After he’d finished talking Mason to her, they walked into the bathroom. While Michele turned on the water of the shower and adjusted the knobs to get just the right water temperature, Fitz stood close behind her, gently rolling up her T-shirt. “I wish you’d wear button up shirts,” he told her. “It’s so much nicer to unbutton your shirt one button at a time then to …” she lifted her arms and he skinned the T-shirt over her head…”have to do that all the time.”
“I like T-shirts,” she murmured, licking her lips as his hands clasped her breasts over her bra, then moved to her back and unhooked it. He tossed it aside and then moved his hands in front again, cupping her breasts, squeezing ever so gently, as he nibbled the back of her neck.
He released her left breast and ran his hand down to her shorts, slipping his hand beneath the waistband and the cool smoothness of her waist, extending his fingers far enough so that he could brush the very top of her pubic hair with his fingers.
She shuddered in anticipatory pleasure.
He raised his hand back up and undid the button on her shorts, then brought both hands down and slid her shorts off her hips, down to her feet. She placed a hand on his shoulder and stepped out of them. He stood up again, rested his left hand on her belly, fingers spread and rubbing through her pubic hair, the other cupping her right breast, as he continued to nibble her neck.
Then moving slowly – he knew she liked it slow – he turned her around, and she began to unbutton his shirt. As he shrugged out of it her hands went down to unzip his jeans, and then he stepped out of them. His cock bounced up and she wrapped one hand around its firmness. She reached up her other hand and he handed her a condom, which she unrolled over his rock hard penis. Then she smiled at him, and stepped into the tub. He joined her, and they stood pressed together underneath the pelting spray.
Michele stood facing away from Fitz, feeling his condom-wrapped cock pressing against her buttocks, his pectorals pressing against her back, as he took up a bar of soap and began lathering her neck and shoulders, then moving it around and massaging/lathering her breasts, her belly, between her legs. He put the soap away and wiped her down with his hands, as the shower continued to pelt on their shoulders, then he pressed her forward slightly and she braced her hands against the wall and tilted her butt up.
He entered her firmly, deeply, his hands on her hips. He took it slow, thrusting each time as deep as he could go but very slowly, and as slowly pulling out. He was aiming for her G-spot…he knew she’d let him know when he found it.
Thrusting, in and out, in and out. Michele stood with her eyes closed, breathing deeply, eyes closed, imagining a young James Mason pleasuring her. Fitz’s breath became heavier and slower too, as he gazed down at his cock, framed by her beautiful firm buttocks, sliding in and out. Her moans of pleasures aroused him even more, as she pressed her buttocks back against him, wanting him to go deeper still.
“Ah, God,” she moaned…
He began to thrust faster and faster, his gaze locked on the beautiful sight beneath him, cock sliding in and out between two perfect spheres,
“Almost there,” murmured Michele.
He pressed his fingers into the flesh of her hips, held her even closer to him, ramming into her and grunting hoarsely as he came.
Finally, gasping, he released his hold on her waist and reached out for her breasts, straightening her a bit so he could massage them while he continued to thrust himself languidly into her. She reached back with her hands and wrapped her fingers in his hair…
Fitz withdrew himself, turned and let the shower wash off the condom and his cock as he unpeeled it. Michele turned as well and rubbed his back, nibbling on his shoulder blades.
Fitz turned the shower off, stepped out of the tub and helped her out also. He took two towels one for her and one for him, and they began to rub each other dry, each passing a towel around the back of the other and pulling from side to side as they kissed.
“Whew,” said Fitz, finally. “That was great.”
“Really great,” agreed Michele. “You haven’t lost your touch.”
Toweled dry, they walked hand in hand back into the bedroom, and crawled into the bed. Michele lay her head against Fitz’s chest, and he put an arm around his shoulders, and they drifted off to sleep.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King, Ch 5
I.
The next day, Michele returned to her hotel room after her driving tour of Gettysburg. She tossed backpack and camera onto the bed and went into the bathroom for a long, cold shower. She’d been spent the day driving hither and yon on the Gettysburg driving trail of the various locations around the battlefield, and although her car had excellent air conditioning she’d gotten out on several occasions to walk around the various sites she’d visited, and overall she was feeling hot and grubby.
Refreshed after her shower, she sat on her bed and fired up her laptop. Then she checked her email. She’d received a response from her friend in Fredericksburg. She opened it, and found that he was delighted to hear from her, and would be even more delighted if she made his home her base during her week’s stay in northern Maryland. And he’d be delighted to act as her guide to the caverns of northern Virginia.
It had been a couple of years since she’d visited Fitz (Alex Fitzhugh), and since she’d be coming to his apartment from a different angle she looked up driving directions on Mapquest, and printed those out on her portable printer.
She arrived in Fredericksburg the next day in the late afternoon, and since he’d specified he wouldn’t be home until after six pm, she spent a couple of hours at a Barnes & Noble, browsing among the books. At six, she headed for Fitz’s apartment.
“How was your drive?” he asked, taking her suitcase from her and carrying it into the bedroom.
“Great. But I’m longing for a hot bath.”
“You and your baths,” Fitz laughed. “You should have been a mermaid, you like water so much.”
“I’ve often thought so.”
“May I join you?”
Michele tapped his hard chest with a smile. “My first bath after a drive is always all about me. But I’ll be having another bath later on tonight, as you well know. And if you’d care to join me then…”
“I’d love to.”
“Well, then. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, and we can catch up on old times.”
II.
They ordered in Chinese food, and spent the evening talking about old times.
Then, because he knew she liked it, Fitz said in his best James Mason impersonation, “What’s your pleasure, my dear? North By Northwest or Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?”
“Tough choice,” Michele mused. “Cary Grant and James Mason, or Kirk Douglas and James Mason…I’m in the mood for Twenty Thousand Leagues…”
“I love this movie,” Michele mused, as Kirk Douglas and Peter Lorre attempted to escape onto an island which, unbeknownst to them, was inhabited by cannibals, “But it also broke my heart.”
“What do mean?”
“Well, I saw it when I was very young, thirteen or so. Must have been one of the first full length, live action films I’d ever seen…graduating from the Disney animation classics, you know? And it ignited a love of oceans and underwater exploring….” She broke off to yell, “Run, you poor fools, run!”
After Douglas and Lorre were once more safely aboard the Nautilus, Michele continued. “And I also got my first crush, ever. My first crush on an actor and my first crush on a guy, ever. James Mason.”
Fitz nodded. “I can see it,” he said judiciously.
“I love his accent and his face and everything,” returned Michele with a grin. “But, remember, I was thirteen, and I had no idea that movies I saw on DVD were, you know, fifty years old. So I asked my mom if we could rent another movie starring James Mason, and the very next day she came back with one called 11 Harrowhouse.”
“I don’t recognize it.”
“Oh, it was about a lowly clerk in a diamond merchant company who decides to steal a million dollars worth of diamonds from his employer. Starred Candace Bergen and Charles Grodin. James Mason had a supporting role. And this movie was filmed – as I found out later, of course – in 1974. 20 years after he’d filmed 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
“Ah, oh.”
“Exactly. From one day to the next the man I’d intended to marry when I grew up had aged 20 years!”
She joined in with Fitz’s laughter, but she was telling the truth. At age 13, she’d had her eye on Captain Nemo, alright!
“Worse than that,” she continued, “he’d been 45 when he played Nemo and he was 65 in this movie. I was just…stunned, shattered! But that’s not the worst of it. I asked my mom how in the world this could happen, you know, that someone could be 45 one day and 65 the next, and that’s when she explained that movies lasted forever. And the final irony…Mom had one of those film encyclopedia books, and she looked him up…Mason had actually been dead since 1984. He died two years before I was born!”
“Bummer,” said Fitz.
“You got that right,” sighed Michele, dipping a fried cream-cheese filled wonton into sweet and sour sauce and then popping it into her mouth. “Of course after that I’d learned my lesson. Oh, I got crushes on actors… Cary Grant, Peter Lorre…”
“Peter Lorre?”
“Hey – when he was young he was in pretty good shape! You saw him as Joel Cairo in Maltese Falcon, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“And in his Mr. Moto movies, he could do ju jitsu like nobody’s business. Though I confess that once he gained sooo much weight I sort of lost interest…”
“I should hope so.”
“Don’t be mean. After all, he had some kind of medical problem that played havoc with his weight. But, anyway, I watched a lot of movies and TV after that, and had crushes on a lot of actors, but I’d learned to separate actors from their roles by that time. But James Mason will always remain my first love. And anyone who can do a James Mason impersonation….”
Fitz grinned. He leaned toward her, “You may call me…Captain Nemo,” he said, in an exact replica of Mason’s voice.
“Oh, baby,” Michele murmured, running her hand down one of his pecs. “Talk Mason to me.”
The next day, Michele returned to her hotel room after her driving tour of Gettysburg. She tossed backpack and camera onto the bed and went into the bathroom for a long, cold shower. She’d been spent the day driving hither and yon on the Gettysburg driving trail of the various locations around the battlefield, and although her car had excellent air conditioning she’d gotten out on several occasions to walk around the various sites she’d visited, and overall she was feeling hot and grubby.
Refreshed after her shower, she sat on her bed and fired up her laptop. Then she checked her email. She’d received a response from her friend in Fredericksburg. She opened it, and found that he was delighted to hear from her, and would be even more delighted if she made his home her base during her week’s stay in northern Maryland. And he’d be delighted to act as her guide to the caverns of northern Virginia.
It had been a couple of years since she’d visited Fitz (Alex Fitzhugh), and since she’d be coming to his apartment from a different angle she looked up driving directions on Mapquest, and printed those out on her portable printer.
She arrived in Fredericksburg the next day in the late afternoon, and since he’d specified he wouldn’t be home until after six pm, she spent a couple of hours at a Barnes & Noble, browsing among the books. At six, she headed for Fitz’s apartment.
“How was your drive?” he asked, taking her suitcase from her and carrying it into the bedroom.
“Great. But I’m longing for a hot bath.”
“You and your baths,” Fitz laughed. “You should have been a mermaid, you like water so much.”
“I’ve often thought so.”
“May I join you?”
Michele tapped his hard chest with a smile. “My first bath after a drive is always all about me. But I’ll be having another bath later on tonight, as you well know. And if you’d care to join me then…”
“I’d love to.”
“Well, then. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, and we can catch up on old times.”
II.
They ordered in Chinese food, and spent the evening talking about old times.
Then, because he knew she liked it, Fitz said in his best James Mason impersonation, “What’s your pleasure, my dear? North By Northwest or Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?”
“Tough choice,” Michele mused. “Cary Grant and James Mason, or Kirk Douglas and James Mason…I’m in the mood for Twenty Thousand Leagues…”
“I love this movie,” Michele mused, as Kirk Douglas and Peter Lorre attempted to escape onto an island which, unbeknownst to them, was inhabited by cannibals, “But it also broke my heart.”
“What do mean?”
“Well, I saw it when I was very young, thirteen or so. Must have been one of the first full length, live action films I’d ever seen…graduating from the Disney animation classics, you know? And it ignited a love of oceans and underwater exploring….” She broke off to yell, “Run, you poor fools, run!”
After Douglas and Lorre were once more safely aboard the Nautilus, Michele continued. “And I also got my first crush, ever. My first crush on an actor and my first crush on a guy, ever. James Mason.”
Fitz nodded. “I can see it,” he said judiciously.
“I love his accent and his face and everything,” returned Michele with a grin. “But, remember, I was thirteen, and I had no idea that movies I saw on DVD were, you know, fifty years old. So I asked my mom if we could rent another movie starring James Mason, and the very next day she came back with one called 11 Harrowhouse.”
“I don’t recognize it.”
“Oh, it was about a lowly clerk in a diamond merchant company who decides to steal a million dollars worth of diamonds from his employer. Starred Candace Bergen and Charles Grodin. James Mason had a supporting role. And this movie was filmed – as I found out later, of course – in 1974. 20 years after he’d filmed 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
“Ah, oh.”
“Exactly. From one day to the next the man I’d intended to marry when I grew up had aged 20 years!”
She joined in with Fitz’s laughter, but she was telling the truth. At age 13, she’d had her eye on Captain Nemo, alright!
“Worse than that,” she continued, “he’d been 45 when he played Nemo and he was 65 in this movie. I was just…stunned, shattered! But that’s not the worst of it. I asked my mom how in the world this could happen, you know, that someone could be 45 one day and 65 the next, and that’s when she explained that movies lasted forever. And the final irony…Mom had one of those film encyclopedia books, and she looked him up…Mason had actually been dead since 1984. He died two years before I was born!”
“Bummer,” said Fitz.
“You got that right,” sighed Michele, dipping a fried cream-cheese filled wonton into sweet and sour sauce and then popping it into her mouth. “Of course after that I’d learned my lesson. Oh, I got crushes on actors… Cary Grant, Peter Lorre…”
“Peter Lorre?”
“Hey – when he was young he was in pretty good shape! You saw him as Joel Cairo in Maltese Falcon, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“And in his Mr. Moto movies, he could do ju jitsu like nobody’s business. Though I confess that once he gained sooo much weight I sort of lost interest…”
“I should hope so.”
“Don’t be mean. After all, he had some kind of medical problem that played havoc with his weight. But, anyway, I watched a lot of movies and TV after that, and had crushes on a lot of actors, but I’d learned to separate actors from their roles by that time. But James Mason will always remain my first love. And anyone who can do a James Mason impersonation….”
Fitz grinned. He leaned toward her, “You may call me…Captain Nemo,” he said, in an exact replica of Mason’s voice.
“Oh, baby,” Michele murmured, running her hand down one of his pecs. “Talk Mason to me.”
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Mario Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King Ch 4
It was 90 degrees in Gettysburg when Michele set out for the battlefield. She’d checked the weather on her laptop and so wore white cargo shorts that reached to mid-thigh, and a white Fifinella baseball cap and T-shirt, which she’d picked up a couple of years ago when she’d visited the WASP museum in Sweetwater Texas.
The motel offered free shuttle buses to the battlefield, and Michele decided she would take that route, rather than choose the independence of her car, since the main focus of her articles was supposed to be for the traveler on a budget.
The shuttle bus was two-thirds full when it arrived at the Gettysburg Museum and Visitor Center. Entrance to the battlefield grounds was free, but to go through the museum cost money, and she paid the fee that and then spent several hours wandering through all the exhibits.
She picked up a free Park Map and Guide, but also purchased a copy of David Petruzzi’s Complete Battlefield Guide, and a couple of CDs. One featuring Civil War songs from both sides, the other, dramatized readings for all the speeches made regarding the war.
She also fed several pennies and a couple of dollars into a stretched penny machine to add to her stretched penny collection, a ball cap and a battlefield T-shirt, for her ball cap and T-shirt collections. She stowed her acquisitions into the miniature backpack she’d brought with her, and slung that over her shoulders as she walked.
She’d intended to spend only one day at the battlefield but now realized that was not going to be enough time. To fully grasp the impact of this pivotal battle of the Civil War, she’d have to stay here for at least a couple of days, probably three or four, in order to see everything, absorb everything.
Michele checked battery status and memory free on her Canon Digital Rebel SLR camera, and found them good. She’d taken a lot of photos inside the museum. Now she circled the exterior of the museum, taking shots from various angles. Finally, she set off briskly on the long walk to the Soldier’s National Cemetery. She wanted to see that first of all, before she continued to explore the grounds.
As she walked, she paid a bit of attention to her fellow tourists – lots of family groups. Very young children looking interested, teenagers looking bored. Young men. Old men. More men than women, but she noticed several single women also walking about.
Michele brought out her digital recorder and began to record her thoughts. She’d already made several comments while walking through the Museum, noting down names and events that she’d want to research further. Now she mused about the appearance of the park and the ease of getting from one spot to another, how informative the signs were, and so on.
Just as the museum had put her into a somber mood, so did the National Cemetery. She walked along the white tablets, reading the inscriptions. Sometimes a man’s name, other times just unknown, occasionally a number of unknown soldiers had been laid to rest in the same plot.
Michele checked her watch, and decided it was time to catch the next shuttle bus to return to her motel. She retraced her steps back toward the Museum and Visitor Center.
As she sat on a bench waiting for the shuttle bus, a man in his mid forties sat next to her.
“Your first time at Gettysburg?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes. There’s so much to take in…I…”
But at that exact instant, her bus rolled up. “Well, here’s my bus,” said Michele. “Nice talking to you.”
He looked so disappointed, but he only waved. “Nice talking to you.”
Michele grinned wryly as she took a comfy seat right at the front. If he’d been cute, she probably would have stayed there and talked to him…but he’d been too skinny…
There was an Arby’s next to her motel. Michele purchased a couple of roast beef sandwiches and some French fries, and dined in her room, drinking milk that she’d previously purchased and kept in the room’s mini-fridge. She spent her time downloading photos, shrinking them to size and titling them appropriately. She knew well from past experience that if she fell behind on this project by even a day…she’d never get caught up. So she always made it a practice to get that kind of work out of the way each night.
Work done for the evening, Michele took a long, hot bath, then relaxed in bed, reading through the guide book she’d acquired earlier in the day. She decided she would do the driving tour, using her own car.
Then, depending on her mood, she’d either visit the battlefield sites for another day, or head down into Virginia to begin her quest for the caverns.
Before going to bed, Michele checked her email. Nothing of any interest...mostly spam.
However...Michele pursed her lips. If she was going to Virginia...why not look up an old friend? It had been over a year since she'd seen a friend she'd first in Germany while they'd both been attending high school in Germany, and remained friends - if of the long-distance variety - ever since. If she remembered right, he lived near Fredericksburg. Perhaps he'd have some time to drive over to Luray and go through the caverns with her.
Well, she'd send him an email invitation, and see what he'd have to say.
After sending the invite, Michele switched off her computer, rolled over, and fell asleep.
The Gettysburg Address
The motel offered free shuttle buses to the battlefield, and Michele decided she would take that route, rather than choose the independence of her car, since the main focus of her articles was supposed to be for the traveler on a budget.
The shuttle bus was two-thirds full when it arrived at the Gettysburg Museum and Visitor Center. Entrance to the battlefield grounds was free, but to go through the museum cost money, and she paid the fee that and then spent several hours wandering through all the exhibits.
She picked up a free Park Map and Guide, but also purchased a copy of David Petruzzi’s Complete Battlefield Guide, and a couple of CDs. One featuring Civil War songs from both sides, the other, dramatized readings for all the speeches made regarding the war.
She also fed several pennies and a couple of dollars into a stretched penny machine to add to her stretched penny collection, a ball cap and a battlefield T-shirt, for her ball cap and T-shirt collections. She stowed her acquisitions into the miniature backpack she’d brought with her, and slung that over her shoulders as she walked.
She’d intended to spend only one day at the battlefield but now realized that was not going to be enough time. To fully grasp the impact of this pivotal battle of the Civil War, she’d have to stay here for at least a couple of days, probably three or four, in order to see everything, absorb everything.
Michele checked battery status and memory free on her Canon Digital Rebel SLR camera, and found them good. She’d taken a lot of photos inside the museum. Now she circled the exterior of the museum, taking shots from various angles. Finally, she set off briskly on the long walk to the Soldier’s National Cemetery. She wanted to see that first of all, before she continued to explore the grounds.
