Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Five: Arrows Pointing Sideways
This chapter is named after a song written by a very good group of musicians called Donna the Buffalo. I have no idea how they got they're name, just that they make good music and that they're hippies. D I also have no idea what it is about this song that makes me think of this chapter. It's one of those . . . there's something there, yet it's impossible to explain without making someone's head explode. (nods absently) Yeah, that'd be it. Ah . . . anyway, enjoy!
Warm maroon and beige carpeting filling her vision, Zebbidy slid onto one of the round, elevated bar stools and placed her hands upon the swirling gray and white counter. Her palms were down, as were her eyes, and – at the risk of sounding melodramatic – so was her mood. It surprised her that she could feel so downcast when her elevator had been ascending upward.
'Elevator goin' down, goin' down, go-ing down . . .' she sang in her mind, and why not? The lyrics fit the distressing situation she had been thrown into. Sighing wearily, Zebbidy let her eyes run over the bar counter, trying to find shapes in the mass of ashen gray and foggy white stone.
I wasted good thyme on that idiot too, she thought irately. 'Least it wasn't my hops; I can't find that anywhere anymore. Damn people destroying the environment . . .
Distractedly, she reached a hand up to run her fingers along the choker she had been wearing, only to meet bare flesh instead of smooth silk.
Damnit . . . it must have come off when that bastard . . .
She couldn't finish the thought. Tremulously, she traced her forefinger along her throat. Despite her extreme care, Zebbidy still had to bite back a hiss of pain when she felt the sharp sting of a newly formed bruise. Reaching behind her, she pulled her long hair out of its haphazardly styled bun and draped it around her shoulders like a scarf.
That'll hide the mark at least . . .
"Que puis-je vous recevoir, mademoiselle?" (What can I get you, miss?)
For the first time since she had left the elevator, Zebbidy lifted her eyes upward. She didn't know why she had sought out the bar as her sanctuary. She rarely ever drank, and a hotel bar didn't exactly scream 'place of homage.' But right now the bartender was looking at her expectantly, and, in her opinion, he seemed like the type who would kindly ask her to leave if she didn't intend on drinking anything.
"Um," she began, never having caught on to the language of love. The damage the cord had done to her vocal cords wasn't helping. "Je . . . voudrais le . . . vin. . . . Rouge, s'il vous plaît." (I . . . . would like . . . wine. . . . Red, please.)
The bartender smiled.
"Une bouteille?" he asked. (A bottle?)
Eyes widening with her growing confusion, Zebbidy just managed to comprehend what the barman had said.
"Oh, non, non . . . Juste un . . .uh . . . verre." (Oh, no, no . . . Just a . . . uh . . . glass.) Zebbidy nodded mentally, almost certain she had gotten the words right.
"Especially," someone said, "if you need to keep your wits about you."
Oh, goody. One of the people who let me down. Just what I need.
"Hello, Sands," Zebbidy greeted unenthusiastically, massaging her soar throat.
"Hi," the agent returned, resting his right elbow on the bar counter and propping his head up with his hand. On his face he wore the smile of someone who hadn't a care in the world for there was a good chance they had no idea what was really going on around them. This was one of those Sands expressions, Zebbidy realized, that was saved for when the agent didn't want people to take him seriously or think of him as a threat.
Then, she thought in a low dramatic voice, he moves in for the kill . . .
Despite the situation, Zebbidy found herself fighting back a laugh at the amusement of the statement. It was horrible, but Agent Sands was a pretty horrible guy, so she felt no regret in thinking it.
The barkeep glanced at the two of them curiously, and, though neither ever knew it, both could practically hear the wheels in his head grinding against each other as he tried to figure the pair out.
"Monsieur –" the barman started, but Sands interrupted.
"I'll have a tequila with lime, " he told the man, not even bothering with French, "and – " he paused to steal a sideways glance at Zebbidy, one that she didn't return "– my lady friend will have her wine."
"Oui," the bartender replied, nodding once before whisking off to prepare their drinks. Sands gazed fixedly at Zebbidy, smiling almost dreamily at her, as if he wanted nothing more than to sit there in the woman's presence. His thoughts, however, contradicted the carefree image he wore.
Goddamn, fucking slack-offs . . . what the hell was going through their heads when they thought they could just up and leave
Oh, concern for your career, I'm sure.
Yeah, Sands laughed heartlessly.
