*cowers behind Rumple* I know it's been forever and I've been a horrible writer D: If anyone is still following this story...I beg you, please don't shoot!
For anyone who needs the reminder:
Bee was poisoned with thallium, recovered in hospital, befriended Leroy in a quid pro quo deal to save Astrid from a fate that is at present, unknown. In return, Leroy helped Bee free the three con artists (Dr Whale, Fredrick and Abigail) who she suspected Gold was torturing for information. She was right. In shock and still weak, Bee staggered to her room in The Flamingo only to find she'd forgotten her door key. Gold opens her room for her and, in an act of great surprise to exhausted Bee, sedates her and puts her to bed. When she wakes, she finds a letter from him, explaining that the whole 'help me find who's robbing my casino' was all a ruse to get her to round up Vegas criminals to 'question' them about the whereabouts of his long lost son. If Bee can find the son, she will be free to go. Bee figures out August is in on the con and makes him a deal - if he lets her talk to Jeff and fetches the son for her, she won't sell him out to Gold. August tells her she has fifteen minutes with Jeff in Club Privé.
Meanwhile in flashback land: Gold and Bee have reached a weird understanding. Bee's discovered that he owns The Bellagio. It's mid-April 2005. He watches her dance almost every night and they play a strange game of 'reading people' while improving Bee's tolerance to alcohol. He's begun to teach her some of his own tricks and she abruptly opens up to him about the reason she's trapped working in The Gentlemens Club, paying off mob master Carmella de Vil's debt. She tells Gold she stole the pup of her prize Dalmatian, worth $1 million.
Club Privé, how predictable. She wove her way through the crowds, coming up to the room of mirrors and glass, and braced herself. Breathing deeply, her mind strangely blank, Bee took the few gold steps at a leap. The muted bustle of the lounge embraced her instantly. Olive carpets and mustard velvet cushions on dark leather couches matched the low timber roof. The place felt almost cosy. A bar glittered in the corner, back lighted, its crystal decanters glowing. Jeff was sitting by a shade of palm fronds, his Swiss rye vodka in hand, staring at some lilies displayed in a red lacquered oriental vase.
She was expected.
"Bee."
Her eyes filled with tears at the sound of her name. He looked up at where she'd stop, several paces away from him, her face crumpling. Jeff opened his arms and with that invitation, she rushed to his side, eager to be wrapped up in his warmth. He gripped her equally hard, whispering that he was sorry, over and over again. She buried herself into his neck. He smelled like Sir Jefferson: Kenneth Cole cologne, drug store hair spray, women's make up, rose water hand cream, Rocky Patel cigars and of course, vodka. But beneath all of the costuming, there was that stench of dressmaking glue he used for all his top hats and the unique smell that reminded her of home.
"Bee, I'm so sorry, it was never supposed to end up like this," Jeff pressed his forehead against hers, eyes as wet as hers, "They wanted to...they wanted..."
"The thallium?"
He had his face pressed into her hair. His voice came out muffled, "I knew it was a poison you'd recognise. They wanted sodium cyanide but you'd never had experience with it and...and I knew you wouldn't survive if they gave you that...so I suggested thallium."
She laughed through watery eyes. Jeff had saved her life by giving her the thallium. What cruel irony. "The blue – "
"Blue nails!" he was laughing too. "You don't have to forgive me. Ever. Bee, I'm -"
Bee ran her fingers over the curve of his ear, pulling him closer until they were cheek to wet cheek. "It's okay...I love – "
"I love you too..."
She cleared her throat and sat them both down, smiling despite the tightness in her chest. "It's okay now. I'm okay now. You were right. I did remember," she looked into his eyes, then rolled her own, "I know. Montenegro. When Dittman Mikkelsen tried to kill you after the Andrijevica heist. I remember. Your blue nails. How could I forget?...Thank you. Thank you for giving me my best chance."
Jeff nodded and grabbed both her hands in his own, "You have to go. Now. You're in so much danger."
"So it was you?" she asked, "The person who wrote the message on my mirror?"
"What?"
"The message. 'Get Out While You Still Can'?"
"No...I didn't write that..." he frowned, "Bee. Listen to me. We don't have much time. Please, please, go. We never expected you to actually agree to the meeting with Gold. I thought you'd leave the country."
"You told Gold after our cons? You paid us out?!" she cried, ripping her hands away from his. "Jeff!"
"I'm sorry, but I thought it was the only way to get you to go. Rule number one, remember? Always run!" Jeff looked forlorn. "I swore you'd be out of the picture but suddenly Hook tells me you're working for Gold. Bee, why are you – "
"Hook."
He stopped, confused, "He told me he spoke to you. In ER."
Bee put her hands in her head, kicking herself for not realising. "He wasn't a hallucination..."
"You thought he was a hallucination?" Jeff giggled and mussed up her hair. "He'll love that."
"I had just been poisoned, thanks," she said, exasperated, "So he's behind this."
"He came to me with a project, after he heard we were back in Vegas," Jeff looked at her like a lost puppy, begging her with his eyes to understand him, "He said that I was the best architect he knew. And that he could finally get the judge to sign over custody of Grace."
"Oh Jeff..." Bee backed away as far as she could on the little couch. He had got that crazed look in his eye. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and tried to scrape away the pitying expression she knew was upon it. Of course this was about Grace. Whenever Jeff was impulsive it was always about his daughter.
"Don't Bee. I know what you'll say. That Alice is her mother. That she needs to stay in one place to go to school. That it's safer for her," Jeff clasped his hands up before him, as if praying for her understanding. "But Gracie hates her. Now that Alice's married and has two kids with this new guy, Grace is always second best. She doesn't love her. And Alice doesn't have a steady job – "
"And you do?" Bee cried, "Jeff, you honestly can't think you can tow around a kid?! I love you. I love Grace. But this...this isn't right. What is Hook promising? To blackmail the judge? To bribe him?"
"I want my daughter," he was serious, steely serious and at the point where nothing she could say would bring him back. "I'm the only real parent she's got. And finally there's a way of getting her away from Florida. She doesn't even like it there!"
"What about school, and her friends? Are you going to bring her on our cons? Jeff, you haven't thought this through."
"I have," he grasped her hands again, tugging her to him, "I have. Bee, I get to see her once a year. And I see how miserable she is. Alice won't even let me write to Grace, or call her, or email her because I'm some sort of bad example!"
"Jeff," Bee cupped his chin in hers, "You are a terrible example, love. Our life, it's not meant for – "
"I'm out."
"What?"
"After this..." he put his palms on either side of her face and gave her a kiss, "I didn't want to tell you like this...It's my last one. With the money from this heist and everything else we've made over the years, I'm set. After this one, I'm out."
Bee felt like she was about to cry again, "What?"
"After I have Grace and with the money," he spoke slowly, solemnly, "We can start a new life together. Somewhere far away where she can make new friends and go to school and have a house, and a room of her own."
He wiped away her trickling tears with his thumbs. She sniffed, just keeping from sobbing. "How much?"
"Thirty million."
Before she could scream in shock and amazement, he put a hand over her mouth and muffled her cries. Bee licked his hand to get him to release her. He flashed a shadow of his former joviality in a crooked smile and a wink. She kept her voice hushed. "Thirty million?"
"Each."
"Each!"
"Shh!"
"How are you going to get that much money? Are you breaking into the vault? That's not like you," she looked appalled.
"I can't say," Jeff said, looking truly sorry, "Look Bee, you have to go."
"Oh right," she patted down her skirt, "My fifteen minutes is up."
He stood up with her. "That's not what I meant. You have to leave. All of this. Bee...it's dangerous and...and I can't...I can't have you ruining this operation."
