Alexei's Anthology

[Skall]

I like writing poetry and short stories and I will post them here from time to time.


Please, don't hesitate to let me know what you think. Feel free to post on this thread.


XXX






I Am Unknowable -- Written 10 19 16




You say that you know all of me
That you can read me like a book:
With one look
You can see all of my soul and all of its pieces
That you can put me back together.


You try to claim me as yours
But I am the ocean:
I have depths and currents and blues with no reflection
You can only see the surface of me
You have none of my pieces
And that is how it should be.


I am uncharted
A force of nature:
The storms here started long before you arrived
You didn't kick start my heart
I have picked myself up and bandaged my scraped knees
I have cried myself to sleep when no one would answer my pleas
And woken up and pulled myself out of bed in the morning.


You don't know who I write to on days where the sun don't rise
I wake up to nothing but black and white skies:
It is an apocalypse of grays
I write my own heartbeat on those days.


Don't say that you have my pieces
I am practiced beauty and frigid rage:
You can't measure me and all of these things I lock tight in my rib cage
You know nothing about me
Because I am unknowable
And I like it that way.

[Albie]

I like it.  It has a whole angry vibe to it.  Telling the unknowing who assume things based on your public persona that things are not as simple and black and white as their assumptions.

PS.  There seems to be some sort of script error in the last stanza that you may want to edit.

[Skall]

Edited, and yes, I was venting. Thanks for the input.

[Skall]

Well, it's about time I updated this. I've written a few things while I was away.

The first is a companion piece to a longer novel that I wrote some time ago. It's not really a sequel, but it uses the same characters and elements of the first story. You don't have to read the first to understand this piece. This is just a little experiment with perspective and my favorite aspect of writing; dynamic characters.

I would rate this PG-13 for strong language.


XXX




Alabaster and Oak -- Written 04 02 17




They catch my eye because they are beautiful. They have an aura, a charisma. An artist is trained to see these things in the world around him.


I think I notice them because of all the beautiful things in this room, they are the most stunning. I am not the only person to notice them, of course, but they remain oblivious. They are lost in each other.


I would like to capture them in oils, or sculpture. She would be marble -- alabaster -- and he would be something darker. He should, perhaps, be carved of wood. They belong together, though. They are different -- alabaster and oak -- but they belong together. No one looking at them could deny that. I have never seen them before, never here, never anywhere else in this particular art circuit. I would have noticed them. I have a good eye for things of beauty.


They have a tremulousness about them, a shyness. I'm pretty sure they're on their first date. No. No, they are too familiar for a first date. They project a dignity that speaks of long acquaintance. I smile. I know what it is after all. They are lovers. Have been for quite some time. One of them was married, has recently been divorced. They've been together much longer than the divorce papers have been signed. This is their first time in public together as a couple. Their eyes smile at each other even as their faces remain closed.


His fingers graze the small of her back, and her face relaxes. He was the married one, I hazard to guess. He is far more comfortable with all of this than she is. She scans the room carefully, methodically, as though she's expecting someone to step out from behind one of the sculptures and condemn her. She's innocent and nervous, doesn't want to be recognized. She doesn't want to be decried as a fallen woman.


He doesn't give a flying **censor** what the rest of the world thinks of him, but he wants to protect her. He wants to protect her reputation. He doesn't want to see her hurt, and he certainly doesn't want to be the cause of that hurt. She's been hurt before. Her nervousness is the only reason he doesn't press her up against the wall and kiss her like he wants to. You can see it in the electricity of his fingers against her back. He wants her. He aches for her. I think he must have had it pretty bad long before they ever got together.


He is no stranger to art -- I may never have seen him before, but the way he looks at the works spread out around him tells me he knows what fine art is. He knows what's hidden under the colors. He understands the value of beauty.


She, on the other hand, is not so secure. Her eyes widen when she sees something beautiful. Her lips pucker when she sees something she wants to touch. As entranced as she is by fine paintings and detailed sculpture, he is even more entranced by her wonder. It's a side of her he's never really seen before. He loves it. He wants to see more of it.


It was his idea to come here. She didn't want to. She probably told him it was too soon, that someone would recognize them. He cajoled her -- told her it was for charity -- told her no one who moved in their circles would be there.


