Title: High Society

Chapter 14: The Invitation

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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The call ruined a perfectly good Monday night football game. Jack Timmons had kicked back with a six-pack at his apartment, ordered a pizza, and was enjoying one hell of a game between the Chargers and the Ravens when his cell phone vibrated. He scowled in annoyance and picked the phone up, his heart lurching when he saw the display bring up simply "X." The man known to most as "Mr. X," was not a person to cross, and Jack, unfortunately, had done just that, many years ago, getting in over his head on some gambling debts, and finding himself in the unenviable position of owing money to a man who had a reputation of not suffering failure to pay. He spent two weeks in fear for his life, but then Mr. X had approached him with an offer – he would dismiss the debt if Jack would work for him when the situation warranted. Obviously, Jack's position as an FBI agent was more valuable to the man than the money itself.

It seemed like a great deal at the time, but in retrospect, Jack found that he had in essence signed his soul to the devil. Over the past five years, Mr. X had called on him only occasionally, usually to have him muddy up an investigation that was getting a little too close for comfort. Each time, however, was unbearable. Jack sweated out every assignment, mortally afraid that someone at the Bureau would figure out what he was doing, that he was involved in a cover-up. Each time, Jack hoped that Mr. X would consider the debt paid, and that he wouldn't get another call. No such luck. The devil was back.

He swallowed the lump of pizza that had suddenly stuck in his throat, hit the mute button for the television, and answered. "Timmons."

"Jack, how are you?" The deep voice on the other end resonated with friendliness, but Jack knew better than to think it was genuine.

"Okay. What can I do for you?" He tried hard to sound casual, and lifted his beer to his lips.

"This is a relatively easy one," X replied. "I want you to check out a man named Charles Eppes."

The swallow of beer stalled midway through his throat, and Jack sputtered and coughed. Charles Eppes? As in the brother of his SAC, Don Eppes? "Yeah?" he managed to croak. "What for?"

Markus continued smoothly, ignoring the gurgles on the other end. "I'm simply trying to determine his suitability as a guest to one of my parties. Word is; he worked for his brother Don Eppes, who is your boss, as I recall. The information I have is that Charlie lost his security clearance a while back, and no longer consults. I want to verify that."

Jack was starting to breathe a little easier now. This might be an easy one. "It's true. He's not allowed to work cases anymore."

"What about his relationship with his brother? Are they close? How much do they communicate?"

Jack scratched his head. "I don't really know. It's hard to tell about after hours, but I haven't seen Charlie at the office in weeks."

There was a brief pause, and then X said, "All right, here's what I want you to do. First, keep an ear open for any talk at the office about Charlie. Number two; keep an eye out for him. If he shows up there, I want to know about it, and I want you to find out what he's there for. I'll put someone else on to keep tabs on him after hours, but the office is your responsibility. I repeat, if he shows, I want to know, and I want to know why - immediately."

"You got it," Jack said heartily, feeling relieved. As jobs went, this one would be relatively easy.

As he hung up the phone, he took a reflective sip of his beer. Even though he'd never been to it, he was well aware of Fantasy, X's roving party. More than once he'd steered investigators away from leads that might possibly have led them to one of Fantasy's multiple locations, when they were getting close. He'd never have pegged Charlie Eppes for being the type to attend that party, or any party for that matter, but the old adage was probably true; you had to watch the quiet ones. After all, the professor had put himself on the wrong side of the law, and had gotten his clearance revoked. Still, he had a hard time reconciling the images – the youthful, eager face that came to mind when he thought of Charlie just didn't jive with the rumors he heard of Fantasy – the designer drugs, the glitzy band of 'entertainers,' that catered to every whim of X's wealthy guests. Apparently, the professor wasn't as innocent as he appeared. He shook his head, and took another swig of beer, as he punched up the sound on the game. Charlie Eppes. Huh.

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Tuesday evening, Charlie hit the remote button for the TV, balancing the laptop on his lap, and sighed. His father was doing laundry in preparation for his trip to San Diego on Thursday, and Amita was working late at the FBI offices, with Don. Prior to losing his clearance, Charlie rarely watched television unless Don was around, and even when he did, more often that not, he was doing something else at the same time – his mind was too active to simply sit there and wait for the images and sounds from the tube to hit it. He had to multitask, or risk going out of his mind with boredom. Especially tonight, when he was facing the prospect of television alone, without Don or even his father for conversation, he felt the need to divert his attention. So as he surfed channels with the remote with one hand, he booted up his laptop with the other. Maybe he could get a lesson plan done while he watched – what? Nothing in the channel guide looked even remotely interesting.

