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(then.)
A curly-haired boy lingered outside smoking a cigarette, while the rest of the student body was inside frolicing or swaying depending on what mood the music set. With no date, he had no reason to join them—only hanging around just in case any of the squares on the football team picked a fight with his pal, the one foreign kid in school. Well, that and looking up at the stars was a lot more peaceful where he was at than the place he called home, where his pie-eyed ma was itching for a fight.
A dark-haired girl in a poofy dress the color of spring lilacs emerged from the gymnasium all weepy-eyed.
The boy stood up a little straighter, recognizing her to be the high-maintenance chick that a friend of his was courting—or, supposed to be courting.
“Everythin’ all right, dolly?” The boy asked, dropping his cigarette to the pavement and stepping on it.
The girl turned her tearful gaze towards him. She must have recognized him, too, since she stated the source of her distress plainly. “No, I caught your friend necking with Pam Macy behind the bleachers, even though he’s supposed to be my date.”
“That lunkhead never did think before actin’,” the boy said with a shrug, almost apologetic.
“I thought he was keen on me,” the girl said, tears running down her cheeks as she looked at the ground.
“He was,” the boy said casually, “but he’s keen on all the pretty birds.”
The girl looked up and met his gaze at that, her tears shimmering like gems in her hazel-green eyes—like little stars.
“You think I’m pretty?”
The boy sighed and averted his gaze, thinking to himself that this girl was a troublesome fusspot. Nevertheless, the boy also thought melancholy didn’t suit her, so he shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, dolly.”
“Would you have danced with me?” The girl asked after a quiet moment.
The boy considered her for a moment, before he nodded. “Yeah, I would’ve danced with you.”
He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or not, but her eyes hadn’t seemed so sad after he’d said that.
(now.)
The sky over Point Place was as heavy as his mood. Dark clouds hung overhead, obscuring the starlit sky above with the threat of thunder and rain. The dusty gutters were no doubt looking forward to the deluge, a cold shower to give the impression of cleaner streets—to hell with the people that might get caught out in the storm, right?
But Steven Hyde had only himself to blame. He’d noticed the darkening sky earlier in the afternoon, when he’d reached the end of his latest job at a makeshift campsite that smelled more of iron than cedar, out in the woods beyond the outskirts of the city. He’d seen the clouds then, and he’d seen them before he’d later left the office, but he’d still chosen to walk to The Hub regardless—feeling the need to shake off his client’s misery after he’d delivered the bad news.
He had known from the moment Dorothy Clark walked into the office a couple days ago—with her red-rimmed eyes and unkempt straw-colored hair—telling him her brother had been missing for a week, that it was going to be one of those cases. He could always tell when there’d be nothing but grief and heartbreak at the end, but she’d said the coppers had turned her away, telling her she was hysterical and that her brother had probably just driven down to Chicago to let loose like other men his age.
“I know they think I’m mad, but he hasn’t been the same since he got back from Europe, since the war,” she’d said between trembling lips, looking a decade older than her thirty odd years. “Please, I can’t offer much in the way of payment, but he’s my baby brother—”
She hadn’t needed to beg with tears in her eyes, because, bad feeling or not, he was always going to accept the job. Forman & Son Detective Agency had a policy to pick up any job Johnny Law saw fit to ignore, and try as he might to hide it, he had a soft spot for folks who needed help and had barely two coins to rub together—much to the chagrin of his co-investigator, Eric Forman.
So he’d taken the job, despite knowing it was like every other sad, mundane story of a soldier forever changed by war, returning to a place that no longer resembled the home he’d left behind. There were dozens, if not hundreds, of Freddie Clark’s across the world, and he wagered there’d be many more that would end up where he did—alone in the woods, with a tear-stained letter in one hand and a .45 caliber pistol in the other, his blood seeping into the dirt after having taken a lead pill. It didn’t matter that he could have been saved had any of those witless coppers taken the sister’s story seriously. It didn’t matter that Hyde had gotten there only a day too late. A missing man had been found dead, case closed.
Dorothy Clark had choked back sobs, clutching at the piece of parchment holding her brother’s final words, while offering him her gratitude.
“I’m sorry I didn’t find him sooner, ma’am,” he’d told her somberly, but she had reached for his hand.
“At least I know,” she’d said, her voice filled with bitter sorrow as she gave his hand an appreciative squeeze. “At least now I know.”