He bought her the new dress she's wearing. He knew it was the kind of dress she's love, but that she'd never be able to afford. It's a Calvin Klein, I believe. Black and crisp and clean. Her pashmina alone must have cost him a small fortune, but the color is the exact hue of her eyes, and he couldn't pass it up. "They're gifts," he would have soothingly explained, as she protested the expense. "I want you to have them."


He oozes money. Old money. His family probably owns a house on the Vineyard. A big house. Filled with fine art. He's understated though. He's wearing an Armani suit and probably an Omega watch, but he's not dripping in gold jewelry. Classy. Old money. He doesn't live the life of a wealthy man, but he enjoys fine things. He has the money to enjoy fine things.


She doesn't have his kind of money, but she understands the value of a dollar. She probably lives someplace nice, like Adams Morgan -- maybe Georgetown -- in a nice apartment, filled with nice things. She can't afford anything better than nice. She probably works her ass off just to be able to afford her nice little life.


He wants to change that. He wants to give her the world. He would buy her any of the pieces of art on display tonight if only she would ask.


She won't ask, though. I can tell. And he doesn't understand that. He knows this woman, all right, but he can't comprehend her pride. He's never been able to understand that about her. She doesn't want to be a kept woman, and he aches to keep her.


(Continued)

[Skall]

Alabaster and Oak -- Part 2




I wonder if that will be the breaking point between these two. They've probably argued about it before. She's threatened to leave and then decided against it at the last minute. In spite of their shyness there is a tense history between them. They've witnessed tragedy together. I think, by the way he tries to shield her with his own body, his own hands, that she must have been very ill, or witnessed illness firsthand. You can sense illness in a person, even years after it's gone. There is a shadow that remains. Good artists have a way of capturing that shadow, even if their model looks absolutely healthy on the outside.


It's not going to happen again, though. Not while he's standing guard. Not while he's on watch. And a part of her resents this, because she's afraid she might need that protection. She's always been able to protect herself. She doesn't want to need him the way she does. There is a terrible complexity between these two. It fascinates me.


She's always been able to protect herself. She doesn't want to need him the way she does.


There is a terrible complexity between these two. It fascinates me.


They stand by a doorway, sipping wine, not mingling. As the evening passes she grows more relaxed, but certainly not complacent. Her eyes sparkle and when he leans down to whisper something in her ear, she laughs. I am beginning to understand his motivations. She is so beautiful. Incandescent. Glowing. Alive. All of these words apply. She has grown more beautiful in the short time I've been watching them. He must live with the constant fear that one day he'll open his eyes and she'll be gone. If I were him I'd go mad with that worry.


For the first time during the whole evening they are being approached. I watch with a mixture of horror and curiosity. These people are comfortable by themselves. They don't play well with others. I almost want to see them pushed from their pedestal, and at the same time I would do anything to prevent it. Anything except approach them myself.


The woman who approaches them is an 'art connoisseur' whose name is Patricia Van Dawson. I'm pretty sure she added the 'Van' herself. She's loud and obnoxious and swimming in new money. Her father broke his back slaving at his own oil wells so his baby girl wouldn't ever know what it was to be poor. She flounces around as though her family is the next best thing to the Kennedys. She likes to think of herself as a card-carrying member of the New American Aristocracy when, really, she's an awkward hillbilly in a yellow silk dress.


She comes to every art show and gallery opening, waving her pocketbook. She likes to think that she alone has the power to make or break new artists with her monetary contributions or lack thereof. Most of the smart new artists smile but avoid her. Patricia Van Dawson may have money but she's never been known for her taste. She wouldn't know Pissarro if he bit her on the ass.


When he sees Patricia drawing closer he bends and whispers something in his lover's ear. She nods, face closed. There is certainly no laughter now.


I move a little closer so I can hear this strange meeting. He is immediately cool and professional when Patricia greets them. His mouth smiles but his eyes tell the unknown newcomer to **censor** off. It's one more reason to like him.


"Why, hello," Patricia drawls, sticking a jewel-heavy hand out in a manner she thinks is dainty. It looks ridiculous. To his credit, he manages to touch those fingers without laughing out loud. "Patricia Van Dawson. I don't believe we've met. You're new to town?"


