It was five in the morning when Napoleon Solo walked bleary-eyed through the agent entrance in Del Floria's.
He gave a half hearted smile to the lovely brunette at reception as she pinned on his badge...he couldn't remember her name, as she was new. Normally he would have flirted a bit with such an attractive lady, but he was just too tired. Jetting across the Atlantic several times had finally caught up with him...that and having had several sleep-deprived, and alcohol infused nights with a few of the frauleins from Communications in Berlin headquarters had left him less than energetic.
When he arrived in the office he shared with his partner of just over a year; Illya looked up at him with his bright baby blues, looking very much awake. The Russian had the most amazing capacity to fall asleep anywhere and anytime, within minutes of closing his eyes and he wondered if the man had slept on their office couch instead of going home.
"Not fair," the American mumbled to himself.
"Good morning, and what is not fair?"
"That you're just a little too chipper, looking refreshed and I'm not. You worked the same assignments as I did...so why aren't you jet-lagged?"
"Hmmm, perhaps it is not this 'jet-lag' that you are suffering from?" Illya smiled knowingly. "It seems your stamina in the bedroom is quite legendary among the women in Communications. I think it is your activities with them that has you feeling so tired. After all two trips back and forth to Germany within two days, and you have been with no less than three women...if I am hearing the gossip correctly." Illya smiled at him.
Napoleon smirked, as the rumor mill was wrong; it was actually four ladies. He refused to admit it was his time with them that had him dragging, surmising it was more too much Scotch and not enough water...and too much flying time, of course.
"There is old Russian saying...Veselʹye veselʹye...tyazheloye pokhmelʹye_Revelry is jolly, hangover is heavy. Perhaps you should switch to vodka? It does not give me hangovers," Illya grinned., "but then again I have been drinking it since I was ten."
"Seriously...ten? There's something very wrong with you Russians giving children vodka. I say no thank you tovarisch. I'll stick to my Scotch and women...well worth being a little tired." Napoleon tried bragging.
"There is no need to insult my people Napoleon...I was just offering a solution to your Scotch-driven hangovers. Actually I was alone at the age of ten and hungry. Vodka added to turnips and potatoes gives it a little zest, and besides it helped keep me warm."
"I prefer women to keep me warm."
"As do I, but that was hardly possible back then. Now, I do not give myself over with abandon to a woman, at least not to the point of being tired and hungover, as there will always be a price to pay for such a night." Illya suddenly held out a pair of airline tickets. "So since you feel so capable in spite of your hangover, then you will not mind that we are headed to California for a courier drop. Our flight leaves in three hours." The Russian smiled wickedly.
"You're kidding right?" Napoleon moaned.
"I kid you not my friend," Illya fanned the tickets in the air. "So do you have any dates planned for this evening?"
Napoleon huffed. "Maybe...let's go get some breakfast at the commissary. I need coffee. Lots and lots of coffee... sigh. Then I need to make some phone calls."
.
When their Continental Airlines flight leveled off, Illya tilted back his seat. As soon as soon as his head laid back against the pillow he had tucked between the window and the back of his seat, he was out cold. It was only when the smell of food being served wafted through the cabin later on, did he stir.
Napoleon had a couple of Scotch on the rocks, thinking a bit of the hair of the dog would help, and soon he nodded off himself. He, like his partner woke as the smell of Salisbury steak, with potatoes and gravy and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. They both ate their meals in silence but for dessert Napoleon popped a couple of aspirin tablets and went back to sleep while his partner munched on a "Napoleon," pastry. The Russian found that quite amusing.
Their flight arrived on Los Angeles on time, with both of them feeling a bit jet-lagged after two transatlantic and now, a cross country flight within three days. Napoleon had already bemoaned his weariness, but Illya would never admit that to his partner, though his yawns were a dead giveaway that he was very tired.
"What's the address of the drop off again?" Solo asked as he grabbed their travel cases from the overhead compartment.
"It is is located at 8901 Sunset Boulevard." Illya said, pulling a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket with the address scribbled on it.
"Sunset Boulevard? That's a pretty wild place, but then again if it's busy no one will notice the comings and goings of two spies from New York...say Illya, have you ever been to Hollywood? Pretty racy place." Napoleon winked at him. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"No, nor am I interested in any sordid goings on that you may have in mind. I want to get this job over with and get back to New York."
"Aw come on buddy boy, we're going to the Sunset Strip, one of the most famous places in all of California."
