[right][sub]__________
𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜 & 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎  
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸 
__________ [/sub][/right]


[i]Something’s wrong with Madam P. This Genovese debacle has spun her head way more than a wayward Babydoll usually would. She ain’t sleeping. She ain’t eating. That twiggy body ain’t seen nothin’ but blow and booze since Dixie pressed her thumbs too hard and too long into that boys jugular. Winnie & I had the scene and the stiff handled. All Madam had to do was keep her nerve, wipe the boy’s bills and scrub the CCTV. That shit only picks up the in and outs at the front doors anyway, fucks sake. Wouldn’t take two seconds just to get it scrubbed clean. For peace of mind, y’know? Saying that… I don’t reckon our Pearl Sackville has had any kind of peace, least of all in her mind, since she left her mother’s fuckin’ womb. 

But I’ve been keepin’ an ear out for any whispers of Luca Genovese being missin’… To be honest, that family don’t really hang round our neck o’ the woods. Don’t get me wrong, Tony’s the real deal. Proper wop. But I ain’t heard nothin’. Not a squeak. We might just get lucky with this one, ya know. Maybe one of the Irish or the Serbs will catch the stray on that. She better fuckin’ pray for that. Anyway. So, P says to me she’s got Dixie handled, right? “I’ve got it handled, Roge” she said. Said it right before she went up to bed for the first night in days. Not without a shitty bottle of Jack though, aye. And I kept my nose out, like she so much as asked me to…
So tell me why I spotted Dixie’s signature peach duckin’ into a taxi cab in the early hours? Very much alive, by the fuckin’ way. Musta snuck out the back door. Didn’t think she had the minerals for it, but off she went, Ditsy Dixie. I would’ve done something, sure, if I didn’t already have my hands full. Beef fat as Angus over some John’s bill he decided he didn’t wanna pay… Obviously I changed his mind. But whilst I’m outside convincin’ him, Dixie’s poppin’ her seatbelt on in a taxi and dustin’ my ass. Yeah, she’s looooong gone now. And it’ll be down to me to track her down, no doubt. I bet you soon as I tell Ms P she’ll be askin’ why I didn’t chase her down. You seen the size of me? I don’t run for shit. Ain’t gonna start now. Winnie’s always complainin’ about how tired she is of cleaning up people’s messes… Funny how that cleaner don’t wanna clean. Try rearranging faces, Win. Try grabbin’ up 3 wasters at once and draggin’ them outside for a seein’ to, Win. Try tellin’ Pearl Sackville that her murderin’ whore is on the run to god-knows-where, Win. You got an ex-wife ridin’ yo ass for money every month? A son who can’t look you in the eye? A daughter who don’t wanna know ya? You just keep on fluffin’ pillows and waving your feather duster around. Goddamn. [/i]

[centre] ______________________________ [/centre]

Pearl’s right hand cradled her chin like a wicker Moses basket, elbow melting into the  bartop, eyelids fighting a losing battle with gravity. She was humming along with whatever Blues singer had taken the Soirée stage that night. She didn’t know the song. But that didn’t stop her from faking it. The dud notes and off-time ad libs slurred from her lips as if cotton wool was balled in her cheeks. Lloyd was eyeing her from a few steps away, stealing sideways glances at the Madam who was barely holding it together. Her sequinned dress was cracking with the pressure of containing all that was swelling within her, those metallic fish-like scales shimmering in the half-light. Pearl sighed as she brought the glass to her lips again. It had reached the point in the night where even lifting the liquor was effort she could barely muster. 

She’d spent the earlier hours, before her drunken lover had welcomed her back into his warm embrace, balancing accounts and counting the safe in her office. She’d shuffled and reshuffled bills with tight coils of paranoia in her fingertips, filled out façade paperwork with shaken strikes of a pencil, watched and rewatched the CCTV on repeat… Even the VHS remote control seemed to tire of her delusion, the buttons lifting their eyes to the ceiling with every rabid jab at the rewind. The chaos within the Madam that usually had its face pressed up against a riot shield, threatening to burst through the barricades she’d built, was breaking free like a fever. Desperate to be freed, that chaos had seen a crack appear within her, one that started like one of her whitlows but peeled back to reveal raw, blushed flesh beneath. Like a wound, it wept. It pussed. It oozed. Pearl’s usually guarded and sullenly controlled demeanour had crumbled like eroding brickwork. It was as if she were parading Soirée with her skin unzipped, all of it falling away like browning petals, just bare muscle tissue and bones beneath. Though Pearl had attempted to wrap herself in sequinned pretence, a colourful Christmas cracker, Dixie’s hands had gripped both ends of her and twisted her open with a snap. Though unlike the festive staple, breaking Pearl open had revealed a whole lot of noise and a disappointing nothingness that resided inside. Suddenly, a hand that felt familiarly weighted clamped down on her shoulder. Like a puppet with the strings cut, the Madam seemed to fold at Roger’s touch. Her neck craned, Soirée swimming, blurry and fuzzy. He was looking down at her with his signature neutral expression, devoid of any real emotion, immune to her drunken sneer.

