Chapter Four: Fame: Bully for You

So, what exactly did Marty Deeks think of the NCIS team? And just what games were going on?


Well, Sam had laid his cards on the table early on and he wasn't going to let up, Marty thought. Clearly annoyed that his "Temp" jibe had barely registered on the radar (and really, did the guy think he was going to rise to such a pathetic attempt at name-calling?) Sam was now mangling the English language, trying to insist that there was no such word as "liaise". Marty made a mental note to leave a dictionary on Sam's desk at the earliest opportunity, with a post-it note marking the relevant entry. Clearly grammar wasn't important in the world of NICS and it was a real effort not to snap back with "I am a liaison. My job is to liaise. When I do this, I am liaising. Noun, verb (infinitive), present participle." But that would have been petty. There were better ways to prove a point. Like just keeping his smart mouth shut. That had worked particularly well with Kensi on the drive over. She'd kept giving him all these little sideways glances, just waiting for him to say something about last night. As if.

Marty knew the two detectives at the crime scene instantly, they were both decent guys and he'd worked a few cases with them. It was time to have a little fun and maybe even play with Sam's mind a bit, as well as letting Kensi feel good about herself. She needed that for sure, after the way she'd bungled the whole Blood and Guts Warriors affair, first of all wrongly pinning him as the main suspect and managing to miss all the glaring holes in the lamest cover story LAPD had ever put together, and then being so damned inept when he encountered her in the house that even a rookie should have sussed out she was lying her pretty little head off, far less a guy with his experience. No wonder Hetty had withdrawn her to the sidelines after that, where she couldn't do any more damage. Truth be told, Marty wasn't too keen on being partnered with someone he had no confidence in and was beginning to think was a distinct liability. Even if she did have a great ass. How could he possibly trust her to protect his back? And Kensi thought she'd drawn the short straw? That overheard remark had seriously hacked him off. Somebody needed to give Ms Blye a realistic performance appraisal and bring her down a few pegs. And then maybe suggest that while she looked great in tight jeans, they might just hamper her ability to do anything remotely athletic, like chasing a suspect.

But right now, Marty just wanted to have a little fun. They thought he was useless – well, they were about to be proved right. You had to give the audience what they expected, after all. Making a huge show of being reluctant, he mooched over to the detectives. "Guys, do me a favour and act pissed. And when the NCIS chick comes over and tries to charm you, just fall for it?"

"Only if you buy the first round on Friday, Deeks."

"Deal."

Oh God, this was sweet, watching Kensi doing her man-killer routine with Banks and Renwick, who was possibly the campest man in the whole of the LAPD, and coming back wreathed in smiles, thinking she'd scored a touchdown. And she didn't have a clue she just been punk'd. It was so beautiful and it made the whole day seem so much better. He felt good, she felt good – it was a win-win situation.

Marty's overall impression of the NCIS team wasn't exactly bolstered when they only gave the body a cursory examination and completely failed to spot the stamp inside the guy's right wrist, actually walking away until he pointed it out. Did these guys know nothing about scene of crime techniques? And how could anyone under the age of seventy not have heard of Balm? It was only the hottest nightclub in town, for crying out loud. Marty was beginning to think these guys lived in some alternate universe. Sure, they had all the latest technology and those cute, matching watches and they even had fancy black latex gloves instead of the standard issue ones, presumably they were more in keeping with the ultra-hip NCIS image, but none of that even started to make up for their elementary lack of local knowledge. By now Marty was seriously beginning to regret his decision to take Hetty up on her offer. Not that he'd exactly had a lot of choice in the matter. For a small lady, she had an oversize personality.

Once the very definitely deceased Brian Roth was removed from the scene, Kensi did manage to find a purse and a pair of shoes inside the car, but then they weren't exactly difficult to spot. And when Marty pointed out the scrap of material fluttering in the breeze that was an exact match to the dress Aubrey Darva, socialite-extraordinaire and owner of the self-same car, had been papped in last night, even Sam seemed impressed. Oh boy, this was not filling him with confidence. This was basic stuff. And why did Kensi keep stealing covert glances at his hands? Marty was getting seriously concerned. What was wrong with the woman? Had he just made the biggest mistake of his life? How soon could he get out of this whole sorry affair?