It hurt her to hear Jeff speaking like that. Knowing they were on different sides made her sick. She put her hands on his shoulders but could think of nothing to say. She would leave as soon as she heard back from August, the local correspondent, about Gold's son. She would let them pull off their heist and run away with their thirty million apiece. And then what? She would never see Jeff again?
"No, don't cry. Please don't cry, Bee...I hate seeing you upset."
"You're leaving me. Of course I'll be upset."
Jeff pulled her to him and they stood there, rocking side to side. Since the very start, he'd told her he was only in the business to help his daughter. With Alice holding tightly on to Grace's leash and forbidding any monetary support or contact, with a judge's signature to the deed, he'd been forced to find other ways to reach out to his little girl. It started with setting up different trust funds. Heist money went straight into those accounts so that when she turned eighteen, they would be at her disposal. Then it became more direct. Hacking into security cameras to get a glimpse of her, paying off her teachers to see how she was going at school, sending her surprise birthday gifts that didn't appear like birthday gifts at all.
When Grace turned eight, Bee and Jeff had been in Russia – watching through a live feed as spontaneous fireworks went off in all her favourite colours. Pink, purple, light blue and gold. She was at a fancy restaurant with Alice's parents, overlooking Key Biscayne. From the little boats on the water, huge shooting stars, twizzlers, sparklers and explosions in the shape of hearts and diamonds and stars burst into the night sky. It was a celebration and all the diners and beach goers stopped to gasp. Grace was delighted, even if she hadn't known it had been for her.
In the brightness and splendour of the fireworks, no one bothered to look at the boats that the fireworks shot from. On the dark of the water, thirty four vessels spelt out 'GRACE.' The whole display had taken six months to prepare and cost upwards of five million Euros. And the birthday girl hadn't even realised it was a present from the father she saw only once a year. Jeff had wept in their St Petersburg hotel room and Bee had ordered lots and lots of champagne. He'd never lied to her about his motives. He'd always said that their business was about making a solid enough earning to never need to work again and to find a contact in the underworld, who could bend the legal system to return him to his daughter. When that day came, he would be out. He'd never lied. Yet Bee still felt like he was betraying her. Knowing he was leaving hurt more than knowing he'd kept the Bellagio heist from her, or thinking she was a liability, or putting poison down her throat.
"Take care of yourself," she said sadly.
"I..."
She shook her head. He understood. No more words. No words in the world could numb the hurt. The tears were drying now. She needed to leave before they returned. She wasn't generally a weepy person. The last few days had been out of character. She hoped it wouldn't become a habit.
To business.
August was dealing with Gold's son and she had got her explanation from Jeff. Hook was the puppeteer of this whole charade – which was strange because he almost never went out into the field and he certainly didn't get his hands dirty with casinos and the like. If Neverland kids were involved, that would explain why she hadn't heard of them before. If these were newbies who usually hid behind computer screens, who hadn't been tested on a world stage, of course they would fly under her radar. It also meant there would be serious hacking involved. The roulette wheel was just one taste of the kind of technology they could use. Other things would also be vulnerable. The eye in the sky system, for one.
But all of that didn't matter. If August delivered and the estranged son returned, Bee would be out of here. And with all she knew of Jeff, she couldn't sabotage his best chance at getting everything he wanted. No matter how much it pained her, she couldn't be selfish. Not in this moment. Not now.
Yes, Bee thought as she ran up to the Circle Bar and ordered something strong. If the son returned – everyone would be happy. This was Hook's Rabbit. He'd offered Jeff his heart's desire. It then stood to reason that he'd offered August his heart's desire, and so on. Everyone working this con was getting something big in return. Someone of that team wanted it so much that they were willing to kill her to get it. And Hook had let them try. So much for 'old time's sake'. He'd sacrificed her like a lamb, Bee thought bitterly.
She wondered what stake he had in this thing.
Sipping on a brandy, and too engrossed in her own thoughts to notice the woman until she was almost beside her, Bee only just kept from jumping in surprise. The surprise quickly turned to horror. Eyeing the mink fur coat, the hollow cheeks, towering height and puffing smoke, Bee groaned. Of all the people she desperately did not want to see...
"Hello Belle French. Fearless little kitty, my, aren't you all grown up."
The woman smiled wickedly and shook the coat off, revealing thin, angular shoulders. As sharp as her cheekbones.
"Carmella de Vil, what a pleasant surprise," Bee said dully, biting back obscenities.
"All mine," she simpered and clicked her fingers for a drink. "Now, let's skip these little pleasantries shall we? A little birdie told me you're looking for Gold von Furstenberg's long lost son."
Oh, of course, de Vil would know everyone in this city. Of course August would bring her. Bastard. She should have guessed. "You can find him?"
"I ask only one thing in return," she said with a puff of that hideous zucchini coloured smoke.
Bee knew where this was going and sat back with a perfectly disinterested look while her insides screamed. "What can I do for you?"
"I want what you took from me."
"The dog?" she bluffed, feigning ignorance.
She snorted, "Breeding prize Dalmatians is only a little hobby. What I want is far more precious. You know very well what I'm talking about, kitty."
Bee forced a strained silence between them, refusing to budge her lips.
De Vil's face contorted in fury, with a splash of greed, a dash of anxiety. "Give me the key and you will have little Gold Jr on a platter."
"I don't want him on platter, I want him alive," she deadpanned, folding her arms.
De Vil waved a careless hand, "Details...details. Now, do you have it or not?"
Bee stared at her. Now wondering if she was bluffing. Surely she knew that it...oh...The key? The key that Bee had lost seven years ago?
"What if I don't want to return it?" she lied through her teeth, "I can just find someone else who knows where – "
The woman cackled, "Good luck with that, kit. One word from me and he'll just," she clicked her fingers in Bee's face. She didn't flinch. "Disappear...in a puff of," she blew that foul cigar in her direction with a snigger, "smoke."
Bee continued to stare at de Vil, deluding herself into thinking a few solid gazes and the lady would just back down. Instead, she shimmied on her coat, running her hands over it, and flashed her teeth, "You do have the key, don't you?"
Putting the woman's leering smile to memory for later recall, Bee smiled softly and blinked, "Of course."
"Then you have a week to get it to me before your boy vanishes again," the woman spoke around the custom cigarette holder. "How about until New Years?"
She watched her take out her cigarette and dunk it in Bee's drink. The end fizzled and turned the Tanqueray and tonic a vile grey. Through gritted teeth she looked up at the loathsome woman and said, "That would be fantastic."
"Mmm...that's my pretty little kitty," de Vil waggled her fingers in farewell and flounced away. Bee watched her go with a mixture of dread and relief. That she could finally breathe relatively fresh air (she never thought she'd describe casino air as fresh) was a source of great reprieve. But she pictured the last time she had seen de Vil's key and felt her stomach drop.
"Ah, crap."
OOO
Bee had left intimidated behind about ten minutes ago.
The Strip was so bright.
There were so many people.
Although, she thought with an attempt at rationality, that may have been because it was The Wynn's grand opening night (day). One of Mrs Lee's bear claws in her mouth, chewing with a manic rhythm that matched her heart, Bee was caught by how insignificant she felt. She'd much rather have been back in the groggy interiors of El Cortez, with all it's weird and wonderful clientele, drunk and smoky and full of low odds and small change. With barely a foot in the glittering lobby, she already sensed that this was something out of her league.
They had trees indoors, for God's sake.
Fairy lights made their trunks sparkle, their canopies arching over the kind of walkway she had only ever seen in wedding magazines at the dentist's. Giant displays of roses hung in spherical balls, the round shapes made up of violet or pale pink or sunset coloured rosettes. And through the green, remarkably bright almost as if the foliage was plastic, you could see the glass roof of the atrium. Made to look industrial with the criss-crossing beams painted mint, it seemed like they were in a greenhouse, minus the humidity.
