| Stool Pigeons |
[Sep. 1st, 2007|08:16 pm] |
Star was ruined.
Sure, the results of the investigation into her club weren’t public yet. Not even the heiress knew what had been determined. But while she and the tabloids waited with baited breath, a bunch of bureaucrats took their sweet time. Tongues wagged, rumors got more and more twisted, and her reputation as a Vegas ‘It Girl’ was down the toilet.
Estella ‘Star’ Tomlin was now a ‘Has Been’.
In the meantime she lived off a meager allowance. After all, her fortune might get sued from underneath her. She joined the ranks of the unemployed. And she shacked up with Leah, trying not to notice that lately the place reeked of sex, and god only knew why. As far as Star could tell, no action ever went on there.
But penniless or not, she could still afford a fashion mag and a milkshake. Depression demanded chocolate and brain candy. It was like a rule or something.
In a bad mock-up of a 1950s diner, Star sat on a swivel stool and wiled away the afternoon. Her straw made rude noises. It dripped chocolate on the pages of Vogue. She mopped at the latest splotch with a napkin and balled it up.
"That girl."
In the 1950s and into the decade beyond, many a young woman parked themselves in the soda shops at Hollywood and Vine, drank sodas and pretended to read magazines. Charlie Chaplin's had an office nearby. Will Rogers too. Studios were within walking distance. So it was the hope of every starstruck girl that a movie producer would walk by, glance into the window, be mesmerized by their mere presence, and strike those fabled words.
Whistler far from fit that bill.
If anything, he walked along the less known path that the Los Angeles section was known for: Haunted Hollywood. If he concentrated, he could see not necessarily the ghosts of what came before, but where the living were headed. And as an Agent for the Powers That Be, sometimes he was instructed to do exactly that. Never was he allowed to examine his own path. That was a bone of contention; if he'd had a heads-up that The Witching Hour was to implode a few months back, he would've socked away more of his paychecks. He would've picked up more double-shifts to line what little of a nest-egg he had. And he sure as hell would've gone in earlier to get the last of the payroll.
Hands stuffed in (non-jean clad) pockets, he scuffed his way through the more brightly-lit areas of Las Vegas, occasionally peeking up to look for 'help wanted' signs. The worn notice at the 50s diner caught his attention.
The woman seated with her back to the window. "That girl."
That cemented his reasoning for going inside.
Star gave her shoulder an absent rub and turned the page. A sweet fragrance wafted from her magazine. It was a perfume sample meant to imitate gardenias. She leaned in and pressed her nose to it. It smelled like a department store for geriatrics. Immediate turn-off.
She wrinkled her nose and fished the cherry out of her milkshake. This accomplishment made her a little smug. Most times, she ate that right off.
The cow bell on the door rang. She looked up, saw who it was, and immediately dove back into her reading materials. Ohhhh shit, shit shit, shit. Angry employee. Star combed her hair over her profile.
The hatted man took his time from the door to the counter. Star's body language screamed I'M NOT HER AND EVEN IF I WAS I DON'T HAVE YOUR MONEY, and a purposeful approach might've caused her to rabbit. No one liked to see Whistler run. His arms flailed like an eight year-old child chasing an ice cream truck. He wondered if that was why Rhiannon never took him up on his offer for a tandem early morning jog. Well that thought was pointless, now.
Whistler sat on the swivel stool and shifted his weight until he found comfort. He dropped his hat onto the seat next to his. An silent rule of thumb: no one liked an asshat, so people usually respected its privacy.
"How're you holding up, then?" he asked with barely any inflection of emotion.
Was Star wearing gardenias? Immediate turn-on.
Star sniffed and straightened. “Fine.” It would’ve been easier to turn the next page if chocolate hadn’t glued it down. She pretended to study a collection of Fendi handbags. It didn’t take a lot of acting talent, once she got an eyeful of them. Sigh. The things she’d never have. Her fingernail traced a periwinkle strap.
“You?” Star could’ve shot herself on the spot for asking. But the guy was a former kitchen employee, so she wasn’t exactly going to be rude, even if they always got on each others’ nerves. Especially now that she might need tips on the local classified section. A guy like him probably trolled them often.
