Chapter Text
New York, 1946.
“Please, Mr. Fontane, you're embarrassing yourself.” Logan Sul reclined in his chair, staring down his adversary. “The jade elephant is damning evidence. I’ve informed the police of your little underground gambling ring, and they’ll be here to arrest you presently. This endeavor is over.”
The conman snarled, words dripping with his thick New Yorker accent. “And who’s going to stop me from walkin’ outta here right now?”
Logan shrugged casually. “I will.”
A sharp snap sounded through the air, and Mr. Fontane lifted a gun - cocked and ready - out from inside of his suit coat. “Will you now?” He aimed it directly at Logan’s head.
“You’re not going to shoot me, Mr. Fontane,” Logan sighed, sounding almost bored. He let his eyes drift around the conman’s opulent study, wandering over the man himself sitting across the table with wild eyes and trembling hands, the lavish bookcases filled with dusty tomes, the thick persian rugs.
“You’re a common crook, not a murderer.” Logan arched an eyebrow at the other man. “To kill a man in cold blood takes a certain ruthlessness; a brokenness of the soul; a willingness to live with whatever consequences will follow. I’m afraid I can’t see you doing that.”
Mr. Fontane fired.
The bullet embedded itself in the backing of Logan’s armchair. Two inches to the left and he would be dead.
Logan eyed the bullet hole. “Then again, I could be wrong.”
“I missed on purpose,” The conman snarled. “I don’t like these mind games you’re so fond of, Mr. Sul.”
“Then perhaps instead of a game” - the private eye suddenly rose, ignoring the trailing of the gun as he sauntered over to an ornate crystal platter, taking two glasses and a bottle of sherry - “You will be amenable to a little gamble.” He set them down on the dark mahogany table.
The other man’s eyes gleamed. “A gamble, you say?”
A small smile flickered at the corner of Logan’s mouth. “I thought that might draw your attention.”
He sat down cooly, reaching into his pocket, stilling when Mr. Fontane aimed the gun again. “It’s quite alright; I’m unarmed.” He pulled out a small tube, carefully unscrewing the top to reveal a white powder inside. He held it out. “Smell this, but do not touch.”
The gambler reached out and sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”
Logan deftly took it back. “That’s because I have in here odorless, tasteless, colorless thallium salt. One singular teaspoon, to be precise. That’s enough to kill thirty-four men.” He smiled. “Or one man in a matter of minutes.”
Mr. Fontane narrowed his eyes. “What exactly are you proposing, Sul?”
Logan pointedly ignored the lack of a ‘mister’. “As I said: a gamble.” He poured the sherry into the crystal glasses then turned around, obstructing the conman’s view. A soft clink rang out as Logan tapped the salt container. He turned back around, placing the goblets on the table at equal distances from the other man. “Choose your cup, and we’ll both drink.”
Mr. Fontane laughed. “You must think me to be a mad man.”
“Quite the opposite actually,” Logan countered, analyzing him through sharp amber eyes. “I think you’re a man of odds and numbers.” He waved a hand at the glasses. “I present to you a fifty-fifty shot of getting out of here a free man. It’s the gamble of a lifetime for the gambler of a lifetime.”
The other man hesitated, bloodshot eyes darting from the glasses to the private detective’s face, trying to discern what the trick was.
Logan raised his hands in pseudo-surrender. “No tricks here, Mr. Fontane. You have an equal chance of choosing the right or the wrong glass. You have a fifty percent chance of walking away with the police clueless, now that their favorite consultant is dead.”
The gambler wavered, index finger tapping against the trigger. Finally, he pocketed it. “Alright, Mr. Sul, I’ll take that wager.”
Logan smiled, suddenly a gentleman in every aspect of the word. “Excellent.” He nodded at the glasses. “The choice is yours.”
The gambler vacillated between the two options, first reaching for the glass on the left, then quickly switching to the one on the right, then backtracking to the left once more. Logan noted with interest the thin sheen of sweat building on his brow. Finally, Mr. Fontane wrapped his fingers - loaded with a variety of extravagant rings - around the rightmost glass.
Logan duly plucked up the leftward glass. “To your health,” He said, raising the cup in a toast.
Mr. Fontane snorted and downed his sherry. “To my health indeed.”
Logan tilted his head back and imbibed until his cup was empty. A quick glance told him that Mr. Fontane had done the same.
“Now what?” The gambler said, placing down his glass.
“Now we wait.” Logan glanced at his watch. “Should be any moment now.”
Mr. Fontane frowned. “I thought you said it takes a few minu-” The rest of his sentence was cut off as he suddenly felt his throat closing. He fell to the ground, choking.
Logan rose and looked down at the convulsing body dispassionately. “Yes,” He agreed. “It does.”
