A yellow cab materialized at the curb, vibrating with anticipation of the race, only to be ignored. Holmes looked pointedly above the vehicle, his hand raised nonchalantly to hail another. I made for the door, my hand centimeters away from the city stained door, when Watson tapped my shoulder lightly, shaking his head. This cabby- the second to be rejected by Holmes in a period of three minutes - wore a face distorted in an abstract medley of confusion and anger. In the manner of a wasp, the yellow automobile buzzed off, stinging my face with a cloud of exhaust, and ears with a string of profanity meticulously perfected by his many years in the business. As is the norm in a metropolis, one indistinguishable cab was instantaneously replaced by another, magnetically drawn to the curb in search of a naïve passenger and funds.
Unfortunately for our intrepid driver, such a quarry was not to be found. Holmes bent his tall figure to come to eye level with man, sitting in his driver's seat as though it were a stinking, pleather throne, yet a throne nonetheless. I watched the detective take in the coating of soda bottles, sandwich wrappers, and cigarette butts that concealed fabric that was undoubtedly comprised more of dirt and dust than fiber; and before the "king" could belch, "Oy, where yous awll 'eaded s'morning, mista?", Holmes, silenced him, holding up his hand.
"My good sir, we are headed in the direction of Moor Street. I trust you will be able to get us there without the requisite making of circles, or confusion as to our destination. I know for a fact that it takes fifteen minutes to arrive from point A to point B…"
Moor Street? In SoHo? I blinked in surprise. Childhood memories of my father coming back from a night in that part of Town surfaced. I remember asking him where he went, and his reply was always the same, "Lets just say, my dear, * hic * its not someplace I'd take your mother."
Holmes straightened, and omniscient smile graced his lips as he jovially patted the lip of the lowered window. "Very good. Drive on Sir." His Majesty's beer belly rippled as in a huff, he hunkered over the wheel, revving the engine to combust some of his annoyance. Internally, I groaned at the prospect of a Pod Race through the streets of London.
Watson, apparently acclaimed to the whole ordeal, politely opened the door. I flashed him my most gracious smile, and before Holmes could admonish me for "wasting time" I clambered in. Apparently though, Watson could not escape rebuke.
"Come now, Watson, there isn't a moment to lose! Good God, man, the woman can open the door for herself. She is an emancipated female of the twenty first century."
This insult upon Watson's good manners ruffled my feathers a bit. "Holmes, John is not the one who made us wait for two cabs to pass us by. What are you, paranoid?" I fixed him with my best you-just-try-deny-it glower, and deliberately crossed my arms.
Damn it all, Holmes didn't even dignify my argument with an annoyed tone. "Miss Talbot, It appears I am the only one with to look out for our safety. It is a rule of mine to take the third cab. You never know who could be watching," he dictated, as if lecturing a three year old.
"Come now, Talbot. He said it himself; you are a fully emancipated women of the twenty first century. Defend your self!" I simmered internally, my temper threatening to quickly come to a boil. "You are quite right, Mr. Holmes." Both Watson and Holmes looked as though they had been smacked across the face. Well, that's not true. Watson looked as thought he'd been kissed by a perfect stranger, and Holmes quirkily raised one eyebrow as his jaw dropped slightly. "But," I continued, "your logic is flawed."
And there you have it, worse than a blow to Sherlock Holmes manhood was an insult to his pride, his joy,
"MY logic?" he gasped.
Oh, this is too good to let go, I thought. "No, Voltaire's. Of course yours! If someone is always watching, possibly rigging a cab or cabby for the soul intent of doing you or us in, don't you think they'd watch to see which cab you get into? Plus, an odd habit like that, waving off two cabs only to get into third. Honestly, Holmes, you might as well send up a flare."
The rest of the cab ride, I was the only person who seemed in decent spirits. Watson was in a silent state of shock immediately to my left; Holmes face was fixed in a portrait of brooding fury, and adamantly refused to look at anything within a one foot radius of my person, and the cabby, who was still muttering obscenities under his breath from Holmes' subtle admonishment.
~***~
I suppose no one ever told the vendors in SoHo that there is such a thing as too much neon. Everywhere were hot red and psychedelic blue advertisements of alcohol and sex, pushers sliding their shaking hands into pockets, preparing for their nightly barrage of crazed customers. I linked my arm through Watson's muscular one, trying to look "taken". I risked a glance at Holmes, his face glowing in the multicolored sun of the nighttime scene. It was odd, but he looked as though he belonged to this different walk of life, and it wasn't a facet I was particularly taken with. My natural instincts took over: I whipped out my writing pad and a pen, capturing the scene with my own familiar language.