"No," he says, deflecting the hint for an introduction. "We heard about this show through the grapevine and decided to stop in. It's fascinating."


"Oh yes," Patricia growls, glaring at the other woman. The match has been set. Patricia knows who the opponent is, now. The man is momentarily forgotten. "Why, sweetie, are you feelin' ill? You're lookin' so very pale."


"I'm fine," the woman replies. "Thank you."


"No, I disagree. You need some color. Have you been to the cosmetics counter recently, my girl? I could recommend some places that might do you good. You just -- you --" she shrugs and laughs slightly, titters, really, thinking herself incredibly clever. "You ain't got that 'do re mi,' my dear, if you know what I mean."


The smaller woman raises her eyebrow and shakes her head. "Really, I'm fine. I don't need 'do re mi.'" She opens her handbag and draws out a black wallet. She flips it open, revealing unmistakable letters in bold, blue print. "Federal agents don't require as much 'do re mi' as international con artists, do they, Agent Felan?"


"And that's not even mentioning the possibility of art forgery, is it, Agent Cabret?" The man grins, and grabs the gold-bangled wrist of Patricia Van Dawson as she attempts to flee. To Patricia he says, "How's that for 'do re mi,' darlin'?"


I watch as they lead her away. Suddenly professional, these two are no longer lovers. They are no longer hiding a clandestine or adulterous relationship. Of course. Agents under cover. The way she stands, stiffly, as though she's got a weapon at her back. His lazy grin as he clicks the handcuffs home. How could I have missed the signs?


Still, there is something about the way he looks at her -- the way they work together, the electricity between them, the way she licks her lips the moment before she speaks to him--


--I don't think I was so very wrong after all.


XXX
​


END


Set in Washington, DC. I couldn't tell you how many charity events at art circuits, exhibitions or auctions are held there, but Adams Morgan and Georgetown are real locations. Special Agents of the FBI Audrey Cabret and James Felan are mine, any resemblance to real people is coincidental.

[Skall]

Agents Cabret and Felan return for another undercover story, because I love writing with these characters and this plot device. Really, these are the most fun to make. I promise I'll do something completely different next time.


Rated PG-13 for innuendo and violence.




XXX




Sore Luck at the Luxor -- Written 04 21 17






The two FBI agents argued as they walked, or perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that they walked as they argued.


"Our witness said that he just walked up to the slot machine and pulled the lever and money cascaded out. She said that it was definitely a large, wealthy Italian man ."


"She also said that she's the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette, Felan." Cabret hurried to keep up with her partner. Their combined strides made a strange rhythm on the cement, a bit like a bongo drummer with one hand playing two-four time and the other three-four time. One went faster than the other, but they still covered the same amount of ground. Cabret would have said that it was like two distinct sine waves, with the same amplitude but different frequencies, but then of course she would have gone on to kill the metaphor by noting that the waves would not retain their original amplitude but would occasionally cancel one another out and occasionally magnify one another. Which, if you thought about it, was not an inaccurate description of their partnership. Except for the part where their initial amplitude was the same.


Meanwhile, during the narrative aside, the two made their subdued way to their rental car, barely distinguishable from the other rental cars in the motel parking lot. Mrs. Edith Franklin (widowed) could not afford to stay in one of the casino hotels, but her senior citizens' group got a good discount at the Friendly Sombrero, which offered free parking and a shuttle to the main strip. Felan put the keys in the lock and realized that the car he'd rented was actually on his other side (which explained why Cabret had followed him to the door, and here he'd uncharitably thought that she was going to demand to drive).



Carefully avoiding Cabret's eyes, he unlocked the passenger door for her and then scooted around the front of the correct car and opened the door. "So she's a little old lady, Cabret, she's sharp enough to make three hundred dollars yesterday."


Cabret buckled herself in with exactly the same satisfaction she showed at making a really even Y incision. "Did you ask her how much she's lost over the past year?"


"No," he admitted, realization dawning that Cabret had asked.


"Twenty thousand dollars, Felan. That sharp little old lady is a gambling addict." Unfortunately, the sound of the engine starting up did nothing to disguise the satisfaction in her voice.


"It doesn't mean she's an invalid witness," he rallied.



