Gold tipped the busty maitre D halfway through her usual spiel about premium service and 'extras'. The music was something slower than usual. Less grinding, more Marilyn Monroe. One of the dancers must be doing a show then, probably a beginner since they usually gave the softer songs to the less experienced girls.
I just wanna touch you, tease you, lick you, please you...
He hesitated on the bottom stair to the suites, glancing briefly over the downstairs portion for a familiar bit of brown hair and that slightly unsteady gait of someone new to walking for hours in painful shoes. She was nowhere to be seen, though the darkness didn't exactly help. For all he knew, she could well be that pair of those limbs curled around one of the men in the booths along the far wall, whispering sultry sweet nothings in his ear. The thought made Gold eager to get upstairs, grab a bottle of high quality alcohol only served to the VIPs and hurry back down to fetch her away from whatever low life was running his hands all over her.
I'm gonna kiss you, suck you, taste you, ride you...
As loyal as he was to the Gentlemens Club, what with keeping on Carmella's good side and all, the lax rules about touching were starting to bother him. He'd never thought much about etiquette, never being one to call for a dance except in some particularly abnormal exigent circumstance. He almost wished there was a clear hands-off sign hanging on the wall. It would spoil the atmosphere a bit but it would offer the dancers a little dignity. Not that Gold, tipping the waitress, had ever cared much about dancer dignity prior to that very moment. Cane coming to a final thud at the bottom, he was immediately accosted by a blonde woman with long hair extensions.
Baby would you mind tasting me...
Completely ignoring her, practically pushing her aside with the butt of his stick, Gold looked around for a suitable seat. It had taken him his two Saturdays without Belle to realise she'd probably been moved to another area of the club. And with three solid nights of downstairs experience under his belt, Gold was now well equipped to deal with the ruckus of the general area. Without a couch stamped with his name on it, he had to find his own seat. An ideal area would be in a booth along the back, beside a couple, mildly intoxicated so that they didn't notice his presence. He didn't like being near lone men or big party groups. Both were...unpleasant.
Bathe you, play with you, rub you, caress you...
Finding a couple, in their late twenties, chatting to one of the girls with half empty glasses on the table before them, Gold settled into the empty place to their left. By happy coincidence, he'd found that it was the last spot along the entire wall and there was no booth to his left. He loved corners. Corners were his absolute favourite.
"Can I get you a drink?" a topless brunette sidled over. Gold continued to sweep the floor with his piercing gaze and waved the square-based Johnnie Walker Blue Label bottle. A clear signal that he had all he needed, thank you very much. She lingered. In an attempt to shake her off without having to say something too insulting, what with his newfound care for the girls, Gold looked up at the stage.
For a moment, doused in light, twisted in an obscenely erotic position upon the pole, Gold didn't notice who the dancer was. His peripherals were focused on the lady beside him, who looked rather insulted anyway and sauntered away with a flick of her hips. Certain that she, nor any other tiresome girl, would return to disrupt his solitude, Gold finally gave his unwavering attention to the person writhing to the music. At that moment, she had her back to the audience, bending over and giving them all a very good show of her backside.
Gold recognised her body immediately. How many hours had he studied it from afar?
Baby would you mind coming inside of me...
Entranced by her movements, so fluid, Gold didn't even have space in his suddenly distracted mind to wonder how much she must have been practicing. Not taking his eyes off her legs, endlessly long and wrapped around the pole, a shoddy substitute for human flesh – the only proper home for those weapons – Gold reached blindly for his cane before using it to crawl closer towards the halo of light. At this distance, he could see her eyes were closed, her face blank and almost blissful. He'd never noticed the muscles upon her arms, supporting her in midair. They were taunt and glistening with sweat or oil. In fact, her entire upper body was toned to perfection. He had just enough sense to realise athletic ability to defend oneself must be a vital part of her career. Before he could dwell on the realisation that young Belle could knock him down, Gold's eyes and everything else he usually had control over, had taken to staring wholeheartedly at her chest.
Love you, hold you, make love to you...
She was wearing a bed sheet masquerading as a skirt of some sort. It was loose pale silk and slipped over her skin, her knees and ankles and thighs, with a slippery sensuality as she moved. Her upper body was as naked as could be. The 'skirt' hung low on her hips and Gold was uncertain as to whether or not she wore anything underneath it. He spent much time seeking an answer, looking where no decent man should have, trying to catch a glimpse between her legs as she swung around the pole again and hung upside down, her breasts bouncing as she arched her back.
Letting your juices free, deep in my passion...
As the song dissolved into moans and whimpers, pants and mewling sounds of pleasure, Gold found he was quite unable to stand still. He looked away from the stage, the dark of the rest of the room calming him, gathering some morsel of self-respect. Taking out his new wallet, he counted ten bills and rolled them into a thin cigar. As the song ended and the crowd bayed in approval, Gold slipped off a thin gold band from his finger and put it like a napkin ring around the money. Looking up in time to see Belle give a wan smile to the audience, he saw her begin to pick up the dollars they had shrewn at her feet. Some of the rather nicer patrons walked up to the raised platform and tipped her a hefty twenty, getting a close up of the beauty and a few genuine smiles in return.
As she straightened from her crouch, the heel of her left foot slipped and she wobbled, almost twisting her ankle. Belle's eyes rolled up to the ceiling and she seemed to be silently berating herself. Gold bit his tongue to keep his laughter in check. Of course, she could memorise a routine well enough. But ask her to totter around without a musical rhythm and she was still the same girl who squealed at winning the Keno jackpot – despite already knowing that she'd rigged it. Throwing the ring of bills over two tables and several heads, Gold heard it clink at her feet. Belle bent down, taking more care to keep balanced this time and picked it up with a frown. She'd managed to relax back into a fake smile by the time anyone else noticed her confusion and as she searched for the thrower, their eyes met.
