The meeting took place at a bar in a more wretched neighbourhood, a single long room, just next to a pawn shop. The counter was speckled with peanuts, melting ice chips, and sticky puddles of liquor. She vaguely wondered if the bathroom was splattered with the same decor. She shuddered and tried not to think about it.
She stood at the corner of the bar, eyeing the seats with suspicion. The bar stools creaked and tipped dangerously far when a patron leaned on the wrong side.
The barman, a burly man with a ratty moustache he tried to salvage with oil, came over and slammed his heavy hands on the counter. "Wha' you want?"
She fiddled with her fingers. "Er, you got any whiskey?"
The barman shrugged. "Some o' 'em," he gave her a slightly concerned look. "But it'll cost ya."
"That sounds lovely," a cheeky voice echoed across the room. A stick of a man plucked out the chair next to her and balanced himself on it, knee bent to prop one foot on the seat. "Monsieur, two whiskeys on the rocks, please."
If the barman was surprised, he didn't let it show. He only grunted and got to work.
She stared at her new acquaintance. He was a lanky young man, an estimated ten years her junior, with a bowl-shaped pompadour of black hair. He was wearing a red jacket over a black shirt and slacks. His square tie was secured with a silver tie pin. His face was oddly endearing, but she wasn't fooled. He almost reminded her of a monkey from a zoo in a distant childhood that she barely knew.
She gave a scoffing laugh. "You're a brave man, or a foolish one."
He gave her an odd look, "Oh?" He gave her a monkey grin. "Why is that?"
She gave a pointed look at the barman's ice bucket, a rusted pail with an outward dent at the lip. "I suspect that the ice was made from the bathroom sink," she gave the man a side eye. "You wantthatin your drink?"
She studied his face. His eyes were wide and his mouth sunk in, like she just offered him to suck on a lime. She could almost make out a sweatdrop on the side of his head.
"Here ya go," that barman placed two whiskeys on the rocks on the counter. "Thirty pence."
She held her tongue at the price, but she never needed to. Her companion smiled and slapped some notes on the counter. "It's on me."
They stayed there, one balanced on a chair, the other standing stiff as a board. Eventually, as the sun set, more people flooded in.
"Are you the Wolf?"
"Depends on who's asking," he stared at her.
Or, more accurately, her chest.
She smiled in that sweet manner that James loved.
"I'm sure you heard the news," she set her elbows on the counter, crossed her wrists, and straightened her back. "I'm a fugitive from the Crown and I'm legally dead."
The young man slipped a cigarette from his jacket sleeve and tucked it between his teeth.
"My belongings are forfeit to the Crown," she rolled her shoulders back. "That includes some… confidential material." He pulled out a lighter, barely glancing at her. She smiled. "Nothing serious. Just some secrets the Crown would like to keep hidden."
He looked up, then dropped his gaze, fiddling with his lighter. Too late. She saw it.
"That's a lot of loot you got there, lady." He ignited his cigarette and took a deep breath. "I suppose you want me to fence it off, then."
She kept her face frozen. It would do no good to react to such an obvious statement. "I can't travel heavy, and it's dangerous to carry big money on the road, so I would be taking a pittance compared to your fee.
"I'm willing to give you a copy of my documents. You can use them as you see fit, if you would be so kind as to not share my involvement in how you acquired them.
"So," she sat back and smiled in that sweet manner. "What do you say?"
Eurydice Colette Clytemnestra Dido Bathsheba Rabelais Patricia Cocteau Stone stood at the corner, with two lit cigarettes in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. Every man or woman crossed her path, and every man and woman earned themselves a show of Patsy's well-used modelling skills: head tilted up, shoulders pushed back, and toes pointed inward. Everyone stared before dropping their gaze and running off.
Patsy smirked and took a deep drag from her cigarettes. She didn't mind the attention. After all, she had drawn the shortest straw in assignments at the office. Might as well make the most of it.
She sighed. Just a few more hours. Once the sun set, she was free to leave. She gave a quick look around. Nothing.
Her fingers felt a bit hot. She dropped the stubs and crushed them under her toes. She took about three sticks and lit them up. She took a deep inhale and sighed again.
Mother was one paranoid bastard. The bitch was dead, and he was certain that there would soon be others coming for her. It wasn't like she had anything important. Mother was too paranoid to let a woman do anything in the office.
She scanned her surroundings once again. The streets were emptier, save for a small round automobile taking up half of a half of a width of the road. Patsy's brow wrinkled. What power could possibly compel Rhonda to purchase such a wretched thing?
She was debating whether she should indulge in another swallow from her bottle or another double puff when a polite cough made her whirl around. A small woman with a heavy jacket draped on her shoulders was standing at half a yard's length away. A large heavy handbag was in her hand.
The face was a familiar one: mousy colours, a strong nose and chin, and a feline grin.
"Patsy," Emma Night smiled, her eyes glittering in the dim lights. "Fancy seeing you here."
"Emmie," Patsy took a double puff and grinned. "Pleasure's all yours," she held out the bottle, swaying with the nonexistent wind. "Drink?"
Emma stared at the bottle with a light curl at the lips. She smiled, accepting the bottle and taking a dainty sip. She hummed appreciatively at the taste. "Not bad," she passed the bottle back, her eyes cold and quizzical. "Should you really be smoking?"
Patsy shrugged. "Well, Mother confiscated the cocaine." She took a double puff and knocked the ashes on the floor. The stray sparks glowing on the concrete before she crushed them under heel. "I need something to keep my blood warm."
Emma stared at her, then her eyes lit up. "I have just the thing," she swung her heavy handbag to the front and rummaged around in it. She pulled out some soma tablets. "Here you go," she tossed three over.
Patsy took them and promptly obliged, bolting them down with a fine helping of champagne. The familiar joy and numbness of soma filled her blood, and the world seemed a bit more cheerful.
Patsy took another swallow of champagne. "You know, Emmie," she took two more swallows. "I've been hearing some things from the office."
"Oh?" Emma's brow raised into a delicate arch. "Good things, I assume?"
"About you?" Patsy snorted, feeling bubbles in the back of her nose. She coughed, guzzled more champagne, then choked again. "It's aboutkofthat oldkof, army man.Kof kof,Johnkofsomething." Her face twisted as she searched for the word and her breath. "Somekofthing metal… Steel?" She pounded her chest, blinking back tears.
"Steed?" Emma's lips curled into a wry smirk. "That old dog?" It made her giggle wispily.
Patsy didn't like the giggles. They were too shrill and .
Now that Emma was leaning closer, her face seemed to melt. Her eyes drooped to the sides and her nose faded into her face. Her skin puffed up and ate up what was left of her lips and eyes. Light and colour began to fade, leaving nothing but empty lines and shapes.
Something cold and hard was shoved against her back. The shapes fell from her sight, leaving her with the blue shapes clouding her vision. Patsy tried to open her mouth, to scream for help or curse the shapes, and she felt her lips and tongue moving independent from her.
The shapes reappeared and laughed, a thousand soft cracklings, then turned to someone out of sight. "Take her in. Time to go."
The cars on the road were fairly sparse, with the setting sun gleaming off every available surface, leaving some drivers blind.
On the road out of town, a pale blue Fiat 500 was rolling slowly along. The window by the driver's seat was opening, letting out a constant stream of smoke.
The Wolf took a deep inhale from his cigarette, exhaling out the open window. He extinguished the sparks against the car's door before flicking the stub away. "So," he turned towards the passenger seat. "You two know each other."
His client-cum-passenger glared at him before turning her attention back to the road. "We went to the same public school," she went back to staring at the street ahead.
He snickered. "Lemme guess," he took one last drag before flicking the cigarette out the window. "Roommates? Best friend? Mean girl?"
He leaned in close, grinning from ear to ear. "Stole your crush?"
She laughed. "Hardly," she turned to look at him. "I stole hers."
He stared at her, then burst into laughter. "HA!" His body was racked with heaving guffaws, nearing knocking his head against the wheel. "I knew I liked you! I thought—"
"CAR," she grabbed the wheel and pushed it left. They drifted too far right. Blaring horns and screams filled her ears.
The Wolf yanked the wheel back, cursing all women drivers for the crime of saving his life. The car swerved about, worming its way through the narrow roads.
She stared at him, her mouth open. Her thin lips and narrow face made her look less like a fish and more like a weasel or an otter. Still adorable.
He smirked and leaned in. "You're welcome."
She recovered, slapping the dashboard. "You dolt," a smile crept into her voice. "You could've killed us." She tried to glare at him, but it melted into giggles.
He smirked, and made a sharp turn left, barely scraping the streets. His passenger shrieked, and dissolved into a mad fit.
"Don't thank me yet, sweetheart." He looped one arm around his furious passenger. "Just enjoy the ride." He pushed his foot harder against the gas pedal.
The drunken shrew who just bungled her latest assignment was sobbing in the arms of Emma Night. The wretch had just stumbled out of M's office after a thorough lashing, though she had given the old man just as much as he had given her.
The sobbing was getting to his head. Emma was shushing the woman, ignoring the accusing eyes and impatient sneers directed at her. She kept fussing away at the living cadaver.
Bond saw the woman before, a gaunt figure with too little flesh and too much hair. Compared to Emma, she was less than a decade older, but looked thirty years older. Her face was puffy, her features heavy, and her skin waxy. Why anyone wanted to be seen with such a face was lost on him.
Bond rolled his eyes and left. He had his own assignment. M was obsessed with wiping away Miss Moneypenny. Bond knew that vaporising a person was an unpleasant affair, but a necessary one, as M said. M had Miss Moneypenny denounced, defenestrated, and desecrated. She would soon be wiped from their records.
"Gone and out," M had said, while puffing away at his cigarette. "You hear me, Jimmy? I want her gone and out. By tomorrow, she didn't exist."
Bond decided to clear out her desk. Why not? More than half of what Penny kept in that desk was originally his, knick-knacks he nicked from his assignments.
He found the Chief of Staff, a lean relaxed man about Bond's age, standing by the desk. He was a colonel in the sappers, wounded during a sabotage operation late in the war, earned his spurs and kept his sense of humour in spite of everything. M's former secretary was exceptionally fond of him. When Penny was still here, Bond would find the two already exchanging whispers and laughs. It took a minute for them to acknowledge his presence, and when Bond stepped into M's office, no doubt they continued on without him. It both amused and irked him, knowing that the desirable secretary had another companion in the office outside of himself.
"Bill," Bond grinned and put out a hand. "Good to see you," he gave a wary glance at the desk.
"James," the Chief of Staff shook Bond's hand and smiled. "Wish I could say the same," his eyes darted to the desk.
Bill Tanner was Bond's best friend in the quarters, one of only two. The only other had long left the country, if she was smart. Bond sighed. Knowing her, she was hiding in England out of spite.
"M wants the desk cleared by the end of the day," Bill stared at him, his pale face unreadable. It reminded Bond too much of M. "He wants her vapourised. Unpersoned. Gone."
Bond nodded. It was the Chief of Staff's duty to know most of what went on in M's mind. Miss Moneypenny did M's work, Bill did M's thinking. Bond wondered if Bill was the one to suggest John Night and Drummond's retirements.
"Well," Bond sat in the former secretary's seat. "Best get started then."
He pulled out the first drawer, a small one. It was filled with soma tablets and some old magazines. Bond stared at the magazines. They were garish, showing off reds and blacks and whites that made his eyes burn. The covers featured the same woman with black and white hair, wearing a different fur in each issue.
Bond held up one, showing the woman in a tiger-skin. "Huh," he held it out to Bill. "Who knew Penny had a soft side?"
Bill held it up, grinning wolfishly. "Look at that," he flipped through it. He stopped at a page, job dropping. "James, look at this," he held it out for Bond, his grin widening.
The page showed the woman, first and foremost, basking in her zebra-striped suit. Just behind her was a mousy girl with a narrow face and sharp eyes. She wore a striped black-and-white blouse with a red scarf tied around her neck.
Bill smiled. "Red was never her colour," he read out the article.
"The Head of the House of De Vil stands at the door of the fashion world. Just as she crossed the threshold, her executive assistant disappeared. All attempts to contact the girl were met with silence. Furious, Madame De Vil decided to send a telegram to her office in London, informing them that her assistant would be put out on the street immediately."
Bond threw it onto the pile, turning to the second drawer. It was neatly separated into two, one with a small pile of papers, the other was a stuffed black folder with notes and ribbons sticking out between the pages. Bond pulled it out and opened it up to a random page (one with a blue ribbon), and found a scrawling magazine with red scribbles all over.
Bond picked it up, slowly leafing through the pages. "Was M looking for anything?"
Bill shrugged. "There aren't many things that worry M, James, and you know that as well as anybody in the Service." Tanner himself picked up another file, flipping through it. He turned around and leaned against the desk for support.
Bond was leafing through another set of vandalised papers, and felt a heaviness between one of the pages. He flipped to that page, and found some creased notes nestled into the spine.
Bond looked up. Tanner was still leafing through his pile. Bond took the paper and tucked it into his sleeves.
"There," he pushed the last box in the backseat. "That's the last one." He slammed the door with a bit more force than necessary, but he was sure that it could take it. The Hummer Super Snipe was an old bastard that survived the war, it could survive a couple dents in the side.
"Thank you," her smile might not have been genuine, but her gratitude was. Or, at least the awe in the Wolf's ability.
Nearly all of her worldly wealth was auctioned off, her livelihood picked clean as a carcass after the crows.
All that was left was some neat piles of notes ready to change hands.
The Wolf grinned, "Well, whaddya know." He licked his fingers and began shifting through the five-pound notes, giggling in a rather nasal manner that she found equal parts endearing and vexing.
He held two stacks of notes in each hand, weighing them with hands tilting up and down, before shrugging and handing her the left one.
She took it in both hands. "Well," she stuffed it into her bag. "A deal's a deal." She pulled an overstuffed folder from her heavy Sac à main de Voyage, sliding the straps to rest within her elbow while she balanced the folder in her hands. She leaned against the car, shifting the folder to rest between one arm and her chest.
He took a drag and leaned in, just enough to eye his prizes.
She flipped through the files, pulling out a couple of papers and handing them over. "That should be good for…" she gave him a quick scan with her cool and quizzical eyes. "Two weeks."
He arched his brow. "Oh?"
She shrugged, ignorant of the dangerous tilt in his voice. "Try not to lose it all in one night."
He gave her a knowing smile. It both irked and amused her. "I don't know," he flicked the burning filter onto the tarmac. "It works well with the runaway lifestyle. Less money, less luggage," he eyed her handbag. She held it tight to her chest, which became his next target. "It's easier to outrun the cops that way."
She glared at him. His eyes stayed fixed to her chest for quite a while before he sighed and shrugged, throwing his hands in the air. "Just my opinion," he clasped his hands behind his neck, leaning his head back. "Take it or leave it." He pouted at her.
She rolled her eyes. The boy had some nerve to openly ogle at her and not even hide it.
"It's a good car," he grinned, a new cigarette clenched between his incisors.
"It is," she smiled softly. "Light, reliable, easy on the curves."
"Easy on the eyes," he chuckled. He began eyeing the car a bit too closely.
She climbed into the driver's seat; the window was still rolled down. She almost put the key in, then paused. "You know," she leaned a bit on the frame. "This car is too bright for me."
His gaze shot from the whitewall tires to her face. "Oh?"
"I drove it around a lot," she rolled back her shoulders. "A lot of people saw it. And a lot of this stuff is a little heavy," she stared back at the overstuffed backseat. "It might be difficult to get rid of."
His lips curled into a grin. "Is that a challenge?"