"All Four of the Sergeants-Major"
May. 21st, 2022 07:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"All Four of the Sergeants-Majors
9/11/1984
I.
Lip-reading was one of many skills that Jeremy Bane had paid several experts to teach him when he had first started his Midnight War career. He still took refresher lessons two or three times a year. Like pickpocketing or voice mimicry, lip-reading expertise faded with disuse. Sitting in the shadows under an awning of the cafe, thirty feet away from the two men at a table in the sun, the Dire Wolf was able to follow most of what Doc Valentine was saying.
It helped that the old reprobate was so melodramatic. Valentine drawled and put so much emphasis into every word that his speech was easy to read. Bane got the gist that the grifter was hard selling his pheromone spray, which he absolutely guaranteed would stir lust in any woman but particularly in those under twenty-five. From what the Dire Wolf deciphered, Doc Valentine claimed that this formula had been created as a therapy drug for trauma victims but had been kept secret because of its potential for abuse. A small amount had been smuggled out of an FDA lab and gotten into Valentine's hands.
Certain that he had not been spotted, Bane still sipped his iced tea slowly and finished his lasagna with deliberate movements so as to not draw any possible attention to himself. Still a few years under thirty, tall and gaunt in his all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, the Dire Wolf was a striking enough figure that he was too easily noticed in daytime. From what he could see of Valentine's intended victim, this was a middle-aged man with a bald spot becoming noticeable at the crown. Overweight, soft around the middle, estimated height only five foot eight or so. Well-dressed in a tailored charcoal-grey suit and polished dress shoes. A Rolex showed on the man's left wrist.
Doc Valentine in contrast was so flamboyant that he drew startled stares from passers-by. Short and pear-shaped with a waist at least sixty inches around, the old rogue was made conspicuous by a bulbous dark nose with a number of broken blood vessels in its tip, thinning blond-white hair and a habit of speaking from the corner of his mouth. But it was the irrational color clash of his outfit that people noticed. With his dark green trousers and jacket stretched over a vivid crimson shirt and loosely knotted yellow tie, Valentine also sported a straw hat tilted back at what was supposed to be a rakish angle and he wore violet-hued wrist-length gloves even on a hot sullen September afternoon. The final jarring touch was a blazing hot pink flower dangling forlornly from his left lapel.
Bane admittedly had little fashion sense but even he was aghast at that outfit. He was already getting restless after only a few minutes sitting at the cafe. The metabolism which gave him his enhanced speed and reflexes also made him impatient at the best of times. After spotting the easily recognized Valentine from a block away, he had dropped down in the shade and ordered when the waiter came over. But he was soon wondering if he should move on to more urgent matters.
True, Doc Valentine had been lurking on the outskirts of the Midnight War for many years. Right now, though, he seemed to be pulling nothing more insidious than one of his typical con games. The Dire Wolf was normally concerned with more dangerous threats to the public. He should be getting back to his office. He might be missing a case that involved real menace. Samhain had been rumored to be back in the Northeast again and Bane really wanted another shot at him.
Still watching, he saw Doc Valentine raise one emphatic forefinger, extract a brown glass vial from his inner jacket pocket and let one tiny drop spill onto the victim's palm. The grifter smirked and replaced the vial with infinite glee. Oh brother, thought Bane to himself, maybe he should simply march over there and expose the dirty old fraud before any money changed hands.
Then a woman in a slinky red dress stood up from a table near the two men. She was tall and slender, with gorgeous wavy black hair reaching well past her shoulder blades. Bane recognized her as soon as she moved, of course. There was no jewel thief or international mystery woman more beautiful than Rook.
Not overdoing it, seeming quite natural, she strolled over to say hello to Doc Valentine and his target. The man said something and she laughed in a warm inviting way that Bane heard quite clearly from where he sat shaking his head. Rook touched the man lightly on the shoulder, pivoted and walked away with just enough hip emphasis to be believable.
The Dire Wolf left more than enough money under his plate and rose to swing around behind the cafe, speeding up to a trot as he circled the block to intercept her. His interest in the con had been sharpened immensely by seeing that little pantomime. Doc Valentine by himself was trouble enough, but if the game was big enough that Rook found it worthwhile, he wanted to learn more.
II.
In a ridiculously expensive suite overlooking Central Park West, Sergeant-Major Apple examined himself in the full-length mirror by the door. He was an unremarkable man in his early forties, with rather longish dark brown hair and heavy eyebrows. A thick mustache extended down on either side of his mouth. Apple was wearing a gaudy quasi-military uniform of bright red tunic and slacks with gold trim on collars and cuffs. Several enigmatic medals decorated the left side of his chest, his tunic had stiff epaulets emblazoned with a single gold star. On the right side of his white leather belt, a flap holster held a heavy Colt .45 automatic.
After several minutes of severe scrutiny, Apple seemed satisfied with his reflection. He relaxed visibly. Behind him, the door to one of the bedrooms swung open and another man emerged in a similar uniform but all in bright yellow with green trim. This second man was a little taller than Apple, a little heavier in build, but he also had a mustache with reached down from the corners of his mouth to his chin. "Good morning, Apple."
"Morning? It's three minutes after twelve, sir."
