Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Four: Going Up?
Grr . . . and once again, the first scene opens up with Lynné! I've already given two of her scenes to her brother (she isn't pleased but what're ya gonna do?). This chapter focuses a lot more on Sands, though. Plus, there is a lot going on action-wise in this one, too. Geh, why do I have to have an addiction for trying new things? .o' But I'm taking a stab at writing a semi-action filled story, so please bear with me. Responses and thanks at the end of the chapter. )
Weeks had passed since Lynné had completed her job in Virginia, and June was just starting by the time she received her assignment in France. Now, it was almost mid-July and Moreau hand only called her once since their little meeting way back at the beginning of June. The only information he had to provide was, yes, he did have the layout for one of the Poisson estates, however, since it was their summer house, it was unlikely that it would be in use.
"May I remind you that it is not June thirtieth, and that the summer season officially started on the twenty-first?" Lyn had asked in that official tone that let Moreau know she thought he was an idiot.
"The Poissons have several homes, mademoiselle," he explained crisply.
Must be nice, Lyn now thought as she waited for her contact to arrive.
She had always detested the rich, mostly because they thought themselves better than everyone else due to the fact that they were, well, rich. Not that she wasn't a little conceited herself, but people bothered her, that's why she was always short and strictly business when it came to dealing with her fellow human beings.
Still, being unbelievably, filthy, stinking rich did have its strong points. Having her own island would be nice, and she never did get that pony she had always wanted . . .
Sighing in annoyance, she let her fingernails drum along the edge of the table. The little outdoor café she was at now only served coffee, about fifty different kinds, in fact, but nothing even remotely alcoholic. Sipping her vanilla latté, Lyn skimmed her surroundings.
Three people stood along the sidewalks selling bread – no, no, make that four people . . . There was a place that looked as though it sold shoes as well as hats; she would have to look into that. The Eiffel Tower was just visible over the many aging buildings. Vaguely Lyn wondered if she could con Liam into visiting the monument. Even if he turned down her offer, which he undoubtedly would, it would still be worth it if he made that panicked look he reserved especially for topics about heights.
He looks so cute when he does that . . . her inner voice sighed. Lyn had to check twice to make sure she had heard it correctly. When she was certain that she had, Lyn nearly spit out her latté.
Shut your . . . mouth! D'you know what you just --
I know perfectly well what I just said, and since it was me who did the talking, you don't have to worry.
Lowering her latté steadily, all the while wearing a preoccupied expression, Lynné took this into consideration. For once the voice did have a point. She hadn't made a single comment about Liam's visage, or his paranoid little quirks that used to – that still irked her. . . . though not nearly as much as they had four years ago. But still, she wasn't the one who had made the comment, the voice had. So there was no reason to freak out.
Then again, the voice said thoughtfully, I am part of you after all, and, as far as I can tell, I only know the things you know, which means . . .
Lynné braced herself, waiting in anticipation as the voice paused for a dramatic moment.
You li-ike Lee-am! You li-ike Lee-am! the voice sang in that obnoxious, taunting way that strongly reminded Lyn of her days in elementary school when the children would form a circle, a seemingly unbreakable barrier, around another child, laughing and pointing and chanting in that irritating sing-song manner. Given that Lyn had never cared for any of her schoolmates, save for a select handful, she still refrained from participating in such activities. And whenever she happened to find herself in the center of the 'Teasing Circle,' those who chose to pick on her quickly learned the meaning of 'think before you act.'
Like that little snot whose Barbie doll you ruined?
Oh, I only ripped its head off; completely fixable. And that thing was creepy anyway.
All she did was make fun of your shoes
She called them ugly.
They were ugly.
That I'm well aware of, but she didn't need to announce it to the entire third grade during lunch. That was just rude.
Point taken.
Suddenly, Lynné smiled and, raising a hand in welcome she called:
"Hello, monsieur! I trust you have what I asked for? If not, you have approximately five seconds before I make you do more than pay for our meal."