Her attempt to reassure him hadn’t made her thanks feel like any less of a punch to the stomach, but he’d done what he could for her and offered her a discount for their services. She had a funeral to arrange now, after all. Forman wouldn’t complain too much, having just landed a job working for Joanne Stupak, investigating a suspicious death at her family’s dog food factory. He’d no doubt earn a fair chunk of change once he solved that case.
After Dorothy Clark had left his office, he’d filed the paperwork and locked up—heading out into that dreary eve, seeking the solace of a stiff drink and familiar faces.
A crack of thunder burst overhead as he rounded the corner to The Hub, heralding the rain. He managed to reach the door before the drizzle could dampen him too much, and once inside he pulled his pack of cigarettes out from his pocket and lit up. He brushed the sprinkling of rainwater from his curly hair and the shoulders of his dark coat, before he glanced around his favorite haunt around Point Place, The Hub.
The lounge bar interior had warm lighting and cozy decor—from the comfortable leather chairs around small circular tables, to the soft cushioned stools lining the counter of the bar. Some tables and chairs were arranged around a little stage towards the back of the room, where a microphone and piano sat waiting. In the center of the room, surrounded by tables was a small dance floor, just in case the scarlet-haired crooner inspired anyone into a swaying slow dance. There was no canary on stage serenading The Hub patrons yet though, so he must’ve arrived before Donna Pinciotti’s show got started. He glanced towards the bar and saw the redhead seated there, chatting with their mutual friend, the owner of The Hub, Fez.
But he hesitated to approach, exhaling smoke out the side of his mouth. It appeared Donna wasn’t alone that evening, as he spied the slim, slight figure of a familiar dame sitting next to her—though she was only familiar to him from a distance, really.
Jacqueline Burkhart. He knew it was her in an instant, even with her back to him. He wagered he would recognize her no matter how much time passed them both by. She was a real looker, hard to miss in a crowd with her dark hair, pretty face, and starlight-colored eyes.
He took her in with a brief sweep of his gaze. A fancy, bejeweled hairpin adorned her perfectly curled hair—glittering whenever the light from the chandeliers overhead caught it. Her ruby red dress was fitted around her waist, before flaring out in the skirt, though the neckline was modest and the sleeves covered her arms halfway to her elbows. Black satin gloves covered her dainty hands, which were poised over a cocktail glass.
He knew her, but they weren’t well-acquainted with one another despite their mutual friends. There weren’t any good reasons for a high-class dame like her and a low-born guy like him to interact, what with her being a City Councillor’s daughter and him the nobody son of the local drunk and a no-good skipout. He had no doubt that he never amounted to much in her eyes, certainly not before the Forman family had taken him in at any rate. Though, there was a memory that his brain was still hooked on.
A girl in a poofy dress the color of spring lilacs, asking him if he’d of danced with her had that half-wit Michael Kelso not asked her to go to the prom with him first.
But that was ancient history, and they’d hardly exchanged two words since. He was sure she had forgotten all about that night. Forgotten all about him. Which suited him just fine—it wasn’t as though he was carrying a torch for her or nothing.
Even if that was a lie he told himself, he was in need of something to take the edge of the day off, and he wasn’t about to let no skirt keep him from enjoying a drink that evening. He advanced, keeping his eyes trained on the bottles of spirits lining the wall rather than the potential distraction of pretty dames. Fez noticed him as he approached, flashing a wide grin.
“Evening, amigo,” he said warmly. “Taking shelter from the storm?”
“Somethin’ like that,” Hyde replied curtly, before tapping the countertop with a finger. “Whiskey, neat.”
Fez nodded and set to work, grabbing him a glass and plucking a bottle of whiskey from the assortment of choices. He took a drag on his cigarette, reaching across the bar to drag an ashtray over, steeling himself before he glanced in Donna’s direction.
The tall, leggy redhead was a stunner in her black gown, with her long hair cascading down her back and her elegant neck adorned with a string of pearls. Her gloved hand was holding a nearly empty glass—a little liquid courage before she got up on stage. She’d no doubt draw a crowd of young men to sit near the stage to admire her and listen to her sultry contralto later that night, but she would never so much as bat an eyelash in their direction.
Her heart was already set on one Eric Forman, had been since they’d been kids. The feeling appeared mutual, judging from the ring box he’d spied Forman contemplating before tucking into his coat pocket earlier in the week.
