sv ficpost: East of the Sun prt2
2/18/08 12:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: East of the Sun
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/people, eventually clex
Rating:PG
Word Count:
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: this is me putting the boys in my version of the swing era, just to see how pretty they look.
Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
danceswithgary for beta duty, and the beautiful cover!
He did his best to slip back to his room but Walt had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to his crew. He sniffed Alex out or heard his stealthy footsteps—he had ears like a damn bat, he was a fucking bestiary, Alex thought….
He popped out of the hall washroom, "Alex—where the fuck have you been--no, never mind, don't tell me. Rehearsal's at ten, you're going to be there right? And hey, we got a new guy on the ivories. I was going to have you sit in but shit, he was good, genius, a fucking, anyway there's one thing. I—I—aw, fuck never mind, tell you tomorrow. Go to sleep." Walt squeezed his shoulder distractedly. Already on to other thoughts, he trotted down the hall, pulling one suspender back onto his bare shoulder, the other still hanging down and pointing out what a nicely shaped ass he had and Alex thought if the guy was just the slightest bit bent, he'd love to fuck him. Too bad. He took a deep breath, eased back into his room and got ready for bed.
@@@@@@
Later that morning, Walt met him at the doorway at the back of the club. The joint was ugly as hell in the cold light of day, smelled like stale booze and cigarettes. He followed Walt inside, letting his voice roll over him like water, ground the heel of one hand between his eyes and prayed the gremlins in his head would stop drilling for brains.
The other fellows were on or around the bandstand; various squawks, squeaks, and trills beat against the air. Walt led Alex to the rear of the dance floor and sat him at one of the tables. He slapped a squat glass of amber liquid in front of him. Alex raised his eyebrows. "Hootch? It's eleven—" he skimmed his cuff back far enough to expose his watch, squinted at the coin face. "Ten."
"See, what we're doing here is—I'm telling you, this guy's—drink up, it's a celebration, this guy. The new pianist, he can jam--he's—he's really good. He swings out, I'm telling you—you're gonna get a kick out of this!"
Alex looked up to the bandstand. The piano was blocked by the other guys, he couldn't see the player but he listened to the run of pure notes resolve into a bit of classical music, listened to it subtly morph into a syncopated beat, a lilting, rolling ragtime…the bunch of guys blocking his view moved and he saw the man at the keyboards.
He gawped at the bandstand, rendered stupid with shock. "He's—he's--"
"Yeah, okay, yeah--he's um—you noticed—okay, but listen to him."
"He's a Negro!"
"So?"
"So? So? —are you nuts? How many clubs are gonna let us play them? Plus the Goons will have a fucking fit. You know Morty. He'll kill him and you and that wouldn't be so bad, but he might want to whack me, too. Fuck." Alex took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sudden bloom of chill sweat from his neck. He might just kill Walt himself.
Walt interrupted lighting a cigarette to respond to Alex. It bobbed on his lip as he spoke, dribbling ash. "Nah, that's not gonna happen—it's—things change—I'm telling you--times are changing. Lotsa bands have colored guys in them. Some. One or two, but--I'm telling you. Besides. He's--Pete," he yelled, "Hey, Ross, get down here," and the guy stopped playing and eased around the piano.
"Hey, Boss."
Alex looked him up and down. He was dark-skinned—the color of baking chocolate, his hair swept back in thick shining waves from a broad forehead, his dark eyes sparkled and full lips had him wondering—Alex blinked hard. Even the ill-fitting suit couldn't hide that this Pete was compact and stocky, muscular. Walt shot him a look and Alex shrugged. Good-looking was good-looking; it didn’t have a particular color. Most of the jamokes out there would only see that the guy was colored. Well, that was too bad for them. He glanced over at the stage and took note of who looked like they were trying to cough up a hairball.
"Pete, hey, this is my ace—my right hand—my man-ah—Alex, Alex Roth. Say hi—Pete Ross. He's going to—I'm telling you—this will really make the band."
They shook hands. Pete had a firm grip and a smooth palm, and Alex slid fingers against it when he pulled his hand back. Pete jumped a little and frowned. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Roth." He looked quickly away. "I'm going—" he jerked his head back to the band stand and Walt nodded.
"Well 'Boss','" Alex drawled, as he watched Pete stalk away. "I hope we all don't end up swimming in the East River in concrete skivvies. I'd hate to have to kill you." He grabbed Walt's cigarette from his lip, ignoring the affronted snort and dragged hard on it.
Walt glared at him and slid another one from behind his ear, left it dry in his mouth. "Yah, you're a wise guy, you are—I'm telling you, we're gold---golden—we're copasetic. Get up there and blow. You should be earning the money I toss in your lap."
Alex winked, licked his lips with a mock lasciviousness. "There's more than one way to do that."