Later that very same night, Sands was stationed at a dancehall, a bordello, and a theater. Oddly enough he was at the same building while he visited all of these things. That was because the Moulin Rouge was a cabaret, a cabaret with . . . a windmill on top of it.
A red windmill. That's what 'Moulin Rouge' stands for, genius.
This may come as surprise to you, but I was already privy to that.
Don't see how you couldn't be the way Zebbidy just loves the movie.
She does? Sands asked skeptically, as he entered the ornate building. He passed through the bright red doors and into a hallway plastered with an ongoing stream mirrors on the walls and ceiling. His eyes flickering to one of his own reflections, but only for a second.
Yes the voice stressed, rolling its (as far as Sands could tell) nonexistent eyes at him. She was singing that song about diamonds the other day. And you can't say you didn't notice because I noticed. And if I noticed then you certainly did.
I may have noticed, I'm not going to deny anything there, Sands reasoned, but how does that tell us that she likes the movie Moulin Rouge? For all we know, she could be a devoted fan of Marilyn Monroe.
It's the way she was singing it, fuckmook, sighed the voice. Zebbidy was singing the version from the movie, which is different than the way Marilyn sung it.
"Le droit cette voie, monsieur." (Right this way, sir.)
Sands smiled as the attractive (not to mention scantly clad) waitress led him through a second pair of doors and into a large, circular room. A stage stood at one end, but, oddly, there was a bar stationed at the other, and instead of rows of isle seats for the theater-goers, about two dozen round tables had been set up.
This is what I love about this place. You still get a good meal, even if the show's awful.
Depends on what kind of show you're talking about, Sands told the voice, eyeing his waitress with interest.
"Je reviendrai quand vous êtes prêts à ordonner," she told him, smiling pleasantly and handing over a menu.
"I look forward to it," Sands replied, grinning deviously.
The girl giggled, clutching her remaining menus, and hurried away to seat another man. Sands smirked as he leaned back in his chair, not even bothering to pick up his menu.
You really are a sleazy bastard, do you know that?
Oh, come on. I'll bet she hears that every night.
Which is why you should treat her differently. She is a human being, you know. And just because she's got a nice ass doesn't mean you should treat her like that's her only quality.
You've been listening to Lyn again, haven't you? Sands thought incredulously.
Of course not. And stop listening to me and start paying attention because your current object of interest is talking to the man you're trying to shadow.
Leisurely, as though he was nothing more than a tourist wanting to observe his surroundings, Sands searched the dining room for his waitress. If he found her, then he could find Alphonse Poisson. And there he was. The voice had been right, Sands reluctantly agreed, about his waitress receiving 'the eye' every night. Right now, Alphonse Poisson was watching certain . . . areas . . . of the young woman a little too closely.
And this bothers you?
No, Sands replied calmly, still observing Poisson and his waitress, I am just appalled at the way he's acting. He may very well be a happily married man.
Alphonse Poisson isn't married as far as we know. And just for your own information, the words 'happily' and 'married' must never be contained in the same sentence.
What if you said, 'Happily did not even begin to describe the life of this married man'?
"Est-ce que vous êtes prêts à ordonner, monsieur?" (Are you ready to order, sir?)
Before the voice could come up with a response, his waitress had returned. Her ditzy smile hadn't faded in the least, Sands noted as the girl continued to beam down at him, not even after her meeting with the sleaziest member of the Poisson family.
"I don't suppose you serve puerco pibil," Sands sighed, looking up at her questioningly.
The waitress bit her lip, shaking her head uncertainly.
"Je suis désolé. Je ne pense pas ainsi . . ." (I'm sorry. I don't think so . . .)
Must be new . . . he mused.
Sands gave her what he thought was a reassuring look. Not that cared if the girl was uncomfortable or not, but if she showed visible signs of nervousness, his prey could very well become suspicious.
"I'm sure you make tequila, though, right?" he asked expectantly.
Her smile was back in an instant.
"Est cela que vous voulez?" (Is that what you want?)
More than that, honey, the voice muttered disgustedly.
"With lime, if you don't mind," Sands said aloud.
