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Chapter.3.



“What this city needs is more investment!”


The crowd gathered in Times Square roared and cheered, waving their little paper flags as Mayor Warren Worthington the Third shouted from his soap box. “We need to cleanse ourselves of the plague of organized crime that has been a blight on this fair city for too many years now!” Worthington shook his fist in the air as he spoke, eliciting even more wild cries of solidarity and more reverent flag waving from the crowd.


As he ploughed headlong into a rousing and patriotic speech there seemed to be only one man amongst the crowd that was unmoved by it. P. I. Logan was stood more or less in the centre of the throng his hands in his pockets and a cigar clenched between his teeth. His eyes trailed along the temporary bandstand, draped in red, white and blue crape paper. Behind the gesticulating Mayor of New York there were a row of dignitaries and his supporters. A scowl came to Logan’s face as he saw that the Chief of Police, Scott Summers was one of them, sitting with his wife, the Rita Hayward look-a-like Jean. Of course, he knew them both---but that was a past life.


Logan’s eyes continued to drift as he noted with some amusement the Mayor’s wife Elizabeth Braddock-Worthington, sat just behind her husband. Her brown-stocking covered legs were crossed, the top one bobbing up and down idly as she held a slim black cigarette holder in her white gloved hand nonchalantly. She appeared so disinterested and bored that judging by the look on her face she’d rather top herself than listen to any more of her husband’s mindless drivel. Even underneath the small hat net that guarded her eyes it was plain for all to see. But she wasn’t the primary target of Logan’s attention, the woman sat three chairs down was.


Logan was relieved to notice that his blood pressure didn’t jump quite so high this time when he laid eyes on her. At least it wasn’t as bad as the last time, or the time before that, or the time before that one---. “Gettin’ better.” He muttered around his cigar. He plucked it from his mouth as he let his eyes rake over Ororo’s body. She was dressed in a similar style to the Mayor’s wife; the stockings, stilettos, respectably fashioned burgundy dress. She even had the box hat with the netting and the mink coat---but somehow she outclassed every other broad on the bandstand. Hell---the entire crowd if it came to it! He did his best to ignore the grinning gargoyle that was Kenny Forge, sitting at her side.


Logan had been tailing his unsuspecting subject for just over a week now. So far nothing in her actions had been suspicious; she’d met with no dodgy types, hadn’t really strayed any further than her apartment, Smokey’s or shopping in Bloomingdale’s. This was turning into a fairly routine investigation; he was used to dealing with overreacting husbands. They marry a hot broad---then they get jealous and suspicious every time a man looks at them sideways. But ain’t that always the way?


His mind was drifting when in the corner of his eye he caught sight of someone who looked familiar. When he turned to study them closer they’d disappeared into the crowd. Pushing his way through the masses, shoulder first, he made his way in the direction that they had gone. And sure enough he had walked but a few feet when he saw the tall auburn haired man from the photograph. He looked just as shady and out of place in this crowd as Logan suspected he did. He had on a dark brown trench coat that was buttoned right to the top, his hands in his pockets and the collar was pulled up about his ears. He had a black hat on that was covering most of his hair, but most of his long fringe had escaped and was hanging over one half of his face.


The tall man was staring straight ahead, his eyes burning with concentration. Logan was non to surprised to find that when he followed the line of the man’s gaze that it led right to Ororo. #Now this is getting interesting# he thought darkly as he took a drag on his almost finished cigar.


* * *


After the speeches had finished the entire roster of the guests of honour at the rally had gone to a swanky buffet, thrown, of course, by Worthington Industries. The crème-del-a-crème of New York society had turned up, they missed the ‘political’ part of the afternoon but they’d certainly come out in droves for the free food and flowing champagne.


Ororo sipped slowly at her third glass of the evening. Standing at the back of the room she was content to people watch as Forge networked with the high and mighty. She didn’t particularly care for evenings such as these but she had grown to except them as a wifely duty almost.


The swell of people mixed around, jumping from one meaningless conversation to another. All fake smiles and expensive hair dos---this really was hell on earth. She may have enjoyed being a popular singer but these people, her main audience---truth be told she couldn’t stand them. Gazing around she saw her husband talking with the Mayor and Chief Summers. It looked like they were keeping the conversation light at the moment but she was sure they’d go on talking late into the night on more serious business matters later.


