Mind Games

Chapter 11

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all.

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Someone whooped, and then several people laughed and applauded as Charlie straightened. He could feel an almost immediate rush, and then Charlotte laughed beside him, wiping her nose, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He felt strange and light-headed, and his heart was thumping rapidly, but he was still there. He hadn't keeled over, or died on the spot. That didn't mean he didn't want to.

He clambered to his feet and helped Charlotte up, and she flung an arm around him as Montreaux nodded at him, smiling. "Welcome to the family, Charlie." Behind him, Charlie could see Ian, slouched casually against the wall. As they made eye contact, Ian silently raised his glass in salute. Montreaux clapped his hands. "Laissez le bon temps roulez!" he cried, and another whoop went up from the crowd.

Someone cranked up a wild Zydeco tune on the sound system, and the beat resonated in Charlie's ears. The odd feeling was increasing, he felt buzzy, as if he was vibrating; his heart was palpitating strangely. Charlotte grabbed his arm. "Come on," she yelled over the music, "I need a drink!"

The attention had finally strayed from them as couples began gyrating to the music, and Charlie stumbled toward the bar behind her, grateful that he was finally out of the limelight.

"C'mon, let's do a shot!" Charlotte exclaimed. He looked at her; her face was flushed, her eyes oddly bright. She didn't wait for him to agree; she ordered two double shots of tequila for them and Charlie downed his, both from an attempt to fit in and a desperate desire to rid himself of the odd sensation of the drug. Alcohol was a nervous system depressant, he reasoned, maybe it would take the edge off the cocaine.

He was right, he found moments later; the alcohol dulled the effect somewhat. Unfortunately, it also was dulling his ability to think coherently. He felt Charlotte pull him out into the group of dancers, and he stumbled after her, trying to move with them, with the pounding beat, the room dissolving into a strange, whirling mélange of color and lights.

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Don sat in the passenger seat and surreptitiously glanced at the dashboard clock as Blinkie cruised the street in his Cadillac STS. It was nearly 3:30 a.m., and they'd been out for hours, riding through Blinkie's territories, stopping and meeting his lieutenants. Blinkie's gang was large; a dominant force in the city under-society, and Don was gathering enough information to put the majority of them behind bars. Unfortunately, that wasn't what he was there for – he would have to let all of it slide, look the other way, at least until their mission was finished.

"One mo' location," said Blinkie. He lifted a large, gold-bedecked paw from the steering wheel and gestured at two men in dew rags lounging on a corner. "They's some of my dealers for this area. This territory's owned by Runboy – he's my lieutenant, an' those dealers work for him. Runboy got issues with this area – there's a big dealer on the other side of the street – he take a lot of business, and he ain't afraid of Runboy – he got backup. Name's Smoky Pete."

Don nodded. Smoky Pete was one of Montreaux's dealers, but he couldn't tell Blinkie that – Blinkie didn't know that Montreaux was behind Don's offer. "I might have some influence on that," was all he said. The fact was, if both dealers were selling his cocaine, Montreaux wouldn't really care which one was doing it – Runboy or Smoky Pete. Smoky Pete and his lieutenant might have an issue with a reduced territory, but Montreaux would consider it worth his while to make them back off, if he could get Runboy's section of streets.

Blinkie nodded. "You get that, and you got my deal. I don't know who yo' man is, but I think we can do good bizness together." He looked at Don. "Runboy ain't available right now – if you wanna meet him, we can wait, or we can do it another night. I jist wanted you to see his territory."

"Nah, that's okay," said Don. "We got plenty of time for that."

Blinkie grinned, flashing a solid gold grill. "You ain't shittin'. This gonna be good." He held out a fist, and Don bumped it with his own.

Blinkie turned the corner, heading back toward the warehouse where they'd met. 'Thank God,' Don thought to himself. He couldn't wait to get back to Montreaux's estate and check up on Charlie. That anxiety completely overrode any sense of victory he felt over closing the deal with Blinkie, or the tension he felt over riding solo with a notorious gang leader in the middle of the night.

