1949

12:00 PM

No one noticed the girl. It was understandable-- the office was swamped, justice was being served, the general hubbub of New York City was leaking in through the open windows along with the hot summer air, and no one noticed the girl. Ashley might have, if he'd been doing his job as opposed to letting the burn of his whiskey like fire down his throat lull him into something of a moment's peace. He supposed as long as the city was still bursting at the seams with crime he wouldn't get fired, and nothing had proven him wrong thus far.

It was a quick walk at a brisk pace from his office down to the entrance, just fast enough to intercept Richard on the way in. "And where've you been, Smith? I've been watching the paint dry on my office wall waiting for your slow ass to show up." It was harmless jabbing, and Richard had been at his side long enough to know it. The man mustered up a cocky grin and the tip of his hat.

"It was the Missus, Gallagher, I swear," His hands went up in mock surrender. "Couldn't keep her hands off for a moment."

"She will when you're broke and out of a job, Smith."

"What, you mean my charm and good looks wouldn't keep her at my side?"

"Not for a damn moment and you know that." Ashley tossed him a wink, "I'm taking my cigarette break, pal. Go waste more time I'll be up in a jiffy." Richard rolled his eyes, but complied, his shiny shoes and the flutter of his coat hooked over his shoulder the last Ashley saw of him as he turned the corner.

She had hair the color of night and eyes the color of summer grass, and he almost missed her entirely. He supposed it was poetic justice in one form or another that he was the one who finally spotted her- and on his damned smoke break, too. The cigarette was dangling between his lips, on the edge of being lit when she caught his eye like a small, dark, silhouette. She was small, seated in between two distracted bodies who dwarfed her in size. Anxiety rolled off her in mighty waves, the heel of her shoe tapping a staccato beat with no real rhythm but perhaps the pound of her own nervous heart. Her eyes met his and she startled as if she had been caught in the cream, her brows furrowing and her pale hands moving to draw the oversized trench coat further over her bare shoulders.

"Can I help you, miss?" He offered, hoping to God or whatever fool watching over them that her answer would be a prompt no so he could smoke his damn cigarette. The heavy man beside her grunted gruffly.

"I've been here hours longer than her!"

"Didn't your mama ever teach you 'ladies first'? And unless you've got a surprise for us all, that ain't you." Ashley fidgeted, pulling the lifeless cigarette from his lips and pointing it uselessly at the man. "Shut up and wait your damn turn." The woman stood and it dragged his attention back to her, an inquisitive brow raised.

"I... I'd like to speak with you." She murmured, almost so quiet he couldn't hear.

"Speak up, please or I'll move along."

She clenched her small fist and tried again. "I'd like to speak with you, and I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss me-- I'm sure you'll like what you hear." She had the faint touch of the New York accent that Ashley, no matter how long he lived in the damn city, would still find foreign to his ears.

"Well then little lady, if you'll just follow me we can have a nice chat in my office. I didn't want this anyway." He gazed regretfully at the cigarette in hand and tossed it into the nearest bin, offering a guiding hand at the woman's back as they made their way to the stairs.

Victoria Clark - Brooklyn
4:46 PM

Vicky wiped her hand against the taxicab's filthy, dust-molested window. New York wasn't going anywhere, but she was. Sooner or later, she'd be right in the thick of these unearthly skyscrapers and the clarity of the city's skyline would be gone. She'd seen places somewhat like this before -- Chicago, New Orleans, among others -- and they were always so mesmerizing to look at from the outside. It was once you found your way into the maze and rooted yourself into its reality that the city lost its appeal. The cab driver, a black man wearing a weathered fedora, hollered back. "...Like what you see?"

"Yes, yes," was all Vicky could offer him in response during her very short break from the hypnosis. She was under a spell.

It was easy to tell, though, that New York was nothing like the others. From here, it looked like someone had smashed Chicago, Houston, and Los Angeles into pieces and meticulously put them back together into one massive, meticulous sculpture. Vicky could hardly believe that she -- and this nameless taxi driver -- was headed straight toward it. She was here because she had managed to pull strings at her sorority house after graduation and found a place with the founder's niece.