Just next to them stood Jean Summers and ‘Betsy’ Braddock-Worthington. The red head looked O. K, a little bored perhaps, but Betsy was a little worse for wear already. Ororo had heard rather a few rumours on the grapevine about Mrs. Worthington; apparently it was always quite difficult to carry on an adult conversation with her. The amount of prescribed tranquilizers the woman quaffed she was practically catatonic most of the time. “Who’d be a politician’s wife?” She said quietly into her shallow, wide rimmed champagne class.


She was about to take a sip when a deep, velvety voice said right into her ear, “Who indeed cheri?”


Startled, Ororo span round, causing some of her drink to splash out of her glass and over the front of her dress. Laughing lightly the man pulled the folded red handkerchief from his front breast pocket and moved to wipe the spilled liquid from her front. But before he got the chance to she snatched the material from his hand and did it herself.


Wiping at the stain with quick, angry strokes she hissed at him through gritted teeth, “What the hell are you doing here Remington?”


The man shook his head at Ororo, his hair falling over his handsome face as tutted at her playfully, “Now dat be no way to greet an old friend chere.”


He put his hand to her chin, tip her head up, lifting her attention away from her dress but she knocked it away. Giving the room a quick glance to make sure nobody saw what just happened she turned back to her unexpected companion. “Remy, I thought we’d sorted this months ago.” She whispered her voice quivering with barely checked anger


He leant his right shoulder on the wall next to him, casually crossing his feet over at the ankle as he folded his arms over his chest. Staring directly into her eyes he gave her a lopsided smile, but said nothing. Ororo broke the gaze, sighing and shaking her head slightly, “Fine, but let’s talk outside.”


Checking once again to see if anyone was watching them she took hold of his arm and guided him out into the corridor at the back of the dinning hall.


*


But Ororo wasn’t as careful as she’d thought she’d been, not noticing Logan at the far end of the room. He’d watched the whole thing through the milling throng of rich weirdo’s, celebrities and politicians. He waited for them to leave the room before he started after them, making sure also that he steered clear of Forge’s view---he didn’t really have anything concrete to provide him with yet.


Quickly he made his way across the hall.


* * *


Ororo practically dragged Remy down the corridor, around a corner at the end and out of the fire exit. All the time she was checking right and left for any wondering bell boys or hotel and party guests. Finally when they were outside she turned round sharply on her heal and shouted, “What are you doing here? I thought you were going back down to New Orleans and staying there.” True fury burned in her blue eyes now.


“Hey chere, not so angry, hien?” He brought his hand up to caress her face and this time she didn’t pull back from his touch. Although she didn’t welcome it either---she was more resigned to it. “Remy wan’ed to come see ‘is padnat, dat so wrong?” That damnable sexy smile of his was creeping back onto his chiselled features.


Ororo looked away, fighting the urge to return it. He had away of distracting a girl and even though she knew his tricks---it didn’t stop her from falling for them. “So, everything was O. K when you got back? They accepted the money?”


Although he continued to smile it did slip a fraction but before she had time to think about that he’d pulled her into his arms. Resting his chin on her head, just to the side of her hat he breathed in the vanilla scent of her hair. “Mon dieu, yo’ smell as good as evah!”


Ororo returned the embrace, laughing softly against his shoulder at what he was trying to do. “Remy, it won’t work.” She pulled back to look him in the eyes, his eyes that through some medical defect had irises that were an odd reddish-brown colour. Something to do with blood vessels in the eye apparently, sometimes they appeared to be completely crimson. “Did they except it?”


“Oh sure chere, no problems dere. De Mengo feres be off Remy’s back now.” He pulled his arms tighter around her.


That worried her; he was definitely still hiding something from her. “Then---I don’t mean to be callous---but why have you come back to New York.” She laughed as she said, “You’re not exactly welcome here---to say the least.”


“Humph! De girl knows how to make a boy feel at home, non?” He was trying his best to be humorous but he couldn’t stop a frown from marring his features.


“What is it then? What trouble have you managed to get yourself into this time Le Beau?”