"Afternoon, then. Sergeant-Majors Plum and Pear are on their way. Has there been any word from our agent"
"No. Such independent operators are sadly disinclined to follow any timetable but their own, I fear." Apple let an exasperated sigh escape him as he crossed the plush Persian rug to a sideboard where a crystal decanter of brandy awaited him. He poured a small amount into a glass, sniffed it thoughtfully and took the barest sip.
"You have a point, old thing," said Sergeant-Major Lemon as he held up his own glass for some brandy. "Our agent has a reputation for being devious. Reliability but not honesty is the best to be expected. Yet we four should be able to use such an unscrupulous mind to our ends."
"Even a crooked stick can draw a straight line," Apple agreed.
III.
Even someone as repressed and single-minded as Jeremy Bane found it difficult not to stare admiringly at Rook. A French father and a Japanese mother had produced a woman with amazingly perfect features in a heart-shaped face. She had taken great care of herself as well, the thick glossy black hair and smooth peach-golden skin glowed with health and vitality. The minimal make-up was applied so skillfully that it was difficult to be sure she was even wearing any.
When Bane had raced up two blocks and circled around, he met her as if by chance coming from the opposite direction of the cafe where she had colluded with Doc Valentine. Her delighted smile at seeing him had been totally convincing, even as he searched her face for signs of duplicity.
Her first words disillusioned him immediately. "That lasagna looked unforgiveably dry, Jeremy. Is there some olive oil shortage?"
"I thought there was a chance you spotted me," he replied. "Come on, let's talk over here off the sidewalk." He stepped between buildings and leaned up against a brick wall that had been painted with swirling white letters SLOVAK RULES OK? Without hesitation, Rook had placed herself beside him and smiled up into his face.
"At least you can be certain Valentine remains unaware of your interest," she said in a voice with only a general Mid-Atlantic accent. "Between gouging fifty dollars for that bottle of water with food coloring in it and trying to get the sucker to spring for another beer, Doc wouldn't notice if you had sat down in his lap."
"Rook..." the Dire Wolf began, but faltered. He took a second to consider his next words. "Most of the time, your career is not in my area of concern. You rob millionaires who never miss a few necklaces or paintings, you swindle crimelords who frankly deserve a lot worse. The only times our interests cross is when you wander into the fringes of the Midnight War."
"Like when I warned your team about Cogitus finding Zhune relics?" she said. "Or when I helped you with the Dwindle Horn?"
"I haven't forgotten." Bane turned his infamous cold grey eyes on her, but she was one of the few people who wasn't intimidated by that gaze. "For every time you've been helpful, there was also a time you played me and ran off with loot. What interests me now is that you're bothering with Doc Valentine. His scams are way below the level you work."
From her tiny brown leather shoulderbag, Rook drew out a pack of French cigarettes with a gold band around the filter. "Dear Dire Wolf, I know you carry everything from smoke bombs to anesthetic darts to colored contact lenses. You must have some advanced Trom infra-red beam gimmick that will light this?"
That drew a rare smile from Bane. "Only a regular lighter," he replied, holding the flame up to the end of the cigarette. She took a deep drag and exhaled through her nostrils.
Bane handed her the slim gun-metal lighter. "Keep it to remember me by," he said. "I don't use it."
"Thank you, darling. I was just stalling for a second to collect my thoughts," she admitted. "I am not sure myself why I loiter with that low-life. Valentine is amusing in his vulgar way, but there is some deep mystery to his past that intrigues me. I have found descriptions and references to him dating back to 1873. He has been arrested in every decade. Always he looks the same, which is sad in itself of course, but I am starting to wonder exactly what IS he?"
Bane stepped away from the building, turning to face her directly. "I did some research myself, Rook. I'm lost trying to figure it out. It's possible that the name has been used by a series of unrelated crooks but... No. I have the strongest hunch that he's the same Doc Valentine swindling and lying and bungling for more than a hundred years."
"A Melgar, perhaps?"
"Not like any Melgar I'VE ever heard of," the Dire Wolf said. "And I get no indications he uses gralic force at all. My silver daggers don't warm up around him. He's not some form of Undead either, his pulse and metabolism and body temperature are all within norms. Blood pressure is sky high, of course, but after all look at him."
Rook gave him a wistful half-smile like a present. "I'll be sure to let you know if I solve this riddle, Jeremy. Perhaps the privilege of browsing your amazing library at that building on 38th Street would be my reward. I plan to retire when I'm sixty-four to a life of scholarship. Imagine me with grey hair, knitting a sweater by the fireside, reflecting on life."
"That's many years from now, but I suppose it's not impossible. Keep in touch, Rook." The Dire Wolf backed up, as always alert about everyone nearby. During their conversation, he had not stopping scanning the area for a second. "I know there's no point in telling you to be careful."
"I was born to run on the razor's edge," she responded, tucking the silver lighter into her handbag and flicking the cigarette butt to the cracked asphalt at their feet.
IV.
At nine that evening, Rook was sipping from a champagne goblet and making praise-filled comments about the paintings in the Tremper Gallery. She had changed into a simple classic black dress that fitted her as if painted on, she had on heels that raised her height to five feet nine and she had done up her hair in an elegant swirl fixed with an ivory pin. She drew more admiring gazes than all the paintings and statuary combined.
Using the name Maria Lamoureux, she had made the acquaintance of Oliver Tremper a month ago in a seeming accidental encounter at an auction, had enticed him into a keen interest in seeing her again and it had all been planned to lead to this night. In a few minutes, Tremper was due to make an announcement about his expected charitable donations, which would be the moment everyone's eyes would be on him.
