Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

By

E. S. Young

Chapter Seventeen: True Virtues

Why do I always forget to do this? (sigh) Oh well. Okay, okay . . . There's another hidden reference that needs to be mentioned. Lyn's shirt in the last chapter: Alien, green skin, red eyes. Anybody know? Probably not since the show wasn't very popular and was canceled after only like three seasons. Anyway, it's Invader Zim, in case nobody caught it. (shrug) Love that show, that's all I have to say. ) On with the story . . .

"Moreau? Yeah, it's me. Listen, have you found out when he's having this thing?"

"Patients, mademoiselle," the man's answer came from the other end of the phone. "They say it is a virtue."

"They also say that – not now, Josey – that when things get tough, the tough get going. But your not going, Moreau. Not at all. And that's a problem for me, one that I can't deal with for much longer."

"Mademoiselle," Joséphine began, tugging on Lynné's skirt.

"Unless you think we're in danger, don't interrupt me, kid," Lyn warned her. "So what do you think?"

"Il n'y a aucun danger . . ." (There is no danger . . .) the girl answered, sounding slightly put off.

"Good," Lynné replied curtly, and she started to turn back to her phone conversation.

Is this your way of making sure you don't grow attached to her?

No, she replied briskly, this is just me being myself. I am a bitch, remember?

Now I thought you were just strong-willed and independent?

That too. Now, fuck off.

"If you must know –" Moreau was starting, but Lyn cut in.

"Oh, no. I don't need to know. It's the agency; they're the ones who're bent on doing this dance. However, they need a few more lessons before the big number, so if you'd be kind enough to provide . . ."

"Very well . . ." Even though he was all the way in the south of France, Lyn could practically sense Moreau rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Your man is thinking of having it sometime in October."

"When in October? Beginning, end, when?"

"End, most likely. For Halloween."

"But you're not sure?" Lyn pressed.

"Not entirely. There's still a week until October begins," Moreau reminded her. "I imagine her'll decide on the date some time soon."

"This party . . ." Lyn began slowly, thinking things over, "would it be one where you'll need an invitation?"

"Of course," he answered. "He is strictly set on the 'No invite, no entry' rule."

"And I imagine you'll be getting one?" Lyn questioned.

"It wouldn't make sense if I didn't," Moreau answered crisply.

"Think you could get me one?" she asked, and he knew she was grinning. "Possibly three?"

You are asking too much, mademoiselle, Moreau thought to himself in a tone that suggested that his patients were being tried.

Out loud he said, "I will see what I can do, mademoiselle, but I am not making any promises."

This was a lie. Moreau knew he would get her everything she wanted, because Lynné Sands was not someone you fucked around with. He had learned that the hard way.

David Moreau strolled down the dusty, deserted streets of Cullican, his head high and his hands in his pockets. He had to make sure none of those thieving children he'd heard about got a hold of his wallet, though it hardly seemed necessary now. By the looks of things, everyone in the town seemed to have vanished. He wasn't complaining. He didn't' like Mexico, therefore he didn't like Mexicans – the only reason he was here was because a friend of his, Andréez Martinez, invited him there to make a proposition. Apparently he wanted to go into the hotel business, but first he would need a little more cash in order to get things started.

As he made his way around the abandoned street, Moreau grew more and more uneasy. The rest of the town was noisy and full of life. Why should this street be any different? David Moreau was no coward, but the thought of turning around and heading back to his hotel suddenly seemed very tempting. Just as he was about to do just that, there was a noise coming from one of the stoops. But . . . that didn't make any sense; the entire street was empty and that included the stoops. Nonetheless, Moreau heard the noise again.

"Christ, will you be quiet? I fucked up, all right? I don't need you bantering me about it . . ."

The words were nothing short of unintelligible, but Moreau was certain that he had heard correctly. Unwillingly, he began walking toward the sound. It was undoubtedly the voice of a woman, young and, by the tone of it, tired and in a lot of pain.

"Son of a bitch schmuck . . ." she muttered again.

Just as he was about to reach the stoop, a large, floppy had peaked. Moreau's eyes widened as he saw dark hair, a face masked by sunglasses follow the hat. After this quickly came a black spaghetti-strap top, and a white skirt with a delicate scattering of black flowers printed on it. The woman was thin but not plain in the least, and Moreau was certain that, if they were not hidden by the solid stone banister and the knee-length skirt, her legs would have been just as beautiful.

J'étais toujours un pour les jambes, (I always have been one for legs,) he thought, unable to stop himself from smiling as he took in the fragile-looking creature in front of him.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he greeted warmly.