The counter waitress made a drive-by.
"Uh, whatever she had," Whistler grunted to the Lucille Ball lookalike. "Another for my old boss. And don't believe her when she declines. Put it on my bill," he finished, not giving Star a chance to protest.
The Agent swivelled from left to right, a small half-circle. Everyone should have chairs like this, he thought. You couldn't be sad when you could spin until you got dizzy. It also helped you forget things, if done right.
"Broke up with my girlfriend. Kinda. I think. No. We did." He'd double-checked the transit system once he made his way into Las Vegas. No subway.
"My home's a wreck, I barely have any furniture to my name. Working midnights at the Rock 'N Bowl and looking for more work. I'm peachy."
Whistler nodded in thanks as the waitress brought over two glasses of water. Some niceties still remained in the food service industry. "I saw the implosion on You Tube. Spectacular. Did you know it's got over two million hits so far?"
Star closed her magazine with as much patience as she could muster. Which wasn’t a lot. She swiveled around and let loose one of her patented bitch looks. “Listen. I didn’t blow it up. Capisce? You’ll get your paycheck as soon as I get mine. Which’ll happen when that tight-ass insurance investigator gets his thumb out of his ass and declares me free and clear.
“Furthermore...
“You had a girlfriend?”
Star shook her head and peeled the paper off her new straw. “That’s baffling.”
On a hot, late-summer day, you could always count on a cold blast of air from Star Tomlin. Whistler heard that a lot from the (former) employees of the Witching Hour. He'd believed there was a softer side to the blonde.
Apparently not so much.
"First of all," he brought up his pointing™ finger. "I never accused you of blowing your place up. I think I would've known, after a fashion." Which was true. It wouldn't have been for his personal safety that the Agent would've gotten a flash of that future, but moreso for the other workers. If Star planned to destroy her own restaurant and nightclub, not to mention the place where she lived, there probably would've been residual energy.
"Second, while yeah I'd fuckin' love my money, I'm wasn't gonna burn that bridge quite so fast. When that insurance kicks in, you might decide to rebuild. And how many people do you think would risk comin' back to workin' for ya right away?
"And three...
"Fuck off."
Star’s smile dripped sugar. “I was here first.” She plucked the cherry from Whistler’s matching milkshake and glomped it along with hers.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Whistler, if I don’t roll out the welcome mat. The whole,” she put up quote fingers, “ ‘support for the owner’ concept seems to be missing from the Witching Hour crowd. See..,” she ticked items off with her fingers, “I paid the best wages in town. I stacked the tip jars. I let ‘em have free drinks after closing. And I never once questioned it when somebody was too hung over to come in, having been there myself.”
Star took a breath, because blowing hot air was hard work. “All in all, I’d say it made for a fucking sweet working environment. Particularly considering the previous owner was a warlock who pranced around in leather pants with a security detail, and he never once spoke to an employee, unless it was to get into his or her pants. That’s right! I said it!”
She brushed back her hair. “So yeah. You making the polite approach? All walking up and not implying I’m a psychotic bitch and demanding restitution for pain and suffering, which puh-lease...? One in a hundred. And if you are one in a hundred, congratulations. You actually have a soul.”
"Yeah, I got one," Whistler snapped back. It was never a good idea to snipe at someone who knew when you'd draw your terminal breath and considered telling you. "Bit tarnished of late but it still works."
He scooped up a spoon with a long handle and stirred it in his milkshake, supressing the urge to tell Star anyway for stealing his cherry. "And you wanna know a truth? It doesn't fuckin' matter how well you stack the tip jar or forgive someone for slackin' off because of a hangover, Miss Tomlin. 'Cuz it's one thing to act the concerned patron and another to actually give a shit about someone other than yourself."
With more whipped cream than actual frosted chocolaty goodness in the curve of his spoon, Whistler brought the utensil to his mouth and let it coat his throat.
Star’s face flamed up. Whistler’d hit a nerve. She bit her cheek hard enough to cut through.
“You think you fucking know who I am? You don’t.”