Not soon enough, it appeared. Not before he had the pleasure of another silent journey with Ms Kensi Blye, this time to the Darva house. She appeared genuinely impressed that he knew details of Aubrey and her family. Didn't these people ever read the financial papers? Or even watch a little TV? How could they possibly be so divorced from reality and still live and work in LA? But it was kind of cute the way Kensi was so impressed by the Darva house and especially by the pool, which was impressive, in an ostentatious "look at how much money I have" kind of way.

"I wouldn't mind having my latte out here in morning," Marty offered in a conversational tone. The tranquil scene reminded him that it had been several weeks since he'd visited his own place out in Malibu. And it also reminded him that it had been several hours since he'd replenished his own caffeine levels. Sadly, it never occurred to Aubrey's step-father to offer them any refreshments, which was a pity because from the delicious aroma coming from his coffee cup, only the very best Blue Mountain beans were served in the Darva household. And by now he really needed something to cheer himself up with. Once they had established that Aubrey Darva was officially missing, there was nothing else for it but to head back to the Mission. Luckily, Kensi needed a comfort break, so Deeks was able to get a half-way decent coffee while she visited the rest-room.

So far the only lead they had on Aubrey was Balm nightclub, and it just so happened that Marty had a contact there. One he'd spent months cultivating, at no little personal cost. "Kensi I can get in, because she's hot." Marty flashed a grin at her, instantly seeing how pleased she was the compliment, even if she tried to look pissed at him. Someone really needed to take Kensi aside and give her some basic lessons in acting. Having said that, preferably not before he played her at strip poker, and maybe even let her win the first couple of rounds. "No offense, Kensi." As if.

Marty looked across at Callen. "You're only going to get in if you've got money. Lots of money." He liked the guy and Callen had a killer reputation, but there were limits and if you weren't young, female and nubile, the only way you could get into Balm was purely down to economics. Because even Marty Deeks couldn't work miracles at short notice.

"Why don't you ask Hetty? It's your idea, after all." Callen put it politely but Marty could see a gauntlet being thrown down, or even smacked across his face. This was clearly a test. Okay, he'd take the bait. Hetty listened patiently as he made his pitch.

"That's unusually formal language, Mr Deeks."

Well, Miss Lang, there's just something about you being so flipping correct all the time that inspires a healthy terror in me. Along with that flick knife you pretend is a letter opener. And how come, if you want to be known as Hetty, do you insist on using surnames all the time? Isn't that just ever so slightly inconsistent?

"We'll need a lot of credit." Marty looked at the first card she offered, shook his head emphatically, gave a discrete cough and gestured behind him, where he just knew the others were rubber-necking. And Hetty, God bless her soul (if she had one, which he seriously doubted) came up trumps and gave him something with a much better credit limit. Not great, but it would do. Marty was quite sure of this, because it he had a similar card in his wallet, which he kept just in case he needed some extra hard cash in a hurry. The serious cards he kept locked away securely in the safe back in Malibu.

"You want me to sign for this?"

In blood, perhaps? Or maybe a pound of flesh would be more to your taste?

Hetty gave one of her trademark enigmatic smiles. Marty decided not to push his luck any further. There was no way he would ever play poker with her. That was a given. Especially not strip poker. Other than her forceful personality, which pretty much guaranteed that Hetty got whatever she wanted, it was hard to get a measure of the woman, but even so, Marty wasn't prepared for the weirdness of her dragging poor old Callen over to her wardrobe area and make him stand there while she held up various truly awful shirts and assessed their impact. No way was she ever going to make him stand for that. The last woman who had dressed Marty Deeks with his mother and she'd stopped doing that by the time he was about eight.


Hmm - Kensi and Marty playing strip poker- now there's an image to tantalise the senses. But I am not going there with Hetty. No way.