Still, she was one of his oldest friends, so she offered him a smile as their eyes met. “Why, long time no see, Hyde.”
“Been a busy few days,” he said by way of explanation, and leaving it there.
She chuckled, and looked down at her drink. “It’s always busy with you private eyes.”
“Well,” he began, as Fez placed his drink in front of him. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, allowing the amber drink to warm his gut. He placed it back down, considering it before he finished his thought. “Maybe if the bulls around these parts did their damn job, we wouldn’t be so busy.” He took another long drag on the cigarette.
“Maybe so,” Donna agreed casually, before her attention was drawn to her left, where he knew Jacqueline Burkhart was sitting.
Against his better judgement he glanced her way briefly, but was quick to force his gaze away. The way the corner of her mouth had curved upwards the moment their eyes met was teasing him, beguiling in a way that was dangerous. Something must’ve seemed funny about the split second interaction, because he heard Donna laugh again.
“Well, I hope you’re planning on sticking around for the show,” she said, before she finished off her drink and moved to head towards the stage.
“Wouldn’t dream of missin’ it,” he drawled sarcastically. She shoved his shoulder as she walked behind him in response, a gentle warning for him to lift his mood. He watched her disappear behind the curtain, before he turned his attention back to his drink.
He could see Jacqueline Burkhart watching him out of the corner of his eye. He did his best to ignore her, taking another sip of his whiskey. He knew better than to invite more of her attention his way. She had a look about her that spelled trouble, beauty and moxie in equal parts. But that was the snag in his plan, wasn’t it? The way she inspired a curiosity he knew was best left alone, and yet begging him to indulge all the same.
He took another sip of his drink, and caught the eye of Fez observing him. The other man barely made an effort to hide his amusement, before looking down at the glass he was idly cleaning out with a rag. He placed his drink back down carefully, before scratching at his brow with his thumb, considering the merits of making small talk with a dame so far out of his league he’d be a real sucker to expect anything but the briefest ray of sunshine.
While his thoughts were circling round and round, she made the decision for him.
“You have a lonesome look about you,” she addressed him in a frank voice. She spoke sharply instead of softly—he didn’t mind that, though.
He glanced at her with an arched brow. “That so?”
“To my eyes, anyway,” she said with a nod, looking at him directly. He met her gaze, struck once more by the way they sparkled with mischief and merriment even in the dim light of the bar.
“We could keep each other company,” she suggested, taking a sip from her drink—based on the orange rind garnish and the ice, she was drinking an old fashioned. Maybe she had a taste for bourbon just like her fancy pants father.
“Why? You lonesome?” He asked with a sardonic cadence, doubtful that a high-flying heiress such as herself could ever really be lonely. But she blinked at him, and the brightness of her smile dimmed some.
“Always,” she murmured, and no matter how hard it was to believe, he knew from the look in her eye she was no liar. “So, why can’t we be lonesome together?”
He felt his mouth twist up into a self-depracating grin. “Well, Miss Burkhart, I could think of any number of reasons.”
Despite his gentle deflection her smile illuminated her face once more, though it wasn’t until she spoke again that he realized why. “You know my name then, Mister Hyde?”
He cleared his throat and looked back down at his drink. “Everyone knows your name,” he said indifferently, before taking another drag on his cigarette.
“Is that so?” She seemed pleased by his words, receiving them as a compliment. Her gloved hand reached up to touch at her curls, adjusting the shimmering hairpin fastened above her left ear. It was hardly any surprise that a pretty chick like her reveled in a fair amount of vanity, he supposed. “Well, I didn’t think a hard guy like you would find me so memorable.”
Nothing but trouble, this dame.
He blew smoke out the corner of his mouth instead of responding. He could tell she was fishing for more praise, but he wasn’t about to act a fool over a sweet-looking face and pretty eyelashes batting at him. It was just as well, because another man approached the bar, interrupting the two of them. Chip Hayes, a musician that worked with Donna’s set, interposed himself between them in the spot that had been vacated by Donna earlier.
He played the trumpet, if Hyde recalled correctly.
“You’re late, Hayes,” Fez said in a peevish tone, which suggested that what little humor he’d garnered from observing a politician’s daughter and a private eye interacting had immediately diminished.
“I was caught in the storm,” the man complained, running a hand through his damp hair. “It’s coming down in sheets out there—I’ll be ready in a few, but can I get a scotch first?”