As she walked, she paid a bit of attention to her fellow tourists – lots of family groups. Very young children looking interested, teenagers looking bored. Young men. Old men. More men than women, but she noticed several single women also walking about.
Michele brought out her digital recorder and began to record her thoughts. She’d already made several comments while walking through the Museum, noting down names and events that she’d want to research further. Now she mused about the appearance of the park and the ease of getting from one spot to another, how informative the signs were, and so on.
Just as the museum had put her into a somber mood, so did the National Cemetery. She walked along the white tablets, reading the inscriptions. Sometimes a man’s name, other times just unknown, occasionally a number of unknown soldiers had been laid to rest in the same plot.
Michele checked her watch, and decided it was time to catch the next shuttle bus to return to her motel. She retraced her steps back toward the Museum and Visitor Center.
As she sat on a bench waiting for the shuttle bus, a man in his mid forties sat next to her.
“Your first time at Gettysburg?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes. There’s so much to take in…I…”
But at that exact instant, her bus rolled up. “Well, here’s my bus,” said Michele. “Nice talking to you.”
He looked so disappointed, but he only waved. “Nice talking to you.”
Michele grinned wryly as she took a comfy seat right at the front. If he’d been cute, she probably would have stayed there and talked to him…but he’d been too skinny…
There was an Arby’s next to her motel. Michele purchased a couple of roast beef sandwiches and some French fries, and dined in her room, drinking milk that she’d previously purchased and kept in the room’s mini-fridge. She spent her time downloading photos, shrinking them to size and titling them appropriately. She knew well from past experience that if she fell behind on this project by even a day…she’d never get caught up. So she always made it a practice to get that kind of work out of the way each night.
Work done for the evening, Michele took a long, hot bath, then relaxed in bed, reading through the guide book she’d acquired earlier in the day. She decided she would do the driving tour, using her own car.
Then, depending on her mood, she’d either visit the battlefield sites for another day, or head down into Virginia to begin her quest for the caverns.
Before going to bed, Michele checked her email. Nothing of any interest...mostly spam.
However...Michele pursed her lips. If she was going to Virginia...why not look up an old friend? It had been over a year since she'd seen a friend she'd first in Germany while they'd both been attending high school in Germany, and remained friends - if of the long-distance variety - ever since. If she remembered right, he lived near Fredericksburg. Perhaps he'd have some time to drive over to Luray and go through the caverns with her.
Well, she'd send him an email invitation, and see what he'd have to say.
After sending the invite, Michele switched off her computer, rolled over, and fell asleep.
The Gettysburg Address
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King, Ch 3
Gus Keller sat at his desk in the Special Crimes Investigation Bureau office building. Keller was the real name of the man who had attempted to pass himself off as Mr. Largo to Taran Tula. He had been a desk agent at the Washington office of the Special Crimes Investigation Bureau for two years, recruited right out of college because of his knowledge of European language, and had gradually become knowledgeable in the art theft field, from the missing art from World War II, to the Entartete Kunst, to the paintings and sculptures stolen on practically a monthly basis for the last several decades.
When the real Mr. Largo had been captured, with a sheet of paper which had told the SCIB of his plans to meet with the infamous art thief-cum-assassin Taran Tula, he had been the only one with the appropriate knowledge of German and art, and he had been yanked from his desk and sent out into the field…where he had failed.
Oh, his superiors hadn’t said that, but he knew that’s what they thought.
In front of him on his desk lay the fingerprint cards for five women.
There is something called the CSI effect. Because most people believe that the TV shows such as CSI, CSI Miami and CSI New York represent actual police procedure, they think DNA can be identified within minutes, and that a single partial fingerprint can be used to definitely identify a suspect.
Such is not the case.
In any study of fingerprints, there are “points of similarity” that are considered. Anything over six points of similarity are considered a match.
That’s what Keller had, the fingerprint cards of five women who had fingerprints with three points of similarity to the partial print that he had lifted off the spoon that Taran Tula had held while eating her ice cream, a month ago.
He intended to visit them, one by one, and see if he could recognize any of them as Taran Tula.
Their names were as follows, listed alphabetically:
1. Michele Bravo – fingerprinted as a child as a military family member
2. Amanda Cooper – arrested for shoplifting
3. Rita Ellison – an employee of a defunct civilian military contractor. She’d been fingerprinted when she’d applied for a top secret clearance
4. Sophia Sanchez – a sergeant in the US Army
5. Debbie Morgan – an employee of a current civilian contractor to the military
Keller gazed at the five names….where to start….hell, why not alphabetically? He’d start with Michele Bravo.
When the real Mr. Largo had been captured, with a sheet of paper which had told the SCIB of his plans to meet with the infamous art thief-cum-assassin Taran Tula, he had been the only one with the appropriate knowledge of German and art, and he had been yanked from his desk and sent out into the field…where he had failed.
Oh, his superiors hadn’t said that, but he knew that’s what they thought.
In front of him on his desk lay the fingerprint cards for five women.
There is something called the CSI effect. Because most people believe that the TV shows such as CSI, CSI Miami and CSI New York represent actual police procedure, they think DNA can be identified within minutes, and that a single partial fingerprint can be used to definitely identify a suspect.
Such is not the case.
In any study of fingerprints, there are “points of similarity” that are considered. Anything over six points of similarity are considered a match.
That’s what Keller had, the fingerprint cards of five women who had fingerprints with three points of similarity to the partial print that he had lifted off the spoon that Taran Tula had held while eating her ice cream, a month ago.
He intended to visit them, one by one, and see if he could recognize any of them as Taran Tula.
Their names were as follows, listed alphabetically:
1. Michele Bravo – fingerprinted as a child as a military family member
2. Amanda Cooper – arrested for shoplifting
3. Rita Ellison – an employee of a defunct civilian military contractor. She’d been fingerprinted when she’d applied for a top secret clearance
4. Sophia Sanchez – a sergeant in the US Army
5. Debbie Morgan – an employee of a current civilian contractor to the military
Keller gazed at the five names….where to start….hell, why not alphabetically? He’d start with Michele Bravo.
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King Ch 2
They walked hand-in-hand along the beach. Michele glanced at the man at her side. He was tall, with silver hair and handsome features, and wore a white turtle neck sweater under a blue blazer. Banacek. He glanced at her and smiled his suave smile, and she smiled back.
The moon was full, and its light cast a silver gleam over the rocky beach, and the waves rolling in, pounding on the rocks on shore. Far ahead of them was a lighthouse on a rocky promontory, and every thirty seconds or so its silvery white beam would swing around and illuminate the entire landscape as bright as day.
They continued walking silently and holding hands, enjoying the roar of the ocean, the glorious power of the waves as they crashed against the rocks, the tang of the cool sea air. Far in the distance, Michele could see a galleon, with all sails set, silhouetted against the night sky, dipping into wave troughs and then rising up again.
Then they were at the foot of the cliff, atop which was the lighthouse. They began to climb an iron staircase that was set into the rock, and as they climbed the waves were coming closer and closer, spattering into foam at their feet as they rose higher and higher.
It was a long climb, but their breathing was easy as they went up step after step, side by side, until finally they reached the top of the cliff and stood looking out from that vantage point over the ocean.
Then they turned to look at the light house, which rose up over a hundred stories into the air, with that light as its centerpiece. It was painted white, with a black stripe running like a candy stripe in a circle up to its top.
They entered the lighthouse and in its center was another iron staircase, circular this time. And they began to climb that one as well, going round and round, round and round. At every second landing they stopped, leaning against each other, and gazed out a porthole into the night sky.
At last they reached the light room. Hand in hand, they went out onto the walkway, a six-foot wide parapet that surrounded the light room and allowed the lightkeeper to clean the windows from the outside. They stood there, watching the galleons sailing across the ocean, the occasional twelve-foot wing-spanned albatross soaring in air, and then they turned and looked into each other’s eyes.
They took off their clothes, and lay down on the cool stone parapet and began to make love….
Michele felt the sudden heat flooding into her loins as she woke up. She clenched the muscles in her thighs and felt the exquisite pleasure of an orgasm running through her…again…and again..and again…before it faded out, all too quickly.
Michele sighed as she lay there. Always too quick!
She had had such experiences before. When she hadn’t moved from a single spot for several hours – always when she was asleep, she would begin to have some kind of erotic dream, which would culminate with her waking up to an orgasm which she could bring to a peak of pleasure by tightening her thigh muscles. She had never been sure if the erotic dream brought on the orgasm, or the start of the physical orgasm was enough to influence her dreams…but they were always pleasurable while they were happening.
But making love to Banacek? She had the DVDs of the TV series, which she had discovered some years ago, even though it had been on TV in 1972, when she’d been just a baby. But Banacek, as played by George Peppard, had been so…so cool. So suave and sophisticated. So…uber-competent.
She hadn’t watched a Banacek episode in months, though, so, as she drifted back into a dreamless sleep, she wondered what had brought him to her mind now…
The moon was full, and its light cast a silver gleam over the rocky beach, and the waves rolling in, pounding on the rocks on shore. Far ahead of them was a lighthouse on a rocky promontory, and every thirty seconds or so its silvery white beam would swing around and illuminate the entire landscape as bright as day.
They continued walking silently and holding hands, enjoying the roar of the ocean, the glorious power of the waves as they crashed against the rocks, the tang of the cool sea air. Far in the distance, Michele could see a galleon, with all sails set, silhouetted against the night sky, dipping into wave troughs and then rising up again.
Then they were at the foot of the cliff, atop which was the lighthouse. They began to climb an iron staircase that was set into the rock, and as they climbed the waves were coming closer and closer, spattering into foam at their feet as they rose higher and higher.
It was a long climb, but their breathing was easy as they went up step after step, side by side, until finally they reached the top of the cliff and stood looking out from that vantage point over the ocean.
Then they turned to look at the light house, which rose up over a hundred stories into the air, with that light as its centerpiece. It was painted white, with a black stripe running like a candy stripe in a circle up to its top.
They entered the lighthouse and in its center was another iron staircase, circular this time. And they began to climb that one as well, going round and round, round and round. At every second landing they stopped, leaning against each other, and gazed out a porthole into the night sky.
At last they reached the light room. Hand in hand, they went out onto the walkway, a six-foot wide parapet that surrounded the light room and allowed the lightkeeper to clean the windows from the outside. They stood there, watching the galleons sailing across the ocean, the occasional twelve-foot wing-spanned albatross soaring in air, and then they turned and looked into each other’s eyes.
They took off their clothes, and lay down on the cool stone parapet and began to make love….
Michele felt the sudden heat flooding into her loins as she woke up. She clenched the muscles in her thighs and felt the exquisite pleasure of an orgasm running through her…again…and again..and again…before it faded out, all too quickly.
Michele sighed as she lay there. Always too quick!
She had had such experiences before. When she hadn’t moved from a single spot for several hours – always when she was asleep, she would begin to have some kind of erotic dream, which would culminate with her waking up to an orgasm which she could bring to a peak of pleasure by tightening her thigh muscles. She had never been sure if the erotic dream brought on the orgasm, or the start of the physical orgasm was enough to influence her dreams…but they were always pleasurable while they were happening.
But making love to Banacek? She had the DVDs of the TV series, which she had discovered some years ago, even though it had been on TV in 1972, when she’d been just a baby. But Banacek, as played by George Peppard, had been so…so cool. So suave and sophisticated. So…uber-competent.
She hadn’t watched a Banacek episode in months, though, so, as she drifted back into a dreamless sleep, she wondered what had brought him to her mind now…
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King Ch 1
I.
Michele re-read the first chapter of her Big Bang Theory fan fiction and found it good. (Follow the complete story at Fanfiction.net: The Mirror Image Iterations)
The idea had come to her suddenly. Why not have aspiring actress Penny be cast in a sitcom about 4 socially awkward physicists? Only let the physicists be four beautiful women, who scared away all the men because they were so smart. And the actresses would want to spend a few days following around the people on whom they’d been modeled – Sheldon, Leonard, Howard and Raj. Naturally, hilarity would ensue.
Michele had an interested layperson’s knowledge in the sciences, but she couldn’t come close to replicating the complex physics-related dialog that the 4 main characters exchanged at least once per episode, let alone the scientific metaphors and similes with which the uber-smart Sheldon Cooper laced his conservation, but then no one would expect her to. As long as the dialog resembled what the characters would sound like, that was good enough. Where she hoped to succeed was with the plot and the interaction of the characters.
Michele stretched and decided it was time for a hot bath. She took her Kindle with her into the bathroom, and shortly settled down in the hot water for a long soak and read. The Kindle was an electronic reading device which would not react well if dropped in water. But Michele had been reading paperback books while relaxing in the tub for decades without losing one – she saw no reason to think that the Kindle would break that record of success.
After heating the water to the appropriate temperature and filling the tub to the appropriate depth, Michele slipped in, smiled with sybaritic pleasure, and began to read Nevada Barr’s Blind Descent. Although Barr had been writing her mysteries featuring National Park ranger Anna Pigeon for over ten years, Michele had only just discovered the author.
Blind Descent takes place, for the most part, in caverns underneath the earth, part of Carlsbad Caverns called Lechuguilla. In reading the descriptions of the actual getting into the cave – crawling through teeny tiny holes and inching along like a worm – Michele shook her head. She prided herself on her adventurous spirit but spelunking was one activity that she would never, ever try. But the descriptions of the actual caves themselves…the beautiful limestone formations of various kinds – draperies, lily pads, soda straws, cave pearls, stalagmites and stalagtites…she would like to see those.
Michele remembered that when she had checked into this motel, there had been a rack of brochures of various sites in the area, and she was sure she’d seen a brochure for some kind of cavern…. After she finished her bath she’d go take a look.
II.
Michele reclined in bed with a stack of sight-seeing brochures. She’d decided to make off with every single one the motel had to offer, and divide them into topics – sites she’d like to see and write about, and sites she didn’t…but which she’d at least mention so that her readers would at least know about them.
There had actually been a couple of brochures advertising caverns – all of them in northern Virginia. There were the Luray Caverns, which the brochure claimed were the most famous, but there were others within a few miles of each other – the Shenandoah Caverns, the Endless Caverns, the Skyline Caverns, and a few others.
She would go see them all.
Finally, her work for the day done, Michele decided to relax and watch something mindless. The motel had cable with dozens of channels…she didn’t want to watch any crime dramas – too grim, or any sitcoms – no intelligent ones on like the Big Bang Theory were on, only annoying ones with family units featuring precocious and annoying children, a bossy wife and a browbeaten husband…blah. As usual, the only biographies on the Biography channel were that of actors. The NASA channel featured direct video from the space station, but there was no sound, and in any event that wasn’t what she was in the mood for.
Finally she came across the Golf Channel. The 2010 Open at Pebble Beach was being repeated, the one where Irishman Graeme McDowell had won and American Dustin Johnson had had an historic collapse in the first four holes, with the Grand Slam of disasters, triple bogey, double bogey, bogey and par. Michele watched a few holes in aesthetic discontent. 99% of the golfers wore the standard baggy pants that seemed de rigeur on the golf course these days….only Dustin Johnson had worn a well-fitting pair of slacks – and white at that – that fit nicely over his crotch and allowed those who cared for such things to have a bit of eye candy. It was so unfair… the women had to wear the highest of high skirts to show off their legs to the crowd, but the guys, as in practically every other sport, walked around looking like they were in their pajamas. Discrimination, that’s what it was.
Michele sighed, and decided that rather than watch this eye-candy-less sport, she’d go to bed, and get an early start the next morning. She had much to do…and perhaps she’d have some pleasant dreams…
Michele re-read the first chapter of her Big Bang Theory fan fiction and found it good. (Follow the complete story at Fanfiction.net: The Mirror Image Iterations)
The idea had come to her suddenly. Why not have aspiring actress Penny be cast in a sitcom about 4 socially awkward physicists? Only let the physicists be four beautiful women, who scared away all the men because they were so smart. And the actresses would want to spend a few days following around the people on whom they’d been modeled – Sheldon, Leonard, Howard and Raj. Naturally, hilarity would ensue.
Michele had an interested layperson’s knowledge in the sciences, but she couldn’t come close to replicating the complex physics-related dialog that the 4 main characters exchanged at least once per episode, let alone the scientific metaphors and similes with which the uber-smart Sheldon Cooper laced his conservation, but then no one would expect her to. As long as the dialog resembled what the characters would sound like, that was good enough. Where she hoped to succeed was with the plot and the interaction of the characters.
Michele stretched and decided it was time for a hot bath. She took her Kindle with her into the bathroom, and shortly settled down in the hot water for a long soak and read. The Kindle was an electronic reading device which would not react well if dropped in water. But Michele had been reading paperback books while relaxing in the tub for decades without losing one – she saw no reason to think that the Kindle would break that record of success.
After heating the water to the appropriate temperature and filling the tub to the appropriate depth, Michele slipped in, smiled with sybaritic pleasure, and began to read Nevada Barr’s Blind Descent. Although Barr had been writing her mysteries featuring National Park ranger Anna Pigeon for over ten years, Michele had only just discovered the author.
Blind Descent takes place, for the most part, in caverns underneath the earth, part of Carlsbad Caverns called Lechuguilla. In reading the descriptions of the actual getting into the cave – crawling through teeny tiny holes and inching along like a worm – Michele shook her head. She prided herself on her adventurous spirit but spelunking was one activity that she would never, ever try. But the descriptions of the actual caves themselves…the beautiful limestone formations of various kinds – draperies, lily pads, soda straws, cave pearls, stalagmites and stalagtites…she would like to see those.
Michele remembered that when she had checked into this motel, there had been a rack of brochures of various sites in the area, and she was sure she’d seen a brochure for some kind of cavern…. After she finished her bath she’d go take a look.
II.
Michele reclined in bed with a stack of sight-seeing brochures. She’d decided to make off with every single one the motel had to offer, and divide them into topics – sites she’d like to see and write about, and sites she didn’t…but which she’d at least mention so that her readers would at least know about them.
There had actually been a couple of brochures advertising caverns – all of them in northern Virginia. There were the Luray Caverns, which the brochure claimed were the most famous, but there were others within a few miles of each other – the Shenandoah Caverns, the Endless Caverns, the Skyline Caverns, and a few others.
She would go see them all.
Finally, her work for the day done, Michele decided to relax and watch something mindless. The motel had cable with dozens of channels…she didn’t want to watch any crime dramas – too grim, or any sitcoms – no intelligent ones on like the Big Bang Theory were on, only annoying ones with family units featuring precocious and annoying children, a bossy wife and a browbeaten husband…blah. As usual, the only biographies on the Biography channel were that of actors. The NASA channel featured direct video from the space station, but there was no sound, and in any event that wasn’t what she was in the mood for.
