Chapter Text
Code by Layouttesst
Fog ghosted through the half-empty streets of Ashtar, swallowing light and shadow beneath a bloodshot moon. Blinds in windows snapped shut as the vapor curled around graffitied tenements. The whiteout crept along Devil's Row, where speakeasies lined the block like teeth on a sawback knife. Trumpets and saxophones cried from a gilded building that stood alone. The marquee on the baroque facade glowed with a name often whispered behind the city's closed doors: Club Blue Groove.
Inside, the speakeasy overflowed with patrons dressed to the nines for a Saturday night shindig. Diamonds twinkled on wrists and busts while satin brushed against silk on the dance floor. A sea of blue confetti glimmered beneath high heels and polished shoes stomping to a Charleston beat. Every bobbing head was either glistening with pomade or crowned with extravagant feathers. Notes of perfume, cologne, and cigarette smoke hovered in the air, blending into a bittersweet scent that filled the establishment.
The thick fragrance tickled the nose of Flynn Rider, who sat at the bar with a cigarette in one hand and whiskey in the other. He ignored the tingling in his nostrils as he drank his booze, scanning the crowd for easy marks. The whiskey he swallowed had come from his latest bootleg run, but the payout didn't fatten his wallet enough to sate his appetite, leaving him hungry for low-hanging fruit. He was no stranger to picking off the speakeasy's tree. Club Blue Groove reeled in dumb clucks and dizzy dames who never guarded their pockets or purses, making theft easier than stealing candy from tots.
His brown eyes checked the booths for sozzled Johnnys and broads, landing on a blonde with a long gold cigarette holder. Her liquor had her cackling like a hyena as her beau whispered into her ear.
'Jackpot,' Flynn's mind crooned.
When the dapper man pulled away from her, she stood up and wiggled her hips, tugging the hem of her white dress. Flynn almost whistled to himself at the sight of her honey thighs and slim calves. The flapper turned toward the crowded bar and stumbled in his direction with a toothy grin, clearly three sheets to the wind. He nursed his cigarette until her clicking heels brought her straight to him. She practically launched herself against the bar before flagging down the bartender with her gloved hand, placing a clutch purse on the table.
'Now this is just too easy,' Flynn thought, feeling as giddy as a cat watching a dove. He threw a glance at the booth she had left, seeing her company yap and laugh together without a thought for her wellbeing. Adrenaline sang in his veins, but his fingers didn't move until he was sure the flapper had her new drink.
She swigged down her giggle water and leaned into the cad beside her, chatting him up. Flynn eased her purse open, slipping his hand inside with the grace of a fox reaching for a hen in a coop. He pressed his tongue against the corner of his mouth and grabbed her wallet, feeling how fat it was. A grin dimpled his cheeks as he pulled out the leather billfold and peeked at the greenbacks inside. People around him remained caught up in their own business while he pocketed enough dough to make his face glow.
Flynn's eyes flicked from the flapper to his surroundings as he returned the wallet to the purse. He adjusted the lapels of his cream dinner jacket and walked away with his whiskey, jitterbugging on the inside. All he needed now were stacks of Benjamins for his gambling debts and a trip to Sicily. His black oxfords carried him to a booth cushioning the derrières of more pretty targets. With the help of a little charm, he could take one home tonight and rob her blind later.
Flynn wedged his cigarette between his lips and wagged his eyebrows at the socialites before him, his voice smoother than suede as he said, "Ladies?"
The redhead in the middle blushed harder than her giggling friends. She wore an emerald pendant that looked too heavy for her neck and an engagement ring as large as his fist.
Flynn locked in on her, removing his cigarette from his mouth and smirking rakishly. "The name's Flynn Rider."
"We know who you are," a brunette lilted, playing with her pearls. "The fellas 'round here call you a cad."
"Sweetheart, the fellas around here don't have enough gray matter to remember the alphabet," Flynn wisecracked.
The women guffawed at his joke, nearly spilling their drinks on their beaded dresses.
His prey for the night stopped laughing when something caught her eye by the entrance. "Jesus Christ," she gasped. "Who's that?"
Flynn jutted out his chin as he pouted, rotating his head. There in the doorway stood a platinum blonde knockout wearing enough sequins to make the stars jealous. Her getup wasn't a traditional flapper dress, but a tight blue number with a slit and off-the-shoulder straps. Even her coif set her apart from the average woman by leaning into a feathered style with backswept bangs and a French braid. Diamond clips shimmered in her hair like the pale glitter on her marble-white skin, turning her into a walking goddess.
Flynn's jaw just about hit the floor despite his earlier plans. His pulse jumped when he looked down at her diamond clutch purse, which flaunted her bankroll more than her sapphire necklace did. She stepped forward after nodding at the cloakroom attendant who had taken her white fur coat off her arm. Flynn's gaze traveled from the beauty's bare legs to her hourglass figure as she glided across the room with swaying hips. He gravitated to her orbit without thinking twice, sliding between furious dancers like a man under hypnosis.
The dame parked herself in a corner with a faux ficus tree and pulled out a smoke, lighting it. Her azure eyes rose from the dancing flame on her gold lighter when Flynn froze a foot away from her. She was even more breathtaking up close―all high cheekbones, sensuous ruby lips, and lavender eyeshadow. Before useless noise could leave his mouth, she arched an eyebrow and asked sardonically, "Cat got your tongue?"
Flynn's heart sank into his stomach like a dead body in a river. He blinked a total of three times, gulping hard. A strained grin stretched across his face as he claimed, "Actually, I was enjoying the view."
She capped her lighter and blew out a smoke ring, her cigarette dangling between two slender fingers. Those stunning eyes of hers elevatored up and down his form, never betraying her thoughts. "Is that so?"