“Fine,” Fez said, turning to the wall of liquor to produce a quick drink for the tardy trumpeter. He must’ve taken notice of Jacqueline Burkhart while he waited, and he must’ve been gawking based on the words that followed.
“Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer,” she said, her rebuke casual but firm.
“Apologies miss—but, I’m sure you get this kinda attention all the time,” he returned smoothly, leaning his elbow against the bar counter and leering over her. It occurred to Hyde that, had he accepted her earlier invitation to be ‘lonesome together’, she’d be sitting and chatting with him instead of dealing with this joker.
“Be that as it may, it’s impolite to stare,” she said snappily, with a forced smile. Then she cleared her throat, making a delicate ‘ahem’ sound. “Excuse me, I have to powder my nose.”
She got up from her stool and disappeared down the hall towards where the lavatories were. As soon as she was out of earshot, Chip released a low whistle and caught his eye, biting down on his lip suggestively. “So, what’s the score with the dish in the red dress?”
That was a forward way to talk about a woman he hardly knew, and Hyde didn’t like his tone or his look—but it was no business of his to involve himself in what was shaping to be a messy sort of tangle. Still, the guy deserved a fair warning. Hyde stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, before looking at him with an arched brow. “You might wanna watch what you say and where you say it, hot shot.” He punctuated his suggestion with another sip of his drink.
“What?” Chip scoffed at him, immediately defensive. “Ease up, pal. I didn’t say she was a roundheels or nothin’, just that she’s nice to look at is all—though I wouldn’t mind makin’ it with her.”
“I ain’t your pal, and her father’s on the City Council,” he muttered tersely, setting his jaw at an irritable angle. “You stick your nose where it don’t belong and the cops might hang a pinch on you. I’d leave that skirt well enough alone.”
“That right?” Chip said, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “Well, thanks for the advice, wise guy—but with a face like that, I think it might just be worth it to have a piece of her. I could make it happen, and most trips to the Le Motel stay secret-like, you feel me?” Well the trumpet certainly seemed a fitting instrument for a guy full of so much hot air, he supposed.
Hyde briefly glanced at Fez across the counter, as he felt his temper rise from a simmer to a boil low in his gut. Judging from the look on Fez’s face, the other man knew exactly where this was going if the musician didn’t shake his case of hot pants. Hyde knocked back the rest of his whiskey and stood, turning towards Chip. “I’d close your head if I were you.”
Chip chuckled, flashing his dimpled smile. “And if I don’t?”
They stared at each other for a moment, before Jacqueline Burkhart returned from the back room, walking past them both. He watched Chip’s cocky grin turn wolfish, before the guy reached a hand down to pinch her rear end.
Forman had always been the crackshot. A keen eye with a steady hand, and that’d made him accurate with all manner of guns. Hyde on the other hand was stronger, broader-shouldered, and had a particular inclination for hitting things with his fists. There was just something satisfying about the crunch of some crook’s cartilage beneath his knuckles. Although the situation was not so dire that he needed to go for the brass knuckles tucked away in his pocket, a part of him wanted to take them out just so he could mark up the guy’s pretty mug—just for good measure.
Instead, he grabbed the guy by his lapels and yanked him away from her. He shoved him away from the bar and then swung with his right. A swift poke to the guy’s sharp, pointed chin. Chip stumbled backwards and fell down, out cold. Hyde stood over him—fist curled and ready to swing again if he tried getting back up. A distinct, feminine gasp from behind him nearly drew his attention, but Hyde just flexed his hand against the lingering sensation of impact.
Fez was quick to hold up a hand, signaling for the muscle he had working in The Hub to leave him be. It had been a risk he’d taken, knocking out someone employed by The Hub, but he supposed an old friendship trumped a blowhard collecting a paycheck. Fez gestured with his head for the guards working the joint to carry Chip off to one of the back rooms.
“My word!” He glanced over his shoulder at her voice, and saw Jacqueline Burkhart looking up at him with a hand over her heart. “It would seem Mister Hayes was acting a scoundrel.”
“Or me a brute,” he countered dryly.
She smiled coyly at that. “Would it be unseemly of me to prefer the company of a brute to a scoundrel?”
“No,” he said quietly as he reclaimed his seat, “but maybe unwise.”
“Maybe I’m lonesome enough to act a fool then, if you’ll reconsider my earlier offer and keep me company.”
