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….
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Sole Remedy Ch 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.”
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Sole Remedy Ch 6
I.
Michele Bravo walked through customs her normal, lithe self. With the full-body scanners they used these days, she knew she’d never get through in her fat-suit, and there was no need to even try. Once through customs, however, she pulled it out of her carryon bag and put it on.
She walked to the gate where the passengers for flight 612 to Sydney, Australia were foregathered. She gazed over the people there. There…there he was.
Michele smiled a slight smile. He was game, she’d give him that. He was seated in a chair near the plate glass windows overlooking the tarmac, headphones covering his ears, reading a book…she squinted…Terry Pratchett’s Thief of Time. Hmm. A Terry Pratchett fan. Well, that was one entry in the ‘let him live’ column…the world needed more Terry Pratchett fans.
She walked up to him. “Mr. Largo.”
He looked up quickly, grabbed off his headphones. “Miss Tula.”
“I don’t like to call you Mr. Largo. What is your real name?”
“Keller,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “And you are…Michele Bravo.”
She grinned. “If it pleases you to think so. I prefer you to call me Tula.”
“As you wish.”
“You’re in economy class?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, with a shrug, offering no explanation or excuse. She liked that. But she didn’t envy him the journey. Hopefully he wouldn’t find himself seated next to a crying baby or something of that nature.
She nodded. “You’re sensible. I’m in First Class, however. I will meet you in Sydney. The airport has a location called The Meeting Point. I will see you there. I will cover your expenses while we are in Australia, never fear.”
He nodded.
“Very well. Le Chelonian Mobile, Mr. Keller,” and she turned and walked away.
Gus Keller looked after her. The Turtle Moves? Was she a Terry Pratchett fan too?
He returned to his book, feeling a little better about things.
Michele mused as she walked into the First Class lounge. He had told her his real name, without prevarication. An amateur's mistake.
II.
From New York, there is no non-stop service to Sydney, Australia. One must first fly across the USA to Los Angeles, CA, and from there board a connecting flight to fly southwest across the Pacific Ocean to Sydney.
It’s a long flight, but it doesn’t feel so long when you’re travelling in the luxury that is first class. The flight from New York to LAX took about six hours. Michele spent the time watching North by Northwest on her laptop. Then, because she still wasn’t feeling the creative bug, she also watched To Catch a Thief.
At the LAX airport, Michele did not seek out Keller but rather relaxed in the lounge that catered to first class passengers only.
Finally it was time for the flight to Sydney to take off. After the plane had climbed to 37,000 feet and leveled off, Michele took her laptop into the first class lounge to begin work. After a few minutes, she went into the first class lavatory.
It was huge..like the bathroom in a hotel suite. In addition to everything else one expected to find in a lavatory, there was a lot of room…and a couch. Clearly the designers had decided to cater to those people who wanted to join the Mile High Club.
Michele gazed at the couch speculatively.
As a writer of erotica, there were two places where she never intended any of her characters to get it on. One was in the back or front seat of a car, the other was in the lavatory of a plane in flight. Both of them catered to the pleasure of the guy, who could have an orgasm anywhere…but how the hell was a woman supposed to get comfortable in those locations? There was no way.
But here…here…in the first class toilet of an Airbus 380…this changed things.
She might have to rethink her decision.
But first …time to get Dighton and Forrest into George Washington’s nose.
Michele Bravo walked through customs her normal, lithe self. With the full-body scanners they used these days, she knew she’d never get through in her fat-suit, and there was no need to even try. Once through customs, however, she pulled it out of her carryon bag and put it on.
She walked to the gate where the passengers for flight 612 to Sydney, Australia were foregathered. She gazed over the people there. There…there he was.
Michele smiled a slight smile. He was game, she’d give him that. He was seated in a chair near the plate glass windows overlooking the tarmac, headphones covering his ears, reading a book…she squinted…Terry Pratchett’s Thief of Time. Hmm. A Terry Pratchett fan. Well, that was one entry in the ‘let him live’ column…the world needed more Terry Pratchett fans.
She walked up to him. “Mr. Largo.”
He looked up quickly, grabbed off his headphones. “Miss Tula.”
“I don’t like to call you Mr. Largo. What is your real name?”
“Keller,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “And you are…Michele Bravo.”
She grinned. “If it pleases you to think so. I prefer you to call me Tula.”
“As you wish.”
“You’re in economy class?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, with a shrug, offering no explanation or excuse. She liked that. But she didn’t envy him the journey. Hopefully he wouldn’t find himself seated next to a crying baby or something of that nature.
She nodded. “You’re sensible. I’m in First Class, however. I will meet you in Sydney. The airport has a location called The Meeting Point. I will see you there. I will cover your expenses while we are in Australia, never fear.”
He nodded.
“Very well. Le Chelonian Mobile, Mr. Keller,” and she turned and walked away.
Gus Keller looked after her. The Turtle Moves? Was she a Terry Pratchett fan too?
He returned to his book, feeling a little better about things.
Michele mused as she walked into the First Class lounge. He had told her his real name, without prevarication. An amateur's mistake.
II.
From New York, there is no non-stop service to Sydney, Australia. One must first fly across the USA to Los Angeles, CA, and from there board a connecting flight to fly southwest across the Pacific Ocean to Sydney.
It’s a long flight, but it doesn’t feel so long when you’re travelling in the luxury that is first class. The flight from New York to LAX took about six hours. Michele spent the time watching North by Northwest on her laptop. Then, because she still wasn’t feeling the creative bug, she also watched To Catch a Thief.
At the LAX airport, Michele did not seek out Keller but rather relaxed in the lounge that catered to first class passengers only.
Finally it was time for the flight to Sydney to take off. After the plane had climbed to 37,000 feet and leveled off, Michele took her laptop into the first class lounge to begin work. After a few minutes, she went into the first class lavatory.
It was huge..like the bathroom in a hotel suite. In addition to everything else one expected to find in a lavatory, there was a lot of room…and a couch. Clearly the designers had decided to cater to those people who wanted to join the Mile High Club.
Michele gazed at the couch speculatively.
As a writer of erotica, there were two places where she never intended any of her characters to get it on. One was in the back or front seat of a car, the other was in the lavatory of a plane in flight. Both of them catered to the pleasure of the guy, who could have an orgasm anywhere…but how the hell was a woman supposed to get comfortable in those locations? There was no way.
But here…here…in the first class toilet of an Airbus 380…this changed things.
She might have to rethink her decision.
But first …time to get Dighton and Forrest into George Washington’s nose.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Sole Remedy Ch 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?
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Sole Remedy ch 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.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Sole Remedy Ch 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.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Sole Remedy Ch 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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