Gold took the dozen steps back to his booth and ran a hand down the cool glass of the bottle. As he waited for Belle to approach, he unscrewed the cap and inhaled the heavy scent of the whiskey. Strong, just as he liked it.
"$100? That's very generous."
Gold didn't need to look up to hear her sardonic smile, instead fumbling around in his coat pockets aimlessly. "Go fetch me two glasses, would you?"
She made a sound of disapproval but returned with the crystals in a moment. Finally obliged to look up, he saw that she had lifted a scrap of material, which in the dark appeared a gauzy purple, up to her chest, holding it there with one forearm. Apparently the loose bits could be pulled up like a towel and wrapped around her body, halfway towards being decent. She didn't sit but poured one shot with a steady hand. He was impressed.
"None for yourself?"
"If you want me to stay, that's 100 for an hour and –"
"Sit, dearie," he said tersely.
Belle dropped like a rock and silently tipped herself a drink, not a trace of amusement on her face. Gold had expected her to be in a better mood, full of pithy remarks and twinkly eyes. She looked like she'd just had sex, wrapped the sheets around her and strolled to the kitchen – but Gold would have preferred her in old sweats and sneakers, if she would just give him a smile. Looking at her from the corner of his eye, taking out a cigar and lighting it with his matchstick key ring, he reclined in his chair and looked at a troupe of dancers that had taken to the stage as a heavier tune start to pump through the place. In the tipping aisle, only three men stood, the rest sitting back around the small circular tables.
"I'm surprised they liked me," Belle said, noticing the subdued atmosphere in the club. The five dancers were dressed in skimpy lingerie and were not all bad to look at. They swung their legs around the poles in effortless elegance, with a sass Belle had lacked. Gold finally conceded to look at her and searched her face for any false modesty. Finding none, he joined her in watching the show – he in absentminded distraction while she seemed to study them in confusion. "They're great. Why aren't the men getting excited?"
Gold thought about it too. Why did he find Belle's dance so much more attractive than this? This had more girls, a faster beat, complex moves. Yet where were the hollers and whistles? The gasps and mutters and the 'oh damns' that had been aplenty while Belle had been on stage? Gold's mind wandered, replaying what little of her act he had caught. He couldn't quite understand it.
"Whatever convinced you to dance, Miss Klutz?" he said instead, watching her stare miserably into her little shot of liquor.
"More money."
"$900,000...that would've been quite a haul. If you had gotten away with it."
"You spoke to de Vil?"
"I failed to convince her to rescind on your punishment, my apologies dear."
Belle shrugged and held the silk closer to her skin. Taking off his own jacket, a snake-skinned number as thick and textured as ever, he shrugged it over her shoulders. This time, Gold had been careful not to keep any valuables in his jacket pockets, choosing to leave most of them in the car with his chauffeur or have them close to his skin in his trouser pockets. Not that it would stop her, he suspected, if she really wanted to steal off him. Belle clutched the jacket close and she seemed to relax into it, allowing the soft inner lining to cushion her. It was a show of his own slightness that the shoulders weren't really that big and the waist didn't hang limply. It looked fashionably oversized. He hid a grin behind a downing of liquid. Trust Belle to make anything look decent. Perhaps that was it: Belle just looked better than the other dancers.
Glancing back at the stage where three of the girls were occupying one pole in an orgy of limbs and hair, Gold had to disagree with himself. Frankly, this meat market contained pretty choice cuts all around. It wasn't that Belle was more beautiful, for those dancers occupying the stage were equally stunning in their own ways. Looking back at his quiet companion, Gold realised with a jolt that she seemed extremely young in comparison. Her naiveté he had taken for granted, but not until looking at her tiny frown, upper lip slightly overhanging her plump lower one, or the curvature of her round cheeks as her eyelashes lowered over them, did he realise that the innocence might be linked to age. For the first time in aeons, Gold was overcome with guilt. Had he just been looking up the skirt of a minor? He felt perverted and poured another shot, liquid splashing slightly as his hands struggled to stay steady.
"How old are you, Belle?"
She looked up, appearing taken aback at his question, "Twenty. Why?"
"You do know you are not legally allowed to work at Olympic Garden."
"Yeah," she sighed, "I don't think de Vil cared about the rules in my case."
Gold contained the urge to make a very vocal phone call, filled with obscenities. He looked instead at Belle's fingers, playing with the rim of the shot glass. "Drink, dearie. You look like you need it." To hell with the drinking age and all that.
She dipped her finger into it and brought it to her lips, sucking on the pointer and concentrating on the taste. Gold followed the finger's path in a sudden trance and only looked away when she shook her head furiously, "Nup. Still don't like it."
"You will, one day."
"It's an acquired taste apparently," she pushed the shot across the table and sat back, "You couldn't have bought something...milder?"
"Well, no fun in that, now is there?"
"I suppose," she agreed tiredly and rubbed her eyes. A moment later she seemed to remember her make up and swore softly, "I have to go freshen up."
"Freshen up?" Gold echoed with an ironic twitch of his eyebrow. It was strange to here her speak like that. Keeping her from a hasty exit with a quick hand, he said, "No need."
"Isn't it smudged?" she asked, turning her head around to peer at herself in the dully reflective black wall.
Gold looked at her face, resembling a drugged up meth head or a porn star at the tail end of her career, and grunted in disinterest, "Not at all."
Belle looked up, unconvinced, but lowered herself back down and leaned across the table with her chin in both palms. "I hate this place."
"Really? One would never have guessed," he said sarcastically, missing the creature that had shone beneath the lights. Belle closed her eyes and Gold found he could now look freely without fear of staring. It was then that he noticed her difference. It wasn't what she had, but what she was missing. He recalled her dancing with closed eyes and looked up at the platform. Those girls were winking at the unresponsive audience, fluttering their eyelashes and pulling faces that you'd usually only see in the throngs of pleasure. Belle had none of that. She lacked the sexuality. That was it. She wasn't sexy. At all.
And that wasn't just because he'd realised she was young enough to be his daughter.
