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21 January 2007 @ 09:06 pm
and all this peace has been deceivin'Collapse )
Current Mood: nervousnervous
07 January 2007 @ 03:20 pm
What's a kid got to do to get some privacy around here?Collapse )

[Open to Miss Rosenberg]
Current Mood: bouncybouncy
Like the beat, beat, beat of the tom tom
When the jungle shadows fall
Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock
as it stands against the wall.
Like the drip, drip, drip of the raindrops
when a jungle shower is through.
So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you.

I clutched my cola and shifted in my seat a little uncomfortably. The band was playing a sweet song by Mr Cole Porter. It had just come out this year, and the sound of it made me sigh a little inside. I wondered if I would ever yearn for someone the way the person in the song did. Or if anyone would ever want me like that. It seemed unlikely, given that I was a plain bluestocking who would probably end up a schoolteacher. Which wasn't such a bad thing, really. It wasn't like there were many jobs I could do. It could be worse.

I looked around where I was, and thought - yes, it definitely could be worse.

Caritas. It wasn't the usual sort of name for a bar like this, but it was exactly the sort of place Mother and Father had despised and warned us against. And now my sister - my sister! - was working here. A few minutes ago one of the dancers had walked through, already in her skimpy costume, and I had blushed at how much skin was exposed. Would Buffy look like that? I was afraid she might. But I had promised I would come and see her and offer my support. After all, she was doing this for me. I couldn't help feeling guilty about that. Of course, I was working too - a few hours a week at a diner - but it wasn't enough to support us both, and pay for my college books and things. Luckily I had a scholarship to a women's college here, so we didn't have to worry about fees, but money was still tight. Buffy and I shared a little apartment which had a whole range of leaks, creaks and cracks. Not at all like the nice house we grew up in. But Buffy had got in trouble at home, and Mother and Father died, and... Here we were. In the City of Angels, although Father had always insisted it was a City of Devils. A place of whores and niggers. I always winced a little when he said that. It just wasn't nice. But Father had never worried too much about being nice.

Night and day
under the hide of me
There's an oh, such a hungry
yearning burning inside of me
And it's torment won't ever be through
Till you let me spend my life
making love to you
Day and night
night and day

I blushed slightly as the singer sang the last verse of the song. It was only last year that I had found out what "making love" was. I know, in this day and age an eighteen year old should know better, but Mother hadn't thought nice girls should be too worried about such things. And it wasn't as if many boys had called at the door for me. Or any, actually. Lots had come by to visit Buffy, but they were always the wrong sort of boy. I wondered if Buffy had made love with anybody. She probably had. Then I found myself blushing again.

The song finished and I clapped politely. I was about the only person in here. I supposed it didn't really get busy until the girls danced...

[Open - to Buffy/Gunn/anyone who might be at Caritas. Your call!]
04 December 2006 @ 11:50 am
Los Angeles, Thursday 24th 1932. At least it had stopped rainingCollapse )

[Open to dear brother William]
Current Mood: busy
03 December 2006 @ 02:52 am
"I'm sorry, but no," I murmur, wondering if I'm inserting just enough acidity into my voice to get whoever the hell is calling *now* off our phone, "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce isn't available for comment."

I replace the stupid phone back in its receiver, wondering whose idea it was to get one of those things installed, and glare at the door yet again. Wesley is out being all private investigator-y and Spike hasn't even shown up yet and apparently the way to get me at my crankiest is suffering from a cold that just won't freakin' die, a freezing cold office and some of the less polite gumshoes (at least Detective Callaghan knows the meaning of the words "thank you") calling to rant at me every half hour over an article that not-even-remotely-qualified-to-call-herself-a-reporter floozy printed in her paper.

I've always been the biggest advocate that ALL publicity is good publicity but this? Private sources usually remain that - private - and since that little harpy started running her mouth off, using Daddy's paper as her sounding board, the goings on of Pryce Investigations just aren't private any more. If I hear one more person asking me what, exactly, the Pryce brothers are bringing to the investigation of the murder of Dolores Preston, I'm gonna swing for someone. Seriously.

There's only so much croaking a girl can take and repeating both over the phone and in person that we're the most reputable firm this side of the state line is just getting me annoyed. I like my conversation to have meaning, thank you very much - bumpin' gums about what our firm is doing when I'm not even sure how much we've done yet is just pointless. Totally and completely pointless.

