Taste Of Home
Thanks go out to Ken for letting Renny come out and play. Thanks, Ken!--Maer
Sunday, 24 Jul 2011
Devereaux-Shields House B & B
Natchez, MS
2130hrs, local time
It was over 80 degrees and the humidity was too damn close to matching it, percentage wise, but Irina whiteknuckled it out on the porch all the same. Gotta acclimate to the damned stew sometime, DiSanti. Might as well be now, on the Agency's dime. She'd had the good sense to raid her closet for every single cotton garment she owned and pack it for her move south. She wore a pleated tee and modest cargo capris she'd picked up from Old Navy. Not exactly her preferred style but at the moment she was too hot to care. On no account am I going to swan around in a freakin' sundress like some brain-dead Stepford Wife. Hell no, I'd rather roast first.
She had an iced tea at her elbow, the paper towel she'd folded under it sodden from condensation weeping off the glass, and she paused in her typing to sip it. Sugared, unfortunately, but the hostess had added a sprig of fresh mint from her garden out back. Irina liked the zip it lent the drink and resolved to choose a place that afforded her a balcony to grow some of her own, no matter what. Putting down roots here. No reason it can't be literal as well as metaphorical.
She closed a window on one website and stared at the half dozen she'd narrowed herself down to. Grabbing a legal pad and a pen off the table beside her, she noted the directions and sketched their locations in on a rough map. The screen door to the front porch softly screamed and she flicked a glance in its direction. Ah. Mystery Man from the Gallery Suite. He lives. Dark brown on blue, 5'-3"to 5'-4", 140, wears horn rimmed glasses, pale even for a white boy. Damn, somebody get that man a sandwich. Aloud she merely said, "Nice night. There's a seat left if you need it."
She tipped her head at the other chair, the one not in the corner but closer to the threshold where the man stood with one foot the porch.
Renny smiled as genuinely as he could, which was quite genuine, save that it wasn't. "Good evening," he said, in the smooth, pleasant voice he usually saved for customers. "Renyard Jacovich." He extended a hand. "Call me 'Renny' everyone does. From your voice, I take it that you are the other 'invader from the north'?"
"Damn straight," Irina said softly with a smile. She didn't want her voice to carry. She saved and shut her laptop, then rose to shake his hand. "Nice to hear a voice from home. Let me guess—Brighton Beach?"
There was that faint hint of the Slavic in his tone and just for an instant, a grue ran down her spine. No. Not the same. He's not one of them. But she couldn't help thinking, But he could be related... She steeled her expression to give nothing away and said instead, "What brings you to Natchez, Mr. Jacovich?" He’d pronounced it as it would be spoken in Brooklyn, yak-ko-vich instead of the more Russian yah-, and she repeated it back to him. She’d look deeper into it later.
Just keep things light, Renny thought, and see how things go.
Renny smirked, holding up his hands momentarily in mock surrender.
“I confess. I was born at Coney Island hospital, but only because my mother went into labor while riding the Cyclone. I was raised in Brooklyn close to Gravesend, but mostly by my Grandmother who only practiced parenting on weekends. I spent a lot of time down on the beach.”
He visibly scrutinized the woman sitting next to him cocking an eyebrow amusedly.
“And what about you? Mid-town by the accent, but something a bit more modest than Fifth Avenue from the clothes. Tribeca, maybe? Tudor City?”
"Clothes maketh man," Irina said, echoing his smirk and sitting down again. "Or so they say." She briefly thought back to the last time she'd been to Coney Island: a gang related scuffle that had called in half a dozen units from the area and put three punks and two officers in the hospital. She herself had gotten off light with nothing more than a bloody nose and sore ribs. She fanned herself as she'd seen the Southern belles of Natchez do, and said in her best imitation drawl, "Although I do declare, right this minute they do make it hard to enjoy the weather. A cyclone would be right welcome for the breeze." Switching back to her normal voice she added, "Would you like to sit down and shoot the breeze a bit, Renny? God knows how long it'll be before I hear someone from my hometown again. I've only been here for three days and I already miss it."
