Ally? Chapter 12
Sitting on the side of the bed, she loosened his tie and undid the button of his starched shirt collar. Letting her hand rest on his chest, she gazed at his face. His skin was sallow; purplish shadows made sharp indents under his closed eyes.
Dylan stood and leaned over him, reaching her hand into his suit jacket. What exactly does the Thin Man keep in his pockets? She let her hands linger inside the warm coat.
Ooo, his lighter! Along with his dry cleaning slip. Dylan stuffed the slip back into his jacket and clasped the lighter in her hand for a moment-still warm from being close to his body. It was another beautiful piece of craftsmanship that the Thin Man owned. Made heavy by the silver casing, intricate vines finely detailed in a twisting, swirling pattern.
She walked into the side room and paused for a moment looking at the silver tree box. It had a similar pattern. Though she was no expert, it looked like the lighter was made in a later period-and like the necklace, it had a modern, art nouveau feel to it. Perhaps---
She picked up the cane that the Thin Man had dropped and sat on the chair where he had passed out. This lighter is incredible, she thought, flicking it open. She gazed into the blue flame and flicked the top back down. Peering closely at the lighter, she couldn't see any cracks or any indication that it was refillable.
Walking over to the big silver box, she picked it up and brought it and the cane into the bedroom. As she set the box down she noticed that different parts of the box had been patched. Silver squares were beaten onto the form to accommodate for the large twisting arms of the tree. But it looked like some of the squares had been replaced with a different grade of silver-giving the box a rippling sinewy effect.
The cane, the lighter, the box, the necklace. All of these are connected to the Thin Man and physically a part of this box in some way. Why are they made from the box? What is the significance of the box and what is that hunk of charcoal doing inside it?
She flicked open the lighter again-perfect blue flame-and staring into it, put it under her open palm. Ow! Damn. Ok, that wasn't an illusion. It really is a lighter.
The silver box must have great power-some kind of energy source for him, she theorized. Of course, the cane is a great source of power too-shivering as she recalled the way he used it earlier.
His parents were murdered, ending hopes for peace to a long war; police let the case get cold, gets sent away to an orphanage and where a nun is secretly his aunt. Traumatized to the point that he never speaks. Ergo, he becomes an assassin. Hmmmm. Somewhere along the line, he got derailed from whatever it was he was supposed to do or be. And well, then that was the idea behind killing his parents. But if he's the main threat then why keep him alive too? Why not just kill him along with his parents? Did they mean to use him for something else? And who are they? Vasilescu or his aunt? Or both?
The letters she had been reading certainly helped figure out some of the players in this mystery shrouding the Thin Man-but unfortunately, it didn't shed much light on him as a person. And she wondered how he could have stayed so close to someone like Vasilescu-as his right hand man even-and not let it get to him. To be so trusted by someone like that and all along secretly plot revenge? How must he have kept his sanity?
She stopped, having paced at the foot of his bed and went back to his side--reaching into his inside pockets again. Aha! His cigarette case! Pulling it out, she was disappointed to see that it had a blank, sleek look to it. No fine detailing here. She sighed. She had to figure this out-at least come up with some kind of theory behind why the Thin Man had all of these things.
What was the key to his mother's necklace? And speaking of keys, why did the mother superior have the key to this box? Damn! She was thinking in circles-craving a cigarette, she opened the case.
Oh, right. Here we go, she thought, as she took in the silver inlaid mosaic. Same silver stuff. Was it protective? It looked hand-made, not finished with a professional hand. She looked over to his sleeping form. Was this the Thin Man's hand at metalcraft?
Taking out a cigarette, she paused as a powdery grit clung to her fingertips. Hello! What crazy thing is this? She held it up to the light to examine it closer. It looked like a cigarette---she touched her tongue to it and inhaled. But it sure doesn't taste like one. What the hell? She dropped it on the table and ground it with her thumb. Tobacco leaves and gritty, powdery stuff. He didn't seem the type to be into illicit---well, ok. He was also an assassin with a pad full of pricey, stolen goods. I guess drugs would just be one more thing.
