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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Elizabeth/James, Elizabeth/Jack, Will/James, Will/Elizabeth.
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Film noir AU. No specific time period in mind; staying true to genre and not to history. Port Royal didn’t have a devastating earthquake. Cameo by Jacques.
Summary: There’s nothing like sheer coincidence for ruining your life.
***
Will took a deep, deep breath and pretended the photo under the headline hadn’t caught him right in the gut. Somewhere behind him, Anamaria’s heels stopped clicking and started sauntering; she had an uncanny instinct for law enforcement, and an even more uncanny dislike for them. Hopefully she wouldn’t lose her temper again. “Well, business is slow today,” Will said as steadily as he could. He flipped the paper onto the hood of the car beside him. “What about?”
Koehler looked like he’d taken one too many shots of rotgut to the face, and not enough in the belly. He slammed the heel of his hand against the car so hard the boom reverberated throughout the garage.
“That’s not mine or yours!” And Will was about to protest further, except there was a fist waving in his face.
“What about? What about that cute little blonde you picked up on Second and Endeavor?” The man took another step forward, but since Will didn’t give any ground, that put them inches from each other. Seemed like Koehler’s diet had gone downhill as well. “You dish her out and drop her in the sea, grease-monkey?”
For a second, Will’s mind was blank of everything except: how did he know? But then commonsense—also known as Anamaria snapping her heel down so it cracked like thunder against the floor—shocked him out of it. He narrowed his eyes and straightened his shoulders. “Look, I’ve no idea what you were after, but I did pick up a blonde there yesterday. She said she needed a ride to La Perla Negra and I took her there.”
“Oh, so you’re a gentleman, are you?” Koehler’s teeth snipped at Will’s nose, like the overbearing son of a bitch was a rabid hound.
“Ask around. There were plenty standing on the sidewalks, watching.” Too strong, Will thought. The attack was too strong, too fast—either they thought they could break him down that easy, which was unlikely given Rodriguez’s presence, or they were just fishing. In which case, honesty went a long way towards disarming suspicion. It was a trick Anamaria had taught him, and furthermore, it didn’t make Will’s tongue itch to do it.
The other man held his belligerent pose a moment longer, then rocked back and snorted. “Smartass. Watch it, Turner.”
“Calm down,” Rodriguez sotto voce’d, fingers fluttering at his partner. Then he turned back to Will with a little eye-roll, as if to say sorry for the screaming, but you know how it is. Can’t handle or stand him, the sugar-sniffer. “Will, you saw the papers, right? So you know just who your little help-me lift was?”
“Just got the word.” And had he. The shock was still a boiling roil in the back of Will’s mind, but he forced himself to stick to the present. Anyway, his reason scolded, he’d known her for all of five minutes, so there was no point in feeling betrayed or angry about things.
His friend sighed and rubbed at his temple while Koehler stomped off to the car sitting at the curb, apparently disgusted with Rodriguez’s soft approach. “Like we don’t get enough trouble from the slums without the rich pouring it on. Swann’s got her pre-wedding bash running full-swing, guests dolled to the nines and champagne flowing like water before noon. She excuses herself to go to the lady’s room, and ten minutes later people find the open window.”
“Did a runner, huh.” Anamaria had decided to come out after all, settling herself against the car and folding her arms over her chest so her cleavage about popped Rodriguez’ appreciative eyes. She damned well knew it, too.
Rodriguez shrugged, eyes drifting from Will to her. “God knows why. Groom’s a real catch—rich, ranking, doesn’t seem to be the beating, drinking or gambling type…nicest boy in town, and truthfully.”
“Boring.” The curl of Anamaria’s lip told myriad secrets, but none in a language that Will or, from the looks of things, Rodriguez, fully understood. “So she’s gone. Why the official fuss?”
“Because while Norrington’s apparently all right, his parents are some of the hardest asses I’ve ever—” It was comical how Rodriguez cut himself off. He did a glance over the shoulder, probably to check that Koehler wasn’t fucking up some pedestrian, then dug out a packet of cigarettes, which he offered round before lighting up. Will declined; Anamaria accepted. “Swann took her engagement ring with her. Huge white pearl, set round with perfect diamonds in 24K. The senior Norringtons are angry and embarrassed and calling theft. Making a fuss.”
Given the way some of Will’s past customers had whined over a measly few hundred that was water-drops compared to the stuff they threw away just on specialty breakfast jams, he could sympathize with Rodriguez’s problem. But that didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to be involved. “I’m sorry to hear it, but really, I only saw her for a few minutes, and I had no idea who she was or what had happened.”
“Yeah, we know. We’ve already chatted up some witnesses who were at La Perla Negra when you drove up; they knew you, but for some reason couldn’t identify the guy she met. But anyway, not your problem, and we’re just here to confirm the story. Well, I am.” The cigarette was out of Rodriguez’s lips just long enough for him to blow a derisive ring of smoke. “Someone’s got a stick up Koehler’s ass and is jerking him like Jamaican chicken.”
Anamaria’s eyebrows drew together, her scarlet nail shocking against the white of her teeth and the mocha of her skin. Then she bit down on her fingertip and smirked around it. “Ain’t nobody we’ve got to worry on, is it?”
She and Rodriguez had never met, and for good reason; Will liked being able to have a nice, uncomplicated conversation over coffee. The men who ended up with Anamaria—who were legion—came out in two ways: speechless or babbling.
Rodriguez was staring at the little flicker of pink that showed whenever Anamaria spoke. “Ah, no, ma’am. Not at all. I…don’t believe we’ve—”
And when the man was starting to be polite, then it was time to show him out. Will hastily slung an arm over Rodriguez’s shoulder and dragged him along, but kept smiling friendly so the game wasn’t given away. “Hey, well, let me know how it goes, all right. It feels a little…weird that I got involved.”
