Mr. Fischer
Legacy Name: Mr. Fischer

Being that he was right-handed, the cast on his arm was making it extremely difficult to do any work. He’d attempted to go back to bartending, but every time he picked up a pint and tried to wrap the fingers of the casted hand around the glass, the extra bulk over the palm would spin it out of his grasp and send it sliding across the bartop or falling back into the freezer. It took a lot of mental training for him to remember to reach with his left when fishing for glasses. Pouring wasn’t really the problem, he’d quickly learned to pour with both hands on those busy nights when he was still a rookie bartender, but mixing… It took James dropping several glasses full of booze and nearly chucking a mixing glass over his shoulder into the liqueur wall for Sam to reassign him the position of busboy temporarily out of sympathy for the hardship he’d suffered; in reality it only made him feel worse about everything. It was frustrating, aggravating, not being able to do his job. If there was any one thing James was, aside from prideful and closed off, it was hard-working.

Though it wasn’t just the special treatment that was bothering him; Sam had been sympathetic to James’ hardships from the moment they met, and if not for her sympathy James would be in a much worse place than he was now (or so he assumed). No, it was the way she’d looked at him when he came back to work after his stay in the hospital; there was guilt hidden somewhere behind the sad smiles and accommodating gestures, and that nagged in the back of his mind every second of every day. What would she possibly have to feel guilty about? For picking him up off the street and giving him a job at Schmitt’s? For preventing him from spiraling into the lowest point in his life and putting him into a day-to-day living situation he may never have recovered from? The thought had crossed his mind several times that she may have felt guilty for not being able to do enough, since it was the only thing that made sense, but every time he reasoned that it wasn’t in her character to take responsibility for others. Another dead-end. This would haunt him for sure until he figured it out.

With a heavy “hmph” he slumped back against the bar and scanned the room with disinterest. It was a slow Thursday night, and for the first time in a long time, James found himself hating the downtime. Working kept his mind from wandering and over-thinking, from doing exactly what it was doing right now, and it made him realize how he had taken the busy nights for granted.

Since she had covered so many of his shifts during the chaos of the last week and a half, Riley had the night off, which left him alone with Schmitt’s most antisocial: Dex, Peter, and Milly. Sam was off doing her normal thing, waiting tables and managing in the kitchen, so she didn’t have much time for idle chat; he figured it was better this way anyway. He wasn’t sure how many more times he could withstand the awkward silence and uneasy conversations.

The bell over the doorframe tinkled warmly as two men entered the bar, both in hats and long winter coats. Eyes drifted lazily over them in acknowledgement before refocusing on the glass he’d been turning over in his hand for several minutes already. He lifted the glass into the light to check for any water spots he’d missed and deemed it clean for use; gently, he set it down with the other ten or twenty glasses on the counter, then reached over to start on another.

The kitchen doors burst open with a loud slam as Sam came out to investigate, and he bobbled the glass clumsily as he listened to her converse with them in a familiar tone. Friends or regulars? The thought swept through his mind very quickly before he lost the motivation to care.

“So how’d you break your arm?”

James had almost forgotten about the redheaded woman at the end of the bar. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten the question that week, and he’d been dodging the answer like a jackrabbit on the highway. What should he say this time? Car accident? Sports mishap? Bar fight? Actually, better not put any false blame on patrons… he reminded himself as he realized just how screwed he’d be if Sam overheard him.

She sipped a little longer on her drink and let him remain quiet for a minute or so before looking over at the two men in the corner and trying again. “Say… you look a lot like that guy from the news…”

James stiffened and paused in his cleaning.

“You know…” she continued calm and quiet, “the one that was abducted off the streets last week…?” She lifted the glass of brandy to her lips to sip again.

He bristled and one corner of his mouth turned into an angry snarl. If she wanted his attention, she’d got it. Inwardly, he wondered if she was one of Luciano’s men or a Cop… and truthfully, he’d hoped it was the latter. “I been gettin’ that a lot… but I think you got me confused with someone else-“ he tried in attempt to change the subject as she cut him off.

“I don’t think I do…” Sharp olive eyes studied him, unwavering and expectant, but he resisted. James was firm in his decision to admit nothing until she gave him a reason to trust her, and she couldn’t really blame him. So instead of persisting, the woman set her glass down, sat up and reached into her inner coat’s pocket, pulling out a badge and an I.D. in a leather wallet, which she flipped open momentarily for him to take a glance at. “My name is Scarlett O’Banion, I’m with the Bureau of Organized Crime, Chicago PD.”