Oh, there was other work he could be doing; research work out in the garage, but he just didn't have the drive for it tonight. At least that was what he told himself. He didn't want to admit to himself that he was, in reality, verging on something akin to depression. The loss of his clearance, the widening gap in his relationship with Don, the drunken binge – even his fight with Amita, although it had thankfully been resolved, had all battered his self-confidence, his very sense of self. Research work took focus, energy, concentration, and at the moment, he had none of those.

He felt his cell phone ring, and he fumbled in his pocket with an eagerness that he secretly found pathetic. Maybe it was Don or Amita – maybe they had hit an impasse. If Amita phrased the problem in terms that were general enough, he could give them some guidance, without really knowing what the case concerned. He paused as he managed to get the phone in front of him, and saw the number. It wasn't Don, or Amita – it was J.T. For a moment, he had the inclination not to answer it – he would never admit it to Don, but after the last party at Morrison's estate and his demoralizing episode of inebriation, he was secretly beginning to think his brother was right – J.T.'s crowd was far too fast for him. Still, the man himself seemed all right, and he had been very kind, and the last outing had been a relatively mundane baseball game, and face it, he was desperately bored…He hit answer, and pretended he hadn't seen the caller. "Charlie Eppes."

On the other end, J.T. Morrison's gut clenched. He was in deep, he knew – he felt a flash of arousal at the mere sound of the young man's voice. He'd been in withdrawal since Sunday, pining for the sight of him, for the sound of him. His smooth voice, however, betrayed none of that. "Charlie – how are you? It's J.T."

"Good, J.T. How are you?"

"Great," J.T. responded. "I was calling to extend an invitation to you. A small group of us is going to drive up the coast tomorrow evening for dinner, and a lovely little outdoor symphony. It will be a relatively early evening – I know you have to teach in the morning." He stopped, letting the invitation dangle invitingly. His real intent was to lure the young man to Fantasy on Saturday, but he knew he couldn't wait that long to see him. He also was well aware that he needed to avoid appearing too loose – he could tell instinctively that Charlie was somewhat uncomfortable with the party scene. The baseball game, a sedate dinner, and a symphony with friends – both outings were intended to convey respectability, to set the young man at ease. J.T. was well aware that he was much more persuasive in person – if he could offer the Fantasy invitation face-to-face, he would have a much better chance of getting Charlie to go.

Charlie hesitated. He had told himself that he was swearing off J.T.'s parties, at least for a while, but this wasn't a party. This was an evening out with a small group of people who were obviously more interested in culture than carousing. What could be more innocuous than dinner and the symphony? The fact was; he was so mired in ennui that he was developing a lesson plan that he didn't even need – for a class he wasn't even teaching that term, in front of the television, no less. "Yes, count me in," he said. "That sounds great."

"Marvelous," J.T. enthused. "I'll pick you up at five – dinner's at six-thirty, and we'll have a little over an hour drive to get there. The symphony starts at seven-thirty – you should be home by eleven-thirty."

"Let me know how much I owe you for the ticket."

J.T. laughed. "Oh, my dear boy, nothing at all. I rarely pay for these events myself – being a Hollywood producer does have its perks, you know. I'll see you tomorrow."

Charlie let out a breath, and snapped the phone shut. Suddenly, he didn't feel quite so sorry for himself, the week ahead seemed a little less depressing. So what if his brother and his fiancée were spending their free time immersed in a case without him? So what if his father was leaving Thursday; and he'd be alone in the house? He had things to do, too, dinners to attend, symphonies to see, intelligent, cultured people with which to converse. People who were interested in him, who valued him as a person. He flipped the television off, clicked his laptop shut, and rose, heading for the garage. Suddenly, he had found enough energy to tackle something a little more challenging. His global warming studies perhaps; or some Cognitive Emergence…

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Amita stopped in Charlie's office late Wednesday afternoon, just as he was packing up, and poked her head in the doorway. "Leaving early today?"

Charlie glanced up and took in her smile, but didn't miss the raised eyebrow, the look of concern in her eye. She had mentioned at lunch that she was working with Don at the FBI offices that night again, and he'd seen the same expression of apprehension on her face then. For some reason, it both warmed and irritated him – he knew she was concerned about him, and had been since he'd lost his clearance, but he didn't want anyone's pity. He didn't need anyone's pity – and it wasn't as if he were going home to an evening alone.

"I need to be home and get changed by five," he said. "I'm going to dinner and the symphony."

Her eyes widened. "Really. You didn't say anything earlier."