But it didn't fit. Drug use was an escape. And he was too much in control to let anything like that potentially cripple him. Especially with a deep plan of revenge. With the exception of his hair fetish, he seemed in complete mastery of himself.
And this was essential Thin Man. His cane, his control and his cigarettes. Take everything else away---she grinned wickedly. The last time that happened he kissed her. She dusted off her hands and arranged the items on the table.
She was running out of time and needed answers. Turning around, she faced his still form, her body blocking the table. She kicked the foot of the bed hard with her heavy boot. "Hey! Wake up!" She still hadn't forgiven him for his attack, despite the way her heart melted when she had tenderly lugged him into his bed.
His eyes opened slowly, his body quiet, "Please. I need a cigarette." His voice was raspy and thin, like a rusty hinge. He coughed a little and cleared his throat.
Watching him closely, she moved to the side and saw his eyes widen as she slowly held up the skeleton key and lifted the cover to the tree box. It was fascinating to watch the play of emotions over the face of a man she originally knew to be a cold, ruthless killer. Recognition, elation, curiosity and then strangely--quiet indifference. Something about that piece of charcoal didn't surprise him. Yet, it seemed that he hoped to find something else.
"You don't seem happy with your Cracker Jack prize. Care to share why?" He looked at her with disdain, but it wasn't quite as effective with his arms and legs tied to the posts.
She jumped as he violently struggled for a moment. "Give me a cigarette. Please." She could detect a very faint accent. "Please. The longer I go without one---I don't know how it will affect me later."
"Wow, so hair isn't your only little vice is it?" She strutted over to the bed, pulling another cigarette from the case and dangling it from her lips. Grinning, she watched his eyes follow her hand as she used the lighter. "Please. Don't inhale that. I don't know what it will do to you."
"Oh, don't worry. I know about your little secret." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Here." She held the cigarette to his lips and he clamped down on it. A long, delicate ash grew precariously, a ring of red glowed close to his mouth. "Hey, slow down. It's like you're sucking soda through a straw. You plan on exhaling?"
His pale blue eyes looked at hers and he smiled, "Later." She watched as he inhaled the smoke like fresh air and quickly lit another cigarette for him. He consumed three more in this manner before he finally waved her away with a flick of his head. "No. I feel better." Control, indeed!
"I take it these are special cigarettes? How much do you pay for these? Oh, and anything more than 4 bucks a pack is outrageous." He laughed a little.
"Well, then. Satisfying a nicotine craving does wonders for your temper, doesn't it?" She took another cigarette out and lit it, watching his reaction. "Please. Don't. Those cigarettes could be dangerous for you."
"Why?" She closed her eyes and made a show of putting it in her mouth. She took a long drag and almost choked as she felt his hands grab tightly around her wrists. He pulled her towards him as he sat up, whispering, "Because a magician's son knows these things." She opened her eyes and tightly smiled, his face inches from hers.
"Breathe it out." He shook her a little as if to dislodge it. She held her breath, shaking her head, determined to find out what it was that was so mysterious. "They just help me. Please! Breathe it out!"
She let out a whoosh of thick, white smoke. "Gawd! That stuff is disgusting!" The smoke had a slight anise flavour to it, like stale Stella Dora cookies at an old lady's house.
"I make them. They have been---treated---specially." "How long have you been smoking them?" "Ten years."
"That's quite a habit." "I have been cutting down." "Really? When? Why?"
The Thin Man lowered his lips to her neck, wrapped his arms around her body and slowly lowered her onto the bed. He looked down at her, propped up on his forearms--a long finger slowly twining itself around a lock of her auburn hair. Dylan laughed nervously, her hand on his wrist anticipating his move. She felt his knee move between her legs--
"I have found a more effective antidote."
