Tease: VigBean Noir
May. 14th, 2010 11:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixThe other day ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
caras_galadhon was waxing enthusiastic about the recent resurgence of sharp-dressed men, and posted a rather enjoyable picspam of same. She asked for some VigBean, and although I don't have time to write a full-length fic, I posted a little noirish tease for her, which she kindly said I should repost. So if you'd like a wee giggle, feel free to read on. :) 
There were three things that Viggo Mortensen, Private Investigator, required in life: a good suit, a good shave, and every so often, a good, hard swig of Jameson's Irish.
He was out of luck with the first two courtesy of a couple of his landlord's gorillas who'd dragged him into the crap-slick alley behind Lucky's Steak House and treated him to a little chin music for nonpayment of rent. He'd woken up and ankled it home to find the locks changed and a couple of ugly mugs near the fire escape, so he'd crawled back to his office and bunked out on the cracked leatherette couch. Now his suit looked like the wrinkles on an elephant's rear end, and he had a bum's growth of beard. He still had his old buddy Mr. Jameson, though.
He sat up on the creaky couch, squinted at the dusty light filtering through the blinds, fished his hip flask from his back pocket, unscrewed it, and drank.
Ahhhh.
That was good. Better than corn flakes, for his money. Beat working - and speaking of which. He stood, stretched and yawned, and slouched to his desk. Business was slow; he had Harry, a poor chump who suspected his wife was cheating on him [she was. She was a sexy broad named Liv who was going at it with a good-looking palooka called Karl]; Dom, a small-time diamond merchant whose partner Billy was shaking him down for all the goods he had; and Cate, a classy dame [too classy for a brokedown shamus like Viggo] who thought her husband was trying to kill her [he was a bunco-artist charmer called Orlando, a two-bit gigolo if Viggo had ever seen one. No evidence yet, though].
Three lousy cases; he'd be living in his office for a long time, at this rate. He sighed, clapped his hat on his head, put his feet up on the desk, and got a little cozier with Old Buddy Jameson. His eyes drifted shut.
Four sharp raps on the door yanked him out of a dream of Mai-Tais on a Bermuda beach. He pushed his hat back and blinked, hoping it wasn't the goons coming back for more rent. He didn't have a dime. "Door's open."
The handle turned, and Viggo frowned at his visitor, a lean cat who looked like he'd just stepped out of a movie screen. Sharp grey suit, dark overcoat, expensive hat and shoes; this was a swell, no doubt about it. And swells meant money.
"Mr. Mortensen?"
Good voice; English, quiet. Not one of those blowhards. The swell extended a long hand. There was a flash of onyx and diamond cufflink.
Viggo swung his feet down and took a closer look. Good face. Green eyes, strong nose and chin. A face you'd look at twice. "That's me," he said, shaking the swell's hand. "Have a seat, Mr. --"
"Bean. Sean Bean." The swell took the chair across from the desk.
Viggo was glad the office was shadowy; he knew he looked like hell. "So what can I do for you, Mr. Bean?"
"Mr. Mortensen, I need your help."
*
Admittedly a tease, I know. I'm pretty much a slut for any period piece, though. :)
caras_galadhon was waxing enthusiastic about the recent resurgence of sharp-dressed men, and posted a rather enjoyable picspam of same. She asked for some VigBean, and although I don't have time to write a full-length fic, I posted a little noirish tease for her, which she kindly said I should repost. So if you'd like a wee giggle, feel free to read on. :) There were three things that Viggo Mortensen, Private Investigator, required in life: a good suit, a good shave, and every so often, a good, hard swig of Jameson's Irish.
He was out of luck with the first two courtesy of a couple of his landlord's gorillas who'd dragged him into the crap-slick alley behind Lucky's Steak House and treated him to a little chin music for nonpayment of rent. He'd woken up and ankled it home to find the locks changed and a couple of ugly mugs near the fire escape, so he'd crawled back to his office and bunked out on the cracked leatherette couch. Now his suit looked like the wrinkles on an elephant's rear end, and he had a bum's growth of beard. He still had his old buddy Mr. Jameson, though.
He sat up on the creaky couch, squinted at the dusty light filtering through the blinds, fished his hip flask from his back pocket, unscrewed it, and drank.
Ahhhh.
That was good. Better than corn flakes, for his money. Beat working - and speaking of which. He stood, stretched and yawned, and slouched to his desk. Business was slow; he had Harry, a poor chump who suspected his wife was cheating on him [she was. She was a sexy broad named Liv who was going at it with a good-looking palooka called Karl]; Dom, a small-time diamond merchant whose partner Billy was shaking him down for all the goods he had; and Cate, a classy dame [too classy for a brokedown shamus like Viggo] who thought her husband was trying to kill her [he was a bunco-artist charmer called Orlando, a two-bit gigolo if Viggo had ever seen one. No evidence yet, though].
Three lousy cases; he'd be living in his office for a long time, at this rate. He sighed, clapped his hat on his head, put his feet up on the desk, and got a little cozier with Old Buddy Jameson. His eyes drifted shut.
Four sharp raps on the door yanked him out of a dream of Mai-Tais on a Bermuda beach. He pushed his hat back and blinked, hoping it wasn't the goons coming back for more rent. He didn't have a dime. "Door's open."
The handle turned, and Viggo frowned at his visitor, a lean cat who looked like he'd just stepped out of a movie screen. Sharp grey suit, dark overcoat, expensive hat and shoes; this was a swell, no doubt about it. And swells meant money.
"Mr. Mortensen?"
Good voice; English, quiet. Not one of those blowhards. The swell extended a long hand. There was a flash of onyx and diamond cufflink.
Viggo swung his feet down and took a closer look. Good face. Green eyes, strong nose and chin. A face you'd look at twice. "That's me," he said, shaking the swell's hand. "Have a seat, Mr. --"
"Bean. Sean Bean." The swell took the chair across from the desk.
Viggo was glad the office was shadowy; he knew he looked like hell. "So what can I do for you, Mr. Bean?"
"Mr. Mortensen, I need your help."
*
Admittedly a tease, I know. I'm pretty much a slut for any period piece, though. :)