"Sure, but only if keep your accent somewhere in the boroughs." Renny moved his folded jacket to a nearby table and loosed his tie. "So what brings you to this fine outdoor sauna?"
"The economy. Duh." Irina said, slipping easily into that camaraderie that only exiled New Yorkers could enjoy. "You know how it goes. Follow the money and the money led here. So..." She shrugged. She took in his light grey button down shirt, his deep gold tie, the line of his charcoal grey jacket, all of which were limp from the humidity. His grey trousers had given up their crease ages ago. "Although I'm thinkin' I'm not gettin' paid enough to sit out here and get cooked. How about you?"
Was he nervous about something? Irina smiled at him even as she sharpened her focus. God knows, DiSanti, no one in his right mind would leave the North in the summer to come down here unless they had a damned compelling reason to. And as for her reason for being here? It was hardly something she could say aloud, if things were as she suspected.
Although sweat was no longer an option, the heat and humidity were simply not to be borne. Nor would it be good thing to be noticed to be not sweating.
Renny stood up with resolve. “I agree. Let us adjourn inside where there is a potential for air conditioning. Also, do I see apartment listings? Could I borrow those? I find myself in need of a place as well. A B&B is swell, but it doesn’t exactly fit my hours.”
"God, yes." Irina tucked her laptop under her arm and handed him the apartment finders she'd picked up around town. "Knock yourself out." She retrieved her drink and motioned toward the door. "Let's get inside."
Doesn't fit his hours? She tried to remember if she'd seen him check in. Nothing came to mind, but it wasn't hard to explain. She'd left early to recon the area for permanent living arrangements, the better to take advantage of the cooler temps before the sun got too high. If Jacovich had checked in while she'd been out, of course she wouldn't have met him til now. The hostess had remarked on his sleeping in when she’d served the afternoon tea, wondering if he would wish something sent up. Still, there was something in his tone that hinted it was something more than just the hours. She waited until they were inside the front parlor—blessedly chilled by the AC—and settled before continuing the conversation.
"What sort of hours do you keep, Renny? I'm a night owl myself and in this heat, it's a wonder the entire town doesn't sleep til sundown to avoid sunstroke."
Renny looked momentarily pensive. Just keep reeling. “Well, the last few days the dragon lady’s been keeping me up all hours.”
Renny glanced down while gesturing upwards with his palms, smiling. “Lady Evelyn Carrick. A friend of Baba Anya’s. I do some investments for her and set up her trust funds.” He shook his head. “Fond of gold, transport stocks and hand-holding in that order. The fact that Hong Kong is thirteen hours ahead of New York doesn’t seem to bother her. She's been calling me every night at 2:30 in the morning. Kind of messes with the circadian rhythms, if you get my meaning."
"That's the truth, yeah," Irina said, knowing the time zone disparity would suck. "So, thanks to your client, you're keeping night club hours. Only without the pleasures of a night club. How long have you been an investment banker, Renny?" She got comfortable, tucking one foot under her on the sofa, looking as if she was interested in the subject. In truth, she was more interested in the man than the topic, but the topic might tell her more about the man. "What do you like best and worst about it?"
Getting comfortable, Renny observed, or at least pretending to. Good. Make an effort to blush, just slightly.
“Not much of an investment banker, these days. Mostly, I sit with friends of my grandmother and tell them things are not so bad as they think they are. That their granddaughter didn’t mean to treat her like an ATM machine and drive through restaurant.” Renny realized that he was lapsing into ‘old Jewish guy voice’ and swapped tone. “But they pay well for a sympathetic ear. How about you? Surely a someone from the upper West must have better reasons for being here than making sure ‘that no account brother-in-law’ gets nothing in the will.”
