21 Club - Picfic for 15/12/2015

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

I apologise both for this being late and for the unimaginative title.

“And here we are,” Somerville said, gesturing expansively up towards the painted jockey statues, staring down at them. “The world famous 21 Club, my favourite place in New York. You know, I first came here in '29, when it was Jack and Charlie's 21, and we all had to speak in code, thanks to your ridiculous prohibition laws. Ah, good times. Good times. Thank you, gentlemen, for letting me come out here this morning. I hope you don't get in too much trouble, what?”

Yes, so did Napoleon. The trouble with babysitting dignitaries was always treading that line between protection and respect. Illya had said they should have just darted Somerville and kept him bundled up in a closet until the peace talks, but Somerville had seemed so sincere in his wish to come here this morning, and since the staff were opening up the bar an hour early just for him, they had reluctantly agreed. Well, he had agreed; Illya had grumbled.

His brow was still creased now as he gazed up mistrustfully at the jockeys.

“Presented by grateful patrons,” Napoleon explained. He didn't get to 21 as often as he might like, but he certainly knew it well.

Illya looked at him. “And what is wrong with simply tipping?”

“The colours the jockeys are wearing represent the racing colours of the stables the donors owned,” Somerville elaborated further, and really, Napoleon already knew this and he strongly suspected that Illya didn't care. “There are thirty five in total,” he continued, as they walked through the door. “Thirty three on the outside, and two inside.”

Napoleon was hardly listening. There was something different here. Something wrong.

“Three,” Illya said succinctly.

“What?”

“There are three inside,” Illya said, gazing straight at the jockey statue that looked just a little newer than the others, just a little off-scale.

Well, then. Seemed THRUSH knew where Somerville was after all.

It was a safe assumption that there was going to be a welcoming committee for them outside. He drew his gun and placed his hand on the diplomat's shoulder. “I'm going to need to ask you to come with me, sir,” he said. “Quickly.”

To his credit, the man barely blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Whatever you think best, young man.”

He ushered him towards the bar, glancing back at Illya just for a second, and his partner nodded briefly before turning his attention to the fake jockey.

If it was a bomb, Illya would defuse it. He had faith. All the same, he spoke urgently to the barman as they hurried deeper inside the building. “Where's the door to the wine cellar?”

The barman's eyes widened at the sight of the gun. “Mr Somerville...Mr Solo....what....?”

“The wine cellar,” he repeated quickly.

“Oh, of course. Follow me, please.”

Now there was service for you. And the wine cellar should, with any luck, keep them safe from any unwanted explosions. However, as it turned out, they'd barely got down the stairs before Illya appeared behind him. “Done,” he announced.

Really? Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “Not a bomb?”

“Come and see,” Illya said, a note of disquiet in his voice.

The jockey figure had been prised off the wall and lay open on a nearby table. The bomb was clearly visible and clearly disarmed. And Napoleon might generally leave most of the demolition work to his enthusiastic partner, but that didn't mean he couldn't see it was also almost unbelievably simple.

“Hmm,” he said, his brow furrowed.

“It's almost an insult,” Illya agreed.

And it hadn't exactly been well disguised either. “A decoy?” he suggested.

Illya nodded. “It is the only thing that makes sense.”

“Go and check for that welcoming committee,” he instructed. “I'll look around here.”

He started searching the room, keeping half an eye on Somerville, standing at the bar, talking to the barman.

“Mr Somerville, I really don't know if this is the right time, but even though you're not a regular anymore, when the boss heard you were flying in for a visit, he insisted I get you one of these.”

“A Christmas scarf! Oh, my. The design is beautiful this year, isn't it? Let me just....ow!”

Napoleon looked round sharply to see Somerville holding the scarf and gazing ruefully at his finger. “What happened?”

“Feels like someone left a pin in the bloody scarf. I've gone and pricked my finger, that's all. Nothing to worry about.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the barman said anxiously .”That's never happened before.”

“Don'...don't worry about it, dear chap,” Somerville yawned groggily.

Napoleon grabbed the scarf and examined it closely. There was the pin alright. Hollow, and ready to deliver whatever toxin was required. Carefully, he took a sniff.

“I cannot see any THRUSH men outside, but there do appear to be a number of members of the press,” Illya announced from the doorway. “They must have heard word of....ah.” He caught sight of Somerville, leaning against the bar while Napoleon held him up by his arm. “I will call an ambulance.”