“Involved?” Rodriguez laughed, attention firmly back on Will. “You were just there, Turner. Involved’s more like…never mind, I’ll tell you when it’s all wrapped up. She probably just went on a last gambling run before the big day.”
That stung. Enough to make Will’s arm slip from his friend’s shoulder a little quicker than usual, though Rodriguez was still distracted by Anamaria and didn’t notice. Instead he just patted Will on the cheek and made eyes over Will’s shoulder. “Pick your ladies a little more carefully, yeah? By the way, nice chocolate you’ve got there. Chewy.”
Koehler rounded the corner just in time to keep Will from punching Rodriguez. With an effort, Will controlled his face till the other two were safely out of sight, and then he swore long and hard and low.
“Don’t, Turner. Always going to be that kind around.” Anamaria snapped her fingers in the direction of the vanishing car, then pivoted and stalked back inside. The tilt of her shoulders made it clear she not only expected Will to follow, but to listen up as well. Since what she had to say usually saved his ass, he did so.
But first she had to serve them coffee, because that was what Anamaria did when she got nervous and couldn’t lash out at anything. She beat and whipped her own cream. A little disturbing, but it kept her calm so Will wasn’t actually going to question it. Besides, the coffee was damn good.
Two long sips, and then Anamaria was talking. “Will, keep out of it.”
Will carefully didn’t choke on his coffee and made a quizzical face.
Snorting, Anamaria waved him off and resettled herself against the wall. Then she stared out the window, eyes on a billow of a storm heading their way—the rainy season was well under way in this part of the world. “I think I can read you pretty well. And you liked that girl. But you ain’t police, you ain’t P. I., and you definitely ain’t equipped for that kind of trouble.”
“No, I’m a garageman.” With that, Will finished his cup and traded it for a screwdriver before heading back to the cars. He knew what kind of expression was aimed at his back, but he was annoyed enough to ignore it. Bad enough that he knew his place in the world, but everyone had to remind him of it, too. And really, what harm was there in looking, literal or figurative?
* * *
That night, the bartalk was of nothing but the runaway socialite. Though the papers had put a hint of kidnapping in the story, the street word had it being not only willing, but pre-planned. Troubles already between Swann and Norrington, the match-up being lukewarm on her side but heavily pushed by her parents, Norrington a moonstruck calf without a clue about how to handle a modern girl.
“Should’ve beat her more,” said one drooling, tattooed hulk hunched at the bar. “That would’ve kept her home. Now he might as well let the bitch go; who knows who’s had her.”
“Ain’t been me, but shit, I’d be happy to lend a hand,” cackled his neighbor, who held the lone newspaper that hadn’t been used to wipe up vomit so all could see. He whistled at the crumpled picture. “Goddamn. That’s what I call a fuck.”
Will rolled his eyes as he pushed himself back from the bar. When the man behind it glanced his way, he slapped down a few coins before heading for the street. His eye got caught by Anamaria, who was deliberating between beefy well-hung and big-breasted redhead, but he shrugged off her raised eyebrow and made coughing gestures—need air. She took that though it was obvious she didn’t believe him.
And it was even more obvious that he didn’t care. He stepped out into the street with his tongue rolling over his lips, stupidly trying to find a lingering taste of body-warm sea. The stars were nice up there, all bright and winking and free of the dirt. Sometimes Will would wake still feeling the shit beneath his nails.
Not that he hated what he did, because he didn’t. He loved working in metal and electricity, fumes with their acrid promise of combustion. He just hated all the extras that had to come with it, like the wrinkled noses of the supposedly better-employed. Even the whores preferred a dandy slumming it to a guy like him, though he probably would treat them bet—well, he’d be more honest with them, at least. He knew he didn’t have much to promise.
Which made him wonder about the girl…about Elizabeth and that transparent desperation washing through her eyes. She’d had a comfortable berth, a standing that even wild doings about town couldn’t shake, and she’d tossed it all. And for what? What the hell—who the hell had she been going to? Who’d been that man who’d met her at the front of La Perla Negra?
Who was making that retching sound? Will started to peek into the alley beside the bar, then paused and felt under his coat for his gun, which was nestling safe beneath his arm where he’d left it. He wasn’t exactly carrying it under legal circumstances, but it hadn’t taken Anamaria to teach him that not going armed around this end of town was a stupid, stupid idea. So he took a second to loosen the pistol in its holster so it’d be easier to draw. And then he walked around the corner.
Well, it was just his week for running into out-of-place rich people. The man bent over by the wall had skin like milk, clothes like something from the silver screen, and the wretched look that only the wealthy could get. The poor were too used to suffering.
As Will came up, the man slumped a little lower and vomited so hard Will was afraid he was going to plunge face-first after it. But no, he barely kept his balance and even managed to glare at Will. “Please leave me alone. Or I’ll have the…the police on you.”
Poshest of the posh, according to his accent and choice of threat. Nice eyes, annoying expression. Will pulled out his handkerchief, silently said goodbye to it, and then offered it.
After a long, tense moment during which the man flicked his eyes between Will’s hand and Will’s face, the handkerchief was accepted. Then it was used to mope up the vomit around the man’s mouth, so that when he finally stood up, he looked almost debonair. That is, until he stepped into the moonlight and Will could see how gaunt he was. Practically a skeleton.
“Thank you,” the man stiffly said. He started to hand back the handkerchief, but caught himself midway and flushed in uncertainty. It would’ve been adorable enough to make even Anamaria squeal if it hadn’t been so damned defensive.
“Just keep it,” Will muttered, suddenly tired of being on-guard all the time. The air wasn’t any better out here, and inside there was beer and the entertainment of watching Anamaria wind everyone around her little finger, so he might as well head back.
