Happiness Is a Warm Gun // Lennison

Three

With that sentence, George's heart skidded to a halt for a thin second before a devilish smile crept onto his features and he teasingly leaned in closer to the cop. He bit his bottom lip smugly at the thought of escaping the authorities yet again. (Various occurrences involving his hands ending up in handcuffs were rather regular, but there's nothing a quick blow job and a premium quality joint won't fix)

"Go on." He eggs.

He wondered what on Earth a cop like this one could possibly want from a street kid him. Cops were crooks though, that's the most important advice George could give anyone, and this cop seemed to be no different. Whatever he wanted, it was bound to be dirty and cruel.

There was glass separating the back seats from the front seats, but John's gaze could have melted it anyway. His intense almond eyes seemed to engulf George from behind the blue-tinted, round glasses that sat on the bridge of his hooked nose as if it were a throne. Thoughts ran around his head like they were jacked up on cocaine, and he was still pretty indecisive about the whole thing. He rubbed his temple and squeezed his eyes shut for a short moment, but soon opened them back up and focused them dead on the outlaw in his backseat. He would probably shoot himself in the foot for it later, but right now, it's his best bet.

"I've got a proposal for you." He declares and George simply nods with interest - a curious but suspicious glint in his eye.

"I'm listening."

Every single inch of George was then thoroughly inspected as John's dark eyes flickered and took notes. It was almost as if George could see the Cheif Inspector weighing him up, the cogs churning away behind those blue glasses of his. Finally, he sighed and spoke: "I know you didn't kill the eight people, but what I do know that you're deeply involved in a gang. And said gang is causing this city a lot of problems. I also know they your gang is planning something that is going to get a lot of people hurt or dead, so I'm going to let you walk free on one condition." He breathes as his midnight eyes show no signs of being anything less than serious. "You will report to me every single day about every tiny, little thing that is happening between and inside the gangs." He slips a piece of paper through the small gap in the glass dividing them. "That's the address you'll report to at six o'clock pm. If you don't show, I'll hunt you down and lock you up. Simple as that." John continues, holding George's eye contact to see whether or not the younger man understood fully and completely.

With a scoff, the darker brunette scrunched up his nose in distaste. "I don't have much of a choice anyroad," He grumbles and huffs, slumping back into the back seat.

The cop has to do a quick double-take to make sure he heard it right before he frowns and tilts his head in confusion. "Wha? Is that it? I was expecting you say 'hell no' and try and make a run for it." He admits and the prisoner rolls his eyes with enough violence to knock a man dead. But not John.

"I'm not stupid. I know a good deal when I see one." He says with sass dripping from his tone.

John's eyes narrow as if he was squinting into the raw sun. "I'll be hooking you up to a lie detector, so don't bother lying to protect your mob buddies." He warns, thinking that George's coolness about the situation was due to a plan to get out of it. Little did her know the real reason.

The thug leaned his face right up to the glass as if he were staring directly into the detective's soul and snarled at it. "I wouldn't have chosen this gang if they paid me all the money in the world. I would have lived the perfect little simple life had I not been born into England's most dreaded gang. I hate this gang and I'll give you anything you want." He whispers with a gruff tone and a dead look in his eye. John simply blinked a few times to process all that George had just uttered, but he found it difficult. All the other mobsters and gangsters and thugs pledged their life to their gang and nothing could make them otherwise. So why was George different?

He didn't want to find out though.

Getting out of the car, he opens George's door and he steps out as well. As soon as the cop unlocks his captive's hands, he grabs hold of his wrist in a ferocious grasp in case he dared to try and run off.  It was hardly needed though when George barely flinched.

"Tomorrow, at 6 o'clock, at the address." He reminds with a firm tone. George simply chuckles and shrugs out of his hold before lighting up a cigarette and sauntering down the street like nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. John watched him walk away with an unknown sense of immense curiosity, the echoing of his boots on the cobblestone bouncing off of the surrounding buildings and rattling his brain.

George Harrison was quite possibly the oddest criminal he had ever met.

****

John had been diligently waiting for a knock on his door for the last few hours. It was now eight o'clock and George hadn't made any sort of appearance so it was time for the detective of 15 years to put the matter into his own hands. Slipping on an overcoat and his signature glasses, he headed out into the city. London was a big place but John knew what he was looking for so the size hardly intimidated him. With 15 years of experience up his sleeve, he wasn't what you could call a daft man. He knew where the Harrison gang took residence and he could only guess which apartment would belong to George and his father.

After walking long enough, he stopped out the front of the Edith Grove apartment buildings surveyed them swiftly. One apartment, towards the other end of the street, had multiple cars outside - more than any one or two people could need - and headed towards it. As he approached the door, he ruffled up his hair and discarded his expensive watch and ring.

John then knocked on the door and only a thin few moments later, a big burly man opened it. His expression was gruff but it was obvious he was rather thick, an easy target for John's shenanigans. "Whatchu want ven, ey?"

"Yeah, I'm lookin' for George. 'e in?" He asks, faking a thicker cockney accent than he actually possessed.

"'e's pretty worse for wear, ba I'll go fetch 'im for yer." The big bloke mumbles and leaves the doorway wide open in search of the lad mentioned. Seeing his window, John takes in as much of the apartment as he can from his spot in the doorway, hoping to scrape together any clues he can. What he saw didn't offer much, but one thing caught his eye.

A feminine hairbrush with a pair of stockings beside it sat on a small table in the lounge room. The hairbrush was pink with tiny gold flowers engraved into the handle while the stockings were a sheer tan colour.

Now, John Lennon was a learned man, but never in his life had he seen mixed gangs. Sure, there were female gangs and male gangs but never one combined of both. So why would there be such feminine items in a male mobster's house? Harold Harrison didn't have a wife or a mother and any hooker or one night stand wouldn't dare leave such things in a ganster of such high power's house.

One other thing stood out to him, and with trained nimble fingers, he snuck the small phone book into his coat. This would certainly come in handy.

George limped over to the door, his thick hair a knotty mess around his face, both his eyes bruised a developing greeny-yellow and crusty blood around his nose all spoke for itself. When he saw who was at the door though, his sore face morphed into one of shock. His eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. Moving quickly, he ushered John out of the building and shut the door behind him.

It was a tense silence for a few long moments before, looking the cop up and down, George couldn't help but break out into a mystified chuckle. "You've got an impressive set of balls, I can tell you that."