The Russian rolled his eyes. Sunset Strip...people taking off their clothes as the sun goes down?"
Napoleon gave a hearty laugh at that one, holding his head as the pressure in his temples increased.
"No, no. That's the nickname for Sunset Boulevard. It's a happening place."
"What happens there?"
Solo shook his head, forgetting sometimes how literally his Russian partner thought at times.
"Never mind, you'll see it when they we get there."
"Does it involve drinking? Are you not hungover enough already?"
"Perhaps, a little. After we take care of the drop, we can stop at some of the clubs, just to take in the local color. Nothing crazy, I promise." Napoleon flashed his most disarming smile at his dour partner, making him finally crack a smile.
"All right, as long as you promise, nothing crazy."
"I'll try to keep us out of trouble. Scout's honor, "Solo saluted.
.
They located the car left for them courtesy of the U.N.C.L.E. office in L.A. and headed off in the direction of West Hollywood. Napoleon, for once, seemed to know how to get there without getting them lost and Illya let him drive instead. It was also an opportunity for the Russian to lay his head back and take a cat nap.
When they arrived at the address, the sun was just setting, and the Strip was coming to life with all sorts of characters, dressed in the latest mod fashions, mini's, bell bottoms, paisley shirts and
definitely lots of love beads. Napoleon grinned as he watch the swaying hips of some eye-catching girls as they walked down the sidewalks.
As Napoleon pulled up in front of the building, he slammed his hand on the dashboard, startling Illya awake.
"What?" The Russian instantly went for his gun.
"Sorry, nothing. I knew this address was familiar!" Napoleon smiled.
Illya looked up at the canopied entrance. "Whiskey a Go-Go?" A discotheque?"
"Exactly." Napoleon grinned."We can make the drop, and stay right here and have some fun in the most famous disco in California."
Illya did not like the look in his partner's eyes and pointed a finger at Napoleon's face.
"Remember your promise?"
Solo's smile turned inverted into a frown. "Gee thanks for the reminder Mom."
Again Illya rolled his eyes, not only at his partner but at their surroundings. He had never seen anything quite like it.
"Pretty amazing huh?" Napoleon grinned at the Russian, who for a few minutes stood wide-eyed, listening to the blaring rock music as the two of them were surrounded by a sea of men and women gyrating on the dance floor.
Illya's reaction didn't surprise Napoleon as the New York clubs were always a little behind the times compared to the West coast. The closest thing to a disco that Illya had been to was the Purple Unicorn and that was pretty tame compared to this. His partner's speed was more the smoke-filled jazz clubs of the Village.
Here, there were go-go girls clothed in fringed mini dresses shimmied away to the music in platform cages above the dancers. A short skirted female DJ was playing records between the live band's sets from a glass-walled booth mounted high above the floor so patrons could continue dancing, beside her stood a man in a grey collarless jacket wearing a red turtleneck with his dark hair combed up into a wave of hair on top of his head.
"Who's our contact," Napoleon yelled into his partner's ear to be heard above the din.
"A man named Elmer, he is waiting for us in the booth with the disc jockey." Illya pointed upwards.
They made their way up the stairs, entering the booth just in time for the DJ to take her break, as the live band was returning to the stage.
"Perfect timing, "Napoleon smiled.
"Mr. V?" Illya asked politely.
"The one and only man, what can I do for you dudes?" Elmer puffed away on a cigarette.
"Our UNCLE sent us and asked to relay his greetings to you." Illya replied most seriously.
"Oh..." Elmer's demeanor changed completely and he snuffed out the cigarette instantly." Yes, gentlemen, I've been expecting you." He accepted a folded manila envelope from Illya. " Please give Alexander my regards when you return and thank him for the information."
"May I ask what it is?" Napoleon broke protocol, somehow suspecting this man wasn't any sort of agent.
"THRUSH has been snooping around my club and I requested a little background information on a few of them...so that it will allow me to exploit their weaknesses. It should do to shoo them away, but of course if it doesn't work, then your L.A. office will be called into action. Thank you for delivering this to me so quickly gentlemen...in the meantime, please stay as my guests. Drinks on the house."
Mr. V. looked at his watch. "Oh dear, I need to get to my office and make some phone calls once I look this over. Thank you again. and enjoy your evening."