"Oui," the waitress replied brightly, and smiling once again, she moved off towards the ba
Careful, the voice warned, for all you know she could turn out to be Barillo's illegitimate half-cousin twice removed.
Sands raised an eyebrow.
Is that really likely to happen?
That's what you said about Ajedrez and look how that turned out.
A pause.
I don't recall ever saying that about her, Sands said at last. And besides, I've got enough on my mind as it is without throwing something like 'love' or 'trust' into the mix.
Like your job for example?
Yeah, he agreed, very good example. You know as well as I do that, this being my first assignment since –
Since Mexico, the voice prompted.
Yes, Sands replied, annoyed, which means that the CIA is gonna be watching my ass. Therefore, if something happens to make my plan go awry. . . I'm screwed. I'm just . . . genuinely . . . screwed.
Aww . . . poor thing . . .
The CIA will want nothing more to do with me, so they'll throw me out.
No more shooting the cook for you.
That's right.
And it all comes down to the girl . . . . You're sure the Poissons want her? Not dead; they just . . . want her?
That is what our information tells us.
Yeah, well, you're information could be nothing but pure bullshit, as you already know, so I don't think I need to bring up that 'Oh, hey, Shel, I'm his daughter!' experience again.
No, Sands responded bitterly. So you needn't trouble yourself.
"Un tequila avec le tilleul," (One tequila with lime), Sands' waitress said, setting his drink down on the table.
Sands complied by grinning up at the girl, whose ever-present smile widened considerably before she took his menu and left to serve some new arrivals.
So that's Alphonse Poisson . . . the voice ruminated. Not much for looks, is he? And he's supposed to be part of a Mafia family. Well . . . now I've seen every – ah, no. You've never been to Egypt, have you?
Yes, Sands replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, When I was twelve.
Oh, the voice said, brushing this aside. then I just don't remember it.
Neither do I, come to that . . . Sands realized absently.
In any case, Alphonse is a sleaze-bag, the voice said decisively.
That he is, Sands thought distantly.
You're sure that he can get us inside?
Can't be sure of anything anymore, can I? But if it makes you feel any better, then yes, I've got a very good feeling about this guy and I'm sure he'd be willing to betray his family.
If the right price came along, you mean, the voice sneered evilly.
Sands smirked.
Of course. There is no loyalty in today's world, as we both know all too well.
He watched as Alphonse Poisson accepted a plate of some foreign dish from a different waitress. Suddenly, the lights around them blinked on and off, flashing their bulbs repeatedly, indicating that the show was about to begin.
If you're gonna make your move, the voice told him, you'd better do it now.
Putting on a façade of cool and collected calmness and picking up his drink, Sands made his way towards his prey, weaving through the maze of tables until he reached the one that a Monsieur Alphonse Poisson was seated at.
The man paused, setting down his knife and fork when a shadow fell over him. Looking up, Alphonse Poisson saw that the face of a man he did not recognize was smirking slightly as its owner slid into the seat across from him.
"Poisson?" the man asked. "Alphonse Poisson?"
Alphonse cleared his throat.
"Yes."
Sands' smirk widened.
"I have a proposition th –"
"I am in no mood do make deals with anyone tonight, monsieur," Alphonse cut in abruptly. Sands, however, ignored this and kept talking.
"– at I think you will find highly appealing after you hear it. It involves one Zebbidy Samhain. You know her?"
The mobster's mouth thinned considerably, but Sands knew that he was intrigued.
"I've heard of her," Alphonse said finally with a small nod.
Smiling once again, Sands raised his tequila to take a sip.
"Good."
Sighing wearily, Zebbidy slowly dragged herself into one of the hotel elevators and pushed the button for the eighth floor. She had just been to the Eiffel Tower and it had been very nice, the view was lovely, but after three times of visiting the monument she had to admit that some of the glamour had begun to rub off.
As she idly watched the row of numbers along the top of the doors, each lighting up for a few seconds as she passed a new floor, Zebbidy let out another bored sigh. Four weeks . . . seven weeks and two days . . . one whole month . . . and a half . . . and already she was sick of it.