Finally she came across the Golf Channel. The 2010 Open at Pebble Beach was being repeated, the one where Irishman Graeme McDowell had won and American Dustin Johnson had had an historic collapse in the first four holes, with the Grand Slam of disasters, triple bogey, double bogey, bogey and par. Michele watched a few holes in aesthetic discontent. 99% of the golfers wore the standard baggy pants that seemed de rigeur on the golf course these days….only Dustin Johnson had worn a well-fitting pair of slacks – and white at that – that fit nicely over his crotch and allowed those who cared for such things to have a bit of eye candy. It was so unfair… the women had to wear the highest of high skirts to show off their legs to the crowd, but the guys, as in practically every other sport, walked around looking like they were in their pajamas. Discrimination, that’s what it was.
Michele sighed, and decided that rather than watch this eye-candy-less sport, she’d go to bed, and get an early start the next morning. She had much to do…and perhaps she’d have some pleasant dreams…
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Mirror Image Iterations Interlude Ch 2
The first chapter in Michele's fan fiction story regarding the Big Bang characters went as follows:
The Mirror Image Iterations Chapter 1
Sheldon Cooper sat in front of his computer, reading an article entitled "Physics at the Air-Sea Interface" from the online webzine: Physical Oceanography Quarterly. Although his field of study in physics was concerned with string theory, he had recently become interested in physics as it related to the oceans. He was going to conduct his own research to discover, once and for all, if global warming were man-made, or simply unstoppable mother nature.
Dimly, as if it were the buzzing of a mosquito, he could hear a shrieking noise. Suddenly he blinked and looked up. Normally nothing could tear his attention away from a physics article or problem, but after three years of living across the hallway from Penny he had learned to leave a little bit of himself open to his surroundings. A hailing frequency, as it were. And shrieks were intruding upon it.
Sheldon jumped up, scurried out of the room and across the hall.
He knocked on the door, simultaneously calling "Penny." Before he could knock again, as was his custom, Penny jerked open the door.
Although tears were streaming down her face, her face was radiant. Before he could utter another word, she had clasped his face between both hands and kissed him on the mouth. Then she let go of his face and hugged him.
"Penny! Have you taken leave of your senses?" asked Sheldon.
She danced away from him. "Oh, Sheldon, Sheldon! I got the part! I got the part! I got the part!"
"You got the part? The part in your hair remains in exactly the same place….oh, you mean you received a part in a play?"
"No, Sheldon, not a play, a TV series. A series!" She raised her hands to grab his face again, but he skittered backwards.
"What kind of a TV series?" he said with stilted curiosity.
"It's going to be really cool! And it's really ironic. It's a situation comedy about four girl physicists. We're really smart, but socially awkward. You know – because we're smarter than every man we meet, and they're attracted to our beauty and scared at the same time."
Sheldon stared at her, his mouth opening and closing. "Penny….I….don't know what to say. Ironic isn't the word."
"I am so happy! Okay, go, go! I have to call my parents."
Penny shooed him out of her apartment and into the hallway. Sheldon stood in the hallway, frozen, feeling like a pillar of salt.
Leonard walked up the stairs at that moment. "Sheldon, what's the matter?"
"I've just been thinking about Lot and Lot's wife," Sheldon said. "Did you know that there's a school of thought that believes that God actually used an atom bomb to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah? And that Lot's wife wasn't so much turned into a pillar of salt but a pillar of ash?"
"No, I'd never heard of that."
"Well, said Sheldon, as he followed Leonard into their apartment, "Let me tell you that that is much more plausible than the news I have to tell you about Penny."
(Follow the complete story at Fanfiction.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6067580/1/The_Mirror_Image_Iterations
The Mirror Image Iterations Chapter 1
Sheldon Cooper sat in front of his computer, reading an article entitled "Physics at the Air-Sea Interface" from the online webzine: Physical Oceanography Quarterly. Although his field of study in physics was concerned with string theory, he had recently become interested in physics as it related to the oceans. He was going to conduct his own research to discover, once and for all, if global warming were man-made, or simply unstoppable mother nature.
Dimly, as if it were the buzzing of a mosquito, he could hear a shrieking noise. Suddenly he blinked and looked up. Normally nothing could tear his attention away from a physics article or problem, but after three years of living across the hallway from Penny he had learned to leave a little bit of himself open to his surroundings. A hailing frequency, as it were. And shrieks were intruding upon it.
Sheldon jumped up, scurried out of the room and across the hall.
He knocked on the door, simultaneously calling "Penny." Before he could knock again, as was his custom, Penny jerked open the door.
Although tears were streaming down her face, her face was radiant. Before he could utter another word, she had clasped his face between both hands and kissed him on the mouth. Then she let go of his face and hugged him.
"Penny! Have you taken leave of your senses?" asked Sheldon.
She danced away from him. "Oh, Sheldon, Sheldon! I got the part! I got the part! I got the part!"
"You got the part? The part in your hair remains in exactly the same place….oh, you mean you received a part in a play?"
"No, Sheldon, not a play, a TV series. A series!" She raised her hands to grab his face again, but he skittered backwards.
"What kind of a TV series?" he said with stilted curiosity.
"It's going to be really cool! And it's really ironic. It's a situation comedy about four girl physicists. We're really smart, but socially awkward. You know – because we're smarter than every man we meet, and they're attracted to our beauty and scared at the same time."
Sheldon stared at her, his mouth opening and closing. "Penny….I….don't know what to say. Ironic isn't the word."
"I am so happy! Okay, go, go! I have to call my parents."
Penny shooed him out of her apartment and into the hallway. Sheldon stood in the hallway, frozen, feeling like a pillar of salt.
Leonard walked up the stairs at that moment. "Sheldon, what's the matter?"
"I've just been thinking about Lot and Lot's wife," Sheldon said. "Did you know that there's a school of thought that believes that God actually used an atom bomb to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah? And that Lot's wife wasn't so much turned into a pillar of salt but a pillar of ash?"
"No, I'd never heard of that."
"Well, said Sheldon, as he followed Leonard into their apartment, "Let me tell you that that is much more plausible than the news I have to tell you about Penny."
(Follow the complete story at Fanfiction.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6067580/1/The_Mirror_Image_Iterations
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Mirror Image Iterations Interlude, Ch 1
Michele Bravo placed her suitcase on the floor and her laptop onto the bed, then stood and took stock of her surroundings. She had just checked into a Super 8 in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
When Michele was on a “project,” as she had termed her work as international jewel thief and some-time assassin Taran Tula, she stayed in the most luxurious of hotels. The same held true when she was doing work for her security company – one always had to put up a prosperous appearance when meeting clients in different cities.
But when she was travelling on her own, she much preferred to stay in the least expensive hotels possible – which typically meant motels. As long as the motel was in a good neighborhood, she had no apprehension staying in a room with a door that opened up to the night air rather than to an interior hallway.
The rooms weren’t that luxurious, true, but what did that matter? They were to be used for sleeping, reading or watching TV – as long as the heater or air conditioning worked and the room was clean…
Such it was with this room. Before unpacking, Michele made her usual check. It was summer, and the air conditioner was turned on. The room was nice and cool and the air conditioner hummed, with no knocks or other disturbing news.
Then she went into the bathroom. The tub was disappointing – as with most hotel tubs the rear end had no slope, but rather went straight downward. Michele always suspected that they did this to prevent people who liked to read in the tub from getting comfortable, so they wouldn’t use up too much water. Nevertheless, the drain stopper worked and she had hot, warm and cold water so that was okay.
Returning to the room itself, she turned on the TV with the remote. Picture – crystal clear. There was also a list of channels and channel numbers which was very considerate.
Finally, Michele opened up her laptop and fired that up. She waited the few minutes for the computer to boot up, and then attempted to sign on to the internet. The signal she received was strong and clear, and the log on screen showed up immediately. Yes, it was, as promised, a fast internet connection.
Michele nodded, satisfied. The room would do.
She unpacked shorts and t-shirts and stowed them away. Then she looked around…something was missing. Ah. She went back out to her car – a 1998 silver Toyota Camry – and recovered a bag of Kentucky Fried Chicken original recipe all white meat chicken, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and chocolate parfait.
As she dined, Michele watched the final episode of the third season of Big Bang Theory – “The Lunar Interactions”. The episode ended with the asexual, Asperger-syndrome-possessing anti-social genius Sheldon Cooper meeting an asexual woman, Amy Farah Fowler, presumably his intellectual equal. They hit it off and go to the bar have a beverage together. The episode ended with Raj and Howard looking at each other and Howard saying, “What have we done?”
Michele switched off the TV and shook her head. She hoped that the show’s writers were not going to make the mistake of giving Sheldon a regular girlfriend. Or at least, not one whom he’d get interested in sexually. That would ruin the character – Sheldon was complete within himself and to have him mooning and crying over unrequited love would be not only out of character but also completely annoying.
Michele chuckled…she was so in to these characters. And it had all started out so innocuously. She rarely watched first-run TV, and although she considered herself a science fiction geek she had not been the least interested in the Big Bang Theory when it had debuted in 2007….. 4 geeky guys and a dumb girl - so stereotypical, so annoying.
But three weeks ago, when she’d been spending her last evening at Vic Durant’s home, he had insisted on watching the show, and she’d found herself intrigued by the characters. Sheldon Cooper, played by Jim Parsons, was clearly the star of the show. He was tall and dark-haired, two of Michele’s prerequisites. But he was a beanpole – like Leonard Nimoy’s Spock, and she’d never cared for beanpoles. The other lead, Johnny Galecki’s Leonard Hofstadter, had a physique much more to her liking, for all that he was rather short. Raj, played by Kunal Nayyar, was also not bad looking, either facially or physically. Simon Helberg as Howard Wollowitz – worse than Parsons in the looks department, and an annoying character altogether.
Michele decided to check out fanfiction.net, a website where people published stories they’d written based on their favorite TV series. She had discovered it some years ago, when she’d found fan fiction on The Avengers (John Steed and Emma Peel) and Star Trek by a pretty good writer, who used the pseudonym Gale Force. The author had also turned out some pretty good NCIS alternate universe stories, as well…
“I know they’ll have stories for The Big Bang Theory,” she mused aloud, “and I wonder just what kind of stories they’ll be.”
Smiling with anticipation, she went to the website, and as she expected, found over 700 stories written by fans. And as she suspected, most of them were “Shenny” – romantic relationships between Sheldon and Jenny. There were several “slash” stories as well – featuring Sheldon and Leonard and Howard and Raj.
Michele was not a big fan of slash, although she had read some of it and found it good (the aforementioned Gale Force had contributed a few stories to the genre). But while Sheldon was certainly effete (not to be confused with effeminate), if he were going to break down and have sex, it’d probably be with a woman. Having said that, she didn’t think he would, unless he got really, really drunk.
“And that is such a rip-off,” she IM-ed sister, with whom she shared most (but certainly not all) of her thoughts. “Plus it gives a false and harmful view of getting drunk to the more impressionable kids in the audience. They see someone lose their inhibitions and have fun, and they think that’s how they’ll overcome their shyness as well. So they get drunk, have sex, don’t remember it the next day, and nine months later they’re confronting the result. Not good.”
“You’re such a pessimist,” her sister IM-ed her back. “Most people have more common sense than that, c’mon.”
“Well, we’ll have to agree to disagree,” typed in Michele. “You didn’t spend seven days on a cruise ship with a roommate who got drunk and puked her guts out every….single…. night…”
“You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Never! ; )
“Well, let’s move swiftly on, then. ; ) How are you liking Gettysburg?”
“I haven’t been to see it yet. Got here a few hours ago, and I decided I’d relax with some supper and TV. I’ll go to the battlefield tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks a lot for helping me out like this, Michele.”
“No problem. Okay, I’ll let you go. I feel in the mood to do a little writing.”
“Have fun.”
Alice, Michele’s sister, ran a lucrative travel website which she had taken over from her mother. When Michele had written her an email telling her she was taking a month long sabbatical from her security firm (Alice knew nothing of her Taran Tula activities), Alice had suggested that she do some traveling around the US, documenting all the places lost to the traveler thanks to the rotten economy that had the country in its grip for over a year.
Michele, who was always more comfortable when she was traveling then when she was standing still, agreed.
“I’ve been thinking of visiting some Civil War sites,” she had said. “Would you believe I’ve never seen Gettysburg?”
“Start with Gettysburg, then.” Alice agreed.
And here she was in Gettysburg, having driven down from her home (as Michele Bravo) in New York.
Now, Michele signed off with her sister, and then pulled up a Word document.
The vast majority of TV series copyright owners had no objection to fans writing fan fiction, as long as they did not try to sell novels on Amazon, or something of that nature. Practically every TV series you could think of had some kind of presence at Fanfiction.net.
Michele didn’t write fan fiction as a matter of course – she expected to be paid for her writing. But what the hey, she would give a Sheldon – Penny story a try, just for the challenge of it. If it was any good, she’d post it on fanfiction.net.
Now…what should it be about…..?
When Michele was on a “project,” as she had termed her work as international jewel thief and some-time assassin Taran Tula, she stayed in the most luxurious of hotels. The same held true when she was doing work for her security company – one always had to put up a prosperous appearance when meeting clients in different cities.
But when she was travelling on her own, she much preferred to stay in the least expensive hotels possible – which typically meant motels. As long as the motel was in a good neighborhood, she had no apprehension staying in a room with a door that opened up to the night air rather than to an interior hallway.
The rooms weren’t that luxurious, true, but what did that matter? They were to be used for sleeping, reading or watching TV – as long as the heater or air conditioning worked and the room was clean…
Such it was with this room. Before unpacking, Michele made her usual check. It was summer, and the air conditioner was turned on. The room was nice and cool and the air conditioner hummed, with no knocks or other disturbing news.
Then she went into the bathroom. The tub was disappointing – as with most hotel tubs the rear end had no slope, but rather went straight downward. Michele always suspected that they did this to prevent people who liked to read in the tub from getting comfortable, so they wouldn’t use up too much water. Nevertheless, the drain stopper worked and she had hot, warm and cold water so that was okay.
Returning to the room itself, she turned on the TV with the remote. Picture – crystal clear. There was also a list of channels and channel numbers which was very considerate.
Finally, Michele opened up her laptop and fired that up. She waited the few minutes for the computer to boot up, and then attempted to sign on to the internet. The signal she received was strong and clear, and the log on screen showed up immediately. Yes, it was, as promised, a fast internet connection.
Michele nodded, satisfied. The room would do.
She unpacked shorts and t-shirts and stowed them away. Then she looked around…something was missing. Ah. She went back out to her car – a 1998 silver Toyota Camry – and recovered a bag of Kentucky Fried Chicken original recipe all white meat chicken, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and chocolate parfait.
As she dined, Michele watched the final episode of the third season of Big Bang Theory – “The Lunar Interactions”. The episode ended with the asexual, Asperger-syndrome-possessing anti-social genius Sheldon Cooper meeting an asexual woman, Amy Farah Fowler, presumably his intellectual equal. They hit it off and go to the bar have a beverage together. The episode ended with Raj and Howard looking at each other and Howard saying, “What have we done?”
Michele switched off the TV and shook her head. She hoped that the show’s writers were not going to make the mistake of giving Sheldon a regular girlfriend. Or at least, not one whom he’d get interested in sexually. That would ruin the character – Sheldon was complete within himself and to have him mooning and crying over unrequited love would be not only out of character but also completely annoying.
Michele chuckled…she was so in to these characters. And it had all started out so innocuously. She rarely watched first-run TV, and although she considered herself a science fiction geek she had not been the least interested in the Big Bang Theory when it had debuted in 2007….. 4 geeky guys and a dumb girl - so stereotypical, so annoying.
But three weeks ago, when she’d been spending her last evening at Vic Durant’s home, he had insisted on watching the show, and she’d found herself intrigued by the characters. Sheldon Cooper, played by Jim Parsons, was clearly the star of the show. He was tall and dark-haired, two of Michele’s prerequisites. But he was a beanpole – like Leonard Nimoy’s Spock, and she’d never cared for beanpoles. The other lead, Johnny Galecki’s Leonard Hofstadter, had a physique much more to her liking, for all that he was rather short. Raj, played by Kunal Nayyar, was also not bad looking, either facially or physically. Simon Helberg as Howard Wollowitz – worse than Parsons in the looks department, and an annoying character altogether.
Michele decided to check out fanfiction.net, a website where people published stories they’d written based on their favorite TV series. She had discovered it some years ago, when she’d found fan fiction on The Avengers (John Steed and Emma Peel) and Star Trek by a pretty good writer, who used the pseudonym Gale Force. The author had also turned out some pretty good NCIS alternate universe stories, as well…
“I know they’ll have stories for The Big Bang Theory,” she mused aloud, “and I wonder just what kind of stories they’ll be.”
Smiling with anticipation, she went to the website, and as she expected, found over 700 stories written by fans. And as she suspected, most of them were “Shenny” – romantic relationships between Sheldon and Jenny. There were several “slash” stories as well – featuring Sheldon and Leonard and Howard and Raj.
Michele was not a big fan of slash, although she had read some of it and found it good (the aforementioned Gale Force had contributed a few stories to the genre). But while Sheldon was certainly effete (not to be confused with effeminate), if he were going to break down and have sex, it’d probably be with a woman. Having said that, she didn’t think he would, unless he got really, really drunk.
“And that is such a rip-off,” she IM-ed sister, with whom she shared most (but certainly not all) of her thoughts. “Plus it gives a false and harmful view of getting drunk to the more impressionable kids in the audience. They see someone lose their inhibitions and have fun, and they think that’s how they’ll overcome their shyness as well. So they get drunk, have sex, don’t remember it the next day, and nine months later they’re confronting the result. Not good.”
“You’re such a pessimist,” her sister IM-ed her back. “Most people have more common sense than that, c’mon.”
“Well, we’ll have to agree to disagree,” typed in Michele. “You didn’t spend seven days on a cruise ship with a roommate who got drunk and puked her guts out every….single…. night…”
“You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Never! ; )
“Well, let’s move swiftly on, then. ; ) How are you liking Gettysburg?”
“I haven’t been to see it yet. Got here a few hours ago, and I decided I’d relax with some supper and TV. I’ll go to the battlefield tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks a lot for helping me out like this, Michele.”
“No problem. Okay, I’ll let you go. I feel in the mood to do a little writing.”
“Have fun.”
Alice, Michele’s sister, ran a lucrative travel website which she had taken over from her mother. When Michele had written her an email telling her she was taking a month long sabbatical from her security firm (Alice knew nothing of her Taran Tula activities), Alice had suggested that she do some traveling around the US, documenting all the places lost to the traveler thanks to the rotten economy that had the country in its grip for over a year.
Michele, who was always more comfortable when she was traveling then when she was standing still, agreed.
“I’ve been thinking of visiting some Civil War sites,” she had said. “Would you believe I’ve never seen Gettysburg?”
“Start with Gettysburg, then.” Alice agreed.
And here she was in Gettysburg, having driven down from her home (as Michele Bravo) in New York.
Now, Michele signed off with her sister, and then pulled up a Word document.
The vast majority of TV series copyright owners had no objection to fans writing fan fiction, as long as they did not try to sell novels on Amazon, or something of that nature. Practically every TV series you could think of had some kind of presence at Fanfiction.net.
Michele didn’t write fan fiction as a matter of course – she expected to be paid for her writing. But what the hey, she would give a Sheldon – Penny story a try, just for the challenge of it. If it was any good, she’d post it on fanfiction.net.
Now…what should it be about…..?
