WTF. Five whole pages of conversation. Oh Lord, Why do I do this to myself? Sorry, dry patches. Daryan will appear in...Two chapters I think. First person who guess what he's gonna be gets a newborn. xD
Seven : Yodel-Ee-Hoo
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If the compression of a storm cloud is possible, Diego had a funny feeling that someone in the past day or so had compressed one of those nifty storm clouds that bring around Katrina and had deposited them into Phoenix Wright's face. Certainly, he looked very much the part of a brewing thunderstorm. His face might be creamy (Contrary to popular belief, you don't actually turn purple unless you're dead) but there's no hiding the black expression on it. If someone walks in right now shouting hallelujah, that someone will be walking out with one limb dragging behind him.
Ah, stuff of life.
Diego sipped his coffee and looked out of the window through the steam rising from his mug. Phoenix is going pit-a-pat-pat behind him, but then he's been doing the same thing for hours now, and Diego's learned to ignore him. The backyard peeks out directly underneath Phoenix's window, a groomed and polished garden by their resident gardener. In a corner is a large cage, prison and chains to Regent, Phoenix's souvenir tiger from an old acquaintance. Normal people get flowers and chocolates for their birthdays – this lucky man got a tiger. Fitting he supposed. A tiger for a lion of a man, even though he can act more like a kitten sometimes.
Certainly, he's acting very like a yowling kitten whom you've stroke the wrong way right now.
"When I get my hands on him, I'm going to make him eat his glasses." He yelled stomping down the length of the room. Diego grunts.
"And you better write that down somewhere too! I'm going to twist his head right around and hang him on a shower head!"
Diego grunts again, sipping his coffee. The threats are getting just a little tamer now. A few hours ago, and even Diego would be remiss in making irrelevant comments to the man's face. There's a pretty China vase that had belonged to Zak. It's in a black plastic bag now. The insults are getting a little tamer, though the temper obviously hadn't. It's just that like crying, once you've gotten over the main rush of those pearly tears, all that remains is a semi-ridiculous perspective of yourself. You go 'Is that me making those noises?'
"How long are you going to continue yowling like a kitten, Wright?" Diego commented, sniffing lightly at blend #92. Ah, stuff of life. "You're making the carpet look like a stampeding buffalo's grazing ground."
"Throw it out then!" He barked back.
"Kind of hard to, considering that you're stomping around on it," He returned dryly. Phoenix stopped long enough to stare at the carpet he's making a mess of, before announcing -
"I need a toilet brush."
Diego blinks, and doesn't even bother deciphering that sort of nonsensical comment. He goes back to staring at the yard, wondering how long it'll take for Phoenix to calm down enough to string sentences into legible ideas. Eventually though, the pacing slows down, ending with a bang in the form of a long-suffering sigh. The rumble comes deep and agonized, but then it's to be expected. The shipment's gone after all, right under their noses – and Diego doesn't know if it's their fault for being gullible enough to believe that Kristoph will hold up his end of the deal for once in his life or to blame Kristoph for being the large brown turd he is.
"You relaxed now?" He asked Phoenix. The answer he got was a rake across his hair and an irritable sigh.
"It's gone, isn't it?"
"You can say that again."
He dropped down heavily onto an armchair. It takes all of one second of blankly staring before he pulls out another pack of the ever-present sticks of doom . He lit one up and waved the other hand this way and that like a conjuror. "Which pinehead was it who decided to make a deal with Kristoph Gavinne?" He demanded. "Because that's the worse idea I've ever heard in my life."
"That would be you, Trite."
"Ah."
"So which pinehead was it that made a deal with Kristoph Gavinne?"
Phoenix said nothing, letting the topic drop with an ungraceful plop.
They strayed in temporary silence, Diego sipping on his coffee, Phoenix smoking. The shipment is definitely gone, and no amount of stomping around is going to change the fact. They had examined every nook and cranny, send the word down to their remaining boys to be on the look out for the trucks, but nothing. Nothing came, and nothing would come – Kristoph Gavinne is a thorough man if nothing else, and there's no doubt he's the one who took it.
This means a lot of things, the least of which that Diego considered it a small loss, but not an irrevocable one. Wright underestimates himself sometimes – there's no need for them to touch that white thing. The white stuff is rather like the Pearl – even though it'll help them a long ways, there's no doubt that it'll immediately put them into the spotlight where the police is concern too. Now that it's gone though, Diego can't say that it'll be miss – but this is a personal thing now.
Kristoph had just scratched their eyes out, and this means something that even a first-grader can tell you : WAR.
"What are you planning to do with him?"
Phoenix's face darkened, and it's clear that whatever Kristoph Gavinne does in the near and foreseeable future, Phoenix will be there every step of the way, sinking his teeth into his quadricep femoris.
"War." He echoed. "He asked for it, turning around and stabbing us in the back like that. It was a straightforward trade, wasn't it? It wasn't like I was demanding an exorbitant amount of money – the profit he made would have been double."
"Perhaps he wants a larger profit."
The unspoken thing is of course, that Gavinne accumulates money like an old house accumulates dust.
Phoenix's face twisted to look even more like said storm cloud. "It wasn't" He bit out acidly. "It wasn't the profit he cared about, I'll bet anything on it : It was just to show us – to show me up. Show me that he's better than anything I can do."
"He's still hung up about the whole underboss thing?"
Phoenix snorted. "Are you kidding? He's rubber and he's glue, anything that's problematic comes from his cue."
Diego snorts, but doesn't argue the point. Why? Whenever something problematic happens, chances are, if you trace along the line long enough, you'll eventually come across Kristoph Gavinne's name. The man's all sorts of sneaky, and there's nothing he doesn't have a hand in. One of these days – someone is going to come up with a slimier plan, and it'll be the end of him. These things always happen – it's the sad thing about human evolution. One generation just surpluses the previous in it's ways.
"You haven't solve the problem," Diego reminded him. "The shipment's still gone – which I frankly still don't see as important."
"Of course it's important – it's money."
"Bad money, maybe,"
"It's not – and I'm not getting into another argument about that with you."
"Let's get into an argument about something else then," Armando retorted. "You still haven't answer me – what exactly do you plan to do with Kristoph Gavinne?"