He let a long plume of smoke dribble from his mouth and nose and batted eyelashes in his best Hollywood Vamp imitation and Walt snorted again.
"Homo. Get with the licorice stick."
Alex chuckled, and as he walked up to the bandstand with his case, felt Pete staring at him speculatively. Pete didn't look happy. Alex figured Pete would have to get the fuck past it….
@@@@@@@
The Boss and Alex got the summons shortly after the first performance featuring their new man on the ivories.
A couple of Morty's goons escorted them through the narrow hallway and under the stairs where Mort's 'office' was, a dark, dank room with a desk, a phone, a file cabinet whose top was covered with bottles in various states of full and not much else—Mort had a dozen different clubs that he moved booze and drugs through, and this one wasn't of much interest to him—until today.
"So what the fuck is this wit the nigger on the bandstand—you crazy?" Morty sat at the desk, big fat manicured fingers tapping out a staccato beat on the cherry-wood. "86 'm." He slipped a paw in his jacket and pulled out a torpedo of a cigar. He lit up, exhaled a cloud of smoke redolent with the pungent odor of road tar and burning garbage, sniffed in appreciation. Alex worked hard to keep his nose from wrinkling.
"Morty—you don't know. He's gonna bring in the customers—the kid's a genius—just listen—I'm telling you." Walt tried to smile.
Morty rolled the fat cigar around in his pale lips in a way that made Alex a little sick and said, "Genius my ass. Get the jig outa my joint." He stood and his narrow little eyes were chips of glass in his doughy face. "Get him out, and don’t give me shit about it or you'll all be cooling your fuckin' heels in the harbor."
Walt paled, and Alex settled a look of mild interest on his face, something he was able to do thanks to years of training, courtesy of Lionel Luthor. Dear Old Dad was a hard act to follow, but Mort was managing it. Walt swallowed loud enough to startle Alex. Walt's handsome face was creased in earnest appeal, worse, a dawning stubbornness…and anger. Always a real bad combination, especially in a guy like Walt.
Aw fuck you idiot, don't get salty now, Alex thought. I'm too young to die for something so stupid…
"I'll make—here's a deal--move us down to one of the minor clubs. If you make money—when you get the dough, we're back here--we headline with the Ross kid still our ivory man. No foolin' Mort, the crowds only care if the joint's jumpin' and Ross—swings hot, I'm telling you, you're gonna make money. More than you make with the booze—no jive."
Morty gave Walt a look that said 'in a minute I'm going to rip your puny little wings off'. The muscle standing around the tiny office shifted on their feet, arms spreading, hands opening, greedy little grins blooming--Alex swallowed, blinked, and rose to the balls of his feet too. Fuck if he was going down easy…
Morty snorted in amusement and the goons relaxed, grinning like it'd all been a joke. "Awright." Morty juggled the stub of the cigar into the corner of his mouth and sneered and Alex thought, 'There's the poor man's Little Caesar. Only not nearly as charming…'
"Okay, I must have a soft spot in my head for you fucks. You assholes better make me plenty dough." His flat dead eyes landed on Alex. "You, you can make me dough any time. I know you, I been watching you…" he grinned around the soggy stump of his cigar and Alex nearly threw up. He could imagine several different ways the low-class, slimy hood could make money off of him. He squared his shoulders and smiled at Morty with all the chill confidence he could muster and winked at him. "I don't think so, buddy boy. You're not my type." He heard Walt hiss, felt him tense even though they were a few feet apart.
Morty stared at him with the eyes of a shark. They all stood stock still in silence so deep, Alex could hear his watch tick…and unexpectedly, Mort burst out laughing. "You, you fucking always make me laugh. Getha fuck outa of my office," he snorted. "You got a month to show me something, yahear?"
Walt nodded frantically and jabbed Alex in the ribs hard enough to puncture a lung. "You won't regret this, Mort, I'm telling you—he's--genius. Top of the heap—" and he was moving to the door the whole time, pulling Alex. "Jesus fuck, say one word and I'll kill ya--" he hissed under his breath to Alex, and Alex looked at him like he was crazy or maybe Walt didn't know that Alex got just how close he was to losing everything this night.
part 3
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/people, eventually clex
Rating:PG
Word Count:
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: this is me putting the boys in my version of the swing era, just to see how pretty they look.
Many, many thanks to
danceswithgary for beta duty, and the beautiful cover!He did his best to slip back to his room but Walt had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to his crew. He sniffed Alex out or heard his stealthy footsteps—he had ears like a damn bat, he was a fucking bestiary, Alex thought….