James relaxed visibly and breathed a sigh of relief before muttering a “thank God” under his breath.

“May I have a moment of your time, Mr. Fischer…? I just have a few questions regarding the incident that may aid us in our ongoing investigation of your abduction.”

He shifted uneasily, swallowed and took a glance around the room. The two men had taken a seat in the booth at the back of the room, one of whom he could not see, but the other didn’t look familiar to him either; Sam was still standing there, talking to the two of them, so he nodded in agreement. “I got a few minutes.” Nervous fingers twisted the glass, not really paying attention to it anymore.

“What do you remember of the incident…? Can you run me through the scene?” Scarlett had removed a notepad and a pen from her pocket, which she discreetly set on the bartop and flipped open, tossing long wavy locks out of her eyes before turning her attention back to him.

His mind replayed it all in a flash and he went pale and stiff, sick just remembering it.

“It’s okay… take your time.”

His gaze settled on her kind eyes, and he set down the glass with a nod, reached for his eyes and pressed his thumb and index finger into the corners of his eyes with a groan and a heavy sigh. “I… I don’t remember much… I was getting coffee with a friend, and… I wasn’t paying attention, and the next thing I knew, someone reached around from behind and pulled my scarf around my neck tight…” He paused to focus, trying to remember faces, but he couldn’t. That whole ordeal had been a haze. “They dragged me into a van-“

“Tell me what you can remember about the van.”

He paused again, eyes sweeping across empty air as he tried to pick out details. “Grey… old… Ford maybe…?” He took a second to scratch at his head before adding, “They’d stripped the interior bare, except for the front seats.”

“Good,” she encouraged while scribbling down notes. “Anything else?” He shook his head, and she moved on. “Do you remember what any of them looked like?”

“No,” he shook his head again, this time leaning over his side of the bartop as he licked his lips. “They strangled me and then hit me over the head…” he said motioning to his neck, which was currently covered by a black turtleneck, though she could make out the discoloration in the shadow cast by his jaw and shaggy brown hair. “When I came to I was blindfolded and strapped to a chair.”

“So you saw nothing?”

He hesitated as he recalled the torture. His eyes snapped shut to shut out the memory, then quickly snapped open when he remembered it too vividly; he inhaled and exhaled sharply as he reached for his aching, broken rib. “… For a while all I saw were feet… some hands… but I heard voices.”

“How many?”

“Four… three of them picked me up, one of them came later-“ he cut himself off as he saw Sam storming over, and glanced back at the table she’d come from; a blonde man with an eye-patch was watching them intently, and it made him uneasy. What the hell was going on…? Was he in trouble…?

Sam strode right up to the woman and stood beside her, eyes and nostrils flared in a rage. “You need to leave,” she commanded in a flat tone.

James was flabbergasted. He had never seen Sam like this… which made him question the identity of his “new friend”. Was she really who she said she was…? How did he know he could trust her? His eyes shifted between the two women and realized that Scarlett’s expression had turned acrid and hostile. “No, no it’s-… it’s fine, she just-“

Sam whipped around and pointed at him as if cracking a whip. “You shut up,” then turned back to the woman and repeated herself. “Please don’t make me drag you out myself.”

Scarlett’s gaze slowly turned back to James and locked eyes for ten seconds or more, then stood up and reached into her pocket to pull out a twenty dollar bill. “Thanks for the drink,” she replied coolly, then turned back to Sam and added, “You folks stay safe tonight.”

Sam had had enough, and she snapped with the rage of an erupting volcano, unleashing a flurry of colorful language, thick irish accent and all. “Is that a threat, is that a fuckin’ threat!?” The man in the back had stood and was walking toward them at an alarming pace. He’d seen that kind of walk before, that look in his eyes, the way he dressed…

Scarlett held up a hand to dispel her anger, though it only seemed to make it worse, and luckily for her, she was out the door just as the blonde reached the door.

James stared in stunned shock, unable to process what had just happened, then snapped back into awareness when he realized a shaken Sam was yelling at him and shaking his arm.

“Do you HEAR me? If you ever see that woman in here again, you kick her out. She isn’t welcome here.”