"I'm going to make life hell for him, in short," Phoenix declared. His tone is strangely flat, devoid of emotion – like he's announcing that flowers are flowers. "He likes to play this sort of game? Fine, we'll play it with him. His men aren't so tough – we'll take the thing right back from him, the way he did us."
Diego growled. He knew it was going to be some trite idea like this. "What do I always tell you, Trite? Only a fool throws himself headlong into a bullfight."
"Maybe," He shot back. "But you're the one who always says a man doesn't hesitate and all that baloney."
"I don't recall ever mentioning being stupid – which you're being. You know we can't win against him in an all-out war. We just lost, what twelve men there alone? He'll oil the gears and twist us into it before we know what's happening."
"Why? Why do we have to put him so high up on the fearsome pedestal? He's just another man." The cigarette crumpled between two agitated fingers, their owner too bothered to even think of smoking. "He might be cunning, but he's not the Lord God. We've taken down smart guys before – we can take this one down too."
Yes, except the smart guys that they had taken down before aren't as influential – nor had those really been all their skills and prowess, as much as Diego hates to admit it. There are times where they had ride on the wind of chance and luck and came out the survivor – torn and beaten but victorious – but Lady Luck is a fickle mistress. One moment she is yours and yours alone, and next she'll be having a steamy affair with your immediate neighbour.
"It's not him I'm so worried about. We might come out from the other end of the bramble bush, but we'll be scratched to the bitter end before then. Coffee is black, Wright, and so's the man's soul."
The cigarette crumpled entirely. "Alright - so what do you suggest we do then? Stand aside and watch him mock us?"
"We stay alive," Diego answered simply. "Bid our time and find a chance to slip the knife between his armour."
"So we wait? That's your amazing, manly, coffee-awesome idea? We wait?"
"Yes, waiting will keep us alive--"
Phoenix lifted himself out of the chair and demanded at him."And what's the point if we're living it like cowards? Where's the pride in that?"
Diego lifted the coffee mug and placed it under his nose, inhaling the smell. "You will recall, Wright..." He said quietly. "That my priority is not to help you out with your petty little vengeance against Gavinne. I am here to keep you alive, that's all. I promised her that, that I'll watch out for you. I don't give a damn how you live this life of yours – if it's Dante's Inferno itself I'll keep your head in it every single minute of the day."
Phoenix threw himself back into the chair. "Sometimes I don't know if you're a blessing or a curse, Armando."
"Consider me both."
The man broke into a series of coughs, before tipping the chair backwards and forwards like a preschooler. There wasn't anyone around to see though – so Diego let it slide. He went back to the window, and watch the yard again, watching, as a few kids from around the neighbourhood peek from above the neatly trimmed hedges into the yard and at Regent. The kitten purrs at them, and they go flying down the street – to the right, where the road branches off.
As they bend around the corner, headlights flashed onto them, preceding the actual body of another one of those anonymous black cars with a license plate several years younger than the actual car itself. It piqued Armando's interest though, because they weren't expecting any guests.
In this day and age, no one in their right mind would sign a legal contract that states that they need to open doors for people they drive for, but this one, the driver does anyway – out of respect and perhaps admiration for the black iron's contents.
He rushes out from his side of the car, and pulls apart to reveal a lady, swathed all in a veil of black that matches the car perfectly. The veil and the fabric of the dress comes in a set, and it's lined with some sort of thread that glistens out and is as reflective as live metal wires – because it reflects the spotlights hung out in the yard and glitters back a little in greeting, like a silken thread of a wave.
"Wright," He called out in a strangled tone. He turned around, but Phoenix was starting in on his second cigarette again.
"What?" He looked at him wearily. "Don't start again – I crushed the previous one."
"No, I think you should come and take a look at this."
Phoenix got up like an old man that's got far too many cramps in the bones to speak of in respectable company, shaking his head slightly as he walked over. He's weary you see, and just wants to go to bed and maybe wake up tomorrow without today ever happening at all. He leaned into the cold pane of the window beside Diego and sighed out.
"What's it now...?"
"Open those eyes." Diego said simply, and pointed. He needn't have bothered though, because the moment Phoenix saw the lady walking down the path into the house, his eyes widened.
"Thalassa," He breathed out, almost in awe. Diego chuckled.
Thalassa looked up from the pathway, and spotting the both of them at the window, waved lightly. Even from up here, you can see her smile – and if not see, then perhaps imagine the demure smile that always seem to line the woman's lips.
"There you go, the grieving widow. She's finally appeared, eh?"
Phoenix answered by plastering his face against the pane, even though by now Thalassa had progressed down the path so much that you can't see her because the lower building is blocking her out. It didn't stop Phoenix from staring at the spot she had last been like it contained a million boxes of Indiana Jones' treasure though, and if Diego hadn't shook him on the shoulder, goodness knows how long he'll stand there trading CPR with the window?
"Come on Trite," He said sternly. "Don't you think it's rude for a man to leave a kitten waiting?"
The man needn't be told twice. He bundled off in the direction of the door before Diego's last word, pausing only to examine his reflection in the one Siamese vase he hadn't broken into a million pieces. He looked like a teenager – just for a moment there – and not a man who as a routine thing, runs Zak Gramarye's job and burns down any and all buildings who neglected to heed their 'rent'. He paused to slick his hair back, before disappearing off into the hall without even bothering to turn around and bid farewell.
Diego chuckled, sipping his coffee and turning back to window. Ah, foolish kittens. But then he knows how it's like to be in love, doesn't he?
He allows Phoenix a grace period of ten minutes, in which no doubt the man stutters his way through a conversation with Thalassa. There's nothing in the world that can reduce the usually (pretty much) stoic man into a pile of nervous lip-biting and hair-ruffling. If Kristoph ever wants to threaten Phoenix, really, he needn't bring out all the big guns...All he needs is Thalassa Gramarye, wife of the late Zak Gramarye. A disturbing thought – that.
The ten minutes up, Diego put the mug down on the table, sighing. Seventeenth cup. Time to sleep soon so that the number will refill itself.
He padded down the hallway, and downstairs into the hall, where Phoenix could be heard talking to Thalassa. The lady in question is shrouded all in black today, with the exception of her white dress. A lady in mourning, who doesn't want people to forget that simple fact.
"Lady Thalassa," Diego greeted. "It's always nice to see you."
