Work Text:
Two clients of mine came walking into my office looking shaken up. The air was thick with cigarette smoke sure, but I recognized those lanky silhouettes right away and how their shoulders slumped like they’d done something wrong.
Two up-and-coming radio broadcasters, Daniel Howell and Philip Lester. My stars on the rise. My handfuls of trouble who, God willing, will prove worthwhile when we all get the paychecks our hustling has earned us. They sat across from me at my desk and looked ashamed, like two naughty toddlers about to be caught out. I lit another cigarette and asked what brought them here.
“It’s like this, Hazel,” Phil says, leaning forward. “We got a note that reads pretty nasty.”
He places the paper face-down where it’s so pale against the dark mahogany wood of my desk that it seems to glow. He pushes it towards me. I sit forward, pick it up, and give it a read aloud.
“Mr. Lester, Mr. Howell, I hope this message finds you well, finds you feeling generous. I’ve attached a photo I snapped of a certain letter. Look closely, you might recognize it. The words, the penmanship. They’re yours. I can’t imagine many eyes other than yours and mine have seen it, but £10,000 in a bag on the stoop of your building next Wednesday night at 11pm can keep it that way. Sincerely yours, Leaky”
I look up and see the boys so scared I might have murdered someone right before their eyes. “Who’s this Leaky?” I ask.
They don’t know.
“You got the coin?”
They shake their heads.
I sigh. I fear the worst. “What’s in the letter they got?”
“It’s a…” Phil’s voice peters out into a nervous sort of squawk.
“It’s private,” Dan says, his brows furrowed, his gaze stern. He’s not scared anymore, he’s fuming.
“I gotta know so I can try to help you,” I say. He doesn’t answer.
I stand and make my way to the chesterfield where I keep my cheap gin in a glittering decanter. This seems like something tougher, something muddier and deeper down to bone. So I open the cabinet and grab a bottle of good Irish whiskey from my mam’s hometown.
I pour three drinks, generously. Phil sips his slowly and Dan downs half of it in one gulp and I hold mine in my hand.
“What exactly are we dealing with, boys?” I ask again.
Phil’s eyes are fixed to the floor when he tells me, “It’s a love letter. It’s something I wrote Danny a few years back, missing him and saying too fucking much.”
I set down my glass. “I see,” I nod. Dan’s glare makes sense. It’d be a hell of a thing to get out. To be printed in the papers. To get the attention of the literal and figurative morality police. It’d be the end of their careers. It’d likely end in jail time. It wouldn’t be the first clamour of something queer between these two to be spread about town, but it’d sure seem to have a lot of merit. These two are my biggest meal tickets, sure, but they’re also my friends. Which means I gotta do what I can here.
“We got a few options. But I need a little more info. How explicit is it, Phil? You couldn’t be talking about someone else?”
He shakes his head.
“We could say it’s a forgery,” I shrug. “Someone looking to make a quick buck. But that means we’d have to call the police and tell them you’re being blackmailed. And they’ll investigate and likely turn up more dirt than they’d sweep away.”
Dan takes a second gulp and finishes his drink. I lean to the window behind my chair and crack it open. I want another cigarette, and the haze of the room is getting to be a little much, even in smoggy London.
I strike my match and it ignites beautifully. Sometimes I wish that were a job in itself.
“We could let this bozo leak it,” I say. “Let it hit the papers, let you deny it. Get you a couple of birds to parade on your arms. Have you move into separate places, marry one of them and punch out a couple of kids. It’s a long game. It’ll shut up a lot of folks.”
“No,” Dan says. He shakes his head. “No.”
“Hazel, there’s gotta be something else,” Phil says, hanging his head in his hands.
I dig in my desk drawer for a pair of scissors. I stand and pull my file on Dan and Phil from the cabinet by the door. I snap my fingers and point at the copy of this month’s Photoplay Magazine I had sitting on my desk for Dan to hand over.
I know a thing or two about editing. More than most. Not as much as some.
I take one of my snapshots of Dan and cut him out carefully. A full-body shot, an industry event from a few months back. I comb through the magazine and find an image of actress Lucy Hale about the same size, and cut her out just as carefully. I sellotape them to a picture of an empty film set, close enough that his arm could be around her. My camera sits dusty in one of my desk drawers but I pull it out and fiddle with the light from my small green lamp until it looks just right.
“I’ll make one for Phil too,” I say. “I’ll develop them myself in my darkroom back home. We wait now. Wait and see if this threat is real. Then the two of you act surprised, indignant. We release these anonymously to the same papers that run your letter. Public opinion will split, either option will seem just as likely.”
I finish my own drink now. I figure I’ve earned it.
Dan stares at the sellotaped images. “It’ll work?”
I shrug. “Maybe. It’ll probably keep you out of jail. It might keep you with the BBC.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“Listen to me, Dan. Don’t fucking make this worse by opening your mouth,” I tell him.
“I won’t,” he pouts.
I want to believe him. But I’ve seen Dan unable to keep quiet if he’s angry and hurt and feels cornered. This has the makings of that kind of perfect storm.
Phil thanks me as they stand to leave. I remind him this is my job. Some days are easier than others.