Title: High Society

Chapter 22: Someone to Watch Over Me

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

……………………………………………………..

It was all so unexpected; Charlie was left in a state of semi-shock.

He understood that Don was not happy with him. He had never made peace with Charlie losing his clearance the way he did, and earlier in the week he had admitted to still holding a grudge over their mother's death four years before. That admission had stunned Charlie, but not nearly as much as the words Don had thrown at him in the bullpen that afternoon: I wish you had never been born.

They had rolled off Don's tongue so naturally, so easily. The fight was supposed to be staged, but no-one could say a thing like that with such conviction if it weren't just a little true. Charlie had been caught completely off-guard, and left totally unprepared for the right hook that followed.

The nasal fracture hadn't hurt nearly as badly as the words.

Still, the pain had nearly blinded him and he had dropped like a stone in the bullpen, blood spurting all the hell over the place. Colby had taken him to the ER, where an over-eager plastic surgery resident had wanted to twist his swollen, misaligned schnoz back into place. The young woman had eventually been overruled by her attending, who reminded her that they could afford to wait a few days for the swelling to subside before attempting a closed reduction. In the end, the attending had given Charlie a tiny envelope containing three days' worth of Vicodin®, packed his nostrils with saline-moistened gauze, slapped him on the shoulder and told him to come back to the ER if the bleeding continued too long or became more severe; otherwise, he should just see his own physician in a few days.

As if Charlie needed his day to get any worse, Colby was summoned to a crime scene about the time they were finally leaving the hospital. He had brought the vehicle around to pick up Charlie at the ER entrance.

Charlie could see that the agent was talking on his cell, so he opened the passenger door to let himself in. He lowered himself carefully to the seat only to hear Colby's quiet growl. "Get out, Charlie."

Charlie turned surprised, raccoon eyes to his friend. "Huh?"

Colby swore, looking at Charlie. "I'm sorry, dude. That was David. I have to meet him at a warehouse over in East L.A. – the ATF is calling us in. They found a cache of weapons, two DBs." He looked away, guilt making him defensive even though Charlie had not said anything else. "You know we're short already, without Megan. Wright came down and suspended Don for hitting you, so it's just me and Dave. I gotta take this call, man. I can't leave him hangin' without back-up."

Charlie had put his hand on the door handle and nodded his head – an action he immediately regretted. "Ah unnerstan," he had assured his friend. "Uh'll call a cab."

Colby winced at the sound of Charlie's voice in combination with the shell-shocked look that hadn't left his face since his own brother had cold-cocked him. "I've got it dude; just wait on that bench over there. Anybody else you want me to call? Amita, maybe? Already talked to Millie, and she cancelled your last class today, and is making arrangements to cover tomorrow's; she said you should take the day…"

Charlie had shaken his head miserably and almost imperceptibly, climbing out of the sedan and shuffling over to the sidewalk bench outside the hospital ER. Colby had apologized again and driven away.

Now, standing in his bathroom after having just removed the packing from his nose, Charlie supposed he was lucky Colby had kept his word and called a cab for him. The taxi had shown up about twenty minutes later. Once delivered home, Charlie had swallowed two of the Vicodin® and fallen asleep in a sitting position on the couch, where he remained for two hours – just long enough to develop a serious kink in his neck. When he started awake, he had made his way up the stairs to the bathroom.

He regarded his reflection in the mirror. His nose was definitely too swollen for any misalignment to be apparent – but at least it had stopped bleeding. There was bruising all over the surface of his nose, extending up his face toward his eyes. He looked as if he had been crying purple paint. He looked, Charlie thought, as if he should be lying down.

He jerked a little, wincing, when the cell clipped to the waistband of his jeans sounded. His heart leapt before he could stop it. Had Don found a way to call, and check up on him? Had someone called Amita after all, and she was calling to see if he was all right?

Charlie grabbed frantically at the phone, suddenly needing to feel as if he was the object of someone's – anyone's – concern, as badly as he had ever needed anything. The caller I.D. showed only that it was a "restricted number", and Charlie almost didn't answer. It was a testament to his despondence when he finally decided that even a wrong number was better than being ignored.

"Hullo?"

A breath of what could only be called relief. "Charlie, thank God. It's J.T. How are you?"

Charlie answered automatically. "M'fine. Are you back?"

Morrison's tone became businesslike; almost clipped. "No, no, I'm calling from San Francisco. Charlie, you remember Jeanne? You've met her at my parties…. Anyway, the dear girl just phoned. Seems she slipped while modeling poolside, sprained her ankle. She was in the Cedars-Sinai ER this afternoon and swears that she saw you there."