The place was an air conditioned haven. Cool and breezy even as the day began to heat up with the familiar dry of the desert. She could smell all the scents of the garden. Interspersed between the blooms nestled in ankle-height flower beds, were the spade-shaped leaves of philodendrons, wafting a pineapple whiff around the place. Through the normal odours found in a hotel early in the morning (drink, smoke, old cologne and aftershave), you could still sniff something like calla lilies, something like wet paint and something like aloe vera and butterscotch. Royal blues, bright yellows and lime greens created large cartoon floral shapes upon the mosaic floor, like the set of a children's TV show.
It was all very overwhelming.
The hotel had opened at midnight, 00:00, as planned. Bee expected there had been a speech of some sort, perhaps a small jazz band to serenade the crowds inside the bronze tower, arched inwards in a concave curve, like a wry smile, or the twirl of an eyelash. Now, there was a steady stream of people strolling around. Each had a small bubble of personal space and no luxury for any more. With everyone clearing out of the clubs and casinos to gaze at the sculpted quality of the white washed roofs or the art deco lights, there was hardly enough room to step.
Someone muttered something rude under their breath as they shouldered Bee forward. She watched the bob of brown hair walk away with a scowl but began to put foot after foot nonetheless. Wrapping her arms around her chest, she kept away from the centre of the atrium. But even hugging the wall, there were honeycomb enamel chandeliers, and pink butterflies, giant and with glass cut so fine they resembled Christmas candy, to brighten up any possible shadows in corners.
At a space further down, a small audience gathered to stare at one object. Framed by peach coloured curtains, drawn aside with tassels as one would a stage show, there were two candle brackets. They glowed bright against the burgundy wall, one on either side of a giant square painting. The stream of pedestrians adjusted their trajectory around the group much like a school of fish.
Walking awkwardly in front of the critics and bemoaning that her dress seemed to camouflage with those tasselled curtains, Bee squeezed back into the crowd. Surrounded by lots of jeans and men with baggy eyes, she let the current take her to a place she vaguely registered was the casino floor. But it was not like anything she had seen before. It was as much a casino as the Gentlemens Club stage was a classical theatre. She thought, with the glass (or was it ice?) peacocks on their daises by the entrance and the oriental themed rugs in wine red, that if the place wasn't so intimidating, she might actually find herself enjoying the decor.
Bee felt herself swept up in the throngs and was walking across the floor before she even realised what she was doing. Technically, she needed to be a year older to do so, but her comforting blanket of anonymity prevented her from feeling any alarm at her dangerous lack of a nom de plume. It was odd – being in a casino without any ulterior motives. Actually walking across the floor as herself, what a novelty.
She indulged a small smile. And finally unwrapped protective arms from their perch around her body.
Jeff had given her googly eyes when she'd told him she needed to go out and get a fancy dress. But she hadn't splurged. Much. (Well to be fair, this was Mr Bellagio's hotel and even thinking of her sloppy dress code so far in their acquaintance – or lack thereof – made her blush. The man had to have standards. That he hadn't enforced them on her was a luxury that couldn't last forever. She could at least do him the courtesy of showing up presentable to his new hotel opening). It fell past her knees and was tailored in some sort of thick cotton material that didn't crinkle easily and reminded her of the type of icing used to make flowers on cakes.
The low back with its thick straps that crossed over her shoulder blades left her exposed flesh tingling. She'd exited their hotel room with her hair done up in her equivalent of a sophisticated up do, which was really just a neat high ponytail, but had since let down her locks to hide her bare neck and clavicle. The hair band was wrapped snugly around her right wrist and now she fiddled with it, rolling it up and down her lower arm and hand. She knew her eyes must be huge. She wondered if she looked as young as she felt. Here amongst the older men and couples and groups of mid-to-late twenty year-olds who were still awake at this time of night (day).
Bee's fingers itched as she passed the blackjack pits. Jeff had painstakingly taught her a new sleight of hand. It was all and good to do it over and over in the bathroom mirror, but the real test would be pulling it off in front of a professional croupier. The temptation inched its way through her chest, excruciating in its torment. She squirmed, pulling back the hair band and flicking it painfully against her wrist. Was there any way to stop an adrenaline rush once it started?
Just a few games.
A wry grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Knowing any attempt to contain it would be futile, all she could do was try and keep it from looking too predatory. Amazement at her surroundings, that was the expression she settled on. It wasn't difficult to fake, as she broke off from the main group and began to walk between the new tables. Not everyday did someone find herself walking under that kind of ceiling. Yes, amazement was easy. Eyes caught between the opulence above and the shiver-inducing new felt on the tables, Bee's smile avoided looking to similar to that of a hunting hawk's.
This was what Jeff had meant by their 'big break.' Not the small game at the Downtown casinos, but this extravagance, this whimsy made for the tourists and the affluent. What a thrill to be running the pads of her fingers down these tables – unused, most of them.
Big casinos meant even bigger security systems. State of the art. She almost giggled. The anticipation of the challenge was pumping some invigorating toxin, some poisonous drug as addicting as anything illicit, through her trembling body. Adrenaline should be illegal. It could make people do such stupid things.
Was stealing from the Wynn on its opening night (morning) stupid? Most probably. But hey, she had an in with the owner.
Her thoughts quickly spiralled out of control. The smile fading ever so slightly. Did she have an 'in' with Gold von Whatsits? Bee blinked away the unwelcome thought. Thoughts that were getting too serious for this crystal and Perspex palace.
"Would you like to play ma'am?"
Bee pretended to be young and inexperienced. The dealer explained the rules kindly, if a little hurried. Feigning incompetence, she swiftly let herself lose a fair amount of money before using Jeff's new trick on the pretty clay chips before her. Fifteen dollars turned into fifty in the blink of an eye and she hid a smile with her hair. The dealer hadn't noticed and congratulated her on her luck. Hallelujah. Hours of practice had paid off. Literally.
She pulled one hundred dollars worth of winnings towards her, faking shock and surprise. "Beginner's luck," she shrugged happily, laughing a little too high-pitched to be normal. Hmmm, she'd have to work on her tells. It wasn't a good look to be laughing triumphantly in the face of Mr Bellagio.
"Are you a beginner Miss French?"
As if on cue, spindly fingers gently brushed aside her hair and blew a stream of hot air against her ear. Bee inhaled and blinked innocently back at him. He was flanked by two suited men whose eyes were unreadable behind reflective sunglasses.
"You bought backup," she said lightly, sweeping an eye over his claret coloured silk suit, one button straining over a lean chest. Said lean chest was sporting an electric blue polo shirt, matching a patterned handkerchief folded elegantly in his lapel pocket. She twitched an eyebrow at his bizarre mix of formal and relaxed.
Waving a blasé hand at his men, they retreated several steps, expressions still sufficiently severe to be drawing some wary glances from the main crowd. Some were actually stopping to watch.
"Oh goodie, it seems I'm tonight's entertainment," she bit her lip and slowly rose to a stand.
Gold pressed his mouth into a tight line, muttering at a volume meant only for her ears, "Perhaps I should have asked the interior designer to accessorise the casino floor with a stripper pole."
Bee folded her features into one matching his seriousness. "Deplorable oversight."
With a light touch at the small of her back, feeling his fingers brush upon her flesh, he began to lead her deeper into the casino, still murmuring, "I will be sure to oversee its construction personally. We will have you twirling in the limelight yet, my dear."
"I'll hold you to that," Bee sucked the inside of her cheek, chin high.
"This way."