Monday, June 21, 2010
Intermission
Michele Bravo continues her adventures after this one day intermission.
Stare deeply into the cat's eyes....
Stare deeply into the cat's eyes....
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy: Chapter 9
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy Chapter 9
I.
After Michele Bravo and Vic Durant had made love, and then laid back and watched the stars overhead for a while, they retired to Durant’s bedroom and spent the rest of the night in a comfy bed.
In the morning, Michele opened her eyes to see Durant already awake, propped on one elbow, watching her. “Good morning,” he told her.
“Good morning,” she responded with a smile.
“I was about to make breakfast. Would you like some?”
Michele smiled. “In Rome, we have only croissant and coffee, but in America I always eat as the Americans do. Pancakes with lots of maple syrup would be bellisimo.”
“You have a sweet tooth.”
“I do indeed. I shall have a shower and then find my way to your kitchen.”
“Very good.” She watched him leave the room, enjoying the play of the muscles in his back. He was wearing pajama bottoms, but no top – she was wearing the top.
Michele rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom. She preferred to take baths, but she also liked her pancakes warm and her maple syrup hot, so she could not dally. After five minutes, therefore, she turned off the water, toweled herself dry, put on panties, bra and pajama top, and headed into the kitchen.
Durant was just arranging stacks of pancakes on two plates. Butter was ready to be used as desired, and he had indeed, warmed the maple syrup – and it was real maple syrup. Michele was really beginning to regret that she’d never see this man again.
They ate in companionable silence, and when they were done, Michele said, “Well, Vic, I have had a lovely time.”
Vic put down his coffee cup. “That sounds like you’re planning on leaving.”
“You are right, I must go. I have a lot of packing to do.”
“Packing?”
“Yes. I leave for Mexico tomorrow.”
“Well, damn,” said Durant. “I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping to take you out to dinner some time this week.”
“Yes, that would have been nice.”
“Well, it’s an open invitation. When are you coming back?”
“I’m not sure. I may be some time.”
“Ah,” said Durant. Inwardly he thought, Mexico…maybe she’s doing something in the drug war….or artifact smuggling…
Out loud he said, “Well, but what about your art gallery?”
“My manager already runs it better than I could.”
Durant sighed. “Well, I have to admit, I’m a bit disappointed. I really wanted to spend some more time with you.”
Michele nodded. “And to be frank, I would have liked to have spent more time with you.” (This was true enough.) But I have been planning this trip for some time, and I simply must go.”
“Well, surely it can’t take you all day to pack. You seem like the type of woman who’d already be packed, truth to tell.”
Michele grinned. “That is true, I do like to be prepared well in advance.”
“Luck favors the prepared,” quoted Durant.
“Exactly,” Michele said, delighted. “We are so simpatico.”
“In that case, how about we spend some more time together.”
“Well, the Bronx Zoo has a miniature golf course.”
“I know that one. It recreates the 18 toughest holes from golf courses all over the world.”
“I thought you would have heard of it. Shall we go have a match?”
“You’re on.”
II.
Michele placed her feet shoulder width apart, placed her putter to one side of the ball, and made a few practice swings. Then, she struck the ball with just enough force…
“No, no, no,” she said, “too fast, too fast.”
“It still has a chance,” murmured Durant. “It’s…it’s…”
“Argh,” groaned Michele. “That’s another dollar.”
Durant extended his hand, and Michele placed a dollar bill in it. They were playing a dollar a stroke, and although Michele had a natural talent for miniature golf, Durant had played for decades and was beating her mercilessly.
“So why Mexico?”Durant asked, as they waited for a couple of teenagers in front of them to stop giggling and get on with the game.
“Do you know what a Big Lister is?”
Durant placed his ball on the starting spot and addressed it, as he said, “That’s a bird watching term, isn’t it?”
“Yes. There are approximately 10,000 bird species in the world. And there are millions of bird watchers. And only about 20 of them have seen more than 7,000 of those species. Those are big listers. And I intend to become one. First stop, Mexico.”
“First stop, Mexico? How many species do you still have to go?”
Michele shrugged, as she moved to the starting point and placed her own ball on the ground. “I have a long way to go. I will be gone for at least a year.”
Durant nodded thoughtfully. If he hadn’t seen her hurdle a balustrade and drop 20 feet to the ground below without hesitation, he might just believe that she was a wealthy bird watcher going off on an innocuous quest. On the other hand, he thought, don’t be a snob. Bird watchers weren’t effete men and women sitting in a bush with binoculars waiting for birds to fly by. They climbed mountains, forded rivers….indeed, if he remembered correctly, one famous bird watcher – famous before his death and not because of the manner of it – had actually been eaten by a tiger.
“Are you going with a birding group?” he asked, after sinking his ball on his second attempt.
Michele concentrated on her own putting, with little success. After handing three dollars to Durant, she said, “I always travel alone.”
Ordinarily Durant would have admonished her to be careful, but he didn’t feel the need with this woman.
“Well,” he said, “I think I have proven my mastery of miniature golf.”
“You have, I cannot deny it. Lunch is going to have to be your treat.”
“My pleasure.”
III.
After lunch, they walked through the Botanical Gardens. Durant pointed out birds and Michele identified them.
“Does your expertise extend to plants and flowers?” asked Durant.
“Of course. And considering how much money you took from me through miniature golf, I should regale you with the names of every single plant and flower in these gardens 250 acres!”
Durant hugged her with a laugh.
IV.
Michele drove up to Durant’s home. They’d spent the entire day at the Bronx Park – which consisted of the Bronx Zoo and the Bronx Botanical Gardens as well as the park itself.
“There’s still a gallon of chocolate ice cream in the fridge,” Durant said.
Michele smiled. “You are such a tempter. I will come in for ice cream, but then I simply must go home.”
V.
Michele was true to her word. She and Durant sat on his couch – side by side – eating ice cream and watching The Big Bang Theory.
Finally, Durant escorted her to her car.
“If you run into any trouble, don’t hesitate to send for me,” he said.
Michele gazed into his eyes. “Really?” she asked. “Even if I’m in the wilds of Borneo?”
“Even if,” said Durant. “You saved the life of my boss, who also happens to be my friend. So I owe you for that. And then there’s the fact that I am really into you.”
Well, damn, thought Michele. You just had to use the Taran Tula identity for this little caper, didn’t you? Screwed everything up.
Out loud she said, “Very well, Vic. I…I’ll keep in touch.”
They kissed briefly, and then Michele drove away.
VI.
It was too late to go back now. The Taran Tula identity had to be dispensed with.
Michele had already made the arrangements. She’d given the manager of her art gallery – who already did all the work anyway, Michele had just put up the money to open the gallery and run it until it started to make a profit – a power of attorney, and placed her in charge in “Taran Tula’s” absence.
She’d never used an apartment as Taran Tula, so there was no need to do anything with that. And all bank accounts had been in the name of the art gallery.
So now, she would just drive into Mexico as Taran Tula, and drive out again as Michele Bravo. Diplomatic relations with Mexico were so strained that if someone came to them looking for her entrance papers, Mexico might not even share them…and if papers proving she’d left the country were never found, that would just be put down as the incompetence of the Mexican border patrol. She would have effectively disappeared.
Of course, she’d have to send post-cards with foreign stamps from various countries, now not only to her manager but to Vic as well, but that was easily arranged.
So, goodbye Taran Tula.
Michele sighed, more sorrowfully than she expected. “Goodbye, Vic Durant.”
I.
After Michele Bravo and Vic Durant had made love, and then laid back and watched the stars overhead for a while, they retired to Durant’s bedroom and spent the rest of the night in a comfy bed.
In the morning, Michele opened her eyes to see Durant already awake, propped on one elbow, watching her. “Good morning,” he told her.
“Good morning,” she responded with a smile.
“I was about to make breakfast. Would you like some?”
Michele smiled. “In Rome, we have only croissant and coffee, but in America I always eat as the Americans do. Pancakes with lots of maple syrup would be bellisimo.”
“You have a sweet tooth.”
“I do indeed. I shall have a shower and then find my way to your kitchen.”
“Very good.” She watched him leave the room, enjoying the play of the muscles in his back. He was wearing pajama bottoms, but no top – she was wearing the top.
Michele rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom. She preferred to take baths, but she also liked her pancakes warm and her maple syrup hot, so she could not dally. After five minutes, therefore, she turned off the water, toweled herself dry, put on panties, bra and pajama top, and headed into the kitchen.
Durant was just arranging stacks of pancakes on two plates. Butter was ready to be used as desired, and he had indeed, warmed the maple syrup – and it was real maple syrup. Michele was really beginning to regret that she’d never see this man again.
They ate in companionable silence, and when they were done, Michele said, “Well, Vic, I have had a lovely time.”
Vic put down his coffee cup. “That sounds like you’re planning on leaving.”
“You are right, I must go. I have a lot of packing to do.”
“Packing?”
“Yes. I leave for Mexico tomorrow.”
“Well, damn,” said Durant. “I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping to take you out to dinner some time this week.”
“Yes, that would have been nice.”
“Well, it’s an open invitation. When are you coming back?”
“I’m not sure. I may be some time.”
“Ah,” said Durant. Inwardly he thought, Mexico…maybe she’s doing something in the drug war….or artifact smuggling…
Out loud he said, “Well, but what about your art gallery?”
“My manager already runs it better than I could.”
Durant sighed. “Well, I have to admit, I’m a bit disappointed. I really wanted to spend some more time with you.”
Michele nodded. “And to be frank, I would have liked to have spent more time with you.” (This was true enough.) But I have been planning this trip for some time, and I simply must go.”
“Well, surely it can’t take you all day to pack. You seem like the type of woman who’d already be packed, truth to tell.”
Michele grinned. “That is true, I do like to be prepared well in advance.”
“Luck favors the prepared,” quoted Durant.
“Exactly,” Michele said, delighted. “We are so simpatico.”
“In that case, how about we spend some more time together.”
“Well, the Bronx Zoo has a miniature golf course.”
“I know that one. It recreates the 18 toughest holes from golf courses all over the world.”
“I thought you would have heard of it. Shall we go have a match?”
“You’re on.”
II.
Michele placed her feet shoulder width apart, placed her putter to one side of the ball, and made a few practice swings. Then, she struck the ball with just enough force…
“No, no, no,” she said, “too fast, too fast.”
“It still has a chance,” murmured Durant. “It’s…it’s…”
“Argh,” groaned Michele. “That’s another dollar.”
Durant extended his hand, and Michele placed a dollar bill in it. They were playing a dollar a stroke, and although Michele had a natural talent for miniature golf, Durant had played for decades and was beating her mercilessly.
“So why Mexico?”Durant asked, as they waited for a couple of teenagers in front of them to stop giggling and get on with the game.
“Do you know what a Big Lister is?”
Durant placed his ball on the starting spot and addressed it, as he said, “That’s a bird watching term, isn’t it?”
“Yes. There are approximately 10,000 bird species in the world. And there are millions of bird watchers. And only about 20 of them have seen more than 7,000 of those species. Those are big listers. And I intend to become one. First stop, Mexico.”
“First stop, Mexico? How many species do you still have to go?”
Michele shrugged, as she moved to the starting point and placed her own ball on the ground. “I have a long way to go. I will be gone for at least a year.”
Durant nodded thoughtfully. If he hadn’t seen her hurdle a balustrade and drop 20 feet to the ground below without hesitation, he might just believe that she was a wealthy bird watcher going off on an innocuous quest. On the other hand, he thought, don’t be a snob. Bird watchers weren’t effete men and women sitting in a bush with binoculars waiting for birds to fly by. They climbed mountains, forded rivers….indeed, if he remembered correctly, one famous bird watcher – famous before his death and not because of the manner of it – had actually been eaten by a tiger.
“Are you going with a birding group?” he asked, after sinking his ball on his second attempt.
Michele concentrated on her own putting, with little success. After handing three dollars to Durant, she said, “I always travel alone.”
Ordinarily Durant would have admonished her to be careful, but he didn’t feel the need with this woman.
“Well,” he said, “I think I have proven my mastery of miniature golf.”
“You have, I cannot deny it. Lunch is going to have to be your treat.”
“My pleasure.”
III.
After lunch, they walked through the Botanical Gardens. Durant pointed out birds and Michele identified them.
“Does your expertise extend to plants and flowers?” asked Durant.
“Of course. And considering how much money you took from me through miniature golf, I should regale you with the names of every single plant and flower in these gardens 250 acres!”
Durant hugged her with a laugh.
IV.
Michele drove up to Durant’s home. They’d spent the entire day at the Bronx Park – which consisted of the Bronx Zoo and the Bronx Botanical Gardens as well as the park itself.
“There’s still a gallon of chocolate ice cream in the fridge,” Durant said.
Michele smiled. “You are such a tempter. I will come in for ice cream, but then I simply must go home.”
V.
Michele was true to her word. She and Durant sat on his couch – side by side – eating ice cream and watching The Big Bang Theory.
Finally, Durant escorted her to her car.
“If you run into any trouble, don’t hesitate to send for me,” he said.
Michele gazed into his eyes. “Really?” she asked. “Even if I’m in the wilds of Borneo?”
“Even if,” said Durant. “You saved the life of my boss, who also happens to be my friend. So I owe you for that. And then there’s the fact that I am really into you.”
Well, damn, thought Michele. You just had to use the Taran Tula identity for this little caper, didn’t you? Screwed everything up.
Out loud she said, “Very well, Vic. I…I’ll keep in touch.”
They kissed briefly, and then Michele drove away.
VI.
It was too late to go back now. The Taran Tula identity had to be dispensed with.
Michele had already made the arrangements. She’d given the manager of her art gallery – who already did all the work anyway, Michele had just put up the money to open the gallery and run it until it started to make a profit – a power of attorney, and placed her in charge in “Taran Tula’s” absence.
She’d never used an apartment as Taran Tula, so there was no need to do anything with that. And all bank accounts had been in the name of the art gallery.
So now, she would just drive into Mexico as Taran Tula, and drive out again as Michele Bravo. Diplomatic relations with Mexico were so strained that if someone came to them looking for her entrance papers, Mexico might not even share them…and if papers proving she’d left the country were never found, that would just be put down as the incompetence of the Mexican border patrol. She would have effectively disappeared.
Of course, she’d have to send post-cards with foreign stamps from various countries, now not only to her manager but to Vic as well, but that was easily arranged.
So, goodbye Taran Tula.
Michele sighed, more sorrowfully than she expected. “Goodbye, Vic Durant.”
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy: Chapter 8
I.
After the plane took off, Durant turned to Michele. “I feel like a drink. Care to join me?”
“Certainly, but not here in the airport. We have already been here so long! Is there somewhere else we can go?”
“As luck would have it, my apartment is just about ten minutes away,” said Durant. “And I’ve got a fully stocked bar.”
“Do you have a fully stocked freezer?” asked Michele. “To be specific, one stocked with chocolate ice cream?”
“No, but I’ve got a fully stocked corner store.”
“Andiamo,” said Michele with a smile.
Normally, Michele didn’t move this fast. No matter how attractive she found a guy, she wanted to get to know him pretty well before going to the physical level. But she had her reasons for accelerating the timeline.
They returned to Michele’s sports car (Durant having elected to ride with her and Seaforth to the airport, rather than drive two cars), and gave her his address. “You know how to find it?” he asked.
“Yes -- I have lived in New York for many years,” Michele said. “I know it like the back of my hand.”
“Impressive. So…what part of Italy do you come from?”
“Oh, from Rome. My family is part of the Bourgeosie. But I came to the United States several years ago.”
“And now who do you work for?”
“I have a small art gallery. Very small, you would not have heard of it.”
Durant turned to face her more directly. “Who else do you work for?” he asked.
Michele smiled her most charming smile. “Oh, you must not get the wrong impression of me. I am just the friend of a friend of a friend of Mr. Seaforth’s daughter, who asked me for help. And I have a fondness for movies. My Favorite Year. You know this film?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“Peter O’Toole is in the balcony of a theater, and he sees his friend being beaten up by Mafiosi. So he grabs a nearby rope, and swings down onto the stage to save the day. So when I saw poor Mr. Seaforth…at this time I did not know he had only a starter’s pistol….I just jumped down without thinking. You see?”
“Sure,” said Durant with a smile. “I see.” He looked up. “Oh, turn here. The store’s on the right hand corner.”
After picking up two quarts of ice cream, they arrived at Durant’s house.
“The kitchen’s in here,” said Durant, leading the way. He brought out bowls and spoons. “I hope you’ll let me have some of your ice cream.”
“Of course.”
In the end, they took their bowls out into the backyard, and relaxed on Durant’s deck, which looked over a yard that had been turned into a series of putting greens.
“You are serious about your golf,” Michele observed.
“One of my goals is to play every major golf course in the world.”
Michele grinned. “I have a similar ambition. I am a bird watcher.”
“Excuse me,” said Durant. “Bird watching and golfing have nothing in common.”
Michele grinned again. “That is right. After all, golfing is just a good walk spoiled. I do like to play miniature golf though, I admit. I am an excellent putter.”
“Well, after we finish our ice cream, perhaps you can show off your skills.”
“I would be delighted.”
II.
“I have never made love outdoors before,” said Michele, as Durant spread a large blanket on the grass, and arranged a couple of pillows.
As he jammed a very large golf umbrella into the ground at the head of the blanket, Durant said, “You surprise me. Making love in the cool of the evening, under a blanket of stars…it’s a wonderful experience.”
Michele hesitated to ruin the ambiance of the evening by pointing out that bugs could crawl onto the blanket or alight on their skin. If Durant made a habit of outdoor sex, he’d surely have sprayed all sorts of bug killer known to man.
Michele had long ago shrugged out of her tuxedo jacket and vest. Now, Durant went to work on the buttons of her shirt. It was also so…exciting….to have a man undress her…she wondered if the man felt the same way when she undressed him…she’d never asked….
Suddenly, she seized his wrists. “Wait,” she whispered. “Condoms?”
“Of course,” said Durant, reaching into the pocket of his slacks and removing a package.
“Then continue,” she murmured, and he knelt at her feet and unzipped her pants, and drew them down her legs and held them while she stepped out of them, leaving her dressed only in bra and panties. Then he allowed her to undress him, until all he was wearing was boxer shorts.
He unhooked her bra, and tossed it aside, then knelt down and slid her panties down her legs, and she stepped out of those as well. Then, still on his knees, he began to kiss her legs, moving up her calves to her thighs, then up her waist to her flat belly, while his hand maneuvered between her legs.
“Wait a minute,” she murmured, her hands cupping his face. “I don’t like doing it standing up. There’s a blanket, there’s a pillow, there’s the stars overhead.”
She arranged herself on the blanket, then with one hand tugged his head back toward her belly and with the other, his hand between her legs. Durant resumed where he’d left off.
Michele lay back and relaxed, as Durant was content to take the lead. “How do you like it?” he murmured on occasion.
“Good, very good,” Michele murmured. One thing about maintaining an accent, it was very difficult to do when one was in the throes of sexual pleasure. That’s why she never talked much during sex…
Resting her head comfortably on her pillow, gazing up at the stars, Michele twined her fingers in Durant’s hair and twirled it, as he spread her legs a little wider and applied himself to licking her clitoris. It was just so pleasurable, his arms resting against her thighs, his muscular tongue pleasuring her.
