(Allow me to apologise for previous chapter's miserable formatting, I must edit before saving next time).
For those of you who have stuck around this long to wonder, you can check out the influences for this tale on my profile.
Once again, just in case, I don't own, and since I don't actually have a job right now, please don't sue. The only currency involved in this case is a fiendish pleasure in what if...?
Gene turned the calling card over in his hand. On one side, it had a picture of a rather sinister looking angel, with a name "Dark Angel", on the other side was an address. The address he was standing outside right now. He felt tense. He couldn't explain that, just a feeling deep down in his copper's gut which said that this was somehow very significant to him personally. He looked down at the card again, no mistake, the sign above the blacked out double doors said "Dark Angel", with the same sinister character by the side of the doorway. The carpet which went to the edge of the pavement was black, the whole place gives me the creeps. He looked at the card, and shoved it in his pocket, strode across the road, reached out for the door handle, which gave beneath his hand, and the door creaked open.
He could now hear the sound of music, someone's home, he entered the cool gloom of the club. He descended the stairs in the direction of the music, and a dim red light.
The room was large, with a small stage at one side and an enormous bar on the other side. Two barmen were cleaning and sorting, a small weaselly man was sitting on a bar stool nursing something short with ice and slice, watching a woman on the stage.
She was dancing, if you could call it dancing, it had rhythm and attitude and she held Gene's attention in a way which he couldn't explain. She wasn't spectacularly beautiful, she wasn't a brilliant dancer, but she had a something that lit up the stage. She was very tall, obviously amazingly fit, her muscles long and lean and clearly defined, long shaggy hair some indeterminate colour between blonde and brown, hung in a slowly unraveling plait down her back. The dance came to an end, and she held the pose for a few seconds. For a second his world weary blue eyes locked with her more guarded look.
"Miss?"
"CJ." her voice was firm, decisive, quite deep, the merest hint of an accent at once familiar and foreign to him. "You must be Don Bradley's security guy come to check out our arrangements." she spoke as she fished in a sports bag for a towel. "Weasel!"
The small weaselly man left his stool and his drink. "Show Mr...?" she waited for the cue. "Hunt." He supplied, "Gene Hunt."
"Show Mr Hunt our arrangements." She flicked the small man a hint of a smile, the kind of smile which could instantly light up any room. The recipient of the smile blushed, and smiled back. Unfortunately, his smile had the instant effect of making him look more shifty than ever. "Sure CJ. If you'd like to come with me, Mr Hunt." Gene nodded, and followed, wishing that he was being shown around by the woman.
She was young, no more than about 25, she was tall, at least his height, and very fit; somehow he doubted that dance was what kept her that way. There was a recklessness in her smile, a careering giddiness that made him want to know more. He'd already clocked the angel tattoo on her upper arm, and since it was a dead spit for the angel on the card, and out front on the doorway, he was guessing that either the girl belonged to the club, or the club belonged to the girl. Don Bradley, he mused to himself, the name that was on the documents that he'd found in the car that morning.
The car isn't going to last long. His first flush of pleasure at the sight of the large red BMW which went with the key he'd found in his pocket, was quickly eliminated in the actual driving. The calm, authoritative yet conciliatory voice which invited him to put his seatbelt on was really, really annoying, it was Bolly but without the ghost of a chance of comeback! He'd just got used to all the bings, and bongs, and this soft irritating voice, when he'd driven past a sign which he hadn't been prepared for. Something about congestion charging. He'd matched the road sign to a sign stuck in a shop window, and come out five minutes later eight pounds the poorer. Eight bleeding quid. He thanked his lucky stars that somehow his wallet, which hitherto had contained little more than an emergency fiver, and a little something for other known emergencies, was now reasonably well stocked with cash, something he suspected that in this new alien world he would be requiring rather a lot of. A quick delve in the glove compartment had yielded a sheaf of documents, some of which related to the car, and others, to his supposed new job with Bradley Music Industries.
He was interrupted in this little reverie by the weaselly little man saying something to him. "Err, yes...I'm sure that'll be fine." Gene was slightly hazy about what he'd just agreed to but relieved it didn't elicit any subsidiary questions. What he'd established, through paying the minimum amount of attention to what the little man was saying to him, was that the club was indeed owned by the girl, he "Weasel" was the manager, and that he, Gene, was here to check over security arrangements for Don Bradley's latest new signing "Talos" to be playing here live tonight. And that the "Don" as he was known, would be on hand to sign up a new deal with CJ for club nights showcasing his new young artists. Both being young busy people, CJ and Don had not yet met face to face, but that Don's new security director (Gene himself) would be overseeing the link between Bradley Music Industries and Dark Angel, one of the hottest clubs on the circuit.
