sadfreezingbrit_archive | one old bookshop [20/??? artefacts collected]

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one old bookshop [20/??? artefacts collected]

As the dust settled on a stack of yellowed magazines I remembered why I had learned to love the silence. Silence was all I had left now. Silence and books that were never bought, a telephone that never rang.

Every day I would pour myself a cup of coffee, sit behind the counter and read the paper. Later I would do inventory and I would stop near the grimy mirror in the corner and look for a familiar face that never showed.

I would dutifully wait for a customer or two and at the end of the day I would grab the old broom and sweep the floor. Every day I would wipe the counter and every time I would wash my hands before closing and wonder if I would ever stop smelling the blood.

Then, after every burning sunset, I would lock the store and for my own benefit I would pause for a moment and fake disappointment and surprise at yet another day without sales gone by.

In a city that was bustling with life at every corner my little shop was only a relict; dead and long forgotten. We had that much in common at least.

Outside the noise of the morning traffic slowly died down like a drizzle of summer rain. I grabbed my cup and the paper and sat down behind the counter. Today, I thought, would be just like any other day.

[ OOC: Information on noir!Philip is here. All threads take place before his encounter with Dean, unless somebody wants to play medic. ]

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There wasn't a single drop of sweat on my brow and yet I felt my whole facade melting away. Dean Winchester sometimes had that effect on people, even before breaking out the chives.

"'Fraid not, sir. My only friends here are Dickens and Wilde."

Smith and Wesson I neglected to mention, but I had a hunch that one of us would introduce them soon enough. I had another hunch that it would be me.

Everyone had a tell, not just in poker. His tell was the distinct lack of bullet holes in my suit. He could have waltzed in here with a dozen loogans and turned the place into a Swiss cheese shop in a matter of seconds.

But he didn't and I was still standing and he was still talking, which could only mean this was more than your average morning pop for revenge. And I had one last hunch that his visit wouldn't turn into a jolly reunion party.

"Let me just get a bag for you then..."

My hand slid under the counter. I'd played the rat before, but I wasn't about to become the mouse in his game.

I ground out the end of my cigarette on top of Othello, flicking it over the edge.

"Yeah, that'd be jake."

It was true enough that I wasn't just there to jaw about the weather. Clarence started moving to ring me up, and I knew he was reaching for some kind of bean-shooter; if he didn't still have his old Smith and Wesson P.38 with him, I'd eat my goddamn hat. I knew his style.

I decided to introduce a persuasive friend of my own: the .45 caliber Colt 1911, who'd been known to make rather convincing arguments. With its handle resting on the counter, I cocked the roscoe.

"Grab air, Clarence, nice and slow." I gestured with the barrel that he keep his mitts where I could see them. "Like Wilde said, a true friend stabs you in the front."

My finger was already on the revolver's grip, but it was too little too late. I cursed myself for taking my sweet time to make a move. Now all I could do was play along.

"Wh-- What are you talking about?"

I noticed with an odd sense of pride that the violation of old William's classic stung. With my hands trembling in the air I was really living the role. Heck, I expected my inner monologue to burst into terrified rambling any second now.

"Take the money, take-- Take everything, just please, p-please just don't kill me, don't kill me!"

For an instant, I had my doubts. Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree. Maybe my goons had made a mistake. It wouldn't be the first time. But when I put the wire on Clarence and had him tracked, I knew I'd chosen the right torpedoes for the job.

For a trigger man, the guy was a sure-fine actor. But all I needed to do was tighten the screws.

"Rubbin' you out ain't on the to-do list," I growled, "Ankle over to your door and lock it. You're closin' shop early today."

"Y-yes, sir. Of course, sir."

I stumbled over to the door and turned away to hide my surprise. I thought his visit was all banter and a bump-off, but without the latter I found myself not wanting to take guesses on just what was going to take its place.

As the keys jiggled in my hand I idly wondered just how much of my dread was really show.

"There- there you go, it's- it's all-- All locked, sir."

I put my hands back up and let the keys slide off my finger, not looking down to watch them hit the floor.

Something was wrong, and it wasn't me. Clarence was too good at this. Too good at pretending. I didn't want to burn powder on the guy - I had plans. Then again, I didn't know how much good bumping gums with him would do.

I moved behind the counter because I had to make sure. A bruno doesn't just leave his gun behind even when he drops off the charts, and good pea-shooters are expensive.