Well, no. Perhaps that was being unfair. Paris was wonderful, and she hadn't even seen half of it yet. Twitching her nose thoughtlessly, Zebbidy watched as the elevator reached the third floor. To her mild surprise, the little number three remained illuminated in a dull, white glow as a burly, hair-covered, greasy man in a rumpled suit that smelled strongly of stale cigarettes stepped through the opening left by the two sliding steel doors. Scratching his five o'clock shadow, he took his place beside the slender young woman, hands clasped behind his back, and glanced uninterestedly around at the tiny square space.
Observed in her own doldrums and slight self-pity, Zebbidy went back to watching the numbers light up. The man next to her held up a fist as though he had felt the urge to cough, but out of the corner of her eye, Zebbidy saw him as he got ready to bring it crashing down on her head.
Sands flung open the door and let out a disgusted sigh at the sight that met him. Several miniature TVs had been set up on every surface detectable, each showing a black and white image of a potential location in the hotel. Four were set up on one table, at least four rested on each of the two dressers, and one had been placed on top of the nightstand. The space that was not being covered by mini televisions had been taken over by other various electronics. Two laptops had been set up on the pair of twin beds and an innumerous amount of floppy disks and other software was scattered around them.
Unorganized assholes . . . where the fuck is Darling? Scratch that – where the fuck are any of those assholes?? Christ, this is my job on the line, you bastards . . .
Personally, I don't think they'd be all that heartbroken if you were fired. Especially if they were the ones that caused it.
No shit, Sherlock, Sands replied distractedly. Head bowed, he sank onto the nearest bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Knowing it would make him just as bad as the incompetent he'd left to watch the cameras, Sands shoved the powerful urge to sleep aside, and began scanning the colorless scenes of the televisions.
A moment later Sands jumped off of the bed as if he had been electrocuted. Eyes wide, he stared at one of the TVs for a single second before snatching his gun out of its holster and bolting out the door.
Fuck! Which one was that!? Which one!? Did I even catch the fucking number . . . !?
Don't look at me, the voice said calmly, unmoved by the situation, I'm not the one who set up the cameras. that was all the doing of your team of so-called agents.
Kids, Sands spat bitterly, I'll be damned if they're not all a bunch of fucking rookies.
Running down the endless hallway, his footsteps completely silent, Sands searched for one of the elevators. It was an insane search done only in vain but he continued onward, passing door after door before he finally reached one of the shafts. Not waiting a minute longer, he jammed the 'up' button in with his fist. Several seconds passed as the numbers above the door lit up to reveal what floor the elevator was on.
Sands stared almost desperately up at the numbers, as if having a mental plea with them or trying to will the elevator to move faster.
This is ridiculous, he thought, his voice flat with lack of hope, Assuming that this is the right one, she'll be dead by the time it reaches this floor.
Zebbidy gasped as the gargantuan man tried to seal off her breathing. With one mammoth arm crushing her ribcage and both her own limbs to his body, and in his remaining hand he pressed a thin length of cord around her throat.
Her vision went clouded as pearly drifts of fog crawled into her eyes. Everything in her head began to collide, her thoughts crashing into one another, falling, rising one again and stumbling around dizzily only to fall over again as another thought came flying by. Feeling herself succumbing to death, Zebbidy struggled to keep hold on her senses.
He's not here to kill me, she thought through her clouded mind, He can't be . . . the Poissons need me alive . . . that's what . . . that's what they . . . said . . .
It was meager consolation, but it would do. Fingers bumping against her side, she struggled to slip them into the pockets of her jacket as covertly as she could. Her muggy eyes widened in success when her right hand became concealed in soft green fabric and she felt her fingers brush against something small and cold.
The thuggish man was never aware of any of this. The next thing he knew, he was jumping backwards, howling with pain, after the spiky heel of Zebbiy's pointed shoe dug into his foot. Not wasting a moment, Zebbidy extracted a bottle from her pocket, wrenched off its cork, and threw its contents at her attacker's face. Blinking in confused, the man watched as tiny dried flakes of what appeared to be some sort of plant rained down on him, catching in his oily hair and on the wrinkled shoulders of his suit. He never had time to contemplate this, for a second later, the little glass bottle came hurtling through the air, hitting him squarely on the head.
