Michele Bravo and the Mystery of Mr. Largo, Ch 3

Chapter Three: Mr. Largo

I.

Michele Bravo stood in front of the hallway mirror, and made a couple of dives under her sweatshirt to pull out the derringer. She’d always had reflexes like a cat, and the bulky sweatshirt impeded her not at all.

Not that she felt that she had anything to fear from Mr. Largo. She had worked with him before, albeit long ago, when she’d first started out in the business. But she was a professional, and covering all the bases was what a professional did.

She picked up the book on the Entartete Kunst and went out into the hallway. Her instructions were to go to Room 621 at precisely 8 pm.

The 6th floor hallway was empty when she arrived. As was her habit, she took the stairs rather than the elevator. She glanced at her watch…being on time was a mania with her. At precisely 8 pm, she knocked on the door. The “shave and a haircut, two bits” knock.

The door was opened promptly. To Michele’s surprise, she found herself staring at the man from the roulette table. He stared at her in surprise as well.

“Taran….?” He asked.

“Mr. Largo?” she asked in return.

“Yes,” he said, stepping back. “Come in.”

Michele paused, alarm bells sounding mentally, but then shrugged mentally as well and walked in.

The man calling himself Mr. Largo was about her age, she guessed, in his late 20s. He wore a black turtleneck sweater…she liked guys in black turtleneck sweaters, but he was too slender for her choice. She preferred a little more musculature…

This Mr. Largo had a suite, with a large table and two chairs nestled by a big plate glass window – dark blue curtains closed against it.

“Sit down,” said Mr. Largo, gesturing toward one of the chairs. He drew out the other one by a couple of feet and sat down himself. There was a look of disappointment on his face.

“You look disappointed,” Michele said. She would have preferred to have given him a German accent, but she had already spoken to him down in the casino, with her normal voice. Damn. She wouldn’t make that mistake in future. Play a role from beginning to end, not just in spurts throughout the day.

The man wiped all expression from his face. “Do I? Sorry. I…” he paused, leaned forward, and picked up the book that Michele had placed on the table. “I thought you were supposed to be an expert on the Entarte Kunst,” he said.

“I am.”

“Then why do you need this book?”

An imposter, and not too smart, with it.

“Turn the book over,” she said. “The author of that book is Richard Edmonds. Our mark?”

He turned the book over, looked at the photograph on the other side. “Of course he is,” he said. “I was just testing you.” He didn’t smile but his lips twitched as if he wanted to.

(What is the Entartete Kunst? In 1933, when Adolph Hitler came to power in Germany, the failed artist decided to collect and destroy all examples of modern art, which he called “degenerate art”, from such artists as Picasso, Dalí, Ernst, Klee, Léger and Miró. (Much of this confiscated art went into the private art collections of many of the top Nazis.) On the night of July 27, 1942, many works by Picasso, Dali, Ernst and the rest were said to have been burnt in a gigantic bonfire. According to Richard Edmonds, several works had not been, and were still in existence today.)

“So,” said Mr. Largo. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Naturlich,” said Michele. “Das ist, warum ich hier bin.”

“Selbstverständlich,” replied Mr. Largo.

“Now that we’ve both proven we can speak German,” said Michele, “Wo ist mein Geld?”

Mr. Largo rose, went to the other side of the bed, picked up a briefcase, and returned. He handed the briefcase over to her. She opened it, and gazed at several bundles of $100 bills nestled within.

“Fifty thousand dollars in advance,” said Mr. Largo, “the remainder upon completion of the job. As per our agreement.”

Michele nodded and snapped the case closed. “Very good.”

“So,” said Mr. Largo, “Now that that’s out of the way, how about a drink? The minibar is fully stocked.”

“No thanks,” replied Michele.

She looked at the false Mr. Largo. If he knew her reputation, what was he expecting now?

He was just sitting there, staring at her.

“Very good, Mr. Largo,” Michele said briskly, rising to her feet. “The job will be completed in 48 hours. I will be back in touch with you then.”

“Yes…uh…very good,” said Mr. Largo as well, rising to his feet also. He followed her to the door. “Good night,” he said, “and thanks for that lesson in video roulette from earlier today.”

She nodded, sharply, as if he had offended her, and walked into the hallway. He closed the door behind her, and then stood there, as he slowly brought his head forward to rest against the door.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

II.

The false Mr. Largo walked over to the mini-bar and pulled out a mini-whiskey. He opened it up and drained it in a gulp.

So, that was the famous Taran Tula, was it? He’d been disappointed at first sight of her, he had to admit. Well, first sight of her in the doorway. Actual first sight had been downstairs at the roulette table, where he’d been rather taken with her, for all that she was a bit chunky. The way she’d played that roulette, so calm, cool and collected, and then walked away a winner…

But when she’d appeared in the doorway. Her! The famous..well, perhaps notorious would be a better word… Taran Tula? He’d fantasized about something straight out of James Bond, someone tall and svelte, with a beautiful Russian accent. This girl…well, woman, really, had been tall enough..at least five foot ten, but she sure hadn’t been svelte. And really, to come to a meeting of this kind in a blue sweatshirt and black sweatpants? She’d’ve been kicked off the set of James Bond.

The false Mr. Largo reached down and adjusted himself. Things were getting a bit tight down there.

He’d been attracted to her… attracted to her personality… so calm and in control.

And he’d handled it badly, anyway you looked at it. He’d been supposed to get her fingerprints on something, but she’d refused a drink…and after that he’d had a brain freeze. He’d just been…disconcerted…for some reason… Taran Tula…the deadly and dangerous Taran Tula sitting opposite him, and he hadn’t been able to think of a damn clever thing to say.

His first job, and he’d muffed it.

Largo unzipped and shrugged out of his pants, and went to relax on the bed. He turned on the TV , and as he began flicking through the channels, he rubbed his hardening penis gently with his hand.

They…..his superiors in the agency….had captured the real Mr. Largo, and they’d needed a ringer for him, promptly. Someone who could speak German and Spanish like a native and knew about European art, and in particular the artists of the Entartete Kunst. And that had been him.

So he’d been taken from his desk job and thrust out into the field, and he’d muffed his first assignment.

Well…not muffed yet. Taran Tula still had her job to do, and then he’d meet with her again.

Or perhaps..perhaps…it was still early…would she be returning to the roulette tables.

Largo sucked in a breath of air and spread his legs wider as his pleasure grew. He rubbed his cock with a firm grip up and down, up and down, imagining that it was Taran Tula’s lips fastened around it, sucking hard as if on the most delicious of ice-cream cones…and then the pleasure hit and his cum fountained up over his hand and onto his thighs…