He stepped over the body and strolled out of the french doors leading outside. “It’s quite alright,” He called to the police assembled outside.
“Mr. Sul,” A police woman with dusky brown skin and a thick braid that could've been used for hangings in a different time drawled as she walked up to him. “Private eye and public nuisance.” She threw a glance inside. “What’d ya do to him?”
“Officer Calamity,” He greeted, ignoring her grumbled protest that that wasn’t her name. “A mild poison. Get him into the hospital, and he’ll be fine.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ya didn’t do anything stupid like almost poison yourself in the process, right?”
“Oh, don’t be dull.” Logan rolled his eyes. “Of course I didn’t.” He briefly explained the events that transpired inside.
Officer Katrina Santos eyed him oddly. “You drank from a glass; same as him.”
The Private Eye scoffed. “They weren’t poisoned, officer.”
The policewoman halted dead in her tracks and stared at him incredulously. “Then how do ya explain the nearly dead man in the middle of my investigation?”
Logan groaned. “Really, must I spell it out for you?” He spoke slowly and patronizingly, as if to a child. “I could never take the risk of poisoning myself; otherwise where would you and your incompetent coworkers be?”
He studiously ignored her scowl.
“Mr. Fontane was a notorious gambler; there was no way he’d be able to resist playing the odds, especially if it let him get away. I merely offered him a metaphorical stacked deck.”
“If ya quite done bein’ cryptic, Mr. Sul?” Officer Santos interrupted dryly.
“I highly doubt I shall ever be done being cryptic.” Logan sighed. “But, if you insist.” A smirk quirked the edges of his lips. “Mr. Fontane wasn’t poisoned by either glass of sherry. He was poisoned when I instructed him to sniff the vial. He inhaled the toxins and was damned from that moment onwards. It was only a matter of stalling.”
Katrina shook her head slowly. “You’re far too clever, Logan.”
He scoffed. “No such thing, officer.” He disappeared in a whirlwind of tailcoats and shining black brogues. He repeated his own words to himself as he sauntered down the gritty New York streets, smirking. “No such thing.”
The heat was stifling. In the middle of the hottest August day in almost a hundred years, Logan Sul, Private Detective, shouldn’t have been as disgruntled as he was by the weather. Yet, the oppressive heat stuck to him like he was a gnat in a vat of honey.
Logan leaned back in his leather chair and loosened his blue tie. A glass of golden scotch sweated on his desk; his finger idly tapped against its ribbed side as he considered just packing up and heading home. He wouldn’t want a client to see him like this. He was already hideously improper, suit jacket slung over the edge of his mahogany desk and suspenders pushed off of his shoulders. He was even tempted to undo a few buttons on his shirt.
He let his gaze, lazy under the oppressive heat, wander around his office. Aside from his large desk and a few seats for clients, it was admittedly sparse. A file cabinet rested in the corner opposite his desk. A crystal platter holding cups for vials of scotch and whisky rested on a side table. Yellow afternoon sunlight slanted in through the blinds, casting the walls with dark and light stripes. Instead of pictures of loved ones or pets, the walls were covered with newspaper front pages from his many cracked cases over the years: the 1945 missing Goldblum diamond, the 1942 kidnapped British Heiress, the 1939 disappearance of Thomas Sanders.
Logan lazily scooped up his glass and took a sip. He grimaced. Warm.
He was debating just closing up shop for the day (after all, who would be desperate enough to need help on a day like today?) when a soft knock rapped against his door.
Logan quickly shoved his suspenders back into place and haphazardly tightened his tie. “Come in,” He called, knowing his deep baritone rumble would travel through the heavy oak door.
The door opened and a tall, handsome man swept through like a velvet hurricane. If Logan had known the trouble that would follow the knock-out in front of him, he’d have calmly refused to take his case and send him on his not-so merry way. In the moment, however, Logan was busy cataloguing the man, inspecting him for a clue as to why he would be here.
He was tall and muscular, clad in a tight, dark suit, unusual for a day as unseasonably hot as this one. His legs stretched for days, and the way his hip bones jutted made Logan shift in his chair. His brown face was composed entirely of angles: a sharp, angular jaw; a straight nose; high cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass. His eyes were obscured by a mass of dark brown hair. His hands were shaking as he firmly shut the door behind him, closing it with a definitive click.
“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me your name?” Logan, still leaning back in his chair, inclined his head towards the leather chair opposite.
The man sat but said nothing.
“Whisky? Scotch?” Logan offered, preparing to rise. He was terrible at niceties, but he knew a few sips of hard liquor could loosen most tongues.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself.” The other man finally spoke. His voice was sultry, higher than Logan would have expected. He finally looked up and Logan found himself gazing into an enchanting pair of haunted eyes, shining with secrets. “I’ve come because I need your help, Mr. Sul.”