Just be glad she isn't dead. If she were, you'd be screwed. Royally, cheese-dick, so just be grateful.
Leaning forward slightly, Sands attempted to catch a glimpse of Zebbidy's neck, being as low profile as he could about it. She must have noticed, however, because she tugged on her hair, hiding her wound, but not before Sands had seen the mark. Already thin, bluish-yellow ribbons were beginning to form where the assassin's cord had cut into her throat.
"I take it you have somebody watching him?" Zebbidy asked suddenly, breaking through the quiet murmur of the other bar patrons and the silence she and Sands had shared since their brief hellos.
"If so," she continued, "I'm sure you'll understand if I don't have much faith in them. Hell, I'm surprised I wasn't already dead when you got here."
"If you were," Sands said, "then I'd have a lot to explain, wouldn't I? People would lose their heads, call the police, news stations . . . so, really, it's a good thing you're still alive. For me at least."
"Nice to know the CIA's so concerned," Zebbidy replied blandly, glaring at him with revulsion as she accepted the glass of maroon liquid the barman handed her.
"I thought they only wanted to kidnap me," she murmured after she had taken a needed sample of her wine. "Now, I may just be jumping to conclusions . . . but that seemed like an assassination attempt to me."
"Well," Sands drawled listlessly, "that's because . . ." He paused, shrugging as if at a loss for an answer that wouldn't get a shocked reaction. In the end, he finished saying, ". . . it was." He shrugged again. "That's all I can say."
"So what happened anyway?" she asked.
"A man entered your elevator and tried to strangle you," Sands responded simply, smiling once again.
Could I be arrested if I just ripped his lips right off his face? I don't think anyone would mind.
"You know what I meant," Zebbidy stated out loud.
"Oh," Sands said, acting somewhat surprised, "you should learn to be more specific, sugar-butt. It does wonders."
"I'll get right on it."
Smirking and smashing his original response ("Get on what, exactly?"), Sands set his tequila down on the counter.
"If it makes you feel any better," he began sarcastically, "I've gotten Lynné to watch your attacker, so the chances of him attempting to kill you again are highly doubtful."
"Good," Zebbidy said in a falsely cheerful tone, "but you conveniently forgot to tell me how the goon managed to get to me in the first place. I was under the impression that by packing my things for France and leaving my life in America that I was being protected."
And I was under the impression that this was going to be easy, Sands thought, annoyed.
You're saying it's not? the voice asked innocently.
Not when my charge is nearly assassinated, no.
"Well at least we now know that you can handle yourself if something like this should happen again," was all Sands had to say.
"Assuming that it will indeed happen again," Zebbidy said quietly, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
Sands said nothing but retrieved a cigarette from one of his pockets, slipped it into his mouth, and began searching for a lighter. Zebbidy watched his fruitless hunt for a few seconds with mild amusement.
"You should try one of these," she said finally. Reaching into her own jeans' pocket she unearthed a small, hand-rolled cigar as thin as a cigarette. Sands stared dubiously, one eyebrow raised.
"You don't . . . make those . . . by any chance."
"Used to," she explained, "However, I have yet to find a joint that sells the kind of tobacco I like. But I've been told from several reliable sources that they're very good."
Returning his own hand-made cigarette to its place, Sands extended his arm.
"If you have a light I can tell you just how reliable those sources are."
Smiling slightly, she handed the little cigar over and began rummaging through her pockets.
Clutching a stitch in his chest, Liam leaned against the wall, gasping for breath and looking like he had just run a mile. This was an exaggeration because he had simply run from the first floor of the hotel and up half a dozen flights of stairs to the eighth floor. He looked from the unconscious man in the elevator with blood slowly trickling down his forehead, to his partner slanted against the wall across from him, casually examining her fingernails.
"That was fast," Lynné commented, not looking up.
Liam grinned tiredly, and, still panting, managed a weak arm gesture.
"What happened?" he wheezed.
"Someone we're assuming is one of Poisson's men went after our babysitting charge in the elevator."
"Did you get him?" Liam asked through gasps.
"No," she replied leisurely, going back to her nails, "that was all Miss Zeb's doing."
Suddenly, Lyn raised her head, glaring into through the open doors of the elevator to the slumped hit man inside.
"Y'know, that was low."
Liam nodded, still leaning heavily against the wall.
