| Subject: Ice, 6/Revised |
Author:
bonnieboX
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Date Posted: 16:22:14 12/18/01 Tue
In reply to:
BonnieBoX
's message, "Ice on Fire" on 07:06:59 12/15/01 Sat
##
Samuelle sat with the confidence of a king holding state. He looked damn dignified even though his knees stuck up a little too high, his butt perched too low in our interview chair, which was designed to put the client at a slight disadvantage. He didn't betray a single hint of discomfort. Didn't fidget. "I am here on an inquiry. I have reason to believe ... that a certain figurine has come into your possession."
"And what exactly would that be?" Uncle Walter's genial grin contradicted his sharp eyes.
"A trifle that has been mislaid. A toy ... A turn-of-the-century French doll. Porcelain head, kid leather body. Very ..." He waved one hand in loop-de-loops as if pantomiming lace and bows, unable to come up with the appropriate word. "Frou-frou," he finished at last.
"Fancy dress? A fancy doll? The kind given to rich little princesses?" I asked.
Samuelle slanted his head in agreement. "Just so. On behalf of my employer, I am prepared to pay a substantial amount for its recovery. Say ... five thousand dollars."
Uncle Walter and I exchanged a look. I clenched my pencil, pad. With some effort, I made my fingers relax before the trembling gave me away. "Five thousand! You could buy a lot of Kewpie dolls for five thousand bucks. I'm curious. Why such a big price tag for a doll just twenty years old? What's so special about this doll? It's not brand new. It's not even an antique."
A faint smile lifted Samuelle's mouth at one corner before it quickly faded. "Not an antique," he said quietly. "But nevertheless valuable to my employer. He is a collector of sorts. And this doll has certain sentimental value. He would like it back ... What is the phrase? No questions asked." Samuelle spoke with a quiet confidence that I envied. Did he know that we'd been trailing him for Madeline Lenoir? He must. A gutsy move - to turn around and confront us on our territory. A real cool customer.
Damn. I didn't want to find more things to admire. Where was I? I glanced down at my notes, then realized that I was engraving the pad instead of just writing, my pencil lead worn to a nub. This was getting out of hand. Humiliating. Brakes on, girl. Brakes on now.
Uncle Walter sat forward. "But we don't know ..."
"... how sincere you are," I interrupted. "Anyone could walk in and start throwing around these who-zit's." I held up Samuelle's calling card. "Anyone could print these. It don't mean a thing."
One thick brown eyebrow arched. "I see. You need convincing. A retainer then. Would a hundred dollars do?"
"No. But two hundred would do nicely," I replied. He withdrew a wallet from some secret pocket inside his coat, and removed the bills with an economic gesture so quick that it almost seemed as if he performed some sleight of hand. When my fingers closed around the weight of his money, I allowed a smile for the first time since he walked into our office. "Hmmm. Now this is the kind of calling card that gets our attention. Now we can talk business. Just curious about a couple of things. You said something about the doll being mislaid. 'Mislaid' covers a lot of ground, could be open to misinterpretation, legal or otherwise. Possession, they say, is nine-tenth's of the law. The rest is a matter of muscle ... and opportunity. Now the way I hear it, there seems to be some disagreement. Who's the real owner?"
"My employer. There is no way to prove it, of course. But it is the truth. Naturally."
"Naturally," I murmured. No proof. How convenient. Too convenient.
I examined Samuelle for some clue: an eyelash flickering, toe-tapping, some kind of fidgeting that would betray unease. Usually it was a cinch because most folks gave themselves away. For most folks, the act of fibbing was like letting ants crawl down your back. Most couldn't do it and stay still, but Samuelle ... his middle name seemed to be stillness. His eyes were cool green pools of patience; placid, unfathomable, deep. What lay at the bottom was anyone's guess. Either he was telling the truth or he was a damn good liar. I couldn't tell which. Usually I could. Usually it was eggs in the cake, but this time it wasn't. It was as hard as can be, and realizing that was even more unsettling than his pretty boy looks. Who did he think he was, anyway? Walking in here with some story and flashing big bucks like that. No one paid out that kind of retainer. No one I knew or ever heard about it did that kind of thing. It was so much money - too much; the kind of money that gets sprayed around like perfume to cover up a smell, a fishy kind of smell. My first instinct was to ignore him. But I couldn't. I told myself it was because we couldn't afford to. Our bills were adding up, and we hadn't been able to pay them by keeping our noses one-hundred-percent clean. Taking the high road all the time was costing us plenty. Maybe our reputation was just a shade too honest. Maybe the color of Samuelle's money didn't stink so much after all. All in all, maybe it wasn't such a bad package. No, it was beginning to look more attractive all the time. And the more it attracted me, the more uncomfortable I felt. I sat back and tapped my pencil against my pad. What should I do? Give him the boot? I considered his well-tailored posterior. It was tempting, all right.
Samuelle, on the other hand, was staring at Uncle Walter, ignoring me. Finally he asked, "Do you have the doll?"
"No," answered Uncle Walter.
"But we know how to get it," I replied quickly. "Piece of cake." And prayed that it was true. "You've got yourself a deal."
"Good. I shall hope for good news by tomorrow. Shall we say noon? You can reach me at the Regent Hotel. Thank you, Mister Hunter." He stood up from the chair with one powerful move. Put his hat back on, shook Uncle Walter's hand.
Then he turned to me, held my fingers. Even through his dove-gray gloves, I could feel the incredible heat of his hand. Touch to touch. Palm to palm. He smelled of soap, lavender and pepper. Clean and masculine. Delicious.
Michael Samuelle seemed to be reading my eyes, then lingered on my lips for longer than was polite. A slow flush crept up my neck, stained my cheeks so that I had to glance downwards, unable to hold up against his intense scrutiny. I found myself looking straight at the silver buttons on his waistcoat, then realized how they jumped quickly and flashed as if his breathing was fast and erratic as mine. Before I could consider the matter further, he bowed over my hand, his breath caressing my skin, his lips almost grazing my fingertips for the barest of seconds. "Enchanté, madamoiselle."
##
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