She found herself steered to the left, exiting through a pair of doors with the heat of Gold's palm spreading its warmth through the rest of her. It might have been her imagination, but the world suddenly seemed smaller. More intense. As if in agreement with her thoughts, the lighting of the hotel dimmed. She looked up.
Bee gasped. "Forget the pole. I would gladly swing from those in nothing but a feathered negligee."
"Negligee?" he said with twinkling eyes, "Were you born in the nineteenth century?"
Too entranced to smack him, she continued to look up at the ceiling decor and only smiled wider. "I was trying to be classy."
And classy was the beginning and the end of the ridiculous things hanging off the ceiling. Parasols swung by their handles like eccentric upside down lampshades. Their shapes varied, from the circular umbrella brimmed to those like Kurdish spires. Sienna. Amaranth. Bright coral. Brighter emerald. Some were rectangular, like Chinese lanterns, others like patterned Russian domes, some were tasselled and Arabian, others full of warm bronze tones found on Ottoman swords, their metallic buckles and golden buttons echoing something of Classical Greece. Lots of lilac and black, quartz grey lace and ivory embroidery made some seem like they belonged on the Silk Road.
Like an Istanbul bazaar, but wrong way up. Like midnight markets in Nuremburg or Vienna, covered in snow and moonlight with the smell of hot chocolate and cream puffs.
From invisible speakers came the tinkle of bells. And was that eerie plucking some stringed instrument? She'd read of places like these in books, the sounds of the dulcimer, a boy's chapel choir – angel voices that permeated the bustle of the hotel and made it disappear for a few seconds. The soft trickle of a water wall, liquid flowing like mercury over river stones. Two curved escalators like a grand staircase in a French chateau invited her down to a lower level.
Mouth agape, she stepped onto one of them and let it carry her, the parasol ceiling rising higher and higher above her as she sank down the giant vestibule. Walking through to an outdoor pool area, bathed in the dawn, she glimpsed the rolling hills of a golf course. In the middle of the city.
"Gold..."
He was looking at her.
No, scrutinising. Inspecting. Taking judgement from.
She squirmed, the sentence drifting off at the sight of that calm, cold expression of detachment. Behind closed off eyes, she could imagine his mind was whirling. What was he thinking about...?
"It's lovely," she offered in a small voice.
The cloudiness cleared and he nodded once, as if satisfying a mild curiosity. Bee placed a hand on his shoulder, eyes narrowed in what she hoped was a knowing fashion.
"Oh, don't look so disinterested. You're happy I like it."
He looked askance at her but only stuck that crooked nose of his further into the air. Oh...Her hand snaked its way around his shoulders and she pressed her face up to his neck.
"You were worried I wouldn't," she placed a soft kiss on the flesh beneath his ear and felt him shudder, then stiffen, turning his face an inch in her direction.
"Stop looking so pleased with yourself, Miss French," he hissed, but drew her gently into his side. After a beat, he whispered, "Thank you for coming."
"You see me at work all the time," she gazed around at what could only be described as water and marble and space. Lots of space. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was upon a mountaintop somewhere, away from civilisation. Away from people and their problems. "It's only fair I visited yours."
Her comment came out dreamier than she'd planned and she cleared her throat, forcing some measure of control back into her head. Gold must think that she was such a naive idiot, frightened by extravagance and reduced to mumbles by a little (big) pool.
Gold placed her on a deck chair and, just to tell him she resented being 'placed' anywhere, she relocated to a hammock beneath a cabana. With a hand in his pocket, leaning casually against his cane and surveying her contrariness with a twitching cheek, Gold stood in the shadows of the cabana curtains. She rolled her eyes and reclined, gesturing at the equivalent bed beside her.
At his hesitation, she blinked her eyes shut and chuckled, "You're costing me a night of pay. The least you could do is sit where I want to sit."
When she failed to feel him move, she cracked open an eye, "Oh come on. You'll get to manipulate however many million people come through these doors every day from now until oblivion. Get them to buy your stuff and gamble on your floor and sleep in your beds. Would it kill you to not be in control of everything, just this once?"
He watched and stood over her awkwardly, cane between his legs. She turned her head and continued to look at him through one eye, an arm thrown over her forehead.
"You're like a fish."
"Are you implying I go well with garlic and chives?"
"This is your hotel. You own it. All of this. And you look...uncomfortable. As if this is all new."
"It is all new. It has only been open for four hours."
"That's not what I mean," she squinted her one eye and struggled to explain. "You're rich. You're richer than rich."
He pursed his lips. "True. But I had hoped our lessons together had taught you more than that."
"Lessons? Is that what you're calling it?" she laughed, a hollow sound, disliking this sudden coolness in his demeanour. All because she'd refused to sit where he'd wanted her to. "Teaching the kid from the wrong side of the tracks? The one who's so stupid, so in need of your direction, because she obviously can't take care of herself. What was it again? 'If I didn't learn your tricks, I'd be dead in three months?'"
Her questions, or accusations, remained unanswered. She could see that the moment her voice had started to harden, Gold had closed himself off. He got to his feet as she lifted herself on her elbows. Muttering something about enjoying her time, that there were promotional offers in one of the restaurants, he left. She listened to the sound of the cane until it was lost in the roar of an aeroplane engine above them.
This was Gold through and through. He was like loaded dice. You had to throw it in a very particular way to hit the numbers. A lazy wrist, a mistimed tumble and the throw would be useless. Bee stood up with a sigh. A month of increasing her alcohol absorption capacity through Gold's ridiculous people-reading betting game, and filling their stomachs with kolache and doughnuts in the wee hours of the morning, had taught her nothing about his ways. She'd yet to turn how to flick her fingers to get him to roll sixes. Every other move she made was a misstep.
It was unbearable.
Made even more unbearable because she knew, knew, that he wanted something more from her than a diversion every night. She was more than a bit of flesh and some conversation. She wanted a friendship. Or maybe, if not friends, at least a companion of some sort. And he did too. He had to. He was a busy man – who knew how busy with the new opening and all the general running of his businesses. Yet he visited her almost every night. He –
"Kitty."
She inhaled to speak and began gagging. A tall woman simpered in her direction, flanked by two European men.
"De Vil," she coughed, waving a hand in front of her face to dispel the smoke.
"Reconsidered our agreement yet, little girl?" she blew another ring in her direction. Bee wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing her eyes water from the sting and turned her face away.
"No."
"Pity. Betty Lou misses her son."
"You're missing your money, you mean."
"So young, so jaded," she said in a sing-song. "And anyhow, you're working back that money at my club. Or...you could just return the dog you have in that little dingy motel room of yours."
"No."
De Vil cackled and drew her cashmere trench closer around her, the cartilage in her neck sticking out like fins. "Stubborn too. Draw in your claws, kit. I own this town. You're just another one of my puppets. You should return the creature and be done with it. Why put yourself through all of this for...what's the word? Ah, principle. That is why you're doing all this, right dear? Principle?"
"You were starving the dog."
"And you were trespassing on my estate."
"I was lost."
"You were spying," de Vil lifted a corner on her lip into a vicious sneer and sticking her face forward until they were practically sharing the same breathing air, "Let's move pass this nonsense about the dog. Why were you really poking around on my land, Annabelle Francis?"
Bee responded to her ugly look with a beaming one of her own, making sure to make her face as radiant as possible. "My employer."
De Vil pulled back with a flick of her hair and she dismissed her bodyguards with a jerk of her wrist, the cigarette holder balanced between middle and fore finger. Once they were well back and out of hearing range, de Vil actually smiled. It took all of Bee's self-control not to widen her eyes. A smiling de Vil was far scarier than a cruel one. Cruel she could handle. She'd been dealing with cruel for a long time. Happy sent everything to a whole new level of creepy.