Logan arched an eyebrow. “I hardly expected a social call.”
The other man flushed, knitting his hands together in his lap. “My name is Roman. Roman Torres.” His lovely mouth twisted in a grimace. “I work at a nightclub down on 31st. A performer.” He looked up and his mouth twisted in a half-smirk, as if his usual good humor was weighed down by an unknown burden. “You may know me better by my stage name - Roman Prince.”
Logan nodded. “You'd be hard-pressed to find a man in New York who didn't know of you, Mr. Torres.”
A small, genuine smile managed to pierce through the man's shroud of gloom. “I've been… fortunate.”
“Yes,” Logan agreed absently, gaze darting over to the door. “So, tell me, Mr. Torres.” He suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “How long has your stalker been harassing you?”
Roman stared at him incredulously for a long moment before a smirk settled onto his red-painted lips. “So you really are as good as they say.”
Logan scoffed. “Hardly.” He took a sip of his whiskey, the burn as familiar as a sleepless night. “Anyone with half of a brain could do what I do.”
“Then I suppose your opinion is that most people suffer with an eighth of a mind?”
“I could never be so callous,” Logan corrected. “A quarter, at least.”
Eyes half-lidded and lips curled with amusement, Roman crossed his legs, and Logan found his eyes drawn to their long stretch.
He caught himself and cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. “It was a simple deduction, really. No one would wish to wear thick clothing as dark as yours on a day as hot as this one. Especially someone like you, who strikes me as… colorful.”
Colorful was hardly the right word for it, but the other phrases Logan wanted to utter would probably earn him a slap to the face. The man was as obvious as a gun to the temple, and he filled Logan with the same thrill.
He continued, “I can therefore conclude that you’re trying to go incognito. Combine that with your status, general paranoia - evidenced by your closing the door so meticulously- and allure, it’s laughably easy to see why you’ve come to me. Somebody’s been harassing you, and you need me to see who it is.”
Roman arched an eyebrow. “All that from a black suit?”
“I doubt you’d be interested in the observations I could make about the rest of you.” Logan digressed. “Now, tell me about this stalker of yours, Mr. Torres.”
“I’ll have to take you up on that offer for a drink first.”
Logan poured and passed it to Roman, fingers brushing. Roman’s touch was fire.
He swirled the glass, staring into the amber liquid, before sipping slowly. “My type of work brings me a lot of attention. Most is wanted, but, occasionally, someone will cross the line. Mr. Salem is one of those people.”
Logan leaned forward. “If you are aware of who he is, why have you come to me?”
“Because I can’t prove it.” Roman downed the rest of the glass. “And because Mr. Salem is a very rich, powerful man. I need evidence, Mr. Sul.”
“What do you have so far?”
Roman grimaced. “Roses.”
Logan blinked slowly. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I was given to understand roses are a traditionally positive gift for a performer.”
Roman laughed humorlessly, tapping long fingers on his knee. “Roses, yes. A single red rose in my locked dressing room every night? Not so much.”
“I see.” Logan nodded. “Then you can consider me your ally in this endeavor, Mr. Torres.”
The performer demurred. “Kind of you, Mr. Sul.”
Logan snorted. “The one thing you will find that I am not, Mr. Torres, is kind.”
He rose and strode to the door in a motion like the rippling of a thundercloud. “Show me,” he instructed, reaching for his hat.
Roman started. “Now?”
“I like to start immediately. No time for biases or falsehoods to creep in.” He opened the door and inclined his head. “After you, Mr. Torres.”
New York was a superficially beautiful city. Gleaming towers stood shrouded in clouds of cigarette smoke and smog. Between them, crime festered in cramped, dingy alleyways. It was the type of city that tourists gawked at and natives walked though suspiciously, shoulders hunched, fingers anxiously hovering over pocket books, and eyes darting from side to side. Anyone with an ounce of common sense left the city as soon as they could, leaving only the brave, the bold, and the stupid behind.
To this day, Logan was still vaguely unsure which group of the three he belonged to.
More importantly, however, he needed to know which the man he was following belonged to. Bravery in his presence at Logan’s side, dauntlessly fighting back; boldness in the set of his shoulders, head held high and practiced smile held in place; stupidity in his recklessness. Everyone in this godforsaken city had one foot in the grave. Roman Torres didn’t seem to realize death was closer than he would’ve wished.
“We’re here.” Roman brought them to a stop outside of a low-slung building, dwarfed by the skyscrapers flanking it. It was well-kept, clean, and utterly inconspicuous, save for the faintly glowing neon sign above the door - Ego. “I'll introduce you around.”
Logan nodded briskly and held open the door for him before stepping through the doors to the smoky, dimly lit building beyond.
In less than twenty four hours, someone would be dead.