Phoenix hissed at him. "Took you long enough, what was I – the infantry troops?"
"Kittens have ears, Trite," He commented drily. Thalassa chuckled, a soft demure sort of chuckle, and gestured at the living room leading into the entrance hall. "Shall we all take a seat? I confess I'm quite tired from the theatre."
The men concur, and the three sank into Phoenix's comparatively spartan couches. "You were at the theatre? How's the show coming along?"
"Oh it's quite well, quite well. A little trouble from this and that perhaps, but nothing I can't straighten out."
"You should take a break," Phoenix inserted earnestly. "Running an opera house can't be easy – you deserve all the rest you can get."
She arched an eyebrow. "Working relieves the soul, I believe it was a Borginian artist who had once said that."
"A bastard language," Diego put bluntly. "Can't understand a word of it."
"Ignore him, he's just being a bastard," Phoenix interjected quickly. Thalassa wasn't offended though, merely chuckling.
"It's alright – I know it's a troublesome language. I don't understand my own fascination with it either – but it has a very exciting culture."
"And hot tempered, impatient people," Diego muttered darkly. If the Borginian merchant they deal with sometimes is the example of Borginian adulthood, Diego rather go all his life without knowing them. "But we seem to digress. It's still good to see you, whatever language you're currently learning."
Phoenix jumped back into the conversation, and for the next half and hour, the three of them traded pleasantries. Diego mostly kept out of it though. Pointless banter distract him, not to mention pointless banter is well, pointless. There's nothing he hates more than kissing people on both cheeks and going gee, how have you been? We haven't seen in each other for so long! We should totally get together and have some coffee sometimes. Say. What's your name again?
He lets it slide this time though – because it has been a long time since Thalassa has shown up. When Zak had been in Sicily, she had mostly kept to herself, either due to her busy life or her immaterial desire for more company. With Zak now newly turning in the soil, she had kept away even more – though it's hard to tell. It's barely been weeks since Zak Gramarye's death after, though with all that's happened in between, it seems so much longer.
Diego tapped his fingers precisely one thousand and twelve times before voicing : "So Thalassa, what brings you here today?"
Phoenix grunted. "It can't be to see you, with that sort of grumpy attitude."
"It's what the kittens line up for," He quipped. Phoenix rolled his eyes, but didn't correct him.
At Thalassa, it was, "He does have a point though – was there something you wanted to see us about?"
There's a slightly nervous twitch in the air, barely visible but on the stratosphere. After all, Phoenix had taken Zak's place in the mob – and had done so without actually sitting down and consulting Thalassa on it. He had been quickly buried to avoid too much police attention, and then Phoenix had simply assumed order after that. No questions asked, no opinions sought. If Thalassa starts a fight about it – not that she will – Phoenix will simply step down, Diego can be sure of that.
Thalassa smiled delicately, and even though she's all charm and sweetness, Diego was wary of her. It's not that he's paranoid or anything, but it's just a little hard to trust people sometimes. She's the late wife of Zak Gramarye – you can't tell if she'll bear you grudges or not. Not everyone paints their thoughts and feelings on their brow, experience alone should tell them that, no? But the smile didn't seem to harbour ill will.
"I came because I heard some rumours at the theatre today, actually."
The two men exchanged looks.
"From who?" Phoenix asked cautiously. A mine is thrown into the ground, and the three, for all verbal purposes, starts dancing in between bombs.
"Wellington, you know of him?"
Phoenix snorted. "Yeah, though I wish I don't. He's that...Ridiculous man who keeps buttering up Roger Rivales in order to get into his will, wasn't he?"
"Ah, that one." Diego sneered. Oh yes, he remembered that lock of hair alright. "The one stupid enough to record all his clients' names into his phone list?"
"Well, they wouldn't have managed to pin Gant down without his phone, that's for sure. But that's neither here nor there – what did the bas-- guy said to you?"
She quirked a little amused smile at him. "I'm not a 24-year-old you're trying to court any more you know, Phoenix – you don't have to be so courteous around me."
Phoenix coughed and tugged at his collar. She forged on.
"What Wellington told me was this : that that special tonight on television, the one where the men were all over the docks....He told me that those were our men, and Gavinne had in fact, been the one responsible for it.."
One side of the man's lip went up, and Phoenix couldn't hide his wrath at Gavinne if he had a dozen rolls of masking tapes. "Well, you could say he pretty much did that, yeah."
"I see. Do I want to know what he did?"
"Long story short," He explained. "He took something that we took from someone else, and we don't like it."
"Ah, mud fights, the usual?" The amused look heightened. "Sometimes I don't know if you all are children or men. Every time I stop by for a house call, I'm regaled with news of some new thing gone wrong."
"It really isn't our fault this time," Phoenix returned defensively. "Gavinne backstabbed us."
"And is the next thing I hear from Wellington also true? Are you all planning to retaliate on him?"
Diego whistled. 'Well, well, how fast word spreads. It's been hours, and speculations are already on the street. Bloody little magpies..."
The subject doesn't drop. "Are you planning to do something about it?"
"Yes," Phoenix interjected quickly, before Diego could react. "Yes, we are actually – we can't just let them walk away with something like this. And" He added, when Diego shot him a dirty look. "It's defeatist to simply assume that we can't win against him."
"And I am of the opinion that that is like walking into battle without a coffee mug." He looked at Thalassa to plead his case – if there's one thing that'll put the foot down with Phoenix, it was she. "Why don't you talk sense into this rodent, Thalassa? His skull is thicker than my blend – and my blend is very thick."
"Hmm." She mused on this. The kitten wouldn't look misplaced either, if a pyramid suddenly sprouts under her and she's cast into Cleopatra's shoes.
"Exactly how do you plan this 'retaliation' of yours?"
"Burn." Phoenix answered almost immediately. "I'm thinking of a massive barbecue. We'll start with Gavinne's little estate down in the fringes, and then we'll go to his house. If we have time."
Diego rolled his eyes. "Is that your solution for everything, Trite? Burn? A man with no vision."
"At the risk of offending all the blind people out there – I'll like to point out you have lesser vision than I do," He returned.
"Burn, was it? I suppose. They don't call you the Firebird for no reason after all," She mused, tapping a soft finger on her cheek dreamily. Phoenix flushed modestly. "Yes I do remember you being quite well at that."