"I mean lower than low. That was . . . . buried twelve feet in dirt and then spit on low. Lower than hell low –"
"Lynné? You've made your point," Liam said cautiously.
"No, it was low," Lyn continued defiantly, "He attacked her in an elevator – I wouldn't even do that. But only because there's nowhere to run," she said reasonably, "It'd be too easy. Not much of an accomplishment if ya know what I mean."
Liam's eyes widened slightly but, after swallowing hard, he managed a short nod and an equally short response.
"Right . . ."
"We could just shoot him."
"No, that would be pointless because we wouldn't have gained any information."
"I can shoot him so he doesn't die," Lynné protested indignantly.
"He'd still be screaming in pain," Sands told her, irritated. "And even if he didn't, we'd still have a time reviving Fusco."
"I don't appre –"
"Oh, Liam, he was just being himself," Lynné said offhandedly, waving her partner away. Gun in hand, arms crossed, she turned to smirk coldly at the sleazy man they had retrieved from the elevator and tied to a chair in a spare room the hotel had provided.
"Je ne vous dirai pas de bâtards n'importe quoi," (I won't tell you bastards anything,) the greasy man stated firmly. Already a large, purplish bruise was beginning to form on his head from when Zebbidy's bottle had hit him. "Vous ne savez pas même qui je travaille pour!" (You don't even know who I work for!)
"Oh, but you do work for somebody?" Sands smirked when he saw the man wince at his own stupidity.
"Je ne l'ai jamais dit . . ." (I never said that . . .) he muttered angrily.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Lynné said calmly, "but you did drop a hint that was very suspicious."
"Vous ne me recevrez pas toujours pour parler," (You still won't get me to talk,) the hit man informed them shortly.
"My, isn't he confident?" Sands said to Lyn, a smile tugging on his lips.
"Only until the torture begins," she told him solemnly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Liam suppress a shudder. But where her partner succeeded in hiding a cringe, he failed to mask a grimace. Eyes pointed skyward, Lynné shook her head and turned back to her captive. The man (who must have been one of the Poisson's thugs; as far as they knew, no one else was out to get their charge) was all but shooting daggers from the way he was glaring up at the trio of agents (the remaining four had yet to return).
"Essayez tout ce que vous voulez,"(Try all you want,) he warned them, his voice low and menacing, "mais vous ne recevrez pas de mot de moi." (but you won't get a word out of me.)
Won't I? Lyn asked herself, light with surprise,Buddy, I could have your nuts for that.
"Well, if that be the case . . ." Sands sighed, shaking his head with feigned regret. After walking over to one of the beds, he reached inside a suitcase. A few seconds passed as Sands rummaged through the various bits of luggage. Then, quite suddenly, he lifted his head and turned to face his fellow agents with a sinister air around him. Glancing from Liam to Lynné, he grinned malevolently.
"Put on your rubber gloves, boys and girls." He tossed them each a pair from the suitcase.
"Things are gonna get messy."
"Oh," Lyn said suddenly, "well, Liam, it might be best if you left."
Don't worry. They're not gonna do anything. . . . not that I know of, at least. And if by some chance I do decide to let Sands and Lyn torture their hostage, I won't describe it. Gory, blood-filled dreams, scenes, and flashbacks are no problem but torture is another thing entirely. u.u
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
vanillafluffy: Hah, true, knowing Sands if she turned out to be a relative of Barillo's he wouldn't mind offing her. Crazy, trigger-happy guy . . . 9.9 Oh well. He's cool, so he's forgiven. u.u lol, you're not the only one who says that. After spending a good portion of my life around a cousin who just puts on a Southern accent randomly, it's kinda rubbed off on me. :) ; Actually, I did just want an excuse to hit somebody over the head, although I did say what the plants were at the last minute.
Dawnie-7: Well, I had to steal her gun away from her and lock her in the closet, but I think you're safe from Lyn's wrath. Can't make any promises though. o.o; But I'm glad you liked the Moulin Rouge ref; I couldn't resist it. :);
DragonHunter200: Never thought of putting Moreau in any other scenes but now that you've mentioned it, I've thought of a few more – thanks! Lol, I always thought Liam had something cute about him in an Ichabod Crane-ish sorta way.
Liam: -.6; I only fainted once.
Lynné: Twice.
Sands: And it wasn't the last time, I'm sure. (smokes nonchalantly) u.u
Liam: 6.6;;;
o