"This is no mystery employer, is there? But no matter, I'll find out what you're up to sooner rather than later," she said, looking down her long nose at Bee before turning to walk away, "I should warn you – Gold's a bad man."
"He goes to your club, of course he's a bad man," she deadpanned at the woman's retreating back.
De Vil whirled back around, smiling gleefully. "And yet you're besotted with him, poor darling."
"What?" She wasn't quick enough to contain the spurt of denial, almost anger, at the comment. De Vil suddenly looked very, very smug. Bee's heart was racing. Besotted...?
"When you blush, you look like a princess," de Vil cooed, drawing a long nail down her cheek. She pinched it, much harder than necessary and Bee wriggled out of her hand with a scowl. The older woman straightened with a nasty look in her eye and a twist of her lips. "You look like a princess and you disgust me."
"Right back at you," Bee agreed through a locked jaw.
"I will find out your game," she said, walking away again. "And when I do, you will be very sorry." The two men appeared as if from air. De Vil stopped as they flanked her once more, and looked over her shoulder. "On second thoughts, you can keep the damned dog. Serve out your punishment then, if it means you get to be naked for him every night."
Watching her go with a silent breath of relief, Bee fumbled in her bag for a pair of keys.
So she still hasn't realised. Interesting.
Running the ball of her thumb down the key ring, Bee walked around the perimeter of the pool area. She crossed to a manmade waterfall, hiding herself under the shadow of one of the rocky crags. She glanced around while unscrewing the lid of the gold and red crocodile skinned match lighter. Instead of a stick, with the bulb at the end, ready to be struck across the flint, it was piece of intricate metalwork. Pulling its beam out just enough to convince herself it was still there, she glanced at the aged iron, and the bell jar, twirling into the rosette, with a tiny crown atop it.
De Vil was right. It hadn't been about the dog. At least not entirely. Hearing its whimpers had been enough to convince her of a detour off her plan. But the thing about detours was that they always brought you back to the original destination. She'd planned to take the key. And she ended up with both dog and key. In hindsight the dog was a bonus. It was a distraction. De Vil still had no idea the precious iron beam was missing.
Which was good.
Given that Bee still had no idea what it opened.
But it was definitely what her father had described. The bell jar. The crown.
"The Prince's Key."
Bee stepped out of her temporary refuge and returned to exploring the hotel. Somehow, it lacked its original glamour. Somehow, the place seemed too big now. Like its high walls would fall in at any moment and crush her. Like there were too many nooks and crannies for security cameras to hide. She sighed.
The next step, figuring out what it opened, why it was important and why her father had told her to find it. Her father; soldier, leader, patriot, inventor, genius. Demoted for reasons that had never been explained to her, and now confined to a bed to be nursed by the best care she could afford (which up until recently had been very poor). Her father had told her a story about the Prince's Key, masquerading as a fairytale, one she'd been familiar with as a child. It reared its ugly head during her mid-teens, when she suddenly realised the story had more than just a kernel of truth. Then after the stroke, it had lodged itself inside her brain – that idea that she should go off and actually find it. A seed that was fed and watered by the skills learnt at Neverland and Jeff's suggestion. The perfect excuse to leave the organization.
To leave behind everything and come to Vegas on a search.
Bee felt a twinge of guilt. Jeff didn't know about the key. She'd tried to tell him dozens of times, but where to start? It was just like his past with Alice. There was more than what he'd told her. But how to put words to emotions, and heartbreak and hopes and foolish dreams and fears – grown and harvested over years and years? It was a near impossible task. He suspected, of course. He was her closest friend. Her 'best friend', she would have called it if she was still twelve. He could tell when she kept things from him. He hadn't commented when a Dalmatian puppy greeted him by jumping all over the walls and onto his face one evening after returning from his surveillance session. He hadn't commented on her key ring. Expensive and unlike her in style.
It wouldn't be long though. Once she found what it opened, they'd leave the city and go somewhere easier to hit – St Louis, perhaps. She'd tell him everything once she saw what it opened. Because really, there couldn't be that many skeleton keyholes in this day and age.
OOO
Bee was alone. She followed a sun bleached stone wall to her left, parallel to the pavement and the empty road. Everything shone with a brighter than bright light. Wishing she'd had the foresight to wear sunglasses, she switched the hand holding a rather large black camera and wiped her sweaty palm against a pair of cargo pants, swallowing around a dry tongue.
"Soy la fotógrafa," she muttered. "Soy yo, la fotógrafa? Yo soy la fotógrafa..."
Brows drawing together and wincing up at the merciless midday sun, Bee plucked at the front of her shirt, now sticking to her flesh. She should have just spared the money on the taxi. Who knew that number 7000 was so much further down Tomiyashu Lane than she'd predicted. And who'd know that this street contained nothing but giant compounds that took ten minutes to walk the length of, each with their own high walls and imposing metal gates. She dared to stop at one of them and peer through the bars, only to find herself looking at a substantial stretch of gravelled driveway with no front door in sight. She'd grimaced at the security camera half hidden in the leaves of a hedge, wondering what it must be like to live in a place where the trip from your front hall to your yard was worthy of an expedition.
"Rosa está lejos enferma...ella está baja enfermedad...?"
Wiping her forehead and wondering if thinking about her high school level Spanish was, if possible, making her sweat even more, Bee wracked her brains for the proper grammar. Already at a disadvantage by not looking quintessentially 'Mexican', she'd have to be speaking flawlessly to fool her target. Rosa is off sick...
"Ella está de baja por enfermedad, así que está vosotros fotógrafa," she murmured some more, playing around with the accent and the emphasis on certain syllables – trying to mimic the way Jeff had sounded. Damn him and his multilingual finesse. Rosa is sick today, I will be your photographer...
The wall ended abruptly, falling away to reveal towering gates and a tiny intercom on the far side. Bee took a deep breath and did a casual swipe for cameras. She spotted a CCD up a fir tree, camouflaged against the bistre bark and quickly became self conscious of her appearance. Clearing her throat, she pressed the button and tried not to glare too hard at the little black bulge just above the button. They could see her. And all she could do was look at her distorted reflection in the domed plastic, trying not to scowl. 0.14 inch lens, most probably, powered by DC12v, so easy to hack. Did these people really think their compound had any kind of security?
It was official. Walking for long periods of time drove her mad. Here she was, about to initiate a new scam, her first ever long con in fact, and instead of running through all of their prep, she was having a face off with an inanimate object. Oh, she really should have taken the cab.
"De Vil compound," a voice full of static addressed her.
Bee put on her practiced accent, "Parilla-Arenberg Realty."
"Rosa Ortega?"
"Erm, no," she dropped into Spanish, crossing her fingers, "En realidad, ella está de baja por enfermeded."
The woman seemed to hesitate before replying in heavily accented Spanish, "¿Ustedes estáis la sustituta?"
Ustedes?
Oh. Latin America. "Sí. This right place?"
"Yes, we've been expecting you," she sounded relieved at the return to English, "Come right in."
The gates began to move, opening inwards and inviting her to step upon the tiled driveway, wide enough for two cars to travel comfortably side by side. It took her a moment to snap her slack jaws together and take the first step. Palm fronds waved her inside, their leafy arms swaying slightly in a breeze too soft to be felt at ground level. Hedges trimmed in cubes and spheres outlined the driveway, a natural barrier between her feet (suddenly loud and stomping in the silence) and the carefully maintained lawns on the other side. The green seemed unreal. Ahead, Bee could see a large pool, with five spurting tongues of water. The driveway opened up, forming a roundabout, circling the artificial pond, raised upon a stone dais. Several feet of grass separated her from the pool as she kept to the path, imagining that all sorts of expensive cars drove around this place at five miles per hour.