She was sensual, yes. And soft and vulnerable. She wasn't confident in herself. She wasn't happy to be there. She danced with her eyes firmly shut, like she was keeping out the audience, and though her moves were basic and her steps small, she had swung around that pole with a magnetic energy that none could resist. That Gold couldn't resist. It had seemed special because Belle made the audience feel like they were watching a private scene. As if behind those lids was an image of a bedroom and another man. Her dance had seemed real. With the music slow, and her skirt shimmering, Belle hadn't looked like a stripper – she'd looked like a lover.
Gold wondered where she had conjured up such an air.
"I hate this place so much," she spoke, now gazing unseeingly through the smoke that was beginning to surround their booth. Gold blew a ring from his cigar and nodded for her to continue, knowing she probably didn't even catch the movement. "One of the girls named...I don't know her real name but she calls herself Zanthia. Well, she's here on a study visa. Law and engineering. A real smart girl. One of the customers earlier tonight took her up to VIP and asked for a dance. That's 250. He paid her in one dollar bills and made her lick them off the floor."
"Ah."
So that's what had changed between earlier this morning and now.
"I hate this place."
"Where is lovely Zanthia from?" he said, trying to keep things light.
"Somewhere Eastern-European. Like half the girls here. Russia, probably."
Gold saw that the empty look had focused and followed her eye line to a girl in a pink and green clown costume. At least he supposed the pom pom bra and stiff frilled collar represented a clown somehow. She had the desired mail-order look about her. Straight platinum blonde hair and even at this distance through the smog, he could see her eyes were painted very black with many layers of cosmetic.
"The girl has been crying."
That roused Belle slightly and she sat up, squinting one eye in a look he was quickly realising was her 'thinking very hard' expression. "Zanthia doesn't cry. She's like all the Russians. All work. No play. Tough as jerky."
"Does she usually smother her skin in that much make up? Even for a stripper she looks," he searched for an inoffensive word, "Overdone."
Belle leaned forward, as if the few inches would help her sight. "Mmm...I didn't notice that. You're good."
"From you? That's hardly a compliment," he said scornfully. She opened her mouth to ask why and he waved the question away, "You notice nothing. The homeless man who spends his entire day staring at the cement sees more than you."
Belle crossed her arms over his jacket and twisted her lips to the left side of her face, "Oh really."
"Really," he pointed with the shot glass, "Tell me what you see there."
Frowning but following his outstretched arm to one of the three men leaning on the tipping aisle, Belle lifted a shoulder and made a noncommittal sound, "Nothing. Male. Mid to late forties. A local. He likes Angel; he's been tipping her twenties."
Gold took a deep sucking breath on his cigar and blew the smoke straight into her face. She coughed and glared. He smirked, "Pathetic, my dear. In three months you will be dead, mark my words."
"Three months?"
"If you fail to lean, and fast," he looked carefully at the man he'd pointed out, "Your 'business' is not about quick fingers. It's about people. The art of the con, my dear, is all about misdirection and human psychology. If you wish to continue breathing, it would do you much good to take a few notes."
Belle opened her mouth but didn't refute him. She suddenly took the previously unwanted glass and downed it in one gulp. Gold smirked some more.
"That man. Male, yes. Which is about the only thing you got right," Gold made rings of smoke and watched them float away before he continued, at his leisure. "Not forties. Older. Sixties at least. Face says young; the state of his body says old. Look at his hands, skin is loose – like an elderly man. Tells us he has had face work done. Vain, then. And wealthy. But, no wedding ring. Narcissistic. Loves himself so much he cannot bear to share. No wife lends itself to a nomadic life. Suit is Italian, shoes are Spanish tipped. Therefore, not a local but he is American, I will give you that. Texan given the Confederate belt buckle and his accent, which I heard earlier when he called you some term of endearment during your show."
Looking more and more unconvinced, Belle finally humoured him with a smile and a nod, "Sure. And how do I know you're not making this all up?"
"You may ask him."
She looked down at her costume and the jacket on top of it. Crossing her legs, Belle huffed, "Fine. Do me."
"Pardon?"
"I said, do that that on me," she waggled her fingers. Gold quickly brushed aside the sound of her saying 'do me' and replied. "Profiling, Miss French. Making instant profiles of your fellow man. Useful tool. Endless source of entertainment."
"Profiling," she wrapped the word around her tongue, "Like on a database."
"Not quite," he leaned backwards as if to get a better view of her, "More personality, less facts and figures. Take you, for example, any database would say twenty years old, female, born in Australia. But, I know you've been in the States since at least you were thirteen or fourteen hearing the slight American accent on your 'r's. You are fit. Given that you would generally choose a book over a jog, there must've been some aggravating factor that has made you take on an active lifestyle. Not childhood obesity and bullying, you are far too disinterested to be affected by that, so I will say an older male presence. Father given your affinity for older men and – "
"Excuse me?"
Gold stared, not believing that he had to physically point at himself for her to understand with a little 'oh' and a bright red blush. Continuing because she didn't appear to want him to stop, he said with growing speed, "You take little notice of current trends, since a tan is the latest young fad and you have none. So you have very little regard for your personal appearance. When I met you, you had no skill with make up or heeled shoes. You think little of yourself or luxury goods which hints at a life of thrift and living from pay check to pay check. A doting father, no doubt, given that you view men without danger, despite the fact that you are in a room full of dangerous men. So why did the loving father not try to protect his daughter from his money troubles? My guess would be that he was not around to do so."
"This is..." she trailed off, closing her eyes briefly but sighed speechlessly, opening them again and nodding for him to continue. She downed another shot.
"Absent father but no bitterness, no resentment that he left you all alone for long stretches of time? Then it must have been a work thing, not a drinking problem for example. But the work must have been noble, justified, or you still would not have stood for the abandonment. My guess – government or military. Given your athleticism, let us say military. And most likely highly ranked, several notable instances of bravery, etcetera. Yet not paid his due. So a row with a superior over an ethical qualm, I would bet, and a permanent demotion about the time you must have moved from the southern hemisphere to the north."