"Felan. She said that she saw a mobster win a jackpot, that Burl Ives often plays next to her, and that the paintings in the motel room occasionally give her advice about which casinos are 'hot' today."


"It could be true, about Burl Ives I mean." He tried to remember which way their hotel was. Despite Cabret's dirty looks when she saw the Sphinx and the wandering employees dressed as Cleopatra and Pharoah, he hadn't picked it. They were required to stay in the Luxor so that they could carry out the surveillance on the suspect they were supposedly there to track.


Felan was aware that the first rule of any job was 'never volunteer,' but it would have been criminal to ask him to pass up a free trip to Las Vegas.


Unfortunately, Cabret was still keeping up her rigid barriers; Las Vegas had yet to work its magic on her. She wouldn't let the issue of Mrs. Franklin's reliability go. She was like a cat with a mouse that way--she'd let the topic think that it had escaped to safety, then reach out at the last moment and pull it back with one delicately deadly paw. Sure enough, she was talking again. "In layman's terms, her elevator doesn't go to the top floor. She's a few lights short of a marquee. She's... she's got two cherries and an orange."


Or maybe Las Vegas was having too great an influence on her. "Check the map, willya, Audrey--should I go right or left at the light?"


(Continued)

[Skall]

Sore Luck at the Luxor -- Part 2


Audrey Cabret loathed gambling. Flying into the Las Vegas airport, where there were slot machines as soon as you walked off of the airplane, had made her skin crawl. She was having a mental allergic reaction to the entire concept of Las Vegas. If there ever was a time in her life for a psychosomatic illness, it was now, but her body was as stubborn as her psyche and no nausea or swelling was forthcoming.


And Audrey did not understand the concept of dressing up to go gambling. On the one hand, it was perfectly understandable that one would not want to go around in a floral shirt and plaid slacks like some of the people in the casinos. On the other, if a person were to be so foolish as to gamble, could she really disguise that fact by dressing up as if it were the opera? There's no such thing as the Phantom of the Blackjack Tables. Evening dress implied that people actually looked at each other rather than at the cards or chips or other betting things--Cabret was fairly vague on that part of the gambling experience--on which they were gambling away their hard-earned money.


But Charles "Chip" Morelli was a high roller and she and Felan were supposed to follow him around in the fancy part of the casinos, and that--according to James--meant expensive clothes. He'd been very specific when he called her and told her, gleefully, to pack for the trip. That was all very well for Felan who could just wear one of his suits, but she'd be damned if she was going to shop for and buy an outfit with sequins on it--blue sequins, thank you very much--and then pay for it herself.  Accounting could suck it up. In fact, looking forward to the dispute with Agnes Whatserface in Accounting gave her the only enjoyment she'd had in the whole matter, other than puncturing Felan's little theory with Mrs. Franklin this morning.



Sadly, it was the hope of meeting Mrs. Franklin that had led Felan to offer her (and himself) on the sacrificial altar of undercover work, like two chickens who normally worked in the closet of the forensics lab but had wandered up into the daylight, blinking, only to find that they were part of a big complicated spell that involved chanting Miranda warnings and sticking pins in representations of the suspect until he confessed.


Something like that, anyway.



Organized Crime had jumped at the chance to have fresh faces doing the surveillance, and Felan had jumped at the chance for a weekend in Las Vegas, and they met in the middle and smacked together and came down right on Cabret.


Ever since she'd been lured to Vegas, Felan had been itching to go together. Now that she considered it, Mrs. Franklin was a pretty pitiful excuse even for him. James no doubt had some sort of dark and nefarious bet with the rest of the Chicago Bureau lab unit involving what he could get her to do in Vegas.



Regardless of his true motive, he'd signed them up to do surveillance on Chip Morelli in a hotel in the ridiculous and superstitious shape of a giant pyramid. A black glass pyramid with neon coursing down the edges in case any alien spaceships needed landing lights. Felan was in love with it.


Their suite was right next to Morelli's, up near the pointy top of the place. Ideally, they'd socialize with him and ingratiate themselves enough to get invited to his room for a drink. Once there, they could plant listening devices. The usual procedure in this situation was to get hotel cooperation, but this was Vegas, and Las Vegas hotels didn't have a healthy relationship with the Bureau. Thus they were forced to resort to subterfuge, and snappy dressing.