Charlie was suddenly wide awake. He had been in some serious pain and shock while at the ER – but he certainly had no memory of seeing any other patient there who could have been a swimsuit model. He wished he could double-check with Colby; if there was a beautiful woman in the vicinity, Granger would surely have noticed. "Uh…" he stalled. Was there really a leak in Don's office? Had J.T. heard about the fight?

His friend pushed for details. "Were you really there, Charlie, or did the poor thing take too much pain medication?"

Charlie swallowed before going through with the plan. "Dond brok by node."

J.T. paused. "Don?" he finally asked. "Your brother?"

Charlie nodded, even though J.T. could not see him. "We 'ad a fighd."

Morrison clucked. "Charlie, that's absolutely incomprehensible. Your brother physically assaulted you?"

Charlie closed his eyes. "I tink 'e's been suspend...suspendendend…suspennn…" He sighed, frustrated.

"Suspended?" guessed J.T. "I should hope so. Charlie, who's with you now?"

As if you didn't know, thought Charlie bitterly. "Dohwund," he answered aloud, "Everywund is outta townd."

J.T. spoke brusquely. "Charlie, I want you to pack a bag. I'm sending Ramon to pick you up and take you back to the estate." Charlie started to protest, but Morrison just kept talking. "I have staff there who can attend to your needs over the next few days," he insisted. "My personal physician will come to examine you tomorrow. God only knows what those quacks at the hospital did – or didn't do. I wish I could come home early, Charlie, but I'm stuck here until after brunch Sunday."

Charlie tried to think it through. If J.T. was just learning about the staged fight for the first time, his generosity was again touching – and a weekend surrounded by staff was more appealing than a weekend alone and hurting in the Craftsman. On the other hand, a weekend at the estate should provide ample opportunity for Charlie to look around. Perhaps he could prove, once and for all, that J.T. knew more about Mr. X and Fantasy than he had implied.

"Yer too kind," he murmured, and J.T, smiled broadly in San Francisco.

"Not at all," he assured his future paramour. "Make yourself at home, and stay as long as you need. Mi casa es su casa."

Charlie regarded his raccoon eyes solemnly in the mirror. "Gracias."

…………………………………………………………………

Don was beside himself.

He had been unable to obtain much solid information. He could not appear too concerned in front of David or Colby; they would figure out something was up. Wright had called him once since the public suspension. He confirmed that Charlie's nose was broken, and that was about all.

Don was even avoiding Robin, so that it would appear to anyone who was looking that he was out of control. He had told her about the plan, of course; the rumors would no doubt fly as far as the D.A.'s office, and she needed to be ready to feign outrage and shock. Now, he cursed himself for not thinking of asking her to check on Charlie tonight, since his brother would be alone.

Of course, breaking his nose had not been part of the genius plan hatched by Agent Cooke.

If only Don could break Cooke's nose, instead.

If only he could take back what he said: I wish you had never been born.

If only he could rewind time, so that he never had to see that expression of hurt and betrayal in his brother's eyes.

If only he could risk a call to Charlie; make him believe that he didn't mean it. Any of it.

He gripped the cut-glass tumbler of Jack so hard he almost broke it with his bare hand, and stopped in his pacing of the living room long enough to kick at the couch. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he whispered. "Buddy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie zipped up his bag and straightened - a little too quickly, and the room whirled around him. The bout of dizziness passed quickly, but it reinforced his decision to take J.T. up on his offer. Maybe the dizziness was just from the Vicodin®, but no matter what was causing it, it probably wasn't a good idea to stay home alone, he told himself.

It was simply justification, and he knew it, but the truth was; he didn't want to be by himself. Alone, he had too much time to think about the dark concepts submerged just under the surface, too much time to reflect on the fact that the brother he'd idolized since he was small had never really wanted him around. He'd suspected as much when he was younger, but he'd been hoping, ever since they started working together, that things had changed – that they'd developed a real relationship. That had turned out to be a sham, apparently – a pipe dream that had crumbled under the stress of losing his clearance, and then his recent attempts to get it back. Initially, he'd been in such shock from the blow that the full impact of the words hadn't hit him emotionally, but now the realization was starting to make itself felt. It shook him more than he wanted to admit, and he was desperate for a diversion, and maybe a kindly word – something that made him feel he wasn't completely unlovable. He actually found himself missing J.T.