The man disappeared from the booth, leaving the agents there. "Hmm, drinks on the house?" Napoleon smiled, taking in the view of the jiggling cleavage of the bevy of beauties on the dance floor. Illya stood, fascinated by dancers in the go-go cages, but then countered that by pulling out his communicator. "Open Channel D- Waverly."
"Yes Mr. Kuryakin?"
"The drop has been successfully completed. Do you need us to return to New York?"
"Not immediately. You both, no doubt, are feeling a bit stretched by your back to back flights, so take a few days R & R while you're out there. Enjoy the sunny weather. I will have an assignment that will need your attention when you both return. Waverly out."
"That settles that." Napoleon snatched the communicator from his partner's hand and tucked it to Illya's inside breast pocket. " Okay, you heard the Old Man, R & R time."
"Fine, but remember your promise." Illya nodded.
"Tsk."
They headed down to the dance floor, quickly finding a pair of blonde beauties dressed in brightly colored, tight-fitting minis. The partners stayed by each other, keeping an eye out just as a precaution. As the night progressed and the dancing became more lively, Napoleon watched as Illya loosened his tie and finally relaxed...he even caught him smiling.
After a few dances both fast and slow they made their way to the bar for drinks. The bartender rapped on the bar, indicating their drinks were on the house, and place two upturned shot glasses in front of them, backing them up for their next round.
"So what do you think of the place?" Napoleon asked, thinking that if Illya said he didn't like it, then he'd probably slug him one.
"It is interesting, and the music is surprisingly good. I am glad you convinced me to stay. Spacibo."
"You're welcome."
Suddenly a large man came crashing into Napoleon, knocking his glass from of his hand and spilling on his suit.
"Hey fella, watch it!" Solo snarled, pushing the man away from him, as he was obviously drunk.
"Yoooo can't talk me like that...I don like your at-tit-ude." When the man straightened up, he towered over Napoleon. Out of the blue, he took a spinning swing at the agent, who ducked the it quite easily, but the mans momentum kept him going and his large fist slammed right into Illya's left eye, sending him staggering backwards a few steps.
The band was blasting out the song "Psychotic Reaction," and the driving rhythm of the drum beat sparked the Russian into action.
Illya countered with a punch to the man's midsection. Someone behind the Russian grabbed him in a headlock, pulling him backwards and Napoleon charged forward to his partner's defense.. Before they knew it they were both involved in a bar massive brawl...more like a free for all as people on the dance floor ran or started throwing punches. Bar stools went flying, glasses shattered, women screamed, yet the band kept playing the raucous tune.
There were just too many of combatants for the bouncers and roadies to control and before they knew it, the police department arrived and dozens were hauled off to the city jail...including the two U.N.C.L.E. agents.
Napoleon and Illya remained in a holding cell for a few hours while things were sorted out between the L.A. office as well as with Waverly, who was not too happy with his number one and two agents.
"No sooner do I give you R & R and you both become involved in a bar fight. Tsk, tsk. I might expect such behavior when on an assignment gentlemen, but I think you need to start differentiating between work and play. Perhaps it's best you return to New York...immediately. Some counseling is in order. Waverly out."
Illya stood with an ice pack on his left cheek, nursing a black eye. Napoleon was physically unscathed though his suit would be added to the list of lost causes. They were dropped off back at the club as a courtesy by the police, picked up their car and returned to the airport. Hardly a word spoken between the two of them.
"Another fine mess you got us into," Illya finally mumbled as they boarded their flight to back to the East coast."
"Me? How was it my fault?"
"If you had not wanted to stay at the club, then we would not have gotten into our predicament." Illya laid his head back, then leaning forward; he flagged down the stewardess for some more ice for his face.
"I noticed you were having a good time."
"Admittedly, I must agree...I was enjoying myself right up until the moment I got a fist in my eye."
"Okay so it didn't quite turn out perfectly, guess it was just a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time." Napoleon said sympathetically.
"I will stick to my jazz clubs from now on. There I have no such worries from drunkards as the strongest beverage the places I frequent espresso." Illya retorted.
"No alcohol?"
"Napoleon, if I want to drink...I do so at home or at good Russian bar."
"Okay buddy boy, I get the message. To each their own."
"Da..." Illya leaned back, holding the ice pack to his face.
Napoleon rang for the stewardess, ordering a Scotch on the rocks and within ten minute he got her telephone number and made arrangements for a date for the next time she was to New York.
He looked over at the now resting Russian, and guessed that behind those lids, Illya was rolling his eyes.