Work Text:
Coda (1)
It's a Tuesday when she shoots Velma.
Roxie's always hated Tuesdays. Monday is a new week, a fresh start. Wednesdays tend to fly by, rehearsing over and over. Thursdays, they usually spend patching up their costumes, stretching bits of lace and sequins as far as they'll go. Fridays are hopeful, looking toward Saturday and the shows. Sundays are lazy comedowns, exhausted after performing. But Tuesdays? They're boring.
Come to think of it, she shot Fred on a Tuesday.
*****
Inizio
When they start hooking, Velma tells her that it's no different than dancing.
"All art is prostitution," she says. "They'll slobber over you whether or not you have your clothes on. Singing, dancing? It's window-dressing, letting them know how long it's gonna take before they can fuck you."
Roxie doesn't think so. She won't say so, because Velma doesn't like it when Roxie talks back, but every time she walks out to the stage door after a show and slips off with some two-bit johnnie for a five-minute blowjob, she hates it a little more. Being a whore for art isn't the same as just being a whore.
It's not the sex she has a problem with. Roxie's been fucked since she was fifteen years old; Davey Porter back in Lubbock, up in the hayloft of his daddy's barn. It ain't gotten too much better . . . except for Velma.
Cause with Velma, it's different. Velma's a hellcat, leaves claw-marks and scratches all over Roxie. Tiny pink tongue, lapping at her. Velma lets her struggle and curse, then does what she wants anyway, and she never leaves Roxie hanging. Roxie still has a bruise from where she banged her head after Velma poured ice and gin all over her and licked it up.
That's Velma, cold and sour - a good idea the night before, a nightmare the morning after.
She teaches Roxie everything she knows about show business, how to work a crowd, and she's amazing. Better than Billy sometimes. It had been Velma's idea to have the prop tommy guns in their act at the Orpheum, mugging for the crowd. It had been Velma who found the fur coats, soft and luxurious and more expensive than anything Roxie had ever owned in her life. And it had been great for a while - they'd sold out the Orpheum every night and stayed in a swank hotel, ordering room service and having to upgrade to a suite just to fit all the flowers. Roses in every color (Roxie likes pink the best, Velma sniffs at her and says red is the only way to go), and two velvet boxes from Billy, because they're bringing him more publicity. He's the guy that got them off.
("Hah!" scoffs Velma, "as if he'd have a clue.")
The diamond necklace from Billy is the only thing Roxie hasn't pawned. All the costumes and the rest of the jewelry, yes, but not Billy's necklace. She doesn't know what Velma's done with her earrings.
*****
Coda (2)
Murderess's Row hasn't changed. It still smells like week-old cunt, the walls are paper-thin, and there's some new, skinny little girl with eyes as big as saucers wanting to do Roxie Hart's laundry. Annie still cheats at poker, June can still get her hands on any makeup she wants, and there's still a wide berth around the Hunyak's old cell.
Mama is as slippery as ever - though she'd laughed the day Roxie returned and given her a pack of smokes as a thank-you for "shutting that tramp up for good". Roxie doesn't buy it; Mama had always liked Velma, really liked her, not just petted and patted and backstabbed the way she did the rest of the girls.
Why's she so happy Velma's dead?
She had it comin'. . .
Mama's laughter echoes in her ears.
(D.C. al coda)
*****
(Cres.)
"I'd have to kill you," Velma says, blowing a smoke ring and sipping more gin. "That'd be a great way to reel 'em in."
Velma laughs, low and sultry, like it's a private joke no one else is going to understand. Roxie isn't laughing - she's known Velma for too long; knows that Velma doesn't joke about the business. And what's worse is she keeps going on, like Roxie should be finding it funny, or agreeing with her.
Roxie ain't stupid. She knows where this is heading.
So she simpers and squeaks when Velma fucks her, shivers at the chill of the ice and the rhythm of Velma's fingers in her cunt. The hurried snap of garters and the brush of silk (even if it is pilled from being washed) between them is familiar. She's not sure what she'd do if she and Velma were entirely naked - they need a barrier, or they'll cut each other up.
And it's good, isn't it? Great, isn't it?
