Some Rain Must Fall
Aug. 6th, 2005 01:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psubratChallenge code: 1BG15
Title: Some Rain Must Fall
Author: PSUbrat
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon and whomever else he sells them to, I’m just borrowing them for a while.
Description: This story is completely AU and set in 1928 Chicago. No vampires. No Slayers. Just lots of mobsters and Feds.
Author’s Note: This was written in response to the LJ community![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
watchersdiaries art-a-thon reversed challenge. I’d like to thank ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wings13, meko00 and gloryliberty for their help with my grammatical problems and eurydice72 for her honest opinions and betaing prowess.
Summary: It’s 1928 Chicago. Prohibition is at its height and mobsters Al Capone and Bugs Moran run the city, including the local law enforcement agencies. The Pratt kidnapping case is the last thing that private detective, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, expects to have come across his desk, but it does. Now he must deal with his past, which includes a young, feisty brunette name Faith Lehane and the murder of his wife, Winifred, in order to find the missing Buffy Pratt before it’s too late.
The art for this fic can be found here.
The incessant pounding on his office door roused Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, private detective, from his whiskey-induced stupor. “Who the bloody hell is it?” he demanded groggily as his eyes tried to adjust to the sunlight streaming cheerily into the small room. He’d forgotten to close the blinds before falling asleep at his desk last evening and now the light was bouncing off the empty liquor bottle, casting prisms over his face and arms.
“It’s me,” an English male voice stated gruffly. “Wesley, let me in right this instant. I need to talk to you.”
“Spike? What are you doing here?” His head hurt too much to lift it from the comfort of his arms folded on his desk. “Go away. I don’t wish to speak with you, you bastard.” The spiders that had woven their cobwebs in his head while he slumbered had obviously left the cottony taste in his mouth as well. All he wanted was to go back to sleep, to hide from the world that was beyond the safe confines of his office.
“That’s too bad. I don’t care how you feel about me,” the man growled as he threw open the heavy walnut door with a resounding slam and marched into the room. “I need your help.”
Wesley sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles and joints that came only with sleeping in the same position all night. He scrutinized the wiry built, blond who now stood before him. Usually Spike was impeccably dressed, but today his white oxford shirt and black pinstriped trousers bore a similar resemblance to Wesley’s rumpled state.
“Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you with whatever problem you have today. I’m simply much too busy.”
“Right,” the Treasury Agent asserted as he threw a manila folder across the desk. “I can see that by the lack of clients at your door at two o’clock in the afternoon, on a weekday no less. I said I need your help,” Spike growled again, leaning over the desk. “Believe me, if it wasn’t an emergency, I wouldn’t be here. Do you honestly think I’d willingly seek out the help of a drunkard who doesn’t care about anyone anymore, not even himself?”
“I’m not interested in your charity,” Wesley declared angrily, pushing the folder back across the desk surface towards Spike.
“This isn’t charity, you idiot!” Spike bellowed. “This is about Buffy. She’s been kidnapped.”
With the mention of Buffy’s name and the possibility of foul play, Wesley immediately sobered up. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. It’s about Buffy. She’s disappeared.”
With great interest, Wesley watched as Spike moved around the office, making himself busy by up righting an oak chair that was in his way. Wesley had trashed his office two nights ago after almost forgetting that it was the second anniversary of his wife’s death. He hadn’t been expecting any clients, or visitors for that matter, so he’d never gotten around to tidying up the place.
“Are you quite certain she’s missing?”
“She’s my wife, Wesley,” Spike said softly as he then went through the cupboards looking for the coffee beans. Upon finding them, he set about grinding a handful in order to make a fresh pot. “She didn’t come home last night after going to the theater with Cordelia Chase. I just know that something has happened to her.”
Wesley stared at William “Spike” Pratt and wondered if the desperate, pale look on the younger man’s face was similar to that of his own when his wife, Winifred, had been murdered. When the pot came to a boil, he watched Spike pour the black liquid into one of the many dirty porcelain mugs that were lying around.
“Do you have any leads?” He took the folder back and opened it, revealing Spike’s hastily scribbled notes and a picture of Buffy from last summer’s Regatta on the lake.