She nodded dumbly and was about to pour herself a third glass when Gold stopped her hand with a gentle, but firm, one of his own.
"No. You never drink, which is both a statement on your father's upbringing and your own complete disregard for teenage norms, but it also means, dearie, that you will be throwing up in the toilet in two hours."
"Oh."
"Indeed," he threw her a wolfish grin and went on, gesturing to her facial features as he spoke, "Eyes say intelligent. Sharp, bright, observant. But easy smile, generously given, belies innocence and gullibility. Your choice of career hints at a longing for adventure, and you have inherited your father's courage. The pole dance told me that even before I thought about dear old daddy. A girl here to pay a debt does not teach herself to dance half naked in front of sexually deprived men unless she chases danger. So an adrenaline junkie. But how did a bookish, quiet, innocent little girl who never drinks, takes drugs or even drive over the speed limit, get a taste for the unknown?"
"Okay, for your information, I have driven over the speed limit."
"Twice?" Gold queried with amusement.
Belle looked down and flushed again, "Once."
"Exactly," he finished his cigar and stubbed it into the dish, "So something forced you to be brave, the very first time. Some tragedy, something unavoidable. What else would propel an action so against your character? Money, I guess. Money troubles worse than before. The dough stopped coming in, so your father both quit his job working lowly overseas desks and refused to find another – which seems unlike the caring father – or something stopped him from doing his job. Blackmail? Sudden onslaught of Pacifist notions? Unlikely. So that leaves me with – "
"Medical," they said together.
Belle had her hands clasped, resting in her lap. She was staring at them. Gold gave her a moment and when she looked up and met his gaze, hers was free of tears.
"A stroke. We're not citizens so we have no claims to medical care and even if we were, we wouldn't be able to afford it," she said in a low, but strong voice, "I looked everywhere for work. But earning minimum wage at some fast food joint just wasn't enough to support him. I even considered coming to a place like this," she waved around, "But the money was too unsteady and you know I'm not cut out to be a stripper."
Gold waited as the silence stretched on. He hadn't spent all of his observations. There were still several more things about her that he had discovered through simply sitting and watching. But in the chronology of things, there was a gap between the stroke and her present that he couldn't quite place. From good girl Belle, a person who never stepped out of line, to someone with a pair of hands and some seriously advanced hacking skills if she'd managed to rig El Co's Keno machine, Gold couldn't get that particular picture to fit. Twisted every which way, he couldn't think of what had changed in a few short years.
"So..." he asked into the growing pause.
Belle smoothed a smile onto her face and shrugged, "So I found an alternative. Enough steady cash to pay for a live-in nurse, private medical care and one day maybe, to relocate him to a nicer part of the country – maybe somewhere nearer to the Lakes."
"Ah," Gold said, unable to resist the titbit of information, "Michigan or New York?"
"How..."
"There are eight states with a border that touches one of either Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie or Ontario," he explained, "You said 'lakes.' Plural. And only two of those states touch more than one of the Great Lakes. New York only has a very small border with Erie, sharing most with only Ontario so we could count that as just one lake. Which means you are from Michigan."
Throwing up her hands in amazement, Belle looked to the heavens, "Impossible."
Gold waved a finger at her, "Actually it's very possible. Logical. Natural, almost. Once you learn it, you'll wonder how you ever survived without it."
"What if I can't learn? What if I just can't do that?"
He laughed at her. Belle slumped her shoulders and looked offended. Her doubts had been serious. Giving those serious questions a very gleeful snigger, he nodded his head towards the stage where the dancing troupe had long packed away. "You learnt to pole dance in a couple of nights and did it better than any of the seasoned professionals. You're not lacking in capacity, my dear, only in experience."
Gold stood up and Belle jumped to her feet too, almost rolling another ankle in her haste. He stalked purposefully to one of the better lit round tables near the bar. She tottered after him, looking over her shoulder at the abandoned Johnnie Walker with a disapproving twist of her lips. Taking a seat opposite, she enquired as to why they'd changed real estate. Gold slid over to her with several bounces of the stool. Leaning in close, so that his breath was blowing against her hair, he directed her gaze towards a couple they now had a clear view of.
"Lesson one. The clothing," he murmured, voice deliciously low and silky. Belle narrowed her eyes and focused, listening to his instructions with a schoolgirl focus. Once he gave her leave to try herself, she thought long and hard about her answer.
"The man's wearing an expensive looking watch but it's not glowing under the black light..."
"So?"
She blinked at him and licked her lips, narrowing eyes in determination, "So it's fake. Either a knock off or a cheap souvenir. Probably the second because nothing else they're wearing is made to look high end. I think they're tourists, then, and she's wearing runners. They've been walking around a lot and that means no rented car, or maybe they're staying nearby?"
"Very good," he murmured, lips just hovering above her neck. He brought up an arm and directed her to a bachelor's party that had just walked in the door and were busy buying drinks. "Lesson two. The body language. Which one is the groom?"
Belle found herself leaning back and slightly into him, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. They watched the young men laugh and joke. "They're already drunk."
"That surprises you?"
She didn't reply but studied their movements carefully. The best man would be the guy ordering the drinks and hustling over the prices. That left five other men. Two weren't smiling, simply looking curiously at the floor and glancing up the stairs to peek at the VIP area. She doubted the groom wouldn't be smiling so directed her attention to the other three men. All were talking over each other, rubbing shoulders and pushing themselves about. From the meaningless gambolling, she started to detect a pattern. Two of them seemed to be taking turns teasing the third.
"That's him. The one on the right. Are his mates trying to force him into a nude dance or something?" she turned her head an inch and felt Gold's mouth accidentally press against her jaw line. They both jumped back a fraction. Staring. She cleared her throat, holding his gaze, unreadable, and then looked back at the group. "Oh no," she glanced at Gold again, "One of them wants me. It's the best man."