"I uh-- Ahem. So you approve?"
Raising a teacup from the nearby tray, she stirred it as though in great contemplation of the matter. It was obvious what she would choose though – after all, Thalassa Gramarye had no stomach for the viler things of life, and if Phoenix is a little less lovesick of the woman and holding one less secret flame all these years, he'll see that the reason the gang had gone downhill in the first place isn't because of Zak – but because of Magnifi's daughter herself.
Of course, that never occurred to Phoenix. Zak would remain to blame, as long as the alternative is to blame Thalassa. No one with sight – one eye or not – can possibly miss that gleam in Phoenix's eye, that spark that lights up every time he speaks to or of her. It's like a shining bulb whose switch is Thalassa Gramarye. In the presence of the filament, it will light. If Thalassa steps on dung, it is worshipful dung to Phoenix.
How many years has it been, anyway? Diego mused. It's certainly been many years now – he can hardly remember a time when Phoenix wasn't in love with Thalassa, another man's wife or not.
Sometimes he wonders if it was really for the good of the gang that Zak had to die.
"Tell me you don't approve," He told the sipping lady. "Because I can assure you one thing – it's a long dark pit we'll be throwing ourselves into."
"No, I'm afraid I don't approve of it," She agreed. Phoenix groaned, and the two of them chuckled lightly at him.
"This isn't fair – the two of you are teaming up on me," He groaned. But the tone is light and without venom, a slight patch of grey when previously there had been black. "Well what do you suggest we do then?" He asked Thalassa. "I'm not letting him go unscathed that's for sure."
"I'm not asking you not to return the favour...Just do it more subtly. This used to be," And at this, she turned a cool eye at them to make sure they know that she noticed the fact that they hadn't consulted her on it, no matter the lack of ill will - "Zak's after all, and I'm sure he won't want to see half of it gone because of some petty discussion."
"It's not exactly a step-on-your-shoe argument. And well, subtlety isn't our forte," Diego retorted. "Hacking and chainsaws and bats are our deal, but subtlety?"
"Not if by subtlety you mean converting our gang's standard weapon to a knitting needle," Phoenix quipped. She laughed, and replaced the teacup on the tray with a clink of China.
"Then that's what I'm here for then – we discuss. Knowing the both of you, the only thing you'll come up with is more violence. The both of you need subtlety."
They chuckled – and indeed, discuss they do. In the next hour or so, they started slapping down a plan to take back the drugs from Gavinne. After all, simply burning Gavinne into dust wouldn't bring them any profit, not to mention, as Thalassa was quick to point out – would just waste the gasoline. Better they use the gasoline for something else, like burning something worth burning.
Phoenix agreed – but then again, Phoenix would agree to just about anything Thalassa says. Every time the man opens his mouth around Diego, he winces. It's like hearing the lovelorn ranting of a six-year-old again. It doesn't matter how much the man's been through or what he does for a living - when he's in love, that spark just rises back to the forefront. A certain excited gleam in the eye that betrayed his simpler natures.
Thalassa being there was a good thing though – because while she was opposed to almost every sort of violence out there, she had the better contacts of the three of them, having been around Zak for so many years. She had the better connections too, because the opera runs more black deals than maybe their entire gang put together. It's a very selective place after all – exclusive and elite private boxes where anything from clandestine meetings to underground deals can be put forth. Being the manager of it, she's seen it all, known it all.
By the end of three hours, a plan, subtle enough for Thalassa's liking and violent enough for both Phoenix and Diego's liking was hatched. Thalassa rose from her armchair to signify that their discussion was at an end.
"Well, I think that about covers it all? I think you should be able to find him without me...?"
"Of course." Phoenix bowed – far more dramatically than he usually is. "We have our own contacts as well."
"Excellent. I'll keep a ear out for news then and remember...Don't be so bloodthirsty."
"Utter sacrilege," Phoenix said agreeably. Thalassa nodded. The both of them escorted her out of the mansion, and before long, she was but a disappearing figure swathed in black silk like that of a mourning ghoul, gliding through a greenish night. The moment she disappeared through the door, Phoenix hurried to the window to stare out at her, watching up until the door to her car slammed shut. From the way he sighed, you would have thought she had just slammed her door in his face.
"Don't you think she's wonderful, Diego?"
"If I say that, you'll punch me – so no."
The taller man assumed his position behind him and looked out of the window too, though he was more preoccupied with the moonlight than he was with Thalassa.
"I think she is," He announced.
"Thou shalt not lust after thy boss's wife." Diego quipped, utterly deadpan. Phoenix shot him a dirty look.
"He's dead."
"As if you weren't when he was alive."
Phoenix had the audacity to look embarrassed. "Well, yeah."
Diego chuckled at the look on his face. It reminds him of those kind of looks he used to wore on his face, back when the sight of him made Diego's blood boil. Back when she was still alive and Diego had gotten his first tooth knocked loose by this apparently dim-witted man.
It's a good thing though. A fine thing. Like coffee. Except unlike coffee, he hadn't gone stale with the years. The clock hasn't frozen, and just the fact that he's staring out of the window looking like a lovelorn fool is proof that he's moved on, and is no longer hung up on it.
Wish Diego could say the same for himself, but ah, what does he know? They've got bigger things to fry, as they say – and first on their list would be Gavinne.
Apollo Justice takes a long time to recover from things. There's this once for example, when he fell from a second floor railing. He misplaced his knee, and months after that, he would pull the most gruesome face whenever he climbed up a stairs, even though the pain's completely gone. This, as Trucy puts it when she's in a kind mood, is called sympathetic pain. Apollo feels pain, and boy is he sympathetic of himself. Hence it's a cycle that never ends. Apollo feels pain. He is sympathetic of himself. Hence, he feels more pain.
That way, pain never goes away.
If you ask Apollo though, it's definitely not his fault. He just takes a long long time to recover from things – especially when this time around, even though he had came out of the proverbial bush intact and in one piece, his mind is definitely not. For an entire week after the incident on the bridge, he had what he called sympathetic nightmares. These nightmares seem to be in permanent mourning of the fact that he had survived the whole thing at all, and have made it their lives' mission to make every minute he spends sleeping a well, nightmare.