"Stupid Girl." A long fingered hand snatched the while paper from my hand, squeezing it until it resembled an hourglass, and finally transferring destruction duty to a foot, grinding my notes into the gritty damp pavement. Aghast, I looked into Holmes' demonic face, his arm risen within striking distance. I flinched and made to cover my head, but no blow came. Instead, I was flung across the sidewalk, straight into the grimy brick wall of a seedy dance club. The street before me became a swirl of black punctuated by unnatural color, as Holmes voice rang in my head and his breath stung my ear:
"Under no circumstances are you to draw attention to yourself. What the hell were you thinking. Writing? You could be a particularly idiotic police detective. No more 'journalist' slips, my dear. You don't need to be here, and I certainly don't need you here. Keep it in mind."
I swiped a hand over my face, nodding in an incoherent manner. I groped for support, preferably a human and not Holmes. Fortunately, Watson was at my side in an instant whispering words of consolation and assuring me of Holmes' noble character. I declined any offer my mind made to look at this man. All right. So I had picked up on the fact he wanted to be inconspicuous. I could also deal with the fact he wanted to do a little role-playing; but that was no excuse for treating me in such a manner.
Once more, Sherlock's voice rudely interrupted my thoughts, "Miss Talbot, I suggest we continue to my contact's rooms. He will have some costumes available that will allow us all to look a bit more in place, shall we say." I thought I could hear a timbre of apologetic sentiments in his phrase. Thought it was most likely my addled imagination.
~***~
"Dourif!" By this time, I had figured out that Holmes' relations with this "contact" were more than a little unstable. I'm not sure what gave me this feeling, it might have been a culmination of the threats being flung from the other side of a closed door, and the fact the three of us had been waiting in the upper corridor of this strip club for the better part of an hour. But hey, its just intuition.
"Dourif, I swear, if you don't open this door, I'll get you evicted for tax evasion."
"Idle threat, Holmes! You have no proof." A sickening, pitiful voice squeaked in an American accent.
"You think that, Dourif, if it gives you consolation. But I do have my connections…just a thought. If you're really so sure you can't be bothered with company, I have a few extra hours, I'll just pop on down to the Yard and…"
The door opened a crack accompanied by the sharp clang a metal chain-lock being stretched by the sudden force of the opening. Half of a shrunken face appeared, glowing in a deadly pallor, the rest concealed by dingy shadow.
"Yes, Nice to see you too, Dourif, now," Holmes tapped the chain with one finger, " Now, If you don't mind, I would like to sit down, frightfully cold out here."
Dourif's face disappeared into the shadows, seeming eclipsed by fear. The chain knocked against the doorframe, prompting Watson to give it a slight push. It opened to reveal a dark cramped passage, Dourif's small figure scampering away from the light of the hallway. Holmes purposefully strode after the retreating man, like a hawk coming in for the kill. Watson, ever the gentleman, so magnanimously motioned for me to enter first into the uncharted waters. I pulled all my limbs close to myself, as I had always been a bit uncomfortable in new places, and this one was dark, cramped, and dirty to boot.
"Excuse me, Sir," said Watson, "But would it be too much trouble to get some light." In an agitated manner, the mousy humanoid scampered to the kitchen and flicked on a light, causing no great difference, only affording our company a glow. "Close the door," he hissed. Once this was complied with, the four of us all gathered in the "sitting area", though there wasn't much room for sitting. In the dim glow, I could make out layers and layers of scattered paper, the same shade of white as our host's skin. Dourif suddenly seemed to notice his other two guests, and he nodded briefly at Watson, then set his smile on me. Was he missing teeth?
"Lovely chair for the lovely lady," He did doubled over in a bow, his hands extended toward an over stuffed armchair, with springs protruding at odd angles, and stained with a substance I didn't care to identify. I gave a try at a smile, but apparently, it didn't work, as Dourif's slimy grin morphed into an open grimace of disgust, his two huge lips curled downwards as if pulled by hooks. He wrung his hands, once more turning to Watson and Holmes.
"What do you want." He stated it simply, but there was distrust in every syllable.
"We were merely wonder if you could provide us with attire appropriate for this sector," said Watson. Holmes rolled his eyes, both at Dourif's ignorant silence and Watson's verbiage, I believe.
"We need clothes," said Holmes. Inwardly, I smiled. That was the first simple sentence I had heard from his mouth in…well, our entire acquaintance. Dourif let out a wispy sigh of relief.
"We also need information," pressed Holmes. Wow, the man was on a role. At this declaration, our host's face fell, and he fell backwards, gripping for the wall. "Come on, man, get a hold of yourself," grumbled Watson, as he threw (gently) the man onto his paper laden couch. Watson, at this point, was quite fed up with Dourif, the lack of light, and his lack of dinner.
