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By Bottou-chan |
Author's Note: I decided to portray a more serious Neon than I usually do. ;o) For the first time in a while, she's not going berserk from being around a certain rasta-braided freak. (Yeah, it was tough, not mentioning him. ^_^) But, due to the nature of her work, this fic is rated R. If you skip Ch. 4, it's just PG or PG-13. Comments?
I'd visited the casino before, incognito, of course. Just
to look it over and get a feel for the lay of the land. It was divided into two
parts: the fancy part, and the everybody-else part. If you stayed on the main
level, you found yourself blinking under gaudy lights, surrounded by
scraggly-haired men and overweight women, feeding slot machines, shooting craps,
and playing roulette. The keno machines were never vacant, and the poker tables
were pretty popular, too. Music was churned out twenty-four/seven by a rotating
shift of DJ's, and women clad in magenta-feathered costumes wriggled around
suggestively on the stage. Other women, wearing short, frilly skirts, wandered
around periodically with trays of food to ensure that the gamblers would remain
until their money ran out, rather than until they got hungry.
All in all, it was a pretty dismal place. On the surface,
it seemed somewhat exciting, but if you rubbed a little deeper, I only found it
depressing. The people feeding their paychecks into the machines in the hope of
winning back anything they could… the bored dancers who were tired of taking
their clothes off for the nth time… the mechanical motions of the waitstaff as
they systematically went up and down the rows of machines. Cigarette smoke hung
low in the air, there was the distinct smell of body odor emanating from a good
number of the patrons, and all in all, it was very unglamorous.
Upstairs, however, was completely different. When you see
the glamorous casinos in those old movies, that was what it was like. A
strict dress code was rigorously enforced—I'd seen a man thrown out who
wasn't wearing a black tie. The women look glamorous and elegant, like models,
whose gowns would swish as they walked. Their hair was inevitably always
done up perfectly; there was the glitter of jewelry sparkling under the soft
lights (most of it either borrowed, I bet, or not real, but still it was
jewelry). Smoking was firmly banned everywhere except for the balcony; the rooms
were done up in expensive fabrics and paneled woods, and it would have been
impossible to clean the smoke out of the tapestry curtains.
The party I was to go to was Upstairs.
It was in the Mermaid Room. Its décor was like something
out of a storybook. It had been done up in greens and blues, with pearl and
silver accents. One wall wasn't really a wall at all; it was an enormous glass
aquarium, full of exotic tropical fish, swimming peacefully in their blue-lit
aquatic world.
I'm sure it would have been a prime mediation device,
sitting in solitude with only you, the fish, and the gentle burbling of the
giant tank.
But room itself was loud and cheerful. Elegantly dressed
people stood around in small groups, sipping their chardonnay and their white
zinfandel. A demurely-clad waitstaff circulated, carrying trays of
elaborately-topped crackers, caviar, shrimp, and other small delectables.
My eyes skimmed the crowd as I hung lightly on Kinjo's
arm. I recognized a few faces, but I was never as good at singling out random
people as someone like Raiha was. But I did notice one prominent dealer who
trafficked mainly in heroin and cocaine; I recognized a socialite who had
invested heavily in the running of a male 'escort' service; and there were a
few random underlings who I could associate with various local gangs, although I
didn't know their names. The bodyguards, on the other hand, were all over the
place and easy to spot. A baby couldn't have been oblivious to their presence,
despite the fact that they hung around, keeping an eye out for a gesture from
their employer, and watching the crowd.
In other words, the bodyguards were the only people in the
room not having fun.
I spotted my prey right off, but didn't allow my eyes to
light on him for too long. He was such an ordinary man, it would have been
suspicious for me to have picked him out of the crowd so quickly. Instead, I
laughed gaily for no particular reason and said playfully, "Kinjo, you must
introduce me to your friends!"
I have to admit, I was certainly a hit. I usually am. I was
at my most charming, as I tend to be on this sort of mission. The disarming
smile, the warmth and apparent openness, the charm, the admiration—I flirted
with everyone and anyone, men and women. I admired their hair and nails and
gushed over their dresses. They, in turn, rather than being cold, were forced by
conventional rules to return the favor. Strike up a conversation. Make them feel
special. I went above and beyond the customary admiration and, by the time I had
moved on to a new clump of people with my tongue-tied date, I left them feeling
good about themselves… and good about me, as a consequence.
In this sort of mission, you never know who you may run
into later. It's good to have friends early on in the game.
The men, on the other hand, were much easier. I would laugh
at their jokes and listen to them as though they had the most important things
in the world to say. I kept a careful eye on their dates, being certain to never
go too far, but I was used to walking that line.
I was a pro.
It wasn't long before the party shifted so that I
was at its center. My date, Kinjo, stood idly by. He was a minor cog in the
organization, and easily overlooked. He was Kurei's plant, who funneled
information about the Oonishi family to us, and allowed me my 'in' to their
circle. But since he was just a small dog, the bigger wolves felt free to move
in on me.
And that was exactly what I wanted.
I stood there, nursing a glass of merlot in one hand and
gesturing with the other as I attempted to illustrate one of those
I-swear-it's-true stories that I had fabricated. Out of the corner of my eye,
I noticed that Eisaku
was standing unobtrusively nearby, sipping his own drink and watching me
intently.