Charlie shrugged. Truthfully, he was reluctant to bring up the topic; he knew Amita didn't approve of Morrison. After his lecture on being honest the other day, though, he knew he needed to tell her. "You told me you were working with Don again after school – I didn't think you'd mind. I'm going out to dinner and the symphony tonight – with Morrison and a group of people."

He saw the expression of distaste on her face, but all she said was, "The symphony – really? Since when were you into that?"

He grinned, disarmingly, trying to charm her. "You're always telling me a little culture won't kill me, right?" He sobered a little and shrugged apologetically. "Look, I know how you feel about him, but it's just dinner and a symphony."

Her mouth twisted. "And all you can drink in the limo, I imagine."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, her expression changed to one of chagrin, and Charlie suspected she regretted the words. By then, though, it was too late, because he'd retorted sharply, "Contrary to popular opinion, I do have some willpower. You don't have to worry; I fully intend to control my alcohol intake."

She sighed, trying to look contrite, but a bit of exasperation still clung to her words. "I just don't see why you have to hang around with that crowd."

Charlie picked up his briefcase and moved to the door, jingling his keys, and she stepped back, allowing him to close his door and lock it. He gave her a quick kiss, but his smile was tight, and she knew he was still angry. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I'll be home and in bed by 11:30, which is probably better than you'll manage tonight."

She smiled tentatively back at him, trying to tender a belated peace offering, but it was left floating in the air between them, as he turned and strode off down the hall.

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Charlie's mind drifted back to the conversation two hours later as the Hummer limousine sped up the coastline, and he frowned. Morrison had left his usual limo at home, opting for the Hummer to seat the group of ten, so they could all ride in one vehicle. J.T. kept apologizing for the 'squeeze;' no one was uncomfortable, but all the seats were occupied and everyone was sitting side-by-side. Charlie had found himself next to Morrison, and facing a leggy beauty in a miniskirt named Mirah, who apparently considered undergarments optional – not exactly what Charlie would have thought of as appropriate attire for the symphony, but then, it had been years since he'd been to one. Maybe the dress code had relaxed in the interim. He had spent the ride with his eyes firmly planted on the faces of the guests, or wandering out the window – anything to keep from looking down at Mirah's legs. As his gaze found the coastline and the view out a side window, he found his mind wandering to Amita, and her earlier comments. Even though, deep down, he agreed that he didn't belong with the party-happy crowd, her censure irritated him. She was starting to sound just like Don, he thought to himself grumpily, and just like Don, made him want to do precisely the opposite.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

Charlie blinked and turned to look at J.T., who was studying him with an air of dismay. "What? Oh, no, I'm sorry – my mind was on something else. This is great," Charlie assured him. He shook himself mentally – why was he stewing over what Amita and his brother thought? He should be enjoying himself.

J.T. reached across to one of his guests seated near the limo bar, and took a glass of wine that the man had just poured; then handed it to Charlie. "I know you said you didn't want any, but one won't hurt you," he said. "You look much too tense. Relax, you'll enjoy the evening more."

Charlie hesitated; then aware of the eyes on him, took the glass with a shrug. He didn't want to embarrass his host – and one wouldn't hurt.

One glass turned into two at dinner – a person could hardly appreciate the seven-course meal while overlooking the stunning view of the Pacific without a glass of wine, but Charlie held it at two through the rest of dinner, even though the rest of the group went through several bottles. After the meal, the group gathered on a viewing deck at the restaurant to watch the sunset, and Charlie mentally congratulated himself for fending off the numerous offers for refills, while still managing to appear sociable. See, he could manage himself in this atmosphere, he told an imaginary Don and Amita, with a sense of vindication.

J.T. drifted up next to him, and murmured, "I have a surprise, but I didn't want to mention it front of the other guests – some of them are included, but not all of them. I managed to get some tickets to an exclusive show Saturday night – it features live Vegas-style entertainment. It's private, and by invitation only, and those invitations are extremely hard to come by. There was one extra ticket, and I picked up it up for you – I was hoping you'd consider attending."

Charlie glanced at him uncertainly, his vow to stay away from J.T.'s parties warring uncomfortably with his current, slightly rebellious state of mind. Of course, he wasn't even sure that J.T.'s event would classify as a party – it sounded like a show. Still, it was a Saturday night, and he could already imagine the look of disapproval on Amita's face when she heard he'd be out with Morrison's crowd on a weekend. 'She doesn't have to know,' he told himself. 'She's leaving this weekend to go work on Higg's boson with Dane and Larry. She can hardly expect me to sit home by myself, twiddling my thumbs. Plus, J.T. already bought the ticket.' In the end, it was J.T.'s expression that swayed him – the man looked at him so hopefully that Charlie didn't have the heart to say no. After everything J.T. had done, it would be rude, and Charlie had to admit, it felt nice to be included.

