[ Amelia Pond isn't the kind of girl you cross, and she may be young and beautiful, but she's already got it made. Or so people think.
Amy would tell them first of all never to call her Amelia, and that no one has got it made because staying in a position of power in this world is a constant struggle. Yes, she's good at what she does, but that doesn't mean it's easy or that she'll have it forever. (Some days, she dreams of another life in which she has adventures with a madman in a box, but she never tells anyone of those. Some days, she wants something more than a house that's too large and too empty with too many rooms, a place that she grew up in and that belonged to her parents and her aunt, regardless of the fact that no one but her remembers them.)
Looking up from the files on her desk. ] What is it?
[Jimmy hates meetings. Mostly because he never gets to talk enough during them, and everyone treats him like a kid. So he's predisposed to be in a bad mood this morning, and is even more irritating when he seems to have gotten lost somewhere in the building -- maybe taken a wrong turn -- and completely missed the room the meeting was supposed to be in.
On the other hand, he's ended up by Amy's desk. And, after giving her an appreciative glance, he determines that that can't really be a bad thing.]
[A dame walks into a bar...or casino as the case may be. Atlantic City is still fairly new to her and she's never been in this casino before. She tries to cover up her awe of the place as she walks to the bar and orders a glass of champagne then leans back against the bar to soak in all of the in her mind glamor. Atlantic City is a long way from Birmingham, Alabama.]
[This is where Jimmy's most in his element -- somewhere where illegal activity runs rampant, and nobody gives a damn enough to stop it. Sure, alcohol's against the law, but nobody in here seems to notice. Most of the city's politicians are up at the bar, too, or at least have a drink with them at their table. Even the sheriff is there, glass of champagne in his hand. And Jimmy, well, he's just bored, looking around for something better to do.
[Jimmy doesn't always sit around drinking alone, but when he does, he goes for straight whiskey. Might as well cut out the middleman if you're drinking to get drunk. He's already had a couple drinks, but he's looking around the empty room again, like he's hoping someone'll show up. He's really not feeling like spending the rest of the night by himself.]
From behind, he looked just like anyone else, but it was still incredibly easy to spot Richard in a crowded room. He sat very straight and stiff, not drawing himself in with any sort of shyness, but not trying to relax and be a part of the crowd, either. He'd had to endure a comment or two in the few minutes he'd been waiting for Jimmy, and had made himself look as impassive as he could, wanting to give the impression that he was made entirely of tin, that everything they said would simply bounce off because there wasn't anything inside to be hurt. The truth, of course, was that every comment, every sideways glance, stung him to the very heart. But Richard knew that they really weren't worth his time. He just continued to sit there patiently, smiling sadly a little as he watched a young couple dance, clearly very enamoured with each other, hoping that Jimmy would arrive soon.
Jimmy can't decide if he's in a good mood, or furious. He's been feeling that way a lot lately, and remarkably, half a bottle of cheap whiskey doesn't seem to help matters. He'd gotten lost twice on the way over, even though he'd been there a hundred times, and when some asshole had made a comment about his stumbling drunkenness, he'd grabbed the guy by the lapels and thrown him against a garbage can so hard he was pretty sure the guy's ears would be ringing with the impact for days to come.
When he finally arrives, he's late, and he knows he's probably left Richard waiting. Hell, he can't even quite remember why he'd shown up in the first place, but he spots Richard across the room easily enough, and walks up behind him, still swaying slightly.
[He hadn't been lying when he'd said that they could get out of the bar as soon as they had one more drink. And he'd finished that drink damn quickly, too, wanting to get her back to his apartment as fast as possible.
Once they're in the door, he looks around, half-hoping she doesn't notice the mess on the floor and the holes in the wall where someone had obviously put a fist through them. The best way to get her not to notice is to kiss her, though, so that's what he does.]
[Jimmy really had been trying to concentrate on driving, but hell, they don't have anywhere to be for awhile, and Angela's right there, sitting next to him, and he can't resist looking over at her with that tiny, cocky grin.]
[Jimmy isn't always known for being the sneakiest guy. That goes double for when he walks up behind Angela and wraps his arms around her tightly, pressing his body against hers, like he's doing right now.]