Cabret looked over her shoulder once more, meeting the resigned eyes of her reflection in the mirror, and realized yet again, as if for the first time, that there was no way she could wear a bra in the dress. It wasn't clear that there would be room even if it were structurally feasible. She sighed and pulled the heavy material up so that the collar--er, halter top--fastened around her neck.


The good thing about the dress was that the fabric was thick enough that the edges of the sequins didn't poke her in uncomfortable places. The bad thing was that it was therefore thick enough to qualify as blast shielding. As soon as she zipped the back up, all the parts of her that were covered began to sweat like a teen-age boy within sight of a Penthouse magazine. Fortunately (sort of), not too much was covered up. Clearly, it had been designed by someone under the impression that there was a horrible sequin shortage facing America. The dress stopped just above her knees and, in back, started just below her tattoo.



It wasn't entirely her fault. She'd only had one day to shop after her partner broke the news, she didn't know much about high casino fashion anyway and had to guess based on her viewing of "Casino" and last year's Golden Globes, and the tattoo-baring style had seemed sexy and a little dangerous in the dressing room.


There was no way to wear hose with the damn thing, either. Cabret scowled and unzipped the back long enough to ditch her underwear on the tile floor. She was going to be as damp as a rainforest all night in any event; at least she could hope for some cool breezes. The skirt was so tight that she could barely move her legs, and she was unlikely to pull a Sharon Stone on anyone.


Looking sexy and feeling sexy are two very different things, she realized as Felan knocked on the bathroom door. "Time's a'wastin', Cabret." She slid into the three-inch blue heels--matching in color, but, thank God, without sequins--and opened the door.


Felan gave the obligatory wolf whistle, which was okay by Cabret because it gave her a moment to run her eyes over him. In theory, she would rather have used her tongue than her eyes, but in practice her eyes were safer, and less likely to dry out in the process. Her fellow agent had decided to roll out the black Armani with the band-collar white shirt. Tieless was good. Shirtless and pantless might have been better, but they had a job to do.


(Continued)

[Skall]

Sore Luck at the Luxor -- Part 3



Cabret looked around as Felan charged some chips on the Bureau credit card. She really hoped that no one ever made a Freedom of Information Act request about their expenses; the scandal would surely see them fired if not prosecuted for ripping off Uncle Sam. The noise of the casino roared through her head like a hangover headache.


Chip was over at the craps table, and Felan steered Cabret through the crowd. "Ever played craps?" he asked, leaning over her like Little Red Riding Hood's cape. Maybe more like the Big Bad Wolf.


"Does 'craps' sound like the kind of game I would play?" Audrey was annoyed, and not afraid to admit it. Felan had lied to her about the necessity of dressing up. There were a few couples who were nattily dressed, but even among the high rollers shorts and polo shirts reigned. The sequins made her look like a miniature showgirl. Already someone had tried to ask her for a drink. She was going to have to think of something particularly creative to get her revenge, something befitting an irate forensic pathologist. 'Disgusting' and 'gooey' were useful concepts when dealing with a man as fastidious about his personal grooming as James.


They were nearly to the edge of the table now, past the observers and among the people who were actually betting. "You know, craps players have a superstition, Cabret," he murmured. "A woman who's a craps virgin is destined to have a hot roll her first time." Typical male fantasy about female inexperience, she thought and shifted further away from him, pushing herself into the solid cherry of the craps table.


James insinuated himself next to their target and put some chips on the table.



Cabret soon discovered that she didn't understand craps at all, which annoyed the hell out of her. As far as she could tell, the game involved lots of dice and yelling. Some numbers were good and some were bad, but only depending on what the other people at the table were doing, and, maybe, the latitude and longitude of the craps table.


It was annoying, but only to be expected, that Felan knew exactly how to play craps. Chip was rolling the dice, but Felan was betting, and apparently winning more than Chip, which she didn't understand. Finally, amidst shouts of "come!" and "don't come!" that reminded her of the old Frankie Goes to Hollywood song, something happened that required Chip to pass the dice along to her partner.