In a sense, Vicky was tremendously proud of herself, but when she allowed her thoughts to be honest with themselves, she hadn't the slightest idea of what to expect from this place. She was intelligent enough to know that the reality of New York City was masqueraded by its beauty, but she had not yet learned just how much was hiding behind its mesmerizing lights.

Manhattan, 6:29 PM

415. This was the one. Vicky set down her suitcase and banged on the door. She looked around at the grimy walls of the apartment hallway and grimaced. This explained why she had managed to afford an apartment on Manhattan Island at all. The building was pretty disgusting and they sat directly above a nightclub, and she could already tell it would gruesomely subtract from her beauty sleep. Neon lights bled into the room from the window at the end of the hall.

The door barely opened and a the face of a gorgeous albeit makeup-smothered woman wearing hair-curlers poked out. "What?"

"Are you...uh..." Vicky looked down at a piece of paper with Julia, room 415 scribbled onto it. "...Julia?"

The woman narrowed her eyes and further opened the door. "Uh huh...and you're Vicky?"

Vicky looked down at the floor. "That...would be me."

"Come in," Julia said. The girl, to Vicky's surprise, was in some sort of sparkly underwear and looked to be in the middle of getting ready for something. The pure splendor of it juxtaposed the apartment, which was about as ugly and decrepit as Vicky had feared.

"It's not much, but it's Manhattan. With luck, you won't be spending much time in here at all," said Julia as she winked back at Vicky. The living room, which the door entered into, was small, but had a single couch, a small television, and a large window with a neon-tinted view of the street below. Julia pointed at an open door. "That's yours."

Vicky nodded her head thankfully and said nothing else. She departed into her new room and looked around. It was empty. There was a bed, standing lamp, a desk, and literally nothing else. She tossed her suitcase onto the mattress and its steel supports clanged against its impact. She sat down and stared out her minuscule window. Vicky couldn't see jack shit out of the glass. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and rubbed against the window. Nothing. It was if the grime had encrusted onto the window. She hollered back into the living room. "I can't see the city in the dust on my window!"

Her future roommate hollered back. "Well? What do you want me to do?"

Vicky sighed and closed the door. She let her bodyweight fall onto the bed. She was so unbelievably tired that even the unopposed neon from the outside could not keep her from drifting into sleep.

Jack Townley - Teddy's Diner, Manhattan
6:14 PM

"Can I get you anything else?"

Jack stared down at his salvation. A massive double-decker cheeseburger sat in front of him, flanked by a skyscraper-tall chocolate milkshake. There sat a monstrously hungry Jack and his burger -- predator and prey. He shook his head. "I have everything I need." He immediately dug into his food. A fusion of ketchup, mustard, and cheese escaped his lips and messily smeared all over his chin.

The rather cute waitress had not left. "You've got ketchup on your face."

Jack grumbled as he downed the massive mouthful of cheeseburger. He grabbed his napkin, slowly wiped off his face, and then set it back onto the table with delicate execution. He said nothing. He adored this place. He had seen the diner while on an evening stroll and purchased it in cash the next day. That was the hallmark of Jack Townley's sway. This city was his playground.

"Did you see who the Times thinks is responsible for the Maldonado murder?"

"Who?"

"Jack Townley. The guy who owns this place. People will tell you he owns most of New York, actually."

Brilliant -- this woman had no idea who he was. She was trying to fuck his alter ego by making small talk about his real identity. He nearly spit out his food in response, but managed to keep a straight face and narrowed his eyes. "I doubt it."

"Why?"

"He just doesn't seem like the type."