[So maybe Jimmy's not always in the habit of hanging around shirtless, but he sure is right now. Hey, who can blame him? It's hot outside. And besides, he's pretty sure that Angela's not going to be complaining about it, although she might tease him for it. At the moment, though, he's just sitting on the couch, feet up, having a drink. Totally innocent, right?]
[If Angela's looking for Jimmy, she's going to find him in the backyard, sitting on the grass with his legs out in front of him, staring off into space idly. He's either completely spacing out, or thinking very seriously about something.]
[It's been raining all day, and Jimmy's been outside all day. No wonder his suit's soaking wet and all he wants to do is get out of it and into some dry clothes. Okay, maybe that's not all he wants to do. As he always does, he's got other things in mind, and those things have him looking for Ginny now, not knowing whether he'll find her inside or outside, not caring about the fact that he's dripping little puddles of water everywhere he goes.]
Jimmy's the kind of guy that knows that there's a time and a place for everything, but doesn't care much about it. It's academic, really, recognizing that something isn't the right time or place, and then choosing to ignore it entirely. Sure, it gets him in trouble sometimes, but it can also be beneficial, when other people are indulgent enough or just plain daring enough to go along with it. He likes to think Angela fits into both of these categories.
He's been eyeing her all night -- they'd come to the party together, but they'd both been doing their own socializing, and as far as he's concerned, she looks way too damn good in that dress for him not to get at least a moment alone with her. That's why, the second he gets a minute to pull Angela away from the rest of the party, he's grabbing her by the hand, giving her that trademark cocky smile that usually signals danger or excitement (in his opinion, one doesn't usually come without the other, anyway) and leading her to a more secluded corner.
"You look good tonight." He's sure she already knows it, but how can he avoid saying it?
The whole point of living life to the fullest isn't about separating right from wrong or doing things at the right time. The point, the most fun one, is to bend the rules, breaking them completely if you can. Deal with the trouble later, enjoy the moment right now. That's Angela's motto and it's served her well this long.
But she isn't thinking about mottos and rules she abides by tonight, her attention spread elsewhere around the party, dabbling in a bit of the food and plenty of the drink and all of the socializing. She figures Jimmy has gone off somewhere to do his own thing or smoke or whatever he does when he has some time to himself so she doesn't expect the hand wrapping around hers as she moves over to pour herself another glass of champagne.
Turning towards him with an eyebrow raised every so lightly, she lets him tug her along towards a corner, far from the rest of the boisterous crowd. "You want something," she replies, a grin on her face. "What is it?" She can read him oh so well knowing that if he pulls that compliment out of nowhere, there's something behind it.
Not that she's refusing to accept the compliment or anything.
[She could have talked to him over the network like everybody else, but Angela isn't anybody else. The network is far too impersonal when somebody tells you they've died. You can't hug over the device and to her ears, Jimmy sounds like he needs a lot more than just a conversation.]
i have booze and food. all i need is your address.
A candle is left by Jimmy's door. Wrapped in cloth and placed in a paper bag, the only note on it saying, "for Jimmy". The candle itself is blue with waves on it, sprinkled with with stars. There's nothing else, not even a knock at the door.
[ Jimmy also gets a knitted jumper in a deep brown colour with an emerald J. There's also a framed photograph that she must have snapped on her device from that one visitor's weekend (pretend the hat is one of the crazy ones at the joke shop).
There's also a note that reads: Merry Christmas, Jimmy! Just a bit of home for you today. I hope you like them. ~Ginny ]
[She spots him completely by accident as she's walking through the square, and suddenly all thoughts of where she was going are forgotten, and she's threading her way through the throng towards him. Ruby raises herself up on her toes a little as she gets behind him, so that she can whisper into his ear.]
[He hears her voice, but for a second, he doesn't believe it. Not until he turns around with the biggest goddamn smile on his face and really confirms it for himself.]
[Angela Darmody was dead, her blood still congealing into the floorboards in a black stain, the heady odor of it mingling with ocean salt and sweet taffy in the stale air. Yes, it's a terrible, terrible thing to have happened to her son, to her grandson, even with the bitter revelation that the late Mrs. Darmody had had the gall to cheat on her loving husband. She understands grieving is a natural process, but really, now—it's beginning to feel a touch overdone. Exactly because this is such a vulnerable time, it is of utmost importance that he remain strong.