Focus!
This wasn't about revelling in the grandness of the white clay; sprawling estate topped with terracotta roof tiles baked a delicate coral. Or admiring the expansiveness of the greenery, flourishing in the middle of the dessert. Or wondering, and hoping, if that path that skewed off to the right really did lead to the equestrian centre like Jeff's surveillance had promised. Horses! And there was a golf course too. A special villa just for the de Vil's prized Dalmatians and a series of waterfalls and caves, where a grotto-like guest house had been carved right into the rock like in the Flintstones. Or The Hobbit.
Bee clenched her fists and shook some sense into her distracted head. It would do no good to marvel at the size of this place. It only made looking for her prize that much harder. So many hiding places. She gripped the camera with wet fingers and ran through her persona again.
Good thing the woman had reminded her of 'ustedes.' Bee had forgotten Latin Americans didn't use 'vosotros' when saying 'your.'
"Soy está ustedes fotógrafa, soy está ustedes fotógrafa...Me llamo Beatriz, yo trabajo en la agencia."
I'm your photographer. I work with the agency. Beatriz. My name is Beatriz...
Taking the granite steps with as little trepidation as possible, Bee smiled wryly, realising that pretending to be Spanish was possibly the only time she could use her goddamned real name without getting those amused little grins sugared in equal amounts of pity and spite. Well, almost her real name anyhow. Beatrix; Beatriz – practically the same thing yet the latter still managed to sound more appealing than the first.
"Beatriz Munoz, en la agencia. With agency," she rolled her new voice around her tongue, pressing a metal door bell that started a tastefully fairy-like ringing behind the rippled glass doors. "En Parilla-Arenberg, Beatriz Munoz, ustedes fotógrafa esta mañana."
A woman, assumedly the woman who'd spoken from the gates, opened the door. Bee took little notice of her appearance, immediately starting to canvas the place. It was different, being here in person. Usually, she'd be looking at a scene through the eyes of a camera, aerial and in the corners. Switching between screens with her thumbs, while speaking down a microphone into the earpiece of an asset. The idea was the same, she suspected. Whether canvassing from a distance or looking for weak spots and danger points on the ground.
The foyer was spacey, covered in dappled granite tiles. On one wall hung two grey scrolls, a picture of some Egyptian amphorae on each. The place smelled like Somerset Collection (a mall in Metro Detroit she'd had the pleasure of going to one every year during Christmas, when the increase in window shoppers made her own lack of means less embarrassing). Like scented candles with fancy fragrances called 'cucumber & casaba' or 'vanilla almond', the faint scent of new leather, old paint, spring pine aerosol, and whatever lemon cleaning product they used to keep the floors sparkling. The place smelled like expensive things, with a pervading odour of cigarettes and heady tea leaves.
It was all so unfamiliar. She couldn't imagine her father having anything to do with a place like this. And yet...
"...during the Classical Age I believe, before Alexander the Great went and –" Bee gave the woman a blank look and she suddenly stopped speaking with a flush of apology. "Lo siento."
It took a beat for her to realise the woman had taken her staring at the Egyptian scrolls to be interest. Not that they weren't fascinating, if they were real of course. Bee didn't have enough experience to say for sure. Her daydreaming had been mistaken for incomprehension. A perk of playing the recent migrant, Bee thought, being able to pretend language was a barrier and be forgiven for things that would usually draw questions. A useful thought to be further investigated at a later date. She tucked it away and played along.
"¿Perdona?"
"Um...no me había...que...um...me peudo hacer entender normalmente, señorita," she laughed awkwardly and began to lead the way. Bee wasn't paying very much attention to the woman's words, much more focused on trying to figure out where a valuable key would be hidden. To her dismay, she'd already counted half a dozen places and she'd barely taken three steps inside the house.
"No te preocupes," she said vaguely, head whirling in all directions as she was led through the house. "I take photos. No worries."
Her accent slipped just a little and she reminded herself that unless she thought carefully about her words, she might as well say nothing at all. The woman didn't seem to notice the mistake. Bee finally looked at her guide and saw that she was tight, worried. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out why, never being all that fantastic with reading body language, much preferring the traditional form of reading – in a book, with printed letters.
"Have you been working with the agency long?" the woman asked, as the silence reached breaking point. Bee made a noncommittal sound and wondered just how much further they needed to go, her unease growing the more she explored the place. Too many drawers for a tiny key to be placed. It could be in plain sight. Had she already walked passed it? That would make this little excursion a pointless act of unnecessary exercise. What was she thinking, coming to this estate and trying to find one object amongst thousands?
Would she even manage to shake the housekeeper (or was it assistant?) long enough to do a search?
She doubted it.
They stopped outside a pair of wooden doors and the lady gave it a light rap, pressing her ear to it. A muffled reply came from within and Bee furiously emptied her head of everything except her persona. What with the doubts and the on-the-spot canvassing and the languages, it was beginning to be an impossible task.
"The photographer from the real estate come to take photos of the house, Madame."
Bee saw herself waved in. A woman had her back turned, reclining on a large couch upholstered in some kind of fur. From her direction wafted a rancid smell, a sort of herbal cigar that made spirals in the air and brought stinging tears to Bee's eyes. She blinked rapidly, looking up and around at the soaring oak roof in this room that resembled Canadian woodland cabins she'd read about in nature magazines. Walking around a lion in mid-stride, it took her several seconds of staring to realise it was alive.
Well, not alive.
Dead. Very dead. But real. Stuffed. It's nose still dewy even if its eyes had gone dark. Bee only just tensed her muscles in time to hold back the shiver. She lifted her head to the right and saw a giraffe. Beyond that, a brown bear standing on its hind legs. Deer heads were hung on the walls. And there, an eagle flying from the rafters. In a corner she spotted a rhino, no, two. A mating pair by the looks of it – one with horns, the other without. Weren't those very endangered? Was it legal to hunt breeding adults? Another step forward brought her head beneath a rack of candles. Chains hanging down from the ceiling held up an iron circlet. Candle brackets were welded into its rim and echoed a medieval dungeon.
This time, she wasn't quick enough to contain the shudder.
"Where is this photographer gone to? Has she died?" the voice cried, head still turned away and staring into the embers of a dying fire. Bee was just about to wonder why they'd bothered to light the fireplace with the heat outside, only to realise that this trophy room was as chilly as a freezer. Was it perhaps to preserve the animals? The idea was sickening.
She nearly crashed into a wolf, frozen in a snarl, its gums showing, in her haste to reach the woman.
"Clumsy," she drawled as Bee drew even with the chair. Suddenly uncertain what to do with her hands, she clasped them both around the camera and looked down at her feet. Feeling the woman's eyes on the crown of her bowed head, she swallowed and heard the sound echo. Could sound even echo in a wooden room?
"Are you Miss Ortega?"
She hadn't even attempted a Spanish pronunciation. It came out in a very derogatory 'Oh-Tee-Gar' and Bee felt offended for the woman whose place she'd taken (and who Jeff had, incidentally, made very sick with some conveniently placed laxatives).
"My name is Beatriz," she mumbled, hoping that by mixing her words some of the disdain in her voice could be disguised. The house was beautiful. This woman, in the few minute she'd been in her presence, was definitely not. She felt she understood the tension in the housekeeper-assistant. Bee didn't envy her job.
"Beatriz what, darlin'?" she blew out a smoke ring and aimed it right at her face.
Bee narrowed her eyes and looked up, refusing to let such a base distraction tactic shake her. She hadn't spent two years under Hook's tutelage, no small feat in itself, to back down to a class A bully like Carmella de Vil.