The Tremper Gallery was on the ground floor of a white frame building in a gentrified section of Queens. As she saw Oliver talking to his assistants and being handed a wireless microphone, she reached behind her and silently unlocked a window to push it upward two inches. The alarms had been disabled for that event, what with late arrivals and people stepping out to smoke.
"My friends, how very glad I am to see you all here tonight," Tremper began. Rook saw no reason not to grin since everyone else was already wearing polite closed-mouth smiles, but her expression came from a satisfaction with her own cleverness.
Tremper held up an oversized pale blue check with an impressive sum on it. While he was explaining how a new pediatric wing for Metro General Hospital was being funded by the proceeds of this gallery, Rook lifted a miniature ivory bust of the author Jane Ellison Townsend and tossed it out the window behind her. Without looking back, she immediately drew the sash back down again.
"I am delighted to announce that Richard and Caroline Norbert have volunteered to match my donation with their own funds. I think that deserves some applause, don't you?" Tremper was saying when Rook edged a little bit deeper into the assembly. She placed her glass down on a tray set atop a pedastal for that purpose and demurely clapped her impeccably manicured hands together when everyone else did.
Twenty minutes later, Rook approached Tremper and apologetically said she would be leaving. An early appointment tomorrow with a realtor in Connecticut was her story. Tremper of course was visibly dismayed, certainly he had been entertaining warm daydreams about this woman lingering after the event and perhaps accompanying him for a drink or two. But he took it in good grace when she assured him she would be stopping by the gallery soon and asking for him. When they shook hands, she managed to convey warmth and promise in even that brief contact.
Standing in an alcove by the front door, a stout middle-aged woman working for Tremper gave Rook back her brown leather handbag which, as a gesture at a security measure, had been left there with everyone else's. The woman was openly suspicious, but she decided that this Eurasian mix could not hide even a stick of gum in that indecent dress, let alone anything of value. Rook thanked her with an overly sweet smile and stepped out into an oppressively warm late summer evening. The overcast sky threatened a deluge at any second.
Perfect so far. Not only Tremper and his assistant but a dozen other people had been checking her out and would swear she could not have concealed the bust on her person. Her handbag had been taken from her on entering and she hadn't touched it until leaving. Who knows, perhaps the loss would not even be noticed until after all the guests had departed.
And of course, her suite at the Wessex Hotel was not under the name Maria Lamoureaux. Nothing so crude as a police intrusion would be troubling her there, no matter what.
Striding contentedly along the busy street, Rook remembered running into Bane that afternoon. The Dire Wolf was always fun to play with, she thought. Just sharp enough to be a challenge but not any real threat. He also represented a glimpse into the Midnight War, a secret world that she found intriguing but which was simply too horrifying to deal with if it could be avoided.
Her rented car sat where she had left it. Without looking in the back seat, Rook slid in behind the wheel and started it up. Not until she had eased out into traffic did she glance up at the rear view mirror to see that familiar blobbish silhouette sitting behind her. Of course, a distinct miasma of gin would give away the presence in any case.
"Do I need to ask how it went?" she asked.
"Your faith in me is well-founded, my little periwinkle," came that nasal voice. "The prize fell as neatly into my outstretched palm as a bit of steel to a magnet."
"And of course no one saw you catch the bust?"
"There is not the slightest chance of that misadventure coming to pass," he said. "Did I ever regale you with how I was taught to walk on wet tissue paper without tearing it, back when I was a mere youth wandering the Orient? I can almost remember the funny faces the Shaolin monks showed at my prowess."
Rook chuckled. "Save it for your memoirs, Munchausen."
"Shanghai was lovely but so humid. We should fly there when this escapade has concluded, Rook. We'll climb in the back of an airliner and go for a ride in the sky."
"Let me know when you get there," she replied. "As long as the bust is in your possession now, I am content. We will return to Manhattan and you will be paid as agreed."
"About that mere pittance you specified, my dear..."
"Don't! Don't even think about asking for more money now. You do not want to annoy the Sergeant-Majors."
"Gadzooks. Do not cause ripples on the placid surface of your mind, child. I will present my entreaty to those refugees from a marching band myself using my not inconsiderable powers of elocution." Valentine sniffed and a faint gurgling could be heard as he tapped his flask again. "Some accomodation should be reachable."
Stopped at a red light for the moment, Rook swung her elegant head around to fix a baleful glare at her accomplice. "Doc Valentine! Do NOT make any of your usual wisecracks about the uniforms the Sergeant-Majors wear. These are not easygoing men. I have heard of some of their hired thugs meeting rather humiliating deaths for any insolence. Better to leave the talking to me. Better yet, you should remain in the car while I carry out the transaction." The car behind her honked as she didn't notice that the light had changed, and she rolled forward again.
"You wound me, Rook, I am the very quintessence of tact and diplomacy. I am sincere even when I have to fake it."
V.
All four of the Sergeant-Majors were present, facing the unlikely pair of Rook and Doc Valentine in a semi-circle. The two scam artists were standing closer together than they would have liked because of how near the uniformed men had drawn in.