By the end of the week though, it became progressively better. When he closes his eyes, it's no longer black tendrils of grey smoke he sees, or the acrid smell of black he tastes in the air. There isn't that sick smell either, which sometimes in his dreams, it comes oozing right out of the tar on the ground. Sometimes the petroleum congeals instead, to form two claws to drag him right down with it like black guilt, and he'll go 'Oh, I shouldn't have done that.'
And indeed he shouldn't. Shouldn't have helped out with that friend of Klavier Gavinne's, because if he hadn't, that way he would have been able to convince himself that he's an innocent bystander. But he hadn't – had in fact helped – and no matter how small a part he plays in it, it's still a role. An actor on a stage, is an actor. Even if he only stands aside and spits into the fire, he is still another reason for it, whether because he had caused it actively, or because he had stood aside and watched it happen. But as he had mentioned – by the end of the week though, it just suddenly stopped. Kind of like realizing that you're getting diabetes one day while wallowing in massive amounts of sweet self-pity.
He got up at five that morning. Washed his face, gelled his hair, then went into a corner of the house and started shouting into the wall. He felt out of practice, and his throat got sore faster than normal – but it's a good kind of sore, because it means he's crawling out of depression and guilt. So instead, he slaps a sticky tape onto the whole thing : Fuggedaboutit, move on, they were jerks.
It's time to stop beating the proverbial horse to kingdom come and move on with the train called life, or get left behind.
Trucy approves of this of course. Apollo, as she had put it bluntly – had had enough of a pity party. If he doesn't watch it, he's gonna turn into one of those folks who always appear on TV with this five-inch thick beard spouting hippie stuff and the peace-out sign because they had apparently been abused in their childhood and now sees the light. Apollo does not point out that even if he wanted a five-inch beard, he would never have one, his chin being frozen in growth some time before puberty.
So instead, they compromise by sharing a huge bowl of cereal in front of the TV, where a anchorwoman is droning on in a boring tone. What she was saying wasn't boring though - far from it.
"Woah," Trucy exclaimed, staring at the screen like the TV had suddenly come to life and started doing the Jive. "That is a lot of blood."
There's a lot of blood, Apollo agrees, and a lot of dead people too. There's got to be a dozen of those, and they switch their attention back to the anchorwoman. Apparently, it had been found by a worker at the warehouse who had gone to check on it, instead finding the people there, taking one last bath in themselves. He had apparently had a pretty breakdown, thereafter which he contacts the newsagent and then file to press charges against his own boss for trauma.
"This is all very interesting," Trucy declared after three whole minutes of mindless mouth mashing and cereal consumption. "But it doesn't solve the Polly-nomial problem we're having right now."
"We have a problem?"
"Well, duh."
'Don't say 'duh' – that's not even a word." He complained. Young folks these days just keep making up words, and Apollo had no idea why they keep doing that. Doesn't the English vocabulary have enough words without them adding to it? Trucy only made a face at him.
"You need to get out and start working, seriously, or by the end of this month, we'll going back to cardboard boxes."
"Huh."
Apollo's face wiped clean of expression - usually a sign that he's thinking thoroughly and pretending not to be worried. The worry is there though, suddenly surfacing and coming with a harpoon to make tentative stabs at Apollo's stomach. It's like being reminded you have a deadline two weeks pass and you're not done yet, and your stomach, to put it simply, sinks.
"Uh, yeah, there is that."
"Don't 'there is that' me, Polly. What happened to it? Did that dreamy man called?"
"Stop calling him the dreamy man – he's got a name!" He gnashed his teeth at Trucy's smirk. It's been Klavier Gavinne this and Klavier Gavinne that. If Apollo wasn't more of a cheapskate, they would be drowning in Gavinners paraphernalia by now – and what is with that anyway? Who names their band after themselves? Isn't that kind of, oh, he don't know – obnoxious? So if he has three other band mates, is it supposed to be Gavin-Eple-Zylinder-Colfin-er? Jeez. Talk about lack of modesty.
A finger dug into his arm. "Polly..."
'Alright, alright, gee...He called, okay? The other day. Yesterday, actually – he called and asked me if my head is in the right place."
She peered up, as though to determine if it is indeed, on it's right place. "And is it?"
Apollo tweaked his antennas affectionately. They spring. "I think I am," He announced.
"Excellent."
They go back to eating their cereal.
Once they were done, Trucy trooped off to school the usual way – I.e, through Apollo's bicycle. It seems sort of ridiculous to him that now that they're rich – and Apollo's the kind of person who thinks having a grand or two in the bank is grand indeed – they still have to pedal to school to and fro like that. Ridiculous too, that as his sister is approaching the oh-so-wonderful period in life called teenagery, he's still ferrying her back and forth. Ridiculous as well, when he realized that he needs to call Klavier Gavinne to straighten things out before it lapses into that monochrome shade where things are undefined.
This stumped him, mostly because Apollo isn't a take-to kind of person. People call him, and people receive monosyllable textbook answers. He just...Doesn't call people is all. Doesn't know what to say.
Hi, I'm calling to confirm with you about my job? Seems too stiff, and reminds him too much of days fresh out of law school where he had to pedal from firm to firm to get jobs. He agonized over it all the way home, wondering how he's going to call up Klavier Gavinne. He agonized all the way up the stairs to their apartment too – but that agony turned out to be completely unnecessary, since the being he was agonizing over was standing right in front of their door, jabbing new holes into their doorbell.
"Ach! Everyone is deaf in this building!"
Apollo watched as the man cracked frustrated knuckles at the door.
"I say! Achtung! Is anyone home!?"
Clearing his throat, Apollo called out. "The uh, doorbell doesn't work."
Klavier spun around to glare at him. "You would think he would replace---Ach."
"Ach. Uh, I mean...Hi."
Klavier stared at him like he had suddenly sprouted several bug feelers to replace his hair – and while he stared, Apollo was struck by well...How well he looked. He didn't look too special, too worried, too bushed.
The last time Apollo had seen him, he had been taking on the part-time job of mucking his chairs up, leaving dirt stains all over their boxes. He had looked kind of guilty then, and if not guilty, then a little repressed. Now he just looks normal though – less blown up and more like the person on Trucy's CD covers, and Apollo was torn between wanting to envy him for that kind of elasticity and pitying him for feeling so little.
"Well!" He declared, still blinking down at him. "Well! Well, well!"