A voice stopped him on the front steps. “Do…did…have you seen my car?”
It was unbelievably plaintive. Slurred and helplessly confused and worse than a broken-winged bird. It made Will turn around, sighing at himself, to see the stranger standing lopsided on the corner, waving Will’s now-soiled handkerchief at an empty space along the opposite curb.
“When’d you get here? And did you have a driver to stay with the car?” Will asked. It didn’t surprise him that the answers were two negatives. “It was stolen, then.”
“What! First her, and now…how dare they—I’ll have people tracking the license plate…why are you smiling?” The man swayed nearer a few feet and attempted to intimidate Will with his admittedly greater height and weight, though the shaking hands tended to ruin the picture. When he was sober, he probably was one scary bastard.
Then Will had one of those crazy lightning flashes that come in the middle of exceptional drunkenness, fatigue, or irony. “You wouldn’t happen to be James Norrington, would you?”
Blink. A try at straightening listing body to military ramrod. “I would. Why?”
“My life is one great big joke with the shittiest punchline ever,” Will muttered, just in time to catch Norrington as the other man finally passed out. Figured that the man would weigh a ton into the bargain.
* * *
When Norrington woke up, Will was ready and waiting with aspirin, water and a telephone, all of which he handed over. “The first two are for your headache, and the last is so you can call whomever and keep me from being charged with kidnapping. You’re above the bar—I know the owner, and I borrowed a room. Be back in two minutes.”
Which Will spent tripping downstairs to meet a mightily irritated Anamaria at the base. Arms akimbo, she glowered him down the last few steps. “Turner, the hell?”
“He passed out on me! What was I supposed to do, leave him on the curb?” He glanced out at the rest of the bar, which seemed faintly interested in the conversation, then drew her back into the shadows. “It’s James Norrington.”
“I know who the hell. That wasn’t my fucking question, you jackass. What, God drain the sense from you back when he bleached your skin?” To stress her point, she slapped the side of her head. Then she went for his face, but Will intercepted her wrist and wrenched it down before letting down.
That put a bad taste in his mouth since he hated hurting women, but he wasn’t going to put up with that kind of abuse, either. “Anamaria, just think about it for a moment. What the hell is Norrington doing here?”
“None of your or my fucking business, I’d say.” She rocked back on her heels and gave him her worst, but when he didn’t bat an eye, she blew out her breath fast. Pushed at his shoulder, like she couldn’t decide whether to grab at him or punch him. “Just don’t mess around, Will.”
“I’m starting to think you and I should have a nice chat ourselves. You know something, or what?” Will shot back, turning towards upstairs. “Anyway, I just came down to say I’ll…see him home or something. You can go whenever you want—no need to wait for me.”
Anamaria just piffed and flipped her fingers at him as she strolled off, an angry bounce in her hip-sway. An apology was on the tip of Will’s tongue, but since he couldn’t figure out what it’d be for, he just swallowed it and jogged back up.
James was sitting on the bed when Will opened the door, still pale but looking considerably more steady. “I—thank you. For…outside.”
“Just call me the local Samaritan.” Will made his tone casual to lighten up the atmosphere and kept well clear of the other man as he found himself a seat in the room’s only chair. He spun it about and rested his arms on the top, then got down to business. “Your car’s probably in fifty different parts now—there’s more money to be made selling individual pieces than the whole thing. I’m sorry, but you might as well write it off. Do you have someone coming to pick you up?”
Nodding, Norrington fixed whiskey-bright eyes on Will and did a slow scrutiny. “How do you know who I am?”
“The papers—” Will started. Then stopped, because he’d abruptly remembered only Elizabeth had gotten a nice face-shot in the article.
From the narrowing of the other man’s eyes, Norrington caught that as well. He still had to be half-drunk, but it didn’t look like he was stupid.
“…and a lucky guess. Your…people of your social class don’t often come down here,” Will said, phrasing thing as carefully as he could. It still came out offensive. “I’m Will Turner; I do car work for some of your neighbors, probably. You live on Aztec Drive, right?”
“882.” Then James flinched at something and pressed the glass of water to his temple, as if to chill it. Couldn’t work too well, since the tap here was only tepid at best, but his face slackened in a way that indicated some relief. “Now that I think about it…I may have seen you driving through.”
Well, Will didn’t remember seeing Norrington, and he usually was good with faces, but if the man wanted to think so that was probably good for Will. And it was hardly a harmful omission of truth, let alone a lie—it could be possible. Nevertheless, it was probably best to end this conversation and get away from James as soon as possible. Like Anamaria hadn’t said but had snapped with her eyes, it wasn’t healthy to cross too many lines, including ones of class. “When’s your ride coming?”
Once again, Norrington answered Will with another question. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here? Or possibly how my fiancée is? That’s all that anyone seems to want to know today. Don’t you?”
Definitely still drunk. And apparently not a nice one. Will surreptitiously marked out the quickest path to the door, but made sure to appear as if he was giving Norrington his undivided attention. “I thought it might be nice to be polite.”
“Oh, polite,” James drawled, sarcasm heavy as his eyes were razor-edged. “I see. But you know, the polite thing is to inquire. To ask and ask and ask how are you? Oh, you’re holding up so well, considering you don’t know a damn thing about why! Why! Why?”
The last one was almost a sob, and muffled to boot because James had overbalanced himself into his angry gesturing and pitched into the mattress. Reflexes pinged at Will, but he forced himself to stay in place and watch, spare the man some dignity.
Eventually, James levered himself back into an upright position, face a patchwork of flint laced together with pain. “I apologize for that,” he told Will, voice very, very smooth and calm.