The music starts up - a record from the upstairs apartment - and Velma shoves Roxie on her back, purring. She always did like accompaniment. Roxie has one leg between Velma's, sucking on her tits, and that's not something she ever has to fake. Velma, whatever her other failings, has spectacular tits.
She gets Velma off, but they're both too wound up to sleep and there's still that look in Velma's eyes that says Roxie'd better sleep with one eye open. She pulls on her dress and stockings, slips her heels on, and grabs her coat, saying she's going out for smokes. It's a familiar lie.
It's better than saying she's going out for ice.
(Dal Segno)
*****
Coda (3)
"Hey kid."
Billy looks as sharp as ever, three-piece pinstriped suit, gold pocket watch on a chain, leather shoes. He shakes his head as he passes the guard at the door, and pulls out a chair opposite her. He looks at her expectantly, but she's too busy flipping through Harper's Weekly for any articles on her to notice.
"Seriously, Roxie, you couldn't wait two months without plugging somebody?"
She finally looks up. "I was out of the papers too long. We was barely scraping by on stripping and pawning off our stuff. Sides, it's not like she didn't have the same idea about me."
"Just had to be bigger than Velma Kelly, huh?"
"Oh, don't pretend you don't love it," she says, digging her toe into the concrete and twirling a bit of her hair around one finger. "If people didn't kill each other, you wouldn't have a job."
"You never know," he says.
"So, how we gonna work this? 'Oh, no, your honor, the notorious Velma Kelly seduced me into the life of jazz. I was drawn under her spell, I couldn't leave! It was like I was hypnotized. We both reached for the gun, but I don't even remember shooting her'?"
Billy leans back in his chair, sticks his feet on the table and picks up a magazine. "Oh, you've got it all figured out, then? What do you need me for?"
"You mean that would work?" Roxie says.
"No. You've used that defense. Jury won't buy it a second time. And you're cribbing the amnesia bit from Velma. Isn't there a rule about not stealing someone else's material?"
Yes, there is, but there's also two things even Billy Flynn doesn't know. First, that all Roxie has ever wanted to be is Velma Kelly, and second, that she isn't making up that second bit.
Understandable, understandable, yes it's perfectly understandable . . .
They had both reached for the gun.
(Dal capo)
*****
(A libitum)
Tuesday morning.
It's raining, which means Velma's bitchier than usual. Pissing and moaning about her "headache" (3/4 of a bottle of gin will do that to you), saying Roxie's too damn skinny (because she can't lose those five extra pounds in her chest which would let them share dresses and costumes, not just shifts, garters, and the occasional skirt), and griping about the peroxide smell in the shower. Which is all her fault anyway, considering she insists on being the brunette of the act and won't dye her own hair.
And Roxie's never quite sure how it actually happened, but she's in Velma's drawer, rummaging around for her pink garters and belt, and finds a gun. And she starts screaming, asking Velma if she was serious about killing her for a new act, and Velma starts screaming back that Roxie's a whiny bitch and she'd be better off going solo. Everything's just so loud.
"God, you're such a fucking idiot, Roxie!" Velma shrieks. "You ain't never gonna make it in show business without me! You don't have what it takes!"
. . . just a noisy hall where there's a nightly brawl and-
BANG.
Somehow, the gun's in her hand. Velma's mouth is open in a shocked "oh" as the blood wells up to soak through her chemise. Roxie shakes as Velma coughs bright red, and her mouth twists as she sees the gun in Roxie's hands.
"Bitch," Velma growls, sinking to her knees.
All.
"Self defense," Roxie says.
That.
Velma sprawls on the floor, eyes going hazy. Roxie stands over her, just barely able to hear over the approaching sirens.
"Guilty," Velma says, and goes quiet.
Jazz.
*****
Coda (3)
Roxie crosses the final "t" and closes her diary. She gets up, smooths out her court dress - new from Woolworth's, it's demure blue, but it shows off her legs when she sits just right. Billy's going for the revenge angle defense (planting a bit in Velma's diary about jealousy and wanting to go solo), even though it's a long shot. She'll probably get some time, but that's okay, Cook County ain't so bad. She's getting more fan mail than ever.
She thinks she's going to be okay.
Fine