"Well what?" Apollo returned.
"Well- I mean, Achtung!" The man shook his head like he was trying to clear it of lice or worrisome thoughts. There seems to be no words you can trade with a person who last you've seen, was through a thick cloud of black smoke though, and he finally settled on
"You look fine, Herr Justice."
"Um, thanks. I am. Fine that is. I'm fine. Totally fine."
"Ja, ja. I am too. That is, I am totally fine, ja?"
"I'm fine too. I mean – that is, I'm fine that you're fine."
The conversation, if it can be called that, went flying over the edge of a broken rail track screaming like a girl.
Apollo gave himself a mental kick, along with a physical ruffling of his own hair. This is getting ridiculous – it's like he's ten again and asking the milk monitor if he can have another bottle of the white stuff – but it wasn't like he could help it. He felt all sorts of misplaced when speaking to Klavier Gavin, as if all spotlights were suddenly on every bump on his skin.
"Actually," He started, attempting to rail the awkwardness back into place. It's always hardest to speak to acquaintances when you're not buttering them with book-perfect answers, but you've got to start somewhere, right? "You came just at the right time. I was going to call you."
"You have a phone line in your house?" Klavier asked him, looking incredulous. "You mean, a genuine phone line, ja? Not the thing that you stick up using two cans?"
"Of course not!" Apollo protested. "Don't be ridiculous!"
"But ja – it's not ridiculous. You don't have a doorbell after all, what's to say you have a phone line?"
"I do have a doorbell! It just...Doesn't function well, is all!"
"Ja, like the Mona Lisa does not function well in a ballet class." Apollo opened his mouth to tell him where he could stick those comments of his – but Klavier was grinning, and maybe Apollo would too if he wasn't too preoccupied. Some things never change, 'eh? Least of all in a week.
"I am a mature, self-sufficient adult. I will not get into an argument with you about dancing paintings." Apollo announced in his stiffest voice. "I will speak of business, and only of serious matters : We need to talk."
"Ja – that is what I came here too – to see if you're up and bouncing. But I see you are, ja?"
The antennas dipped in a nod. "I am. And I will presume that you are here for..."
"The job, yes. Liam called in today and told us they're flooded with jobs, both for the gang and outside – so if you're up to it, it's suggested that you be moved in today, immediately."
"Of course," He nodded again, all business. What he needs is his notebook, and it'll be all systems go. As though reading his mind, Klavier checked his watch, saying aloud.
"It's almost ten now, Herr Forehead. You should get whatever it is that you need – pen, papers, books, that sort of thing – and then we'll ship you in pronto pronto into your new office."
Apollo nodded in agreement and hurried off into the apartment to gather up his stuff. There weren't much – after all, there really isn't nothing his new workplace can't provide, so before long, the both of them were rushing down the roads on Klavier's hog. Apollo practically flew off, and he fancied his gums were showing at the rate the meters were turning. It brought back unpleasant memories of the 'accident' on the bridge too, and he had no idea if he should be thankful that they arrive so quickly, or tearful.
The 'little' firm, as Klavier put it condescendingly, was directly next to Elmer's, a frequented performing ground of Trucy's. It's not terribly far – and she usually gets there by bus. It's a couple of corners away from Lordly Tailor, and while coated with those sort of dark wood that always gives off the intimidating impression of a grimy jazz bar, it wasn't a bad place, if a little small.
Apollo had expected that any firm Gavinne set up would be so opulent it rival Marvin Grossberg's office down the road. No one is in the clueless when it comes to how gaudy the man's office is, if it's said with just a little tinge of jealousy. Apollo had expected Gavinne's firm, the one he set up – to be exactly the same. Perhaps slightly more tasteful, but opulent and pointlessly decorated nonetheless. Instead, it surprised him.
It was about a couple of shoplots down Elmers, on the second floor – through a stairway not unlike that of their apartment's. It's clean, a little hypochondriac, with grey carpets that people use when they want to look professional but beyond that...
Nothing. No golden gilded stuff, no heavy hanging tapestry, no family tree that traces back to the Mayflower, and when examined closely, all the way to the dinosaurs. No indeed – and when Klavier opened the door to usher him into the place with a ceremonious flourish, he felt rather like a child who's gone through Charlie's little magical routes, with the marked the difference that it was just so...Bland.
So normal, when he had half expected something that screamed Mafia! Like maybe...Guns on the walls, or cigar ashtrays. Instead, it was just a simple office, parted into two distinct segments with one desk each, and another one crammed into the back of the place, obviously new with it's plastic wrapped desk.
Someone was shouting before they even opened the door. "Oh Lord! Liam! Liam!"
"Yes?"
"There's no file here! What in the name of shit, man?"
"Look closely, it should be somewhere th---
"It's not here!"
"Look carefully --Ah, Mr. Gavinne."
"Hey folks." Klavier greeted, one hand in a casual half-wave. "'Sup?"
One of the lawyers (?) - who looked like he just stepped out of an episode of those shows where they try to polish bachelors into presentable cucumbers – looked up. And by bachelor shows, Apollo meant those that hadn't undergo the process – I.e, dirty and unkempt.
"Oh Jesus, it's the Lord God. Hey, Lord God. 'Sup?"
"Jacques...That's really not how you speak to a potential client."
"He's already our client, stiff."
"Which is why--'
Apollo winced. Klavier commented discreetly behind a masked cough. "They look like comic relief, don't they? I know how they look, but they do their job well."
Apollo eyed the Asian-looking guy, who looked like a Type A Terminator Deluxe Package. Then at the other Spanish Casanova Waiter.
"You can say that again."
Klavier chuckled long enough to step forward to look the two in the eye. Asian Guy in glasses hurriedly stored away his paperwork, which looked rather like a redundant effort, considering that the papers were well, everywhere. Apollo was starting to feel at home.
"Well, Lee, Constans. Can we gather within shaking distances?"
Frowning, the four of them grouped up in the middle of the office, towered all around by untidy files stacked one on another. "Well, hello," Asian Guy said, noticing Apollo for the first time. Even then, he seems to be looking at a spot beyond Apollo's hair – and Apollo didn't believe for one second that he was too tall to look at him properly. "It's good to meet you sir, are you here in search of legal aid?"
