((SO sorry for the prolonged absence, guys. Crazy crazy crazy few weeks and all of my muses disappeared so I’m slowly getting back into things. I promise I haven’t abandoned ship!))
"Alright," she said, her tone becoming a little less abrasive as she followed him.
As he recounted the story to her, she became less imposing, anger almost melting away. If anyone knew how hard it was to make it in this town, it was her. The land of opportunity wasn’t so generous after all, or so it seemed. As much as she hated to admit it, she’d started to feel a little sorry for him.
However, that sympathy vanished when she heard the word brothel. She sat up, eyes wide and knuckles white from gripping the side of the table too hard, and tried to conceal her shock and anger.
It didn’t work.
"A brothel? Are you kidding me, Alvin? I work in a goddamn police station - I’ve half a mind to get the entire bloody LAPD down here to arrest you for being a pimp!” Her accent was raw Irish now; not a hint of the American drawl that she’d come so close to mastering. “How in God’s name could you have gotten away with this?!”
She stood up suddenly; seat clattering to the floor behind her as she took a step back. Her hands in fists by her sides and eyes filling with desperate tears, she fought to keep her voice steady. “I swear to God, Alvin Cramer, you better have nothing to do with Mickey Cohen.”
The crack in her voice betrayed her as she furiously attempted to keep her tears at bay. She couldn’t have any more ties to Mickey and his gang - if she did, her life was liable to pay the price. She was angry at Alvin for lying to her, angry at herself for not figuring it out sooner and lastly, angry at Mickey bloody Cohen for destroying yet another aspect of her life.
"Gina, please, it’s not … I’m not a pimp, okay? I don’t get the money from the brothel. It all goes through to the top and filters back down to me. I only run the dry cleaners and keep the girls safe. I’d never - I wouldn’t even want to … . ” Alvin ran both hands through his hair, not moving from the chair. He couldn’t blame her being angry, not really. The idea of a traditional brothel horrified him just as much. But he couldn’t figure out how to explain to her what the place out back really was and he didn’t think he’d be able to.
Not that it made a difference. Gina Gilmore was a headstrong, smart girl. It was what he loved about the kid. She knew what was right and what was wrong - there was no grey area with her.
He heard the crack in her voice and he stood up, going to comfort her out of habit, then thought better of it and let his arms drop to his sides.
"I don’t … I work for a guy named Sal Albero, I don’t know who he works for. Dragna, Siegel, Cohen, I don’t know. He’s just a tiny fat Italian guy who smokes cigars." Alvin shrugged, letting a pathetic excuse for a smile pull at his lips. "Try not to pry with guys like that."
He sighed, sitting back on his chair, feeling more tired than he’d felt in a very long time. “Look, if you need to tell the guys at Central, you should. Just … can I at least get the girls out? It’s not their fault they’re not really the, uh … the secretary types, ya know?”
Alvin chose not to mention what would more than likely happen the minute the guys in Central who were in the mob’s pocket caught wind of the dry cleaning front being broken. There’d be big guys in suits with big guns coming by to dismantle the whole goddamn place and probably some of Alvin’s body parts along with it.
These are the basic emotions according to Aristotle. Reblog and show your best icon for each!