1:00 PM

Let it be said that Ashley Gallagher was a patient man, but he was by no means a saint. The woman had sauntered into his office, a flurry of purpose and promised information, but it had been half an hour based solely on how pissed off he was becoming and she hadn't said a word. She seemed perfectly content to simply mill about his office like a caged animal, looking timidly behind every corner as if something were lurking and ready to pounce. He decided to start simple. "What's your name?" It had its desired effect. She snapped to attention almost immediately, her actions once awkward and timid now languid and comfortable, as if she had donned a gilded mask. She seated herself atop his desk, across from him.

"People call me Emerald." She murmured, toying with the finger of her glove.

"Of course they do." He was a detective. He had not failed to notice the varying qualities of her that all pointed in the same direction and that was, unsurprisingly, the seedy club on the seedy street that only occupied his time, regrettably, when he was working. It had become painfully apparent when she had shucked her coat and stood in front of him in scant enough to be proper. "You said you had information for me, Emerald. Now I'm a detective and I'm here to help, but if you're just here to waste my time I'll be a very angry detective."

"I do," She paused, "Have information that is. I'm just figuring out if you're the person I want to share it with."

"By all means, take your time. Pat me down, give me a survey while you're at it. It's not as if I spend my days fighting the crime that plagues this very city each and every moment of each and every day." He punctuated his sentence with the flick of a cigarette because, regardless of Richard's qualms with him smoking in their mutual office, he couldn't give a damn.

Her painted lips curled up into a half-cocked smirk. "You're a funny one, then. Color me surprised. I thought all of you were the same."

"All of you, huh? And you expect I have, what," He spread his hands. "No preconceptions about your choice in career path?"

"I'm sure you do, whether or not I care is a different question."

"-Hey, what's your game here? You come in looking 'bout as small as a mouse with the timidity to match and now here you are acting like you own the place. I have to be honest I'm not sure what you want from me and it's getting on my nerves.“

“Would you have honestly addressed my problems first if I hadn’t been wearing that ‘little old me’ persona?”

He exhaled a gust of smoke in response. “Touché. You still haven’t told me why you’re here so the way I see it, you’re still wasting my precious time.”

“You seem trustworthy enough, I suppose. What if I told you I had information on one of your three big bad gangs playing cowboys and indians on your turf?” She turned her back on him, “You do consider it your turf, right? Adorable.”

“Now don’t play me for a fool. Everyone knows who owns this town, sweetheart, and it certainly ain’t me. Now what do you have?” He kept the eager tinge out of his voice to the best of his ability, taking a long drag from his cigarette to calm his sudden leap of heart.

“The Townleys? Ever heard of them?”

“Of course. You’re leading me on, darling. Throw me a bone.”

She turned to grin at him. “Woof.” At his disparaging look she rolled her green eyes with great effort and hopped off his table, spinning to splay her hands atop its edge as if to emphasize her point. “The bar I dance at? They own the place. And let it be said my boss has a looser tongue than some of the girls there.” Her wink and entendre were not lost on him, but she continued. “If you were to… I don’t know, pay a visit every once in a while, perhaps once a week? Less? I’d make it worth your while.”

Ashley tapped his cigarette on the edge of his ash-tray, effectively sitting on the very edge of his metaphorical and literal seat. She was dragging him along and he was happily letting her. “Why can’t you just bring the information here, darling? That’s quite a walk.”

“It would be very suspicious if one of the dancers at a mob-owned bar made regular trips to the Police Station. Now, if a weary, not-so-handsome cop were to stop by the bar and look for a little beautiful company, who could blame him?”

“You’d make a fair point if it was less contemptuous.”

“Oh don’t lie, it’s the best offer you’ve gotten in quite a while. I couldn’t help but notice how busy you cats are these days.”

“Yeah, yeah. And what do you get out of it?”

“Let’s just say my pure little heart would just be tickled to help out the community.”

It was in that moment that Ashley Gallagher, Vice Detective of the NYPD, wished that he’d just taken the smoke break.