All her son needs, she insists, is the love of his mother. She handles the bumbling police officer, smooths over any probing questions they have, and comes to visit her darling Jimmy one day, when the clouds are gathering in a gray storm, sure to break out in downpour that evening. She brings him imported cigars to lift his spirits, and a basket of flowers, to bring a feminine touch to the place which it so sorely needs. She leaves the basket of daisies on the kitchen counter, smiling thinly at her son, his eyes rimmed with red.]
I really don't mean to sound cold, but—I think you've carried on like this for long enough, dear.
[He barely looks up when Gillian comes into the house, barely acknowledges her presence, which he's sure irritates the hell out of her, barely seems to process the fact that she's delivered a basket of something, something he undoubtedly won't find particularly useful, and then his mother'll be upset about that, too. She'll see it as a rejection. He knows her.
Her words reach him, though. Enough so that he breaks his staring contest with the table long enough to glance up at her, eyes narrowed, voice unusually quiet.]
How the fuck d'you want me to carry on?
[He doesn't have any idea how he should be carrying on. How can he carry on, when Angela's dead and it's his fault? People had told him he'd move past it, he'd recover, he'd start to forget things, but he knows better. People don't move past things, not really. They just find ways to hide them.
And Jimmy's never been good at hiding much of anything.]
[She never questioned the telephone calls her lover took at all hours, even if a dark look possessed his features upon being contacted by one of his faceless benefactors from a multitude of states, men who remained in shadow for her, whom she only knew by the vague tinny sound of disembodied voices. They seemed as if ghosts, whose only purpose was to steal their precious time, who beckoned her soldier away to discuss an unknown nature of business.
She never thinks to connect any of these persistent calls to the new guests at tonight's celebration, glimpsed only in passing: one wears a flesh-colored mask, as if for a masquerade, and another man in navy blue pinstripes, something which stands out like a bright flame amongst all the tuxedoed gentlemen.
When Gatsby leads her by the hand to his private garden, however, thoughts of interruption are furthest from her mind. The party is not without its signature grandiosity, a miniature microcosm all of its own in the heart of the city, but they have slipped away from the jubilant festivities and burst of fireworks for a rendezvous of their own. Resting in the cool greenery of an enormous tree, it seems they are both halfway to ecstasy before a butler intrudes, and his lips leave her throat, his hands leaving but an imprint of warmth on the curve of her hip.
"Sir, Atlantic City is here to see you."
Atlantic City is a place she only vaguely knows by the taste of seaside sweets and rock salt, where her husband had once purchased a pink diamond brooch for her, but who-ever his visitor is, it is enough for Gatsby to leave her in the shade of his garden, promising an immediate return with a fond farewell.
Neglected, Daisy waits for him with only the chirp of crickets and the warm summer night for company, her good time rather spoiled, seated on a stone bench.]
[The man in the navy blue pinstripes has done his business here, has made the deals he's needed to make, has discussed all the things he's been sent here to discuss -- although he always hates to think of it as being sent anywhere, hates to believe that that's all he is, an errand boy of some kind -- and now he'd like to enjoy the party.
The problem is, of course, that he doesn't know anyone here; nobody but the host and Richard, that is, and he can't possibly monopolize all of the host's time, and he knows Richard is eager to leave the commotion and gaiety for something more private, more sedate. He'll need to enjoy this party alone, if he intends to enjoy it at all, or he'll need to make himself some new friends quickly -- that shouldn't be a problem, he's always been good at finding ways to entertain himself.
So when Jimmy wanders into the private garden, cigarette in hand, he's not necessarily looking for anyone specific, he's simply exploring the layout of this place, taking in the beauty and the grandiosity of it, vaguely thinking that if he runs into someone, at least he can have a decent conversation.
That's when he spots her, sitting on the bench. Well. She's beautiful, of course he notices it. Maybe this is the new friend he's been looking for, the person that will help transform this party into something other than straight-ahead business. He approaches, limp a little worse than usual, exacerbated by some of the heavy lifting he's been doing on jobs lately.]
[He hadn't exactly been expecting to run into trouble when he'd come over to this side of town. A drink or two at the saloon, that's all he'd been looking for. Sure, maybe he'd been hoping to meet a pretty girl, too -- he's usually hoping for that. Problem is, Jimmy has a way of seeking out trouble, and he'd kind of forgotten that the last time he'd been at this saloon, he'd been robbing it. To be fair, it's hard to keep track of all the places he's robbed in the last few months.