After assuring herself that the man showed no intentions of waking up any time soon, Zebbidy allowed herself a sigh of relief. Her alleviation was short-lived, however, when the silver elevator doors slid open and she heard the distinct click of a gun.
"Oh my Christ," someone said from behind her. "Your handy work, I presume?"
Zebbidy turned around to face Sands with an expression of quizzical smugness despite her staggered movements. To her surprise, the agent wore the look of one who had been anticipating – Or dreading . . . ? she pondered hazily – a particular moment in time, and that moment had happened and he had been left feeling thoroughly dehiscent, as though he had just resumed the pattern of breathing. Suddenly struck with inspiration, Zebbidy calmly began to quote:
"Here is the key to existence – are you all listening?" Her words came out somewhat slurred and a little haggared, but she still kept her gaze carefully directed at Sands before continuing. "Always . . . breathe. That's the basis of life, breathing. It's basically the basis. If you don't breathe – "
"– you die, yeah, yeah, I know," Sands said, dissmissivly waving her off.
Oh, so he knows Durang too? That's interesting . . .
"What the hell happened? Did you knock him out, or did he do it himself when he ran into the wall?"
Clumsily crossing her arms over her chest, she smiled coyly and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, the man behind her stirred from his slumped position in the elevator. As if with natural instinct, Sands raised his gun to fire.
"Put it back in your pants, Tarzan," a second voice, this one female, said from outside. A moment later, Agent Lynné Sands stood beside her brother just outside the elevator and shook her head at him. "The gorilla isn't going to harm Jane again."
She pointed at the man behind Zebbidy and, sure enough, they saw his head fall back against the wall of the elevator with a resounding 'THUNK.' The short noise seemed to bring Zebbidy a step closer to her senses. Her mind clearing at last, she was finally able to digest all that had just happened. And it terrified her.
How close had she been to being in the vice grasp of the Poisson family . . . ? That man could have snapped her in half if he had wanted to. CIA agents surrounded her and yet she had almost been kidnapped, hadn't she? If that didn't restore her faith in the government she didn't know what did.
"Oh . . ." she murmured breathlessly, "My gods . . ."
Muttering something about going to the bar, Zebbidy brushed past the two agents, her green eyes large and fearful, and disappeared down the hall. Sands glared after her and Lynné looked slightly bemused.
"So," she began conversationally, "what happened?"
Sands let out an aggravated breath, his dark eyes still fixed on a spot off in the distance.
"Call those fucking lay-abouts and tell them to get their asses up here," he told her, clearly irritated. "I'm going to the bar."
There. I think that one had more Sands than Lynné. Hopefully. And also Moulin Rouge! D If no one's ever had the pleasure of seeing that movie, then go out and rent it – now! But please review first and tell me what you think. Thank you. u.u
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: Yes, Lyn's very stubborn when she wants to be. Also threatening. o.o;;; And that's what I thought when I read that thing about the two-way mirrors too, (forget where I read it exactly, -.6) so I tried to find a spot in the story where it would fit. Hopefully it'll come in handy if you're ever staying at a less-than-normal hotel.
vanillafluffy: Hah, I'm not saying a word about her seemingly witchy abilities 'til later. u.u And that's good about Lyn, too, because I never planed on letting her have a bigger role than she already does. Lol, I watched that interview Mr. Depp did about OUaTiM (where he said why he wore such obvious disguises) and figured I should put something like that in. (is now picturing Liam having trouble with a fake arm) XD Good idea, thanks!
TheDmntdFerret: Glad you like Lyn, Zeb too, cuz I'm trying to make sure she doesn't turn into a Mary Sue (or that Sands doesn't get OOC for that matter). I figured that in this story Sands would be the main character, Zeb's the co-star, Lyn's the semi-co-star but is really more of comic relief, and Liam . . . is just there. As usual. Poor guy. And I'm glad you liked the pagan refs as well :D
o