Gene decided that since Mr Weasel was so forthcoming, without being too suspicious, that he would be a useful source of information on CJ. He was not disappointed. Weasel was easily primed. As it happened, Weasel and CJ had met in a bar. He'd had lots of money, as a burnt out city trader, she'd had lots of vision, but no money, and no real idea about how to go about making real use of that vision. He'd bought the club, bowed to her superior instincts on what was and was not happening on the club scene and they were busy going from strength to strength. She was fiery, passionate, not married or (as far as Weasel knew) even dating, she had been matron of honour at his civil ceremony with his partner Tim, and was the best friend a gay guy could have. She fronted the club with lots of style and panache, brought in the young edgy happening crowd, some of them flying on the very extreme edge and spent her spare time stunting with a film group that hung out at the club. Setting up his third round of drinks, Gene was getting the low down on things he'd never dreamed of blokes marrying blokes he was struggling with that one, and the precise nature of what CJ and her friends were flying on the very edge of, he was equally uncertain.
The club was drug free. Weasel was adamant about that one. All security were very, very well paid, well taken care of, with good pension plans (final salary linked) as if I know what that is and completely loyal to the girl who took care of her own. They were all very happy and this was a wonderful place to work. And I'm the King of Siam.
He'd seen it in her eyes, those lost, bruised, guarded blue eyes that reminded him of something. He'd seen it in her smile, that dangerous, out of control look, something was up, the perfect life couldn't be more bollocks if it was wrapped in a soft sac dangling between the back legs of a large bovine. Her passion and something else shone out of her eyes, and that something else he'd seen somewhere before. Bolly. Now she was always there, at the back of his mind, but he was hung up on the chase right now. He was following his nose, his gold plated copper's instinct which said that he was on to something Why was he here? Well perhaps if he hung around for long enough he just might find out.
She was coming towards him right now. CJ. He wondered if that stood for her first and last names, or was something else. Catherine, Caroline or Clare?
"Well. Mr Hunt, if you want to come back with me now while I change, we can sort the final details." Once again, her eyes challenged him in a way that was familiar yet completely foreign.
"Your car, or mine." Gene wasn't certain exactly why he'd said that, the last thing he ever looked forward to was being driven anywhere by a bird, any bird, even one that looked as capable and hot as CJ.
"Oh mine, I think, don't you." Once again he couldn't fathom the challenge in her voice, or eyes, or for that matter why he seemed to be going somewhere with a bird he didn't know to a place he wasn't sure of, when so much else seemed unresolved. He just knew that here was a mystery that he had to follow to its conclusion. Only by tracing the thread back would he find a way out this entanglement for himself and Bolly.
He followed her out a back door into a darkened garage. He knew, even before she flicked on the light switch that here was a vehicle which spoke more directly to his soul.
It was a monster, a bright emerald green metallic monster, so bright it almost hurt his eyes to look at it. The body was lowered, and had some sort of kit on, he walked around, drinking in the high fin spoiler, it looked like something from the rally world. The huge alloy wheels and tyres like rubber bands were something he wasn't used to, but knew with a driver's instinct that in the right hands this baby would fly. He tried to find some clue to its origins, but all the badges had been removed. He paused expectantly by the driver's door.
"No one drives the Orion but me." she growled.
With slightly bad grace he gave way, walking round to the other side and opening the passenger door. The race seat sucked him in.
"Seatbelt." she inclined her head, eying him with another unfathomable look. "Cops round here are real bastards, and I don't want points on my licence."
He was about to tell her that it would be alright, because he was with her, then realised that he didn't have a clue, he had no idea how he fitted into the police world anymore. The thought was disturbing, like losing Bolly...
That thought made him run cold all over, and a slight heat from the hole in his arm, the ruined shirt covered by the sleeve of his jacket. He pressed his hand to the injury, feeling the throb, and the link with Bolly and how he had ended up here.
The muted roar of a powerful and well tuned engine dragged his thoughts back to where he was. Answers. He needed them, and if this girl was the first clue to the answers, he could join the dots up and get back to Bolly.
CJ swung the car out of the garage, and they were on their way.