"My dear?"
"Look. The way his hands have gone deep into his pockets. The way he's facing me but his eyes are looking everywhere except here. He's acting casual, licking his lips. Oh no...No, no...He's walking over."
Gold growled.
A real growl as he looked at the buff figure with the gelled back hair and combat boots. So much macho to compensate for his lack of class. Didn't he know that it was bad etiquette to accost a girl already taken? Gold made to get back to his feet but Belle steadied his hand and quickly took off his jacket she was wearing, throwing it into his lap. She stood up, holding the scrap of material to her chest and then turned her back on the man. Bending over, Gold got a very good look of the man's face as he checked her out, Belle leaned in close to him and whispered, "You've taught me lots. Now let me show you a little something."
Whipping around with a sultry smile, she let the material drop, exposing her front. The entire party whispered and clapped the best man on his back, shoving him forward. Gold had his cane ready for attack. His eyes flickered between the approaching man and Belle, not sure where to look. Watching her walk forward, hips sashaying in a fashion he had never seen before, Gold took back his comment about her lack of sex. The man was practically drooling, his mouth wide open and staring at her like she was something delicious to eat. As Belle took his hand and led him over to the table, he didn't even seem to notice Gold's presence.
"What's your name, sailor?" she said, her voice rough, looking out from beneath lowered lids.
With his friends still laughing in the background, he smirked and set one elbow on the table, leaning against it and flexing the muscle in a not so subtle way. Gold wanted to poke it and see if it simply burst like a balloon. Those forearms were very similar to Popeye the Sailor's. Oh...now he understood Belle's choice of words. Yes, this salivating idiot did resemble that two dimensional cartoon character. What a compliment to him, Gold thought vindictively as his hand twitched upon the cane. He wished he had one of those sticks that concealed a knife or a gun. That would be supremely convenient.
"Richard Gaston. But you can just call me Gaston. Like James Bond, but everyone just calls him Bond."
Belle giggled at his amazing wit. To hell with a knife or a gun, Gold thought, he could just beat the guy down with the wood if need be. Seeing Belle cavort with a guy of that intellect was demeaning to everyone in a three mile radius.
"Oh, well, have I got something special for you," she leaned in to him, giving him a face full of her boobs. Gold almost he didn't see Belle wink at him and take out Gaston's wallet. About to tell her it was suicide, that even a dunce like him would notice it was gone when he made to pay her, instead, all he could think about was keeping his mouth from hanging to wide. Belle was giving Gaston lots of time to lick her breasts and reach around and grab her ass. She was moving slowly to the music and Gold only stood for the behaviour because he could see her laughing eyes as she opened his wallet and took out one of his credit cards. It was ridiculous just how skilful those fingers were. Flicking open the clasp and looking through all the pockets for a suitable card, even lifting out a ten dollar bill that he wouldn't miss. All in no more than three seconds. All with only one hand. She had no pockets, obviously, so returned the wallet to the oblivious customer and dropped the card and money into Gold's lap.
He stared down at the bounty. Where the hell had she learnt to do that?! Stuffing the stolen goods into his pocket, Gold knew that despite all his profiling finesse, simply recounting her life story was just the surface of Belle French. About her nature, about her desires and dreams, her fears and her failures – he knew nothing. Keep his gaze from the pair beside him, Belle's inexperienced dips and grinds as she gave him a lap dance and Gaston's growing bulge, Gold looked around the smoke filled room. There was a man who sat alone. From his hands, it was obvious he was a banker and he was cheating on his wife. There, another man, chain smoker and tried drugs in his youth. Didn't like it. Stuck with cigarettes. There, a woman. Fear of children.
Gold repeated the act all around the room. Finding out so much more about these people in a glance than all his surveillance sessions on Belle. Sure, he could figure out much about her family, her father. But what about her? Her present? It frustrated him. One moment she was conflicted and depressed, the next she was busting out her entire limited repertoire to steal from a sleazebag. That Gaston was a sleazebag made her actions justified but did that make them more moral? Gold mentally smacked himself. Since when did he care about moral? This was the effect of the general area. He needed to go back up to his tiger patterned couch, order Belle a cocktail and wrap his arms around her. Away from the smoke and the darkness. Away from Mr Popeye.
"You're beautiful. Can I take you home?"
Belle stroked a finger down his tented pants and only smiled. He paid the $20 for the dance and bought her a Smirnoff something. Another girl came to pour the drinks and horny Gaston got distracted by this new dish. As he flexed his muscles for the ravishing red head, Belle took the opportunity to side step him and stand before Gold. They didn't need words to communicate her need to get out as quickly as possible.
As he stood, he lifted the scrap of material and wrapped it around her chest. Hands lingering at her waist and avoiding eye contact, he felt her arm come around and hold the silk in place. Feeling her ribs beneath his palms, she seemed so small.
She's only twenty, of course she's small.
Gold quickly led her upstairs, past the individual stalls where women gave nudes, shielded from the outside by a curtain made of semi-translucent cloth. Into the VIP room, Gold finally heaved a breath of relief. He swung his jacket back over Belle's shoulders and she seemed to release the tension in them. Here it was brightly lit, the chandeliers welcoming them inside. It wasn't a Saturday so his couch was occupied. A group of four were being entertained by two dancers. Gold stomped over and promptly dismissed them. They opened their mouths to complain to Ursula, who grew two chins as she spotted Gold and Belle, but silenced the whines of the four strong group nonetheless. If Gold wanted his usual, Gold would have his usual.
"That's rude," Belle chided, following the disgruntled guests with her eyes. "Couldn't we have sat somewhere else?"
Gold gestured around at the full room. She leaned back in resignation and extended a palm. "Gimme."
