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“It’s going to rain tonight.”
“Hmm,” you nodded, staring outside at nothing in particular. Rain meant work hang-ups: the trucks took by-roads, which the agencies left in poor condition - whether to dissuade bootlegging or due to a shortage in funds, it was hard to tell. Rain was comforting, its rhythm was reliable, safe. Something that could be accountable, in these times of chaos. You could hear the faint stream of a recorded ‘Honeysuckle Rose’ being played somewhere in the distance - in the city, that was probably the building next door, anyway.
There was something about the rain that made Arthur pensive, though, you always felt. Perhaps it was memories better left on the battlefield, you did not wish to pry but glancing over at him only to notice a faraway look in his eyes, as he stared at the bleak sky made you want to take action. Leaning over, you pinched his cheek, earning a yelp from the Scotsman that had surely become a familiar bane of the speakeasy’s existence.
“Stop zoning out, Mr. Doyle,” you chided him with a laugh. “These books aren’t about to add themselves up.”
Arthur smiled towards you, more exasperated than thankful (he just didn’t want to admit the latter, you knew). “Can’t you just get Isaac to do these? I feel like this is a waste of my intellect, frankly.”
“Comte doesn’t keep you around for your intellect,” you rolled your eyes, fighting hard to suppress your grin.
“Of course not. He does, however, like the money I’ve been bringing in at Le Sablier.” Absolutely like Arthur to not pull his punches, even in jest. It was true - after Arthur had taken over the casino, profits had steadily increased.
You stood up, straightening your dress and flashing the man a genuine smile. “Oh fine, you win this round. The extra dough you’re bringing in helped me buy this dress anyway,” your words were accompanied with a quick twirl, to which Arthur nodded appreciatively.
“It’s all worth it, then. Looking like that, [Name], I’m already putting a 10% addition on tonight’s expected profits.”
“You’re all heart with your compliments,” you tried to play off his words for the blarney you knew he was capable of but the gentle smile on his lips, coupled with his lax posture at the bar counter - well, a girl could get the wrong idea.
“Ah, you wound me - you do. Can’t a man have a few ill-intentions behind his sweet words?”
“Any more bushwa from you,” you responded, setting your hair just right at a mirror behind the bar counter, “and you’d best call yourself Irish from now on. Sheesh, it’s like you swallowed that Blarney stone whole.”
“Saints preserve us, darlin’. Not in these tough political times,” Arthur replied, with the most convincing accent of the Emerald Isle he could muster. It was good but you did not want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that.
You did, however, spare him a fleeting, heartfelt smile as you left. It never did feel quite right if Arthur couldn’t crack a good joke.