The coldness in her voice made him shiver. What had this woman done to her to make her hate her so much? He hesitated and took note of the quiver in her arm, the fist at her side, the tremble in her throat, and the angry flutter in her eyelids. This was not a Sam he wanted to push, or question right now. He swallowed. “Yeah… I gotcha.”

“I’ll be in my office,” she tossed over her shoulder as she turned and stormed toward the back of the restaurant; the blonde man followed.

And then everything was quiet again. Whatever had been on his mind before had just become a lot more complicated. It was clear that one of them could be trusted, and one was crooked. But who? There was no way that Sam could possibly…

Oh but she could. He was starting to put the pieces together, and it sat bitterly in his mouth. He didn’t want to believe it. If his boss had any ties to the Moretti family at all, that would mean he was still within their reach… and the thought of that made him sick. I thought I was done with this, he thought angrily as he tightened his grip on the rag in his hand, brow drawing tightly together and jaw clenching well beyond the point of comfort.

He swiped the money off of the countertop and heard the familiar clicking of a paper card dropping to the floor. James bent down to pick it up, then turned over the glossed card and read the printed inscription.

Bureau of Organized Crime
Police Department, City of Chicago
Scarlett O’Banion
Detective

Followed by an office number and extension, fax number, email address, precinct number, and street address; the city police seal was printed in foil to the left of the information.

Well if she wasn’t a cop, then she had the most convincing credentials he’d ever seen… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her another time, when he wasn’t at work. James pocketed the card quietly and peered over the countertop before going back to work, unable to stop thinking about the possibility that he could be working under the grip of the Moretti’s.

Name / Nick: Jameson Fischer / James
Nationality / Language(s): Italian-Irish / English
Age / Birthday / Sign: 26 yrs. / August 11th / Leo
Height / Weight: 5'11" / 165 lbs.
Species: Human
Eyes: Green
Hair: Dark brown, Medium Length, Wavy
Skin: Slightly tanned, olive toned
Build: Athletic- lean, some tone in his upper body, but not much
Scars: None / None
Tattoos / Piercings:
Wardrobe: James tends to wear whatever is "nice-looking, but comfortable", though that sometimes translates to dressing "like a bum". He wears turtlenecks, V-necks, Crew-necks, Tank-tops, Button-ups, Jackets, Coats, Jeans, Slacks, Tennis Shoes, Skate shoes, Oxfords, Flip-flops, sometimes he'll even walk around in his pajama pants.. though he does tend to keep clothing with loud patterns, "band names" and "brand names" out of his closet entirely.

Orientation / Status: Heterosexual / It's Complicated
Love: Riley, Alice
Parents: Unknown
Family: Noah- Son (adopted)
Friends: Riley, Sam, Alice, Ricci, Noah
Occupation: Full Time Bartender, Full Time Parent, Part Time Musician
Location: Chicago, IL- with his son Noah

Vice: Envy, Cowardice
Virtue: Longsuffering
Strong Points: patient and understanding, even if he doesn’t seem very personable; pretty good with making people feel better when they’re down; will finish something if he’s agreed to it
Faults: emotionally distant; doesn’t like to share his personal life with others; bad with “thank you’s”; tends to run away from his problems instead of confront them
Religion: Catholic
Quirks: social drinker; pretty much has the mentality of a five year old child and will often feed into the bad habits of his son if they’re fun (such as drawing on the walls and tossing food across the table); is an amateur musician in his off-time trying to make his way like anyone else; makes use of the “crazy eyes” look often
Traits: antsy / fidgety, easily startled with over-the-top reactions, guarded, extroverted, playful, excessively sarcastic, insecure, self-reliant, impulsive, romantic, high self-control, honest, stubborn, fun-loving, fatherly, prefers small groups to large parties, not open with personal issues, mischievous, helpful, hard-working, loyal, childish, immature, depressed, brooding, bitter, jaded, “flight” mentality but protective, reliable
Likes:
Dislikes:

Bands on Playlist: A Day to Remember, Incubus, Nickelback, Hinder, Sick Puppies, Stone Sour

Name: Ricci Durand
Relationship: "Mentor" / Boss / Friend
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Name: Noah Jennings
Relationship: Adopted Son
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Name: Alice Jennings
Relationship: Ex-girlfriend
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Art by littleulvar

Art by Finnie

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