[quote] “[i]Ms Pearl[/i],” Roger said tersely, the only microexpression of a ticking vein in his thick neck was missed by the Madam. “[i]Will you follow me? I have something that requires your attention.[/i]”[/quote] 

Somehow, Pearl managed to follow Roger across Soirées emptying dance floor. Her memory failed her when she attempted to recall exactly the series of events that lead to her being escorted to her bedroom like an inebriated adolescent. Ignoring her mumbled protests, Roger simply gestured patiently in the direction he wished Pearl to aim for. When she stumbled, a hard hand found its way to the small of her back. When her ankles zigzagged in heels she was too intoxicated for, there was a palm on her elbow holding her up. Eventually, Roger successfully delivered Pearl to her bedroom with a bed unmade and window wide open, circulating bitter cold air that only exasperated her drunken stumbling. 

[quote] “[i]Whadya want, Roge[/i]?” she said, tone accusatory.[/quote]

Uncooperative hands attempted to extract the bag of cocaine that was nestled between her breasts. It danced teasingly between her fingers before falling to the ground. Roger’s boot was placed over the top of the baggie, his eyebrows raised slightly in challenge.

[quote] “[i]Pearly[/i],” he began gruffly. “[i]I’ve got lock-up handled. Why don’t you get some rest, huh? We’ve got it covered downstairs. Clock out early.[/i]”[/quote]

[quote] “[i]Roge. Your boot’s on my drugs[/i].[/quote]

[quote] “[i]I’m aware[/i].”[/quote]

[quote] “[i]Gerrof it then, damn! Wos wrong with ya? Move your fat boot off my-”[/i][/quote]

[quote] “[i]‘Fraid I can’t do that for you, Pearl.[/i]”[/quote]

Her eyes, wild and outraged, were attempting to focus on him. But all Roger saw was the wayward woman he’d worked for, protected and served for years, barely holding it together. He rarely overstepped. Seldom crossed this boundary. Yet, here he was. Taking her to bed before she drank herself into a total stupor and made a mockery of herself in front of her patrons.

[quote] “[i]I suggest you get out that dress ‘fore you get into bed. Don’t look the most comfortable thing to sleep in.”[/i][/quote]

[quote] “[i]Not goin’ to bed now anyway, you idiot. I’m downstairs.”[/i][/quote]

[quote] “[i]You’re not. That’s enough, Pearl. C’mon. Don’t make me….[/i]”[/quote]

Pearly Sackville’s chin jutted indignantly, her torso bobbing like a wave-buffeted buoy on choppy waters. 

[quote] “[i]I’m not goin’ fuckin’ bed, Roge! I’m back downstairs. I dint even finish my drink, you fuck.”[/i][/quote]

The hint of a smile pinched at the corner of Roger’s mouth. That was what flicked the switch within him. As if some higher force had commanded it, the man scooped Little Pearly Girl up off her feet and took three lumbering steps towards her bed. She may have squealed in protest if she were more sober. But The Madam, in the privacy of her bedroom with the only man who’d ever stayed to know her, relented at Roger’s touch.  She sagged like a sleeping toddler being tactically extracted from the backseat of a car. Her arms draped down his back, wrists flapping all rubbery. In one arm, Roger somewhat brashly held the Madam. With the other, he tossed back her crumpled duvet and gently yet rather officially lay her down on the squeaking mattress. He cleared his throat awkwardly, fingers hooked on his belt loops awaiting the next protest. But she didn’t attempt to get back up. Her head flopped on the pillow to face him.

[quote] “[i]You’ll be alright, Pearl?[/i]”[/quote]

A question? Or a statement?

She merely nodded. Drunken embarrassment pinched pinky blush on her cheeks. Unconvinced, Roger took a few steps back towards the wicker chair that faced the foot of the bed. It’s main purpose was to be home to a mountain of dirty laundry. But he lifted the pile and laid it to rest on the bedroom floor. Lowering himself into the chair, ignoring its creaks beneath his weight, he watched and waited. It took a few minutes for her to fall asleep. Her eyes rolled back, jaw sliding open, tongue lolling and snores heaving her chest. She didn’t look peaceful. She looked like sleep had forced itself upon her. Satisfied nonetheless, Roger left the bedroom. He moved quietly, avoiding the floorboards he knew would creak beneath his boots, and clicked the door shut softly behind him. Hand hovered over the doorhandle for a mere moment, Roger let out a small sigh, then disappeared back downstairs to the depths of Soirée.