"Yeah, sure," he said easily. "Amita will be out of town – I'm free this weekend."

A huge smile broke over J.T.'s face, and he clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Fantastic!" he exclaimed. "You won't be disappointed – it's quite a show, tremendous, really. If you'll excuse me, I need to call for the limo; we'll be late for the symphony if we don't get moving."

He moved off smoothly and Charlie watched him go, marveling at the way the man held his liquor – J.T.'s stride was smooth and steady. Of course, the man was taller than Charlie was, and quite muscular; he probably outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. He turned back for one last glimpse of the sunset, and Mirah, the woman in the miniskirt, moved up to the railing beside him. "I couldn't help but overhear," she purred with a smile, keeping her voice low. "You're going with us to Fantasy on Saturday, then?"

Charlie raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Is that what it's called?'

"Yes," she said, looking a little alarmed at his louder tone, and quickly glanced around her. "You need to keep it quiet," she said. "Not everyone's invited." She eyed him knowingly, and her sly smile returned. "It's amazing – acrobatics, vocal acts, anything you can imagine - you're going to love it. It's extremely hard to get in – J.T. apparently went to bat for you. He must really think a lot of you."

Charlie flushed a little, and smiled modestly. "He's been very kind. I can't imagine why."

Her eyes drifted over him, and her knowing look deepened. "Oh, I can," she murmured, and sashayed away, a weaving a little on her four inch heels, as her escort came up and offered her an arm. Charlie was forced to walk behind them, wondering at her last comment, and the pair of magnificent legs and the barely decent skirt floated in front of him. All the way back to the limo, he kept his eyes firmly three inches above her head.

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The symphony was surprisingly enjoyable, and Charlie got back to the Craftsman at 11:25, just as J.T. had promised. The silence in the house indicated that Alan was in bed, but Charlie wasn't tired yet. The wine had worn off long ago, and he decided to call Amita, just to prove that he was home, and sober. She answered on the second ring. "Hi – Charlie?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm home – where are you?"

"Still at the FBI offices," she sighed. "I think it's going to be a late one." There was a pause; then she asked, in a contrite tone, "How was the symphony?"

"Very nice," he replied. "Eine Kleine Nacht Musik," Pachelbel's Canon in D major – and dinner was tremendous – Cici's, overlooking the ocean. You and I will have to go there sometime."

She sighed. "It sounds wonderful. I'm sorry I was picking at you this afternoon - I just worry about that crowd. I'm glad you got home okay."

Charlie had been intending to rub it in a bit, but her apology made his smugness vanish, leaving a warm feeling in its place. "It's nice that you worry," he said gently, "but you don't have to. Trust me; I learned my lesson. Don't work too late, okay?"

They exchanged 'good-nights,' and Charlie hung up the phone with a sigh of mingled relief and satisfaction. He'd been wondering whether to tell her about his invitation for Saturday; and tonight made that decision much easier; she'd have a hard time begrudging him an opportunity to go to a show, especially when she wasn't going to be in town herself. What was that Mirah had called it? Fantasy?

He glanced at the clock. It was late, but curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he decided to boot up his laptop for a quick search. The search engine turned up a myriad of entries for 'Fantasy,' many of them obviously not for family viewing, and he refined his search to L.A., then tried some different variations, using the words 'show,' 'party,' 'exclusive,' and finally 'acrobatics.' For all of them, the same subset of entries kept popping up; they looked like sensational gossip columns and tags for urban legends, but when he could find nothing else, he started to open them. "Exclusive L.A. party for Hollywood jet-setters," said one. "Top secret soiree," proclaimed another.

All of them speculated that the party offered more than just performing artists; that everything from drugs to gambling to sex was offered at the events, which changed locations weekly, from one secret spot to another. At first, Charlie rolled his eyes at the articles, thinking to himself that even if they were describing the same party, the writers were running amok with the rumors, just to get hits on their pieces. The more he read, however, the more uncomfortable he felt. Some of the darker rumors mentioned designer drugs and sex slaves, and by the time Charlie was done, he had a gnawing sense of apprehension that followed him into bed, and prevented sleep.

After tossing and turning for three hours, he finally made a decision – as much as he hated to, he would bring this to Don in the morning. Don should be able to tell him whether the stories were legitimate or not – whether or not Fantasy really was something illegal. With that decided, he finally dropped off into a restless slumber.

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End Chapter 14