Jack Townley - "Townley Tower", Manhattan
10:47 PM

When a person manages to score a penthouse on the top floor of one of the most beautiful buildings in the western hemisphere, the legitimacy of stepping outside at all simply disintegrates. Jack Townley had irresponsibly spent a huge slab of the Townley Crime Family’s fortune to buy himself a 38-story temple in the middle of Manhattan Island. For a man whose lifeline was his subtlety and unparalleled cunning, this was sloppy. Specifics, though, mattered very little to him when he looked out across his sprawling view of New York. His enjoyment of the imagery was not necessarily one of pure beauty and splendor; rather, it was a constant confirmation of his power. Look at all of this. It is mine.

Jack pressed one hand against the glass which lined his ridiculously large bedroom-slash-office and lit the cigar dangling from his mouth with the other. He wasn’t truly ready to bid farewell to his time on the mountaintop. The other families—The Simones and Vallarios—hated him so passionately that they had put aside their rivalry and were now working together to uproot him. Jack had the high ground, but in this world, everything was finite. He knew well that it would not last unless he did something drastic to ensure that everything remained off-balance.

The telephone on Jack's desk rang. He groaned and shuffled over to the ‘office’ portion of his room, cigar still in his mouth, and answered.

“Is this the office of Mr. Townley?" asked a monotonous female voice on the phone.

“There are a lot of those. You need to be specific.”

“Jack…?”

“Yes.”

“Alistair Simone wishes to meet with him. Can you check Mr. Townley’s availability?” murmured the woman on the phone.

“I will need to check his books. Please hold.” Jack put down the phone on the desk, folded his arms, and took a deep breath. Alistair Simone? The fuck does he want? The thought of sitting face-to-face with the figurehead of his sworn enemy was irresistible, though. The rest of the Townleys would be appalled by such a decision. Good. “He is available in an hour.”

“Very good. He can meet Mr. Simone at the Cappocci.”

“Queens? I…he will not agree to meeting in Simone Family territory.”

“Very well. Perhaps he would be more comfortable on Staten Island, then? The Spectacle Club.” The woman was very noticeably avoiding the prospect of meeting in Manhattan.

“Right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Townley,” said the secretary on the line before she hung up.

She had known it was him all along. Jack gently placed the telephone back on the receiver before slowly shaking his head. A necessary prerequisite to this hermit-like phase of his was to fire his secretary and take his own calls. It was above all things annoying and unreliable, but Jack was in the midst of a puzzling era. Every step from here-on-out needed to be deliberate and carefully considered.

After a few moments of silence, Jack picked up the phone again. “Bring ‘round the car.”

Vicky Clark - Above the Carousel Club, Manhattan
1:08 AM

To Vicky’s dismay, that same psychedelic combination of neon from the outside still bombarded her room when she woke up. She groaned and rolled off the bed. She was still well into the night. After leaning against the side of her bed with her elbows, she finally managed to stand her drowsy body to its feet and stagger into the living room. The lights were out – Julia was gone, and now the living room had been plastered by orange lighting from the club’s sign below. Loud music vibrated onto the floorboards from the club below and rain began to coalesce onto the windows.

“Lovely,” muttered Vicky as she wandered into the living room. She fiddled with the television until she found something she could lose herself in – she settled for a broadcasted live jazz show. She wanted more than anything to go outside and scale the impossible structures of this place for herself. But, between the rain, her exhaustion, and the surrounding area, she decided to stay in. She would have to see it all tomorrow.

As the TV’s quiet drone of jazz washed over Vicky’s brain, she mindlessly braided her long, brown hair. She did not quite manage to finish before she sank into the couch and again fell asleep.

2:21 AM

“Hehe—shhh…” Julia’s alcohol-addled voice pitifully attempted a whisper. Vicky’s eyes opened and then immediately shut again, feigning sleep.

“What, baby?”

“Her. That’s my new roommate.” Julia pointed at the couch.

“Oh. Hmm.” Julia’s male companion paused to take a look at Vicky. “Looks like you've finally found yourself some competition Julie.”