Sergeant-Major Plum was in his purple uniform with white trim, examining the small bronze bust with a jeweler's loupe screwed into his right eye socket. "Yes, yes," he announced after a tense few minutes. "I believe this is authentic. Jane Ellison Townsend was a renowned advocate for women getting the vote in her day."
"Quite the little lady Sufragette," added Apple. "The pen name she used for her newspaper column was 'Jet,' but that had nothing to do with her efforts for Suffrage. They were simply her initials."
"And she has many devotees today, making this bust quite valuable?" asked Rook.
"Yes. But that is almost a side issue," Sergeant-Major Plum said. They all gave a start at a loud crack of thunder that seemed to break directly overhead. Against the wide picture window of the suite, rain pounded without preamble.
"It seems you two got inside barely in time," Sergeant-Major Lemon said as he walked over to gaze out at the storm. "Quite dramatic. The rain exploded with a mighty crash and the dam of Heaven burst."
"Yasss," drawled Valentine. "Nicely put, sir. Much as I am loathe to bring up the tawdry matter of payment, I believe it is time for money to change hands, my good officers."
Lemon turned back toward them, screwing a silencer the size of a large soda bottle onto the barrel of his Colt. Seeing this, both Rook and Valentine froze into position as if hoping to become invisible. The other three uniformed men had also drawn their sidearms and Apple fetched more silencers from behind the couch.
"Do not try any acrobatics, young lady," Sergeant-Major Plum advised.
"Won't you listen to what the man said?" asked Doc Valentine. "This is a moment fraught with peril."
"I hope you're having fun," she snapped. "Somehow I am certain this will turn out to be your fault."
"I am but a misunderstood soul, merely a pilgrim gone astray on the road of life."
The four Sergeant-Majors moved in unison to urge both of their prisoners toward the couch. As they grudgingly complied, Apple said, "Perhaps you are not aware of specific dates, Valentine, but it was twenty years ago today that you inadvertently brought our team together. You absconded with wealth we had separately acquired and, comparing our sad experiences, we decided to work together."
"Ahhh, it warms my heart to hear you express your gratitude," Doc Valentine responded.
Sergeant-Major Pear had not spoken up to this point. His light green military rig had yellow trim and fewer dubious medals than his teammates sported, but he made up for this by wearing a billed cap with a gold eagle as a crest. "Rook has a substantial price on her beautiful head. Not only the Gentle One but also Cogitus and even Karl Eldritch have offered a reward for her delivery as a prisoner."
"I call that being poor sports," she sniffed. "They knew the games we play."
"This one will not bring nearly as much of a reward," Pear continued, pointing his gun at Doc Valentine. "Still, even a few thousand dollars are useful for expenses."
"Egads, my vanity is stung," Valentine said. "You wound me. I believe I will be leaving now."
"You will be leaving in two laundry carts smuggled out of this hotel," Sergeant-Major Pear continued. "You are each worth more alive, but if it's prudent to bundle your remains up instead, well... so be it."
"This is a good night for such clandestine activities," added Apple. "Listen to that downpour. It means fewer possible witnesses."
Unexpectedly, the phone on its table beside the couch rang. Everyone jumped. After giving the others a vexed look, Sergeant-Major Plum went over to pick up the receiver. All four of the uniformed men had their attention either on the prisoners or on the phone. That was when the hallway door crashed open and a fast-moving figure in black sprang into the room.
VI.
The following eight seconds were a blur of violence that only Bane himself comprehended fully. To everyone else, there was only crisp smacking noises and sudden pain as their noses were broken or their chests impacted so sharply that they couldn't breathe. The Dire Wolf was at his physical peak. The combination of his innate speed, Kumundu training and a lifetime of street fighting made him unstoppable. None of the four Sergeant-Majors even got a shot fired.
The brief silence after that furious burst of action was then broken by wheezing and groans. One of the uniformed men was gasping and pressing both hands to his chest, another rolled on the floor with a dislocated arm, a third was on his hands and knees, unable to gather his presence of mind enough to rise. Bane held the fourth one, Sergeant-Major Apple, by the front of the stiff red tunic and tossed the man's Colt into the far corner where three other automatics had already landed.
"Finally!" the Dire Wolf told the dazed man. "I've been trying to track you guys down for the past year. You've always been a band on the run, but that's over now." He let Apple slide limply down to the carpeting.
"Jeremy old chum, your arrival is most fortuitous," Doc Valentine began. "These brigands robbed me of my personal savings, but if I might check their pockets..."
"Stop. Stop it. You should leave now before the FBI Department 21 Black gets here," Bane growled. "These men are wanted in six states for major felonies but I imagine there are a few warrants out for you as well."
"As I was saying, I have an appointment with my investment broker," Valentine continued, struggling to his feet. He touched the brim of his straw hat to Rook. "It's been a little slice of Heaven, sweetheart," and waddled hastily out the still open door.
Only then did Rook rise, smoothing down her dress and picking up her handbag from where she had dropped it. "Heavens but you play rough, my boy."
"They deserve worse. By the time they go to trial, everything will have healed."
The adventuress was as self-possessed and cool as if she had been sipping tea while reading a newspaper. "How did you call them on the phone while being right outside the door? For that matter, how did you follow me?"
"I have a few useful gadgets," he said, watching the injured men warily, ready to move if they showed signs of getting up.
"Yes, the famous Trom devices. Including those small discs which emit a signal you can track for miles? So useful." She held out the silver cigarette lighter for him to take. "I believe this has served its purpose, love."