At a few minutes to four a.m., he was in his car and pulling out his cell phone, as he steered the Monte Carlo out of the warehouse lot. He started to dial Charlie; then hesitated. They had to be careful of what they said because of the bug in the car and because he didn't know who might be listening to Charlie on the other end, plus, he had no idea how much Charlie had had to drink, and whether he was still sharp enough to take care with his conversation. After a moment's reflection, he dialed Ian instead.

"Yeah," came Ian's voice over the phone.

"Ian. Just got done with Blinkie. We got ourselves a deal," said Don, for the benefit of the listening device. "Is Montreaux still up?"

"Nah, I don't think so," said Ian. "The legit crowd is long gone, and a lot of the upstairs group has gone home or to bed here for the night. That's good about Blinkie – Montreaux will be glad to hear it."

"Charlie get back to the hotel okay?"

There was brief hesitation. "Nah – he crashed here." Don felt an uncomfortable sensation in his gut – had something happened? Ian apparently sensed the apprehension in the dead silence on the other end, because he continued quickly. "He's fine. I'm gonna stay here myself tonight. You might as well head on back to the hotel. We'll hook up in the morning."

Don clenched the steering wheel in frustration. He suspected the fact that Charlie had slept at Montreaux's estate meant he might have had a little too much to drink, and losing control like that among Montreaux's people was dangerous in itself. He wanted to ask Ian what had happened, but that was impossible. All he could do was take Ian's word that Charlie was all right. "Okay, yeah," he said, trying to sound cool, calm, weary; instead of wound tight. "I'll talk to you in the morning." He flipped the cell phone shut, and drove through the dark, nearly deserted streets, his mind racing.

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Morning light seeped through the gaps in the draperies, and teased Charlie's closed lids. He heard a shower come on, and for a moment, he thought he was at the hotel and it was Don in the shower. He felt horrible; nauseated, and knew that beignets and café au lait probably weren't going to cut it this morning.

Someone was humming, and he frowned; the voice was female. Not Don. With a sinking feeling, he opened his eyes. He was in strange bedroom, tangled in strange sheets, and was staring directly into an open bathroom doorway at a completely nude Charlotte. His heart lurched sickeningly as the memories from the night before struck him – the cocaine, the subsequent drinking – he didn't remember much after that, but apparently, he'd passed out, spent the night with Charlotte. A vision of Amita rushed immediately to his mind, and defying the odds, he felt immeasurably worse. He'd betrayed her – dear God, what had he done?

A groan escaped him, and caught Charlotte's attention. She threw on a robe, padded out of the bathroom and over to him, and bent and kissed his forehead. "Good morning, lover," she cooed. She nuzzled his stubbled cheek, and he felt like screaming. "You were unbelievable last night," she murmured, and then brushed her lips across his forehead again. "I'm gonna get a shower, honey, I'll be out in sec."

Charlie couldn't speak; he tried to smile at her, tried to cling to the charade, but she'd turned and didn't see it. It was probably a good thing; the smile was more than likely a grotesque grimace. 'Unbelievable last night?' He'd been a willing participant? His gut roiled, and he suddenly knew he was going to be sick – he rolled out of bed like a palsy victim, lurching and shaking, and made it to the toilet, just barely. The shower was set off by another doorway from the main bathroom, and the last little shred of his dignity that was left had him hoping she hadn't heard his pitiful retching over the sound of the water.

He flushed the toilet, sank onto the floor and just sat there, realizing he at least was wearing his boxers, but too miserable to care. Don's words floated through his head. "You have to play the part, no matter what…you may have to do things that you don't ordinarily believe in…," He'd played the part all right. Hopefully, if he hadn't screwed up anything after he'd gotten drunk; he'd managed to keep their mission alive. Right now, that was small consolation. It was hard to appreciate saving the free world when he'd just gone against every personal principle he had.