The ride in the limo was quiet and uneventful – Ramon was another person who didn't like him; Charlie was well aware of that, although he wasn't sure why. After an initial flicker of interest in the beautiful young man's dark eyes as he took in Charlie's bruised face, his normal expression whenever he was around Charlie returned – patent dislike, thinly veiled by feigned disinterest. Charlie didn't care; he put his head back on the headrest in the back seat, and allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by the Vicodin®.

Eventually, he found himself established in one of the estate's most luxurious guest bedrooms, and shortly afterward, at the pool, where he continued his nap in a comfortable lounge chair. There were a few others there – apparently, J.T. had other houseguests in his absence, but Charlie didn't recognize any of them; and after a brief glance, they ignored him. Charlie pulled the lounge chair around to face away from them; he couldn't breathe out of his nose, and didn't want to drool in front of the guests if he fell asleep. When he fell asleep, he corrected himself. He was certain that the Vicodin® wouldn't make staying awake an option. So it was that when Amita called, then Larry, he didn't answer. He was sound asleep in the California sun.

…………………………………………..

Markus squinted against the afternoon sun, and surveyed the complex. It was a private ranch, surrounded by guard dogs and electric fence, well away from the sprawling L.A. landscape. It was here that he housed what he and his partner Elaina called the 'cast,' although in truth, they were slaves; kidnapped when young and trained to be performers at Fantasy. The acrobatic show had been Elaina's idea – she had a cousin who had been a Russian gymnast and coach, and the group had started out small – a tiny band of acrobats, all of them illegal aliens from Russia, who performed for chic Hollywood parties. Along the way, they'd found that while the acrobatic performance won raves, the offers for sex afterward were more lucrative. Some of the performers were willing to expand their routine to the bedroom, but others weren't, and soon departed the group. Markus and Elaina were left with the sticky problem of finding enough performers for a growing business.

That was when Elaina's cousin Boris, who had already proven himself a valuable coach, made himself indispensable. He tapped into contacts in the Russian mob and the international slave trade. Markus used all the money he had at the time to buy a group of slaves and the compound to house them, plus a handful of abandoned warehouses, and a small shipping company – for its fleet of six semis. It had paid off handsomely, resulting in the birth of Fantasy, and Markus and Elaina were now very rich people, even in a land of the ultra-wealthy. Elaina ran the back rooms at Fantasy; she was good at it. She had a dark, kinky streak of her own and taken that part of the business into realms that Markus would never have dreamt of, himself.

Markus ran the logistics of it all, with a staff primarily made up of Russian mafia that doubled as bouncers on performance nights; and prison wardens during the week at the complex. Here, the cast was housed and fed. The acrobats rehearsed their gymnastics routines once daily, and were rewarded with heroin afterwards. A regimen of brainwashing and drugs kept them compliant, and clueless. Not all of them were gymnasts; some had been chosen for their looks, and were used exclusively in the back rooms. Most of them couldn't even remember a life outside Fantasy, and the ones who did were afraid to admit it, and even more afraid to try to escape.

It was a risky venture, but by being careful, Markus had been able to keep it, if not secret, at least away from the law. The patrons who frequented the events had no wish to make their participation public, and careful background checks vetted the riskier prospective clients, weeding out those who were potential threats. As Markus stood there watching a fourteen-year old boy perfect an aerial, his mind drifted to one of those clients – Charles Eppes.

He had to admit, on the surface; Charlie Eppes seemed to be who J.T. Morrison said he was – a young man with a reputation to uphold, yet on the wrong side of the law, a man apparently at odds with those closest to him. In short, a perfect candidate for J.T. to isolate, to subject to his sordid schemes. Agent Timmons had reported to Markus on the fight between the Eppes brothers at the office, and Markus had to admit, they didn't seem be working together – hell, they probably weren't even speaking after that row. As a result, he had promised J.T. that the next time he attended Fantasy; he would grant Charlie the coveted gold pass. Still, there was something about this that he didn't quite like. He had warned J.T. that he was playing with fire, and that if Markus caught a whiff of anything suspicious, J.T.'s precious young man would be a dead young man.

His eyes narrowed as the boy ran across the mat and flung himself into the air in an aerial, his head skimming so close to the mat that his short hair brushed it. He landed on his feet, grinning, not realizing how close he had come to breaking his neck. The performers would do anything for a little extra hit, Markus thought, despising them for their weakness. He grunted with derision, and turned for the house.

……………………………………........................

End Chapter 22