“None,” Spike said, slumping down in the chair in front of Wesley’s desk and handing him the cup. “Here, you look like you could use this. I couldn’t find any cream or sugar so you’ll just have to drink it black.”
“I’d much prefer tea to this barbaric concoction. You’ve lived in America far too long.”
“You’re lucky I’m being this nice to you after our last run-in. Drink the coffee and sober up. I don’t want to have to have this conversation with you twice. Understand?”
“Yes,” Wesley replied tersely. “This will do fine.” The hot liquid worked wonders for the horrible taste in his mouth, but it did nothing for his empty stomach except make it rumble with need. Perhaps he should suggest they continue this over lunch somewhere, but then he realized that it wouldn’t be possible due to Spike’s identity. “So tell me exactly what happened.”
Spike nodded and then continued his story when Wesley finally looked back up at him. “When Buffy didn’t come home at the normal hour, I waited about forty-five minutes and then went over to Cordelia’s.”
“When?”
“Around midnight.”
“And?”
“And nothing. The last time she saw Buffy, she was getting into a cab to come home.”
Wesley frowned. It didn’t make any sense, although, with Spike being a Fed, he had a lot of enemies here in Chicago. “I know this is going to be a rhetorical question, but have you pissed off anyone lately?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Spike snorted. “Even hung over and looking like death, you still manage to maintain your sparkling sense of humor.”
“Indeed,” Wesley said, absently rubbing the full day’s growth on his face while he looked back down at the picture of Buffy Summers, now Buffy Pratt.
She had been a student of his some years ago, back when he had been fresh out of seminary and teaching History at St. Benedict High School. Even after he had left the priesthood, he and Buffy’s family had stayed in touch. They had attended each other’s weddings, including Buffy and Spike’s ceremony a little over two years ago, plus her stepfather, Rupert Giles, owned both this building and the apartment building Wesley lived in.
He took a sip of the coffee again and then cleared his throat, as if that particular action could chase away the mental images of a very beautiful and pregnant Fred at the Pratt’s reception.
“I suppose what I should have asked is if you’ve made any arrests lately, put any thugs behind bars who might have a grudge against you.”
“No more than usual,” Spike responded with a shake of his head. “President Hoover’s been coming down hard on me to make more arrests and to have more guilty verdicts out of the juries, but I can only do so much considering the whole damn Chicago police department is corrupt and in the back pockets of both Moran and Capone.”
Wesley nodded. How well he knew Spike’s plight. Fred had been out shopping one afternoon, in anticipation of their child’s imminent arrival, when she’d been caught in the crossfire between the rival gangs of Bugs Moran and Al Capone. They’d been fighting over territory in the north side of the city and Fred had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She and their unborn child died instantly when her body was riddled with over twenty lead shots from at least five different machine guns.
“When was the last time you got some sleep?” he asked Spike, who had moved over to the side window during Wesley’s trip down memory lane.
A shrug. “I don’t know. Two days ago, maybe?”
“Why don’t you go home, Spike? Get some rest.” He stood up when Spike began to protest the idea of sitting back while his wife was missing. “I’ll do some checking around and see what I can find out,” he said, placing a comforting hand on Spike’s shoulder. “You’re not going to be any good for anything in this condition.”
“All right then. I’ll go. But you promise to notify me…”
“If I come across even the smallest clue. I promise. Now go home. The kidnappers may try to contact you with a ransom demand if that’s what this is about.” What was left unsaid was that he was afraid Buffy’s disappearance was a direct act of revenge against the agent.
“And Wesley…” Spike began dryly with his hand on the doorknob and his back to the detective.
“Yes?”
“Next time I see a bottle of contraband on your desk, empty or not, I’m going to have you hauled down to the local precinct.” With that Spike walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Wesley briefly looked down at the bottle on his desk and cringed. He’d forgotten completely about hiding it from Spike’s view. Then again, it wasn’t like he’d had much of a chance to do so.
By the time Wesley came out of his private washroom, the skies had darkened and the rain began pelting the windows with a maddening frenzy. A long hot shower and shave made him feel a bit better than he would have otherwise. While he was in the middle of buttoning the white shirt that he kept in his closet for just the occasion of sleeping over, there was another knock at his door. This one was more reserved than Spike’s previous pounding. He walked behind his desk and sat down in the chair, quietly opening the top drawer so that he could ready his pistol. Was he being too paranoid? Perhaps, but ever since the attempt on his life last autumn, he wasn’t taking any chances with the walk-ins.