"Beatriz la fotógrafa," she said with a stubborn chin. "Yo trabajo en la agencia, my last name is no importante."
De Vil balanced the cigarette holder on her fingertips as she bore her beady eyes into Bee's head. Then, with an almost elegant movement, she rose and towered over her in a tight fitting pencil skirt and feathered shawl of some sort. Tipping Bee's chin upwards with long fingers, de Vil smiled and said in a silky voice "I like you. You have spitfire. Not enough of that around here."
She grabbed Bee's elbow and began to drag her out of the room into a hallway. "Such a shame, you know, I left Britain to escape those kinds of sentiments. Decorum is overrated, and here I was thinking America would hold some souls who didn't have a care about what they said."
French doors slid aside and unveiled a spacey lounge with a bar in the corner, fanned by a set of high chairs. There was a billiards table with mustard coloured felt taking up all of one side. De Vil continue to speak, arms waving and gesturing like an angry seagull, "But no. It's all, madame this and missus that and would you like me to wipe your arse with this warm towlette? Urgh, it's enough to drive one mad. But that chin of yours, very refreshing."
Bee found herself dumped unceremoniously onto one of the barstools. De Vil stuck the cigarette between her teeth and swept to the other side, about to prepare herself a drink.
The housekeeper-assistant bustled forwards with a, "Oh no, madame, let me!"
De Vil shot her such a dirty look, Bee wondered that the woman didn't melt right into the floor. She blew smoke in the woman's face and turned to Bee, "See that? Grovelling, Anita, it's called grovelling. Don't you have some file or other to organise away from our presence?"
The woman, Anita, nervously backed from the room. De Vil watched her with a smug expression. Dumping a glass of something brown in front of Bee, she leaned forward on her elbows and cocked an eyebrow.
"So, Beatriz la fotógrafa, what are you doing in my house?" her voice almost sleazy.
Keeping one wary eye on the drink, "To take the photos."
De Vil snorted and took Bee's hand, flipping it until her wrist was facing up. She ran hot fingertips over the lines on her palm. It took buckets of self-control to keep from taking those fingers and crushing them in her hand, throwing a good left swing over the counter while she was at it. Never in her life was she so certain she despised someone after such little conversation.
"Heart line begins beneath the middle finger, selfish in love, I see," de Vil crooned, "With lots of little lines crossing through – emotional trauma. Your head line is curving, so a creative mind but your life line is broken. Major injury in your past, or your future perhaps, and sudden lifestyle changes. And this line. Deep and long. They say it tells when someone is strongly controlled by fate. And this one is short and shallow. Trust issues; compulsive liar."
Bee slowly put the camera in her other hand on the bench top, letting her hijacked fingers sit in de Vil's loose grip. The expression of the woman's face was one of profound satisfaction. They sat in silence for several moments, Bee's mind working in overdrive, trying to see if de Vil was bluffing, or if she actually knew.
"I am just fotógrafa," she decided at last.
De Vil's smile grew even wider. "Fotógrafa? Fotógrafa. Accent on the 'gra.' You've been saying it as fotógrafa. Amateur mistake."
Bee blushed, breathing deeply to control the urge to run. Was she a dead man? De Vil did nothing but look down at Bee's bare forearm. Deliberately, she took the cigarette holder and put the burning end to Bee flesh. Not a muscle in her face twitched. She even stopped herself from biting her lip. De Vil looked up from her handiwork with triumphant eyes only to see the steely set of Bee's mouth. Her face fell and twisted, she practically threw Bee's arm back at her, rising from her stool with a flourish, her neck elongated and proud.
"What do you want?"
Bee smiled contentedly, even as she glanced down to inspect the damage on her skin. It stung, badly. A white circle ringed in red that had already begun to swell. Afraid that de Vil will see the flash of pain across her face, she quickly looked up, but the woman had paced to a television set into the wall, flicking through the remote with impatience, calling back over her shoulder, "You must know you won't get it, whatever it is you're here for."
She knows.
Alighting from her own stool leaving her drink untouched, Bee walked towards de Vil, now lazing back onto a couch. She took a long path around the furniture, trying to decide if she wanted to be American, Australian or British. De Vil herself had a British accent, though even Bee's minimal experience in fieldwork could have told her it was most likely fake.
"I just wanted to see your lovely house," she said with a southern twang, sitting herself on a cushion three feet from the older woman.
"You're a snarky little kitty aren't you?"
"Decorum is overrated," Bee echoed, watching daytime television fly by on the screen.
"Funny too," she laughing, a dry sound, "So very funny."
She sat forward and this time Bee had enough command over her pain to meet her eyes. "What do you want, kitty?"
This must be what the others described as the moment when 'the momentum changed.' For some reason, she knew that de Vil was far more unnerved by her presence than she was letting on. And the fact that she was asking Bee what she wanted again and again told her it was more than just empty rhetoric. De Vil actually didn't know. And not only did she not know, she was clearly drawing a complete blank.
The perfect target for a good con. She absentmindedly ran a finger over the burn. De Vil's eyes flickered to her arm. Her involuntary twitch forward to see the damage she'd inflicted gave Bee a very clear view of her cleavage.
Bee's breath caught and she stared at the chain around the woman's neck. The key.
Well, that made things simpler. No need to go on a treasure hunt around the entire estate. All she needed was to get the woman to remove the necklace. Or take it off for her.
"You're a wealthy woman, de Vil," she began, her tone light and gently suggestive.
Leaning back with a roll of her eyes, de Vil took a cheque book from a drawer in the coffee table, "How disappointing, I thought you'd be more interesting than that. How much do you want, girl?"
"$100,000."
Better to set the standard high.
De Vil cackled and abruptly stopped when she saw the serious look on Bee's face. "Kitty, I could just as well pay you nothing and have you killed by sundown today."
A rolling of nervousness upset her stomach but she bravely ploughed on, "You and what army?"
De Vil was laughing again, wiping tears from her eyes when she saw the look of incomprehension that Bee couldn't hide. "Oh, didn't your employer tell you who I was?"
"My employer..." she repeated slowly.
The woman snickered some more and stood up again, sweeping back to the bar. She seemed incapable of keeping in one place for very long. Bee had to twist around to keep her in sight. She was pouring something from a wine glass and taking nibbles from a cheese platter. She stuffed a cracker in her mouth and spoke around it, "Is it Claude, that old pervert? Is he after my secrets again?"
When Bee didn't reply, de Vil winked and popped a raspberry into her mouth, "Oh, I see. It's Lady Tremaine. You know we were friends once, in Paris, during the seventies."
"Fascinating," Bee said sarcastically. De Vil looked up and scowled. "How much are they paying you?"
"Less than $100,000."
"To spy on my kennels and snap some photos or something banal like that? Urgh, boring."
"If I raise my demands up to $150,000, will that make it more interesting?"
"Don't try to be clever, child, it doesn't suit you."
"I think I'm very clever."
"Fotógrafa, not fotógrafa..." De Vil lifted her eyebrows knowingly.
"Tomayto, tomahto. Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe I wanted you to figure it out. Maybe I wanted a...bonus, let's call it."
"Ooh!" de Vil was giggling again, and licking cream cheese off her fingers, "Kitty has claws. How delightful. You wanted me to offer you a bribe to switch sides. How utterly delightful. Okay, $100,000 for your troubles – if you also feed some let's say misleading photographs in your employer's direction. Whoever they are."
"You want me to give them wrong info about your Dalmatians?"
De Vil was positively beaming, flouncing over with her champagne glass in one thin wrist and leaning down to Bee's height on the couch. "Exactly. Tell them I feed them oatmeal and androstenedione. Oh! Is it the good doctor?"