“You thought someone would know why she left.” In immediate retrospect, that was an exceptionally stupid thing to say. Guesses were best in the head and not in the mouth, one of Will’s ex-girlfriends had told him. Of course, Scarlet had been screwing everyone on the damn street, so she had good reason to say something like that.
Fortunately, Norrington was still too far gone to notice all the nuances of possible insults. He merely took it literally and nodded once again; he was starting to resemble a puppet that way. “And where she is. Goddamn it, she never gave me any sign—and no note! How could they possibly say she went of her own free will?”
The blind were legion and happier to boot, had said one of Will’s ex-boyfriends. Theodore had actually been thoughtful and kind and a summer vacationer who hadn’t ever come back. But that memory wasn’t quite so tainted, and Will was not yet at the point where he could smile like Anamaria at a tombstone and say, “Lucky cunt.”
A flash of light pierced the blinds and swept over the far wall. Will swung himself off the chair and walked over to look. “Your car’s here,” he told Norrington.
What came next was the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor, the thud slack as snapped elastic. Eyes closed, Will leaned his forehead against the window and repeatedly told himself why he shouldn’t involve himself in others’ problems, if he wanted to keep down his own. Then he opened his eyes.
Damned nice car.
He carried Norrington out. Well, dragged was more like it, since of course no one came to help, and the driver obviously was well-versed in low-end protocol since he stayed in the car right up till the second it took him to open a door for Will.
As the car pulled away from the curb, it raised a wake-splash like a tsunami that overwhelmed Will’s quick backstep and sloshed his shoes. Swearing again, he stomped towards the bar. Then stopped, sighed, and sat down on the steps to dump out his shoes before he made any more of a fool out of himself.
His right shoe yielded multicolored fluids and yet another drunk.
All right, the newcomer had actually lurched out of the bar, but he might as well have come from Will’s shoe. Blond dreads, vaguely familiar—Will kept associating him with French—and not half-bad-looking if he hadn’t been covered in someone else’s cheap lipstick. The man ignored him in favor of staring down the road at the disappearing car, a sly smile on his face. “Fool, yes?”
Creole accent…oh, right. Jacques. Anamaria had had one go-round with him, and then warned Will off when the man had made a drunken pass at him. “What?”
“That stuck-up piece of gold braid.” Sneering like a woman, Jacques flipped rude fingers at the street. “Knows nothing. Thinks he can come down here, get us to talk ‘bout his lady when even the beggars knew she liked rum better than him.”
Jacques rolled ‘rum’ in a peculiar way and accompanied it with a wink that somehow threatened to capsize him. He stumbled down and whuffed a lot of stale whiskey fumes in Will’s face, then caught himself on the doorframe. “Jack don’t let go once he’s got something.”
“Jack?” Will kept his voice as unconcerned and lightly curious as possible, but he was perfectly aware of how his hands were nearly bleeding from the way they were gripping the step edges. He stared up at the other man, who rolled shoulders in an elegant shrug.
“Jack Sparrow. You know.” Then Jacques, apparently having determined that Will wasn’t going to stand and ‘help him back to his place,’ lurched inside, leaving Will with his thoughts.
Jack Sparrow was a lie. To be precise, the kind of lie that mothers told their sons in the dim hope that their boys wouldn’t grow up to be bastards and criminals like their fathers were. The kind of lie that haunted the coastline and docks as the shadow just vanishing into the alley ahead. The kind of lie that made the slums glitter, crime shine and the world almost laugh sincerely at itself.
In other words, he was Port Royal’s boogeyman. Supposedly he’d been a real man about a decade back: the undisputed lord of the Caribbean’s underbelly, hauling in the cash and throwing it out just as fast. But eventually the inevitable grand meeting with fate—law enforcement plus upstart challengers within his organization—had happened, and he’d disappeared into a fireball in Havana. Literally. Sure, he wasn’t yet listed as dead, but Will found it hard to believe that one, someone sounding like him would’ve taken nine years to get back in, and two, that he’d start with an heiress on the run.
On the other hand, it was the first glimmerings of an explanation Will had heard all day and night. Maybe it was like a tall tale—mostly shit, but a speck of truth in the middle.
And maybe it was late, and maybe Will smelled like Norrington’s vomit, and maybe he should just go home and sleep on it before he jumped headfirst into something stupid. That was the sensible thing to do, so that was what he ended up doing.
* * *
The next morning, Anamaria caught him washing his face in the backroom sink of the garage. “Will? Need a word.”
“Shoot.” Will kept splashing, rubbing the water hard into the tension around his eyes and the twinge at his jaw. He hadn’t had much to drink last night, but he still felt like he had a storm churning up inside that was ready to burst his skin.
“I heard Jacques talking to you.” Wood creaking, like she was moving restlessly against the doorframe that Will really needed to get around to fixing. She hissed a little, fighting something, then went on. “Don’t be messing with Jack.”
Hands paused on his cheeks, Will glanced up at her. “You sound like you know the man.”
Anamaria had a funeral-worthy expression on, and moreover, it seemed to be genuinely sad at the corners. Angry in the middle, but that was normal. The bits of regret speckled in her eyes weren’t. “I did. Do. He ain’t someone you want to interfere with. Can be the best of friends, and worst of enemies…but I can’t guarantee you anything with him.”
Back to washing his face, Will splished a last handful into his eyes, cursed at the sting, and wiped himself off with a rag. Seven in the morning, and his shirt was already sticking to it. With the rain gone and the sun out, it was going to be a steamboiler of a day, and he was stuck in it with nowhere to go. “You’re determined to make me obsessed, aren’t you? Or maybe it’s you that is, and you’re just in denial. After all, you’re the one that keeps bringing up the whole damn thing.”