There it was.

A Smith & Wesson P.38, fitted out with a walnut handle all the way from California. Yeah, it was his, all right. No one else would've shelled out that much dough for a grip that durable, except maybe me.

"You wanna stop screwin' around?"

I lifted the Walther up and snapped open the chamber, letting the lead fall to the floor.

"I know it's you, you sonuvabitch. No other dropper has a piece that nice."

"I don't know what you want."

Begging came easy. I'd been on the other end of this scenario too many times to count. Character study, I think is what the fine gents in Hollywood called it.

"Please, I-- I just--"

But when he grabbed my baby I felt the bile rising in my throat, almost too bitter to swallow. Nobody touches my baby.

"My name is Philip, Philip LaFresque, I only moved here from London a year ago, I-- I bought the gun from a pawn shop because I was told this was a bad neighbourhood, I didn't- I didn't know-- I can't even shoot the thing please, I-- Please just-- please don't hurt me just pleasepleaseplease don't hurt me."

As things stood my old friend had five rounds at his disposal and I had an infinite number of dry sobs. Somehow the advantage in quantity didn't give me much confidence.

Edited 2011-07-18 15:14 (UTC)

"If it ain't really yours, you won't mind me takin' it."

Snapping the chamber shut, I pocketed the gun. If I knew Clarence - and I knew him - he'd be antsy as Hell about somebody else getting their mitts on his Smith & Wesson. Sidling back around the counter, I holstered my Colt and sized him up.

"I'm tired of this monkey dance," I snapped. "Spill it, or somethin' of yours'll be spillin' all over the floor."

I didn't want to do it. Well, to some extent, I did. But knowing the why behind his scam after playing the sucker and getting nabbed by the feds...Dean Winchester wasn't anybody's patsy. I had him where I wanted him, and all that was left was the break.

"Please-- Please, I have no idea what- what you--"

The last sob died in my throat. The act had grown stale on my tongue and this was as good a chance as any.

Edited 2011-07-18 16:43 (UTC)

"...Ah, screw it."

I straightened myself. Granted, I could hardly tower over Dean, but I thought I might as well look the part.

He'd gone through a lot of trouble to meet his old pal and if that was what he wanted then who was I to refuse?

"See, you should've said goodnight when I set you up nice and easy, but now you're just gonna make this harder on yourself."

I smirked. Two guns and none of them drawn? Dean, Dean, Dean. Who was out of practice now?

"'Cause I figure one of us oughta rest in peace and if you won't let old Clarence have the honour, well..."

And just like that I disappeared behind the dusty shelves.

And there it was.

Just like that, he changed. The cringing, whining book shop owner was replaced by someone I knew better than the back of my hand, and he wasn't a sight for sore eyes. It only made me angrier.

People talk about seeing red when you're burned to high Heaven, but you never know what it's like 'til it happens to you.

I had better plans for Clarence than a couple slugs of lead in the noggin, and if he was ready to put up his dukes, I would have at him.

"I took the goddamn fall for you," I barked, moving around the far end of the first row of shelves and pushing at them. They swayed, cracked, and started batting over like dominoes.

"And you skipped out while I was under glass!"

"Thing with the law is they don't just let you off the hook unless you grease a few palms. Didn't have that kinda scratch back then, but somehow they figured you were a sweet bargain."

Hindsight is 20/20 and I should've booked it when I had the chance. But I was set on ending it right then and there in the small labyrinth of paper and dust I thought would give me all the advantage I needed.

"Kinda took me by surprise they only slammed you in the can for a little vacation, 'cause I'm pretty sure the plan was to make you lay low, somewhere 'round six feet under low."

Discretion was overrated. Maybe he already knew. Or maybe he was about to take the information to his grave.

"Guess if you want something done right you gotta do it yourself, huh?"

The dust whirled up and I whirled out of the way just in time.

"You break it, you buy it, pal!"

"You sonuvabitch!"

I didn't know. I'd had a feeling for a while that something was up, but I was so damn grateful to have someone at my back that the Easy Street route got a little too easy. A dormy dropper, maybe from the start, and I was suckered into it. I should've dry-gulched him when I had the chance.

The dust from the books started settling, and I decided that playing fair just wasn't going to cut it. Out came my Colt - if I had to fog him just to get him to stand still, I'd do it.