There was movement down below…he had torn open the condom package and was unrolling it onto his penis even as he continued to pleasure her…she tugged at his head and he abandoned her clitoris and moved up to take possession of her mouth. In the same motion he shoved his cock into her moist vagina.
Michele ran her fingernails up his back, not quite hard enough to break the surface of the skin. She gazed into his eyes, they were looking down at her. He was breathing hard, and she knew he was going to come soon. Suddenly he reached out and gathered her to him, pressing her breasts against his chest, as he began to thrust quicker and deeper, making deep gasping noises.
He began to shudder as his cum spurted out, never stopping his thrusting until it was all over.
He laid her back gently and looked down at her.
“You’re not done yet,” she murmured, pressing her pelvis upward.
He grinned, withdrew his penis and began to lick her clitoris again…and a few minutes later it was Michele who was shuddering with pleasure….
After the plane took off, Durant turned to Michele. “I feel like a drink. Care to join me?”
“Certainly, but not here in the airport. We have already been here so long! Is there somewhere else we can go?”
“As luck would have it, my apartment is just about ten minutes away,” said Durant. “And I’ve got a fully stocked bar.”
“Do you have a fully stocked freezer?” asked Michele. “To be specific, one stocked with chocolate ice cream?”
“No, but I’ve got a fully stocked corner store.”
“Andiamo,” said Michele with a smile.
Normally, Michele didn’t move this fast. No matter how attractive she found a guy, she wanted to get to know him pretty well before going to the physical level. But she had her reasons for accelerating the timeline.
They returned to Michele’s sports car (Durant having elected to ride with her and Seaforth to the airport, rather than drive two cars), and gave her his address. “You know how to find it?” he asked.
“Yes -- I have lived in New York for many years,” Michele said. “I know it like the back of my hand.”
“Impressive. So…what part of Italy do you come from?”
“Oh, from Rome. My family is part of the Bourgeosie. But I came to the United States several years ago.”
“And now who do you work for?”
“I have a small art gallery. Very small, you would not have heard of it.”
Durant turned to face her more directly. “Who else do you work for?” he asked.
Michele smiled her most charming smile. “Oh, you must not get the wrong impression of me. I am just the friend of a friend of a friend of Mr. Seaforth’s daughter, who asked me for help. And I have a fondness for movies. My Favorite Year. You know this film?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“Peter O’Toole is in the balcony of a theater, and he sees his friend being beaten up by Mafiosi. So he grabs a nearby rope, and swings down onto the stage to save the day. So when I saw poor Mr. Seaforth…at this time I did not know he had only a starter’s pistol….I just jumped down without thinking. You see?”
“Sure,” said Durant with a smile. “I see.” He looked up. “Oh, turn here. The store’s on the right hand corner.”
After picking up two quarts of ice cream, they arrived at Durant’s house.
“The kitchen’s in here,” said Durant, leading the way. He brought out bowls and spoons. “I hope you’ll let me have some of your ice cream.”
“Of course.”
In the end, they took their bowls out into the backyard, and relaxed on Durant’s deck, which looked over a yard that had been turned into a series of putting greens.
“You are serious about your golf,” Michele observed.
“One of my goals is to play every major golf course in the world.”
Michele grinned. “I have a similar ambition. I am a bird watcher.”
“Excuse me,” said Durant. “Bird watching and golfing have nothing in common.”
Michele grinned again. “That is right. After all, golfing is just a good walk spoiled. I do like to play miniature golf though, I admit. I am an excellent putter.”
“Well, after we finish our ice cream, perhaps you can show off your skills.”
“I would be delighted.”
II.
“I have never made love outdoors before,” said Michele, as Durant spread a large blanket on the grass, and arranged a couple of pillows.
As he jammed a very large golf umbrella into the ground at the head of the blanket, Durant said, “You surprise me. Making love in the cool of the evening, under a blanket of stars…it’s a wonderful experience.”
Michele hesitated to ruin the ambiance of the evening by pointing out that bugs could crawl onto the blanket or alight on their skin. If Durant made a habit of outdoor sex, he’d surely have sprayed all sorts of bug killer known to man.
Michele had long ago shrugged out of her tuxedo jacket and vest. Now, Durant went to work on the buttons of her shirt. It was also so…exciting….to have a man undress her…she wondered if the man felt the same way when she undressed him…she’d never asked….
Suddenly, she seized his wrists. “Wait,” she whispered. “Condoms?”
“Of course,” said Durant, reaching into the pocket of his slacks and removing a package.
“Then continue,” she murmured, and he knelt at her feet and unzipped her pants, and drew them down her legs and held them while she stepped out of them, leaving her dressed only in bra and panties. Then he allowed her to undress him, until all he was wearing was boxer shorts.
He unhooked her bra, and tossed it aside, then knelt down and slid her panties down her legs, and she stepped out of those as well. Then, still on his knees, he began to kiss her legs, moving up her calves to her thighs, then up her waist to her flat belly, while his hand maneuvered between her legs.
“Wait a minute,” she murmured, her hands cupping his face. “I don’t like doing it standing up. There’s a blanket, there’s a pillow, there’s the stars overhead.”
She arranged herself on the blanket, then with one hand tugged his head back toward her belly and with the other, his hand between her legs. Durant resumed where he’d left off.
Michele lay back and relaxed, as Durant was content to take the lead. “How do you like it?” he murmured on occasion.
“Good, very good,” Michele murmured. One thing about maintaining an accent, it was very difficult to do when one was in the throes of sexual pleasure. That’s why she never talked much during sex…
Resting her head comfortably on her pillow, gazing up at the stars, Michele twined her fingers in Durant’s hair and twirled it, as he spread her legs a little wider and applied himself to licking her clitoris. It was just so pleasurable, his arms resting against her thighs, his muscular tongue pleasuring her.
There was movement down below…he had torn open the condom package and was unrolling it onto his penis even as he continued to pleasure her…she tugged at his head and he abandoned her clitoris and moved up to take possession of her mouth. In the same motion he shoved his cock into her moist vagina.
Michele ran her fingernails up his back, not quite hard enough to break the surface of the skin. She gazed into his eyes, they were looking down at her. He was breathing hard, and she knew he was going to come soon. Suddenly he reached out and gathered her to him, pressing her breasts against his chest, as he began to thrust quicker and deeper, making deep gasping noises.
He began to shudder as his cum spurted out, never stopping his thrusting until it was all over.
He laid her back gently and looked down at her.
“You’re not done yet,” she murmured, pressing her pelvis upward.
He grinned, withdrew his penis and began to lick her clitoris again…and a few minutes later it was Michele who was shuddering with pleasure….
Friday, June 18, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy: Chapter 7
I.
Vic Durant walked into the security office. “Okay, tell me where they are.”
Jack the camera guy was switching between a bank of six cameras.
“No one came out of the front door. No one came out the back door. No one came out the windows. They’re still in the house.”
“Izzat so.” said Durant, heavily.
Jack nodded. “I’ve checked all cameras, all views for the last ten minutes, just in case I missed something. But, I didn’t.”
“Very good.”
Vic took out his walkie-talkie and switched to the interior channel. “Freddie. What’s the status in the ballroom?”
“Everything’s fine, Boss. Everybody’s dancing.”
“Our quarry did not leave the house. Has anyone come into the ballroom since our little contretemps?”
“No sir. I assigned a red jacket to each door to make sure that didn’t happen.”
“Very good, Freddie. You deserve a raise. Talk to ya later.”
He switched to the external channel. “Listen up, troops. Our targets are still in the house. So, stop the search of the grounds. Shell, assign two men to every door except the front door. Anyone comes out those doors, politely escort them to me. I’ll be on the front door.”
“Will do, Boss,” said Shell.
That was the thing about working a party with a guest list that featured the wealthy and/or the well-connected, Durant thought as he replaced his walkie talkie on his belt. You couldn’t just round everybody up and interrogate them. Not when there wasn’t a dead or badly injured body to provide an excuse for inconveniencing them.
The main problem was that he hadn’t gotten a good look at the would-be killer. He’d been too damn busy trying to chat up Marlene Dietrich. He’d recognize her again, alright…if she were still dressed in a tuxedo and had blonde hair. But if she had ditched her costume…hell…
What was up with her, anyway? She’d clearly been expecting something to happen. She’d called the guy…Colin… She’d stopped him from shooting Pretorius…then she’d helped him escape. And yet she hadn’t left the house.
“Sam, I’m going through the rooms on this floor. If someone comes and asks for their car, call me.”
“Right, Boss.”
Durant reached under his jacket and flicked the safety off his Mannlicher Schnauer. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened the first door on his right…the library, and walked in.
And saw the woman in the tuxedo, and the man in the black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, sitting comfortably in the chairs…and drinking Pretorius’ booze too, by the look of it.
II.
“Ah, hello,” said the man in the aviator costume, calmly. “I was hoping I would find you here.” He came in and closed the door behind him.
“I was hoping you’d find us, too,” said Michele, in her Taran Tula Italian accent. Seaforth shot her a quick glance as he heard this accent for the first time, but knew better than to say anything.
“Only I was hoping it wouldn’t be for another hour or so,” she continued.
“Do you mind explainng to me what’s going on?”
“Not at all. It’s very simple. It’s all a misunderstanding.”
“I thought it would be. Please…continue.”
Michele told him the story she’d worked out for Seaforth. Then, she reached over and held up the starter's pistol. “You see?”
The man took the starter's pistol from her hand and examined it.
Michele watched him examine the pistol. He was a professional. He knew guns. She knew he knew that it wasn’t the same gun. He may have had only a split second to look at, but experts knew these things. And he knew.
He looked up, and looked into her eyes for long seconds.
Then he spoke. “Sure,” he said, “Well, this does change things. We’ll talk to Pretorius, and if he doesn’t want to press charges…”
“You are very kind,” said Michele. He knew it wasn't the same gun, she knew he knew, and he knew that she knew that he knew...
“That’s true. Okay, I’m going to put a guard on this door, just to keep everything copacetic, and I’ll go have a chat with him.”
Michele watched him walk out the door, and smiled faintly. She really liked this guy.
III.
“Let me explain something to you,” Alan Pretorius said with controlled fury. “Of course I didn’t leak the news of that meeting to the press. Do you have any idea what that cost me? I’ve got your VAT people on to me, demanding I pay them what I would have had to pay them if I’d paid full price for that painting. Plus, they want to penalize me for having not paid the full amount that the painting should have been worth, thus cheating them out of their damn VAT!
Then, I’ve got my own tax people after me, wanting to send someone not only to appraise that painting but all my paintings, just in case I purchased some other mislabeled masterpieces and aren’t paying my fair share of taxes on them.
Then, I’ve got the Japanese government after me. They tossed Tetsujin out of the country 600 years ago and wouldn’t let him back in. Now they say he’s a National Treasure and they want that damn painting back! And they expect me to just give it to them!”
“Well, after all that,” said Michele diffidently, “I just have to ask. How did the press find out?”
“My secretary. My ex-secretary. I was on my honeymoon, for God’s sake. I told him to take care of all the details of getting the painting home. Yeah,I made the mistake of telling him what that painting really was. I gloated about it, I admit it. But it never occurred to me that the idiot would actually tell the press. Could conceivably think that I’d want the press to know! I fired his ass. And I’ll tell you what, Seaforth. If you want to kill him, I’ll pay for your lawyer, and support your wife and sister for the rest of their lives!"
Durant put his hand on his boss’s shoulder. “He’s joking, Seaforth.”
Pretorius looked up at Durant sulkily, then shrugged. “Yes, of course, Seaforth, I was joking.”
iv.
Michele and Vic Durant drove Seaforth to the airport, and stayed with him until he walked into the international departure lounge.
“I’d prefer to watch him actually get on the plane,” Durant said. But of course the rules said that family and friends could no longer pass passport conrol - only passengers.
“I, too,” said Michele. “But I think we need not fear. All he wants to do is go home.”
“Yeah. Nevertheless, we stay right here until his plane takes off. That door is the only one he could come out of, if he decided to leave.”
“I admire your attention to detail,” said Michele. “By all means, let us remain.”
They took up a station in a row of chairs right by the doors that led to the gates to the international department lounge.
“Do you realize,” said Durant, “that I still don’t know your name.”
Michele smoothed back her hair and smiled. “Tula. Taran Tula.”
Vic Durant walked into the security office. “Okay, tell me where they are.”
Jack the camera guy was switching between a bank of six cameras.
“No one came out of the front door. No one came out the back door. No one came out the windows. They’re still in the house.”
“Izzat so.” said Durant, heavily.
Jack nodded. “I’ve checked all cameras, all views for the last ten minutes, just in case I missed something. But, I didn’t.”
“Very good.”
Vic took out his walkie-talkie and switched to the interior channel. “Freddie. What’s the status in the ballroom?”
“Everything’s fine, Boss. Everybody’s dancing.”
“Our quarry did not leave the house. Has anyone come into the ballroom since our little contretemps?”
“No sir. I assigned a red jacket to each door to make sure that didn’t happen.”
“Very good, Freddie. You deserve a raise. Talk to ya later.”
He switched to the external channel. “Listen up, troops. Our targets are still in the house. So, stop the search of the grounds. Shell, assign two men to every door except the front door. Anyone comes out those doors, politely escort them to me. I’ll be on the front door.”
“Will do, Boss,” said Shell.
That was the thing about working a party with a guest list that featured the wealthy and/or the well-connected, Durant thought as he replaced his walkie talkie on his belt. You couldn’t just round everybody up and interrogate them. Not when there wasn’t a dead or badly injured body to provide an excuse for inconveniencing them.
The main problem was that he hadn’t gotten a good look at the would-be killer. He’d been too damn busy trying to chat up Marlene Dietrich. He’d recognize her again, alright…if she were still dressed in a tuxedo and had blonde hair. But if she had ditched her costume…hell…
What was up with her, anyway? She’d clearly been expecting something to happen. She’d called the guy…Colin… She’d stopped him from shooting Pretorius…then she’d helped him escape. And yet she hadn’t left the house.
“Sam, I’m going through the rooms on this floor. If someone comes and asks for their car, call me.”
“Right, Boss.”
Durant reached under his jacket and flicked the safety off his Mannlicher Schnauer. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened the first door on his right…the library, and walked in.
And saw the woman in the tuxedo, and the man in the black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, sitting comfortably in the chairs…and drinking Pretorius’ booze too, by the look of it.
II.
“Ah, hello,” said the man in the aviator costume, calmly. “I was hoping I would find you here.” He came in and closed the door behind him.
“I was hoping you’d find us, too,” said Michele, in her Taran Tula Italian accent. Seaforth shot her a quick glance as he heard this accent for the first time, but knew better than to say anything.
“Only I was hoping it wouldn’t be for another hour or so,” she continued.
“Do you mind explainng to me what’s going on?”
“Not at all. It’s very simple. It’s all a misunderstanding.”
“I thought it would be. Please…continue.”
Michele told him the story she’d worked out for Seaforth. Then, she reached over and held up the starter's pistol. “You see?”
The man took the starter's pistol from her hand and examined it.
Michele watched him examine the pistol. He was a professional. He knew guns. She knew he knew that it wasn’t the same gun. He may have had only a split second to look at, but experts knew these things. And he knew.
He looked up, and looked into her eyes for long seconds.
Then he spoke. “Sure,” he said, “Well, this does change things. We’ll talk to Pretorius, and if he doesn’t want to press charges…”
“You are very kind,” said Michele. He knew it wasn't the same gun, she knew he knew, and he knew that she knew that he knew...
“That’s true. Okay, I’m going to put a guard on this door, just to keep everything copacetic, and I’ll go have a chat with him.”
Michele watched him walk out the door, and smiled faintly. She really liked this guy.
III.
“Let me explain something to you,” Alan Pretorius said with controlled fury. “Of course I didn’t leak the news of that meeting to the press. Do you have any idea what that cost me? I’ve got your VAT people on to me, demanding I pay them what I would have had to pay them if I’d paid full price for that painting. Plus, they want to penalize me for having not paid the full amount that the painting should have been worth, thus cheating them out of their damn VAT!
Then, I’ve got my own tax people after me, wanting to send someone not only to appraise that painting but all my paintings, just in case I purchased some other mislabeled masterpieces and aren’t paying my fair share of taxes on them.
Then, I’ve got the Japanese government after me. They tossed Tetsujin out of the country 600 years ago and wouldn’t let him back in. Now they say he’s a National Treasure and they want that damn painting back! And they expect me to just give it to them!”
“Well, after all that,” said Michele diffidently, “I just have to ask. How did the press find out?”
“My secretary. My ex-secretary. I was on my honeymoon, for God’s sake. I told him to take care of all the details of getting the painting home. Yeah,I made the mistake of telling him what that painting really was. I gloated about it, I admit it. But it never occurred to me that the idiot would actually tell the press. Could conceivably think that I’d want the press to know! I fired his ass. And I’ll tell you what, Seaforth. If you want to kill him, I’ll pay for your lawyer, and support your wife and sister for the rest of their lives!"
Durant put his hand on his boss’s shoulder. “He’s joking, Seaforth.”
Pretorius looked up at Durant sulkily, then shrugged. “Yes, of course, Seaforth, I was joking.”
iv.
Michele and Vic Durant drove Seaforth to the airport, and stayed with him until he walked into the international departure lounge.
“I’d prefer to watch him actually get on the plane,” Durant said. But of course the rules said that family and friends could no longer pass passport conrol - only passengers.
“I, too,” said Michele. “But I think we need not fear. All he wants to do is go home.”
“Yeah. Nevertheless, we stay right here until his plane takes off. That door is the only one he could come out of, if he decided to leave.”
“I admire your attention to detail,” said Michele. “By all means, let us remain.”
They took up a station in a row of chairs right by the doors that led to the gates to the international department lounge.
“Do you realize,” said Durant, “that I still don’t know your name.”
Michele smoothed back her hair and smiled. “Tula. Taran Tula.”
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy Chapter 6
Michele looked at Seaforth, who sat hunched in the comfy leather chair, his hands over his face.
“No need to despair, Mr. Seaforth,” she told him, deliberately speaking cheerfully. “We’re actually in a pretty good situation.”
He lowered his hands and looked at her. She was heartened to see a faint smile on his face. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t killed anyone, you didn’t hurt anyone. Those are the two deal killers. So we should be able to talk our way out of this with no problem.”
Seaforth leaned back in his chair. “I’m glad to hear you say so…I could really use a drink.”
“I didn’t have time to retrieve my cane, otherwise I could be pouring you a nice slug of bourbon about now.”
“What is this room?”
“If those books lining the walls do not deceive me, I’d say this was a library.” She snapped her fingers. “You’re right. There’s bound to be some liquor around.”
She stood up, gazing around the room with rather more attention than she’d given it when she’d first dragged Seaforth into it. It was indeed a library, with floor to ceiling book cases lining the walls, and several comfortable black leather chairs in the center of the room, complete with footrests. And there, on a sideboard, were various decanters.
