Mies has just landed at the Moriarty-owned Vine Street. She bites her lip, carefully balancing the positive and negative of just paying the rent and sitting quietly. She could offer him services instead of cash, but heaven knows what he would want her to get up to in that short, shady alley, with the arse end of a hotel on her either side. It could be worth the risk just to see what he can engineer. But risk is reckless, and she's all too aware of how early they are in play and-
A shrill, trilling cry and she jumps stiff and gasping out of the reverie. When the initial shock fades, she spots Milverton reaching into his jacket. "Charlie! Trying to give me a heart attack is foul play!"
"Foul play?" Moran's confusion is one-hundred percent genuine, "What game are you in, love? What's foul play?"
But Charlie has no time even to relish these tiny humiliations. He's looking down at the screen of his phone. "I do need to take this, actually…"
With practiced grace (and some pointed sighs), everyone gets up from around the coffee table and backs away; Moran and Moriarty leaning on the sideboard at one wall, Mies hanging in the window again. "Oh, wait, wait," and Jim rushes back. Takes a red enamel phone booth from the box of the game and sets it carefully on Vine Street.
Even distracted, even on his way out of the room, Charlie is curious enough to stop and point at it, "What does that do?"
"Nothing," Moran grins. "He just really likes it." Milverton shakes his head and walks on. As he pulls the door to, he hears the rest, "Look, you can see the loop on the top where he nicked it off a keyring!"
That helps him plaster a smile on his face so he can answer nice and bright, "What can I do for you?"
He should have walked farther down the hall. They heard that, inside. They heard the desperation in the greeting. A look of mild concern passes between Moran, who won't realize this is a show of exploitable weakness for another hour or so, and Moriarty, who's already thought better of targeting Charlie. Because Mies, the moment that plea for help goes up, looked at the keyhole in the old door the way a cat spots a sparrow.
"Now, Miss Danielle," Jim croons with false caution. "That's a naughty thought to be having. There's a reason we have rules about phone calls."
"Those rules being that we are up and away from the table. I'm not moving his tokens, I'm not inching that copper he's pulled closer to him, I'm not stealing his money like some we could mention. Rules say nothing about me getting up against the door."
"Obviously you'd prefer it if Moran and I didn't mention your eavesdropping to Charlie?"
She is missing valuable phone conversation. Negotiation will be swift or will be useless. "Vine Street and whatever place of yours I land on next, I won't even dream of paying rent."
"Next five," Jim says, but only because it's so much fun to stall her.
"Vine plus two." He concedes with a wave of one hand.
Mies, victorious, breezes towards the door.
"What about me?!" Moran balks.
"You? Remember cutting me out of the property stitch at the Old Kent Road? I won't drop a shipment of best Daytona meth on your doorstep and eat it out from under you any time soon, alright? Charlie wouldn't thank you for that, I don't think."
She curls up smugly, one ear to the keyhole and the other pressed closed, and begins to learn.
Jim watches in much the same spirit. Look at her, all locked up in a little loop of subterfuge with Milverton, fighting out the same ancient battle over and over again. Bless. This time she's keeping an eye on her cash, but she can't hear them. "Moran," he starts to say, in a sort of hush-
"-Ooh, here it comes."
"What're you on about?"
"You've been too quiet, mate. Everybody here's been ready to go for the throat and you're the only one not buying into it."
So Jim folds his arms, and decides to stay quiet. He had an offer to make, yeah, but he'll keep it to himself now. Maybe another break will come and Moran will be ready to listen. For now, though, he can offer some advice. After all, whether he knows it or not, the Colonel is his key ally. "Put it this way," he mumbles, "Germany is outside the door, trying to buy his way to Russia. England's coiled up purring at the keyhole."
"And you're going to be Captain America then, are you? Cocky prick. Where does that leave me?" Jim softly, almost gingerly, hums a few bars of La Marseillaise. Suddenly loud, "France!? You're an arsehole, y'know that?"
"Will you kindly?!" Mies hisses. Glares them into submission and goes back to listening.
"I will," Milverton is saying. His smile is still there, but it trembles now, nervous, dropping on off his face by turns. Delicious. "I will, honestly. You'll have it before the week's out." Another pause, and then, full of hate and a sort of dread that touches Mies in ways she was once touched in a phone booth on Vine Street, "You'll do what? After all we've come through. All these years and have I ever once defaulted? And this is what I get, cheap threats?"
Whatever is said, his rant doesn't get the reaction he was probably hoping for. "The end of the week," he repeats. Sounding sad and tired and defeated and that's all.
Charlie hangs up. Breathes deeply, and he would sigh it away, if it weren't that in the silence of the breath he hears the sound of heels on parquet floor. He throws the door open as quickly as he can.
"You alright there, our kid?" says Moran.
No immediate answer, and a paranoid look around. He sees Mies standing at the antique dresser with two glasses in front of her, uncapping the Grey Goose. "Little one?" and she waves the bottle at him.
"You," he mutters, unable to make the sentence hang together just yet. He clears his throat. "You, you were listening."
"That would be in breach of the rules. We all understand that business goes on. Phone calls are sacred, Charlie."
Her eyes are too big. He never knows what to do when she does that. Years he's known her, and it took that time to learn to read her, but the eyes flare huge and blinking-blinking ceaselessly bloody blinking, he's lost. Against his better judgement he turns to the two other men (now discussing the advisability of a 'little one' themselves). He just wants truth. Just once. Just now, after what he's just been through on the phone.
Moriarty opens his mouth… Closes it again. Breaks with a smile, "I was going to wind you up, but you look so pathetic. Calm down, Charlie, it's not something we'd let her get away with." Milverton is still staring. And Mies' eyes are still big enough to keep him suspicious. "Seb, tell him."
"…Look at his face. Do I have to?" An elbow answers him. "You're safe, your Lordship. Go on and have that drink, you look like you need it."
He nods over Charlie's shoulder. When he turns, Mies is holding out one of the glasses. He'd like it very much. But it's the eyes, and the offer, and the three of them all saying the same thing. He swallows dryly. "No. Thank you…"