It took all her self-restraint not to hex him with some kind of pox, just for shits and giggles. She slid the ‘free’ milkshake out of her way and reopened Vogue. Let him sit there and imagine she was some dumb, selfish socialite. He’d never get her. Only Tyler did, and he was gone.
Everyone, to a degree, broadcast their thoughts. Like radio static it would be impossible for most to hear without focus, and unless you could attune to their frequency, the best you'd pick up was sports on the AM dial.
Star's tirade lashed out in Dolby Surround 7.5™. Whistler instinctively flinched and saw beyond.
He sucked back on the milkshake until it was half-gone. "White roses," he finally mumbled.
Star mumbled around her palm, “I prefer pink,” and flipped a page. Then her brow furrowed. “Wait, what?”
The man shrugged and finished his milkshake. Immediately he suffered a pain in his frontal lobe. "Ow, fuck!"
The most likely culprit was the icy treat, but Whistler was an Agent and when he blatantly ignored the wishes of the Powers, they tended to grab his attention. Like that time he carried a migraine for days. "It's all about primary colors. See if you can wrap your head around this.
"You've got red, which of course mean love, everlasting. Then you've got white, yeah?" He puffed as his temples still throbbed. "Purity and brightness, two things you obviously aren't." FUCK! Okay, already! "But when given by a lover, they represent them thinking you're a...."
Oh, don't make me say it. Nggggggguhhhhh!!!
"Means they think you're an angel. Mix the white and the red, you get pink. Which I'm sure you have a lot of in your closet. So basically it's an expression of deep love, purity, and sympathy.
"And NO, it's not me."
Star cocked her head. “Really. So then... what’re you doing, spying on me? Orrr... have your newest career aspirations led you to a lucrative job in floral delivery?” She waited on an answer. “Take your time. Don’t stress it. You’ll only aggravate your bald spot.”
She folded her arms.
Aha.
The headache became a dull roar in the back of his skull. "Better to be the bearer of bad news than the person who receives it. Or somethin' similar. I think Shakespeare wrote that. Or maybe Marlowe. Or Dick Cheney. They get jumbled up sometimes.
"And for the bald spot crack, I don't think I'll tell you." Whistler reached to his left and grabbed his fedora, putting it square on his head.
Star rolled her eyes and took another pass at the magazine. “Whatever. Like a pot shot at your hairline is anything compared to implying I have no heart or no virtue.” She flipped past the perfume sample and shot straight to the horoscopes. Since when did Vogue have horoscopes? “Anyway, I don’t have time for this, so either you know something or you don’t. I don’t beg.”
"I know that, despite your many faults, someone loves you, Miss Tomlin." Whistler sucked up the dregs of his milkshake through the straw, ensuring the noise grated. "And even death itself isn't a concern. So as bad as you feel right now, as low as you've gone.
"You've got somethin' special to look forward to."
Star’s head buzzed. “I don’t get it.” It was just like the meeting with Detective Starnes. Puzzle pieces flying everywhere but none of them fit. “If you’ve got something to say, say it straight. Otherwise shut up. And lay off the death remarks. It‘s a thing.”
Whistler slowly shook his head. He could see Star's probable future and gave the nudge allowed. But -- remembering the time he tried to directly interfect and warn Rhiannon of the coming Scourge -- there were consequences involved. This time, it might not be directly aim at him. His bosses could throw up any number of roadblocks and prevent it from coming to pass. And given what lay beyond that for the blonde, and her place in the coming storm, that was a very, very bad idea.
"It'll make sense in time. You'll likely smack your forehead, ya know like those 'I could'a had a vee-eight' commercials. Just trust me on this." He dug in his (still) jeans-free pants and pulled out a few bills, and slapped them on the counter. "Enjoy the magazine, and pay attention to page one hundred and twelve. And oh, I'll let you tip the waitress. You've said you're good at that."
Whistler swivelled to his left and held back a smirk at the miniature ride on the stool. It made him homesick for the Teacup ride at Disneyland. Maybe he and... maybe he'd visit there someday soon.
Star waited until he was gone and flipped hurriedly to page one-twelve.
It was just a stupid cologne ad. Some guy with a body like a Grecian god walking out of the ocean.
Star slapped her forehead for being so gullible.
“That guy’s a complete fraud.” |
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