11/10/2021
9/11/1984
I.
Lip-reading was one of many skills that Jeremy Bane had paid several experts to teach him when he had first started his Midnight War career. He still took refresher lessons two or three times a year. Like pickpocketing or voice mimicry, lip-reading expertise faded with disuse. Sitting in the shadows under an awning of the cafe, thirty feet away from the two men at a table in the sun, the Dire Wolf was able to follow most of what Doc Valentine was saying.
It helped that the old reprobate was so melodramatic. Valentine drawled and put so much emphasis into every word that his speech was easy to read. Bane got the gist that the grifter was hard selling his pheromone spray, which he absolutely guaranteed would stir lust in any woman but particularly in those under twenty-five. From what the Dire Wolf deciphered, Doc Valentine claimed that this formula had been created as a therapy drug for trauma victims but had been kept secret because of its potential for abuse. A small amount had been smuggled out of an FDA lab and gotten into Valentine's hands.
Certain that he had not been spotted, Bane still sipped his iced tea slowly and finished his lasagna with deliberate movements so as to not draw any possible attention to himself. Still a few years under thirty, tall and gaunt in his all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, the Dire Wolf was a striking enough figure that he was too easily noticed in daytime. From what he could see of Valentine's intended victim, this was a middle-aged man with a bald spot becoming noticeable at the crown. Overweight, soft around the middle, estimated height only five foot eight or so. Well-dressed in a tailored charcoal-grey suit and polished dress shoes. A Rolex showed on the man's left wrist.
Doc Valentine in contrast was so flamboyant that he drew startled stares from passers-by. Short and pear-shaped with a waist at least sixty inches around, the old rogue was made conspicuous by a bulbous dark nose with a number of broken blood vessels in its tip, thinning blond-white hair and a habit of speaking from the corner of his mouth. But it was the irrational color clash of his outfit that people noticed. With his dark green trousers and jacket stretched over a vivid crimson shirt and loosely knotted yellow tie, Valentine also sported a straw hat tilted back at what was supposed to be a rakish angle and he wore violet-hued wrist-length gloves even on a hot sullen September afternoon. The final jarring touch was a blazing hot pink flower dangling forlornly from his left lapel.
Bane admittedly had little fashion sense but even he was aghast at that outfit. He was already getting restless after only a few minutes sitting at the cafe. The metabolism which gave him his enhanced speed and reflexes also made him impatient at the best of times. After spotting the easily recognized Valentine from a block away, he had dropped down in the shade and ordered when the waiter came over. But he was soon wondering if he should move on to more urgent matters.
True, Doc Valentine had been lurking on the outskirts of the Midnight War for many years. Right now, though, he seemed to be pulling nothing more insidious than one of his typical con games. The Dire Wolf was normally concerned with more dangerous threats to the public. He should be getting back to his office. He might be missing a case that involved real menace. Samhain had been rumored to be back in the Northeast again and Bane really wanted another shot at him.
Still watching, he saw Doc Valentine raise one emphatic forefinger, extract a brown glass vial from his inner jacket pocket and let one tiny drop spill onto the victim's palm. The grifter smirked and replaced the vial with infinite glee. Oh brother, thought Bane to himself, maybe he should simply march over there and expose the dirty old fraud before any money changed hands.
Then a woman in a slinky red dress stood up from a table near the two men. She was tall and slender, with gorgeous wavy black hair reaching well past her shoulder blades. Bane recognized her as soon as she moved, of course. There was no jewel thief or international mystery woman more beautiful than Rook.
Not overdoing it, seeming quite natural, she strolled over to say hello to Doc Valentine and his target. The man said something and she laughed in a warm inviting way that Bane heard quite clearly from where he sat shaking his head. Rook touched the man lightly on the shoulder, pivoted and walked away with just enough hip emphasis to be believable.
The Dire Wolf left more than enough money under his plate and rose to swing around behind the cafe, speeding up to a trot as he circled the block to intercept her. His interest in the con had been sharpened immensely by seeing that little pantomime. Doc Valentine by himself was trouble enough, but if the game was big enough that Rook found it worthwhile, he wanted to learn more.
II.
In a ridiculously expensive suite overlooking Central Park West, Sergeant-Major Apple examined himself in the full-length mirror by the door. He was an unremarkable man in his early forties, with rather longish dark brown hair and heavy eyebrows. A thick mustache extended down on either side of his mouth. Apple was wearing a gaudy quasi-military uniform of bright red tunic and slacks with gold trim on collars and cuffs. Several enigmatic medals decorated the left side of his chest, his tunic had stiff epaulets emblazoned with a single gold star. On the right side of his white leather belt, a flap holster held a heavy Colt .45 automatic.
After several minutes of severe scrutiny, Apple seemed satisfied with his reflection. He relaxed visibly. Behind him, the door to one of the bedrooms swung open and another man emerged in a similar uniform but all in bright yellow with green trim. This second man was a little taller than Apple, a little heavier in build, but he also had a mustache with reached down from the corners of his mouth to his chin. "Good morning, Apple."
"Morning? It's three minutes after twelve, sir."
"Afternoon, then. Sergeant-Majors Plum and Pear are on their way. Has there been any word from our agent"
"No. Such independent operators are sadly disinclined to follow any timetable but their own, I fear." Apple let an exasperated sigh escape him as he crossed the plush Persian rug to a sideboard where a crystal decanter of brandy awaited him. He poured a small amount into a glass, sniffed it thoughtfully and took the barest sip.