“Bastard.” And besides that, no reply except Anamaria’s furious, stiff back striding off towards the office.
Will felt warm and righteous and justified for all of a minute—finishing up and walking out—before the full impact of the exchange hit him. Then he sighed and vowed to make it up to Anamaria later, when she wouldn’t be so likely to slap him. She did mean well, and anyway, he’d just about come to the same conclusion. Jack or no Jack, the girl he’d picked up at the corner had most certainly not been running scared. Elizabeth had been desperate, had been worried, but she’d also had that flushed excitement that people only got when they were doing something they really wanted.
That’d been what had made her the most beautiful, Will thought.
“Mr. Turner?”
The voice was low and deep and rich with suppressed rage. It was also familiar, though it took a moment because tears and vomit were no longer rasping it.
Will swiftly slid behind the nearest car and hefted a sprocket wrench before he turned to face Commodore James Norrington. “Yes?”
The other man was cleaner and better-dressed than the night before, but he didn’t look any better. His skin was wax over black shadows, his movements were stiffer than those of a clockwork soldier’s, and the way he carefully rested his hands on top of the car hood carried far more menace than Koehler’s temper tantrum yesterday.
“I think you owe me an explanation,” Norrington said, leaning forward like a snarling tiger.
Will’s jaw dropped open. It was a stupid first reaction to have and wasn’t going to help exonerate him here, but still, the incredulity was overwhelming. Why the hell did everyone think it was him?
“Where’s my fiancée?” Norrington continued, deceptively calm. When Will, still paralyzed by sheer disbelief, didn’t immediately answer, the little throbbing vein in Norrington’s jaw suddenly flattened out. So did the man’s hand when he slammed it down on the car. “Where is she?”
“Don’t do that!” Will hissed. And then he was back on it. He came around the front end and yanked Norrington’s hand from the hood, throwing the other man back several paces. “You goddamn—you come in here, start demanding God-knows-what and then try to damage other people’s property? Maybe I should call the fucking police on you! They do come around here, you know.”
Instead of being taken aback by that, Norrington just seemed to soak it up. He rocked back nearly roaring at Will. “I know you took Elizabeth.”
Oh, for…Will nearly, nearly threw the wrench at the other man, but at the last second, restrained himself. Instead he swerved around Norrington and headed outside.
The sun was a burning reminder of all that he wasn’t and wasn’t. When he heard the footsteps stop behind him, Will spoke again. Slow, serious, and as emotionless as he could manage. “I don’t know who told you that, but yeah, I did take her. For a handful of minutes, between Second Avenue and La Perla Negra. She was in the rain, she said she needed a ride, and that was that. Believe me, I’m regretting that good deed. Just like the one last night.”
He waited for the punch, for the grab ‘n spin, but nothing came except ragged heavy breathing. And then the sound of expensive shoes clicking indecisively around and hands rustling into pockets. A cigarette lighter flicked.
Turned out to be plain steel, almost identical to the standard Army-issue Will carried around, though he almost never smoked. From the slight grimace Norrington was making, the other man wasn’t used to it either, but the stress in Norrington’s face echoed in the fast, shaky way he sucked that cigarette to ash inside two minutes.
“She knew where she was going,” Will offered, knowing it was lame and painful, but not being able to give anything else. And he felt like he should give something, for some reason. “I don’t think anyone was forcing her.”
“No one ever could.” The way Norrington said that, it was a toss-up whether he feeling sad, savage or admiring about it.
He wasn’t looking at Will any more. And when Will tracked the other man’s gaze, he couldn’t see anything except that glimmer of ocean beyond the roof-tops. “Look, I need—”
“But I need—I need to know why. The police think she had a boyfriend down here, or an addiction—” James snapped off the words like he wanted to break them “—but that wasn’t Elizabeth. She was wild, but she wasn’t stupid. She had to have a better reason than that.”
Will wondered whether priests ever felt this uncomfortable in the confessional, because his fingers were picking lint off his pants and his toes were itching to get moving and he was chewing on his lip. Something wasn’t right. Nerves aside, Norrington still looked like the kind of guy that could handle earthquakes and hurricanes and government coups without so much as losing the starch in his collar, but here he was, laying out his heart to some guy he barely knew. Some guy he had probably been intending to strangle a moment ago.
“The police say that plenty of people saw her get out of your car at La Perla Negra, but none of them know who met her.” Norrington put out his cigarette on the concrete wall, then looked around. It took a second for Will to realize the man was searching for an ash-tray. Will jerked a thumb towards the waste-can, and Norrington walked his butt over to drop it in there. “Or they won’t say. At any rate, the police can’t find those witnesses. Which leaves you.”
“Look, I wish you the best of luck in your…whatever you’re planning, but it’s none of my business. My part in this mess ended when she popped out of the car.” For a missing woman, Swann was managing to do a lot of long-distance damage. It made Will’s pivot back to the garage much sharper than usual.
He got stopped by four fingers and a thumb clamping down on his shoulder to turn him partially back. Norrington looked like he had a lump of meat choking his throat, but he spat whatever it was out before Will could jerk free. “Please. I can’t…you’re the only one I can ask.”
Well, yeah, that would choke pretty badly if Norrington was the kind of man Will figured him to be. “For God’s sake…it’ll hurt less if you leave it be. Just go home, get drunk with some friends, and wake up with something pretty.”
That was Anamaria verbatim. Speaking of her, Will could see her slouching against a corner, watching them with narrowed eyes and long smoking cigarette dangling from her lip. When he caught her eye, she made a snort-face and waved him towards the office. Then she curled her hand and, keeping it that way, repeatedly lifted it towards her mouth.
He stared because that was the signal to offer coffee, and that wasn’t Anamaria at all.