Which means that the proprietors of the place might not be all that thrilled to see him. The bounty hunters, on the other hand, might just be delighted.]
The air in Atlantic City tastes like salt-water taffy and the ocean, green frills of sea foam lapping at her bare ankles when she strolls along the beach, delighting at the advertisements for exotic cigars and spun sugar as she takes her husband by the arm, the wooden planks of the boardwalk groaning beneath their steps.
She had been married for a few years, now. The wedding had been distinctly bittersweet, the first few days afterwards had been a lovely blur of honeymoon suites, and a week or so, sometimes afterwards— The papers had told it all, really: the car crash, the automobile being an absolute wreck, her husband, caught in the lap of a chambermaid from a hotel. Almost inconsequentially after that, Tom made sure Daisy had his child, and now their infant daughter remains left behind in Chicago, taken comfortable care of by a nanny.
Their late afternoon, bordering on the cusp of evening, stroll comes to a slow halt when Tom raps his thick knuckles upon the handsome wood doors of Babette's Supper Club, a fine establishment, he promised her. No sooner are they greeted by a woman in a tuxedo does Tom shuffle off to one of the private upstairs rooms, mentioning a Mr. Thompson, a politician of some spectacularly anomalous sort, with whom he wishes to discuss golfing championships with.
She sees the lingering glance he gives a waitress, and wishes him a happy clandestine meeting with the sharpest smile she can give.
Very much alone, Daisy is left to her own devices in the swirling mad dash of activity, and between the brass band and the dancing couples, she takes a seat in one of the booths, politely accepting an offer for a very illegal glass of champagne from one of the waiters. Such is the life she has grown accustomed to.]
[Atlantic City has its benefits, in Jimmy's mind -- the fact that it's his home, no matter how much he may dislike it at times, being the main one -- but it also has its drawbacks. One of those drawbacks is the truly ridiculous number of meetings he has to attend. He wouldn't expect any less, not when Nucky's running the show, but he still chafes against them, in what he suspects to be a somewhat juvenile way.
And so today, he's not going to any meetings at all, even if he's supposed to (and truthfully, he can't remember, can't always keep all of it straight, regardless of how many times he's reminded.) No, he knows that Nucky and whoever he's meeting with today are going to be at Babette's, but he intends to attend the venue simply for the sake of having a good time, not for the sake of business.
Because that's what it's really all about, isn't it? It's meant to be a place where anyone can have a good time. Or at least, that's the image that Atlantic City tries to put on for the out of town visitors, both those here on innocent, family-oriented trips to the beach and the boardwalk, and those on more illicit expeditions.
Which is why, after grabbing himself his own altogether-too-full glass of whiskey (and he fully intends to down it all within the next five minutes, of course,) he slides into the first booth he sees, not realizing that it's already occupied. It doesn't take long to notice, though, and instead of jumping up and apologizing, a smile slides right onto his face, just as smoothly as he'd slid into the booth.]
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Amy would tell them first of all never to call her Amelia, and that no one has got it made because staying in a position of power in this world is a constant struggle. Yes, she's good at what she does, but that doesn't mean it's easy or that she'll have it forever. (Some days, she dreams of another life in which she has adventures with a madman in a box, but she never tells anyone of those. Some days, she wants something more than a house that's too large and too empty with too many rooms, a place that she grew up in and that belonged to her parents and her aunt, regardless of the fact that no one but her remembers them.)
Looking up from the files on her desk. ] What is it?
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On the other hand, he's ended up by Amy's desk. And, after giving her an appreciative glance, he determines that that can't really be a bad thing.]
I think I'm lost.
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[A dame walks into a bar...or casino as the case may be. Atlantic City is still fairly new to her and she's never been in this casino before. She tries to cover up her awe of the place as she walks to the bar and orders a glass of champagne then leans back against the bar to soak in all of the
in her mindglamor. Atlantic City is a long way from Birmingham, Alabama.]no subject
Which is exactly when he spots her.]
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When he finally arrives, he's late, and he knows he's probably left Richard waiting. Hell, he can't even quite remember why he'd shown up in the first place, but he spots Richard across the room easily enough, and walks up behind him, still swaying slightly.