“Yes,” Irina smiled politely, her radar pinging loud and clear, aware she was being pumped. She’d made absolutely no mention of what she did for a living. “Like you, I’m an advocate. Haven’t gotten paid yet though. I’ve only just started. You know how it is—there’s always a delay on that first paycheck. Paperwork,” she added with a grimace and a shrug and looked up through her lashes at Jacovich. “Lady Evelyn Carrick. Sounds British. I thought they all pulled out after ’97. Have you ever been to Hong Kong, Renny?”
Hrm . . . rather quick to change the subject. That’s fine, I don’t need her to say anything in particular.
“She is, well her family is, British, anyway. One of those Tai-pan families, made a fortune in trade, opium mostly, back during Queen Vicky’s reign. They’ve been living there ever since, more or less. To hear her tell it her father and grandfather defeated the Japanese single-handed from a motorized sampan. So when ’97 rolls around, she’s moving back to HK.”
Renny changed voice to a scarily accurate raspy British lady accent and began waving an imaginary cane in the air. “The Japs didn’t scare my father off and the Reds won’t scare me.” He reverted to normal voice. “Frankly, given the taxes she pays I suspect they hope she’ll never leave.
"So advocatin’. What's that like? You working with disadvantaged kids or something?"
Irina couldn't help it. She laughed at Jacovich's impersonation of his client and the quip that followed it, a delighted laugh that her close friends liked to call lilting. She sobered and answered, “You could say that. I doubt my employer has an age requirement to his clients and their ability to pay is secondary to the nature of their case. You could say he’s stereotypically American, in that he prefers to root for the underdog.” And for all I know, quite literally. If a talking dog showed up with sufficient grievance, he’d take its case on.
"It's not quite pro bono work, though I understand he's done that too. Let's just say he's interested in leveling the scales of justice where the leveling's gone wanting. More than that I can't say for certain, since I haven't really started working for him yet."
Technically it was true. She was to report to work on Monday morning, but for now, she was still unencumbered by employment. Thank God they've arranged to run a tab for me here. Otherwise I'd be living out of my car.
Wow, she keeps herself wound tight.
Renny swapped back to a slightly grandmotherly tone. “Now that was a nice smile, a nice laugh. You should smile more often. I mean, leveling the scales of justice, fighting the good fight, should be done with Joie de vivre.” Renny tched, melodramatically. "Not with such a solemn brow."
He held out his hand for hers, palm up.
"I tell you what. If it will help you feel more at ease, I can read your fortune. I used to do this for Baba Anya and her friends. I'm pretty good if I do say so myself."
A point to the skinny guy--he's charming and observant and I'll bet Baba Anya and her friends ate him up with a spoon. Aloud, she said, "Okay. You gonna read my palm, then? Gotta say, if you tell me there’s an unexpected trip is in my immediate future, just promise me it's somewhere cold."
She meant it as a joke, trying to distract him, but she couldn't help thinking of how icy the concrete floor of that basement felt on her bare skin, how unforgiving it was and how it made her ache. She shut the lid on the memory and brightened her expression, lest he notice her lapse. She put her hand in his, palm up, and waited to see what he'd do next.
Renny paused for a moment.
What was that? Something bad in her past no doubt. Not sure I want the details.
Renny gazed deeply at Irina’s palm, but nothing came.
She is not open enough to read. Let’s lighten things up a bit. Especially, since I am getting nothing from this palm.
Renny switched to the deep resonant voice he used when fortune telling, while lightly running his index finger down the lines of her palm. “COLD, I see Cold in your future. I see recent met stranger turning a thermostat down to 60. And all slept well. . .”
Renny paused for mock dramatic effect before continuing, “I see you obtaining the job you seek and I see justice being handed out in a thimble.” Where the hell did that come from? Let’s see what I get out of this.
“I see blood and theft.” Renny gently released her hand. “The Spirits Tell Me No MORE.”
Irina laughed again, thoroughly amused, even though she'd watched him carefully and judged his performance. He's good. I count at least three different possible prompts in his fortune. Three little hooks to reel the fish in.