He expected a smile, a wave, for the girl to at least look at him, but the young woman did none of these things. Instead, she gasped, tried to reach for something Moreau couldn't see, and wound up toppling off of the step she stood on. In her zealous arm movements, she was thrown forward and landed, arms splayed out in weird angles, on the dirty sidewalk.

"Or should I say 'hola?'" Moreau tried again as he rushed to the woman's aid.

"You shouldn't say anything and piss off," the woman growled, struggling to stand before he could reach her.

"Mademoiselle, are you all right?" he asked, ignoring her protests.

"I'm fine," she spat. "Now, goodbye. Have a nice day."

"Here, let me give you a ride –"

"You're not giving me anything, buddy," she warned.

"Could I at least call you a . . . . cab . . ." Moreau trailed off and simply stared for several seconds before finally saying: "You . . . you don't have any legs."

"Correction," she hissed through clenched teeth, "I only have one leg."

Moreau's eyes went wide.

"What happened?"

"Nothing important," the woman informed him.

"You're missing a leg," he insisted, outraged, "that is not unimportant, ma chère."

"Well, it is to me," she assured him. "I've grown rather used to it, in fact."

But David Moreau had made up his mind. He was going to take this wiry femme with him whether she wanted to go or not. Ignoring the girl's complaints and her constant reassurances that she was fine, Moreau bent down and began to lift the fallen woman.

"Ah, shit! Don't!" she hissed through her teeth.

That's when he realized that not only was she bleeding from her severed limb, but also from her abdomen as well.

"Mon Dieu . . ." he breathed, staring in awe at the woman's gory body.

"Yeah," the woman agreed grimly. "Guess this means no kids for me, huh?"

"Do you want me to help you up?"

"That'd be nice," she replied dryly, "As long as your careful, Tex. I'm a delicate little flower from what everyone tells me."

Moreau arched a heavy eyebrow at this but said nothing. He took the woman by her shoulders and gingerly eased her up into a sitting position. He leaned her back up against the rough steps of the house she had fallen in front of, but afterward he took a step back. For some reason the woman gave of a vibe that he didn't like. It was almost as if she was hiding something, but Moreau didn't press it. Instead he decided to settle for asking a few general questions.

"What's your name?" he began guardedly.

She turned her head to him and smirked through all her pain. If she hadn't been wearing those garishly large glasses, Moreau got the distinct impression that her eyes would be laughing at him.

"Bunny," she said, with a coy note in her soft voice. "Bunny Luvsit."

"Ce n'est pas son nom réel," (That's not her real name,) he thought, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. Moreau only knew of three types of people who gave false names like that: People who worked for a government agency, people who were members of a cartel or a Mafia, and people who had something to hide. But he knew better than to ask in case she was with the government or Mafia, and if she had some sort of secret, then he would let her keep it.

"How old are you?" he decided to ask.

"Thirty-eight," 'Bunny' answered, tipping her head back and resting it against the stone.

"You do not look that old, mademoiselle," Moreau pointed out.

"Beautox does wonders," she replied.

"May I ask how – "

"No."

"You do not even know what I was going to say."

"While I don't pretend to be a psychic, I do happen to be highly intuitive." That ironic smile was back on her face again when she said, "You wanted to know if it was all right to ask how I got this way. So I took the liberty of saving us a lot of time and interrupted you."

"Should I thank you for that?" Moreau pondered, eyeing 'Bunny' expectantly.

She shrugged, wincing at how much it hurt to do such a simple movement.

"You could," 'Bunny' murmured, trying to sound at ease, "though it would save time if you refrained from it."

"Listen," she said, gasping in pain now, "you don't happen to have a cell phone on you, do ya? Mine chose the wrong time to die out on me."

"Of – of course," Moreau stammered, his fingers slipping as he hurried to find his phone. He knew he had taken it with him. He distinctly remembered putting it in one of his pockets. But which one was it . . . ?

The woman named 'Bunny Luvsit' threw him another sardonic smile when he finally handed her his phone.

"Merci."

"Yes, yes, we're going in. Just give me a second, Christ . . ."

"May I ask who is with you, mademoiselle?" Moreau now asked. "I know you are talking to someone else."

"Gee, Moreau, how do you do it?" Lynné's wit was as sharp and sarcastic as the day he'd met her. "Have you been delving into the occult behind my back? I hope you know what you're getting into."

"I assure you that I do, mademoiselle," he said stiffly.

"Yeah," Lyn snorted, "that's what you said when you met me."

"It sounded like a child," Moreau said, cutting to the chase. "You didn't –"

"While I may not be psychic like you, I do happen to have very good hunches. And my hunch is that your hunch is wrong. You know I can't do that."

"You adopted?" he gaped, trying not to sound as astounded as he felt.

