Bloody Mary

Disclaimer: If I owned Chicago, I would have made a theme park by now.

Chapter 1: Charades

Hallelujah.

There's no better place to be than in a bar, surrounded by adoring women. Especially rich adoring women.

Is there?

He pondered that as one named Mitzy laid her head on his shoulder. Mitzy? Was her name really Mitzy? Was Mitzy even a real name? Hell, it didn't matter. With a few more shots, nothing would matter.

Oh, times were swell. Something about winter sparked a killing spree among women, meaning more work for him. More money, too. Only Billy Flynn could sweet talk for a living and get good money for it.

Last night he went to the Chicago Theater and, sure enough, Roxie and Velma were performing. He'd never admit it, but he liked watching them dance, an exquisitely crafted and perfectly executed charade. It was his secret pride. When they took their bows, the world seemed to fall at their feet.

Look at that, he'd think. I created that.

Speaking of the devil, Velma Kelly was two tables down. Her voice permeated the hazy paradise, parting the billows of cigarette smoke.

"Here's to us! Who's like us? Damn few!"

She downed half a bottle of gin without blinking an eye, and when she came up for air, she eyes shone with intoxication, an artificial form of love.

"Billy! Billy, you stole five grand from me, did'ja know that?"

"Stole? As I recall, I did what I was paid to do: free you. I owe you nothing."

"We never went to court, and I...I paid to go to court."

"We didn't have to go to court. You weaseled out of it yourself."

"Thief. Johnny, get another drink for the thief here." She turned to him, leaning in so close that he could see a tiny birthmark at the corner of her eye. "What d'ya want?"

"I...I don't know what I want."

xxxxx

She wore pigtails in her hair. Everyone tried to get a glimpse of her, the new kid from Iowa. Or was it Idaho? All anyone knew was that she was blonde, she was six years old, and her name was Mary.

Mary. Like the Virgin Mary.

Billy didn't like girls. They giggled about nothing and talked about hair ribbons. He was seven; surely, he had plenty of time to find the woman of dreams.

Mary was sitting alone under a tree during lunchtime. No, Mary was sitting alone under Billy's tree during lunchtime. Billy stomped up to her, ready to demand his tree back when he noticed she was crying. Another thing he hated about girls: they cried too much.

"What's the matter?"

"I didn't bring a lunch."

Almost instinctively, he looked inside his brown paper bag. A peanut butter sandwich and a cookie. There was no way in hell he was sharing that cookie.

"You can share my sandwich."

"Thanks. You're sweet. Will you marry me?"

"Okay," he said, chewing a gob of peanut butter with his mouth full.

xxxxx

Velma was so drunk she could barely support her own weight. Billy had his arm around her, holding her up as she muttered nonsense.

He took her into the cool air, hoping to sober her up. No, she was beyond help. He fished out her address from the back his memory, and decided to walk her home.

Her steady breathing lingered on his neck. You thief, you thief, you thief. No, Billy Flynn was not a thief. He was just a man who happened to profit immensely from other people's misfortune.

"Billy, why is the streetlamp so bright?"

He did not envy the hangover she was going to have tomorrow morning.

High-heeled shoes struggled with the three steps up to Velma's front door, almost tripping over themselves. He almost laughed at her meager attempts to remain graceful.

"Thanks."

"I like to think I'm a gentleman."

"You know, maybe we could..."

He knew what she was going to say as soon as her blood-ruby lips parted to make the words. Somewhere in the recesses of his consciousness was the picturesque morning after: Velma with a headache that could kill a few elephants, and Billy scrambling with the clock to get to his 9:30 meeting with his latest client. No, no, a million times no.

But she would be something. Something seductive yet endearing, enigmatic yet vaguely familiar, forgettable yet so unforgettable at the same time.

Maybe they could...yet they couldn't.

"Goodnight, Velma."

"Goodnight, Billy."

A/N: Feedback is appreciated, yet chocolate is appreciated even more.