(no subject)

[froodle]

I just finished reading Black Angel. Wow. Just... just wow. Dark Hollow is still my favourite Charlie Parker book, but what I liked about the White Road and Black Angel is that you get to see a lot more of Angel and Louis, outside of their role as "comedic sidekicks".

I'm not going to say anything about the plot because, well, read it yourself, damn your eyes, but there are two sections that I particularly enjoyed:

Edgar Ross was still one of the special agents in charge at the New York division. Unlike SACs in most of the other field offices, the SAC wasn't the final authority in New York. Ross answered to the assistant director in charge, a pretty good guy named Wilmots, but Ross still had a whole little family of assistant SACs under his command and was therefore the most influential law enforcement official I knew. Our paths had crossed during the pursuit of the man who had killed Susan and Jennifer, and I think Ross felt he owed me a little slack as a result of what had occured. I even suspected that he had a grudging affection for me, but maybe that was the result of my watching too many TV cop shows in which gruff lieutenants secretly harboured homoerotic fantasies about the mavericks under their command. I didn't think Ross's feelings for me went quite that far, but then he was a difficult man to read sometimes. One never knew.

I called his office shortly after I was done with Grantley, I gave my name to Ross's secretary and waited. When she came back on the line, she told me that Ross wasn't available but said she'd pass on the fact that I'd called. I thought about holding my breath while I waited for him to call back, but figured that I'd have blacked out long before that ever happened. From the brief delay in our exchange, though, I gathered that Ross was around but had tightened up since last we spoke. I was anxious to get back to Rachel and Sam, but I wanted to accumulate all the information that I could before I left the city. I felt I had no option but to take an expensive cab ride down to Federal Plaza.

The area was a peculiar clash of cultures: on the east side of Broadway there were the big federel buildings, surrounded by concrete barricades and adorned with weird rusting pieces of modern sculpture. On the other side, directly facing the might of the FBI, were storefronts that advertised cheap watches and caps while doing a profitable sideline in assisting with immigration applications, and discount clothing stores that offered suits for $59.99. I grabbed a coffee at a Dunkin' Donuts, then settled down to wait for Ross. He was, if nothing else, a man of routine. He'd confessed as much to me, the last time we'd met. I knew that he liked to eat most days at Stark's Veranda, at the corner of Broadway and Thomas, a government hangout that had been around since the end of the nineteenth century, and I just hoped that he hadn't suddenly taken to lunching at his desk. By the time he eentually emerged from his office I'd been waiting two hours and my coffee was long since finished, but I felt a touch of satisfaction at my investigative skills when he headed for the Veranda, quickly followed by the pain of rejection when I saw the expression on his face as I fell into step behind him.