"How long?" I demanded, kicking down another shelf of books. The second row - the last row - toppled over. It ain't often I go off the tracks, but now was as good as any time.

"How fucking long, you slimy gink?"

I hoped to Hell it hadn't been from the start. I had a lot of enemies - Whatever high pillow wanted me rubbed out must've either paid Clarence a whole lotta good spinach, or played on a weakness. Clarence didn't have many of those, either.

But he would when I was through with him.

"Who knows? Weeks, years, couple months maybe. Guess it was just that kinda thing, you know? Wakin' up one day and bam it hits you that you're in it with a complete sucker."

First he blew my cover, now he kicked down my hideout. The shelves were falling fast and I almost didn't make it to the next.

But when I made it to the last I knew I'd won.

"I'd have pulled a quiet disappearance act, but I figured that'd only set you on my trail like some sorta sad dog still lookin' for his owner."

Hide and seek was one thing, but I came prepared. My little book shop had a little secret. And that secret was a door, leading into my special storage room where I was packing enough heat to get rid of my visitor once and for all and then some.

Old habits really did die hard and with Clarence hiding in my past it didn't do well to just rely on your luck.

"So what the hell, kill two birds with one stone, right?"

Which only worsened the taste of my luck turning sour.

"Only you don't know when to leave well enough alone."

As the last shelf fell I reached for the hidden door only to find it hopelessly stuck. With the next cover too far away the only thing standing between me and him now was the cloud of dust.

And even that wouldn't last very long.

Clarence sang to the fuzz like some kinda goddamn stool-pigeon. When the Hell had he stopped being the guy who had my back? He had dozens of chances to knock me off, and never took one. There had to be something else.

I was plumb-tired of hoping, and full of so much Hellfire I could've torn the guy's head off at the neck with my bare hands.

He wasn't lying about loyalties; I'd follow my friends to the edge of the goddamn map if they'd let me. I'd die for 'em, but I wouldn't die by 'em, and giving Clarence the third degree wasn't getting me anywhere.

The dust cleared.

But now I had him cornered, and he knew it. Turns out the only real friend I had was my gun.

I cocked my friend.

My friend was an eloquent speaker, and he made two profound arguments: one in the door next to Clarence's head, shattering a splintered hole through the heavy wood, and the second in the bastard's shoulder. At this range, I wouldn't have been surprised if it went straight through.

Nothing like a little lead poisoning to put a damper on your day.

The damage on the door I could forgive. It'd let me down in the most crucial moment and I had every mind to take an axe to it myself. I flinched away from the shot and staggered.

But that was only half the story.

The other half hit my shoulder like a hot iron. It went clean through flesh, bones and time to a moment when I was still on his side. I was cheering and grinning, because now Dean had him. Shattering their good arm like that would do a number on anyone. Poor sucker.

Seconds later that grin was a grimace and reality had me back, at gunpoint at that. I bit my tongue, knowing the choice insults on it had too good a chance to turn into a pained groan. And I'd be damned if I just handed that treat to him on a silver plate.

I stowed the heat I was packing and took a leisurely stroll over to the perforated door. Setting my hat on the counter as I passed it, I loosened my tie, shrugged off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves. Crouched in front of Clarence, whose shoulder was blown to Hell, but at least it was a clean shot.

I gripped the fella's arm with my right mitt, digging a thumb into the bloody hole and catching Clarence around his neck and up under his chin with my left.

"Y'know," I started with a pretty fine humor, twisting my finger in the wound. "I didn't wanna hafta wreck the rest of you. But if you sit tight a spell then this won't be near as bad as it could be."

Because believe me, I'd entertained some notions.

"Son of aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!"

There it was, the scream so loud it even surprised myself. A tune like a sweet victory song for the bastard, no doubt.

A better man might've admired Dean's style, even said he'd earn that reward.

Me? I calmly steered off the high road and spat into the SOB's eye.

Edited 2011-07-18 20:49 (UTC)

The scream hit an octave usually reserved for calling dogs, but it was satisfying nonetheless. Music to my ears, and I wasn't even an opera critic. The only hitch in the minor victory was a nasty gob of saliva in my eye. Wiping it away with the back of my left hand, I dug my thumb in deeper.

"Watch it, buddy," I snarled, "Or I'll give you another hole to breathe through."

An empty threat compared to what I had in mind.

Clambering over Clarence and forcing his head down, my fingers wrapped around his pipes, I abandoned his shoulder in favor of a blade - a little shiv heavy with memories. He knew what it was.