Julia slapped him across the face and smirked. “You'll change your mind when you hear her talk. Come on.” She grabbed his hand and led him to her bedroom. There wasn’t even a delay before Vicky heard the details of intercourse reverberate from Julia’s room. She sat up, groaned, and wandered back over to her bedroom. Vicky’s room was directly next to Julia’s, and when she lay down on the bed, she realized that she could not only better hear them, but could feel the vibrations against the wall.

“Ugh!” Vicky leapt back out of bed and reached for her coat. She was already beginning to harbor resentment for the woman whom she shared her apartment with. She quickly bolted from the room and headed downstairs. A nightgown reinforced by a coat was a rather foolish choice for the rainy, rambunctious road outside, but she had come to New York to start over. She was going to wear whatever she wanted. She wandered alone down the sidewalk.

The lights, the noise, the smell…all of it – Vicky was almost overwhelmed as she walked around. Still, she pressed on, sifting through crowds of drunk, jacketed, fedora-donning men and trying to internalize her new home as much she was able. She settled on a bench a few blocks away and sat. Her hair and jacket were now soaked and she looked the part of a prostitute as she sat there in her nightgown alone in the dark. She knew what she looked like and she cared little. This place was what she wanted. She could feel it in her bones.

"Emerald" - The Carousel Club, Manhattan
1:30 AM

Friends, or she supposed people she was acquainted with as she didn't often bother with friends, occasionally asked her what drew her to the stage. Was it the money? Was it the attention? Was it a last ditch effort for hope in the kind of city that despite the lights, flash, and pomp still suffocates you slowly with its heady, heavy weight? It was always asked with a sick sort of superior sympathy, as if she was something to be pitied. Truth was, it was none of these things. She got on the stage because it felt like power. She could stand in a room filled wall to wall with authorities, mobsters, cops and anything in between and she could control the room with nothing more than the languid movement of her body.

Tonight was no different. Emerald stared out at the sea of faces, directed at her or otherwise, and put on her best smile, pretending to hold no knowledge of the mighty web of crime being spun before her eyes in thick, black pitch.

When it was over and she was backstage, she ignored the empty green eyes of a lost soul that gazed back at her from the lit up mirror and curled her painted lips into a private smile for the woman seated next to her.

“You were great out there Em, it seems like every night’s your best.” Emerald was two years Angel’s senior, but one would think ten by the looks of her. She was a lanky thing with pale skin, dark eyes and just enough to shake it on stage, her wispy blonde hair in a wild flight about her face.

The day she walked into the club looking like a smear of white paint on a canvas of blood and grime she had caught Emerald’s fond eye. The girl was sweet and so Emerald allowed herself to take pity on her, and take her underneath her wing. “Why thanks, sweetheart, though I wouldn’t say it was my best. I’ve been dreadfully distracted lately.”

The small voice responded. “I’m sure no one noticed.” Angel fidgeted, twisting her hands into the frill of her own fluffy skirts with her lips pressed tightly together.

“Spit it out dear, you look like you’ve swallowed a nasty bug.”

“Well it’s just that… I saw you at the police station yesterday.”

Emerald resisted the urge to roll her eyes back with the flutter of her thick lashes before speaking. “A private call, I assure you. I’m a favorite among New York’s finest. Who would have thought?” She kept her eyes on her reflection, leaning forward to feign dalliance with her makeup.

“Oh.” It was a moment before she spoke again. “I didn’t know that you—.”

Emerald was quick to interrupt her. “—It’s none of your damn business if I do, sweetheart.” There were only a handful of ways a woman could make decent money in this city without working herself to the bone, so why not take full advantage of the gifts she’d been given?

“Right.” Emerald’s gaze flickered to the girl to watch her tawny eyes drift to the side. “I just… this is the only job I have and if the club closes down because of the cops I don’t think I could ever…”

Her guilt trips were easily overlooked and Emerald filed this conversation away for later inspection. Angel was pushing today and she was not truly sure why. The girl hardly ever questioned Emerald’s motives or actions. “It won’t close down because of my visits to the station— in fact if anything I’m securing our place in the heart of our dear protectors.”