Also, who the hell started sharing germs around here? I had an audition at 10 this morning that I didn't even remotely make 'cause I don't think they'd hire a broad sneezing all over the audition room no matter how pretty she is... And trust me, like this? I'm not pretty.

I collect the bundle of tissues that've made their way onto my desk and dump them in the trash miserably, wondering whether it wouldn't have been smarter to take off for the day - it's not like Wes would actually notice, his not being here and all. Hell, he could even dock my wages for the day if we were that desperate for cash. I just want to go home, crawl under my duvet and die for a few hours - not stand here and discuss the inner-workings of our agency with every Tom, Dick and Jerry that walks through our door.

[open to Lindsey]
Current Mood: sicksick
02 December 2006 @ 01:32 am
Mob Murder Shocks Downtown Los Angeles!

The body of one Dolores Preston was found slain in downtown LA last night, sources say the number one suspect is a member of the Preston family.

Police are looking at various theories; the strongest from a private source saying that none other than Dolores’ own brother – Billy – owes the mob more money than Miss Garbo and Miss West will make in a year; possibly two, combined.

It has to make you wonder how bad he was to be on the nut to result to the mob; everyone knows they’re in bad business. It’s not like you can swindle the mob – if you do then you’re some poor sap to think that way.

Other theories that have been heard from private sources say that there were other more sorted mob ties to Ms. Preston. A secret life? A lover gone monkey brains with jealousy? It’s anyone’s guess where the blood really lies.

The local DA’s office has brought in special investigators to look into this heinous crime. It has to make this reporter wonder when Detective Callaghan’s efforts have started to wane in the eyes of the law. Too many years on the job perhaps? Or is the DA just afraid of past vendetta’s clouding other’s judgments? Only time will tell what these Pryce brothers have to offer to this case; I know I’ll be looking very closely into this situation.

Classic ‘who done it?’ Time is going to be the crime solver in this case. My money is on past due mob ties; in this reporters opinion that dame was far from a looker to have a secret ‘working’ life.

One is left to wonder though, why haven’t they brought in the brother or their obvious mob leads in for questioning? Again it leaves this reporter to wonder just how inept this city’s investigators are.

Uncencored pictures on page 7

Daddy would be proud. Damn shame he’s no longer with us; but that just gives me a bit more power in this town doesn’t it? I’m no longer known as the Morgan’s daughter… Buzz around the office has left me smirking at the names… Most creative so far has to be ‘the broad with gams to die for’. Always leaves me smirking at that one.

He’d be proud of he’d roll over in his grave to know that I’m doing devious dealings and paying off sources…it’s a new world pop’s.

I smile smugly and set the paper down, pleased at the newest edition, knowing that the phone is going to start ringing any moment. That’s what assistants are for…

Speaking of, I must send soup over to that smug ass McDonald. Heard he’s been coming down with a cold; we don’t need that. The last thing I want is for my source to become tapped out; that wouldn’t make me the least bit happy.

Everyone knows that it’s wise to keep a dame like me happy…at all times.
11 October 2006 @ 08:48 pm
Up and at 'em, but only just barely.Collapse )

[Knock-knock, Pryce.]
Current Mood: sicksick
04 October 2006 @ 01:43 am
It had been a lovely night with Fred. Yeah, she was definitely something, that dame. Sweetest face and the most innocent voice in the world, but with the body of a pin up girl and the moves of the French flicks, if you know what I mean. Yeah. Definitely a dame I'd like to see again, though I don't reckon either of us are looking for true love right now.

After our busy night, we slept in. Luckily Wesley is used to me being late to the office or not turning up at all, so I didn't bother hurrying. Fred and I ate breakfast together, and then I gave her a kiss and said my fond farewells. That was a couple of days ago. I haven't called her or popped into the club. I wonder if she's annoyed. Might be, but I don't want to risk pissing off her father. He's probably watching her flat and club, and might look askance on seein' me again. So I reckon I'll leave it a little longer then go along to hear a tune or two. Fred's got good pipes as well as great gams, so it's no hardship.

For today, though, I s'pose I should go into work. It's late morning, which is almost early for me, and after having a coffee and a doughnut at the diner down the road I walk into the office, whistling cheerfully.

[Open to anyone who fancies a chat.]