Between Charlotte's primping and Charlie's slow painful attempts to shower, it took them over an hour to get downstairs. Charlie didn't bother to shave; it was all he could do to shower and dress. It was after ten, but they were still some of the first ones in the ground floor kitchen, where breakfast was being served. Montreaux was there, along with his cousin Pierre, Ian and the Clemenceaus, and two other bleary-eyed partiers that Charlie recognized, just barely, from the night before. A cook bustled at the far end of the kitchen, and the smell of hot oil permeated the air, making Charlie's stomach turn. He sank into a chair, avoiding Ian's eyes, and Charlotte gave his shoulder a squeeze and went humming cheerfully to pour them coffee.

Montreaux smiled. "You are ver' cheerful this morning, chérie," he said to Charlotte. "You had a good night?"

"A very good night," Charlotte agreed, setting a mug of coffee in front of Charlie. She placed a kiss on the top of Charlie's head, in his still slightly damp curls, and backed away to lean against the counter holding her mug with both hands.

Guy Clemenceau chuckled. "It looks like you wore him out, woman."

Charlotte rolled her eyes and grinned. "Quite the contrary, honey, I assure you."

Charlie smiled weakly and lifted his coffee to his lips, stealing a glance at the group as he did. As his head cleared, a nasty worry had entered it - what if he'd slipped, said something he shouldn't, last night? Ian was watching him, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

Montreaux was watching him too, smiling, but it had faded slightly. "I think you are right, Charlie, for staying away from the drugs. It appears you don't handle them ver' well, non? I have a job for you, and I think it best if you go away to do it – away from the parties, and -," he flicked a glance at Charlotte, "the diversions."

Charlie found his voice. "Away?" he managed. That was good - Montreaux was going ahead with his offer, so it was likely he still suspected nothing. On the other hand, if Charlie had slipped and didn't realize it, 'away' could be permanent.

Montreaux nodded. "I have a home in the bayou – it is quiet there, no distractions, and there are computers there tied to my server. When you are finished, then you can return here. After breakfast, I will talk to you privately about the job." He rose, and patted Charlie on the cheek. "Get something in you, mon ami," he said. "I recommend beignets and café au lait."

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Don paced the floor of the small meeting room off the garage, impatiently, and glanced at his watch. Almost 11:00 a.m. Ian had called him moments before and said that he and Charlie were en route to the hotel, and told him they would meet at the room. "The room," was code for the vacant office off the parking garage; they had agreed ahead of time that they would specify "hotel room," if they meant to meet at the hotel. The fact that Ian wanted to meet there meant something was up, something they couldn't discuss in the car or at the hotel room – something that Ian didn't even want to discuss in public, on the street. The call played on his nerves, already jangled by a sleepless night.

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Ian pulled into the parking garage and regarded Charlie, who was sitting with his head against the headrest, eyes closed. "Let's go," he said, "you need to get packed." Charlie opened his eyes and clawed at the door handle, listlessly sliding out onto concrete, and shut the door. "I think I'm going to be sick," he said, as Ian came around the vehicle.

Ian regarded him with sympathy, and glanced toward the SUV. It was unlikely that the bug inside would pick up their conversation with the doors closed, but he pulled Charlie a few feet away anyway, and spoke quietly. "Why don't you wait here a minute?" he said. "I'll go and fill Don in – you can come in after me – give me five. I'll tell him you're on your way – that you got sick or something."

Charlie looked at Ian miserably. "Do we have to tell him?" he asked weakly.

Ian shrugged. "He's gonna hear anyway, the next time he shows up at Montreaux's. It's safer for him to tell him here, where no one can see or hear his reaction. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Charlie. You did what you had to do for the mission – we all know that wasn't you, that wasn't something you would ordinarily do. Montreaux gave you an ultimatum – you had no choice. Actually, you probably don't remember all of it, but you played your part perfectly last night. I think you needed to do that to convince Montreaux - up until last evening you were a little too straight. Don will understand – but let me break it to him; you come in a few minutes after me, okay?"

Charlie turned and lurched between the cars, suddenly. "I don't think that's going to be a problem," he gasped, and Ian turned away, wincing as the sound of retching followed him through the garage. He closed his ears to the sound, trying to figure out how in the hell he was going to tell Don Eppes that his little brother had been forced into snorting cocaine last night, and he had stood there and watched.

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End Chapter 11

Laissez le bon temps roulez! - Let the good times roll!