This finally got her a smile out of Angel, which were few and far between. She ignored the small swell in her heart and abruptly stood, shrugging into her trench coat and hefting her bag over her shoulder. “That was my last dance of the night, I’ll be making my way home. Stay out of trouble, dearest.” She tossed a wink in Angel’s direction and was out the door before she could hear the response.

2:21 AM

The rain and the crowd of people on the sidewalk that greeted her upon her exit did little to temper her foul mood. She shoved through men and women alike, focusing her gaze on the brilliant colors of red and purple emitting from the club’s signs and dancing upon the shiny puddles. She almost missed the girl at the bench. She stopped her brisk pace and looked the woman over. Her state and choice of clothing made Emerald’s first guess a tart, but a lowly one with poor taste in attractive colors.

Emerald was intrigued, and that was really the only explanation she could think of when she later asked herself why the hell she didn’t just move on. “Mind if I sit, sugar?”

Victoria Clark - Outside the Carousel Club
2:26 AM

Vic shivered against the damp bench. Various creatures of the night pranced past her – businessmen, finally letting loose the penned horrors that rested inside them; sirens, who were no doubt here to craft said horrors into profit; and the onlooking spectators, who wished more than anything that they could leave the day behind and join the carnival themselves. There was a nightlife back at home, sure – but never like this. People went out to take the edge off, not completely lose themselves and viciously toss their cash at self-gratification.

A siren brushed past the crowd. She looked different than the others. Her mind did not seem to be warped by an agenda. Instead, she looked the part of a wanderer; this was anything but profitable, but Vic understood. What Vic did not understand was the sudden shift in gaze by this spectacle of a girl. The siren’s eyes pierced Vic’s gaze and dominated their mutual eye-contact. Before Vic could make anything of it, the woman walked over to her personal space and immediately set it ablaze.

“Mind if I sit, sugar?”

Huh. What the hell would a lady of the night want from her? Vic shivered and slightly nodded. “S-sure.”

"Emerald" - Outside the Carousel Club
2:28 AM

Emerald nodded towards the seemingly intimidated girl and gracefully lowered herself to the bench, ignoring the cold, clingy feeling of rainwater seeping into the seat of her old trench coat. She stole guilty, lingering looks at the girl beside her, somehow fascinated by the purely depicted cleanliness on such a grimy street. There was a moment of silence, of which the culprit was most likely Emerald as she watched there variety of entertainment around them. Her personal favorite spectacles were the drunks, the stumblers still humming or even flat-out singing the remnants of a long quieted song, shimmying and swaying in that giddy, uncoordinated dance that she couldn't help but admire. What courage it must take, what dumb courage, to leave yourself so vulnerable to the terrible world around you and nonetheless sing as if you hadn't a care in the world.

Her curiosity overcame her. "What brings you to these parts, huh? You look like a white rose in a field of weeds, sweetheart." She reached for a cigarette and stuck it between her lips. "Mind if I smoke?" She said, speaking around it.

Ashley Gallagher - Gilded Heights Apartment Complex, Room #67
2:30 PM

The ceiling fan made its rounds, each swing making a hideous squeak and obscuring the small crack in the plaster from view. Ashley Gallagher of two years ago would be sleeping soundly, sans the set up of whiskey at his bedside table. Ashley Gallagher of today, however was watching a damn ceiling fan, his bedsheets strewn haphazardly about him and his mind still reeling with the last grasps of the nightmare that plagued him not twenty minutes prior.

He blamed it on the heat. The thick, clinging heat that stuck in beads of sweat to the back of his neck. Even with the window open, the soothing noise of general city nightlife filtering in, the lights painting his ceiling in a collection of golds and blues, peace would not find him. Ashley held his breath, releasing it only after a few beats in a strong puff, the only thing that might settle his nerves enough to let him drift into sleep once more.