"Christ, no," Lynné spat, "It's one of the little street Arabs you see wandering around here –"

"Je ne suis pas un Arabe de la rue!" (I am not a street Arab!) Joséphine fumed, putting her hands on her hips and glaring up at Lyn defiantly. The agent ignored her.

"She keeps asking me for a hand-out," Lynné said to her contact. "I told her to get lost but she's not going for it. Go, go!" she said suddenly, pretending to be sending an imaginary child off, "Get lost! Scram! Shoo!"

"Mademoiselle!" the girl huffed, disgruntled.

Lynné made a sharp sound that Moreau did not understand, but Joséphine did. It was the same sound her uncle used when he was warning her to keep quiet. The American woman could not have known this; she just didn't want anyone finding out about her, even people on their side, but she still got her point across. Obediently, Joséphine kept her mouth shut.

The sound of a doorknob being turned snagged Liam's attention. Years of stored up paranoia caused him to turn his head so fast he heard his neck crack. It would be sore tomorrow, but for now he brushed it aside. Reaching for the small handgun at his side, he waited for someone to enter.

The doorknob twisted again and Liam felt his eyes widen in anticipation. Whoever it was had a key from the sound of it.

God, why do they always build up the suspense like this? he wondered miserably.

Suddenly, the door opened, but it was with ease. Not what he had been expecting.

It can't be anyone dangerous, he told himself frantically, They would've thrown the door open if they were dangerous . . .

'They' turned out to be Zebbidy. When she saw Liam, she gave him a friendly smile and started to enter the house. Feeling the terrible weight of fear slink away, Liam released his hold on his gun. But his relief was short-lived as Sands quickly followed Zebbidy through the door. At once, Liam's nerves began to go wild and he had leapt to his feet.

Glancing around, Sands' eyes fell on Liam. He didn't look happy, but then again, Liam couldn't remember the last time he had seen genuine cheer on the man's face.

"Where's Lyn?" Sands inquired. His careless tone had no effect on Liam's nerves.

"Oh, she, uh . . . she took Joséphine clothes shopping," he answered, slipping the gun back in it's holster.

"Uh-huh," the other agent murmured, intrigued.

"You didn't go with her?" Zebbidy spoke up suddenly.

"Um, we – we always wanted someone at the house, right?" Liam stammered, his blue eyes darting from Zebbidy, who only stared, to Sands, who had taken a seat on the couch.

"Well," Liam began, grinning nervously, "I, um . . . will be . . . upstairs. Heh, bye!"

With that, he made a frantic dash out of the room, nearly knocking Zebbidy over as he hurried toward the stairs. The woman had to plaster herself against the wall in order to avoid a collision. She watched him almost trip as he flew up the steps. Shaking her head once the agent had disappeared from view, Zebbidy found herself fighting a laugh and loosing.

"What is he always so worried about?" she asked Sands through her giggles.

"Probably some traumatic childhood experience," he replied with a small, tired sigh in his voice. "Like he interrupted his parents at an, ahem, inappropriate time."

"I was gonna say he found a decaying corpse in the ally behind his house," Zebbidy said with a wan smile, "but yours seems more likely."

Alphonse Poisson had not wanted anything to do with the operation.

Correction, he probably would have, but when Sands met the man in the Moulin Rouge all the way back in the middle of July he knew that they would not have been able to trust Alphonse Poisson. The moment the man had said hello (or rather, 'bonjour') Sands had known he wasn't the right person for the job. Alphonse's voice was nervous, anxious, and just a little bit whiney. Sands had been right in thinking that he would be an easy man to manipulate, but this guy could be used by anybody.

Al was the kind of person who, when tested enough, would fly off at somebody and spill everything he knew. He was a twitching nervous wreck who couldn't stand up to anybody. Put a gun to his head, and a person could kiss their secrets goodbye.

So Sands had merely talked with the man. Not for long, but just enough to get some rather interesting information out of him. At first he thought it would be a boring evening if he had to talk to that whiney little dipshit, but he stood corrected.

Alphonse may not have been a good candidate, but his older brother Vincent was another story. Apparently, the man wanted to leave the family.

Which means he wants out of the Mafia.

He wanted to leave and open up a gallery of classical paintings and sculptures.

He wants to start his own league that steals and sells valuable artwork.

Al knew this; big daddy Édouard didn't. And, Alphonse had confided, it would serve them all well if they kept things that way. Sands figured that the man must have been a little drunk at the time, otherwise, he never would have opened up and told him any of this. Get a few more drinks in the mobster, and he would tell him nearly everything he needed to know.

Wine's a helluva drink when you know how to use it properly, Sands had thought with a wry grin.

He had stowed the information away in his mental inventory along with everything else that would come in handy somewhere down the road of life. Some of the facts he used, some he didn't, but he never threw any of them away. One never knew when knowing how to tie a cherry stem with your tongue or the six different ways to kill someone with a fork would come in handy. In this case, the knowledge that Vincent Poisson wanted out of the Mafia business would be very handy indeed.