"The lady's going to roll," he told the stickman, who smiled politely at her and pushed the dice towards her.


Felan wrapped himself around her, his hands gripping the craps table on either side of her, and breathed "Just relax," into her neck in a tone that suggested she should do anything but. If he kept it up she was going to have to do something to him that didn't naturally occur in the animal kingdom. "Make sure the dice hit the opposite wall and bounce off."


The dice were red, and warm from repeated handling. She wondered if she should do something showy like blow on them, but that would have been even more awkward, so she gauged the distance between her hands and the far side of the table, then closed her eyes and threw.



She didn't even see the dice, just the chips being pushed towards her and Felan, who kept some and put others on the table as if he were scattering breadcrumbs.


"Hard six," he said, looking at the dealer, speaking loud enough to hear but sending the words right past her ear as if they described a proposed sexual position. The dice were in her hand again, and she briefly imagined that they were his testicles, but that line of thought was going nowhere and anyway the dice were too angular for effective fantasy crushing. His breath assaulted the side of her face like the blast from an exhaust fan. If her hands shook a little, it was just a matter of aiming the dice. The onlookers exclaimed and Felan collected more money.


Their drink orders were taken, and she sipped at the rum-laced thing Felan had ordered for her with some resentment. She would have ordered a nice gin and tonic, but no one had asked her. She felt like the craps version of Vanna White, except that she wasn't required to smile. Again and again she rolled, and people were betting on her winning streak, and it all made her nauseous. Taking risks with perfectly good money, knowing the odds were against you, wasn't entertainment. It was stupidity. When she finished her drink, she turned to Felan. "I don't want to do this anymore."


"You can't stop now, in the middle. When you make this point, you can give the dice to me."


Chip leaned over; he'd been listening to their conversation. "You shouldn't stop. Next time you won't be a virgin any more. Your luck won't be as good."


He wasn't bad-looking -- ruffled short brown hair, blue eyes with wry smile wrinkles, and a good strong chin. The well-tailored suit helped. Only gorillas were completely unattractive in formal wear. She smiled at him, aided by her FBI mission and the alcohol. "It seems to me that things get easier after you lose your virginity."


He grinned back. "Not at craps, baby."



She licked her lips and considered a reply. Felan's hand clenched on her back and she started, then forced herself to relax as his hand swept up to her nape, over skin made sweaty by the crowd of onlookers. "Keep going -- baby," he ordered, and she felt her lips peel back from her teeth, thinking of the sleek Egyptian cats decorating the walls of the casino.


There was a collective groan when she finally surrendered the dice, but Felan took over and kept going, only faster now as he didn't have to wait for her to roll. Felan was always focused, like a ray of sun through a magnifying glass. Whatever target he found would soon burst into flames. She was surprised the craps table wasn't smoking.


And still he won. The man didn't just make his own luck, he manufactured it. He was the Henry Ford of luck, the Thomas Edison of happenstance, the Bill Gates of coincidence. If only preserving evidence were as easy as craps, she thought. How easy was craps, anyway?


Chip the mafia donlet was in awe, trying to chat Felan up for advice, following his every move. The agent was working him, telling off-color stories about other gambling adventures. Meanwhile the casino swirled around them like a circus of hyperactive chihuahuas on speed.



The whole thing made her head hurt. Or maybe that was just the noise and the light and the free alcohol. Even though she was no longer betting, being with Felan evidently entitled her to keep drinking and the servers took the empty glasses from her hand before she knew they were empty. As she watched and drank, craps seemed to make a little more sense. The better I get the drunker you look, Felan, she thought and then smiled, because he wasn't looking.


Oh, he was fine tonight. Even in a room of flash and dazzle, Felan shone. He was a searchlight amidst candleflames. A thin sheen of sweat glistened at the sides of his face, making his hair spiky, making her mouth water for some tequila and a lime. His eyes took in all the frenetic activity that surrounded him and processed it, shining like ancient amber as he surfed the sea of chance. He would chew his lower lip a little while the others bet, not nervous but impatient, and he shuffled from foot to foot like a sulky model searching for the best pose.


She could have told him, they were all pretty good as far as she was concerned. Work that runway, baby. He'd taken off the jacket several thousand dollars ago, and a miniskirted waitress wearing far too much makeup had taken it somewhere for safekeeping. Felan had barely noticed as he pushed chips to and fro, pausing only to give her a few hundreds' worth.


