiling along with her, caught up in her beauty, as she is joined onstage. This new girl is younger, all innocence and bright-eyed enthusiasm, but she’s captivating in a way that is completely different from the other woman. Her voice is softer, slightly coarse, but nonetheless appealing. He’s appreciating the way their voices harmonize, the way each woman shines onstage without overpowering the other, when he feels the barrel of a gun press between his shoulder blades.
He looks up slowly, and his stomach twists when he sees Arthur frowning down at him, a harsh expression in his dark eyes. Arthur grins in a way that would seem friendly to the casual observer but Eames sees the menace behind the expression, lurking behind the veil of camaraderie. He knows better than to show his fear and two can play at that game so he leans back in the chair, toward Arthur, and smiles lazily, fondly.
“Hello, pet,” he says, his tone honeyed with affection, “fancy meeting you here, of all places.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow and sneers in Eames’ face as he leans down.
“Come with me. And don’t say a word or I’ll blast your spine into pieces.” Arthur’s voice is deep, rich in timbre, and it trembles with malice, with the promise of pain.
“If you say so,” Eames agrees easily, shrugging. What he will do if Arthur takes him into a dark alley to shoot him in the back of his head, he doesn’t know. His mind is abuzz with ideas and his heart races with fear but his hands are steady when he picks up his glass tumbler, brings it to his lips and finishes his drink. Arthur’s eyes follow his every move, and he jerks his head to tell Eames to stand once he’s swallowed.
“Where are we going,” he asks curiously as Arthur leads him through the crowd. The gun is pressed against the middle of his back and he can feel Arthur’s chest brushing against his left arm.
“I said, not a word,” Arthur all but growls and Eames’ heart picks up its pace for an entirely different reason than fear.
“If I had known you’d be so pushy, I don’t think I would have followed you,” Eames sighs dramatically. He’s slipped so easily into this casual disregard for his personal safety as a way to mask his fear, and he can’t bring himself to stop. Arthur grits his teeth so hard, Eames can hear them grind together.
“Arthur!” A handsome young man approaches them with a smile. “So good to see you.”
“Fischer,” Arthur says, all stiff formality.
“Oh, come on, Arthur, you couldn’t call me by my first name? It’s like you’re talkin’ to my old man.” Fischer still looks like a boy, a fresh-faced child who hasn’t known a hard day’s work in his life. But there is something decidedly adult in the way he looks at Arthur, the way he clasps Arthur’s shoulder. Fischer’s blue eyes flick to Eames.
“This is Mr. Brooks,” Arthur answers the unspoken question, “an associate of mine.” Arthur is polite, almost friendly, but he presses the gun still firmer against Eames’ back as he speaks, daring the man to say otherwise.
“Ahh. Brooks, good to meet you.” Fischer extends his hand to Eames but the tone of his voice is anything but pleased.
“We’ve got to be going now. He’s pretty beat, so I’m setting him up in a swanky place.”
Fischer smiles vaguely and waves them off as he walks away to greet someone else. Eames decides that this Fischer must be pretty dim not to notice the obvious threat in Arthur’s voice and body language.
Arthur steers Eames to the back of the club, down a dark stairwell, and Eames knows this isn’t going to end well. He nearly falls on the stairs, unable to see, but Arthur just continues to push him.
He’s led into an empty concrete room and thrown roughly to the floor. Arthur is smaller than him in build but what he lacks in size, he makes up for in strength. Eames is kicked onto his back and he wheezes as he clutches the spot under his ribs where the toe of Arthur’s shoe had hit him.
“Tell me who you are,” Arthur demands, pointing his gun in Eames’ face. “Tell me who you are and why you’re following me.” There is raw, infinite anger emanating from the man, as he looks down his nose at Eames.
“I’m just a guy,” Eames says calmly, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Name’s Eames. I’m looking to join you and Cobb, see? I’m a forger-art is my specialty but I do money too-and I’m the best in the world. Heard about you lot when I lived in New York and figured that you could put my talents to good use. I’m the best at what I do and so are you. Heard from a friend of mine that you were the man I should talk to.”
“I think you’re a cop,” Arthur snarls. “I think you’re a cop who got cocky and decided to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.”
“No, I told you, I want to join you. I’m not a cop,” Eames spits the last word with as much contempt as he can. Arthur just curls his lip and tightens his finger around the trigger. Eames just closes his eyes. There’s nothing more he can do, short of begging for his life, which he absolutely refuses to do. If he’s going to die, he’ll at least do it with a bit of dignity.
“Wait.” The new voice is not as rich as Arthur’s but it rings with authority. Eames looks up, and there’s Dom Cobb standing at the door. Arthur looks like he wants to protest but he lowers his gun and steps aside.
“I heard what you were telling my man Arthur,” Cobb says, hunkering down. He cuts a less intimidating figure than Arthur does but he is nonetheless menacing. Eames realizes anew, meeting Cobb’s bright blue eyes, how dangerous these men are and how precarious his situation.