It was always her. The face in his dreams. Her cool, rainy-sky eyes that perceived him with a warmth he couldn't understand or share. Her soft smile or her upturned palms, invitations. The tall grass swaying around their hips in a steady dance that even the strongest of hearts couldn't deny. It was always the blood that pooled between her fingers, spilling between them even as he tried to catch it in his own. "Hold on." He'd beg, but it wouldn't be enough. It was never enough that the world could bring a strong man to his knees in despair-- it always wanted more. He'd cradle her head in his lap, running his calloused fingers through her blood caked, thin strands of hair. It was too much.

And with that thought he sat up, reaching instinctively for the glass next to him and pouring himself some of the amber liquid he so heavily depended on. The dreams? They were a lot, but he could drink more, and within the hour he felt himself dozing into something of a rest, his mind slowing from its mile-a-minute pace to an inching sort of crawl.

Victoria Clark - Outside the Carousel Club, Manhattan
2:30 AM

Vic shivered and barely acknowledged Emerald. She slowly kicked her feet against the ground, aimlessly trying to distract her ample brain from all of the grotesque spectacle.

"I'm here because I was told that this was the best place in the world." She finally looked up and scanned the mesmerizing neon signs above. "This is nothing like where I am from." Nothing about this shiny, booze-soaked amalgamation even remotely resembled home. Her mind repeatedly hovered back-and-forth between homesickness and wonder. It was far too early to miss home -- it was only her first day. Pull it together.

Victoria finally stared the lady of the night square in the face and gave a half-smile. "As long as you have one for me."

"Emerald" - Outside the Carousel Club
2:31 AM

Oh. She was one of those. Emerald let out a billow of smoke with her cynical chuckle. She said nothing, she simply draped a sympathetic look over the girl, her rouged lips pursing around the cigarette. Finally she plucked another out from the shiny metal case, offering it to her companion.

"Never is, sweetheart." She admitted after a moments thought. "Sometimes its better, sometimes its worse." Emerald offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though she was sure it appeared as mirthless as it felt. "You find the things that make it work. There's always a way out of every situation, don't let anyone tell you different." She paused a moment to take a long, lingering drag from her cigarette. "Where are you from?"

Victoria Clark - Outside the Carousel Club
2:31 AM

Vicky plopped the cigarette into her mouth and asked the pivotal question in muffled speech. "Got a light?" She had hardly ever smoked during her youth, but she had to perpetuate a new aura around her if she was ever going to be able to take herself seriously. "My name's Vicky," she said, cigarette dangling from her lips. "I'm from Baker City. Oregon. Long, long way from here."

As she waited for a light, she folded her arms and began to stare at the fedora-topped sea of nightclub vagrants. It was a spectacle to watch the nightlife from the outside, and she couldn't tangibly comprehend what it would be like to be on the inside. Perhaps this woman knew. "Do you work here?"

"Emerald" - Outside the Carousel Club
2:31 AM

Emerald grinned, pulling out her lighter and striking it up below the woman's cigarette. "It's a real pleasure, Vicky. I go by Emerald." She gave the girl a cheeky wink before withdrawing the lighter. "Oregon is a long, long way from here, darling. What brought you to this shithole? Was it the pretty lights?" She pinned her own cigarette between two fingers and drew it away, exhaling a pretty gust of smoke from her lips.

She gestured vaguely towards the Club. "Yeah, I dance here. It's a living." Emerald paused, eyes lifting briefly to the sky with an accompaniment of fluttering eyelashes. The rain had slowed to a small drizzle. "Why, you looking for work?"

Vicky Clark - Outside the Carousel Club
2:32 AM

Vicky let the singed cigarette hang in her mouth for a few moments before letting out the smoke. She had only done this a few times -- a few fleeting, exhilarating moments in which she felt like she was domesticating her spirit and truly getting 'something' out of her youth. Then reality returned and she was reminded by her peers that she needn't waste her time on such petty existentialism -- she needed to be presentable so that she could find herself a man. Bah. She'd had a sweetheart for a little while, and at no point had he ever been the solution to her problems.