"You have a point, old thing," said Sergeant-Major Lemon as he held up his own glass for some brandy. "Our agent has a reputation for being devious. Reliability but not honesty is the best to be expected. Yet we four should be able to use such an unscrupulous mind to our ends."
"Even a crooked stick can draw a straight line," Apple agreed.
III.
Even someone as repressed and single-minded as Jeremy Bane found it difficult not to stare admiringly at Rook. A French father and a Japanese mother had produced a woman with amazingly perfect features in a heart-shaped face. She had taken great care of herself as well, the thick glossy black hair and smooth peach-golden skin glowed with health and vitality. The minimal make-up was applied so skillfully that it was difficult to be sure she was even wearing any.
When Bane had raced up two blocks and circled around, he met her as if by chance coming from the opposite direction of the cafe where she had colluded with Doc Valentine. Her delighted smile at seeing him had been totally convincing, even as he searched her face for signs of duplicity.
Her first words disillusioned him immediately. "That lasagna looked unforgiveably dry, Jeremy. Is there some olive oil shortage?"
"I thought there was a chance you spotted me," he replied. "Come on, let's talk over here off the sidewalk." He stepped between buildings and leaned up against a brick wall that had been painted with swirling white letters SLOVAK RULES OK? Without hesitation, Rook had placed herself beside him and smiled up into his face.
"At least you can be certain Valentine remains unaware of your interest," she said in a voice with only a general Mid-Atlantic accent. "Between gouging fifty dollars for that bottle of water with food coloring in it and trying to get the sucker to spring for another beer, Doc wouldn't notice if you had sat down in his lap."
"Rook..." the Dire Wolf began, but faltered. He took a second to consider his next words. "Most of the time, your career is not in my area of concern. You rob millionaires who never miss a few necklaces or paintings, you swindle crimelords who frankly deserve a lot worse. The only times our interests cross is when you wander into the fringes of the Midnight War."
"Like when I warned your team about Cogitus finding Zhune relics?" she said. "Or when I helped you with the Dwindle Horn?"
"I haven't forgotten." Bane turned his infamous cold grey eyes on her, but she was one of the few people who wasn't intimidated by that gaze. "For every time you've been helpful, there was also a time you played me and ran off with loot. What interests me now is that you're bothering with Doc Valentine. His scams are way below the level you work."
From her tiny brown leather shoulderbag, Rook drew out a pack of French cigarettes with a gold band around the filter. "Dear Dire Wolf, I know you carry everything from smoke bombs to anesthetic darts to colored contact lenses. You must have some advanced Trom infra-red beam gimmick that will light this?"
That drew a rare smile from Bane. "Only a regular lighter," he replied, holding the flame up to the end of the cigarette. She took a deep drag and exhaled through her nostrils.
Bane handed her the slim gun-metal lighter. "Keep it to remember me by," he said. "I don't use it."
"Thank you, darling. I was just stalling for a second to collect my thoughts," she admitted. "I am not sure myself why I loiter with that low-life. Valentine is amusing in his vulgar way, but there is some deep mystery to his past that intrigues me. I have found descriptions and references to him dating back to 1873. He has been arrested in every decade. Always he looks the same, which is sad in itself of course, but I am starting to wonder exactly what IS he?"
Bane stepped away from the building, turning to face her directly. "I did some research myself, Rook. I'm lost trying to figure it out. It's possible that the name has been used by a series of unrelated crooks but... No. I have the strongest hunch that he's the same Doc Valentine swindling and lying and bungling for more than a hundred years."
"A Melgar, perhaps?"
"Not like any Melgar I'VE ever heard of," the Dire Wolf said. "And I get no indications he uses gralic force at all. My silver daggers don't warm up around him. He's not some form of Undead either, his pulse and metabolism and body temperature are all within norms. Blood pressure is sky high, of course, but after all look at him."
Rook gave him a wistful half-smile like a present. "I'll be sure to let you know if I solve this riddle, Jeremy. Perhaps the privilege of browsing your amazing library at that building on 38th Street would be my reward. I plan to retire when I'm sixty-four to a life of scholarship. Imagine me with grey hair, knitting a sweater by the fireside, reflecting on life."
"That's many years from now, but I suppose it's not impossible. Keep in touch, Rook." The Dire Wolf backed up, as always alert about everyone nearby. During their conversation, he had not stopping scanning the area for a second. "I know there's no point in telling you to be careful."
"I was born to run on the razor's edge," she responded, tucking the silver lighter into her handbag and flicking the cigarette butt to the cracked asphalt at their feet.
IV.
At nine that evening, Rook was sipping from a champagne goblet and making praise-filled comments about the paintings in the Tremper Gallery. She had changed into a simple classic black dress that fitted her as if painted on, she had on heels that raised her height to five feet nine and she had done up her hair in an elegant swirl fixed with an ivory pin. She drew more admiring gazes than all the paintings and statuary combined.
Using the name Maria Lamoureux, she had made the acquaintance of Oliver Tremper a month ago in a seeming accidental encounter at an auction, had enticed him into a keen interest in seeing her again and it had all been planned to lead to this night. In a few minutes, Tremper was due to make an announcement about his expected charitable donations, which would be the moment everyone's eyes would be on him.