"No," he said. "Get lost."
"You don't write, you don't call," I said. "We're losing touch. What we have now just isn't the same as it used to be."
"I don't want to be in touch with you. I want you to leave me alone."
"Buy me lunch?"
"No. No! What part of 'leave me alone' don't you understand?"
He stopped at the crosswalk. It was a mistake. He should have taken his chances with the traffic.
"I'm trying to trace one of your agents," I said.
"Look, I'm not your personal go-to guy at the Bureau," said Ross. "I'm a busy man. There are terrorists out there, drug dealers, mobsters. They all require my attention. They take up a lot of my time. The rest, I save for people I like: my family, my friends, and basically anyone who isn't you."
He scowled at the oncoming traffic. He might even have been tempted to draw his gun and wave it around threateningly in order to cross.
"Come on, I know you secretly like me," I said. "You've probably got my name written on your pencil case. The agent's name is Phillip Bosworth. The OSM's office told me he was no longer with the division. I'd just like to get in touch with him."
I had to give him credit for trying to shake me off. I took my eye off him for a second, and instantly he was skipping through the oncoming traffic like a government-funded Frogger. I caught up with him, though.
"I was hoping you'd be killed," he said, but secretly I knew he was impressed.
"You pretend you're such a tough guy," I said, "but I know you're all warm and fuzzy inside. Look, I just need to ask Bosworth some questions, that's all."
"Why? Why is he important to you?"
"The thing in Williamsburg, the human remains in the warehouse? He may know something about the background of the people involved."
"People? I heard it was one guy. He got shot. You shot him. You shoot a lot of people. You ought to stop."
We were at the entrance to the Veranda. If I tried to follow Ross inside, the staff would have my ass on the sidewalk faster than you could say "deadbeat". I could see him balancing the wisdom of stepping inside and trying to forget about me against the possibility that I might know something useful - that, and the likelihood that I would still be outside when he was done, and then the whole thing would just start over again.
"Somebody set him up there, gave him a place to live and work," I said. "He didn't do it alone."
"The cops said you were investigating a missing person case."
"How'd you know that?"
"We get bulletins. I had someone call the Nine-Six when your name came up."
"See, I knew you cared."
"Caring is relative. Who was the girl they found?"
"Alice Temple. Friend of a friend."
"You don't have too many friends, and I have my suspicions about some of the ones you do have. You keep bad company."
"Do I have to listen to the lecture before you help me?"
"You see, that's why things are always so difficult with you. You don't know when to stop. I've never met a guy who was so keen on mixing it up."
"Bosworth," I said. "Philip Bosworth."
"I'll see what I can do. Someone will get back to you, maybe. Don't call me, okay? Just don't call me."
The Veranda's door opened, and we stepped aside to let a gaggle of old women leave. As the last of them departed, Ross slipped inside the resturant. I was left holding the door.
I counted to five, waiting until just before he got out of sight.
"So," I shouted, "I'll call you, right?"

Angel and Louis were waiting for me nearby. They were eating oversized wraps and drinking bottled water in Louis's Lexus. Angel, I noticed, had half the world's napkin production laid over his legs, his feet, the parts of the seat not covered by his body, and the floor itself. It was a slight case of overkill, although some stray bean sprouts and a couple of blobs of sauce had hit the napkins already, so it paid to be cautious.

"He must really love you if he's letting you eat in his car," I said, as I climbed in the back to talk to them. Louis acknowledged me with a nod, but there was still something unspoken between us. I was not about to broach the subject. He would do so, in his own time.
"Yeah, it's only taken, like, a decade," said Angel. "For the first five years, he wouldn't even let me sit in his car. We've come a long way."
Louis was carefully wiping his fingers and face.
"You got sauce on your tie," I said.
He froze, then lifted the silk in his fingers.
"Mother-," he began, before turning on Angel. "That's your damn fault. You wanted to eat, so you made me want to eat. Damn."
"I think you should shoot him," I said, helpfully.
"I got some spare napkins, you want them," said Angel.
Louis snatched some from Angel's lap, sprinkled water on them, and tried to work on the stain, swearing all the time.
"If his enemies found out about his Achilles' heel, we could be in real trouble," I said to Angel.
"Yeah, they wouldn't even need guns, just soy sauce. Maybe satay if they were really playing rough."
Louis continued to swear at both of us and at the stain, all at once. It was quite a trick. It was also good to see a flash of his old self.

Comments

[clay-mans-maker.livejournal.com]

good lord, he's a genius.
Why Didn't You Tell Me!?

[froodle]

I've told you about fifty times! I told you when Nocturnes came out, I told you when the radio plays came out, and sometimes I tell you for no particular reason at all. Is it my fault you never listen to me? No. It's yours. Get in the Reject Bin.

Also, I've just noticed that I wrote "remians" up there. For the record, Bird isn't investigating aliens from the planet Remedial, it should say "remains". Imma go fix that now.

[clay-mans-maker.livejournal.com]

well duh.
and for the record you only told me like 24 times.
God! such a plebe! Cant Count.

[froodle]

I'd rather be a plebe than an elitist music nerd. Nerd.

[clay-mans-maker.livejournal.com]

how the Fuck am i an elitist music nerd?
i own like 40 songs and half of those are AMVs. i own no CDs, not one. The only pieces of electrical stuffs i own are two casette tapes.

You're the one who snobs on those that irrationally hate hanson

[froodle]

Plebe.