“I…” Still struggling, Norrington edged closer so he wasn’t straining quite so much to hold onto Will. The skin around his lips was white; he’d probably woken straight into a hangover from the ninth circle and ignored it to pester the police into giving up their information on the nice idiot who’d helped him home last night. “I can’t do that. Elizabeth…I love her, do you understand? I want to know that she’s all right. I want to be able to look her father in the face and tell him I wasn’t responsible for this.”
Will closed his eyes and mentally slapped himself. “You take your brew with sugar and cream?”
* * *
One sugar, one lashing of cream. Sitting down, hunched over the mug he held on his lap, coat wrinkled about the shoulders and tie-knot lopsided, Norrington looked much younger and more vulnerable than he did standing around in the sun. “I’m not completely blind. I know she had misgivings about our—and our parents rushed us. I wasn’t planning to propose for another few months, at least. I didn’t want to scare her.”
“I hate to tell you this, but if she’s like you say, she’s probably long gone by now. Out of the country.” Normally Will took his coffee with two sugars and no cream, but as bad as the morning was, he was having it straight up. Outside, various banging sounds indicated Anamaria had taken over the day’s work so they wouldn’t fall behind. Yet another bad sign, since grease-work made Anamaria cranky. “And I’m still not seeing how I could possibly help you.”
“Because you know this place.” The vague wave James made with his hand apparently was supposed to mean the low end of Port Royal. He flicked his eyes up at Will, then back to the floor while a little streak of red shame went across his cheeks. “I’m…sorry about what I said. Implied. And I never properly thanked you for last night. I know most people wouldn’t have bothered.”
In person he wasn’t quite as boring as in reputation. There was some charm in the man, though it had to fight like a bastard to get past his uppercrust rigidity.
“You’re welcome,” was what Will finally settled on. He downed another quarter of his coffee and waited for Norrington to continue.
“I’ve been away for some years. In the Navy. I hadn’t seen Elizabeth since she was twelve, and God, she’s—she’d grown…” James’ eyes turned hazy. Then he shook himself and resumed watching his cup of brew congeal. “I’m more of a stranger here now. And I never was well-acquainted with this…er, district.”
Jesus Christ, he was almost cute. With difficulty, Will hid his smile behind a sip. “Not like it’s included in St. Godric’s curriculum.”
St. Godric’s was the only private school in Port Royal. Very selective and snotty, and the only place to send your brats if you had any money at all. Mention of it brought out that incisive look of Norrington’s. “You don’t speak like everyone else here.”
“My mother was of the Landowers. My father was from a family you’ve never heard of. I went to that place till I was twelve. Then both my parents died and I couldn’t stand the snobbiness anyway, so I dropped out.” Then Will drained his coffee so he wouldn’t have to see the pity he knew would be in the other man’s face. An engine revved and roared nearby—Anamaria testing out a car. Something was still off with the transmission, it sounded like. “But that’s not really relevant.”
“I think it is,” Norrington said, finally deigning to drink some of his coffee.
Temper wasn’t usually something Will had a problem with, but then, he was also fairly good at excusing himself from an annoying situation. Here, however, there was no easy way out and he just had to let it strangle his voice till his words rasped. “I’m not going to be your half-breed guide. You’re rich, you had the brains to track me down—I’m sure you can figure out something on your own. So unless your car needs tuning, I’ll have to ask you to—”
“No, no, wait. I didn’t mean it that way—I’m sorry if I offended you.” Norrington was leaping for Will. Time slowed in that eerie manner just before an accident happened so that Will could see how the light and shadow shifted over the enamel of Norrington’s mug as it fell. Slipped right through Norrington’s fingers.
Reflex drove Will down. His hand closed around it just as his head banged into the other man’s thigh, knocking them both back into the chair. The chair legs punished Will’s knees and dropped him so he nearly smashed the mug into the floor. Coffee splashed up, scalding his hand and jerking him back with a hiss.
More coffee was dripping off of James’ pant leg. For a second, they merely stared at each other.
“My life—” Will began.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the punchline to this one,” James finished. His mouth quirked, but the flash of humor was just that: a flash. Next thing Will knew, Norrington was off the chair and grabbing Will’s shoulders. “I need to know,” he begged, though Will would’ve bet twenty Norrington didn’t know what he sounded like. “Everyone else won’t do anything but make assumptions about who they think Elizabeth was, and they forget the truth. Even the police. I can’t—I can’t sit and wait.”
Will shoved at Norrington, but the other man didn’t budge. “Doesn’t seem like you’re the kind who does a lot of that, anyway,” he muttered.
“The most anyone will tell me is Jack Sparrow took her, like this is nothing more than a story to frighten children.” James’ lip curled with disgust and disbelief. “I can’t accept that.”
“You know, you’re probably breaking some kind of law. Somewhere.” Incredibly enough, there was still about an inch of coffee in the mug. Before that could end up on something, Will set the cup down on a nearby stool and reminded himself to take care of that later. Then he tried to pry Norrington’s fingers off his shoulders.
Norrington closed his eyes and took a hard, deep breath, like he was about to jump off a cliff into the dark. “It’s very odd how that doesn’t matter quite so much as it used to.”
The man had a grip like a longshoreman, and it was beginning to cut off the circulation to Will’s arms. Not to mention that Norrington looked as if one touch might shatter him completely—or shatter his nice, upstanding, law-abiding exterior, anyway. And God knew what was behind that; if Will had learned anything at St. Godric’s, it was that good birth didn’t guarantee good in anything else.
“Come around later,” Will finally said. “Midnight. I’ve got a business to run, but…”
He let Norrington read whatever into the missing part of the sentence. And that whatever was enough to get the other man to let go.