Sitting on the side of the bed, she loosened his tie and undid the button of his starched shirt collar. Letting her hand rest on his chest, she gazed at his face. His skin was sallow; purplish shadows made sharp indents under his closed eyes.
Dylan stood and leaned over him, reaching her hand into his suit jacket. What exactly does the Thin Man keep in his pockets? She let her hands linger inside the warm coat.
Ooo, his lighter! Along with his dry cleaning slip. Dylan stuffed the slip back into his jacket and clasped the lighter in her hand for a moment-still warm from being close to his body. It was another beautiful piece of craftsmanship that the Thin Man owned. Made heavy by the silver casing, intricate vines finely detailed in a twisting, swirling pattern.
She walked into the side room and paused for a moment looking at the silver tree box. It had a similar pattern. Though she was no expert, it looked like the lighter was made in a later period-and like the necklace, it had a modern, art nouveau feel to it. Perhaps---
She picked up the cane that the Thin Man had dropped and sat on the chair where he had passed out. This lighter is incredible, she thought, flicking it open. She gazed into the blue flame and flicked the top back down. Peering closely at the lighter, she couldn't see any cracks or any indication that it was refillable.
Walking over to the big silver box, she picked it up and brought it and the cane into the bedroom. As she set the box down she noticed that different parts of the box had been patched. Silver squares were beaten onto the form to accommodate for the large twisting arms of the tree. But it looked like some of the squares had been replaced with a different grade of silver-giving the box a rippling sinewy effect.
The cane, the lighter, the box, the necklace. All of these are connected to the Thin Man and physically a part of this box in some way. Why are they made from the box? What is the significance of the box and what is that hunk of charcoal doing inside it?
She flicked open the lighter again-perfect blue flame-and staring into it, put it under her open palm. Ow! Damn. Ok, that wasn't an illusion. It really is a lighter.
The silver box must have great power-some kind of energy source for him, she theorized. Of course, the cane is a great source of power too-shivering as she recalled the way he used it earlier.
His parents were murdered, ending hopes for peace to a long war; police let the case get cold, gets sent away to an orphanage and where a nun is secretly his aunt. Traumatized to the point that he never speaks. Ergo, he becomes an assassin. Hmmmm. Somewhere along the line, he got derailed from whatever it was he was supposed to do or be. And well, then that was the idea behind killing his parents. But if he's the main threat then why keep him alive too? Why not just kill him along with his parents? Did they mean to use him for something else? And who are they? Vasilescu or his aunt? Or both?
The letters she had been reading certainly helped figure out some of the players in this mystery shrouding the Thin Man-but unfortunately, it didn't shed much light on him as a person. And she wondered how he could have stayed so close to someone like Vasilescu-as his right hand man even-and not let it get to him. To be so trusted by someone like that and all along secretly plot revenge? How must he have kept his sanity?
She stopped, having paced at the foot of his bed and went back to his side--reaching into his inside pockets again. Aha! His cigarette case! Pulling it out, she was disappointed to see that it had a blank, sleek look to it. No fine detailing here. She sighed. She had to figure this out-at least come up with some kind of theory behind why the Thin Man had all of these things.
What was the key to his mother's necklace? And speaking of keys, why did the mother superior have the key to this box? Damn! She was thinking in circles-craving a cigarette, she opened the case.
Oh, right. Here we go, she thought, as she took in the silver inlaid mosaic. Same silver stuff. Was it protective? It looked hand-made, not finished with a professional hand. She looked over to his sleeping form. Was this the Thin Man's hand at metalcraft?
Taking out a cigarette, she paused as a powdery grit clung to her fingertips. Hello! What crazy thing is this? She held it up to the light to examine it closer. It looked like a cigarette---she touched her tongue to it and inhaled. But it sure doesn't taste like one. What the hell? She dropped it on the table and ground it with her thumb. Tobacco leaves and gritty, powdery stuff. He didn't seem the type to be into illicit---well, ok. He was also an assassin with a pad full of pricey, stolen goods. I guess drugs would just be one more thing.