It took him a moment to realise she meant her bounty. Still not looking at him, her fingers curled around the plastic as soon as it touched her skin. She drew it to eye level and gave it a hawk-like stare. He watched her run her thumb over the ivory and cobalt metallic sheen, saw her linger over the embossed letters and numbers, little bumps coming out of the plastic like brail dots. A thought came to him. How could she use the card without Gaston's signature or pin number? But a glance at the casual smile upon her face and he realised that she must know some trick he didn't.
As he stared at her staring at the card, he asked as offhandedly as he could, "Why not return the money you stole, instead of going through this every night?"
Belle finally looked up, "I thought you spoke to de Vil."
"I did."
"She didn't tell you what I stole?" Belle seemed surprised, those teal blue eyes searching his, "I didn't take cash...if that's what you mean."
"But surely you still have the money..."
She shook her head, "No. No, I didn't make any money. I didn't fence off her jewels or steal her car or break into her safe and take bank bonds," at Gold's baffled look, she grinned vaguely, "I stole a dog."
"A dog."
"Mmm."
Gold closed his eyes and muttered that he must be hearing things, "A dog?"
Belle made a face, like she was afraid he'd strike her, "Yeah?"
"A dog worth $900,000," he said in the same disbelieving tone.
She sucked on her bottom lip and looked up at the ceiling, "Have you ever heard of kennel clubs?"
"Yes."
"Well," she took a deep breath, "There's this Dalmatian called Betty Lou's Kingdom of Vaenyth. She's a world champion, French champion, North American grand champion, and best of breed winner not to mention the winner of loads of best in specialty shows. She's the top Dalmatian the dog world has seen in decades and she just retired from competition. A puppy from Betty Lou's litter is worth hundreds of thousands. The prize money at these shows. Well..."
He couldn't believe his ears. Carmella de Vil was punishing a girl because she stole a dog. A champion dog, but a dog nonetheless.
"So you stole Betty Lou. What did you do with her?" Gold said in a tight voice. Belle had stolen and fenced a dog. A living, breathing dog.
"What? No!" she cried, "I didn't steal the mother. I stole her son. And apparently the only puppy of the litter who had any potential. Mind you, I discovered all of this after de Vil grabbed me. When I saw the pup, I never meant to take him. It's just that he looked malnourished, probably only four weeks old, and stuck in this tiny metal cell away from his mummy. With no blankets, no food, no water. I had to get him out. So I did. And only afterwards did I realise his owner had secured a deal with another breeder in Italy. The puppy was to be shipped off in two days and de Vil would have been almost a million dollars richer."
"You rescued a dog worth more than most people's homes," Gold deadpanned.
Belle shrugged, "She's wasn't treating them right. Champion pedigree or no champion pedigree. I wasn't going to leave the dog there so I popped the lock and took him."
"Name?"
"Officially it's Fireman's Ruby, or so they tell me. I don't like these stuck up names," she had gone back to inspecting the back of Gaston's credit card. Muttering absentmindedly as she scratched at the surface with a finger nail, she said, "He's super hyperactive though. After I got him warm and fed, that is. Bouncing all around the motel room. Like a pogo stick. Boing. Boing. Boing. Bouncy, bouncy. Cutest thing I've ever seen..."
Gold looked askance at her and shook his head. She'd got herself stuck in the club by attempting to save an animal from the clutches of a loveless owner and a competitive, money grubbing industry. Belle was just full of surprises. He wondered where this dog was. It sounded like it was still with her. She could as easily have given the dog back and saved herself. But here she was, doing her time and selling her body over and over. All for a little dog.
"You are an interesting creature, Miss French," he said as he hailed a waitress, "Top shelf tall Harvey Wallbanger, double Tanqueray and tonic, and a Cadillac margarita with salt and lime wheel."
"I have no idea what you just ordered but that sounds like a lot of alcohol," Belle said with a worried look at the retreating back of the waitress.
"A man is paying you $1,700, the least you can do for him is to drink the beverages he buys," Gold said with a shadow of a smile.
Belle thought for a moment. "Since when were you paying me that much?"
"300 an hour for the dear lady's company in the VIP room. Five hours until the end of your shift makes 1500. As well as 100 for your thrilling stage show and another hundred for the forty minutes spent downstairs," Gold nodded and tipped the woman who placed three very different drinks in very different glasses down on the black table. He picked up the one in a tall, thin glass. "Now, for every person you profile correctly in these next five hours, I will tip you $50. And for every drink you successfully learn and drink I will pay you $100."
She took the bright yellow concoction from his hand and looked at it as if it contained human blood, "Why are you doing this?"
Gold picked up a margarita glass, rimmed with crushed salt and looking a poisonous green. "Do you want the yellow or the green?"
"You ordered all these for me..." Belle said in a horrified voice, picking up a square glass with clear iced liquid, "Is this vodka?"
"A gin and tonic. Tanqueray gin to be exact," he pointed to the yellow in her other hand, "That one is vodka. With orange juice and a float of Galliano. The green is tequila, Cointreau and Grand Marnier."
She frowned and set both her glasses down, "What happened to not wanting me to throw up?"
"Building resilience requires practice, dearie," he said slyly, "Now drink. And tell me something about that man."
She chose the gin and tonic after much consideration and took a tentative sip, "Urgh. Disgusting. Alright. That guy is thirties. Married. Some kind of car dealer?"
"Pen in shirt pocket. Very good. $50, my dear. Well earned," Gold chuckled and reclined, enjoying the conflicted looks that crossed Belle's face as she took another sip, braver this time. She would get on well. And perhaps one day she'd be able to order a drink herself. Life lessons, he thought. Selfishly, he wanted her intoxicated and laughing, enjoying his generally unpleasant company with the help of alcohol. If he had six months with her – he would damn well make use of those six months. Did it make him a manipulative bastard, taking advantage of a young girl? Hell yes. But, he thought mildly, if she really despised his actions – she would surely make her anger known through a missing wallet or two. Or perhaps, if he riled her up enough, he would wake up one morning to find his Maserati missing. Or maybe she would have a taste for one of his diamond studded wristwatches.