The Tremper Gallery was on the ground floor of a white frame building in a gentrified section of Queens. As she saw Oliver talking to his assistants and being handed a wireless microphone, she reached behind her and silently unlocked a window to push it upward two inches. The alarms had been disabled for that event, what with late arrivals and people stepping out to smoke.
"My friends, how very glad I am to see you all here tonight," Tremper began. Rook saw no reason not to grin since everyone else was already wearing polite closed-mouth smiles, but her expression came from a satisfaction with her own cleverness.
Tremper held up an oversized pale blue check with an impressive sum on it. While he was explaining how a new pediatric wing for Metro General Hospital was being funded by the proceeds of this gallery, Rook lifted a miniature ivory bust of the author Jane Ellison Townsend and tossed it out the window behind her. Without looking back, she immediately drew the sash back down again.
"I am delighted to announce that Richard and Caroline Norbert have volunteered to match my donation with their own funds. I think that deserves some applause, don't you?" Tremper was saying when Rook edged a little bit deeper into the assembly. She placed her glass down on a tray set atop a pedastal for that purpose and demurely clapped her impeccably manicured hands together when everyone else did.
Twenty minutes later, Rook approached Tremper and apologetically said she would be leaving. An early appointment tomorrow with a realtor in Connecticut was her story. Tremper of course was visibly dismayed, certainly he had been entertaining warm daydreams about this woman lingering after the event and perhaps accompanying him for a drink or two. But he took it in good grace when she assured him she would be stopping by the gallery soon and asking for him. When they shook hands, she managed to convey warmth and promise in even that brief contact.
Standing in an alcove by the front door, a stout middle-aged woman working for Tremper gave Rook back her brown leather handbag which, as a gesture at a security measure, had been left there with everyone else's. The woman was openly suspicious, but she decided that this Eurasian mix could not hide even a stick of gum in that indecent dress, let alone anything of value. Rook thanked her with an overly sweet smile and stepped out into an oppressively warm late summer evening. The overcast sky threatened a deluge at any second.
Perfect so far. Not only Tremper and his assistant but a dozen other people had been checking her out and would swear she could not have concealed the bust on her person. Her handbag had been taken from her on entering and she hadn't touched it until leaving. Who knows, perhaps the loss would not even be noticed until after all the guests had departed.
And of course, her suite at the Wessex Hotel was not under the name Maria Lamoureaux. Nothing so crude as a police intrusion would be troubling her there, no matter what.
Striding contentedly along the busy street, Rook remembered running into Bane that afternoon. The Dire Wolf was always fun to play with, she thought. Just sharp enough to be a challenge but not any real threat. He also represented a glimpse into the Midnight War, a secret world that she found intriguing but which was simply too horrifying to deal with if it could be avoided.
Her rented car sat where she had left it. Without looking in the back seat, Rook slid in behind the wheel and started it up. Not until she had eased out into traffic did she glance up at the rear view mirror to see that familiar blobbish silhouette sitting behind her. Of course, a distinct miasma of gin would give away the presence in any case.
"Do I need to ask how it went?" she asked.
"Your faith in me is well-founded, my little periwinkle," came that nasal voice. "The prize fell as neatly into my outstretched palm as a bit of steel to a magnet."
"And of course no one saw you catch the bust?"
"There is not the slightest chance of that misadventure coming to pass," he said. "Did I ever regale you with how I was taught to walk on wet tissue paper without tearing it, back when I was a mere youth wandering the Orient? I can almost remember the funny faces the Shaolin monks showed at my prowess."
Rook chuckled. "Save it for your memoirs, Munchausen."
"Shanghai was lovely but so humid. We should fly there when this escapade has concluded, Rook. We'll climb in the back of an airliner and go for a ride in the sky."
"Let me know when you get there," she replied. "As long as the bust is in your possession now, I am content. We will return to Manhattan and you will be paid as agreed."
"About that mere pittance you specified, my dear..."
"Don't! Don't even think about asking for more money now. You do not want to annoy the Sergeant-Majors."
"Gadzooks. Do not cause ripples on the placid surface of your mind, child. I will present my entreaty to those refugees from a marching band myself using my not inconsiderable powers of elocution." Valentine sniffed and a faint gurgling could be heard as he tapped his flask again. "Some accomodation should be reachable."
Stopped at a red light for the moment, Rook swung her elegant head around to fix a baleful glare at her accomplice. "Doc Valentine! Do NOT make any of your usual wisecracks about the uniforms the Sergeant-Majors wear. These are not easygoing men. I have heard of some of their hired thugs meeting rather humiliating deaths for any insolence. Better to leave the talking to me. Better yet, you should remain in the car while I carry out the transaction." The car behind her honked as she didn't notice that the light had changed, and she rolled forward again.
"You wound me, Rook, I am the very quintessence of tact and diplomacy. I am sincere even when I have to fake it."
V.
All four of the Sergeant-Majors were present, facing the unlikely pair of Rook and Doc Valentine in a semi-circle. The two scam artists were standing closer together than they would have liked because of how near the uniformed men had drawn in.
Sergeant-Major Plum was in his purple uniform with white trim, examining the small bronze bust with a jeweler's loupe screwed into his right eye socket. "Yes, yes," he announced after a tense few minutes. "I believe this is authentic. Jane Ellison Townsend was a renowned advocate for women getting the vote in her day."
