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They had exactly ten minutes.
Billy Flynn's eyes scanned out over his audience for a moment, and quickly caught the gaze of one Mr. Amos Hart in the crowd. A ten minute recess before the trial continued. There would be time, he decided.
A knowing blink, a subtle tilt of the head. Amos rose from his chair instantly. The two men began to make their way through the throng of exiting jurors and reporters, careful not to meet each other's eyes again, not just yet.
They had never made the full 5,000. Of course they hadn't. Any jazz slayer of the week worth more than a couple hundred dollars was a rarity, Billy had never really expected that Roxie's time in the sun would ever have covered his fee. The auctions had done well for what they were, the Hart case had certainly been a hit with Chicago's most avid criminal enthusiasts, many of whom Billy knew by name after so many years. But between the 3,000 Amos had eventually managed and the 475 raised in the auctions, Billy had come out from the trial still one thousand, five hundred and twenty-five dollars short.
This was nothing new. The convicted could almost never pay the full amount, other than the occasional Velma Kellys of the world who'd been taken in wearing golden handcuffs and thrown their infamy around for every cent it was worth. Sometimes Billy would end up walking away with his advertised fee, sometimes he wouldn't. What was important was that every client believed herself the exception. Just this once he would take the case, just this once he would work his magic to make up the rest for her. Billy Flynn was the five thousand dollar lawyer who never seemed to lose, and as long as the papers said as much, the numbers could be forgotten. Publicity was priceless.
Amos, however, was a rarity. Billy had to admit it: The man did mean to play square.
The bathroom at the back of the courthouse was deserted, just as Billy had known it would be. It sat at the end of a long, secluded hallway filled with records closets and seldom-used offices, and practically the only way that one would know it existed was either to discover it by chance or to be led there by someone who knew the building inside and out.
It had always been a habit of Billy's to hide out here during these shorter recesses. The bathrooms outside of the main courtroom were always packed with people, and having to weave his way through the crowds just to check his hair and straighten his suit did something of a disservice to his professional, put-together disposition.
"Do you suppose we're allowed to be here?" Amos mused from a few feet behind Billy. The tone of the question was far more conversational than accusatory, of course. Amos would have walked directly into the ocean if Mr. Billy Flynn had been leading him.
The older man stopped before a particular door, brought a hand to the doorknob, and smiled back at his companion. "They won't come looking for us, if that's what you're wondering. Not as long as I get back on time."
With this, he swung the door open, and the two men stepped into the empty restroom together.
The first call had come in around a week after Roxie's verdict. Billy had been surprised to hear Amos's voice on the other end of the line, given that most folks ran for the hills when they believed themselves in debt to him. Amos had asked what he still owed, and Billy had given the sum plainly.
"It is worth mentioning," the lawyer had continued, "that if you are now divorced from Roxie, the responsibility to pay me back could fall onto her shoulders instead. It was her case, after all, not yours."
But Amos had refused. He was the one that had hired Billy, he claimed, and there was no reason to bring Roxie into it.
It was the way Amos seemed to choke for a moment on his former wife's name that had instantly clued Billy in to the truth: This was a man in pain, and a man that intended to erase every memory of the past months from his mind, including any debt he still technically owed. It was settled that Amos would pay whatever he could manage out of his salary until the full amount was covered, and that was that.
Amos was barely able to lock the door behind them before Billy took hold of his shoulders and kissed him hungrily. They melted into each other there, safe from eyes or cameras under the dim bathroom light.
"You're doing great up there," Amos said once Billy had pulled away from him again. "I don't know what you needed me here for, anyway. From where I was sitting, at least, it looked like you had the whole room in your pocket."
Billy looked thoughtfully up at Amos for a moment before turning his attention back to the task of unbuttoning his own suit pants. "The best way to stay on top in this business, Amos, is to take whatever edge you can get. Some men bring a bottle to every trial for their nerves, some bring a cigar to clear their heads…"
The analogy hung unfinished in the air. A blush spread over Amos's face, and he didn't bother to stifle the grin in his voice as he responded. "I'm happy to help."
As the weeks since their initial agreement had gone by, Amos had quickly taken to delivering his payments in person. He became a regular sight in Billy's office every Friday afternoon, waiting patiently outside for meetings and appointments to end. Billy's secretary had tried, on the first few occasions, to assure Amos that she could hold on to the money and give it to Mr. Flynn later. Amos had always politely declined.
Billy soon caught himself scheduling meetings around the routine, which itself had never been officially scheduled. No, he couldn't call that client back at two o'clock tomorrow, that was when Mr. Hart would be there, but how did 2:05 sound? The two men's conversations, which had started as brief small talk to disrupt the silence as Billy examined the checks Amos brought him, began to find life. The time allotted grew longer. Both men had begun to anticipate every coming Friday with bated breath.
Amos dropped to his knees on the cold tile floor. The room was small and dim, and suddenly Amos knew that there wasn't any real risk of them being found out today. Billy was probably the only man in the building who had even been aware that this bathroom existed.
It was funny, Amos thought to himself as he leaned forward and began his work. Billy Flynn did seem to have a way of putting forgotten things to use.
On the twenty-ninth evening of May, Amos had reappeared in Billy's office after a two-week absence, his eyes sadder than usual and his hat in his hands. He would need more time, he confessed. Money was tight. He didn't know when he would be able to make his next payment, but he promised he would, he would be good for it, no matter how long it took…
"May I buy you a drink?" Billy had interrupted.
And that was how it came to be that the pair had ended up sharing a booth in the back corner of a quiet bar. That was how it came to be that Amos had broken down completely after one too many drinks, had admitted how badly he missed Roxie, had explained that his boss at the garage wouldn't let him spend his nights there anymore and he had nowhere else to stay.
Billy Flynn played square. And of course, it would hardly be playing square to get a man drunk with you, only to let him go out and sleep on the street.
Amos moaned with a full mouth, palming himself through his pants with one hand as he rested the other against the other man's thigh. He sucked and licked and kissed, stifling his gag reflex, servicing Billy as well as he knew how.
"That's it," Billy groaned from somewhere above. "I swear, Amos, this feels better every time you do it…"
What was it about hearing his own name come out of Billy's mouth that made Amos's heart soar? This was the most expensive, prolific lawyer in all of Chicago, handsome features and silver hair and a voice like honey. He could have had his choice of any woman in the city, and probably quite a few of the men as well. But he had chosen Amos.
It had become a simple fact of life: Amos wasn't invisible when he was with Billy, and he wasn't alone as long as he followed him. Not only was he seen, in fact, he was wanted.
It was a straightforward offer, really. Amos was given a key to Billy's apartment, and his debt was forgotten. And in return, well…
Billy rolled his hips into his companion's tight throat. His fingers combed through that dark brown hair, and he was moaning Amos's name…
Amos finished in his pants as Billy's relief flooded his mouth. He had made himself useful.
The courthouse's entryway was nearly empty by the time the pair returned together, and they quickly followed the remaining stragglers into the courtroom. All eyes turned to Billy Flynn, of course, and as usual, not a person in the room thought to question who it was that was following him.
Billy looked down at his wristwatch, then back out over the room, careful not to let his eyes linger for too long on one very content-looking man seated right in the middle of the whispering crowd.
Ten minutes, on the dot.