"Lola, can I use the pad and pen?" she called to one of the roaming waitresses. The girl passed it over and Gold tipped her to make her go away. Wondering what Belle was going to show him, he leaned over and watched, entranced and appalled, as she carefully placed Gaston's credit card on the table and the pad beside it. With only a slight hesitation, she scribbled something with a flourish and sat back, looking immensely proud of herself. "What do you think?"
Gold looked at the identical forgery of Gaston's signature. "Very," he gulped, "Impressive."
Never mind wallets, cars or jewellery. Belle could simply max out of his bank accounts. He was curious to see whether or not she could still do such feats of mind boggling criminal panache while drunk and hailed the waitress over. Tearing off the signature, he passed over the pad and ordered three more drinks, to Belle's wide mouthed dismay. Not even her genius could withstand an overload of expensive liqueurs. Surely. Hopefully.
"You suck," she crossed her arms, the gin still in her hand.
On an impulse, Gold bent over and pressed an open mouth to her bare neck. He sucked and released her with heart beating wildly. Unable to resist the quip, he grinned, hiding the wavering fear that she would jump back and scream sexual assault, "I guess I do suck."
Belle had frozen. She looked as afraid as he felt and took two huge gulps of the drink. Gold watched her, half amused, half horrified that even a little kiss had left her in need of liquor. Great. Here he was, feeling like a schoolboy, the Dalmatian puppy bouncing around his stomach while she drank the memory of his lips away. Great. He scowled. This was a mistake. She was young. She was beautiful. She was full of wonderful tricks. What was he?
"Mr Gold?" she said softly. He looked down at her tiny hand, resting on his thigh. "Did I do something wrong?"
Looking back into those wide, fearful eyes, he gathered his courage and found a grim smile. "Yes. I am afraid that is not how you hold a drink," Belle relaxed with a breathy laugh and watched him take the glass and place it firmly in her other hand. "Left always. Keep your right free to work. Now, time for another profile. Do that couple over there. Tell me how long they've been married."
She looked for a long time and after almost ten minutes, turned back to him and said very slowly. "They're not married. She's his mistress of...I'll say six months."
Gold took out a fifty dollar note and dangled it in the air. She tore it from his fingers with a big smile and a lilting thank you. Then crossing her legs, Belle finished the gin, made a show of licking her lips in enjoyment and picked up the margarita with her left hand. With her right, so quick Gold didn't even see it, she held up a five dollar bill. He blinked in confusion until she waggled her eyebrows and nodded at the retreating backside of a stripper returning to the dressing rooms. In her G-string, she had tucked several notes. While striding by their couch, Belle had taken one of them, out from the girl's very skin and she had been none the wiser.
"Free to work," Belle wiggled the fingers of her right hand, "Free to wander."
Taking out another cigar, he lit it and took a long draught. "Amen."
OOO
Bee was leaning over the rails of the raised Circle Bar, looking over the casino and getting her bearings. In her left hand she held the neck of a double black and took absentminded sips from its rim. In her right, she fiddled with a burner phone, flipping the old model open and close in a compulsive twitch. Her mind was occupied. Too many things had crammed in it the last few days and she was taking the time to air it out. A highly functioning brain was like a railway system. Bee considered hers the cerebral equivalent of the London Underground. At first glance, a string of tangled tracks but after some consideration, different routes could be seen. The ancient, more than one hundred years old, and the new. Keeping all 274 stations in check was a mammoth feat but to the 2.3 million passengers that passed through each day, it all went like clockwork. Fast, punctual and clean – that was the ideal. But when the maintenance dropped, the entire network faltered and the people complained. Her synapses were the people. Her nerves were the rails. Her memories were the stations and her thoughts, coming every second and every millisecond – were the trains themselves. Recently, there had been many bumps in the tracks and everything from Heathrow to Epping was a mess. She was in due need of a spring cleaning. Or whatever it was called in December.
Winter cleaning.
In slow increments, the junk was being cleared and only the very necessary remained:
She had been called by Gold to find the mastermind behind this con because he thought that mastermind could be coerced into telling him the whereabouts of his son.
Hopper had recommended her since she was Jeff's partner and Jeff was the architect.
The big con would go down on New Year's Eve.
But she didn't have to stop it if she found Gold's son first.
Someone really didn't want her to stop the con, seeing as they had poisoned her.
There was a roulette wheel remote to find, or at least the person who controlled it.
There was Jeff to rescue from Gold's wrath.
There was a traitor inside Gold's empire.
There. Brain all clean. Things had been so difficult to figure out with all the double talk and hospital trips. Bee took a deep breath. From her vantage point, she could see about fifty percent of the casino. The bar wasn't particularly high, but it was enough to give her a good idea of where her mark was. Following him with her eyes now, she watched the man in leather take a seat at a blackjack table and begin chatting up an older woman.
The double black tasted like flat lemonade. A tinsy bit citrusy with a lot of sweet and not a lot of alcohol. She took another sip and threw the entire bottle in the bin only half finished. Taking the stairs back to the floor in leaps and wondering why she'd blown money on a drink that didn't even taste like vodka, when she could have paid less for an actual vodka, Bee quickly found her target. He was stubbled and good humoured and had that casual body language that had caused her to lower her guard the last time. Combined with a mellow voice, an unassuming sense of humour and eyes that said, 'I don't take myself too seriously', she had been well and truly duped.
"Hi," she slid into third base on the other side of August. A cocktail waitress wandered past with complimentary sugary drinks. She took one just to keep her hands busy. Once two quarters, $25 chips, were sitting neatly in her betting circle, she leaned backwards on the stool and looked across Augusts' body to the woman he was chatting up. "Hey lady. Go back to your husband. This one here isn't all he's cracked up to be."
"I'm sorry?" the lady flushed and looked over her shoulder.
"You're married," Bee stated, "He wouldn't be flirting with you unless you weren't. A bit of advice, don't cheat. I'm sure that the drinking problem will clear up as soon as hubby gets that promotion at work."