"Hey."
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3/17 Evening [✔ Action ]
Re: 3/17 Evening [✔ Action ]
Once they're in the door, he looks around, half-hoping she doesn't notice the mess on the floor and the holes in the wall where someone had obviously put a fist through them. The best way to get her not to notice is to kiss her, though, so that's what he does.]
3/17 Evening [✔ Action ]
Re: 3/17 Evening [✔ Action ]
3/17 Evening [✔ Action ]
Re: 3/17 Evening [✔ Action ]
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Y'know, you look pretty damn good today.
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Hi.
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Hey.
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as promised! pick your poison.
Re: Picking top left and bottom right BECAUSE I CAN
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yay three choices or a combo!
Re: I choose 1 and 2
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For Angela, of course
He's been eyeing her all night -- they'd come to the party together, but they'd both been doing their own socializing, and as far as he's concerned, she looks way too damn good in that dress for him not to get at least a moment alone with her. That's why, the second he gets a minute to pull Angela away from the rest of the party, he's grabbing her by the hand, giving her that trademark cocky smile that usually signals danger or excitement (in his opinion, one doesn't usually come without the other, anyway) and leading her to a more secluded corner.
"You look good tonight." He's sure she already knows it, but how can he avoid saying it?
Re: For Angela, of course
But she isn't thinking about mottos and rules she abides by tonight, her attention spread elsewhere around the party, dabbling in a bit of the food and plenty of the drink and all of the socializing. She figures Jimmy has gone off somewhere to do his own thing or smoke or whatever he does when he has some time to himself so she doesn't expect the hand wrapping around hers as she moves over to pour herself another glass of champagne.
Turning towards him with an eyebrow raised every so lightly, she lets him tug her along towards a corner, far from the rest of the boisterous crowd. "You want something," she replies, a grin on her face. "What is it?" She can read him oh so well knowing that if he pulls that compliment out of nowhere, there's something behind it.
Not that she's refusing to accept the compliment or anything.
Re: For Angela, of course
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action »
i have booze and food. all i need is your address.
Re: action »
Booze and food sounds damn good to me. I live at...
[And he sends her the apartment building and number.]
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[Yeah, he's kind of wondering how he got the number, too. Oh well. Might as well answer and find out, right?]
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» text
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» text
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OWL POST | poly
(pretend the hat is one of the crazy ones at the joke shop).There's also a note that reads: Merry Christmas, Jimmy! Just a bit of home for you today. I hope you like them. ~Ginny ]
Re: OWL POST | poly
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Guess who.
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Ruby! When the hell'd you get back?!
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All her son needs, she insists, is the love of his mother. She handles the bumbling police officer, smooths over any probing questions they have, and comes to visit her darling Jimmy one day, when the clouds are gathering in a gray storm, sure to break out in downpour that evening. She brings him imported cigars to lift his spirits, and a basket of flowers, to bring a feminine touch to the place which it so sorely needs. She leaves the basket of daisies on the kitchen counter, smiling thinly at her son, his eyes rimmed with red.]
I really don't mean to sound cold, but—I think you've carried on like this for long enough, dear.
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Her words reach him, though. Enough so that he breaks his staring contest with the table long enough to glance up at her, eyes narrowed, voice unusually quiet.]
How the fuck d'you want me to carry on?
[He doesn't have any idea how he should be carrying on. How can he carry on, when Angela's dead and it's his fault? People had told him he'd move past it, he'd recover, he'd start to forget things, but he knows better. People don't move past things, not really. They just find ways to hide them.
And Jimmy's never been good at hiding much of anything.]
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She never thinks to connect any of these persistent calls to the new guests at tonight's celebration, glimpsed only in passing: one wears a flesh-colored mask, as if for a masquerade, and another man in navy blue pinstripes, something which stands out like a bright flame amongst all the tuxedoed gentlemen.
When Gatsby leads her by the hand to his private garden, however, thoughts of interruption are furthest from her mind. The party is not without its signature grandiosity, a miniature microcosm all of its own in the heart of the city, but they have slipped away from the jubilant festivities and burst of fireworks for a rendezvous of their own. Resting in the cool greenery of an enormous tree, it seems they are both halfway to ecstasy before a butler intrudes, and his lips leave her throat, his hands leaving but an imprint of warmth on the curve of her hip.