"You know," she said, grinning up at him. "If I were thirty years older, you'd be in so much trouble." She lowered her voice to a sultry growl on that last and let her smile take on a predatory gleam. She held his gaze and then winked at him and took her hand back. "Luckily for you, I'm not."
Irina flopped back against the sofa and tilted her head speculatively. "Actually, you could make a killing doing this. Ever thought of giving up the pressure-cooker of investment banking and taking up fortune telling? There's enough women out there who would love what you've just done. Did Baba Anya and her friends get their fortunes told, too? You're really good. I'll bet they loved it." She'd seen it all too often as a cop, charlatans bilking the gullible and the lonely out of their life savings by pretending to be their new best friend with the inside line on the afterlife. Whoa. That's a pretty big leap you made there, DiSanti. You're not a cop. He's not a crook. You're just two people at a freakin' bed and breakfast making conversation, for Chrissakes. Chill.
"Ooops," she said, clapping a hand over her mouth and ducking. "Sorry. Mouth/Brain filter is totally fritzed. Must be the heat." She grimaced again, this time over her damned curiosity overriding her common sense. Strangers could be touchy being the butt of a suspected joke and right now, just about everyone here was a stranger. "No offense meant, but you got style, Renny."
Let's see if I can't salvage this, Irina thought, hoping she hadn’t blown it.
“Oh, think nothing of it. Frankly, the Fortune Telling worked better than the stocks most days.”
No reason to let her work herself into a snit over her own statements.
“Pity I didn’t have a crystal ball handy ten years ago. I’d’ve invested in Google and Amazon.com. And Disney Studios. I heard their latest pirates movie has already grossed a trillion.” She sketched a cross over her heart and raised her hand. “Hand to God. A trillion dollars. That’d make anybody think they’re in the wrong line of work, won’t it?”
Renny continued in theatrical tone. “Hardly. The spirits can be . . . mercurial . . . in what they reveal. Also, you need to be born with it. My uncle, he said I had . . . the gift . . .” He bowed with of flourish before continuing in normal tone. “Whether that was for seeing the future or for delivering cleverly arranged B.S. I leave to the kind consideration of my audience.”
Mind you, Renny thought, the fact that JJ told me this ten years after he died might be a clue, but for now let’s just leave that up in the air. A little mystery for the detective.
Irina laughed again. I like him. He might be a con artist but I like him. Definitely a people person, this one. Criminals of his stripe didn’t get far by being unlikeable and the more charming ones were usually the more successful ones. If he was here to run a con, well, at the moment, she had bigger fish to fry. One of the advantages of her position was the freedom to pick and choose her cases. As for the BS factor … She rose and gathered up her laptop and legal pad and held her hand out to him. “Renny, it’s been a pleasure, but it’s getting late and I have to catch up on some reading before I turn out the lights. See you tomorrow at breakfast?”
“We’ll see. It’ll depend on Lady Carrick. Good luck with your advocating. For now I think a walk is in order. . . and a trip to the Thermostat.”
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, Mr. Phelps …,” Irina intoned and strode for the stairs. Two steps and she turned around and faced him again. “Oh, one more thing.”
Renny turned toward her, "Yes?"
“What did you mean,” she said, lowering her voice again. “Blood and theft? What, did the spirits tell you I’d be knocking over a blood bank or something?”
Dang, got a little too clever, he thought.
“Wha? No. Don’t think too much about it. When I do the fortune teller bit stuff just comes out sometimes. Also, you’re a PI, there’s always something being stolen and or someone bleeding somewheres.”
Shit, I’ve been made. Dammit, Irina silently swore. On the other hand …
“Guilty as charged,” she said, quirking an eyebrow upward. Why deny it? Sometimes honesty nets you more than guile. She turned for the stairs and said over her shoulder, “Good night, Renny. And good luck with your hunting.”
She gave him a smile and took the stairs up to her room, where she would write up their conversation. Good night, Reynard Jacovich. Whoever you are.
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