Michele transferred a bit of the whiskey to a glass and handed it to Seaforth. There was a bowl filled with premium-wrapped chocolates right next to the liquor. Feeling the need for a little fortification herself, she took a couple.
After swallowing the whisky at one gulp, Seaforth stared at her.
“You say you’re from my daughter?”
“That is correct. They were worried when you disappeared, and thought you might come here to have it out with Mr. Pretorius. My job was to stop you, which of course I have. I apologize for not having the ability to whisk you quietly and secretly away….had I had a bit more time, I could have infiltrated some of my people here to help with that, but as it is, we’re just going to have to face the music and dance.”
Seaforth nodded. “You’re right of course. Well, I’m ready.”
Michele held up a hand. “Not quite, Mr. Seaforth. We need to go over our story.”
Seaforth laughed harshly. “What story? I came here to kill that….that….”
“No,” Michele said sharply. “That is exactly what you did not do. How could you possibly have been trying to kill him, when all you had was a starter's pistol?”
“A…a starter's pistol?”
“Exactly. I retrieved it for you. Here it is.”
Michele reached into a specially tailored inner pocket of her tuxedo, and removed from it a realistic-looking pistol that was, indeed, a starter’s pistol, incapable of shooting real bullets.
“But…but…”
“Mr. Seaforth, here’s the thing. I know that the media in England really gave you a raw deal, but you’re in the United States of America now, and our media hates rich people. So here’s what happened. Alan Pretorius pulled a dirty trick on you, and then he bragged about it to the press. This caused you considerable emotional distress, and you decided that you were going to give him a scare at his party. It’s as simple as that.”
Seaforth looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“Pretorius isn’t going to want the bad publicity, do you see?” explained Michele. “Do you hear any police sirens? No, you don’t. That’s because he hasn’t sent for the cops. He’s going to want to brush this under the rug.”
“It has been my experience,” said Seaforth, “that the wealthy don’t give a damn about publicity, good, bad or indifferent.”
“Well, let’s say you’re right. That doesn’t matter. You are totally a sympathetic character. So if Pretorius does press charges, you just need to tell the jury what hell you’ve been in for the last three months because of all this bad publicity. You insist that you were just trying to scare him, not hurt him. The judge will let you off with a warning. Then you can go back to your wife and daughter, and start writing a book about your experiences. You’ll probably make a fortune off it.”
Seaforth laughed shakily. “You paint a very rosy picture.”
“I am a student of human nature, Mr. Seaforth. I know things.”
“Very well,” said Seaforth. “I am completely in your hands. So, what do we do now?”
Michele checked her watch. “We wait, Mr. Seaforth. I’d prefer to not have to meet Pretorius until after the rest of his guests leave. It all depends on how efficient his security crew is.”
At that exact moment, the door opened and Vic Durant entered the room.
“Ah,” said Michele. “Very efficient.”
“No need to despair, Mr. Seaforth,” she told him, deliberately speaking cheerfully. “We’re actually in a pretty good situation.”
He lowered his hands and looked at her. She was heartened to see a faint smile on his face. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t killed anyone, you didn’t hurt anyone. Those are the two deal killers. So we should be able to talk our way out of this with no problem.”
Seaforth leaned back in his chair. “I’m glad to hear you say so…I could really use a drink.”
“I didn’t have time to retrieve my cane, otherwise I could be pouring you a nice slug of bourbon about now.”
“What is this room?”
“If those books lining the walls do not deceive me, I’d say this was a library.” She snapped her fingers. “You’re right. There’s bound to be some liquor around.”
She stood up, gazing around the room with rather more attention than she’d given it when she’d first dragged Seaforth into it. It was indeed a library, with floor to ceiling book cases lining the walls, and several comfortable black leather chairs in the center of the room, complete with footrests. And there, on a sideboard, were various decanters.
Michele transferred a bit of the whiskey to a glass and handed it to Seaforth. There was a bowl filled with premium-wrapped chocolates right next to the liquor. Feeling the need for a little fortification herself, she took a couple.
After swallowing the whisky at one gulp, Seaforth stared at her.
“You say you’re from my daughter?”
“That is correct. They were worried when you disappeared, and thought you might come here to have it out with Mr. Pretorius. My job was to stop you, which of course I have. I apologize for not having the ability to whisk you quietly and secretly away….had I had a bit more time, I could have infiltrated some of my people here to help with that, but as it is, we’re just going to have to face the music and dance.”
Seaforth nodded. “You’re right of course. Well, I’m ready.”
Michele held up a hand. “Not quite, Mr. Seaforth. We need to go over our story.”
Seaforth laughed harshly. “What story? I came here to kill that….that….”
“No,” Michele said sharply. “That is exactly what you did not do. How could you possibly have been trying to kill him, when all you had was a starter's pistol?”
“A…a starter's pistol?”
“Exactly. I retrieved it for you. Here it is.”
Michele reached into a specially tailored inner pocket of her tuxedo, and removed from it a realistic-looking pistol that was, indeed, a starter’s pistol, incapable of shooting real bullets.
“But…but…”
“Mr. Seaforth, here’s the thing. I know that the media in England really gave you a raw deal, but you’re in the United States of America now, and our media hates rich people. So here’s what happened. Alan Pretorius pulled a dirty trick on you, and then he bragged about it to the press. This caused you considerable emotional distress, and you decided that you were going to give him a scare at his party. It’s as simple as that.”
Seaforth looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“Pretorius isn’t going to want the bad publicity, do you see?” explained Michele. “Do you hear any police sirens? No, you don’t. That’s because he hasn’t sent for the cops. He’s going to want to brush this under the rug.”
“It has been my experience,” said Seaforth, “that the wealthy don’t give a damn about publicity, good, bad or indifferent.”
“Well, let’s say you’re right. That doesn’t matter. You are totally a sympathetic character. So if Pretorius does press charges, you just need to tell the jury what hell you’ve been in for the last three months because of all this bad publicity. You insist that you were just trying to scare him, not hurt him. The judge will let you off with a warning. Then you can go back to your wife and daughter, and start writing a book about your experiences. You’ll probably make a fortune off it.”
Seaforth laughed shakily. “You paint a very rosy picture.”
“I am a student of human nature, Mr. Seaforth. I know things.”
“Very well,” said Seaforth. “I am completely in your hands. So, what do we do now?”
Michele checked her watch. “We wait, Mr. Seaforth. I’d prefer to not have to meet Pretorius until after the rest of his guests leave. It all depends on how efficient his security crew is.”
At that exact moment, the door opened and Vic Durant entered the room.
“Ah,” said Michele. “Very efficient.”
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy: Chapter 5
Chapter 5 – She Said: The Same Night, From Michele’s Point of View
Michele dined at an Appleby’s that night. She typically ate out because restaurant food was so much better than microwaved TV dinners, although she had her freezer stocked with them for emergencies. Long story short – Michele Bravo did not cook.
Returning to her apartment, she took an alarm clock into the bathroom and set it for 7 pm. Then, she took a shower and soaped off the grime and sweat of the day. Then, Japanese style, she filled the bath with hot water and lay back in the tub with a sybaritic sigh of pleasure.
She relaxed completely, opening her eyes only long enough to lean forward and refresh the hotness every ten minutes or so, until the alarm clock rang and told her it was time to get busy.
She dried herself with a large, sumptuous towel, slipped into her panties and bra, and then walked into her bedroom, where she performed a few stretching exercises – the splits with legs extended front and back, and the splits with legs extended from side to side. She performed a couple of slow motion backward somersaults, feeling the strength in her legs, her buttocks, her stomach, her arms…the controlled power that she possessed…it was a great feeling.
And hopefully it would all be put to good use tonight.
One wall of her bedroom was fitted with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. This was not because Michele and her lovers liked to watch themselves having sex (indeed, she never invited anybody to this particular apartment – it was her private domain), but because when she put on her disguises, she liked to have a view of every inch of it, from every angle.
She dressed now in a tuxedo…black, low heeled boots, black slacks, a white vest over a boiled lobster shirt with a white bowtie, and a black jacket over all, with a crisp white handkerchief in the chest pocket. She twirled the silver-topped cane a bit, judging its weight and heft, and then nodded her approval. “Marlene Dietrich to the life, dahling,” she murmured. All that remained was her blond wig and her high top hat.
Now the only question remained….at what time should she arrive at the party?
She was well-versed in European art, and could talk knowledgeably about Japanese ukiyo-e, but knew nothing about Pretorius’ apparent particular area of expertise -- the paintings made by the two Japanese artists who had been trapped in England after the enactment of Sakoku in 1633 (an edict by the Japanese Shogun that no foreigners would be allowed in the country, and no Japanese citizens could leave it, on pain of death. Those Japanese who had left the country were not allowed to return. The edict lasted until 1853, when American Commodore Mathew Perry sailed into Yokohama Bay with his seven “Black Ships” and forced Japan to open itself up to trade with the West.)
However, she well knew that her lack of knowledge on any subject was not a drawback – get someone talking on his or her favorite theme and keep nodding in appreciation, and they’d be delighted to hog the whole conversation themselves. She wouldn’t have to say a word all night.
The Pretorius party was due to start at 8 o’clock, the unveiling of the lost Tetsujin painting was due to take place at 11. It would be around that time that Seaforth would strike, Michele was sure. But would he arrive at the party on time…or would he come in late, to lose himself in the crowd.
Well, hell, she’d better get there precisely at 8 o’clock. The best thing to do would be to cut Seaforth off at the pass, i.e. just when he walked in the door, rather than give him a chance to get close to Pretorius.
Alas, the best-laid plans of mice and men g’ang oft agley. As she drove toward Westchester she encountered a traffic accident, with no way to drive around it. It delayed her for an hour, and so she had to put the pedal to the metal of her Codatronca Italian sportscar, and it was at 9 pm precisely – an hour late—that she drove up to the front gate of the Pretorius mansion. “Name please, miss,” the guard said, “and may I see your driver’s license?”
“Taran Tula,” she replied in her Italian accent, and handed over both her International Driving License and her European Union Driver’s License, designating her as a resident of Italy.
The guard checked her name off from a list, returned her documents, and waved her through. A parking valet was waiting in the circular drive to park her car for her.
The valet looked at her car with lust in his eyes.
“I wish to park my car myself,” Michele told him. The light in his eyes died.
“Well, ma’am, just follow this road about a mile down the road….”
Michele stared at him. Normally a mile would be nothing, she could sprint it in 5 minutes or so. But she didn’t have time to waste, Seaforth might already be inside.
“Oh, very well,” she said, giving the valet a brilliant smile. She dropped into a German accent. “This is my Codatronca. I don’t want any dings, dents or scratches, or I’ll have your ass.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the valet, taking her keys gingerly and handing her a ticket in return.
That was going to make things dodgy if she had to make a quick getaway, she thought. Of course she had an extra key in her shoe, but she’d have no idea where precisely her car was parked, and it was at least six minutes away.
A butler just inside the door welcomed her, and gestured toward the open doors of the ballroom, from which sounds of merrymaking were emitting.
“Three, two, one and….action,” Michele murmured to herself, walking through the door.
She paused briefly, her eyes scanning the room, noting red-jacketed waiters behind a bar and behind buffet tables, a small chamber orchestra, and a dais on which was placed a velvet-draped object – that had to be the painting that had caused all the fuss – and about 75 people milling around.
Wandering around the crowd looking for Seaforth was pointless…she needed a vantage point from which to watch…the bar? Everyone went to the bar, and Seaforth would probably need to nerve himself up before doing …whatever deed he planned to do…
She walked over to the bar and spoke very softly, in her Italian accent… “I would like a glass of water, please. In a martini glass, with an olive.”
The well-trained bartender evidenced not an ounce of surprise, but did as she requested. She took her glass, took the slightest of sips, and then turned and saw the stairs leading to the second floor. From a vantage point up there, she realized, she could watch this entire floor with ease. That would be the place.
She moved quietly through the crowd, then mounted the steps with a jaunty swing of her cane. There were a few people up here, drifting past the paintings and discussing them in low voices. Michele propped her cane up against the balustrade and leaned her forearms on the balustrade, gazing out at the activity below.
It all depended on if he were wearing a costume with a mask, she thought. She hadn’t seen anyone who was yet…except…yes there was a guy dressed as Zorro, but he was too short and fat to be Seaforth…
Michele sensed movement beside her. Someone was leaning on the balustrade right next to her.
“I love your costume,” said a voice with a slight drawl….Texan? she wondered automatically. “But then I love Marlene Dietrich.”
She glanced and smiled at him briefly – Michele was never one to snub someone – and then returned to her search. But…that brief glance had been interesting. The man had Siberian husky eyes, pale blue in a tanned face. She turned to look at him with more attention. Mmmm mmm. His face was just the way she liked it, tanned, square chin, good teeth…and those eyes…
“Thank you,” she said, with a German accent. She smiled at him again, a little more warmly.
“Get a grip,” she told herself, returning her gaze to the floor below. “You’re working here.”
“You seem to be looking for someone,” he said, “Can I help?”
“No, I thank you. I am looking for a friend. I will find him.”
“What kind of costume is he wearing? I’ll help you look.”
Michele felt an inner glow. She knew when she was being chatted up by a guy. She directed another smile at him. “I don’t know. It was very careless of him not to tell me. But I suspect he will be carrying a totschlager.”
“A what?”
She waved a hand. “Nothing. I joke.” (A totschlager was a “death maker”, or morning star. A club with a spiked iron ball on one end.)
“It’s another hour or so before the unveiling. I hope your friend will be here before then.”
Michele grinned at him. “I hope so, too.”
“If he doesn’t show up, I’ll be pleased to escort you. As a matter of fact, I can get you a close up view of the unveiling, if you like.”
“Can you?” she said, giving him another look, an appraising one. “This means you are…”
She stopped, and turned to look down at the floor below, where a sudden silence had descended.
Most of the guests had been clustered near the walls of the room, in close proximity to the food and the music, or gazing at the paintings or talking amongst themselves.
And a man had just shrugged out of a cowl and robe, to reveal black slacks and turtleneck sweater, and stood four-square in the middle of the room, holding a pistol pointed toward Pretorius.
There was no screaming, just shocked looks and every frozen as if in a tableaux.
“Son of a bitch,” Michele screamed in her mind, while she simultaneously flicked her wrist to bring the cane up a little bit in her hand. She yelled “Colin!” and simultaneously through the cane like a javelin.
Seaforth’s head jerked up towards her, even as her cane hit him in the shoulder. He dropped the gun, and immediately started to run.
Michele grabbed the balustrade and flung herself into space. An experienced rock climber and rappeler, she held onto the balustrade with her fingers just long enough to slow her descent so that she landed cat-like on her feet. First she went for the gun – she needed that gun – but she didn’t have time to go for the cane. Grabbing up the gun she sprinted out of the room.
In the hallway, the butler had Seaforth in a hammer lock. Without hesitation, Michele swung the gun at his head, and there was a satisfying thunk. She grabbed Seaforth’s arm. “I’m from your daughter,” she hissed. “Come with me.” She pulled him down the hallway and through the first available door, which she closed and locked behind her.
“Let us sit down and compose ourselves,” she told Seaforth calmly.
Wordlessly, he did as instructed. All passion spent, he was now just an old, sad man, who realized what he’d almost done.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Michele told herself savagely. It was absolutely typical. She had taken her eyes off the floor to look at a cute guy for just thirty seconds…thirty seconds!...and that was when Seaforth had chosen to make his move. Had she not been dallying, she would have seen him before he’d taken the gun out, yelled to him then, sounding like a drunk to excuse her lack of manners, invoke the name of his wife and his daughter and talk some sense into him.
But no…. now they were trapped in the Pretorius mansion, and her was car six minutes away across open ground that was even now probably seething with security guards an cameras. How was she going to get him out of here?
Michele dined at an Appleby’s that night. She typically ate out because restaurant food was so much better than microwaved TV dinners, although she had her freezer stocked with them for emergencies. Long story short – Michele Bravo did not cook.
Returning to her apartment, she took an alarm clock into the bathroom and set it for 7 pm. Then, she took a shower and soaped off the grime and sweat of the day. Then, Japanese style, she filled the bath with hot water and lay back in the tub with a sybaritic sigh of pleasure.
She relaxed completely, opening her eyes only long enough to lean forward and refresh the hotness every ten minutes or so, until the alarm clock rang and told her it was time to get busy.
She dried herself with a large, sumptuous towel, slipped into her panties and bra, and then walked into her bedroom, where she performed a few stretching exercises – the splits with legs extended front and back, and the splits with legs extended from side to side. She performed a couple of slow motion backward somersaults, feeling the strength in her legs, her buttocks, her stomach, her arms…the controlled power that she possessed…it was a great feeling.
And hopefully it would all be put to good use tonight.
One wall of her bedroom was fitted with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. This was not because Michele and her lovers liked to watch themselves having sex (indeed, she never invited anybody to this particular apartment – it was her private domain), but because when she put on her disguises, she liked to have a view of every inch of it, from every angle.
She dressed now in a tuxedo…black, low heeled boots, black slacks, a white vest over a boiled lobster shirt with a white bowtie, and a black jacket over all, with a crisp white handkerchief in the chest pocket. She twirled the silver-topped cane a bit, judging its weight and heft, and then nodded her approval. “Marlene Dietrich to the life, dahling,” she murmured. All that remained was her blond wig and her high top hat.
Now the only question remained….at what time should she arrive at the party?
She was well-versed in European art, and could talk knowledgeably about Japanese ukiyo-e, but knew nothing about Pretorius’ apparent particular area of expertise -- the paintings made by the two Japanese artists who had been trapped in England after the enactment of Sakoku in 1633 (an edict by the Japanese Shogun that no foreigners would be allowed in the country, and no Japanese citizens could leave it, on pain of death. Those Japanese who had left the country were not allowed to return. The edict lasted until 1853, when American Commodore Mathew Perry sailed into Yokohama Bay with his seven “Black Ships” and forced Japan to open itself up to trade with the West.)
However, she well knew that her lack of knowledge on any subject was not a drawback – get someone talking on his or her favorite theme and keep nodding in appreciation, and they’d be delighted to hog the whole conversation themselves. She wouldn’t have to say a word all night.
The Pretorius party was due to start at 8 o’clock, the unveiling of the lost Tetsujin painting was due to take place at 11. It would be around that time that Seaforth would strike, Michele was sure. But would he arrive at the party on time…or would he come in late, to lose himself in the crowd.
Well, hell, she’d better get there precisely at 8 o’clock. The best thing to do would be to cut Seaforth off at the pass, i.e. just when he walked in the door, rather than give him a chance to get close to Pretorius.
Alas, the best-laid plans of mice and men g’ang oft agley. As she drove toward Westchester she encountered a traffic accident, with no way to drive around it. It delayed her for an hour, and so she had to put the pedal to the metal of her Codatronca Italian sportscar, and it was at 9 pm precisely – an hour late—that she drove up to the front gate of the Pretorius mansion. “Name please, miss,” the guard said, “and may I see your driver’s license?”
“Taran Tula,” she replied in her Italian accent, and handed over both her International Driving License and her European Union Driver’s License, designating her as a resident of Italy.
The guard checked her name off from a list, returned her documents, and waved her through. A parking valet was waiting in the circular drive to park her car for her.