When he had the gun firmly in his hand, pointing directly at the door and his finger resting heavily on the trigger – just in case – he answered. “Come in.” His steel blue eyes darted to the doorknob as it slowly turned.
The front deskman, Andrew Wells, poked his head into the room, his eyes growing wide at the disarray of the room and of Wesley with a gun. “Uh…good afternoon, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.”
“Good afternoon, Andrew,” he replied, lowering the gun and putting the safety back on before sliding it back into its place of residence. “Sorry for that. Can’t be too careful these days.” He watched as the young man swallowed hard, clearly trying to decide whether or not it was safe to enter.
“Sir, the uh, postman, left a package for you downstairs in the lobby and I thought I’d bring it up since I wasn’t sure I’d be around this evening when you left. Sir?” Andrew asked, still hanging back by entrance. “What would you like me to do with the box?”
“Just set it inside by the door. Thank you for bringing it up to me.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Oh, uhm, one other thing before I go. Mr. Giles called again, I've been covering for you, telling him you were out on an important case because you weren’t answering your phone. He wanted me to ask you myself…”
“Yes, Andrew?” Wesley asked impatiently.
“He was just wondering when you’re going to deliver the rent check.”
Ah yes, the real reason for the visit. “As soon as I am paid by my current client,” was Wesley’s clipped answer.
“Right. Not a problem,” Andrew stated as he backed away slowly and began closing the door. “I’ll just tell him that.”
Wesley waited until he heard Andrew’s footfalls fade and the elevator door announce its arrival and departure before he got out of his seat to examine the package. There was no postmark on the box, just his name and address. Though he didn’t remember ordering anything, he decided that he very well could have since much of his life had become a blur in the past few months.
When he finally opened the box, the comforting sight of the amber liquid greeted him. He picked up one of the whiskey bottles, twisted off the cap and took a long swill. The warmth of the alcohol acted as a balm against his heartache, giving him the strength that he needed to go look for the missing Buffy Pratt.
Wesley stepped out of the cab into the pouring rain, the silver liquid drops running in rivulets down his black trench coat and matching fedora. What had been a beautiful spring day in the heartland had turned dark and miserable, suitably matching his mood. To ward off the chill in the air and the steady rain that continued to fall, Wesley turned up the collar of his coat and tilted forward his hat. It wasn’t often that he got up to the northern part of Lake Shore Drive anymore, but when he did it was usually for business, not pleasure.
Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he hurriedly walked down the street to Caritas, one of the most popular speakeasies on this side of town. Just because he’d once been a priest didn’t mean that he didn’t know where the houses of ill-repute stood or which palms he could grease so that a couple bottles of whiskey would be delivered discreetly to his office. Prohibition. What a complete and utter joke. It had only brought more problems than the zealots believed it would solve, creating a whole different world instead, one filled with gangsters, mob bosses and speakeasies.
However, this particular house of ill repute was owned and operated by his second cousin on his mother’s side, Lorne Kavanagh. Whenever Wesley needed assistance with a case, he turned to his cousin, who always seemed to know what was going on where, and who was doing it. Of course, the establishment was well hidden from the prying eyes of the Feds, but most people knew exactly where it was located. To the casual observer, the old dry goods warehouse on East Oak was abandoned and in disrepair, but to those in the know, and with the right knock, a good time could be had in the bowels of the structure.
The closer Wesley got to the building, the more aware he became of the sounds of a struggle in the alleyway. Without hesitation, he threw himself up against the front wall, pulling his pistol out of the holster as he moved. He held the gun steady with both hands, pointing the barrel downwards, as he slowly inched his way towards the mouth of the alley. There was only one working streetlamp close by, all the others having burned out or been shot out, so he was going to have to rely on instinct and his imperfect vision to get him by. A daunting task to be sure, since the rain made normal visibility difficult.