"Quite the little lady Sufragette," added Apple. "The pen name she used for her newspaper column was 'Jet,' but that had nothing to do with her efforts for Suffrage. They were simply her initials."
"And she has many devotees today, making this bust quite valuable?" asked Rook.
"Yes. But that is almost a side issue," Sergeant-Major Plum said. They all gave a start at a loud crack of thunder that seemed to break directly overhead. Against the wide picture window of the suite, rain pounded without preamble.
"It seems you two got inside barely in time," Sergeant-Major Lemon said as he walked over to gaze out at the storm. "Quite dramatic. The rain exploded with a mighty crash and the dam of Heaven burst."
"Yasss," drawled Valentine. "Nicely put, sir. Much as I am loathe to bring up the tawdry matter of payment, I believe it is time for money to change hands, my good officers."
Lemon turned back toward them, screwing a silencer the size of a large soda bottle onto the barrel of his Colt. Seeing this, both Rook and Valentine froze into position as if hoping to become invisible. The other three uniformed men had also drawn their sidearms and Apple fetched more silencers from behind the couch.
"Do not try any acrobatics, young lady," Sergeant-Major Plum advised.
"Won't you listen to what the man said?" asked Doc Valentine. "This is a moment fraught with peril."
"I hope you're having fun," she snapped. "Somehow I am certain this will turn out to be your fault."
"I am but a misunderstood soul, merely a pilgrim gone astray on the road of life."
The four Sergeant-Majors moved in unison to urge both of their prisoners toward the couch. As they grudgingly complied, Apple said, "Perhaps you are not aware of specific dates, Valentine, but it was twenty years ago today that you inadvertently brought our team together. You absconded with wealth we had separately acquired and, comparing our sad experiences, we decided to work together."
"Ahhh, it warms my heart to hear you express your gratitude," Doc Valentine responded.
Sergeant-Major Pear had not spoken up to this point. His light green military rig had yellow trim and fewer dubious medals than his teammates sported, but he made up for this by wearing a billed cap with a gold eagle as a crest. "Rook has a substantial price on her beautiful head. Not only the Gentle One but also Cogitus and even Karl Eldritch have offered a reward for her delivery as a prisoner."
"I call that being poor sports," she sniffed. "They knew the games we play."
"This one will not bring nearly as much of a reward," Pear continued, pointing his gun at Doc Valentine. "Still, even a few thousand dollars are useful for expenses."
"Egads, my vanity is stung," Valentine said. "You wound me. I believe I will be leaving now."
"You will be leaving in two laundry carts smuggled out of this hotel," Sergeant-Major Pear continued. "You are each worth more alive, but if it's prudent to bundle your remains up instead, well... so be it."
"This is a good night for such clandestine activities," added Apple. "Listen to that downpour. It means fewer possible witnesses."
Unexpectedly, the phone on its table beside the couch rang. Everyone jumped. After giving the others a vexed look, Sergeant-Major Plum went over to pick up the receiver. All four of the uniformed men had their attention either on the prisoners or on the phone. That was when the hallway door crashed open and a fast-moving figure in black sprang into the room.
VI.
The following eight seconds were a blur of violence that only Bane himself comprehended fully. To everyone else, there was only crisp smacking noises and sudden pain as their noses were broken or their chests impacted so sharply that they couldn't breathe. The Dire Wolf was at his physical peak. The combination of his innate speed, Kumundu training and a lifetime of street fighting made him unstoppable. None of the four Sergeant-Majors even got a shot fired.
The brief silence after that furious burst of action was then broken by wheezing and groans. One of the uniformed men was gasping and pressing both hands to his chest, another rolled on the floor with a dislocated arm, a third was on his hands and knees, unable to gather his presence of mind enough to rise. Bane held the fourth one, Sergeant-Major Apple, by the front of the stiff red tunic and tossed the man's Colt into the far corner where three other automatics had already landed.
"Finally!" the Dire Wolf told the dazed man. "I've been trying to track you guys down for the past year. You've always been a band on the run, but that's over now." He let Apple slide limply down to the carpeting.
"Jeremy old chum, your arrival is most fortuitous," Doc Valentine began. "These brigands robbed me of my personal savings, but if I might check their pockets..."
"Stop. Stop it. You should leave now before the FBI Department 21 Black gets here," Bane growled. "These men are wanted in six states for major felonies but I imagine there are a few warrants out for you as well."
"As I was saying, I have an appointment with my investment broker," Valentine continued, struggling to his feet. He touched the brim of his straw hat to Rook. "It's been a little slice of Heaven, sweetheart," and waddled hastily out the still open door.
Only then did Rook rise, smoothing down her dress and picking up her handbag from where she had dropped it. "Heavens but you play rough, my boy."
"They deserve worse. By the time they go to trial, everything will have healed."
The adventuress was as self-possessed and cool as if she had been sipping tea while reading a newspaper. "How did you call them on the phone while being right outside the door? For that matter, how did you follow me?"
"I have a few useful gadgets," he said, watching the injured men warily, ready to move if they showed signs of getting up.
"Yes, the famous Trom devices. Including those small discs which emit a signal you can track for miles? So useful." She held out the silver cigarette lighter for him to take. "I believe this has served its purpose, love."
11/10/2021