"Don't hurt me, Mr. Holmes!" the pitiful creature contracted into a fetal position, sniveling.
"You imbecile, I have never hurt you, not in fifteen years…"
"You cut me once."
"What?"
"You cut me."
"Dourif. It was a paper cut. You had the profile, I needed to see it quickly. It was all an accident. Don't be dense."
"What do you want now."
"I need your records on all cargo deliveries…"
"Holmes, that's thousands!"
"Let me finish. As I was saying, all cargo deliveries that can be traced at some point to Turkey."
"Don't you have anything more specific?"
"I do. But do you really need to know it, Dourif?"
"No. Suppose not. Right then." Dourif scuttled off to a corner of his hell hole, looking over his shoulder every once and a while. He returned with a nest of papers flowing from his hands. "Here you are Holmes."
He leafed through the papers, though God knows how he could read in this light, or lack thereof. He looked up, and smiled briefly. "This will be very helpful. Thank you Dourif. Now, about those clothes…"
"Yes, sir, of course. You know, I could get you or the gentleman and escort if you like…"
"No Dourif, just the clothes."
"Yes, 'course."
When we were relieved of Dourif's company, I finally felt as though a constricting agent had been lifted from my vocal cords. "So, what have you deduced, Holmes," I scoffed. Looking for support, I looked to Watson for a humorous twinkle, only to see he was staring at Holmes intently, waiting for a conclusion. I had only been kidding, Jeez!
"That, my friends, I shall tell you when we leave this scum hole. Here, even the walls have ears." He stopped at the sound of scuffling footfalls.
"A pretty dress for the pretty lady."
~***~
"Holmes! I feel like…I look like…a…."
"A prostitute? Yes, that was the general idea, Talbot. Quite fashionable, nowadays, actually." He tossed a smug look over his shoulder. I caught it, but decided to let it alone. This whole situation was ridiculous. Holmes and Watson, dressed in baggy jeans, the former donning a tight black tee-shirt, the former a white, looked quite, well, ghetto. I supposed they had too, as we were headed into a nightclub in SoHo. If I were in any other outfit, I'd be laughing. Dressed as I was in a tiny red sequence dress that belonged in 1985, with a really, REALLY low neckline: no, nonexistent. I still hadn't figured out the reason for the spaghetti straps, they did nothing at all! To top it all off, I was traipsing around in platform knee-high, white leather boots. Me. Frumpy, Writer, Artsy, Callie Talbot. Now I could add prostitute impersonator to the list. Loverly.
The techno beat could be felt through the pavement as we approached the club. It was assimilated to my racing heart beat, but it sounded like a marching band on crack. A(nother) neon sign heralded the establishment's name: Club of Class, although in "class", the C L was burnt out. We stepped out of the seedy street into a seedy club. The only change was a sea of people, what did they call it…
"Raving."
"What?" I sputtered.
"Raving. Do you know how?" questioned Holmes, looking for something, or someone in the oceanic mass of humanity.
"No, of course not, I…"
"Well, you're going to learn now." He took my hand, and we dove in. I just let him keep on running, as I would be totally lost if I did let go of his hand. So, resignedly, I prepared myself for this near impossible ordeal. He lead me to a back corner of the club, the furthest extremity that the strobe lights still spared their piercing glare. For a moment, I stood there, struck dumb.
"Dance," Holmes hissed, as he moved to the music (can that be called music?), mimicking our neighbors. I followed his lead, and eventually, it became more natural, almost fun. I lifted my head to look at Holmes, and while his eyes were on me, I could tell he was somewhere else. I moved in a little closer.
"Holmes."
"Yes, Callie."
"What are you listening too."
"The music, of course."
"Cut the bull, Holmes." In a sudden moment, he caught hold of my hand, and in a more traditional dance move, he twirled me until our extended arms snapped us together.
"Two people behind us. On my right. Match voices on tape. Speaking discussing failed attempt. Mentioned something concerning KADEK affaires." He resumed his original distance. KADEK? The Turkish Terrorist group? I had done research on the subject when I was in college…excellent, something I was knowledgable about. I almost squealed I could finally help Holmes. Contribute to the case!
Then it hit me. They're right there. They are two people behind us. On Holmes' right. The people who killed Anne Madison. The people who still had her father…probably, who knew for sure. And dammit, what was I doing? Dancing.
"Holmes, what are we going to do?" I looked to his face, portraying no emotion as if in a drug induced stupor. Only his eyes portrayed his sadness, and I knew his answer. Nothing.