The valet looked at her car with lust in his eyes.
“I wish to park my car myself,” Michele told him. The light in his eyes died.
“Well, ma’am, just follow this road about a mile down the road….”
Michele stared at him. Normally a mile would be nothing, she could sprint it in 5 minutes or so. But she didn’t have time to waste, Seaforth might already be inside.
“Oh, very well,” she said, giving the valet a brilliant smile. She dropped into a German accent. “This is my Codatronca. I don’t want any dings, dents or scratches, or I’ll have your ass.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the valet, taking her keys gingerly and handing her a ticket in return.
That was going to make things dodgy if she had to make a quick getaway, she thought. Of course she had an extra key in her shoe, but she’d have no idea where precisely her car was parked, and it was at least six minutes away.
A butler just inside the door welcomed her, and gestured toward the open doors of the ballroom, from which sounds of merrymaking were emitting.
“Three, two, one and….action,” Michele murmured to herself, walking through the door.
She paused briefly, her eyes scanning the room, noting red-jacketed waiters behind a bar and behind buffet tables, a small chamber orchestra, and a dais on which was placed a velvet-draped object – that had to be the painting that had caused all the fuss – and about 75 people milling around.
Wandering around the crowd looking for Seaforth was pointless…she needed a vantage point from which to watch…the bar? Everyone went to the bar, and Seaforth would probably need to nerve himself up before doing …whatever deed he planned to do…
She walked over to the bar and spoke very softly, in her Italian accent… “I would like a glass of water, please. In a martini glass, with an olive.”
The well-trained bartender evidenced not an ounce of surprise, but did as she requested. She took her glass, took the slightest of sips, and then turned and saw the stairs leading to the second floor. From a vantage point up there, she realized, she could watch this entire floor with ease. That would be the place.
She moved quietly through the crowd, then mounted the steps with a jaunty swing of her cane. There were a few people up here, drifting past the paintings and discussing them in low voices. Michele propped her cane up against the balustrade and leaned her forearms on the balustrade, gazing out at the activity below.
It all depended on if he were wearing a costume with a mask, she thought. She hadn’t seen anyone who was yet…except…yes there was a guy dressed as Zorro, but he was too short and fat to be Seaforth…
Michele sensed movement beside her. Someone was leaning on the balustrade right next to her.
“I love your costume,” said a voice with a slight drawl….Texan? she wondered automatically. “But then I love Marlene Dietrich.”
She glanced and smiled at him briefly – Michele was never one to snub someone – and then returned to her search. But…that brief glance had been interesting. The man had Siberian husky eyes, pale blue in a tanned face. She turned to look at him with more attention. Mmmm mmm. His face was just the way she liked it, tanned, square chin, good teeth…and those eyes…
“Thank you,” she said, with a German accent. She smiled at him again, a little more warmly.
“Get a grip,” she told herself, returning her gaze to the floor below. “You’re working here.”
“You seem to be looking for someone,” he said, “Can I help?”
“No, I thank you. I am looking for a friend. I will find him.”
“What kind of costume is he wearing? I’ll help you look.”
Michele felt an inner glow. She knew when she was being chatted up by a guy. She directed another smile at him. “I don’t know. It was very careless of him not to tell me. But I suspect he will be carrying a totschlager.”
“A what?”
She waved a hand. “Nothing. I joke.” (A totschlager was a “death maker”, or morning star. A club with a spiked iron ball on one end.)
“It’s another hour or so before the unveiling. I hope your friend will be here before then.”
Michele grinned at him. “I hope so, too.”
“If he doesn’t show up, I’ll be pleased to escort you. As a matter of fact, I can get you a close up view of the unveiling, if you like.”
“Can you?” she said, giving him another look, an appraising one. “This means you are…”
She stopped, and turned to look down at the floor below, where a sudden silence had descended.
Most of the guests had been clustered near the walls of the room, in close proximity to the food and the music, or gazing at the paintings or talking amongst themselves.
And a man had just shrugged out of a cowl and robe, to reveal black slacks and turtleneck sweater, and stood four-square in the middle of the room, holding a pistol pointed toward Pretorius.
There was no screaming, just shocked looks and every frozen as if in a tableaux.
“Son of a bitch,” Michele screamed in her mind, while she simultaneously flicked her wrist to bring the cane up a little bit in her hand. She yelled “Colin!” and simultaneously through the cane like a javelin.
Seaforth’s head jerked up towards her, even as her cane hit him in the shoulder. He dropped the gun, and immediately started to run.
Michele grabbed the balustrade and flung herself into space. An experienced rock climber and rappeler, she held onto the balustrade with her fingers just long enough to slow her descent so that she landed cat-like on her feet. First she went for the gun – she needed that gun – but she didn’t have time to go for the cane. Grabbing up the gun she sprinted out of the room.
In the hallway, the butler had Seaforth in a hammer lock. Without hesitation, Michele swung the gun at his head, and there was a satisfying thunk. She grabbed Seaforth’s arm. “I’m from your daughter,” she hissed. “Come with me.” She pulled him down the hallway and through the first available door, which she closed and locked behind her.
“Let us sit down and compose ourselves,” she told Seaforth calmly.
Wordlessly, he did as instructed. All passion spent, he was now just an old, sad man, who realized what he’d almost done.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Michele told herself savagely. It was absolutely typical. She had taken her eyes off the floor to look at a cute guy for just thirty seconds…thirty seconds!...and that was when Seaforth had chosen to make his move. Had she not been dallying, she would have seen him before he’d taken the gun out, yelled to him then, sounding like a drunk to excuse her lack of manners, invoke the name of his wife and his daughter and talk some sense into him.
But no…. now they were trapped in the Pretorius mansion, and her was car six minutes away across open ground that was even now probably seething with security guards an cameras. How was she going to get him out of here?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy: Chapter 4
Sole Remedy Chapter 4 – The Man in the Case
The costume party and art unveiling was invitation only, and the invite list included only the most well-known art lovers and art connoisseurs on the eastern seaboard (as well as a few people who had managed to wangle invitations – but they could only have wangled them from the well-known art lovers, so that was alright!). The high iron palisade surrounding the estate – complete with motion sensors and cameras - kept out unwanted visitors, as did the guard houses at each of the estate’s entrances.
So Alan Pretorius wasn’t too worried about unauthorized people getting access to his home, or about any guest trying to make off with one of his paintings.
Nevertheless, all of the red-jacketed serving staffwere security guards in disguise. They were there more to provide emergency help rather than anything else, being well-versed in CPR and other resuscitation techniques, in case anyone had a heart attack while gazing at the incomparable beauty on the walls.
“….or walking around,” thought Vic Durant, as his eyes fell on a tall blond woman clad in a black tuxedo and high top hat and carrying a silver-topped cane, who had just entered the room.
The party had started at eight, and the first guests had trickled in right on time. It was now 9 pm and about half the guests had arrived. The grand unveiling was scheduled to take place at 11.
A small chamber orchestra was playing music in one corner of the grand ballroom, which consisted of a very large, circular, three-story room. Opposite them were the buffet tables, manned by three red-jacketed servers, with three more red-jackets carrying around trays with drinks.
Vic Durant’s eyes had scanned the room periodically since the first guests had arrived. No one had stuck out until now – the guests had been mostly bejeweled dowagers and corpulent older men…some of them albeit with young wives or girlfriends. Pretorius and his young bride greeted everyone, and Pretorius’ son from his first marriage was also on hand to greet and mingle.
None of the guest had been very interesting. But this woman….five foot ten. Slender…breasts 24B-he judged. Nice hips, not too slender, not too broad. But what struck him most was her air of composure. She had entered the room, glanced around, and moved toward the bar with the grace of a panther.
Durant, in charge of security for the party, was dressed not in a red jacket but rather in the leather jacket and cap of a 1920s aviator, complete with goggles pushed back on his head and a white silk scarf.
He watched Marlene Dietrich – the costume was clearly that of Marlene Dietrich – accept what looked like a martini from the bartender. Then, she turned and walked over to a dais where the painting of the evening stood, shrouded in velvet, waiting for the unveiling. She walked around the dais, then headed directly for the grand stair case leading up to the second floor.
Paintings lined the room on each floor. But Marlene (as he took to calling her) did not walk around looking at any of the paintings. Instead she came immediately to the balustrade so that she could look down at the guests below.
Looking for someone, Durant deduced. But why didn’t she just call the guy on her cell phone – it’d be a guy, he was sure – to connect, instead of standing at a vantage point and just being hopeful? Or why hadn’t they arranged to meet by the door…why was she standing there and who was she looking for?
Because she was certainly looking very intently for someone.
Well, perhaps he’d better go and see if he could be any assistance.
As he approached her, he noted that her martini did not appear to have been touched. He rested his forearms across the balustrade, mirroring her own casual stance, and looked down at the view. It was a nice view, if you liked people watching.
“I love your costume,” he said. “But then I love Marlene Dietrich.”
She smiled at him briefly, then her eyes returned to her search. Then they looked back at his face with rather more attention. Durant was obscurely flattered.
“Thank you,” she said, with a German accent. She smiled at him again, a little more warmly. Then, she returned her gaze to the floor below.
“You seem to be looking for someone,” he said, “Can I help?”
“No, I thank you. I am looking for a friend. I will find him.”
“What kind of costume is he wearing? I’ll help you look.”
She directed another smile at him. “I don’t know. It was very careless of him not to tell me. But I suspect he will be carrying a totschlager.”
“A what?”
She waved a hand. “Nothing. I joke.”
Durant checked his watch. “It’s another hour or so before the unveiling. I hope your friend will be here before then.”
“I hope so, too.”
“If he doesn’t show up, I’ll be pleased to escort you. As a matter of fact, I can get you a close up view of the unveiling, if you like.”
“Can you?” she said, giving him another look, an appraising one. “This means you are…”
She stopped, and turned to look down at the floor below, where a sudden silence had descended.
Most of the guests had been clustered near the walls of the room – in close proximity to the food and the music, truth to tell – or gazing at the paintings or talking amongst themselves. Alan Pretorius and his wife were standing near the dais already, talking with a group of people.
And a man had just shrugged out of a cowl and robe and stood four-square in the middle of the room, holding a pistol pointed toward Pretorius.
There was no screaming, just shocked looks and every frozen as if in a tableaux.
Quicker than it takes to tell, the woman flicked her wrist to bring the cane up a little bit in her hand. She yelled “Colin!” and simultaneously through the cane like a javelin.
It must have been weighted, because even as the gunman’s head was jerking toward the sound of the voice, it hit him in the shoulder and caused him to drop the pistol. Without trying to retrieve the weapon, he sprinted for the doors.
While his eyes had been watching the gunman, out of the corner of his eye he had noticed movement beside him. him Marlene had actually swung herself over the edge of the balcony and now dropped down to the floor below.
After that, he didn’t see what she did, because he himself was sprinting for the grand staircase. He held his sleeve up to his mouth and hissed into the microphone there.
“Stay in the ballroom,” he ordered. “Red jackets, stay in the ballroom. Waiters, converge around Pretorius and his wife. Form a cordon. I’m after the guy.”
Durant lowered his arm to assist in sprinting down the steps. He was delayed, however, by a couple of elderly people trying to head for the door. "Stay in here, please," he told them, speaking in a calm voice. "We have it under control, no need to worry."
Then he hurried from the room, closing the doors behind him.
The hallway was empty, except for Sam the butler-cum-security guard, who was sprawled out on the floor. Durant bent down and checked – strong pulse. No blood. He’d just been knocked out. Indeed, he seemed to be coming around already.
“Sam, what happened?” he demanded urgently.
Sam clutched his head and swore. “I heard a shout from the ballroom, and was just going to head in that direction when this guy came running out. I grabbed him, and put him on his knees in an armlock. Then this woman in a tuxedo comes up to me, and she clobbered me with the butt of a gun.”
“She hit you?” Durant said incredulously.
“Damn right. And that’s all I know. But…” he got to his feet. “I’m okay now.”
“Okay. Well, that guy just tried to shoot Pretorius. But he didn’t succeed. I’m not sure where the woman comes in to all of this. She stopped the shooting, for God’s sake!”
“You don’t say,” Sam said sourly.
“I do say. So radio the guys at all the gates. I want the cameras checked and I want these people found. Found, not hurt. Tasers only, and only if strictly necessary.”
“Right, boss.”
“Okay. I’m going back to check on Pretorius.”
In the ballroom, everything was proceeding as normally – even a little louder and a little gayer.
Far from allowing the waiters to cordon him off, Pretorius had shoved them away and raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for that little hiccup. Must have been an art hater. But as you can see my security detail was on the job, and I don’t doubt that the guy has been captured, hog-tied and is awaiting delivery to the cops. So let’s not let this silly event spoil the party. Let’s dance!” and he had signaled the chamber orchestra to begin playing.
Vic Durant entered the ballroom in time to see Pretorius dancing with his wife, smiling down at her with love. A few other couples were also tripping the light fantastic. Most people seemed to be at the buffet or the bar, fortifying themselves after the shock.
Durant took a deep breath, expelled it slowly. They’d dodged a bullet, but those two folks were still somewhere in the grounds. And for more than one reason, he was determined to see “Marlene Dietrich” again.
The costume party and art unveiling was invitation only, and the invite list included only the most well-known art lovers and art connoisseurs on the eastern seaboard (as well as a few people who had managed to wangle invitations – but they could only have wangled them from the well-known art lovers, so that was alright!). The high iron palisade surrounding the estate – complete with motion sensors and cameras - kept out unwanted visitors, as did the guard houses at each of the estate’s entrances.
So Alan Pretorius wasn’t too worried about unauthorized people getting access to his home, or about any guest trying to make off with one of his paintings.
Nevertheless, all of the red-jacketed serving staffwere security guards in disguise. They were there more to provide emergency help rather than anything else, being well-versed in CPR and other resuscitation techniques, in case anyone had a heart attack while gazing at the incomparable beauty on the walls.
“….or walking around,” thought Vic Durant, as his eyes fell on a tall blond woman clad in a black tuxedo and high top hat and carrying a silver-topped cane, who had just entered the room.
The party had started at eight, and the first guests had trickled in right on time. It was now 9 pm and about half the guests had arrived. The grand unveiling was scheduled to take place at 11.
A small chamber orchestra was playing music in one corner of the grand ballroom, which consisted of a very large, circular, three-story room. Opposite them were the buffet tables, manned by three red-jacketed servers, with three more red-jackets carrying around trays with drinks.
Vic Durant’s eyes had scanned the room periodically since the first guests had arrived. No one had stuck out until now – the guests had been mostly bejeweled dowagers and corpulent older men…some of them albeit with young wives or girlfriends. Pretorius and his young bride greeted everyone, and Pretorius’ son from his first marriage was also on hand to greet and mingle.
None of the guest had been very interesting. But this woman….five foot ten. Slender…breasts 24B-he judged. Nice hips, not too slender, not too broad. But what struck him most was her air of composure. She had entered the room, glanced around, and moved toward the bar with the grace of a panther.
Durant, in charge of security for the party, was dressed not in a red jacket but rather in the leather jacket and cap of a 1920s aviator, complete with goggles pushed back on his head and a white silk scarf.
He watched Marlene Dietrich – the costume was clearly that of Marlene Dietrich – accept what looked like a martini from the bartender. Then, she turned and walked over to a dais where the painting of the evening stood, shrouded in velvet, waiting for the unveiling. She walked around the dais, then headed directly for the grand stair case leading up to the second floor.
Paintings lined the room on each floor. But Marlene (as he took to calling her) did not walk around looking at any of the paintings. Instead she came immediately to the balustrade so that she could look down at the guests below.
Looking for someone, Durant deduced. But why didn’t she just call the guy on her cell phone – it’d be a guy, he was sure – to connect, instead of standing at a vantage point and just being hopeful? Or why hadn’t they arranged to meet by the door…why was she standing there and who was she looking for?
Because she was certainly looking very intently for someone.
Well, perhaps he’d better go and see if he could be any assistance.
As he approached her, he noted that her martini did not appear to have been touched. He rested his forearms across the balustrade, mirroring her own casual stance, and looked down at the view. It was a nice view, if you liked people watching.
“I love your costume,” he said. “But then I love Marlene Dietrich.”
She smiled at him briefly, then her eyes returned to her search. Then they looked back at his face with rather more attention. Durant was obscurely flattered.
“Thank you,” she said, with a German accent. She smiled at him again, a little more warmly. Then, she returned her gaze to the floor below.
“You seem to be looking for someone,” he said, “Can I help?”
“No, I thank you. I am looking for a friend. I will find him.”
“What kind of costume is he wearing? I’ll help you look.”
She directed another smile at him. “I don’t know. It was very careless of him not to tell me. But I suspect he will be carrying a totschlager.”
“A what?”
She waved a hand. “Nothing. I joke.”
Durant checked his watch. “It’s another hour or so before the unveiling. I hope your friend will be here before then.”
“I hope so, too.”
“If he doesn’t show up, I’ll be pleased to escort you. As a matter of fact, I can get you a close up view of the unveiling, if you like.”
“Can you?” she said, giving him another look, an appraising one. “This means you are…”
She stopped, and turned to look down at the floor below, where a sudden silence had descended.
Most of the guests had been clustered near the walls of the room – in close proximity to the food and the music, truth to tell – or gazing at the paintings or talking amongst themselves. Alan Pretorius and his wife were standing near the dais already, talking with a group of people.
And a man had just shrugged out of a cowl and robe and stood four-square in the middle of the room, holding a pistol pointed toward Pretorius.
There was no screaming, just shocked looks and every frozen as if in a tableaux.
Quicker than it takes to tell, the woman flicked her wrist to bring the cane up a little bit in her hand. She yelled “Colin!” and simultaneously through the cane like a javelin.
It must have been weighted, because even as the gunman’s head was jerking toward the sound of the voice, it hit him in the shoulder and caused him to drop the pistol. Without trying to retrieve the weapon, he sprinted for the doors.
While his eyes had been watching the gunman, out of the corner of his eye he had noticed movement beside him. him Marlene had actually swung herself over the edge of the balcony and now dropped down to the floor below.
After that, he didn’t see what she did, because he himself was sprinting for the grand staircase. He held his sleeve up to his mouth and hissed into the microphone there.
“Stay in the ballroom,” he ordered. “Red jackets, stay in the ballroom. Waiters, converge around Pretorius and his wife. Form a cordon. I’m after the guy.”
Durant lowered his arm to assist in sprinting down the steps. He was delayed, however, by a couple of elderly people trying to head for the door. "Stay in here, please," he told them, speaking in a calm voice. "We have it under control, no need to worry."
Then he hurried from the room, closing the doors behind him.
The hallway was empty, except for Sam the butler-cum-security guard, who was sprawled out on the floor. Durant bent down and checked – strong pulse. No blood. He’d just been knocked out. Indeed, he seemed to be coming around already.
“Sam, what happened?” he demanded urgently.
Sam clutched his head and swore. “I heard a shout from the ballroom, and was just going to head in that direction when this guy came running out. I grabbed him, and put him on his knees in an armlock. Then this woman in a tuxedo comes up to me, and she clobbered me with the butt of a gun.”