Bending over on the living room couch, Sands slid a hand along the top of the coffee table. His fingers brushed against the slippery plastic of his cell phone and spongey rubber of its buttons. Sands felt his lips twitching and he allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. It was time to give Mr. Vinny Poisson a ring.

"Bonjour?" a distant voice said the moment the dim ringing had cut off.

"Vincent Poisson?" Sands asked, lifting the remote to turn the volume of the television down.

There was a pause, but it was brief.

"Oui, yes."

"What if I told you that I knew someone who has a business proposition that you would find very interesting?"

He hoped Vinny wasn't as much of a rat as Al. Pity if he was, because that could ruin everything, which would mean that Sands would have to kill him. Oh well. That was what traitors got.

If his speculations about Vincent's stolen art business were correct, then Sands knew it was incredibly risky of him if he tried to make a deal with the man. He couldn't tell him he was CIA, of course. However, if Vincent agreed to meet with him and accepted his offer, Sands knew he would have to work harder than usual to keep from laughing. Odds were, he would most likely be the one assigned to bring the business down after they got to be a problem.

Funny the way the world works, isn't it?

Veeery ironic.

"Who is this?" Vincent demanded. He was making sure to keep his voice low. Someone must be in the room with him.

Probably Édouard, Sands mused, examining his fingernails lazily.

Bet he's scared of his father, the little wanker.

Wouldn't doubt it.

"Meet me at the Moulin Rouge tomorrow," Sands said into the phone, sounding bored. "At eight o'clock PM sharp."

"Who are you?" the Mafia man asked again.

With once last glance at his nails, Sands said:

"I'll see you there."

There was a small 'click' as the phone was slapped shut and a louder 'THUNK' when Sands tossed it onto the table.

He had never flirted with the thought of telling him the truth. He didn't even smile in amusement at how insisting a person could be when they should have known full well that they weren't going to be told anything.

I guess nobody knows the saying 'patients is a virtue' anymore.

They do, the voice assured him. They just don't care to listen to it.

Another chapter done. Wow. And here I was worried that his thing wasn't gonna be as long as the last one. The paranoia strikes again! XP I dunno what to do to get rid of it. Maybe if I use a fly swatter . . .

Author's Thanks and Review Responses:

Dawnie-7: I actually did have that bit saved for a later chapter, but thanks for shipping an idea my way. ) My only problem is Sands' reaction to the whole thing. I'm not sure if he'd flip out and turn into the protective older brother or if he'd just shrug it off saying, "Oh, you and Fusco danced the forbidden dance? Well, I can't say neither of you didn't need it," either that or something else entirely that has yet to cross my mind. Personally, I can't see him getting too worked up about it.

Lynx Ryder: Very, very, very relieved to hear that. I'm constantly worrying about making things sounds cliché or turning my characters into Mary Sues. And it's great to know somebody liked the plan/idea comparison. In all honesty, that took the longest to think of. It was a looong while before I was satisfied with it. 9.6'

TimeSaving Tip: Hey, I remember you! D You're the one who flamed my . . . what was it, my 'Phantom of the Opera' story? I can't remember, though I know it was one of my 'Invader Zim' ones, definitely. Then again, none of them have gone by without being insulted at least once, right? Heh. Y'know, I should give you an award for being the first person to fustigate (ohhh, I got to use the word) my OUaTiM stories. But I don't have an award. Sorry. Guess you'll just have to chastise someone else's work and hope they'll give you one.

fanfiction fanatic: Don't worry, I think I have a few plans concocted now. ) The seventeenth chapter's already written, all I need to do is edit. Oy vey, am I bad at touching up my own work . . .

DragonHunter200: Oy vey, government conspiracies . . . Don't even get me started or I'll begin rambling about cinnamon cartels next. Lol, it's a long story. Thanks for boosting my confidence, by the way, and I hope you can break your writer's block as well. (see, why can't the government spend their time working on something that cures that instead of working on things to brainwash us all into joining the military?)

The Gilatas Monster: Duh! Of course! How could I go this far and not make a Zim ref? I'm surprised I went this long without mentioning the show at least a little bit.

morph: Meep, you mean you didn't catch it? o.o;;; But this one explained things a bit, okay. Was nervous for a moment, but as long as everything's cleared up now. I am doing a bit with Zeb having a vision of Ajedrez, only thing is, it's gonna happen a little while after she gets kidnapped. Thank you for the idea, though. Actually, I never thought of writing up a vision where she sees the boy ride up to Sands on his bike. I think I might be able to do something with that. Thanks for helping! )

o