Flynn took a long drag on his own cigarette before exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "Can you blame me? You're a view any man could appreciate, Sweetheart."
The glamorous woman didn't smile, snort, or bat an eyelash. She sucked on her cigarette for a moment that seemed to last hours. A cloud plumed through the side of her mouth as she parted from the nicotine, giving him another once-over. Her low-lidded eyes settled on his before she said in a flat voice, "If you'll excuse me, I have business elsewhere."
Flynn's eyes grew to the size of bulbs in response to her comment. She walked past him coolly while he stared at the ficus tree she had abandoned. The discombobulated hustler turned around, watching the dame head for an empty booth beneath a tiered chandelier. His gaze fell to her round caboose as she sauntered away, unknowingly making him ache. She was the type of classy broad a bootlegger could wear on his arm for every occasion―a real prize to collect and parade―but he blew it with her in five seconds.
Flynn swore under his breath, slugging down the amber whiskey in his tumbler as he sweated. Something upstairs wasn't working right if he couldn't impress or score a gorgeous woman in a speakeasy. The platinum blonde sat down in her booth and rested her purse on the table, eyes raking the crowd. The most captivating smile in the world lit up her face when an old geezer in a green dinner jacket approached.
"Hold the phone," Flynn mumbled over the rim of his glass, squinting at the man. "Is that...?"
The fossil slid into the booth with her, giving Flynn a good view of his face.
Flynn's blood pressure dropped. "Weselton?"
His client―his wealthy, wrinkled, diaper-wearing client―was chinwagging with a dame who had just given him the cold shoulder. Flynn gawked as Weselton leaned into the platinum blonde's ear and whispered a line that got her chuckling. His shock hardened into something he chose not to name, but the fire it kindled within him was overwhelming. Weselton gestured to the stage, where the jazz band was setting down their instruments. The dame nodded and scooted out of the booth with her purse in hand; he followed her, standing on his feet and offering his arm with a massive grin on his mug.
She accepted his scrawny arm and strode off with him, glancing Flynn's way. His throat turned into asphalt on the spot. Her expression was unreadable, but he felt like she was mocking him. The platinum blonde looked forward and said something to Weselton, who kept grinning like a dumb ape. Flynn burned holes into Weselton's back with his eyes as the pair walked over to a saxophonist wading through the crowd.
The bootlegger inhaled a mouthful of smoke from his cigarette before crushing the tip against an ashtray on a table. He couldn't figure out the dame; Weselton was a wet newspaper, so what was she doing with him, and what was he doing with her? Flynn rubbed his chin as he mulled in silence with a furrowed brow. The answer had to be business, and he wanted to know what kind. He set his tumbler down beside the ashtray and straightened his black bowtie, lifting his foot.
A heavy hand latched onto Flynn's shoulder, holding him in place. His stomach flipped like a getaway car that had hydroplaned and somersaulted. He whipped around to discover the Stabbington Brothers towering over him, both looking meaner than scarred alley cats. Their black dinner jackets made them resemble butlers in a sparkling ocean of elites, but their buff bodies annihilated any impression that they could be knocked around.
"The boss is waiting," Seamus Stabbington told him in a frank tone.
Irritated, Flynn peeled his fingers off his shoulder and drawled, "Then how about you send him a message saying I'm preoccupied."
"He said to tell you he'd drag you into the backroom himself if you told us that," Seamus relayed blankly.
Flynn frowned, eyes zipping between his targets and the Stabbingtons. The bootlegger muttered a swearword before letting the ginger twins lead him away from Weselton and the platinum blonde. He tossed them a backward glance that Seamus's eyes followed, but the grizzly bear didn't question him. The trio zigzagged through the crowd, passing men and women who didn't know how to use their inside voices. Flynn walked into a blue corridor lit by sconces as he wiped whiskey off his mouth, stepping aside to allow the Stabbingtons to guide him.
The meatheads took him to a door with "DO NOT DISTURB" screaming at him from a yellow hanger on the knob. Seamus knocked on the cobalt door with the bridge of his curled finger, waiting for permission.
"Who is it?" asked a muffled voice behind the wood.
"The Stabbingtons, Boss. We found Mr. Rider."
Pause.
"Enter."
Seamus pushed the door open, letting a rectangle of light fall onto the carpeted floor in a blue lounge. Flynn put his hands in his pockets and stepped inside the palatial room, staring at the silhouette sitting on a shadowed sofa like it was a throne. He understood why the lounge was dark when he clocked the tube of lipstick on the walnut table. The door closed behind Flynn, shutting him off from the light in the corridor. His eyes tried to adjust to the dim lighting that engulfed the space, but he could barely distinguish lamps from furniture.
The seated figure placed an arm on the backrest and popped the lid on a lighter, sparking a golden flame. Hans's angular face leaned into the glow, dipping the head of a cigar inside the flickering fire. The tip burned red like an ember as it flared to life. Ribbons of smoke curled upward, reaching green eyes that glinted with dissatisfaction. "You're late," he remarked coldly. "You know how much I hate being kept waiting."
"What can I say? I was enjoying myself out there," Flynn half-lied.
"Hmph." Hans sucked in smoke from the cigar before letting it out of his downturned mouth, his chest deflating. "I'll bet you were."
Flynn walked across the lounge and sat down in a velvet armchair, leaning back like nothing was eating away at him. "You clearly weren't bored in the meantime, now were you?" He nudged his head in the direction of the lipstick.
"She was a waste of time," Hans grunted.
"What a shame," Flynn replied, pretending to care. "Then let's not waste each other's now that I'm in the room. What're we here for?"
Hans uncrossed his legs just as Flynn crossed his own. "Trouble, unfortunately―"
"Trouble?" Flynn interrupted, rattled. "What kind of trouble are we talking here?"
"Cop trouble."