Film Noir: The Vanishing Man

[only_more_so]

Nicolas Tyne splashes bourbon into his glass. A sour look makes his long face look almost comical. It would be comical if it weren't for the tremendous sadness in his soulful grey eyes. He moves to pour a little more of Kentucky's finest into his glass, but stops himself. With a squeal of protest the cork gets pressed back into the bottle, followed by a clunk as the bourbon is deposited unceremoniously into Nick's desk drawer. He pushed the drawer in with more conviction than he feels. He knew the drawer would be open again soon if a client didn't walk through the door.

Picking up the glass, Nick leans back in his cheap leather chair. The stitching which struggled to hold the leather together was falling apart, along with everything else in the office, including the man in the chair. It has been a month since his brother Timothy had been shot in the back, and there was never enough bourbon to make him forget it. What was supposed to be a simple adultery gig ended with a bang. The only clue was a scrap of paper clutched in Tim's hand bearing the letters "WS".

The cops were worthless, even more so than usual. If Nick hadn't been the one to identify the body, that scrap of paper would likely have been buried for good. At least that meant the cops were merely incompetent, since if they were on a payroll the scrap would have been found and burnt.

Swiveling to face the window, Nick took a long sip from his glass. He ran a hand through his slicked back hair and thinks back to how it came to this. He was once a cop, highly decorated and on his way to becoming a lieutenant. But a slug from a zip-gun tore a hunk from his calf, and a gimpy cop is only good for riding a desk. So Nick retired from the force and joined Tim in the PI racket. "Tyne and Tyne Investigators" was still emblazoned on the window that Nick stared through with distant eyes.

The clacking of high heels alerted Nick to the approach of the only light left in his life. Angela Jones was the kind of secretary that every man should be so lucky to have. Not only could she type, take shorthand and file, but she had long legs that just wouldn't quit. Plus she made the best eggs in the world.

Quickly tossing back the last of his drink, Nick had enough time to pull open his drawer and drop the glass in, before he heard the twin taps on the frosted glass of his door. A moment later the door swung open as the drawer slid shut. Angela strolled in carrying a stack of old case folders.

 

[shadowoftheheart]

Tyne and Tyne. Angela sighed very quietly as she pulled files out of the cabinet.

Tyne and Tyne. One month before Tim Tyne had been shot in the back while following the trail of a trivial case. Adultry. The meat-and-potatoes of the private investigator ... but far below the dignity of the Tynes, Angela mused. Tim, an experienced detective, Nick an experienced, decorated police officer. They had been destined for greatness. Now, Tim was dead, and Nick saw the bottom of a bottle of booze more than he saw clients.

Angela was briefly mirrored in the shuttered window between Nick's office and the entrance-way to the detective's agency.

Tall and leggy, she was a brunette with what would be called Girl-Next-Door looks. She wasn't a knockout, but she never tried to be one. Her pale blue eyes shone with native intellect.

Since Tyne and Tyne opened, it had been she that had kept the office together. Tim and Nick were brilliant men, detectives beyond equal, but .. like so many geniuses, they lacked that certain quality to hold things together, to organize and categorize. Angela sat at that point, keeping records, cataloging evidence, keeping track of clients and cases. Because of her keeping the web of information in good repair, Tyne and Tyne achieved great success .. though in the last few months, the great cases had dried up.

The files Nick wanted were pulled. Cases that Tim had solved, felons and faithless husbands that might have been responsible for his death. Criminals and adulterers with that certain ... something. That impulse to revenge. One of the men in these files may well have pulled the trigger, shooting Tim in the back, and Nick in the heart.

She turned, with another sigh. She glanced at Tim's office, closed, locked, and shuttered, but never cleared out. Two decades of memories sat there, gathering dust. And Nick had never even considered going through it. Angela didn't see it as healthy .. but Nick was the boss. Who was she to say what he should do?

She spun in her inch-high heels, moving with solid confident grace to Nick's office door. She smoothed down the skirt of her tweed suit with her free hand, and tapped on the frosted glass of his door twice. She waited long enough for him to hide the bottle of bourbon in his desk drawer, then opened the door.

"Nick, I have those files you wanted. There are several possible 'WS' es. and I have placed clips on those files."

She set them down on his desk, and gazed at him. She could tell he had already had too much to drink. She couldn't tell if it had been one glass or a hundred ... but it had been too many. She paused, trying to decide if she should mention anything, or just let it go. It was getting hard to read him anymore.

"Nick, that poison isn't going to help you find your brother's killer. Unless your plan is to ask him in person."

She instantly regretted her words, and her face showed it. She backed up to leave his office before the tirade she feared could really start going with the hurricane-force energy that she knew he was capable of producing.

 

[only_more_so]

"Nick, that poison isn't going to help you find your brother's killer. Unless your plan is to ask him in person."

The words burned into Nick's heart. No matter how well deserved, the rebuke was a sharp slap in the face. Nick had been slapped by many a dame, but none of them stung as much as this truth.

He'd pounded the streets for two weeks solid. He'd rousted every wino and two-bit hood within five blocks of Tim's murder, but no one had heard nothing. Staying out until even the slimiest of crooks turned in, Nick still couldn't stop looking. At first he tried catching a few winks on the office couch, but half heard noises and fully seen nightmares would wake him.

Finally he turned to the bottle. At first just to get to sleep, but eventually just to face being awake. Being a cop for more than a dozen years, he'd always been familar with bottled refuge, but this bottle seemed to have slicker sides than most. He was like a fly in a syrup trap, about to drown in what had been sustaining him.