“She hit you?” Durant said incredulously.
“Damn right. And that’s all I know. But…” he got to his feet. “I’m okay now.”
“Okay. Well, that guy just tried to shoot Pretorius. But he didn’t succeed. I’m not sure where the woman comes in to all of this. She stopped the shooting, for God’s sake!”
“You don’t say,” Sam said sourly.
“I do say. So radio the guys at all the gates. I want the cameras checked and I want these people found. Found, not hurt. Tasers only, and only if strictly necessary.”
“Right, boss.”
“Okay. I’m going back to check on Pretorius.”
In the ballroom, everything was proceeding as normally – even a little louder and a little gayer.
Far from allowing the waiters to cordon him off, Pretorius had shoved them away and raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for that little hiccup. Must have been an art hater. But as you can see my security detail was on the job, and I don’t doubt that the guy has been captured, hog-tied and is awaiting delivery to the cops. So let’s not let this silly event spoil the party. Let’s dance!” and he had signaled the chamber orchestra to begin playing.
Vic Durant entered the ballroom in time to see Pretorius dancing with his wife, smiling down at her with love. A few other couples were also tripping the light fantastic. Most people seemed to be at the buffet or the bar, fortifying themselves after the shock.
Durant took a deep breath, expelled it slowly. They’d dodged a bullet, but those two folks were still somewhere in the grounds. And for more than one reason, he was determined to see “Marlene Dietrich” again.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy: Chapter 3
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy : Chapter 3. Westchester County, New York
I.
During Michele’s six years in the Security Forces, she had networked thoroughly, and when she set out to start her own security company as a civilian, that networking paid off. Her family invested in the business to help get it off the ground, and her first clients were either referred to her by her old Air Force mates, or her old mates themselves, also now setting up in business in the civilian world.
She no longer did any of the legwork at the company…she had twenty operatives for that. (She did do legwork, as an expert agent, but for a different organization entirely. Her Michele Bravo life was her real one, the one she could disappear back into, but it was not her only one.)
Although she firmly believed the showdown with Colin Seaforth would occur at Pretorius’ party, she still ordered three of her operatives to make the rounds of all nearby hotels with a photo of Seaforth. She didn’t expect any success, a man without a job was probably staying at a Motel 6 or a Super 8 somewhere in the wilds of New Jersey. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, even if she put all her operatives on the job – but she had only three to spare.
If she’d had more than three days…but Pretorius’ party was to take place in three day's time. She had no time to waste.
The plane from London landed late at night. The first thing the next morning, Michele made her phone calls to the operatives, and emailed them a scan of Seaforth’s photo. Then she drove out to Pretorius’ estate.
It was an estate. Only about a third as big as the Rockefeller’s Kykuit (through which she’d taken a couple of tours), but that was still very big. Acres of gardens, a nine-hole golf-course, and a 20-room mansion. All of it surrounded by a very tall iron fence. And doubtles a handful of guards, or at least security cameras, patrolling every inch.
There was no way she’d be able to gate-crash that party. She was going to need an invitation. And for that matter, there was no way Colin Seaforth was going to be able to gatecrash. He too wouldn’t be able to get in without an invitation…as a respected art appraiser he probably had friends on this side of the pond, friends who could get him that invitation…
Michele pulled over into a convenient restaurant’s parking lot (on her way back to Manhattan from her reconnoiter) and called Robert in London. But it was six hours ahead, there, he was probably at the theater. She left a message on his voicemail: “Robert, please find out if Seaforth has any art-type friends in New York, and send me their names. Or indeed, any friends here at all. Urgent – I need to know as soon as possible. Ciao.”
Now, how was she to get her invitation?
She knew a lot of people in the art world….but as Taran Tula, an identity that she had to drop. She had not completed that process yet…indeed, she’d done nothing about it but let Taran Tula disappear. Her apartment, her car…those were just sitting there. This would cause no comment in the circles in which Taran Tula moved – she was always traveling, but eventually she’d have to take actual steps…kill the identity off totally.
But only Taran Tula could help her now…she had to use the identity one last time.
Reaching into her bag, Michele removed the “Taran Tula” cellphone from its special holder, and dialed a number. Using her Italian accent she said, “Lawrence, my dear friend…I wonder if you can help me.”
Caller ID would have identified her, if her accent did not. Lawrence Montaigne said warmly, “For you, Taran, anything.”
“I have been travelling, out of the country, for some months, and now that I return I see that there is to be this party fantastico at the home of Alan Praetorius. I wish very much to attend this party, Lawrence. His art collection...the lost Tetsujin painting that has been found...I simply must see it. Do you think it possible you can acquire for me an invitation?”
“Of course, my dear. I know Praetorius well.”
“Ah, do you attend the party yourself, perhaps?”
“Now that I know you would like to go, I wish I were. It would be my honor to escort you. But I have a business meeting in Washington that day that I simply can’t miss. But never fear, I will get you on the list of invitees. That’s all you’ll need. Drive up to the gate, give the guard your name. He’ll check it off his list and in you go.”
“You are very kind, Lawrence. You will call me to confirm I have been invited?”
“Of course. I’ll get in touch with his secretary right now, and call you back within half an hour.”
“Thank you, Lawrence.”
Montaigne was as good as his word. In less than fifteen minutes he had called back to confirm that she was now on the invite list.
Now, all that remained was to find out from where Seaforth could possibly get his invitation. If she could head him off at the pass, before he even set foot on the Praetorius estate, that would be the best solution of all.
I.
During Michele’s six years in the Security Forces, she had networked thoroughly, and when she set out to start her own security company as a civilian, that networking paid off. Her family invested in the business to help get it off the ground, and her first clients were either referred to her by her old Air Force mates, or her old mates themselves, also now setting up in business in the civilian world.
She no longer did any of the legwork at the company…she had twenty operatives for that. (She did do legwork, as an expert agent, but for a different organization entirely. Her Michele Bravo life was her real one, the one she could disappear back into, but it was not her only one.)
Although she firmly believed the showdown with Colin Seaforth would occur at Pretorius’ party, she still ordered three of her operatives to make the rounds of all nearby hotels with a photo of Seaforth. She didn’t expect any success, a man without a job was probably staying at a Motel 6 or a Super 8 somewhere in the wilds of New Jersey. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, even if she put all her operatives on the job – but she had only three to spare.
If she’d had more than three days…but Pretorius’ party was to take place in three day's time. She had no time to waste.
The plane from London landed late at night. The first thing the next morning, Michele made her phone calls to the operatives, and emailed them a scan of Seaforth’s photo. Then she drove out to Pretorius’ estate.
It was an estate. Only about a third as big as the Rockefeller’s Kykuit (through which she’d taken a couple of tours), but that was still very big. Acres of gardens, a nine-hole golf-course, and a 20-room mansion. All of it surrounded by a very tall iron fence. And doubtles a handful of guards, or at least security cameras, patrolling every inch.
There was no way she’d be able to gate-crash that party. She was going to need an invitation. And for that matter, there was no way Colin Seaforth was going to be able to gatecrash. He too wouldn’t be able to get in without an invitation…as a respected art appraiser he probably had friends on this side of the pond, friends who could get him that invitation…
Michele pulled over into a convenient restaurant’s parking lot (on her way back to Manhattan from her reconnoiter) and called Robert in London. But it was six hours ahead, there, he was probably at the theater. She left a message on his voicemail: “Robert, please find out if Seaforth has any art-type friends in New York, and send me their names. Or indeed, any friends here at all. Urgent – I need to know as soon as possible. Ciao.”
Now, how was she to get her invitation?
She knew a lot of people in the art world….but as Taran Tula, an identity that she had to drop. She had not completed that process yet…indeed, she’d done nothing about it but let Taran Tula disappear. Her apartment, her car…those were just sitting there. This would cause no comment in the circles in which Taran Tula moved – she was always traveling, but eventually she’d have to take actual steps…kill the identity off totally.
But only Taran Tula could help her now…she had to use the identity one last time.
Reaching into her bag, Michele removed the “Taran Tula” cellphone from its special holder, and dialed a number. Using her Italian accent she said, “Lawrence, my dear friend…I wonder if you can help me.”
Caller ID would have identified her, if her accent did not. Lawrence Montaigne said warmly, “For you, Taran, anything.”
“I have been travelling, out of the country, for some months, and now that I return I see that there is to be this party fantastico at the home of Alan Praetorius. I wish very much to attend this party, Lawrence. His art collection...the lost Tetsujin painting that has been found...I simply must see it. Do you think it possible you can acquire for me an invitation?”
“Of course, my dear. I know Praetorius well.”
“Ah, do you attend the party yourself, perhaps?”
“Now that I know you would like to go, I wish I were. It would be my honor to escort you. But I have a business meeting in Washington that day that I simply can’t miss. But never fear, I will get you on the list of invitees. That’s all you’ll need. Drive up to the gate, give the guard your name. He’ll check it off his list and in you go.”
“You are very kind, Lawrence. You will call me to confirm I have been invited?”
“Of course. I’ll get in touch with his secretary right now, and call you back within half an hour.”
“Thank you, Lawrence.”
Montaigne was as good as his word. In less than fifteen minutes he had called back to confirm that she was now on the invite list.
Now, all that remained was to find out from where Seaforth could possibly get his invitation. If she could head him off at the pass, before he even set foot on the Praetorius estate, that would be the best solution of all.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Michele Bravo and the Sole Remedy: Chapter 2
Present Day, London England
I.
“This is really fortuitous, Alice,” said Robert. Absently, he was rubbing his thumb along that bit of her hand between her thumb and forefinger. “I was actually thinking of calling you up for help.”
“Oh, yes? What’s the matter, Robert?”
“It’s my wife. Her father’s gone missing.”
Robert had married an Englishwoman a couple of years after setting up permanently in London, and had two kids. He was faithful to her 360 days of the year, bending his vows only when Michele was in town - for they both knew that they were ships that passed in the night. They enjoyed the experience immensely, but their real lives took precedence.
“Tell me all about it,” said Michele.
“He is, or rather, he was an art appraiser for an art gallery, and he did consulting work for a few auction frims. You’ve heard of Sotheby’s and Christie’s, yes? Merrison’s was about the fifth ranked auction house in the City, and they have been trying to move up to the fourth rank for a long time. They recently acquired the estate of a well-known art collector – it was quite a coup for them. Jennifer’s father, Colin, was the appraiser for the collection.
And, well…he made a mistake. Mis-identified one of the paintings…and placed a value on it that was $200,000 less than what it should have been.”
“Ah oh,” said Michele.
Robert nodded.
“An American collector was at the auction. He recognized that painting for what it was, and bought it, for at least $200,000 less than what it should have gone for. He sends the painting home to the States. And then, he told the damn press! Crowing about his triumph! Colin was humiliated. He wasn’t fired from his job, but he was so embarrassed that he quit. And a couple of days ago…he disappeared.”
“Surely he didn’t disappear,” Michele said. “Tell me you looked for his passport.”
Robert nodded again. “His passport is gone. He didn’t tell his wife, or Jennifer, where he was going, but of course it’s obvious. He’s gone to the States to get his revenge on this art collector who not only cost him his job but also humiliated him in the process.”
“And you want me to track him down.”
“Yes. I….I wouldn’t have thought Colin had a violent bone in his body, but we all know that in these uncertain days, even the mildest of people can go postal.”
It was Michele’s turn to nod.
“Jennifer is sure that he’s just gone to the States to have a verbal altercation with the man – shout at him a bit and curse him for being a money-grubbing, publicity hunting son of a bitch. But the fact that he didn’t tell anyone he was going, that’s what’s got me worried.”
“Well, what’s the name of this son of a bitch?”
“Alan Pretorius.”
Michele nodded again. “Okay, Robert. I’ll handle this personally. I’ll leave for New York first thing tomorrow.”
Robert kissed her hand. “Thanks,” he said simply.
II.
The flight back to New York was a pleasant one – first class again, of course.
Robert had given her several photos of his wife’s father, Colin Seaforth, in a variety of poses – full face, profile, laughing. She had studied them closely and now felt she could pick him out of a crowd of people at a hundred yards.
She’d also surfed the web and found the news of the mislabeled masterpiece. She had remembered hearing about the event in the news a month or so ago. It had merited a couple of paragraphs in the Arts section in the New York Times. However, the British papers had covered the story ad nauseum for several weeks, and had excoriated Colin Seaforth for his incompetence, and Merrison’s for their incompetence in using him as an art appraiser, despite the fact that this was his first ever mis-step - that had been found out, the papers said tartly.
Michele shook her head at this coverage. If she had been in Seaforth’s shoes, she wouldn’t have gone after the millionaire but rather after these ghouls and vultures that were destroying her reputation for their own amusement.
But Seaforth had obviously decided that it was Alan Pretorius who would have to pay.
Alan Pretorius was indeed a very wealthy man, and she’d found plenty of information about him on the web. He had recently remarried, a woman 30 years younger than himself (he was 60, she, 30), and it had been on their honeymoon that they’d stopped in at the Merrison gallery “on a whim,” he had told one reporter. He had recognized the painting for what it was, a "lost" painting by a Japanese artist who had visited England before Japan cut itself off from the outside world for two centuries…before being opened up by the “Black Ships” of Commodore Perry in 1854. The painting had been described in literature of the day, but no illustration of it had existed,andeverybody (who thought of such things) had assumed it'd been destroyed. Pretorius, an expert on Japanese art, had recognized it immediately from the description, as would have anyone who was an expert in Japanese art minutiae, something Colin Seaforth apparently had not been.
After purchasing the painting for a song, Pretorius had sent it back to his home in the States, while he and his new bride continued their honeymoon.
They had returned from that honeymoon a couple of weeks ago, and in three more days, there was to be a costume party at Pretorius’ mansion, where his new acquisition would be unveiled.
“That’s it,” Michele had thought to herself, tapping her latop screen. “During the party. Whether it’s just going to be a verbal altercation or something violent, he’s going to do it at this party.”
Michele was a firm believer in “the flux,” a concept she had first read about in a Modesty Blaise novel. “The flux” was simply a magnetic force that caused coincidences to happen. Pretorius was giving a party for all his rich friends to show off his new painting , Colin Seaforth had gone to America without telling anyone why…he had obviously read about this part and intended to crash it.
Michele nodded her head. So would she.
I.
“This is really fortuitous, Alice,” said Robert. Absently, he was rubbing his thumb along that bit of her hand between her thumb and forefinger. “I was actually thinking of calling you up for help.”
“Oh, yes? What’s the matter, Robert?”
“It’s my wife. Her father’s gone missing.”
Robert had married an Englishwoman a couple of years after setting up permanently in London, and had two kids. He was faithful to her 360 days of the year, bending his vows only when Michele was in town - for they both knew that they were ships that passed in the night. They enjoyed the experience immensely, but their real lives took precedence.
“Tell me all about it,” said Michele.
“He is, or rather, he was an art appraiser for an art gallery, and he did consulting work for a few auction frims. You’ve heard of Sotheby’s and Christie’s, yes? Merrison’s was about the fifth ranked auction house in the City, and they have been trying to move up to the fourth rank for a long time. They recently acquired the estate of a well-known art collector – it was quite a coup for them. Jennifer’s father, Colin, was the appraiser for the collection.
And, well…he made a mistake. Mis-identified one of the paintings…and placed a value on it that was $200,000 less than what it should have been.”
“Ah oh,” said Michele.
Robert nodded.
“An American collector was at the auction. He recognized that painting for what it was, and bought it, for at least $200,000 less than what it should have gone for. He sends the painting home to the States. And then, he told the damn press! Crowing about his triumph! Colin was humiliated. He wasn’t fired from his job, but he was so embarrassed that he quit. And a couple of days ago…he disappeared.”
“Surely he didn’t disappear,” Michele said. “Tell me you looked for his passport.”
Robert nodded again. “His passport is gone. He didn’t tell his wife, or Jennifer, where he was going, but of course it’s obvious. He’s gone to the States to get his revenge on this art collector who not only cost him his job but also humiliated him in the process.”
“And you want me to track him down.”
“Yes. I….I wouldn’t have thought Colin had a violent bone in his body, but we all know that in these uncertain days, even the mildest of people can go postal.”
It was Michele’s turn to nod.
“Jennifer is sure that he’s just gone to the States to have a verbal altercation with the man – shout at him a bit and curse him for being a money-grubbing, publicity hunting son of a bitch. But the fact that he didn’t tell anyone he was going, that’s what’s got me worried.”
“Well, what’s the name of this son of a bitch?”
“Alan Pretorius.”
Michele nodded again. “Okay, Robert. I’ll handle this personally. I’ll leave for New York first thing tomorrow.”
Robert kissed her hand. “Thanks,” he said simply.
II.
The flight back to New York was a pleasant one – first class again, of course.
Robert had given her several photos of his wife’s father, Colin Seaforth, in a variety of poses – full face, profile, laughing. She had studied them closely and now felt she could pick him out of a crowd of people at a hundred yards.
She’d also surfed the web and found the news of the mislabeled masterpiece. She had remembered hearing about the event in the news a month or so ago. It had merited a couple of paragraphs in the Arts section in the New York Times. However, the British papers had covered the story ad nauseum for several weeks, and had excoriated Colin Seaforth for his incompetence, and Merrison’s for their incompetence in using him as an art appraiser, despite the fact that this was his first ever mis-step - that had been found out, the papers said tartly.
Michele shook her head at this coverage. If she had been in Seaforth’s shoes, she wouldn’t have gone after the millionaire but rather after these ghouls and vultures that were destroying her reputation for their own amusement.
But Seaforth had obviously decided that it was Alan Pretorius who would have to pay.
Alan Pretorius was indeed a very wealthy man, and she’d found plenty of information about him on the web. He had recently remarried, a woman 30 years younger than himself (he was 60, she, 30), and it had been on their honeymoon that they’d stopped in at the Merrison gallery “on a whim,” he had told one reporter. He had recognized the painting for what it was, a "lost" painting by a Japanese artist who had visited England before Japan cut itself off from the outside world for two centuries…before being opened up by the “Black Ships” of Commodore Perry in 1854. The painting had been described in literature of the day, but no illustration of it had existed,andeverybody (who thought of such things) had assumed it'd been destroyed. Pretorius, an expert on Japanese art, had recognized it immediately from the description, as would have anyone who was an expert in Japanese art minutiae, something Colin Seaforth apparently had not been.
After purchasing the painting for a song, Pretorius had sent it back to his home in the States, while he and his new bride continued their honeymoon.
They had returned from that honeymoon a couple of weeks ago, and in three more days, there was to be a costume party at Pretorius’ mansion, where his new acquisition would be unveiled.
“That’s it,” Michele had thought to herself, tapping her latop screen. “During the party. Whether it’s just going to be a verbal altercation or something violent, he’s going to do it at this party.”
Michele was a firm believer in “the flux,” a concept she had first read about in a Modesty Blaise novel. “The flux” was simply a magnetic force that caused coincidences to happen. Pretorius was giving a party for all his rich friends to show off his new painting , Colin Seaforth had gone to America without telling anyone why…he had obviously read about this part and intended to crash it.
Michele nodded her head. So would she.
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