Cautiously, he peered around the corner, squinting to make out two figures in the fog that was now rolling inland from Lake Michigan. The taller figure had a smaller, struggling figure pinned up against the wall in a very intimate pose. More than likely it was just a domestic dispute between a husband and his wife. As Wesley was about to re-holster his pistol and continue into the club, he heard the woman yelp in pain.
“You son of a bitch,” he heard her cry. The outburst was quickly followed by the sound of a wooden crate shattering. “I told you to leave me alone!”
Not a domestic squabble. This definitely wasn’t turning into his night.
“Ouch, you fucking bitch,” the man howled in pain. “You’re going to pay for that…”
“Get away from me!”
“You heard the lady,” Wesley stated coldly as he stepped into the alley, gun drawn and shoulders squared to the commotion. “Leave her alone, or I will be forced to shoot you.”
The man rubbed his head while he glared at Wesley.
“I’m not going to tell you a second time,” Wes growled, making sure the sound of the hammer being cocked echoed off the walls.
“Whatever,” the man said as he turned towards the woman. “You’re not worth my life, you whore.” He spit at her and then took off in the opposite direction.
Wesley walked over to the woman who was now struggling to stand up. “Here, let me help you…”
“Get your hands off me, asshole,” she bellowed, shaking his hand off her shoulder while she tried to smooth her wet, matted hair.
“Pardon me?” Wesley asked in shock, more at her attitude than at her crass words.
“Just who do you think you are, huh? I had the whole situation under control,” she raged, poking his chest with her forefinger. “Shit. Now I’m gonna have to wait for him again tomorrow night.”
Wesley took a couple of steps back at her boldness and felt his back hit the wall. So much for helping the damsel in distress.
“What’s the matter, English?” she asked, sauntering up to him, hips swaying dramatically. “Afraid I might soil your upstanding reputation?” She laughed as she grabbed his coat lapels and gave him a good shake.
“No, I just thought I was…” He stopped when she frowned, her eyes widening. Suddenly she reached out and grabbed his hat, leaving his head and face exposed to the rain that now ran freely into his eyes and down his cheeks.
“Father Wesley?” she asked incredulously. “Is that you?”
To be continued in Chapter 2 – Song of the Siren
Title: Some Rain Must Fall
Author: PSUbrat
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon and whomever else he sells them to, I’m just borrowing them for a while.
Description: This story is completely AU and set in 1928 Chicago. No vampires. No Slayers. Just lots of mobsters and Feds.
Author’s Note: This was written in response to the LJ community
watchersdiaries art-a-thon reversed challenge. I’d like to thank wings13, meko00 and gloryliberty for their help with my grammatical problems and eurydice72 for her honest opinions and betaing prowess.Summary: It’s 1928 Chicago. Prohibition is at its height and mobsters Al Capone and Bugs Moran run the city, including the local law enforcement agencies. The Pratt kidnapping case is the last thing that private detective, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, expects to have come across his desk, but it does. Now he must deal with his past, which includes a young, feisty brunette name Faith Lehane and the murder of his wife, Winifred, in order to find the missing Buffy Pratt before it’s too late.
The art for this fic can be found here.
Chapter 1: Silver Liquid Drops
The incessant pounding on his office door roused Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, private detective, from his whiskey-induced stupor. “Who the bloody hell is it?” he demanded groggily as his eyes tried to adjust to the sunlight streaming cheerily into the small room. He’d forgotten to close the blinds before falling asleep at his desk last evening and now the light was bouncing off the empty liquor bottle, casting prisms over his face and arms.
“It’s me,” an English male voice stated gruffly. “Wesley, let me in right this instant. I need to talk to you.”
“Spike? What are you doing here?” His head hurt too much to lift it from the comfort of his arms folded on his desk. “Go away. I don’t wish to speak with you, you bastard.” The spiders that had woven their cobwebs in his head while he slumbered had obviously left the cottony taste in his mouth as well. All he wanted was to go back to sleep, to hide from the world that was beyond the safe confines of his office.
“That’s too bad. I don’t care how you feel about me,” the man growled as he threw open the heavy walnut door with a resounding slam and marched into the room. “I need your help.”