"Sir, Atlantic City is here to see you."
Atlantic City is a place she only vaguely knows by the taste of seaside sweets and rock salt, where her husband had once purchased a pink diamond brooch for her, but who-ever his visitor is, it is enough for Gatsby to leave her in the shade of his garden, promising an immediate return with a fond farewell.
Neglected, Daisy waits for him with only the chirp of crickets and the warm summer night for company, her good time rather spoiled, seated on a stone bench.]
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The problem is, of course, that he doesn't know anyone here; nobody but the host and Richard, that is, and he can't possibly monopolize all of the host's time, and he knows Richard is eager to leave the commotion and gaiety for something more private, more sedate. He'll need to enjoy this party alone, if he intends to enjoy it at all, or he'll need to make himself some new friends quickly -- that shouldn't be a problem, he's always been good at finding ways to entertain himself.
So when Jimmy wanders into the private garden, cigarette in hand, he's not necessarily looking for anyone specific, he's simply exploring the layout of this place, taking in the beauty and the grandiosity of it, vaguely thinking that if he runs into someone, at least he can have a decent conversation.
That's when he spots her, sitting on the bench. Well. She's beautiful, of course he notices it. Maybe this is the new friend he's been looking for, the person that will help transform this party into something other than straight-ahead business. He approaches, limp a little worse than usual, exacerbated by some of the heavy lifting he's been doing on jobs lately.]
Hi.
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Cow-people!
Re: That puts a strange image in my head XD
Which means that the proprietors of the place might not be all that thrilled to see him. The bounty hunters, on the other hand, might just be delighted.]
I wanted to be gender neutral ... what sort of dirty mind do you have?
Re: I was just imagining a lot of guys with cow heads and human bodies!
Oh.... welp... never mind then.
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let's pretend this whole thread is a flashback
The air in Atlantic City tastes like salt-water taffy and the ocean, green frills of sea foam lapping at her bare ankles when she strolls along the beach, delighting at the advertisements for exotic cigars and spun sugar as she takes her husband by the arm, the wooden planks of the boardwalk groaning beneath their steps.
She had been married for a few years, now. The wedding had been distinctly bittersweet, the first few days afterwards had been a lovely blur of honeymoon suites, and a week or so, sometimes afterwards— The papers had told it all, really: the car crash, the automobile being an absolute wreck, her husband, caught in the lap of a chambermaid from a hotel. Almost inconsequentially after that, Tom made sure Daisy had his child, and now their infant daughter remains left behind in Chicago, taken comfortable care of by a nanny.
Their late afternoon, bordering on the cusp of evening, stroll comes to a slow halt when Tom raps his thick knuckles upon the handsome wood doors of Babette's Supper Club, a fine establishment, he promised her. No sooner are they greeted by a woman in a tuxedo does Tom shuffle off to one of the private upstairs rooms, mentioning a Mr. Thompson, a politician of some spectacularly anomalous sort, with whom he wishes to discuss golfing championships with.
She sees the lingering glance he gives a waitress, and wishes him a happy clandestine meeting with the sharpest smile she can give.
Very much alone, Daisy is left to her own devices in the swirling mad dash of activity, and between the brass band and the dancing couples, she takes a seat in one of the booths, politely accepting an offer for a very illegal glass of champagne from one of the waiters. Such is the life she has grown accustomed to.]
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And so today, he's not going to any meetings at all, even if he's supposed to (and truthfully, he can't remember, can't always keep all of it straight, regardless of how many times he's reminded.) No, he knows that Nucky and whoever he's meeting with today are going to be at Babette's, but he intends to attend the venue simply for the sake of having a good time, not for the sake of business.
Because that's what it's really all about, isn't it? It's meant to be a place where anyone can have a good time. Or at least, that's the image that Atlantic City tries to put on for the out of town visitors, both those here on innocent, family-oriented trips to the beach and the boardwalk, and those on more illicit expeditions.
Which is why, after grabbing himself his own altogether-too-full glass of whiskey (and he fully intends to down it all within the next five minutes, of course,) he slides into the first booth he sees, not realizing that it's already occupied. It doesn't take long to notice, though, and instead of jumping up and apologizing, a smile slides right onto his face, just as smoothly as he'd slid into the booth.]
Evenin'.
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