But it didn't fit. Drug use was an escape. And he was too much in control to let anything like that potentially cripple him. Especially with a deep plan of revenge. With the exception of his hair fetish, he seemed in complete mastery of himself.
And this was essential Thin Man. His cane, his control and his cigarettes. Take everything else away---she grinned wickedly. The last time that happened he kissed her. She dusted off her hands and arranged the items on the table.
She was running out of time and needed answers. Turning around, she faced his still form, her body blocking the table. She kicked the foot of the bed hard with her heavy boot. "Hey! Wake up!" She still hadn't forgiven him for his attack, despite the way her heart melted when she had tenderly lugged him into his bed.
His eyes opened slowly, his body quiet, "Please. I need a cigarette." His voice was raspy and thin, like a rusty hinge. He coughed a little and cleared his throat.
Watching him closely, she moved to the side and saw his eyes widen as she slowly held up the skeleton key and lifted the cover to the tree box. It was fascinating to watch the play of emotions over the face of a man she originally knew to be a cold, ruthless killer. Recognition, elation, curiosity and then strangely--quiet indifference. Something about that piece of charcoal didn't surprise him. Yet, it seemed that he hoped to find something else.
"You don't seem happy with your Cracker Jack prize. Care to share why?" He looked at her with disdain, but it wasn't quite as effective with his arms and legs tied to the posts.
She jumped as he violently struggled for a moment. "Give me a cigarette. Please." She could detect a very faint accent. "Please. The longer I go without one---I don't know how it will affect me later."
"Wow, so hair isn't your only little vice is it?" She strutted over to the bed, pulling another cigarette from the case and dangling it from her lips. Grinning, she watched his eyes follow her hand as she used the lighter. "Please. Don't inhale that. I don't know what it will do to you."
"Oh, don't worry. I know about your little secret." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Here." She held the cigarette to his lips and he clamped down on it. A long, delicate ash grew precariously, a ring of red glowed close to his mouth. "Hey, slow down. It's like you're sucking soda through a straw. You plan on exhaling?"
His pale blue eyes looked at hers and he smiled, "Later." She watched as he inhaled the smoke like fresh air and quickly lit another cigarette for him. He consumed three more in this manner before he finally waved her away with a flick of his head. "No. I feel better." Control, indeed!
"I take it these are special cigarettes? How much do you pay for these? Oh, and anything more than 4 bucks a pack is outrageous." He laughed a little.
"Well, then. Satisfying a nicotine craving does wonders for your temper, doesn't it?" She took another cigarette out and lit it, watching his reaction. "Please. Don't. Those cigarettes could be dangerous for you."
"Why?" She closed her eyes and made a show of putting it in her mouth. She took a long drag and almost choked as she felt his hands grab tightly around her wrists. He pulled her towards him as he sat up, whispering, "Because a magician's son knows these things." She opened her eyes and tightly smiled, his face inches from hers.
"Breathe it out." He shook her a little as if to dislodge it. She held her breath, shaking her head, determined to find out what it was that was so mysterious. "They just help me. Please! Breathe it out!"
She let out a whoosh of thick, white smoke. "Gawd! That stuff is disgusting!" The smoke had a slight anise flavour to it, like stale Stella Dora cookies at an old lady's house.
"I make them. They have been---treated---specially." "How long have you been smoking them?" "Ten years."
"That's quite a habit." "I have been cutting down." "Really? When? Why?"
The Thin Man lowered his lips to her neck, wrapped his arms around her body and slowly lowered her onto the bed. He looked down at her, propped up on his forearms--a long finger slowly twining itself around a lock of her auburn hair. Dylan laughed nervously, her hand on his wrist anticipating his move. She felt his knee move between her legs--
"I have found a more effective antidote."