He popped out of the hall washroom, "Alex—where the fuck have you been--no, never mind, don't tell me. Rehearsal's at ten, you're going to be there right? And hey, we got a new guy on the ivories. I was going to have you sit in but shit, he was good, genius, a fucking, anyway there's one thing. I—I—aw, fuck never mind, tell you tomorrow. Go to sleep." Walt squeezed his shoulder distractedly. Already on to other thoughts, he trotted down the hall, pulling one suspender back onto his bare shoulder, the other still hanging down and pointing out what a nicely shaped ass he had and Alex thought if the guy was just the slightest bit bent, he'd love to fuck him. Too bad. He took a deep breath, eased back into his room and got ready for bed.
@@@@@@
Later that morning, Walt met him at the doorway at the back of the club. The joint was ugly as hell in the cold light of day, smelled like stale booze and cigarettes. He followed Walt inside, letting his voice roll over him like water, ground the heel of one hand between his eyes and prayed the gremlins in his head would stop drilling for brains.
The other fellows were on or around the bandstand; various squawks, squeaks, and trills beat against the air. Walt led Alex to the rear of the dance floor and sat him at one of the tables. He slapped a squat glass of amber liquid in front of him. Alex raised his eyebrows. "Hootch? It's eleven—" he skimmed his cuff back far enough to expose his watch, squinted at the coin face. "Ten."
"See, what we're doing here is—I'm telling you, this guy's—drink up, it's a celebration, this guy. The new pianist, he can jam--he's—he's really good. He swings out, I'm telling you—you're gonna get a kick out of this!"
Alex looked up to the bandstand. The piano was blocked by the other guys, he couldn't see the player but he listened to the run of pure notes resolve into a bit of classical music, listened to it subtly morph into a syncopated beat, a lilting, rolling ragtime…the bunch of guys blocking his view moved and he saw the man at the keyboards.
He gawped at the bandstand, rendered stupid with shock. "He's—he's--"
"Yeah, okay, yeah--he's um—you noticed—okay, but listen to him."
"He's a Negro!"
"So?"
"So? So? —are you nuts? How many clubs are gonna let us play them? Plus the Goons will have a fucking fit. You know Morty. He'll kill him and you and that wouldn't be so bad, but he might want to whack me, too. Fuck." Alex took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sudden bloom of chill sweat from his neck. He might just kill Walt himself.
Walt interrupted lighting a cigarette to respond to Alex. It bobbed on his lip as he spoke, dribbling ash. "Nah, that's not gonna happen—it's—things change—I'm telling you--times are changing. Lotsa bands have colored guys in them. Some. One or two, but--I'm telling you. Besides. He's--Pete," he yelled, "Hey, Ross, get down here," and the guy stopped playing and eased around the piano.
"Hey, Boss."
Alex looked him up and down. He was dark-skinned—the color of baking chocolate, his hair swept back in thick shining waves from a broad forehead, his dark eyes sparkled and full lips had him wondering—Alex blinked hard. Even the ill-fitting suit couldn't hide that this Pete was compact and stocky, muscular. Walt shot him a look and Alex shrugged. Good-looking was good-looking; it didn’t have a particular color. Most of the jamokes out there would only see that the guy was colored. Well, that was too bad for them. He glanced over at the stage and took note of who looked like they were trying to cough up a hairball.
"Pete, hey, this is my ace—my right hand—my man-ah—Alex, Alex Roth. Say hi—Pete Ross. He's going to—I'm telling you—this will really make the band."
They shook hands. Pete had a firm grip and a smooth palm, and Alex slid fingers against it when he pulled his hand back. Pete jumped a little and frowned. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Roth." He looked quickly away. "I'm going—" he jerked his head back to the band stand and Walt nodded.
"Well 'Boss','" Alex drawled, as he watched Pete stalk away. "I hope we all don't end up swimming in the East River in concrete skivvies. I'd hate to have to kill you." He grabbed Walt's cigarette from his lip, ignoring the affronted snort and dragged hard on it.
Walt glared at him and slid another one from behind his ear, left it dry in his mouth. "Yah, you're a wise guy, you are—I'm telling you, we're gold---golden—we're copasetic. Get up there and blow. You should be earning the money I toss in your lap."
Alex winked, licked his lips with a mock lasciviousness. "There's more than one way to do that."
He let a long plume of smoke dribble from his mouth and nose and batted eyelashes in his best Hollywood Vamp imitation and Walt snorted again.
"Homo. Get with the licorice stick."
Alex chuckled, and as he walked up to the bandstand with his case, felt Pete staring at him speculatively. Pete didn't look happy. Alex figured Pete would have to get the fuck past it….
@@@@@@@
The Boss and Alex got the summons shortly after the first performance featuring their new man on the ivories.
A couple of Morty's goons escorted them through the narrow hallway and under the stairs where Mort's 'office' was, a dark, dank room with a desk, a phone, a file cabinet whose top was covered with bottles in various states of full and not much else—Mort had a dozen different clubs that he moved booze and drugs through, and this one wasn't of much interest to him—until today.