Remy took a deep breath as he released Ororo from his arms. He took a few aimless steps around the dirty back ally. He scratched his forehead as thought over what to tell her. “Dis ain’t new trouble chere---it’s old, very ol’. I jus’ need a bit more.”


Ororo sighed loudly in exasperation as she turned her back on him. “I can’t give you any more Remy, I just can’t.”


“But chere, Remy’s in big trouble---and I mean big. I jus’ need---“He was beginning to sound desperate so Ororo cut him off.


“Who is it this time then? Angry creditors? Lost big on the roulette wheel? Or did you just steel something from the wrong person---again?”


Remy laughed, shaking his head as he thrust his hands absently into his pockets. Ororo noticed how he couldn’t bring himself to look at her anymore, that’s when she knew it really was serious. “Remy you must understand, I’ve given you all that I can. I want to help you, believe me. We went through so much together---but it’s Forge.”


His face darkened as he asked, quite sharply, “What about him chere?”


“He is growing suspicious I think. He wondered where all that money he gave me went to the last time.” She walked back over to Remy, placing her hand comfortingly on his chest. “Is there any other way I can help?”


“Yo’ jus’ don’ get it anymore do yo’ chere?” He spat the words out with a shocking bitterness. With a sardonic laugh he continued, “Now yo’ all nice an’ sittin’ pretty in New York society yo’ seem to ‘ave forgotten what it be like out ‘ere, non?” He walked away from her again, taking his hands out of his pockets he ran them both through his hair, gripping it at the top of his head as he looked up at the late evening sky.


“That’s not fair Remy and you know it!” She was genuinely wounded by his accusation.


“Sometime’ life, she ain’t fair ‘Roro. I need money an’ I need it fast, yo’ understand?” His strange eyes were literally becoming redder as he became angrier and more insistent in his request.


“You don’t seem to be listening. I-can’t-give-it-to-you.”


He turned away from her again as he scratched at his unshaven chin. He appeared to be hesitating---he was building up to something she could tell. A strong feeling of trepidation started in her as his silence extended. Finally, he turned back to face her, “I’m sorry chere,” he began quietly. “But if yo’ don’ get me ten thousan’ dollars by two weeks I---.” Remy stopped, looking down at the ground.


“You’ll what?”


“Let’s jus’ say dat darlin’ husban’ o’ yours might get to know a few more---details abou’ your life dan he’d like.”


* * *


Logan quickly turned his face to the corridor wall, pretending to be looking at something on a nearby food trolley as Ororo Munroe rushed past him. He had caught a quick glance of her when she’d first came storming around the corner at the edge of the corridor. Her face was quite flushed, almost red and her eyes were glittering. But not with tears it seemed, but with pure anger.


He followed her with his eyes once she’d passed him as she yanked open the door back into the hall. She let it fall shut behind her with a resounding slam. “Ooh, sexy when she’s angry!” He joked to himself. He re-envisaged the sight of her effortless grace as she strode down the hallway, even her stomping march made her look sexy!


He waited then for the auburn haired man to remerge then, the thought of him making him scowl slightly. So he was her lover after all, obviously his own fogged judgment had made him hope he wasn’t. Forge had been right to suspect. He only wished he’d been able to hear their conversation in full---a maid had come along at the most annoyingly inappropriate time to clean the carpet. He’d only caught the first couple of sentences---she clearly wasn’t happy that he’d turned up here.


At that moment the man came around the corner slowly, the look of worry on his face almost palpable. His hands were in his pockets as he dawdled up the hallway towards Logan, gazing at the floor. As he approached Logan he looked up at him, giving him a small nod of acknowledgement.


“Cheer up, might never happen” Logan joked casually.


The man gave Logan a short, rueful smile, “It already did mon ami.” He carried on down the corridor but didn’t go through the door that led to the party. Instead he continued on, disappearing round the opposite corner.


That clinched it; Logan knew who the man was. When he had heard him speak with that distinctive Cajun drawl /Louisiana ‘yat’, it sparked his memory. But when he’d seen his eyes closer---those unmistakable eyes---then he knew it was him. Gambit. The notorious ‘Blanc Diablo’ of the French Quarter. This guy had a serious rep, all along the East coast. So serious in fact that some wondered whether or not the guy was a myth.


Logan left the party then, he had some contacts to shake down.


-TBC-





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