Hey, it's a new chapter! Liz upsets a few plans and is conniving.
Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.
- o – o -
Chapter eight: Clocktower Parade
Eight-year-old Elizabeth Raoul was in a bit of a quandary. On the one hand, she had knowledge of tonight's events, exactly as they would play out. On the other, she had foreknowledge of tonight's events and could prevent them from happening. (Simply letting fate take its course was not an option at this point, however.) She had no desire to sit up in the family sitting room all night, keeping an eye on her father to make sure he didn't die from alcohol poisoning. Her father wasn't an alcoholic by any means, but he still kept a supply of vodka on hand just in case (although it was mostly used to sterilize cuts of any serious nature).
Therein lay the problem. She loved her father, but even up to his death, he'd always been a bit of an idiot—he just didn't know how to deal with people who weren't as violent or bullheaded as he was. (Scales' mentality was along the lines of "knock 'em down until t'ey stay down".) There was no other option: She would have to accompany her father to the Monte Carlo train this evening.
The only question was, how was she going to get there?
There were the usual options, of course. She could simply beg to be taken along (it helped that she'd had a love of model trains as a child) until he gave in, or simply ask to be taken along and explain that business deals were easier to come by if there was guilt involved. The former was more likely to work, sad as that seemed.
Liz sighed and flopped down on the black leather sofa, wondering why she'd begged to be allowed to go with her father to the docks. It wasn't as much fun if she wasn't allowed to play cards with her father's inner circle or look at the records. (Alright, the records weren't much fun, but they were still better than being bored out of her skull.)
She cracked one eye open, sensing that someone was standing over her. It was Noodle. He was rubbing his throat with a grimace; Liz gave a mental sigh. Her best friend's darling father must have made an appearance already. Wonderful. Wait… She could turn this to her advantage. Somehow.
"Hullo Noodle," Liz said cheerfully, sitting up and scooting to the opposite side of the sofa so her friend could sit down. "'as me old man done sommat?"
Noodle shook his head. "Uh-uh. Say, how do you feel about trains…?"
Liz had to fight to restrain her grin. This was almost too perfect to pass up.
- o – o -
She should have passed the opportunity up. She really should have. Liz wondered how long she'd be able to last before kicking one of the reporters in the shins, or something equally violent. The same went for Fleming, who was getting on her nerves like no one else. The eight-year-old had only ever heard stories of how her father had convinced Fleming to let him onto the Monte Carlo, but this…
The eight-year-old sighed in boredom and leaned against her father's side, wondering if the boredom was showing. Her father patted her on the back, not really concentrating on the act too much. He was still in deep conversation with Fleming.
A few minutes later, the billionaire industrialist seemed to have given in and stopped trying to argue with Scales. Liz held tightly to her father's hand with both of hers, trying to ignore the reporters. The few she could hear clearly thought the action was adorably sweet. If they'd known she was trying her best not to attack them, they probably wouldn't have been debating the best angle for photos.
The photo opportunity in the door of the train was too much for Liz. She buried her face in her father's side and counted to ten, trying to reign in the famous family temper. (She'd gotten another story about her mother this morning. Apparently, Lydia Jackson had once hit Scales with a rolling pin for trying to steal a snack before dinner.)
Liz looked around the train as she followed her father and Mr. Fleming through the press of people to the other end of the car. The interior of this particular car was like the Palace on Wheels in India…
Correction: It looked like the interior of the Palace if someone had removed every ounce of class from it, and then tarted it up. She'd had pictures of the Palace on Wheels plastered on her walls for years, somewhere among the pink and lace. (Her reasoning had been that a princess needed a palace, and a moving palace was much cooler than one that had to stay in one place.) The interior was done up in shades of blue and silver, and there was chrome everywhere. Only the bar was black, but that was covered in chrome fixtures, so it didn't really count.
"Mr. Mayor," Fleming said, breaking through Liz's mental critique of the train. "Judge Preston! Hello." The billionaire kissed the back of the judge's hand, drawing a delighted smile from her. Liz couldn't resist the urge to sneer at Preston from behind her father's back.
"Lovely robes, your majesty," Scales commented. Liz bit the inside of her cheek to keep from offering a retort when the judge insulted her father's looks. She'd paid the woman back in kind, several years after the fact (would? Will? Whatever). It never paid to insult a smuggler with a bad temper and an itchy trigger finger, as Preston had learned.
"And a miniature of yourself to boot," Preston added, catching sight of Liz. Liz could sense Noodle shifting uneasily behind her, and wondered if he was wishing he'd brought a bigger gun. "Hello sweetie," Preston said, leaning down so she was closer to eye-level with Liz.
Elizabeth drew back, nose wrinkling in disgust. Just how many cocktails had this woman had? But Fleming was interrupting her train of thought (again) by introducing Scales to Mayor Welkins.
"Mayor, this is Dominic Raoul. He works with the longshoremen, as you may know—" (Who in the city didn't know?), "But he also sells cement. I'll let you tell him all about it." Liz waited for Fleming to leave before bursting in with an indignant—and not altogether rehearsed—retort.
"He does not!" she burst out. She froze almost immediately as the conversation in their little bubble of space ground to a halt, the very picture of an embarrassed child. "Me dad…he don't sell cement…"
"Doesn't," Scales corrected her gently. "Doesn't sell cement." He ruffled her hair affectionately when she rolled her eyes. "Of course, me girl is right," the smuggler continued. "I do 'ave a shipping business, all legitimate-like. Can get y' anything y' like from…anywhere y' 'ave a mind to get it from. Cheap metals, construction materials… Whatever y' like."