The tailored pants showcased his ass as he leaned over the table, and with his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, flexing as he rolled the dice and followed through, he was a teenage fanclub fantasy, rock star and poet all in one.



Cabret took a deep breath and considered. She was just fixating on him because she couldn't stand all the noise and crowding. She had a very orderly mind and the disorder of the casino was causing her to focus on the one item of familiarity, to wit Felan, who was therefore taking on more importance than --


If that bitch in the little black dress "accidentally" jostled her breast against his arm one more time, she was going to find out if silicon implants couldn't be removed on the floor of a casino.


This is no good, she thought despairingly. No good whatsoever.


Chip's girlfriend, who couldn't afford to show interest in Felan and, sensibly enough, expressed no real interest in craps, wandered over to the blackjack tables. Cabret thought she'd make herself useful and follow the girlfriend, whose name clearly ended in "I."


"You with him?" the girlfriend asked, not looking up from her cards, when Cabret sidled up next to her. "Hit me."


"Yes," she said. "I'm Audrey." Feeling queasy, she pushed a twenty-dollar chip forward and was dealt two cards. An ace and a ten, a natural twenty-one -- maybe she was still caught in the aura of Felan's luck.


"Hit me," the girlfriend repeated. She seemed to be a true blonde up close. "Damn. I'm Stevie." The dealer took Stevie's money and increased Cabret's. Cabret snatched away the extra chips, leaving only the original twenty.


"You're with Chip? The guy next to F -- to my friend?"


"Yep. He didn't want me to play, though. He has that thing about craps virgins, y'know, and once you've done it once you're useless. Sort of like life that way."


"It seems to me that's just one more rule invented by men."


Stevie won a hand and smiled triumphantly. "Yeah, well, I'm no good with rules."


Cabret decided she just wouldn't pay attention to the betting. What she didn't acknowledge couldn't hurt her. Well, it might kill her, but it couldn't disrupt her settled expectations about life, which was really what mattered. "Have you been with Chip long?"


Stevie shrugged, causing her breasts to jounce impressively enough to sway the attention of the dealer. "Couple of months. I don't think he's looking for anything serious, but he's got the money to party. You and your friend, you like to party?" Suddenly her speculative eyes were quite threatening.


Cabret's mouth opened and closed like automatic doors on overload. "That depends on how much he wins," she managed finally. They were, after all, assigned to get close to this couple.


Stevie nodded with recognition. "Yeah, Chip's like that too. When he's winning, he's like a goddamn jack-in-the-box, when he's losing I get more satisfaction from my lipstick. Looks like he's betting with your friend. I won't be able to sit down for a week."


Cabret swallowed another gulp of her drink. She could brave this out, no problem. Masquerade was a way of life for her.

(Continued)

[Skall]

Sore Luck at the Luxor -- Part 4



The one great thing about ISU was that it rarely got involved with organized crime, and so Felan had never, except for that awful wiretapping experience some years back, had to deal with mobsters on an extended basis. He was surprised they didn't all kill themselves out of horror at living the cliches of their existence. Chip Morelli seemed oblivious, though, and he was happily explaining how he'd run this deal involving trading furs for cars with some foreign country, without paying any of the associated excise taxes. Felan feigned interest as they wandered the casino, looking for their "girls." Felan had carefully steered Chip away from the blackjack tables so as to gain more time to chat with Chip. That was his job, and, despite what most people thought, he wanted to do it right.


Finally, Chip suggested that they have a drink together when the "ladies" were found, and James agreed with relief and turned Chip toward the table where Cabret and Stevie were playing. As a compass knows true north, he knew where his partner was; the magnetism required no conscious thought.


Cabret had held her own with the chips she'd taken from him, neither winning nor losing much. Conservative, predictable Cabret, only tonight she was exposing a radical and unpremediated amount of skin. He was actually glad she didn't seem to be betting heavily; that would complete her transformation into a stranger.