"We don't have time, if that's what you want," The other announced. "We don't have time. Tell him we don't have time at all, Liam."
"We don't have time at all," Then as if that cannot possibly impress how busy they were, he added. "We're awfully busy, there's just too many cases for the both of us to handle."
Apollo quirked a lip upward. These two do looked sort of well...Overworked, is that the word? He looked at Klavier, but there was a veil that had risen up between the brows there. Something's there to be hidden that someone doesn't want to speak of.
"Ach, it's just a busy period in life – you get those back in the P.D, don'tcha?"
"Yeah, we did."
"Hmm? You used to work at the P.D?" The man asked again, still looking at that spot beyond the tip of Apollo's hair. That irritated Apollo.
"Who? Me or the wall?"
The man looked positively alarmed, before looking him in the eye. "I ah- My, I'm sorry." He shoved at his drooping glasses. "Just that uh, from where I came from, it's a little rude to stare at people's face."
"Well we're in America now, and we kind of like it when we're treated differently from the walls."
"Ahem. Yes, well, I'll keep that in mind." He shoved at the glasses again.
Apollo's heart was going at a mile a minute – he's never dared to speak like that to anyone before, much less someone who has seniority on him. But this is a new start, and he refused to start it by having colleagues who look at the wall when they're speaking to him. It's rude, he doesn't like it, and if this is going to be a fresh start, if he's going to deal with all these kind of stuff, well, he'll be damned if he's going to do it cowering behind people's back.
He stared back defiantly at Klavier, and he chuckled. "Brava, Herr Justice. You are developing the vertebrate, yes?"
No answer to that, so Apollo just grunt. The other, unkempt one looked at him with renew respect. "Hey! Nice to see someone with a bone around here for a change. Maybe we can work you into our schedule after all – but then again, who are you man, and what dog tag do you go by?"
Apollo looked at Klavier, bewildered.
The man simply chuckled. "Eh, Allow me to introduce. Apollo, this is Jacques Constans--" He pointed at the mess. And then at Asian Guy, "And that's Liam Lee. You two, this is Apollo Justice, your new pardner. Rodeo him well, folks."
Both men goggled at him, and Apollo tilted his face upwards to be inspected. He's not backing down – nuh-uh. It's all about the package and the selling. You act like a worm and people treat you like a worm – one year of life is enough to teach him all he needs to know of it, thank you very much.
Constans was the first to recover. "Well!" He announced. That seems to be the favourite word of the day or something. "Well, hello there! I heard from the Gentleman that we'll be having a new cowpoke, but I had no idea it would be that fast. Thought you know, it's someone he needs to extract from the hospital first."
Klavier gave him a long-suffering look. "Mouth, Constans."
"A-yup. Sowwy, big boy."
Lee shoved at his glasses violently. Apollo would have warned him that the glasses would go flying off his face if he shoves any harder.
"Well, that's quite a surprise. Good to meet you, good to meet you." He stuck out a hand to be shaken, and it is shook. There's a slight tinge in his voice – not an accent, but something along the lines of a 'too-perfect' sort of chime. You know how little kids sound when they're reciting their stories for their classes? Exactly like that – precise, with each tone clipped out like he needs to consult Merriam-Webster before speech is facilitated.
In the next hour, Apollo is shown his place in the office, being as he had mentioned, the plastic-wrapped desk in the corner. The plastic is peeled off, with a little help from Klavier's untrimmed nails (They couldn't locate the scissors) and the table is unveiled with a twang of those plastic smells. It's moved into a reasonably more centre part of the office (Apparently, there won't be space for his files if one side of it is cut into the wall, since they're going to need table extensions to cope with the stuff they had) and Apollo is welcomed into it by receiving a large stack of cases to work with.
"Your files," Lee announces solemnly, like Apollo had just been handed the black death.
Apollo put them into his cabinet (Almost one and a half foot wide, bitch) and couldn't resist stepping backwards to admire it a little. It's not the most awesome office in the world – there aren't any secretaries or assistants around unless they get really snowed under, since most of their work are 'discreet' and cannot be manhandled by secretaries with more breasts than brains. It's not the best colleagues in the world either – Lee was a little well, Type A, and Constans won't for the life of him shut up. But it's HIS office,
He's a partner in it, and as soon as they finish up the business cards they have (Which will take only a short while, because most of their clients can't remember their own serial number long enough to dial back home to momma) they'll get them reprinted with a new format, applying Apollo's name to it. It'll read Lee, Constans, and Justice, as soon as Constans gets over his fat head that someone who works as hard as him should get first place on the name thing. It's not the most wonderful place on Earth, with one side of the office talking non-stop and the other side permanently agitated about something, but hey – it's a nice change, a good sort of change.
The three-fold pay is kind of nice too.
Klavier did not look as impressed though, as he picked through Apollo's new stack of files. He spotted one that was thicker than normal, and labelled in an atrocious pink colour. "Well, well, what do we have here? Some hot pink, ja?"
He browsed through it, and Apollo peered over his shoulder at the file. It was for a murder case, scheduled next week or so for a trial. The defendant was some young gangster who had taken down some doctor, which Klavier must have known, because he whistled and commented, "Wow, Meraktis is dead? That's new news, though it ain't exactly fresh..."
That comment would have been strange coming from some random hippie on the street, but then this is Klavier, who doesn't seem to bat eyelashes when there are bats in his soup, even though he does look like a flower child. It reminded Apollo of something though.
'Say, you know that news this morning?"
Another one of those shadow flickered across Klavier's face. Apollo had made the comment as passing conversation, but seeing the shadow just made him curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. He peered up at the taller man, whose eyes were firmly aimed at the file.
"Were those guys like, part of your gang or something?"
"What? Nein, nein, those aren't our guys no," He said this with a slight sort of frown. From the opposite end of the office, Jacques chirped up from behind a box.
"Maybe, but these guys, they're like spider web, man. You ask one man who your best friend Ben's wife's doing, and they'll tell you, all facts straight – like Wiki, only better. Mafia wikia, so to roll. Oh hey! I made it rhyme!"
"Congrats you," Klavier laughed. "But yeah, I guess you could say I know of it. Not my brother's men though."
"Oh," Apollo chewed on his lower lip. "Whose gang was it then? They look kinda uh, you know, devastated."