* * *
It was a light day so they closed up early, around three. Anamaria dropped into the voluminous backseat of the last job, about three inches from Will’s tired slouch, and offered him a cigarette. She always did that, and he always turned her down. But not today. Today he took the long slim cylinder, flicked a flame to it, and let himself sink into the scratch-poison languor of its smoke.
“Hell.” She got hers lit before she elaborated. “This is really taking the wind out of your sails.”
“Do I even have sails?” Will countered, more bitterly than he’d meant to. He rolled down the window on his side and stuck his arm through to tap off the ash, then dragged as deeply as he could. “Shit. I’m sorry, Anamaria. For last night and today.”
Her forgiveness was a softer smile than usual and her shifting to adopt his arm as a pillow. A thin stream of smoke issued from Anamaria’s lips, giving her the look of a dragonlady, wise and crackling. “Hell. Not your fault them all keep dropping themselves in your lap. I guess there’s a point where it’s stupid to try and stay out of it.”
“You mean that?” Will twisted to stare at her.
Instead of looking back, Anamaria kept her eyes aimed squarely through the windshield at the sky. It was still a nice day, white sun and azure sky just like in the postcards, and the mugginess was beginning to die off so everything went from muddled to almost painfully clear.
“Will, you do what you need to do. He’s not got a bad reputation, Mr. James Norrington. Improvement on his parents.” She held up a hand and slowly flicked up her fingers so the red nail polish shone like wine. Then she curled her hand and withdrew it quick to take her cigarette. “It’ll be a mess anyhow.”
He finished his cigarette and folded his hands so he could use them to rest his chin while he thought. After he was done with that, he gave Anamaria the warmest smile he could manage. “Yeah. Tell me what you know.”
“Elizabeth Swann’s what I call a seagull—she’s a girl born into a starched prison, and she wants out to the sky. My read, she finally got it, so there’s no point in looking for her. Not if you want her happy in the least.” Anamaria dug down into her skirt and came up with a hip flask from somewhere. Given how tight and short that piece of clothing was on her, Will tried not to look too closely. “Did you see who met her at the club?”
“Some. Not much. Man—darkish, but not black. Maybe Hispanic, maybe some mix. Dreads, weird things in them—I didn’t get a closer look—and clothes like you’d see on a scarecrow. Or a gypsy.” He was watching close for her reaction, and she definitely had one: upwards twitch at the corners of her mouth, tightening of her jaw.
There wasn’t much that both amused and angered Anamaria; usually she stuck to one or the other, and the second more than the first. “Jack,” she cooed, familiarly exasperated, just before she swigged herself a stiff one. “Jack Sparrow.”
“So is he still around?”
“Yeah. In a way.” She licked off the drops from the rim of the flask before proffering it to Will. Since he wasn’t that far gone, he refused. “Ain’t running the world anymore, but then, he was always more of a run in the world type. It’s not power that gets him going; he just wants to be able to go wherever he wants. Bit old-fashioned that way.”
That sounded like it’d fit right with Elizabeth’s supposed motives for leaving. “So he’d be sympathetic to Swann?”
“Always had a soft spot for babies. He might’ve. ‘specially since she’s so pretty.” Anamaria’s head slid from Will’s arm down an inch, so her knees were rammed right up against the back of the front seat. She made a nasty grimace that men didn’t often see and live to tell about it. “Bastard owes me a ship.”
Since Will’s survival instinct was perfectly healthy, he refrained from asking her to explain that. They were in an enclosed space, after all.
“And now you’ll be wanting to know where he is, to have a talk with him,” she snorted, rolling her eyes at Will. An old kind of cynicism, so faded it was almost sadness, flickered up at him from those. “I can get you—and only you—into La Perla Negra, and I can point when—if—he comes, but I can’t do more than that.”
“That’s more than I should ask for,” Will replied, and he meant that. “Why are you helping me?”
It took a long time for Anamaria to get around to answering that for him. When she did, the hip flask was rattling empty and her cigarette was a little pile of ash on the ground outside.
“Because you didn’t ask me to.” She hooked an arm over the top of the front seat and pulled herself up, then rolled out of the car. “Spruce up a bit, Turner. I ain’t taking a mangy tomcat to La Perla Negra.”
* * *
While he’d never actually been inside La Perla Negra, Will wasn’t completely inexperienced with nightlife. And to be truthful, it seemed like all nightclubs did look the same, though their décor and drinks might be more expensive. Beneath the glitter, it was still a surging, receding mob of people all cramming together to dance and down booze and pretend everything outside didn’t exist. Dream-land.
He was wearing the one decent suit he had, sans tie because Anamaria thought he looked sexier with his collar open, and his old fedora since she said that gave him character. She was resplendent in a scarlet-and-gold sheath that called all eyes to her, and by extension of proximity, Will. It was possible that he’d been in more uncomfortable situations, but then he’d been too drunk to really notice.
“Relax, marshmallow. Anything goes here,” Anamaria muttered at him as they walked in. And her words were borne out: maybe outside she still, snarling all the way, had to use him to mediate with ‘respectable people,’ but inside people were mixing in every combination of skin color and sex possible. If anything, she and Will were blasé.
Judging from the number of calls Anamaria got, she was fairly well-known here. Must have been before they’d teamed up, since Will never remembered her coming anywhere near this area. “Seems like you’re missed.”
“Like hell I’m missed—it’s the sweet between my legs they’re calling for,” she snorted. “To the bar, Turner.”
They never did make it there. About midway into the club’s dancefloor, Anamaria cursed and swung a hard right that nearly shoved Will’s face into some colossal cleavage. He hastily backpedaled, which actually seemed to offend the woman more than the collision, and hurried after Anamaria. She, on the other hand, was effortlessly elbowing and bumping her way through the crowd to march towards a grizzled-looking man chatting up a giggling waifish blonde. He glanced up from pert breasts just long enough to see Anamaria coming; his eyes bulged and he suddenly took off.
