Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)
Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.
mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.
Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.
It's every man's dream to be a Lucky Charm. Magically delicious and all that. Pots of gold…oh right, that's a leprechaun. Whatever. Elves, dwarves, they're all the same to me. My knowledge of fantasy resides in a microscopic thimble that only Martha can access. And damnit, she has my number. She can blow the whistle at any time, so I walk a very fine line. Never smiling too much at certain people. And definitely not enjoying myself. Never that.
Anyway, the day of the party is sunny and bright. Unusually warm for LA in December. It's no matter to me. Rain or shine, this day is bound to bite. Any time that Martha has the reins, there's hell to pay. For someone (probably me).
It starts off like all such days, with burnt coffee, dog vomit, and broken shoelaces. By the time I extricate myself from the downtown snarl, I'm in my usual morning snit. Morning and me do not get along, and Martha, being the group secretary, insists on promptness. As in on-the-dot 8AM or else. There's no excuse she can't shoot down. So I show up, arms full of day old cookies and the leaden brownies that Alice insists we all love. By the time I deposit my treasures, Martha has me in her sights. Trust me, that's a really bad thing. It means I get volunteered for every shit job. Like setting up and tearing down.
With a shudder, I watch arrivals and departures, wishing I could join the latter group. Presents pile on the table and I slip my own slim offering between a giant stuffed teddy bear and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Are you amazed at my prescience (a la Trish)? Do you wonder how I know the scoop? Well, it starts with an E, and I ain't talking ESP. My friend the yo-yo wielding Santa has the low down on every gift. Who signed up and who begged off. Who overspent and who wrapped up the coffee mug from last year's Yankee swap. But no one knows my secret.
On the afternoon when I pulled her name, I met Will up at Griffith Park. And we shot the breeze for a bit, like guys always do. Sports, politics, sports (what did you expect, arts and culture?). After we get through the preliminaries, I start talking about Alice and wanting to get her something special. Maybe perfume. And that's when I ask if he can get Syd to recommend anything.
Will tries not to smile at my transparency, but he goes along with it. Within an hour, he has the answer. Issey Miyake. I scratch my head and try to wrap myself around the name. Funny how I remember it now. Ingrained on my very being.
So my tiny, unassuming package hides behind the others, waiting for someone who may never arrive. And that is borne out as the party kicks into high swing, fueled by rotten music and the booze wagon. Yeah, you heard what I said. Booze, in these totally PC times. Our local group has always done this, but it got worse after 911. It's like they were laced up tight for 364 days and came teetotalling out for the holiday party. So we elves suffer the wrath of groping hands and fetid breath. Worse than any sale at Filene's Basement.
As the hours tick by, the voices grow louder and the tallest of tales are expanded to squares. And just when I think it's safe to exit stage left, Kendall shows up with Jack Bristow. Looking totally sober and headed in my direction. This is never a good thing. Trust me on this one. Facing Kendall on a good day is like battling Attila the Hun with a hangover.
"Having a good time?" He says this with a totally straight face. Eyes skidding past my chapeau and stopping at his watch.
The noise that comes from my mouth is a cross between a grunt and a burp. No more than he deserves for such a stupid question. "You need me for something?" I ask flatly, not missing the amusement in Jack's eyes.
"Walk with me, Mr. Vaughn."
I'm about to ditch the hat when I think of something. Without meeting anyone's eyes, I grab her present and hand it over to Jack. "Make sure she gets this."
Jack's nod is brisk, but I see something almost…human behind the usual cold reserve. He watches as I follow Kendall, alone like he always is at these functions. A man who lost his heart (if not his nerve) to the business. Everything I don't want to be.
Kendall gets straight to the point. "I hear you'll be in Manhattan this weekend."
That's news to me. "Maybe. So what?"
"Ever been to The Cloisters?" Only about a hundred times. And I can see that he knows this.
"A few times. Why?" Playing it cool is the only way to fly.
"They have quite the collection. I went up there with my wife over the summer." Kendall has never, ever shared any personal information. And you know what? I really didn't want to know anything about him.
I nod politely and wonder if I should beat the point out of him. Better that this small talk. "It's a nice place," I agree.
"And I hear they have nice parties," he says idly, blue eyes actually twinkling at some joke that is lost on me.
Now I shrug. "And?"
Kendall finally gives it up. "There's a charity event on Saturday night. Some real high rollers will be there. Including Alexei Markarov."
I open my eyes wide at that name, for who hasn't read the man's dossier? Russian industrialist recruited by the KGB at the height of the Cold War, now a top dog at K-Directorate. Considered one of their best officers. Decorated up the ass by the powers that be. Virtually untouchable. "I see." But really I didn't.
That wintry smile is enough to put Jack Frost to shame. "He's a dangle."
Damn. Markarov wants to come over to our side. "So you think I can bring him in?"
Kendall shakes his head and hands me a folder. When I read the itinerary, my brows raise in disbelief. "Can't someone else go?"
He actually laughs at this one. "You're not my first choice, Agent Vaughn, but your proximity is damned convenient."
They've backed me into a corner on this one. "I'll make arrangements…" I start, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand.
"Already done. You leave tonight."
So here I am on a busy street corner, hands in pockets as I brave the cold wind and Sydney Bristow.