Liz leaned against her father's side, mentally praying he didn't mention the tax-free angle like he had in the original timeline. As near as she could tell, that had been where the entire evening had started to go downhill. (It had also contributed to her father passing out in the living room.)
"And I suppose this is 'tax-free'?" Mayor Welkins commented dryly, taking a sip of his drink. Scales' grip on Liz's shoulder tightened a fraction. He was annoyed by it. Liz squirmed uncomfortably in her father's grasp after a few moments, and rubbed her shoulder when he finally let go.
"That would be illegal," Scales replied. "I may 'ave a reputation as a thug, bu' I still got to protect me own people, Mr. Mayor." His tone brokered no dissent. "But i' y' like, I could probably find someone wot would donate the materials as a tax break…" Liz knew by the smirk that he was suggesting Tommy Molinari. Molinari was the city's resident genius at cheating the IRS out of their pound of flesh every year.
Elizabeth refused to make any mental commentary on the insanity of an ax crazy mob lord paying taxes. Even the gangs of Palm City weren't crazy enough to take on the IRS. Their racket had government backing…
"It's not proper, what you're suggesting," Welkins replied stiffly.
"Are you telling me I'm improper?" Scales snarled softly, hands clenching into fists. Liz looked up at Noodle and sighed. Noodle shrugged helplessly and remained silent. This was not going to end well…
"I'm telling you, I'm needed elsewhere," the mayor replied.
"What is it?" Scales snarled in reply. "You don't think I c'n pay the toll? I can buy and sell you!" The smuggler didn't seem to care that his voice was loud enough to carry to both ends of the train. Liz caught sight of Portman—in his ridiculous Cape costume—writing down the conversation. He was probably collecting information for the real vigilante. And she'd liked Portman too…
"Daddy," Liz said, tugging on her father's hand, "you're shouting." She drew back at the annoyed look she received, but relaxed when he ruffled her hair again. At this rate, her hair was never going to lay flat again, but it was worth her father not losing his marbles completely.
"Of course, ducky," Scales rumbled. He shot a look at Noodle. "Keep Elizabeth out of trouble, and away from the crowds. I'm goin' t' talk wiv the mayor." With that, he stalked off in the direction of the sofas where the mayor and Preston had escaped to.
"That ain't gonna end well," Noodle commented. He pulled Liz over to one of the curtained-off areas and stretched out on one of the blue leather chairs. "Might as well get comfortable, Lizzie Lizard," he yawned. "Your dad's going to take awhile…"
Liz waited until she was sure Noodle was asleep before slipping into the next curtained-off seating compartment. She needed to make a call, and she needed to do some connecting of her own. Preferably without getting killed.
- o – o -
There were times when Liz was exceedingly pleased she'd taken acting lessons between the ages of ten and thirteen. This was one of them. While she was technically using her abilities for great evil, Liz could only think of the positive outcomes and how many grateful young women would never be harassed or assaulted.
All she had to do was scream like the room was on fire and run for her father.
As a general rule, Liz was of the opinion that women should be able to fight back and not make a big scene about their lives, or at least know that it wasn't acceptable to ruin someone's life just because they didn't like them. In this case, she was willing to throw that rule right out the window to die. Getting Mick Reese fired for something he'd never done (at least in this timeline) was so much more important than morals.
Liz clung to her father, sobbing into his side. She'd been planning on ways to murder Reese ever since he'd tried to assault her when she was sixteen. She'd never found an opportunity, and had had to settle for killing the man who'd run him over with his car one night. It hadn't been as satisfying as killing Reese single-handedly, but she'd had to make do.
Scales held onto his daughter, a look of absolute terror on his face. He picked her up and continued to rub her back, almost daring anyone to approach him while his daughter was still terrified and sobbing.
"Fleming," he growled under his breath, "Would you care to explain to me why y've go' a bloody pedophile in your employ?" His voice was dangerously calm, considering that he wanted nothing more than a chance to rip Fleming's spine out and strangle the man with it.
"I have no idea," Fleming replied evenly. His face was rather pale and tight with rage. It was obvious, Liz thought as she reigned in her feigned hysterics some, that he hadn't had any idea about what a pervert his shake-down man was. Odd, that.
"I t'ink," Scales growled, shifting his grip on his daughter, "tha' the next time tha' fucke…tha' bastard e'er comes near me docks again, I'll cut his throat and send 'im back in pieces. Find someone wot ain' a perv t' do your collections."
Liz stiffened in her father's grip. That was a new angle to take. The first time around, he'd tried to out Fleming as Chess. That hadn't worked at all; she'd learned later that Vince (the original Cape) had been trying to get her father to at least get Fleming in trouble for shaking down local businesses for protections. Well, at least someone's plan wasn't going bonkers…
"I'll be conducting a thorough investigation," Fleming assured the irate smuggler. An unusual look flickered across his face, gone as soon as Liz had registered that it'd been there. "In the meantime, Mr. Raoul, I think you ought to get off at the next stop." He smiled at Liz. "Too much excitement for one night." The press found that to be one of the most interesting things they'd heard all night. Liz knew her play-acting would have been a much bigger event, but Fleming owned every media outlet except for Anarchy Unlimited and Orwell.
To her great relief, her father took Fleming's advice and headed for one of the rear carriages. Too late, Liz realized they'd entered the caboose.
Shite. Watching her father getting locked in a cage had not been in her plan. Neither had being kidnapped.
She sent the only text she could think of to Trip.
Help me.
- o – o -
So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think the Carnival should have thought harder about kidnapping Liz? Drop a line and let me know!