Wesley sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles and joints that came only with sleeping in the same position all night. He scrutinized the wiry built, blond who now stood before him. Usually Spike was impeccably dressed, but today his white oxford shirt and black pinstriped trousers bore a similar resemblance to Wesley’s rumpled state.
“Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you with whatever problem you have today. I’m simply much too busy.”
“Right,” the Treasury Agent asserted as he threw a manila folder across the desk. “I can see that by the lack of clients at your door at two o’clock in the afternoon, on a weekday no less. I said I need your help,” Spike growled again, leaning over the desk. “Believe me, if it wasn’t an emergency, I wouldn’t be here. Do you honestly think I’d willingly seek out the help of a drunkard who doesn’t care about anyone anymore, not even himself?”
“I’m not interested in your charity,” Wesley declared angrily, pushing the folder back across the desk surface towards Spike.
“This isn’t charity, you idiot!” Spike bellowed. “This is about Buffy. She’s been kidnapped.”
With the mention of Buffy’s name and the possibility of foul play, Wesley immediately sobered up. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. It’s about Buffy. She’s disappeared.”
With great interest, Wesley watched as Spike moved around the office, making himself busy by up righting an oak chair that was in his way. Wesley had trashed his office two nights ago after almost forgetting that it was the second anniversary of his wife’s death. He hadn’t been expecting any clients, or visitors for that matter, so he’d never gotten around to tidying up the place.
“Are you quite certain she’s missing?”
“She’s my wife, Wesley,” Spike said softly as he then went through the cupboards looking for the coffee beans. Upon finding them, he set about grinding a handful in order to make a fresh pot. “She didn’t come home last night after going to the theater with Cordelia Chase. I just know that something has happened to her.”
Wesley stared at William “Spike” Pratt and wondered if the desperate, pale look on the younger man’s face was similar to that of his own when his wife, Winifred, had been murdered. When the pot came to a boil, he watched Spike pour the black liquid into one of the many dirty porcelain mugs that were lying around.
“Do you have any leads?” He took the folder back and opened it, revealing Spike’s hastily scribbled notes and a picture of Buffy from last summer’s Regatta on the lake.
“None,” Spike said, slumping down in the chair in front of Wesley’s desk and handing him the cup. “Here, you look like you could use this. I couldn’t find any cream or sugar so you’ll just have to drink it black.”
“I’d much prefer tea to this barbaric concoction. You’ve lived in America far too long.”
“You’re lucky I’m being this nice to you after our last run-in. Drink the coffee and sober up. I don’t want to have to have this conversation with you twice. Understand?”
“Yes,” Wesley replied tersely. “This will do fine.” The hot liquid worked wonders for the horrible taste in his mouth, but it did nothing for his empty stomach except make it rumble with need. Perhaps he should suggest they continue this over lunch somewhere, but then he realized that it wouldn’t be possible due to Spike’s identity. “So tell me exactly what happened.”
Spike nodded and then continued his story when Wesley finally looked back up at him. “When Buffy didn’t come home at the normal hour, I waited about forty-five minutes and then went over to Cordelia’s.”
“When?”
“Around midnight.”
“And?”
“And nothing. The last time she saw Buffy, she was getting into a cab to come home.”
Wesley frowned. It didn’t make any sense, although, with Spike being a Fed, he had a lot of enemies here in Chicago. “I know this is going to be a rhetorical question, but have you pissed off anyone lately?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Spike snorted. “Even hung over and looking like death, you still manage to maintain your sparkling sense of humor.”
“Indeed,” Wesley said, absently rubbing the full day’s growth on his face while he looked back down at the picture of Buffy Summers, now Buffy Pratt.
She had been a student of his some years ago, back when he had been fresh out of seminary and teaching History at St. Benedict High School. Even after he had left the priesthood, he and Buffy’s family had stayed in touch. They had attended each other’s weddings, including Buffy and Spike’s ceremony a little over two years ago, plus her stepfather, Rupert Giles, owned both this building and the apartment building Wesley lived in.
He took a sip of the coffee again and then cleared his throat, as if that particular action could chase away the mental images of a very beautiful and pregnant Fred at the Pratt’s reception.
“I suppose what I should have asked is if you’ve made any arrests lately, put any thugs behind bars who might have a grudge against you.”