“Then you must know I’m only here to help you,” he says.
“I don’t take kindly to strangers. Normally, I’d paint the floor with your brains but I’m interested. Prove your worth to me and I’ll consider letting you join my team. Arthur will be in charge of you.” Then Cobb stands, says something into Arthur’s ear and leaves.
-
Arthur realizes he’s being followed when he catches sight of the same man with broad shoulders and a terrible coat several times in a row. He’s being followed and it irritates him because there isn’t any way to tell if this man is one of Cobol’s guys, waiting for a chance to carry out a hit, or one of the cops. His hand twitches toward the revolver he always keeps on his person and he has half a mind to take it out and fire point-blank at his tail but the sound of a little girl’s cry of delight stops him. He remembers that the sidewalk is full of people, families heading home after a day out, young men and women looking for a night of fun on the town. So he decides to wait before he strikes.
Leading the guy to Mal’s is his best bet. Nobody from Cobol would dare step inside, too afraid of what Arthur could do on his own territory. But it’s risky if the guy’s a bull; Mal’s Paradise is the gang’s biggest club and Cobb would not be pleased if his wife’s namesake was shut down by law enforcement.
“Evening, Arthur,” Tom greets him from behind the bar, nodding. “Cobb’s waiting for you downstairs.” Arthur shakes his head minutely and sits at the bar, his mouth thin and his body tense.
“What’s goin’ on, Arthur?” Tom asks quietly, on the pretense of pouring Arthur a drink.
“I got a tail so I’m not going to see Cobb until I can shake him or get him. Is he in here? Guy with broad shoulders, kinda big, muscular. Wearing a worn-out tweed?”
“He’s here but he’s watchin’ the stage. Not paying any attention to you or me, that’s for sure. What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m curious about what he wants so I’ll take him out back. Maybe to Cobb.”
“You better get to it before he remembers what he came here for,” Tom advises as Mal’s song ends. Arthur finishes his drink and approaches the man from behind, presses a gun between his shoulder blades.
The man is recklessly brave, with his words and his casual indifference to Arthur’s menace. It tests his ability to maintain control of himself, looking into the hazel eyes of the man who claims to be named ‘Eames’. Arthur is a hair’s breadth away from pulling the trigger to end his life when Cobb stops him and grants Eames a chance.
“If he’s as good as he says he is, we could use a guy like him. I know you don’t like it but trust me.” Then his boss is gone and Arthur is alone with the man still sprawled on the floor.
“Get up,” he commands. “Go home. I’ll ring you in the morning.”
“Seeing as I don’t have a telephone, Arthur, there may be a bit of a problem with that, don’t you think?” Eames smirks.
“Fine. I’ll have someone get you in the morning. Don’t even think about skipping town because I will find you.”
“You have appallingly little faith in me, darling.” Eames sighs melodramatically and presses the back of his hand to his forehead. Before he knows it, Arthur’s clutching at Eames’ collar.
“Listen, you. Cobb likes you, for a reason I won’t deign to fathom, and it is the only reason I’m not pumping you so full of lead you wouldn’t be recognizable as a human being. I don’t have faith in you, I don’t trust you, and I certainly don’t like you. Hear me?” He releases Eames’ collar with a slight shove.
“Right, then, I’ll be heading home. Good night.”
This time, it’s Arthur who does the following. He is exceptionally better at it than Eames, though, and follows the man through the sleeping city. Eames’ building is run down and dingy, but there is charm in its architecture. He follows Eames up several flights of stairs, keeping his footsteps quiet and his breathing quieter.
“You know, Arthur dear, if you wanted to know where I live, you might have asked,” Eames says, pausing at his door. He doesn’t turn to face Arthur but there is a hint of a smile on his voice. Arthur raises an eyebrow and the corners of his lips twitch.
“Look at the pot calling the kettle black,” he retorts. Eames chuckles and disappears into his apartment.
Arthur stakes out the building that night. He doesn’t think Eames will betray Cobb-there’s too much to lose and not enough to gain from it-but he can’t bring himself to stray too far from the building. Arthur groans, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Eames is everything Arthur can’t stand in a man: brash and arrogant, reckless and irritating. Yet, Arthur finds himself compelled by the man. Eames, whose hazel eyes shift color just as easily as his facial expressions change character, intrigues him and infuriates him at once. He had felt an astonishingly fierce rush of emotion when Eames had first locked eyes with him, had smiled luxuriously at him with those obscene lips. Arthur is proud of the way he controls his emotions but being near Eames seems to strip him of that ability; he had been so close to blasting the man’s brains all over the concrete floor.
He stays awake all night, eyes glued to the top floor of the building, where Eames is supposedly sound asleep.
Arthur spends the night thinking about what he’d do if Eames betrays Cobb to distract himself from the anxiety that curls like a monster in the pit of his stomach.
Part Two