The Man from Yesterday
A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Thirty-Four : Bad Man's Blunder
Rated: PG
****
Napoleon shifts restlessly in his seat. "Where do you want to go for lunch?"
"The mall." I answer, gathering together my papers and filing them neatly in an accordion folder. At his shocked expression, I add, "I also have some shopping to do."
"What? My non-materialistic Illya?"
"If I am to drive three hundred miles tomorrow," I explain, "I would like better music then the be-bop your radio stations grudgingly provide. The more so since that toy car you selected has some ridiculously elaborate sound system."
"Which you will enjoy."
"Which I will definitely enjoy... provided I have some decent music to play on it. I asked the librarian, and she recommended I try a store at the mall." I reach back into the folder and pull out one sheet. "She also gave me a map."
He takes the sketch from my hand. "OK, the mall it is."
***********
I survey the immense structure, its walls brilliant with polychrome signage. There must be a village of shops under this one roof. The directory lists several shops as selling music, but... I am hungry. "Food first," I decide.
Napoleon shakes his head. "It always is, with you."
The restaurants are all located at the center. Following the directory, we arrive at a wide courtyard surrounding a fountain. The various levels are filled with small tables, clustered around potted palm trees, and off on three sides the walls are composed of stand after stand of food vendor. Panda Inn, Pizza Hut, Fresh-Mex Express, Hawaiian Grill...it would seem that every cuisine on the planet is represented here. Even - I scan the list at something called Soup Plantation - borscht.
"Imagine." I count quickly. "Twenty-five restaurants."
"No restaurants, Illya," Napoleon retorts. "And I already had to tolerate a bag lunch because of you yesterday. I thought I told you someplace with a roof!"
"This has a roof," I point out in my most reasonable voice.
"Yes, well." He casts a disgruntled glare over the open table area. "I would prefer a few walls as well."
"If you wished for walls, you should have specified walls," I tease. " Next time be more exact as to your architectural requirements, and I will naturally strive to comply."
He gives me a *look*, but his eyes sparkle, so I know he is not serious.
There is a long line at the Chinese stand, so I opt for Indian food instead. He chooses Greek. Once we collect our lunches we rejoin at a table near the fountain.
"This is interesting," I comment, studying the infinite array of shoppers seated around us.
"This is terrible."
I look at his kabob plate. Certainly it appears appetizing, but perhaps? "My food is excellent." I spear a bit of lamb curry and hold it out to him.
Napasha makes a show of licking it carefully off the fork, then smiles. "Not the food, Illyusha, the ...culture...or lack thereof."
I follow his eyes. A young man with pink hair and oversized pants is groping a young lady with *no* hair and earrings enough to furnish an entire family of gypsies. At his feet, an oversized radio broadcasts what most resembles an emergency distress call overlaid with a particularly rhythmic static. As no one is responding, however, I assume it is some sort of performance.
"Granted the ...music? ...is painful," I concede. "But surely there are... compensations?"
I reach across to him and he takes my hand. "There are at that."
********
Four different shops are listed as selling music. I choose the nearest. Not the most scientific criteria, I grant, but without data? One must start somewhere. Although I do not hold much hope for a wide selection. The shop is very small, and I mention as much to Napoleon.
"Yes, but the records are smaller now too."
"Everything is," I mutter, picking up one hand-sized plastic case.
My grumbling must amuse Napasha, for he gives me a *most* indecent smile and whispers, "Not everything."
Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately, as this is a public shop - he is distracted by one of the promotional posters. "Lord, are they still around?"
"Who?" I ask as Napoleon snatches a brightly illustrated box off the display marked 'new release'.
I slip on my glasses as he holds it out to show the distinctive 'Beatles' logo. "This is one of my favorite groups. Good to see that they're still together."
"A complement to your taste, I am sure." I turn left, heading back to the section marked 'Classic/Instrumental'.
The selection *is* limited, but not to the degree I had feared. I find most of the major composers, although not always represented by the orchestras I would prefer. Still, they should suffice for a distraction. I am reaching for one marked 'Timeless Classics' when a particularly flashy title catches my eye? 'Strauss for Stress'? Is this one of the outside programs Dr. Goldak was babbling about? I pull it out, and notice another in the series. 'Mozart for Mornings?' The paragraph on the back insists that listening to these particular compositions will 'reduce stress, induce well-being, increase efficiency and create a positive attitude.' I seriously doubt that, but.... I add both CD's to my selections. What could it hurt?
By the time I reach the counter Napasha has, once again, managed to find a dozen new things to purchase. I make a mental note: When looking for a place of our own - we will need a *large* house.
******
We are walking back to the car, having finished off our shopping with a final stop at the ice-cream kiosk. Thirty-two flavors, including chocolate chip mocha. A double cone. With sprinkles. I would have refrained, but Napoleon insisted. For a self-indulgent capitalist, he does have his good points. We are so busy chatting that I almost miss the sudden acceleration of a car engine very near by..
"Napoleon?" I hold up my hand.
It is fast. Too fast. For this crowded warren, much too fast. I freeze, searching the echoing concrete for signs. Nothing on the marked lane. A shadow. To the right. Coming the wrong way, and...
"Back!" I shout, flipping backwards as the dark sedan scrapes the fender of the parked car beside me with a scream of rubber and chrome. The tires pass within inches, leaving the sour tang of scorched rubber to mix with the duller scent of metal sparks. Then the car is gone.
Napoleon reaches automatically inside his empty jacket as I gasp, "No. Hold fire. I am...fine."
He pulls me close until my breathing steadies, then sits back. "You are sure?" he questions anxiously, sweeping the short bangs back from my forehead. His finger tips trace the scrapes from my ear to my chin.
I reach for my fallen packages. "The car did not even touch me." The Strauss case is cracked, but the stress-reducing record inside appears intact. Good. I think perhaps I will be needing it.
"Do you think?" He stares at the now innocent ramp with warrior's eyes.
"No." I hold out my hand and permit him to help me to my feet. "We must no longer be paranoid, Napasha. Some accidents are merely....accidents."
Napoleon does not argue, but I notice that he puts his holster on *before* he starts the car.
END CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR