Date: 14 Aug 1998 03:11:39 GMT From: MJR91 Subject: NEW -- "Pencils" Interlude 2 -- MJ (M/Sk, humor) Posted to Xslash, slashx, XAPEN, and atxc. Part One available at MJ's Fiction and Links, http://members.aol.com/mjr91/ficintro.html Thanks to my intrepid beta crew, in this case JiM and Dawn. Virtual kisses to all. "Interlude" 2 - The Pomeranian Falcon * MJ Hot weather is uncomfortable anywhere, but hot weather in Washington, DC is nearly unbearable. The heat is godawful; the humidity is enough to choke you. A Washington heat wave makes my days in the jungle feel nearly comfortable. At least there we didn't have to go outside wearing neckties and buttoned-up shirts. Thank God I have never taken up the three-piece suit habit, or I would be dead from dehydration by now. Even with the air conditioner on, it is nearly too hot to sleep. I would prefer to have Mulder here with me. All right, It is my fault that he is not here; I could have not signed his 302 for those crop circles in Montana. Nonetheless, it is lonely without him. If I must have insomnia, I would far rather have insomnia with him than without him. I sit up and fumble for my robe. An hour in the living room with a cup of tea and something on one of the movie channels might help the matter. I stumble into the kitchen and feel for the teabags. I have Darjeeling somewhere in here - ah. Water in the cup, then into the microwave. Into the living room for the remote, and a brief channel surf until I find the cable listings. Aha - the old movies channel. Black and white - real movies, from way back when, back when the studios really knew how to put a film together. John Ford, Hitchcock directing. Bogie, Bacall, Kirk Douglas. Wardrobes by Adrian. Opening credits with the little plane flying around the Universal globe. Into the armchair, feet up on the hassock. A slug of whiskey in the tea. My mother used to give that to me for colds. It works when you have trouble sleeping, too, I find. That and a good black and white movie which I have seen seventeen times should do the trick. The credits fade into an office with name stenciled on the door in gold, a waiting room with long-legged secretary, and our detective in a dark suit, at his desk, smoking. A takeout cup of coffee, now cold, sits near him as he reads his mail. The telephone rings. The secretary is on the telephone. She opens the door to look into the office. "Walt,", Kimberly says, "it's for you. That Doctor Mulder of yours." "He's not 'my' Doctor Mulder," I sigh wearily, reaching for the phone. "Oh yeah?" she replies, gum cracking. "Well if he ain't, he's sure as hell trying to be. Flirted with you when he was here, and now he's calling about dinner. This a client or a lay, Walt? 'Cause one pays you, and you pay the other, and I want my check. Got it?" She ducks back out. If I could replace her, I would. But you can't replace that dame. She's sassy, crass, and a pain, but she's loyal, she can type, and she can fill in when I need a girl to go hoofing on a case. And she can shoot. I pick up the phone. "Skinner." "Ah, hello." Yep, it's him. Voice like an old silk robe, sliding into my ears and down my body, wrapping itself around me. It's Mulder, all right. "I was hoping you'd be in. I have that paper of Alex's I told you about. I thought you would want to see it. Are you free for dinner?" Never turn down a free meal. When it's a client, even if I pay now, it's a free meal. That's what "expenses" means when I say "two-fifty plus expenses." "Expenses" means I pay zero when clients want me. "Sure, Doctor Mulder. You name the place, I'll be there." "I have reservations at Madigan's at seven-thirty. I'll meet you at the bar. Will that do?" Will that do? Mike Madigan, supper club owner, ex-mobster, and gossip hub of the city? Has a great cook, rude waiters, and the best bartender in town. He's also an old buddy of mine from the gym, but I keep that quiet. Mike tips me off to what goes down in this town. "That would be fine." I think hard. Yeah, my good suit is clean. I can eat at Mike's tonight without disgracing myself. Besides, Mike gets regulars. Maybe Mulder's one of them. I should pump Mike before I go. "Wonderful, Mister Skinner. I'm looking forward to seeing you tonight." I can feel that voice trying to work its way down my bare chest and into my pants. Not that this is a bad idea when the body attached to the voice has good shoulders, legs and more legs, and an ass that won't quit. "I'll see you at Madigan's." The receiver clicks. I stare at the phone. Shit, if that's how he talks to his patients, no wonder those doctors' wives say he makes them feel less depressed. They're probably having a thrill a minute ruining their silk undies talking to him. Maybe I should check my medical contacts. I wonder if the shrink ever makes time on that couch of his for more than just talk with his patients. Time to dial Mike. "Madigan's. Mike Madigan speaking." "Mike? It's Walt." "Walt Skinner! You old asshole, how the hell are you?" The voice, big, hearty, and friendly, like its owner. "What are you up to, Walt?" "Dinner, Mike. Got a date of sorts." "Business or pleasure? I've got a great table for you, old buddy." "Business for sure, maybe yes, maybe no for anything else. I understand the reservations were placed already. Fox Mulder." "The shrink? Yeah, he called in. Coming up in the world if you're dating him, boy. He's a catch." "You know him, Mike?" "He's pretty regular. Does lunches sometimes, usually with a lady friend. Scully - the coroner. You know her." "Yeah, I do. Keep talking, Mike." "Used to be in for dinner at least once a week. He used to have this hot little Russian number with him - you know, the one that got shot. I was surprised that happened at his place." "Oh?" I asked, trying not to sound interested. "Why is that?" "Because I thought they were through. Doc's been in with almost every pretty boy in town over the past few months, but not with that long, cool vodka martini he used to bring in with him. Too bad. That one was really decorative. So - I've got sea scallops tonight, fresh salmon, and Porterhouse steaks. Any thoughts? Tell me and I'll do you something special to impress the date. Scallop mousse en croute? Grilled salmon with fresh dill? Say the word, Walt." "Surprise me, Mike. And stick a fresh bottle of Jack behind the bar." So Mulder and Krycek weren't a hot item any more. Mulder had suggested as much when he'd told me about the Krugerrands, but the shopping around was a new detail in the picture. I figured I'd better call in a marker with one of my pals. Pendrell was at his desk when I rolled into the squad room. A few heads turned at my arrival, some even nonhostile. I'd done a few of the boys good turns on some investigations; they'd better be nice to me. Pendrell had given Mulder my name as a referral; he was making nice since I'd tipped him off to that heroin dealer in Adams-Morgan last year. I figured he'd be a good boy. "Hey, Pendrell," I said, sinking into a chair beside his desk. "Thanks for giving my name to the shrink with the commie corpse." "He called?" Pendrell asked too casually. Yeah, the boy wanted to talk, all right. "Yeah. I saw him yesterday. Meeting again tonight. I was wondering if you could fill me in." Pendrell reached for a file. Methodical, that's Pendrell. "Okay. Deceased is Alexei Krycek. Russian male, about 35 years old. No regular job, but believed to be spying for the Russians. The Embassy denies any knowledge of his activities, but that's natural. Lived with Doctor Fox Mulder, one expensive headshrinker. The Police Commissioner's wife goes to him for her agoraphobia problem, whatever that is. He's not a suspect, wasn't in town at the time. Krycek took a bullet through the head that probably lowers the value of the painting he splattered when he got shot. Wasn't a suicide. Signs of a struggle but nothing big. We figure he knew his assailant but wasn't expecting the attack. You know anything we don't, Skinner?" "Not yet. But I'm having dinner with Mulder tonight at Madigan's." "Madigan's?" Pendrell raised an eyebrow. "Whose idea?" "His. Why? Mike Madigan is a friend of mine. Should I know something?" "I doubt it. Madigan's is a hangout for Mulder. Seems just a little social for him to be nightclubbing it less than a week after lover boy takes it between the eyes, doesn't it? Maybe he's not as far in mourning as he looks." Pendrell shrugged. "Think about it, Skinner. And let us know if anything happens, will you?" "Sure, Sarge. Look - I've got a feeling. Can you have a couple of your boys here stake Madigan's out tonight?" "Why, Skinner? Expecting something?" "Call it a hunch." I shook hands with Pendrell and made out of the office like a bat out of hell. Something smelled fishy - maybe even fishier than Mike's grilled salmon. I just didn't know what the odor could be or where it came from. But I sure as hell intended to find out. * * * * * I strolled into Madigan's at quarter past seven. It pays to be early for these things. I looked over the dining room, then squeezed my way into the bar. Frankie, the veteran barkeep, waved a hand at me as I pointed to a table. A cocktail waitress in a black minidress and a white apron came over for my order. "Jack Daniels Manhattan. Double. Lemon twist. No cherry. Up." My usual when I have to look like I'm being respectable when I'm drinking. Cold and full of alcohol. No ice, no soda, no girl stuff in it. The bartender sends over a bowl of cocktail munchies, party mix of some kind. The waitress is placing my order. I hear a familiar voice calling "hello" from across the room. I look up. There's Mulder, resplendent in dark gray Versace, a tailored striped shirt I'd once seen in a Turnbull and Asser photo spread, Bally loafers. Gold cufflinks, a gold and stainless Rolex Oyster peeking from the shirt cuff. Gold wire rimmed glasses still on his face. Eyes turn as he crosses over to my table. I'm amused. Yeah, you dodos, he's with me. I want to laugh - so this is what a trophy date feels like. He seats himself across from me, and he grins - a smile that lights up the whole damn room and ought to be illegal as a fire hazard. The eyes are another fire hazard - hazel lights that don't quit. I could lower my electrical bills if he stood in my apartment; I'd never need to turn lights on to be able to see. The man glows. He reaches a long, elegant, immaculately manicured hand over to shake mine. "I'm so sorry I'm late," he apologizes. Yeah, right; he's still seven minutes early; he just didn't beat me here. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting." Hell, he can keep me waiting any time, any place. "No problem, Doc." "Please, Mister Skinner. Call me Mulder." The waitress comes over with my drink, makes calf eyes at Mulder. "Vodka martini. Stoli if you've got it back there, otherwise Finlandia. Dubonnet instead of vermouth." She nods, writes. "All of my friends call me Mulder. And we will be friends, won't we?" His look is all over me like a cheap suit. He looks more like he wants me for dinner than Mike Madigan's scallop mousse. And Mike's scallop mousse is a force to be reckoned with. "Well - Mulder - I would hope so. Preferably after I've done the work for you." He smiles, reaches across the table, traces a finger along the side of my cocktail glass. "Oh? No mixing business and pleasure? Too bad. I've always found it - interesting." "That's how you wound up with Alex Krycek. Right?" A grimace across from me. The waitress is back over with his martini. Good thing, too - he wasn't any too pleased with my observation on lover boy. The interruption breaks the tension. "Alex is dead, Walter. I just want to find his money and get on with my life." We nurse our drinks silently. I munch on Mike's snack mix. "And you look... as if you could be... an interesting addition to that life." "You've barely even met me," I point out. "Why do you think I invited you out?" he replies. "I have the note with me. I could show it to you anywhere. At my apartment, or your office. But I thought I'd like to get to know you better. I've heard... a lot about you. I want to know what makes you tick, Walter." The maitre d' calls Mulder's name. The table is ready. We carry our drinks into the restaurant. Damn Mike - one of the best tables in the place. Up front, near the stage. Conspicuous as all hell. I look around; yeah, there are a couple of Pendrell's buddies near the waiter's station and at a table in the back. That's a good thing. Because at a table across the way, I see trouble with a capital T. The Smoking Man. He's at a banquette with a few of his goons, one of whom does nothing but light his damn cancer sticks for him. I'm not happy to see that bastard here tonight. He's bad news, and he travels fast. Why is he here tonight of all nights? I wish I had some way to flag down Mike and talk to him, but no dice. The waiter brings over the menus, recites the specials. A note falls out of my menu - a card from the Smoker. He wants me to meet up with him tomorrow. Why the black-lunged bastard wants to give me information about anything beats the hell out of me. I slide the card in my pocket while Mulder isn't looking; I don't want to explain this one. Now, I ask myself; what was Kimberly telling me? Clients pay the bills; dates don't. I normally don't have any difficulty telling the difference between the two. This time's different - but then, Kimberly noticed that already. Do I, or don't I, sacrifice my investigative principles for a lay - and just maybe a cut in that South African gold? I've got just about exactly till I'm through with dessert to decide. Mulder slides an envelope out of his breast pocket, a move that only succeeds in drawing my attention back to his body. He looks good in that suit, and probably a hell of a lot better out of it. Somehow, I don't think he's on Mike's dessert list, but I'd sure as hell like to figure out how to get him there. He's been pretty clear that he thinks I'm appetizers, salad, and entrée. Oh, sure, I've had clients put the make on me before. They're just not usually ones I'd like to take home to meet Mother. Well, neither is this one, come to think of it - I just want to drag him back and check out the merchandise up close and real personal. Repeatedly, for a couple of weeks or so, until I drop in my tracks. He slides the envelope across the table. I can't help noticing the manicure. I also can't help noticing that a couple of the Smoker's goons are craning around to try to get a look at what's happening. Pendrell's buddies are probably keeping them from making a snatch at the goods. I slide a torn piece of legal pad out of the envelope. A few scribbles, mostly numbers. A combination? Addresses? I can't quite tell. This is going to take some work. "Off the cuff, I can't tell you. Any problem if I take it back with me? I'm going to need to do some research." He grins at me. Bad move; I'm not wearing sunglasses. "I thought you might want it. I have a copy in my safe at the office, and another one at my apartment. I also sent a copy to a friend. Given some of Alex's friends, I figured I can't be too careful." "Let's just hope his pals don't figure you littered the neighborhood with spare copies. There's a few of them here tonight." Mulder looks around as the kitchen sends over a dish I didn't order, and I don't mean our waiter. I told Mike to surprise me. Thanks, Mike. A molded salmon mousse and scallop mousse terrine, decorated with dilled cucumber shavings and a trickle of balsamic vinegar dressing. It's the prettiest thing here besides my client. "It's okay," I tell Mulder. "The owner's an old friend of mine. He said he'd send out something on the specials list as a surprise." I fold the paper and place the envelope in my own jacket pocket. The Smoker's thugs are watching us. Dinner continues. I'm starting to see this boy's charm, not that I didn't already. I've had a lot worse company at dinner in my life, especially from his social level. The bums on the street are more fun to talk to at a meal than the DC snobs. No wonder he's gotten a rep as a hot date around town, even for the society dames who need "safe" opera escorts or a few spare males at their dinner parties. I wonder what keeps the old broads off of him besides the local rape statutes, unless he flirts with their sons as hard as he's been coming on to me. Which, from what Mike said, is a distinct possibility. Dessert, coffee-brandy ice cream molded inside chocolate cake, with brandied raspberry coulis. I love Mike. Now, there's a guy my mother would love. Except for the wife and three kids. The floor show's starting. A number of tables empty; a number of tables fill up with parties here for dessert, drinks, and the show. Mulder asks me for my preference - staying or leaving. I notice that, once again, we're getting noticed. It's amusing to have a front-row table and a trophy date, but it's getting late, and in my line of work you don't always want everyone in town recognizing you. The good doctor has office hours tomorrow, anyway. We decide to split. The valet's bringing his car around; he asks if he can drop me off anywhere, or if I'd like to come by his place to talk some more. I tell him I'd love to stop by the crime scene, but not tonight, or else my secretary's going to have a headache. The Smoker's boys are out here, waiting for the big man's wheels to arrive. The valet pulls up with Mulder's Lexus, hands him the keys. He turns, stands about one inch from me, and plants a kiss on me like I haven't felt in a couple of years. Either my manly physique's knocking him flat, or else he's really trying to worm his way out of my bill. He runs a hand along the side of my face and down my neck, and my dick's doing the tango about as hard as the floor show orchestra is. "Sorry you can't come over for coffee," he purrs at me. "Give me a call, hmmm?" Mike pops out from the kitchen and strolls outside to say goodbye. "You struck out with lover boy?" "Nah. I said 'no.'" Madigan looks at me like I'm crazy. "You turned that down? Your head going soft, Walt?" "Yeah. Yeah, I think it is." We shake hands, make plans to do lunch after the next bout at the gym. I start walking down the street. It looks like the head wasn't soft for long. I feel something goddamned hard up against the back of my skull, and I hear one of the Smoker's boys as I start seeing stars. I come to, slowly, light streaming in my face and a fucking aerobic exerciser telemarketing pitch on screen. Five-thirty in the goddamn morning? Well, at least I've gotten a couple of hours' sleep. I have got to quit watching old Bogie detective movies, haven't I? I turn off the set and crawl back to bed. "I'm your boy, Sir!" -- Folie a Deux "Wake the Russian bear, and he may find we have stolen his honey." -- CSM, "Terma" XFU, xslash, OBSSE, FWMW, PGTF, Desk For Dana#443 http://members.aol.com/mjr91/xfu.html