At that, Victoria hit the cigarette again. "I came here because I'd seen all there was to see. You run out of youth at a very young age in a place like that." She paused and stared the woman straight in the face. She couldn't tell whether or not 'Emerald' was complimenting her with her job offer. "N-no. I am all right, thanks. I was thinking about applying to be a secretary at the police station down the road a bit."

"Emerald" - Outside the Carousel Club
2:33 AM

Emerald nodded slowly. A secretary at the police station. She had already made her limit of friends at the police station and had no interest in any more ties to the place. She stood, wrapping her arms around herself as the wet chill finally made itself noticeable. A damp walk home it was. "It has been a real pleasure... Vicky, was it? Maybe we'll see each other on the street sometime," Unlikely. "And hey, if you see a fella by the name of Gallagher at your little police station will you tell him to stop by? I'm feeling awfully lonely."

She tapped out into the street, turning back and shielding her eyes from the rain with a forearm as she waved her farewell. "Don't 'run out of your youth' too soon, you hear?" And with that she was off into the night, beginning her long, solitary walk home.

Ashley Gallagher - Gilded Heights Apartment Complex, Room #67
7:00 AM

Ashley Gallagher started the new day with a spring in his step and a weight in his chest. He didn’t bother trying to discern whether said weight was an emotional one or a heart attack— With his health habits and daily activities it was probably both. He helped himself to a portion of cold eggs and bitter coffee, letting the morning sun filter in through the open window and illuminate the headline of the fresh newspaper in his hands.

He considered a lot of things. First and foremost the pile of week old dirty dishes in his sink, and then the thick line of gunk in his current coffee mug that he was trying desperately to ignore. He also considered Emerald. He fancied he might pay her a visit today, get some actual leads to follow instead of the bullshit he’d been toying around with all week. Smith would be happy with him, that was for sure. He also considered the fact that she might be playing him like a fiddle— and that when he got there it wouldn’t be red lips, and secrets, but Townley himself and the entire fucking brigade there to riddle him with bullet holes and turn him to swiss cheese.

Ashley took a contemplative bite of his eggs and came to the conclusion that he didn’t much like eggs. They were too rubbery, too yellow. And regardless, he needed to make his way down to the Station.

Police Station
8:00 AM

“Gallagher! Hey pal, where’ve you been all night? Did you decide to go home and actually get some sleep for a change?”

Ashley spoke around his unlit cigarette, wearing his usual grin for Smith and putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Shoot me, I was tired.”

“Nah, pal, you look great! Your hair is combed, the bags under your eyes are gone, you’re a completely new person, Gallagher.— Is it a woman?” Smith tucked his thumbs into his suspenders, his eyes following the early-morning influx of people entering the station.

Ashley explored this idea for a moment, but eventually came up in the negative. The tart was not to blame for his newfound care— what was wrong with a man just being god damned tired? “Maybe the reason I don’t get no fuckin’ sleep is because you pester me when I do?”

Smith smirked, snapping the suspenders and making a move towards the stairs. “That wasn’t a no.”

Ashley followed him, running a hand through his hair. “Wasn’t a damned yes either.” He made a last-ditch effort to change the subject. “How’s the Missus?”

“Oh, you know, ‘Smith you work too hard and too late, you have to be there for us, you put yourself in danger every day why can’t you just put us first for once?’” His voice climbed an octave in mockery, but a shadow passed over his face.

“Ouch, that already?”

“Can’t hate her for caring I guess.” Smith gave a noncommittal shrug that in no way summed up what Ashley suspected were his actual feelings about the issue.

Ashley swung the door to their shared office open, holding it out for Smith to enter. The last thing he expected was the Chief Detective's hand catching the door before he could shut it. "Gallagher, Smith. I've got a case for you."