"How did you – "
"Scram woman," Bee lost most of her patience and was glad to see the back of her head.
August looked at his cards. "Hit me," he tapped the felt and grinned at the dealer before speaking to Bee out of the side of his mouth, "Did your husband buy you that dress as well?"
"Split. Hit both. I'll stay, thank you," Bee gave her own smile to the dealer and replied, "You know damn well I'm not married."
"You lied?" August sounded hurt. "I'm bust. Twenty-three."
"Don't sound so surprised. You must have known I was single through your profile," Bee flipped her cards face up. She had split her double eights into two separate hands and bet on both. "Eighteen in that hand. Nineteen in this one."
"Profile? I don't understand Miss Gallium."
"I'm sorry I don't know your last name," Bee said casually, collecting the winnings on her nineteen hand and taking a sip of the cocktail. "This of course, tells me I never gave you mine. You see, August, it's all about psychology. When you say, 'I'm from Canada', someone you've just met will say, 'Oh, I'm from France.' If you say, 'I'm from Toronto', they will say 'I'm from Paris.' Do you understand? Yes. Thank you. I'll make an insurance bet. A quarter."
"Me too," August also threw a chip onto the strip of felt labelled 'PAYS 2 to 1 INSURANCE BET.'
"When you give a country, they give a country. When you give a city, they give a city. No one ever says, 'Hi I'm from Iowa' and the stranger says 'Oh that's interesting, I'm from Hicksville, Frankfurt, Kentucky.' You subconsciously give the same amount of information as each other," Bee tapped the felt, "Hit me. Hit me again. So, August, seeing as I only know your first name, we must have introduced as 'August' and 'Isabelle.' Based on ingrained psychology, I would never have introduced myself as 'Isabelle Gallium' when you only said 'August.' It's counterintuitive to provide more personal information than your opponent. It's an evolutionary protective method. One man reveals a stone axe, the other will pick up his stone axe too – not give away the fact that he has a copper blade stuck in his shoe as well. He'll reveal the knife when the time comes and take the enemy by surprise. Same with introductions. So, sir, I have to ask – if I didn't give you my last name – how you knew it?"
"I double down," August said, unworried, "Well Isabelle, you make a great speech but human nature isn't a science."
"Well Pinocchio, how about patterns?"
"Patterns? I have a twenty."
"Seventeen," Bee said and watched the dealer flip over her nineteen. "People look at patterns all wrong. They look at what's there instead of what isn't. It's when someone deviates from a pattern that valuable information can be found. Take for example, yourself. I have heard from a reliable source that you live downtown and pick up wealthy married women. Now, given your lady friend I've scared away, I can see that is true. But I am neither wealthy nor married. Before you interrupt, let's just say that you were misled by the expensive Chanel coat and dress and because I lied about having a husband. Even so, I don't look the part. You don't target young married women, do you August? You pick on the older ones. Well seasoned. MILF's, I think is the crude word. I'm not old enough to be a usual mark and I don't have that stench of desperation. So why me? There was something special about me."
"You are a very special lady, Isabelle," he drawled, "Your beauty is unparalleled."
"I think you were a better liar the last time," she said scathingly, "I wasn't a target of your sexual and monetary exploits. I was a target of a con. How much did they pay you to deviate from your usual patterns and distract me while they set up the rigged roulette wheel? Hit me. I'll stay."
"Split. Hit this one. Double down that. Yes, hit that. I'll stay both," August finally looked at her. Their eyes met in one electric moment and she saw her mistake right way. "You have a wild imagination, Isabelle."
"They didn't...pay you," she said slowly, "That was an error on my part. I thought they paid you as a temporary employee. But you're one of them, aren't you? This whole pick up artist deal is just a cover. How long have you been working on it? Months? In casinos all around Vegas? That's very dedicated. A good cover takes some patience."
He smiled thinly, took the cocktail from her fingers and drank from it. "Mmm...sweet on the surface with a bitter aftertaste. Just like you."
"You were more flattering last time too."
"Do I give you an award? Do I say, well done and put a sticker on your notebook?" he said, dripping with sarcasm now and finishing her drinking with smacking lips. "Am I gonna join my companions in the emergency room?"
Bee abruptly stood and marched away. She felt him follow her and chose a place at the colourful west slots. After a few seconds, he deposited himself into the seat beside her and began to play a game of his own.
"I have a proposition," she said softly, letting the ringing of the machines all around them keep their conversation from prying ears. August had to lean in towards her to catch her words. "I can keep Gold off your back if you'll give me three wishes."
"Three?"
"Your life is priceless," Bee pulled the lever and watched herself spin two diamonds and a tomato. "Three favours is me being very kind."
"How can I trust you won't tell Gold anyway?"
Bee swivelled until she was facing August and put her elbows on her knees. "If I were you? I wouldn't. But you don't have a choice. One word from me and you're a dead man."
"I think your famous compassion has been overrated."
She continued to stare at him with that calm, disinterested facade. "Do we have an agreement?"
August fiddled with his leather jacket and looked around. Finally, he nodded. Bee grinned and took one of his hands, her fingers placed lightly against his pulse point. "Good. Wish number one. Give me the roulette remote. Wish number two. Get me a private conversation with Jeff. Wish number three. Find the whereabouts of Gold's son."
She felt his heart beat flutter but not enough to indicate he wouldn't keep his word. August withdrew his wrist from her fingers with an ugly expression on his face. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small plastic box with a keypad upon it. Passing it to her, he growled, "I didn't even know Gold had a son."
"Then ask around," she retorted. "And Jeff?"
August licked his lips and closed his eyes, "Fine. We'll hold fire. He's in Privé. You have fifteen minutes."
Bee straightened and tucked away the remote. "Pleasure doing business with you August."
OOO
Got distracted halfway through this chap by season premiere! I'm so happy for all the rumbelle angst (if you haven't figured out, I LOVE ANGST)! *squee*