So did Anamaria. Will did his best to follow, but lost her within two seconds. “Goddamn it.”
He stood in place for a moment, trying to get his bearings in the laughing mob around him. And then he saw Koehler. The man was slipping along the nearest wall, making for the backdoor.
Now, that was interesting…Will plunged after him, going as fast as possible. Nevertheless, by the time he escaped the crush of the crowd and caught his breath, Koehler was long gone. “Damn it.”
“Looks like you could use a drink.”
The observation was faintly accented, swaying, musical and wafted from a dark corner to Will’s right. He startled, nearly jumped back into the dancers, then caught himself. After he took a few steps closer, a form started to emerge from the shadows. First beringed fingers lying on scattered, black-smudged cards. Then a hat, so battered that its original shape couldn’t be determined. A knee propped against the table’s edge. Eyes.
After a second, Will figured why the hell not and took off his hat, since a little bit of politeness never hurt as much as perceived rudeness could. He tucked his fedora under one arm and shoved his hands in his pockets, then strolled the rest of the way to the other, empty seat at the two-person table. “Jack Sparrow?”
The man leaned forward, gleaming gold spark in his smile, and held out a hand. “Hello, William Turner the Second.”
Will stopped a hair short of the chair and stared. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Same way I knew who you were minus the introductions. Spitting image of your father.” Sparrow kicked back again and took up his glass, which he drained like it was water. “Christ on his cross, but for a moment I thought I was seeing ghosts. Suppose that’s how you know you’ve picked up a few years.”
Will stayed standing.
“Sit, Turner. My ears have been telling me we’re overdue a talk.” When Will still held back, Jack rolled his eyes and shoved a full glass of what was probably rum out of the dark. “Sit. I’m no shark. I won’t bite you.”
“Guess you let Koehler do that, huh.” This time, Will reached for the chair and pulled it out, angling it so he could make a quick escape if he had to.
Jack laughed. Sincerely enough, it looked, and riffled the cards away into his clothes. “So that’s where your mother went—better eyes and quicker brain than your father. Down, Will—can I call you Will? Grand. I like a first-name basis—I only do enough to keep my hand in. Port Royal’s a lovely town to visit, but it’s not my base now.”
‘Bootstrap’ Bill, Will’s father, had been around for all of six years, and what Will remembered of him was ponyrides and a melancholy expression. Later his mother had muttered something about a bad background, bad friends and stay away from the sea, but she’d never explained too much. And she’d died before Will had grown old enough to truly press her on it.
“Not your base…” A quick glance around showed no one that looked real interested in the conversation, but Will still didn’t feel comfortable. He didn’t touch the drink, either. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I think it’s a question of what you want, Will.” The other man leaned forward again, a few cards dangling from his fingers so he looked a gypsy fortuneteller. Except for the calculating way he was measuring Will with his eyes. “Anamaria’s not been round in ages. And when she does come, who’s she trailing but you?”
Something about the man’s self-confidence irked the hell out of Will, much as Norrington’s stupid accusations had earlier. But Sparrow wasn’t someone to yell at, so Will restrained himself to a few tight, curt words. “How about we start with my father?”
Sparrow’s mobile features twitched, then relaxed, which Will was surprised to notice. So Jack wasn’t entirely sure of his footing as well. “He was a good man. All the time he worked for me, he talked about having a family and a fresh start. When he left for that, I didn’t begrudge him it.”
“So…” It was hard to think of anything to say, since Will had both expected and not expected that answer. He peeked at his hands and found them white-knuckled around the edge of the table. The back of his mouth tasted rancid.
The cards in the other man’s fingers flipped up, crisp as a new bill. Jack of hearts and ace of spades. “Your father was your father. Don’t be laying down anything you’ll regret, Will.”
“Stop telling me what I should do. God, everyone seems to have an opinion about that nowadays.” Irritated, showing it, and even more irritated because he was showing it, Will pried his fingers from the table and shoved them back in his pockets. Hopefully they’d stay there this time.
“Oh, I never tell people what they should do. Takes away the point of growing up, hmm?” Like a street magician, Jack snapped away the cards and reached for Will’s glass, which Will didn’t protest. He drank it down, then put the glass back on the table. “Shouldn’t waste rum.”
Will lifted an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t get involved with high-flying society beauties.”
And Jack lifted a brow right back, and grinned to boot. He slouched sideways, like he was about to pass out, but his eyes were more sober in their inebriation than most men were after years on the wagon. “You’re the lucky one, getting to drop her off. Koehler didn’t come on too strong, did he?”
“Did you tell her what to do?” Will asked. “Did you tell her how to leave?”
He completely missed the shift because it happened so fast. One moment Sparrow was a mocking, crazy old clown and the next he was hard steel. The man’s voice was like a velvet razor. “Will, I appreciate that you are perceptive enough to include the ‘how to’, but there’s a point at which my patience goes thin.”
Then Will heard someone behind him. He spun and ducked just as the pool cue swung where his head had been. Its tip nearly nailed Jack in the throat as well, sending him flying out of his seat. Will saw him stumble-run out from behind the table, all the while gesturing at whomever was behind Will. So Will turned, one hand slapping against the gun beneath his coat, and—
--golden hair.
She blinked once and gasped. Then Jack cannonaded into her and the two of them vanished into the stunned crowd before Will could do likewise. ‘Damn’ wasn’t strong enough for this. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, Will. Come on.” Anamaria appeared and grabbed his arm, yanking him to his feet. “Come on! And take your damn hand off your gun before you make things worse. Come. On. You damn fool.”
He went with her.
***