"Angela, doll, don't..." He wanted to tell her not to leave. He wanted her to hold him like before his brother's murder, back when they were... well more than associates. Back before Kitty Karmel, the burlesque dancer had left an appreciative lipstick stain on his collar, as a bonus on her case. Nick had been on the way with flowers to try to explain to Angela, again, when the blue boys had seen him walking, and told him about his brother.

Besides, Angela's embrace would only trade on refuge for another. And that sort of refuge cost more than a greasy dollar bill. She was a good kid, and didn't deserve to be used in that way. Maybe Kitty would help. No, he hadn't sunk to that level quite yet.

When he'd spoken Angela had stopped walking out of the office. She waited a moment while his slowed thoughts replaced what he wanted to say with what he should say. He could see the concern in her eyes, and the faint glimmer of hope shining through the disappointment she couldn't quite conceal.

"You're right to be disappointed in me," Nick said. He paused for a moment before continuing, "and thanks for reminding me. You're better than I deserve, better than my brother and I deserved before. Without you this ship would have capsized a long time ago. I'll try not to disappoint you anymore."

He even managed to smile a bit when he said that last part.

 

[shadowoftheheart]

"Angela, doll, don't..."

She stopped, looking at him. The look in his eyes, sodden though they were with bourbon, was one she hadn't seen in more than a month .. Because she hadn't looked for it. It was unavoidable now, and Angela felt her gut twist. What he had done had hurt .. and the only way Angela had been able to get over and past it was throwing herself into her work. Now .. it had gone on long enough that she was afraid of letting that go. Her work was a comfort to her, stimulation and engagement, even if it didn't carry the same kind of intensity of excitement that Nick offered.

Even so ... that look told her there might be some way to .. pull Nick out of his current spiral. Maybe. Just maybe.

"You're right to be disappointed in me," Nick said. He paused for a moment before continuing, "and thanks for reminding me. You're better than I deserve, better than my brother and I deserved before. Without you this ship would have capsized a long time ago. I'll try not to disappoint you anymore."

Nick smiled, and Angela shrugged, her face suddenly all business again.

"Boss, that's what you hired me for. To keep this place afloat. And ... you didn't dissapoint me," she lied, "so ... don't worry. I'm ... I'm sure you will find a lead in those files. And we'll get a client soon. I can feel it."

Without another word, and to hide the mist that had begun to cloud her eyes, she spun around and strode out of Nick's office with far more confidence than she felt. She sat down, blinking, and began belting out a report on the typewriter, the force and effort of hitting the keys and the satisfying sound of the arms strriking the ribbon, punching ink bruises into the virgin white skin of the paper, took her mind off of her frustrations and lingering anger, that she had only briefly let go, had only briefly allowed hope to submerge....

 

[sharingfantasies]

House of S.A. Mason

Serena stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. Her brown sable hair flowed down her back as she shifted and wiggled on the leather chair. There was a knock at the door and her green eyes narrowed as she wondered what person dared to tap at this late hour.

"Come," she commanded irritably. She was due in one hour to be at one of London's most prestigious events of the year and she hadn't started getting ready.

Her door opened and Tonya Thomas poked her head in carefully, stuttering slightly. "There is a phone call ma'am for S. A. Mason and they said it was urgent. I told them he wasn't here but they insisted on talking to someone with some authority. I am sorry to bother you but I didn't know what else to do since it was urgent."

Serena took a deep breath and released it slowly, it wasn't Tonya's fault that Serena was in a bad mood. Tonya was just a member of the typing pool, and had probably been recruited by the receptionist to man the phones for a few minutes.

"I will take the call, Tonya, thank you. Just put it through to my office. Oh, and Tonya, you may call me Serena, Lady Serena, Lady Mason, or Miss Mason, but do not ever call me ma'am. It makes me feel as if I am an old biddy."

Tonya's eyes widened and she started to apologize, but Serena cut her off. "The phone call Tonya?"

As her door closed with a soft click, Serena smiled. She didn't mean to scare the employess, but sometimes it was sort of fun to get a reaction from them. Serena waited for the second ring before picking up her phone.

"Serena Mason, may I help you?" Serena listened to the sound of the man's voice, there was a hint of arrogance in his voice as if people should jump to fill his needs. She sat back in her chair, and waited until the man took a breath.

"Yes, Mason Imports deals in art from all over the world, but I fail to see what the urgency is in this call. You told the receptionist that this was an emergency, and finding you a small Matisse painting is certainly not an emergency. Why don't you call back tomorrow during regular business hours and one of the customer service people can assist you with your painting?"

Serena's lips tightened as she continued to listen to the American. She was already out of patience and while she wouldn't mind having the man's business, she was not about to be more than fashionably late to the Winter Ball at Buckingham Palace.

"Yes, Sir, I understand that you feel you "NEED" this painting immediately. However, that is a very rare painting as I am sure you know, and it will take some time to see if the current owner would be willing to part with it. Again, if you call in the morning and give your business information, I assure you that Mason Exports will do its best to acquire the painting for you. Thank you for calling."

Serena didn't bother to listen to the man's protests as she hung up. Americans were rude at best and rich Americans were obnoxious. Standing up she walked to the small door at the back of the huge office. Once through the door, Serena smiled, relaxing as she shed her business clothes and began to run the water into the large tub. The black marble tub and ivory handled fixtures never failed to soothe her. She glanced at the ornate Swiss clock on the wall and calculated her available time. She had time for a twenty minute soak, then to dress and head for her private rolls. Jake, the chauffeur had already been notified to pick her up in front of the building in 45 minutes.

It was time to make the transition from S.A.Mason, importer/exporter of rare items to Lady Serena Mason, society grand dame.