Silversmith Tavern Ch. 1
There are seven men crammed into one cell. Three bikers, two shaking teens covered in paint who look like they’re going to piss themselves any second, a junkie with the shakes on the floor, and Joseph Warren. He would like to say that he doesn’t fit in here. What with his nicely groomed brown hair and name brand tennis shoes, just sitting with his hands to himself; but the blue bruises under red freckles of missing skin and blood splattering the front of his NYU sweatshirt said otherwise. But of course, like any man who had ever been in a fight, it wasn’t his fault.
The tweaker was starting to mutter to himself now. Drool creaking out of the corner of his lips through the static. Joseph’s hands twitched. He was giving the junkie sideways glances every twenty seconds. Counting off to himself how long each tremor lasted. Debating with himself whether or not he should climb down into the floor beside him or keep his hands folded safely, unconfrontingly, carefully in his lap.
He didn’t have to decide before the wet rubber sound of a cop’s shined shoes could be heard squeaking down the hallway. The officer, a middle aged man with a jar head crew cut and a bulging belly that stoop pointedly below the bulge of his muscular arms, glared down Joseph through his one good eye. His other was swollen shut. Joseph rubbed his knuckles self consciously.
“Warren! Your bails been paid.”
Back straight and confident, footsteps shuffled and eager he skidded around the busted cop. On his way past he stops in front of the man in blue and points back through the bars at the huddled body that had tipped over into a heap on the ground. “Someone might want to check on him.”
Down the hall John is waiting for him by the receptionist desk. Leaning his back against the counter, he looks like he wanted to collapse.
His short black curls were sorted at random around his head, alternating on whether or not to stick to his head or reach for the sky. Below them the bags under his eyes had gone from blue to black as they layer on top of each other like makeup. He was still in his sweatpants and a black Harvard sweatshirt with a tan trench coat that seemed like it could have been Abigail’s grabbed in the dark by mistake. Point being, he looked like hell. Bad enough for Joseph to stop in his tracks and wince sympathetically.
But with Sam cooling his heels in a private cell John would have been dragged away from his quilt covered wife and the warm promise of sleep regardless. John glared at him anyway.“You punched a police officer?“ He rakes one hand through his curls, sending them sparling them back into three more directions.
“John, it wasn’t my fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault? The cop threw himself on your hand then I take it? What were you even doing at that rally anyways?”
“I was,” he knew exactly how this was going to sound “I was trying to keep Sam out of trouble.”
“You were trying to keep Sam out of trouble? And what, the speeches fired you up enough to deck a cop in front of thirty witnesses?” “He was beating down a bystander at that rally. Practically a kid, and he wasn’t even resisting arrest. Yet that man took off his night stick and started to flog him with it.”
Joseph sighed finally stopping for a breath and to realize just how much he was beginning to sound like Sam. He leaned back next to his raven haired friend. “I couldn’t just stand back and do nothing.” He watches John carefully,eyeing the way he sighs and runs a gruff hand down his face. He was only twenty six but he was already beginning to take on the look of a forty year old man.
“Okay. Okay I’ll talk to the chief and see what I can do.” Joseph nodded. “What about Sam?” ‘Hu’ John scoffed under his breath, a smirk sliding onto his lips accidentally.
“Let him stew for a few more hours. Besides I’m sure he’s captivating his cell mates with a tale on how capitalism is draining the soul of democracy.”
Cousin John’s apartment was bigger than she imagined. Not that Margaret Kemble wasn’t use to luxuries such as stylish apartments, but no one did things quite like John Hancock did. Everything he did was always on point. Even the decor of her bedroom. “So I take it everything is too your liking?”
He called out with a half seriousness to his voice. He was teasing her from the doorway. He leaned against it with the trunks and bags that she had carefully packed her life away in sitting in neat stacks by his feet; watching with a peak of smile as she spun around the room with arms extended by her waist like she was dancing with herself. Twirling to a halt she smiled at him coyly. “Well it is a bit small. A bit frigid as well.“
Her room was a bit smaller than John’s on the penthouses main level but it still towered over the slight thing that was Margaret Kemble. Her long and slender body was built for dancing and grace, comparable to that of a swan, but it had already steadily began to thin and pull in as pounds were dropped and expensive cashmere sweaters had become too baggy. Stress, it was a killer. And any longer continued on Margaret and she may have been able to disappear into the overstuffed mattress that she threw herself back on.
White, wheat blonde hair standing out against the lilac colored duvet like a halo. Bruises on her wrist blending right in.
The rest of them remained carefully covered. Though both of them knew they were there, they were painfully aware of them. Hiding under the waist of her jeans, lying in wait beneath four layers of cover ups and foundations, skating painfully down her ribs. John, who hadn’t put them there or even been in the state when they were dulled out, was unable to forget them. His poor baby cousin.
New Jersey had not been good to her. Her fiance had not been good to her. Margaret closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of fresh coffee colored paint and the drifting smell of John’s clone . She pushed up on her elbows and grinned. “Perhaps I should take up knitting.”