"Doctor?"
"Yes," she hissed with a grin, "Dr Facilier...don't you think he has a fantastic chin?"
"Fantastic," Bee repeated, peering down the front of de Vil's dress at the key. She suddenly felt hands grip her jaw and force her upwards.
"I never thought I'd be telling a sixteen year old girl that my eyes are up here," de Vil grimaced.
Bee thought of two things are once. First, that de Vil would realise it was all a play to get the key and Bee would be very dead very soon. And second, that she certainly didn't look sixteen and it was insulting to be mistaken for a pubescent teenager. Since de Vil hadn't drawn a gun and pointed it at her head yet, Bee relaxed and simply shrugged. Perhaps she was so used to wearing the necklace she forgot it was even there, like earrings or a watch. And, as she observed the woman float away and light another one of her vile cigarettes (Bee's forearm tingled), being thought younger than you were wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Underestimation could be a powerful weapon.
"So, kitty," she inhaled some of the smoke with a look of pure bliss, her eyes still shut, "Which one of my dogs did they want the dirt on?"
"Which one do you want to give them dirt on?"
De Vil cracked open an eyelid and grinned, walking towards a sliding glass door which she opened, thankfully blowing out her smoke into the open air. A wave of heat hit Bee as she followed the woman out of the air conditioned home and onto the grounds. They must be heading towards the famous doggie villa.
"You know, Beatriz la fotógrafa, I think I like you," de Vil was walking and writing in her cheque book. She scrawled a signature and tore out a piece of paper. "I think I like you very much."
Bee made to grab the slip of paper but de Vil only laughed at her. "Not yet. After I have watched you send the information I want you to send, then I'll give this to you."
"How do you know I won't just tell my 'employer' the truth that you gave me false data?"
Tucking the cheque in between her breasts, de Vil reached over and took Bee's hand again. She tapped her fingers lightly against her palm and sang, "Because you don't have an honest bone in your damned body. Telling the truth to someone who's paying you less than I am from the sheer goodness of your heart? Ha! My darlin', your heart's as black as mine. I see it in your hands. I see it in your eyes."
Bee found herself walking down a path, passing manicured lawns and fenced off paddocks with sable horses grazing under the shades of fir trees. Hand in hand. But de Vil was still talking, blowing smoke rings up at the sky.
"One day, after you're done lying and cheating to the world. You'll be rich, rich like me. And have a stable and pools and as many Gurkha Black Dragon cigars as you bloody well want in a big house with a big Jacuzzi on a non-extradition island of your choice."
Staring down at the ground, she frowned. There was something worrying in the certainty of the woman's claims. She sounded almost...proud. Even as she fought a mental battle, one that involved her father and the key against Hook and all she'd discovered in herself at Neverland, Bee never took her hand out of Carmella de Vil's grasp.
OOO
Gold had it.
She sat there staring at her defiled drink, de Vil's cigarette sinking to the bottom looking like some deformed worm. It was hideous. She was hideous. And that key. Oh, that key. It was anything but hideous. How had her father described it? That's right:
Once upon a time, there was a key – forged by the Silver-Hearted Dragon and magicked into existence by a Wicked Witch. Strong as oxen head and as beautiful as Bougainvillea. So precious the fairies fault wars over who could touch it.
How strange, that her father's voice – grown into something of a distant memory – lost amongst all the more recent, more vivid sights and sounds in her life, was suddenly clear as her own heartbeat. She felt guilty. Guilty and awful for forgetting the voice of her only parent. She'd lain awake for hours on her more insomniac nights, trying to recall the exact pitch and timbre of his tone, with little success. Yet here, where so much superfluous noise (that constant jingling and ringing of the slots) should have distracted her, his words came to her, like a recording on an old cassette.
Gold had stolen the key off her and she'd assumed he'd given it back to de Vil, at an elevated price. That had been the ultimate betrayal. That had been why Bee had left Vegas. She put her face in her hands and stifled a scream. Apparently, he hadn't given the key to de Vil. Which meant he still had it. All she had to do was walk up to him and say, give me the key in return for your son. Of course he'd hand it over. Gold was torturing people to get to his son. He would definitely hand over a key. And then Bee would be free from here. Free to run away and leave Jeff and his operation in peace.
But the key. That was the problem. Why had she stolen it in the first place? Oh...oh...no. Absolutely not. She couldn't. Could she...?
"A fresh drink for you," the waitress said, putting down a new gin and tonic. Bee nodded her thanks and looked suspiciously at it. She hadn't ordered it. No way was she touching that.
About to stand up, she noticed the napkin peeking from under the glass and pulled it out. Lipstick. Cherry red.
GET THE KEY AND SAVE YOURSELF
Bee shot up from her seat and looked around. Who had bought her that drink? She flipped the napkin inside out and saw nothing else. Crumpled in her fist, she chased the waitress. It was the same one who had served her when she was with Mary Margaret. Coincidence?
"Hey!"
The waitress turned around, surprised and wary.
"Hey, who ordered that?" she pointed back to her table. The waitress shrugged, bewildered. "You can't remember or you don't know?"
"Well, all the orders get taped to the wall of the bar and we just pick them up with they're finished. I thought you'd ordered it, ma'am."
Bee held up the napkin enclosed in her hand, "What about the napkins, didn't you have to grab one from a box or something?"
"No, ma'am," the waitress said, looking more and more alarmed, "They're placed on the trays like that. A napkin with a glass on top."
"Where are the trays located?"
She pointed to a corner of the bar, where several round trays were in a row, each with different orders upon them. The waitress' walked up to the line and picked up different trays, seemingly at random. They would then return them to a pile on the end, when a man from behind the counter would take them away and put a new order on it, returning it to the queue. Anyone could walk up and tamper with a drink or switch a napkin. But still, the same waitress as last time?
"What's your name?"
"Morgan," she answered, sounding more like she was asking a question, "le Fay."
"Right. Morgan le Fay," Bee patted her on the shoulder and took a cautious step closer to the taller woman. "Just...Cherry...I'll call you Cherry...look, it's not that simple. I can't just ask for it back."
"I'm sorry?" Morgan looked around. Some of the other customers were staring now. Bee continued to look her in the eye, feeling slightly foolish but knowing that the person who had given her the note – her new frenemy – would be listening.
"I want to run. But I need to be able to live with myself wherever I end up running to. And that key opens something that needs to stay locked and hidden away. If I give it back to her, I will never forgive myself."
"Ma'am?"
"Thanks Morgan," Bee took out five dollars and pushed it into her palm. She left the waitress standing there, looking like a stunned mullet.
The key. The key.
OOO
Stuff of Interest: The Wynn hotel opened April 28th 2005. De Vil's house is 7000 Tomiyashu Lane - the Primm Compound. It's worth $16.5million and is still on the market (I think) if anyone is casually looking to buy a home next to the Sultan of Brunei's estate. I hope Bee's little trick to de Vil isn't too confusing. She's pretending to be a spy for a competitor who then gets paid off to feed false information back about the dogs, when in fact, all she wants is the key around de Vil's neck.
And this is officially half way through the story! All the initial set up is finito and we can finally get to resolving some of this shiz.
To all the people who reviewed or PM'd me to hurry the fuck up...thank you! You actually did help me get over my angst for starting my senior year :) I really wish fanfic . net allowed you to respond to guests/anons. Some of you guys ask questions and I have no idea how to get back to you! Drop your twitter handle if you have one and I can tweet you a reply. I've decided to do NaNoWriMo so expect 50 000 words by the end of November. Yes. You're welcome. Am I forgiven for my lack of updating last month? A bit? Yes? Still no?
Okay :(