"Hey," he put his hand on her bare, sweat-slick back and she jumped off of her stool as she turned in shock. He stabilized her as she tottered on her spike heels. "Wanna call it a night?" Next to them, Chip and his doxy were kissing hello, as if by playing the part of lovers they could elevate their essentially commercial transaction into something more meaningful.


"Sure," Cabret said, looking at his face for reassurance. He nodded and moved his hand to her hip. Even blinking in the harsh casino light, her eyes were as light as a perfect spring sky. They walked out of the noise and heat of the casino floor, into the hotel area where the air conditioning had not been overwhelmed by the crush of human bodies. The cool silence brushed against his face like cotton wool as they moved towards the elevators.


"Why don't I get some champagne sent up to celebrate our good fortune?" Felan suggested, gesturing toward the concierge.


"Sounds great!" Stevie chirped.



Chip looked Cabret over from head to toe -- it didn't take that long -- and smiled. "That's a pretty dress you're wearing. It sets off your eyes."


Cabret's lips curved upwards as she cast her eyes to the floor. If she'd been any other woman Felan would have thought it simpering. But he deeply hoped that she was faking pleasantness.


James moved to the concierge's stand, leaving Cabret wobbling behind him like one of those little plastic toys. Cabret wobbles but she doesn't fall down. Maybe he'd had a bit too much to drink in the casino; it was hard to remember.


He could hear behind his back that Chip was saying something else to Cabret, whose forced laugh probably sounded perfectly natural to him; as a mobster he must be used to people who had no choice but to laugh at his jokes. "Could you have four bottles of your best champagne sent up to Mr. Morelli's room. And some fruit." He thought about keeping Cabret involved in the charade. "And chocolate. Truffles if you have them, Godiva if you don't. Put it on my tab. And let us sleep in tomorrow, all right?" He pushed a hundred-dollar bill across the counter to show his good will.


When he returned to the three people waiting for him, Chip was examining Cabret's palm as if it held the secrets of the universe. Chip's date was appraising him, suggesting just by the tilt of her hip that she wouldn't be averse to partner-swapping. Felan made the panic face at Audrey, who didn't look up from Chip's stubby fingers against her skin.


He grabbed Cabret's upper arm and it was instantly as if his hand had been sunburnt by the unforgiving Nevada sun.



The elevator wasn't an actual elevator, but a novelty device they called an "inclinator," which no way was he going to try to pronounce in his current state of near-intoxication. It went diagonally up the inside of the pyramid, so that the familiar pull of gravity was distorted by the sideways motion. He closed his eyes and tried very hard to pretend he was on solid land. Seasick was one thing, but Audrey would never forgive him if he puked on her sparkly blue dress because of an elevator with verticality issues. When the thing stopped moving, he stayed inside and held the door open long enough for the world to stop jittering around him like an overcaffeinated butterfly.


Chip babbled interestingly for a while, but then he simply curled up at the corner of the overstuffed couch and watched, increasingly glassy-eyed, as Stevie discussed with Cabret the best variety shows in town. Stevie was partial to the pirate extravaganza, while Cabret held out for Sigfried and Roy. James dearly hoped that this was her idea of playing an undercover role.


No one paid much attention to Felan as he wandered around, placing the bugs in inconspicuous locations. Three glasses of champagne and six listening devices later, the job was finally complete. When he was finished, he sat down on the couch, where he observed with a trained investigator's eye that Cabret had saved the world from the terrible burden of six chocolate truffles. He reached for one of the survivors, but backed off under his partner's laser glare.


Chip took the opportunity to let out a mighty snore. Stevie rolled her eyes. "Look, he's no use. You guys wanna ... go somewhere? Like your room?" She deposited her hand on Felan's thigh as if it were a gift from Santa Claus.


Felan carefully lifted her hand and moved it to a safer place. "Sorry, Stevie. I think we're too tired for that. We're just going to turn in. Maybe we'll see you tomorrow?"


Stevie sighed. "Yah, sure. Guess it's a good thing this place has a decent sofa."


He puzzled over that one a bit, until he realized Chip probably wasn't the best to be around when dead drunk.


(Continued)

[Albie]

Hmm...There is a lot here.  I will have to go through this when I have more time on the weekend.

[Skall]

It's longer than it looks, though I did cut out the more adult situations. I just checked--the version I'm posting here is only 11.8k words.