"So what the fuck is this wit the nigger on the bandstand—you crazy?" Morty sat at the desk, big fat manicured fingers tapping out a staccato beat on the cherry-wood. "86 'm." He slipped a paw in his jacket and pulled out a torpedo of a cigar. He lit up, exhaled a cloud of smoke redolent with the pungent odor of road tar and burning garbage, sniffed in appreciation. Alex worked hard to keep his nose from wrinkling.
"Morty—you don't know. He's gonna bring in the customers—the kid's a genius—just listen—I'm telling you." Walt tried to smile.
Morty rolled the fat cigar around in his pale lips in a way that made Alex a little sick and said, "Genius my ass. Get the jig outa my joint." He stood and his narrow little eyes were chips of glass in his doughy face. "Get him out, and don’t give me shit about it or you'll all be cooling your fuckin' heels in the harbor."
Walt paled, and Alex settled a look of mild interest on his face, something he was able to do thanks to years of training, courtesy of Lionel Luthor. Dear Old Dad was a hard act to follow, but Mort was managing it. Walt swallowed loud enough to startle Alex. Walt's handsome face was creased in earnest appeal, worse, a dawning stubbornness…and anger. Always a real bad combination, especially in a guy like Walt.
Aw fuck you idiot, don't get salty now, Alex thought. I'm too young to die for something so stupid…
"I'll make—here's a deal--move us down to one of the minor clubs. If you make money—when you get the dough, we're back here--we headline with the Ross kid still our ivory man. No foolin' Mort, the crowds only care if the joint's jumpin' and Ross—swings hot, I'm telling you, you're gonna make money. More than you make with the booze—no jive."
Morty gave Walt a look that said 'in a minute I'm going to rip your puny little wings off'. The muscle standing around the tiny office shifted on their feet, arms spreading, hands opening, greedy little grins blooming--Alex swallowed, blinked, and rose to the balls of his feet too. Fuck if he was going down easy…
Morty snorted in amusement and the goons relaxed, grinning like it'd all been a joke. "Awright." Morty juggled the stub of the cigar into the corner of his mouth and sneered and Alex thought, 'There's the poor man's Little Caesar. Only not nearly as charming…'
"Okay, I must have a soft spot in my head for you fucks. You assholes better make me plenty dough." His flat dead eyes landed on Alex. "You, you can make me dough any time. I know you, I been watching you…" he grinned around the soggy stump of his cigar and Alex nearly threw up. He could imagine several different ways the low-class, slimy hood could make money off of him. He squared his shoulders and smiled at Morty with all the chill confidence he could muster and winked at him. "I don't think so, buddy boy. You're not my type." He heard Walt hiss, felt him tense even though they were a few feet apart.
Morty stared at him with the eyes of a shark. They all stood stock still in silence so deep, Alex could hear his watch tick…and unexpectedly, Mort burst out laughing. "You, you fucking always make me laugh. Getha fuck outa of my office," he snorted. "You got a month to show me something, yahear?"
Walt nodded frantically and jabbed Alex in the ribs hard enough to puncture a lung. "You won't regret this, Mort, I'm telling you—he's--genius. Top of the heap—" and he was moving to the door the whole time, pulling Alex. "Jesus fuck, say one word and I'll kill ya--" he hissed under his breath to Alex, and Alex looked at him like he was crazy or maybe Walt didn't know that Alex got just how close he was to losing everything this night.
part 3
TBC
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
2/18/08 06:44 am (UTC)And you changed your layout again!
*dances*
(no subject)
2/18/08 11:38 am (UTC)Yeah, changed the look again--this one is very readable to me--gotta be kind to old eyes! *g*
(no subject)
2/18/08 12:04 pm (UTC)morty's pretty darn scary. him i was visualizing as Pete from the old disney comics, for some reason. i'll try to find a graphic.
i would love to hear pete ross play the piano!
(no subject)
2/18/08 12:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/18/08 12:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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2/18/08 03:25 pm (UTC)(this is the ghost, commenting from work...)
(no subject)
2/18/08 04:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/18/08 12:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/18/08 12:57 pm (UTC)I think I'm finally finished with the scarecrow scene, rewrote tiny bits of it--and now it's off to the hobo jungle with Clark! *G*
(no subject)
2/18/08 02:30 pm (UTC):)
*bounce*
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2/18/08 04:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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2/18/08 05:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/18/08 09:47 pm (UTC)Oh, Clark is...interesting! *G*
(no subject)
2/18/08 09:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/18/08 09:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/18/08 10:29 pm (UTC)I'd say it worked in the BEST way, myself. *hugs you*
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2/18/08 09:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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7/22/08 01:56 am (UTC)