“No more than usual,” Spike responded with a shake of his head. “President Hoover’s been coming down hard on me to make more arrests and to have more guilty verdicts out of the juries, but I can only do so much considering the whole damn Chicago police department is corrupt and in the back pockets of both Moran and Capone.”
Wesley nodded. How well he knew Spike’s plight. Fred had been out shopping one afternoon, in anticipation of their child’s imminent arrival, when she’d been caught in the crossfire between the rival gangs of Bugs Moran and Al Capone. They’d been fighting over territory in the north side of the city and Fred had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She and their unborn child died instantly when her body was riddled with over twenty lead shots from at least five different machine guns.
“When was the last time you got some sleep?” he asked Spike, who had moved over to the side window during Wesley’s trip down memory lane.
A shrug. “I don’t know. Two days ago, maybe?”
“Why don’t you go home, Spike? Get some rest.” He stood up when Spike began to protest the idea of sitting back while his wife was missing. “I’ll do some checking around and see what I can find out,” he said, placing a comforting hand on Spike’s shoulder. “You’re not going to be any good for anything in this condition.”
“All right then. I’ll go. But you promise to notify me…”
“If I come across even the smallest clue. I promise. Now go home. The kidnappers may try to contact you with a ransom demand if that’s what this is about.” What was left unsaid was that he was afraid Buffy’s disappearance was a direct act of revenge against the agent.
“And Wesley…” Spike began dryly with his hand on the doorknob and his back to the detective.
“Yes?”
“Next time I see a bottle of contraband on your desk, empty or not, I’m going to have you hauled down to the local precinct.” With that Spike walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Wesley briefly looked down at the bottle on his desk and cringed. He’d forgotten completely about hiding it from Spike’s view. Then again, it wasn’t like he’d had much of a chance to do so.
***
By the time Wesley came out of his private washroom, the skies had darkened and the rain began pelting the windows with a maddening frenzy. A long hot shower and shave made him feel a bit better than he would have otherwise. While he was in the middle of buttoning the white shirt that he kept in his closet for just the occasion of sleeping over, there was another knock at his door. This one was more reserved than Spike’s previous pounding. He walked behind his desk and sat down in the chair, quietly opening the top drawer so that he could ready his pistol. Was he being too paranoid? Perhaps, but ever since the attempt on his life last autumn, he wasn’t taking any chances with the walk-ins.
When he had the gun firmly in his hand, pointing directly at the door and his finger resting heavily on the trigger – just in case – he answered. “Come in.” His steel blue eyes darted to the doorknob as it slowly turned.
The front deskman, Andrew Wells, poked his head into the room, his eyes growing wide at the disarray of the room and of Wesley with a gun. “Uh…good afternoon, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.”
“Good afternoon, Andrew,” he replied, lowering the gun and putting the safety back on before sliding it back into its place of residence. “Sorry for that. Can’t be too careful these days.” He watched as the young man swallowed hard, clearly trying to decide whether or not it was safe to enter.
“Sir, the uh, postman, left a package for you downstairs in the lobby and I thought I’d bring it up since I wasn’t sure I’d be around this evening when you left. Sir?” Andrew asked, still hanging back by entrance. “What would you like me to do with the box?”
“Just set it inside by the door. Thank you for bringing it up to me.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Oh, uhm, one other thing before I go. Mr. Giles called again, I've been covering for you, telling him you were out on an important case because you weren’t answering your phone. He wanted me to ask you myself…”
“Yes, Andrew?” Wesley asked impatiently.
“He was just wondering when you’re going to deliver the rent check.”
Ah yes, the real reason for the visit. “As soon as I am paid by my current client,” was Wesley’s clipped answer.
“Right. Not a problem,” Andrew stated as he backed away slowly and began closing the door. “I’ll just tell him that.”
Wesley waited until he heard Andrew’s footfalls fade and the elevator door announce its arrival and departure before he got out of his seat to examine the package. There was no postmark on the box, just his name and address. Though he didn’t remember ordering anything, he decided that he very well could have since much of his life had become a blur in the past few months.
When he finally opened the box, the comforting sight of the amber liquid greeted him. He picked up one of the whiskey bottles, twisted off the cap and took a long swill. The warmth of the alcohol acted as a balm against his heartache, giving him the strength that he needed to go look for the missing Buffy Pratt.