Klavier sighed dramatically, and slammed the file shut. "You, Herr Forehead, is like Alice, you know? On one hand you keep telling me you don't want to be involved with us, on the other hand, you question me like a cop." He opened both hands wide. "So fine. Shoot away, Herr Alice."
"You don't have to be snappy," He retorted. "I was just curious, I mean – they were fascinating. N-No wait, that's not what I meant, uh I mean--"
"You were curious, after the whole incident, as to how the standard process is done, I understand, ja?"
Apollo's shirt collar suddenly grew massive tentacles to strangle him stupid. "I um, well, yes. I'm curious. Mind filling me in? - Without the gore, of course."
"Ja, ja, alright. I get it, Herr Lily Liver."
"Stop calling me names!" Apollo snapped irritably.
Klavier ignored him. "So you see, this process of mafiaso, it's not quite unlike when a man meets a woman, ja? When a man meets a woman, it is two things : Love or peace. It's either that they get together and make many love childs, or they walk by each other and peace out." He shrugged haplessly. "Now, on occasion, there will be instead, moments where not love, and not peace, but war, which breaks out..."
Apollo gnashed his teeth. "Hand me the pepper jar please, I need to spice up all these snark.'
"Of course." He concurred demurely. "Now, when war breaks out, people get hurt, ja? If I don't like your face right now, for example, Herr Forehead, and you are on the opposite camp, I will not hesitate to do you grievous and terrible injuries, ja?"
"You will?"
Klavier smirked. "Ah, but the forehead, it is so huge. I think I will stay my hand. It is too much a wonder to be injured so haphazardly."
If there is a heavy bottle in the room right now, Apollo won't hesitate to brain the man with it. Getting an answer out of him is like weeding through a haystack, finding a needle in a bush. There's just no getting a non-sparkly answer out of him, is there?
"Hmm." Klavier flicked through another one of Apollo's soon-to-be case files, before tossing them onto the other side of the table like they were wasted tissue. Flick and throw, flick and throw. Apollo was too busy racking his brains for questions to ask to be too bothered.
It wasn't like he wanted to make a B-Grade mafia show, it was just that he liked to know what he's getting to. That way, he can do research and prepare papers and reports if the need ever arises. He's just been thrown into a new aquarium now, and he wants to know every nook and cranny before embarking on some kind of topsy-turvy, tune-whistling journey down it.
"What about the rumoured drug shipment?" Apollo asked the other man. He remembered the TV saying something about there being rumours afoot, and anonymous tip-off of a shipment that had got pass the border of the city. Klavier looked up long enough from the files to give him a frown – not a censorious one, but a truly puzzled one.
"What drug shipment?"
"Uh, dunno, I just heard some sort of rumour about it on TV today."
"Herr Forehead, you are not a woman, ja? Do not gossip, or you'll never be like me."
"I don't want to be like you," Apollo shot back. He didn't seem to be hiding anything though, unlike the slight frown that he got when he mentioned the gang casualties earlier. But with every word being traded, it became all the more obvious that if there was a drug shipment, Klavier knew nothing about it.
If that's the case, isn't it strange? Shouldn't he be in the know, considering that his brother was Kristoph Gavinne himself? Or does Kristoph Gavinne trust not even his own brother?
"Don't worry that solid forehead over something like this," He announced jokingly. "There's no way a shipment of drugs is going to get pass the border of the city. Just look at the set up they have at the tolls, and you'll know – my brother is many things, but he is not God, ja? How would he move them in?"
Made sense. All shipments in the city go pass the state, no exception. All cargo? Checked. It's a source of great constraint on both the force and the merchants part, and every five days or some some man in a suit is going to stand up behind a podium and address flashing lights on it. You can of course, try to crawl pass it, but that's highly doubtful.
Apollo nodded. "Yeah, makes sense." He announced agreeably. Klavier agreed with an affable sort of smile too.
"So, Herr Forehead – does that satiate all your greatly curious curiosity about the tunes we sing?"
"If things like the fight on the pier is a normal occurrence, than no thanks – I rather not know. Like you said, I'm not part of that anyway."
"'Ja, true." He said.
They went back to the files, sifting through it lightly. Klavier pointed out a few that he might be working on – and they might meet in court. Apparently, that would be where they'll meet from here on out, since it wasn't like Klavier had some kind of obligation to babysit him. Apollo was a little relieved too – being around Klavier seems to have a bad effect on him. One helping of sunshine and lightness, and he starts thinking that maybe life isn't a long calculus homework.
This is bad. Optimism sets you up for a fall, not that he's going to tell the man that. To each his own.
They chatted around work, before Constans called out from the other side of the office irritably. "Hello! Are you done talking or can you get to work yet, man?"
Apollo flushed. Caught slacking, and on the first day of work too.
"Alright, alright," He called out in answer. He looked up at Klavier, the understandable message being that Klavier would get in the way. The man just smiled though, obviously beyond such petty insults as these. He nodded affably and moved out of the way, announcing farewell.
"Achtung, folks. Well, since we're all warm and comfy and settled, I think I'd better be going. My brother called for me earlier so I gotta go, ja?"
No one bothered answering.
"And hmm. Why is this place so stuffy anyway..." He walked towards the window, muttering all the way. "Good ventilation, that's what I always say—Mmm?"
He hooked two fingers into the window sides and pulled it up, before frowning down at the street outside like it was a great offensive tumour.
"What's wrong? Fell out of the window?" Apollo asked.
"Eh? Nein. I just thought...I saw a man there with a camera, is all – but he disappeared off the corner so fast I couldn't see properly."
"Huh," He grunted. "Probably your fans or something."
"Ja, probably." Klavier pushed himself off the window, and dusted his hands. Then he was off, sauntering towards the exit to leave the three busy mice to their relative peace.
"Well then, ciao-ciao, Apollo. I don't expect to see you soon, but keep in touch...And maybe my secretary will pick up, ja?"
He cackled all the way out, and Apollo rolled his eyes at the back of his head. Childish children are childish. He went back to work, but he was smiling as he did so – life does look good, doesn't it?"
In case you're wondering why Klavier isn't ridiculing Apollo anymore, it's this : He can't be expected to insult Apollo all day long. He's not that mean anyway, and he only did it earlier because he was worried about his brothers. Just to uh, you know, deflect questions.