He was the one who gave it to me.

Mouth agape I couldn't hear a single sound this time. Did the blood pumping in my ears drown it all out or did his hands choke off the music before it could play?

No matter, I figured. Some details were not important enough for any devil to pick as a hiding spot.

I reached up with the hand I could still move and wrapped my fingers around his arm. Only somewhere along the way did I forget what I'd meant to accomplish. My strength, I noticed, was flowing fast and red across the floor, mocking my earlier vows of tenacity.

It was then that I truly felt how our genre played us like a fiddle sometimes. How else could my inner monologue sport all those fancy details when in truth neither my mind nor my tongue had any inclination of forming even the most basic of words?

"Dhh... nnn..."

When I saw the knife I smiled. We'd always been artists, if given the right tools. Looking back I thanked my mind's haze for obscuring the identity of his next canvas at that moment.

His grip was weak. Fingers slipping on my arm with the greasy sweat of a traitor. As long as I gave him enough air to scream, that was fine by me. It meant he was still alive. I didn't have it in me to cut him down when I could leave him bent outta shape just like me.

"Hold still," I heard myself say, but there was a disconnect between my voice and my brain. I knew what I was doing, and I knew that I wanted it - more than anything. The scent of blood was thick in the air, made me feel gowed-up like a dope fiend on the big high.

Before I could think, I smiled back and slid the shiv into his left eye with the precision of a master surgeon. Easy flesh that gave and popped in an instant. A simple twitch of the knife was enough pull the bloody mass up and out, and I jerked it from his skull like I was plucking a ripe apple off a tree.

Payback was a bitch, and I enjoyed fucking her.

I thought I could turn the tables in my favour at the last second, but with one arm cold and stiff and another barely twitching I had to wonder what delusional corner of my brain that little mockery came from.

I thought the bullet wound was bad, that red-hot paralysing pain Dean's fingers pushed through my veins like hot irons. That was before my eye saw its last ever close-up, the shine of the sharp metal tip.

I thought of Hyde Park in winter, a blanket of snow and the dark city at night.

I thought of nothing whatsoever.

I sat back, flicking the dripping eye from my shiv and taking a gander at the mess I'd left behind. He didn't scream. He didn't do anything. For an instant I thought I'd killed him somehow, made a mistake in my anatomical calculations.

I still hadn't won.

The whole gist behind revenge wasn't just the violence - it was making somebody else feel your pain. If I couldn't do that with one measly turncoat, then I came out with nothing. But I was mulling too much. I got what I came for.

I wiped the knife off on Clarence's shirt before putting it away, and then leaned down to to smack his cheek.

"Hey. Iago. Shake a leg."

I almost asked him for ten more minutes when I remembered that I didn't just open my eyes on a lazy Sunday morning. And that was before realising that I didn't even open one of my eyes at all.

Back in the days I'd never passed the bottle around before taking a sip or a dozen and I'd sampled plenty of my wares quite generously. But none of that compared, nothing I remembered then or would ever remember felt quite like that briefest of moments after I came to and before I noticed what was missing.

The pain.

Like ripples from a stone in water I felt it coursing through my body, returning in shivers and growing like a noise coming in from the distance. Sirens and bells and screams, all approaching faster and louder and heavier until I thought I'd burst with it.

But even then it only came out a hoarse whine before my pale lips fell shut again.

I never gave fellas The Broderick nearly as often as I should've, and while this was satisfying and all, it just wasn't enough. The pain was there, sure, and I could tell by the way Clarence flinched that the recovery time would be a long road.

He made a sound like a wounded animal and fell silent again. Long as he was alive and left with the gift I'd given him, I was okay with that, for the time being. Taking a finger almost seemed to be bad sport at this rate, and nobody ever said I didn't play fair when it was called for.

...the percussion section must be playing a Benny Goodman big-band number in Clarence's head, though, judging by the expression on his face.

He wouldn't forget this anytime soon.

I stood and rolled down my sleeves, tightened the tie, and pulled my blazer back on. Hat settled on my head, I lit up a gasper and inhaled deeply, blowing smoke into the air.

"...See you around, Clarence."

I picked the keys up off the floor, swinging them and unlocking the front door. Chucking the bits of metal back at the counter, I tipped my lid and stepped outside.

Othello came along for the ride.

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