***
Wesley stepped out of the cab into the pouring rain, the silver liquid drops running in rivulets down his black trench coat and matching fedora. What had been a beautiful spring day in the heartland had turned dark and miserable, suitably matching his mood. To ward off the chill in the air and the steady rain that continued to fall, Wesley turned up the collar of his coat and tilted forward his hat. It wasn’t often that he got up to the northern part of Lake Shore Drive anymore, but when he did it was usually for business, not pleasure.
Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he hurriedly walked down the street to Caritas, one of the most popular speakeasies on this side of town. Just because he’d once been a priest didn’t mean that he didn’t know where the houses of ill-repute stood or which palms he could grease so that a couple bottles of whiskey would be delivered discreetly to his office. Prohibition. What a complete and utter joke. It had only brought more problems than the zealots believed it would solve, creating a whole different world instead, one filled with gangsters, mob bosses and speakeasies.
However, this particular house of ill repute was owned and operated by his second cousin on his mother’s side, Lorne Kavanagh. Whenever Wesley needed assistance with a case, he turned to his cousin, who always seemed to know what was going on where, and who was doing it. Of course, the establishment was well hidden from the prying eyes of the Feds, but most people knew exactly where it was located. To the casual observer, the old dry goods warehouse on East Oak was abandoned and in disrepair, but to those in the know, and with the right knock, a good time could be had in the bowels of the structure.
The closer Wesley got to the building, the more aware he became of the sounds of a struggle in the alleyway. Without hesitation, he threw himself up against the front wall, pulling his pistol out of the holster as he moved. He held the gun steady with both hands, pointing the barrel downwards, as he slowly inched his way towards the mouth of the alley. There was only one working streetlamp close by, all the others having burned out or been shot out, so he was going to have to rely on instinct and his imperfect vision to get him by. A daunting task to be sure, since the rain made normal visibility difficult.
Cautiously, he peered around the corner, squinting to make out two figures in the fog that was now rolling inland from Lake Michigan. The taller figure had a smaller, struggling figure pinned up against the wall in a very intimate pose. More than likely it was just a domestic dispute between a husband and his wife. As Wesley was about to re-holster his pistol and continue into the club, he heard the woman yelp in pain.
“You son of a bitch,” he heard her cry. The outburst was quickly followed by the sound of a wooden crate shattering. “I told you to leave me alone!”
Not a domestic squabble. This definitely wasn’t turning into his night.
“Ouch, you fucking bitch,” the man howled in pain. “You’re going to pay for that…”
“Get away from me!”
“You heard the lady,” Wesley stated coldly as he stepped into the alley, gun drawn and shoulders squared to the commotion. “Leave her alone, or I will be forced to shoot you.”
The man rubbed his head while he glared at Wesley.
“I’m not going to tell you a second time,” Wes growled, making sure the sound of the hammer being cocked echoed off the walls.
“Whatever,” the man said as he turned towards the woman. “You’re not worth my life, you whore.” He spit at her and then took off in the opposite direction.
Wesley walked over to the woman who was now struggling to stand up. “Here, let me help you…”
“Get your hands off me, asshole,” she bellowed, shaking his hand off her shoulder while she tried to smooth her wet, matted hair.
“Pardon me?” Wesley asked in shock, more at her attitude than at her crass words.
“Just who do you think you are, huh? I had the whole situation under control,” she raged, poking his chest with her forefinger. “Shit. Now I’m gonna have to wait for him again tomorrow night.”
Wesley took a couple of steps back at her boldness and felt his back hit the wall. So much for helping the damsel in distress.
“What’s the matter, English?” she asked, sauntering up to him, hips swaying dramatically. “Afraid I might soil your upstanding reputation?” She laughed as she grabbed his coat lapels and gave him a good shake.
“No, I just thought I was…” He stopped when she frowned, her eyes widening. Suddenly she reached out and grabbed his hat, leaving his head and face exposed to the rain that now ran freely into his eyes and down his cheeks.
“Father Wesley?” she asked incredulously. “Is that you?”
To be continued in Chapter 2 – Song of the Siren