He looked away from her, unsure as to her angle, wondering why she seemed so interested in spending time with him. Trouble or no, she was the worst kind of temptation. Beautiful, clever, and outspoken. She also happened to be vain, extravagant, and pushy, but her smile was so brilliant it more than outshone her faults—and she must’ve known it too.
He looked up at Fez instead of answering her. “Sorry about your trumpeter.”
“Ah, that is okay,” he said in a jovial tone. “To be honest with you old friend, I have been looking for an excuse to fire him. Once he comes to, we’ll send him on his way. It is just as well, since he was speaking rather discourteously of my most prestigious guest. ”
Her laughter tickled his ears and made his skin turn to gooseflesh.
“But Hyde,” Fez said, pouring him another whiskey, “I believe you owe the lady an answer.”
He turned to meet her gaze once more, and the immaculate curve of her brow arched up, beckoning his response. The gloom weighing down on his shoulders must’ve put him in a weak state. What resolve he might have felt to keep someone like her at arm’s length waned at the twinkle in her eye. Or maybe it had been because he’d heard her laugh. It was entirely possible he would agree to anything, so long as she kept making that happy sound. On the other hand, if he were to be honest, he didn’t want any other bozo in The Hub getting fresh with her. If she was going to be hanging around for the big show, then he might as well run interference—but only since she didn’t seem to want that kind of attention, of course.
He shrugged finally. “It’s a free country, ain’t it? You can keep me company for as long as you like.”
“Well, that’s a dangerous thing to offer, Mister Hyde!” She laughed again as she claimed the seat next to him. “What if I were to ask for forever?”
“Well then I’d tell you there’s no such thing,” he responded easily, before taking a sip of his new drink. “And it’s just Hyde, no need for the ‘Mister’ if we’re to be friendly.”
“Are we to be friendly, then?” She returned slyly.
He knew he shouldn’t—he knew damn well she was trouble—but the longer they spoke the more he found he didn’t care. Maybe that was why he’d always avoided her before. Maybe he’d known all along that she’d make him act a sap wherever she was concerned. Maybe she’d known it too, hence her steadfast, ill-advised pursuit of him. Or maybe they were just two lonesome fools, making the most of a dark, stormy night.
He gave her a wry grin, before he said, “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
“In that case, call me Jackie,” she said, her voice sweeter and softer than it had been before. “Not Miss Burkhart.”
“Jackie, then,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.
“Must I call you Hyde?” She inquired after they both took a sip. She gave him a long look, tilting her head just so.
“Why wouldn’t you?” He asked, not following the meaning of her question.
“It’s still so formal,” she complained. “Is your name not Steven?”
“None of my friends call me Steven,” he said, shrugging.
“Well,” she began in a prim voice, “we’re not quite friends, only friendly—right?”
“I guess you could think of it that way,” he agreed, feeling entirely powerless against her silly little whim. There wasn’t anything wrong with her being one of few persons to call him such. Nothing wrong, but certainly dangerous in a way that made his heart beat a little harder in his chest.
“Steven, then,” she said decisively, tapping her glass against his with finality. He had no intent to argue with her over it, not so long as she kept looking at him the way she was. He much preferred her this way. Seeing her with a playful smile on her lips rather than tears shining in her eyes put that old memory to shame. Just as he was wondering whether she’d in fact remembered him after all this time, she glanced past him towards the stage.
“You know, I was just thinking about a boy I knew once,” she said idly, before looking back at him.
He said nothing, just arching a brow at her.
“Some lunkhead had just broken my heart, but the boy said I was pretty and told me he would’ve danced with me,” she murmured.
He grinned again and looked down at his drink. “Sounds like he had more sense than the lunkhead.”
She laughed again, softer this time. “A lot more sense, that’s for sure.”
He hesitated, swallowing against a lump in his throat, before he mustered courage to press her for more details. “So, what about this boy?”
“Oh, it just got me thinking I might be in the mood to dance tonight,” she said, practically handholding him to the question she wanted him to ask her. Well, she wasn’t shy about trying to get her way, he supposed, and maybe it’d do him some good to give in. Maybe it wasn’t just the whiskey and the familiar faces he needed that evening after such a bleak end to a job. Maybe he needed to do something that made him feel alive—like dancing with the pretty dame making eyes at him.
“We could dance, if you’re in the mood,” he said, with a slow nod.
She smiled at him again, almost fond like, and he knew there was a chance he’d be far gone by the end of that night.