“Don't bother,” Napoleon said, holding out the scarf to him.

Delicately, Illya sniffed the pin. “Ethanol.”

Napoleon nodded. “You said there was press outside?” There was no way that one of the key negotiators at the peace talks being carried drunk out of a famous bar the morning before the talks were due to commence wouldn't attract notice. The peace talks would fail and THRUSH would get to continue in the chaos they so enjoyed.

“Clever,” Illya conceded grudgingly.

“Very.” But they'd find a way to stop it nonetheless. He looked at the barman, now staring at the clearly drunk Somerville with an expression of bewilderment too real for Napoleon to consider him a likely conspirator. “Did that scarf come with the others?”

“N-no,” he stuttered. “It was sent round special, as it was early. With a note saying it was for Mr Somerville. Is...is he alright?”

They exchanged a look and Illya leaned forwards. “How strong is your coffee?”

*

Not strong enough, was the answer, after a pot and a half. All it had done was make Somerville talkative. “...nuh-nothing is a same as it was back...back in the good ol' days,” he sighed nostalgically, propped up on the bar between the two of them. “The world's gone mad, and not 'n the way it use to be. Everyone's so serious. Takes 'emselves seriously. Y'know, I used to be 'n aide to Churchill. Winston Churchill, I mean. An' he used to hold discussions while he was in the bath. Said it helped him think. I 'member once, he met Roosevelt stark bollock naked. Wasn't bothered either, just said 'Mr President, as you can see, I have nothing to hide from you.' Why can't things be like that anymore?”

“In your position, Churchill would have had three more brandies, walked out in front of the press and made a speech,” Illya said grimly, trying unsuccessfully to push another cup of coffee to Somerville's mouth.

“With or without his clothes?” Napoleon murmured.

Somerville twisted around to look at him. “Hey, Solo...Solo...y'know, I think I knew your father.”

“Quite probably,” he said neutrally.

“Shame about him,” he added vacantly, before focusing back on Illya. “I didn't know your father, did I?”

“I doubt it,” Illya said irritably. “He worked in a factory producing agricultural equipment. Does that sound familiar?”

“No....” Somerville said slowly. He gazed at them blearily for a long moment. “'s not just the seriousnesss y'know. It's all the secrets. We all say we want peace, but we're busy preparin' for war.” He started to push Illya and the coffee away, and wound up with his hand planted firmly against Illya's cheek. “The Americans are moving more missiles into Germany. Y'know, 's a good thing the Russkies don't know about that.”

"Very," Illya agreed, removing the man's hand from his face with some degree of difficulty. He turned to look at Napoleon. “This is not working.”

“Agreed,” he said. And it was getting desperate. Staying too long in the bar could provide the exact same rumours they were trying to avoid. “Can't you think of anything else?”

“You are the one with the dissolute lifestyle,” Illya retorted.

He raised an eyebrow. “You're the one from the country where drinking is the national sport.”

“Actually, our national sport is bandy, but I take your point.” He sighed and drummed his fingers on the table for a moment before turning to look at the bartender. “Very well. I will need another pot of coffee, a cup of ice, mustard powder, sugar, some tomato juice, three chillis – Scotch bonnets for preference – some ground coriander and....how fresh are your eggs?”

The bartender gaped. Napoleon knew the feeling.

*

Ten minutes later and they stood on either side of the bathroom door, listening to the unpleasant sound of Somerville vomiting up his toenails.

“You know,” Napoleon said conversationally. “If he dies, you're going to need to take a paycut.”

“If he dies, I am blaming THRUSH,” Illya said firmly.

“Where did you learn to make that...concoction...anyway?” he asked.

Illya shrugged. “Here and there. I have added to the recipe over the years.”

“And it's effective?” he pressed.

There was a slight but noticeable hesitation. “I have never drank it myself....”

Terrific. But he was saved from having to answer by the sight of Somerville coming out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth and looking....if not healthy, then at least upright. “I....gentlemen, I'm sorry,” he said. “I really don't know what came over me.”

“A THRUSH plot, sir,” Napoleon said. “Think nothing of it. But we need to get you back to your hotel, and you're going to need to walk past some journalists. Do you feel up to it?”

Somerville nodded, still a sickly green colour.

“I doubt the effect will last for long,” Illya said quietly.

Right. They had best move fast. Moving as one they ushered Somerville towards the door, and Napoleon only looked back at the barman long enough to ask “Can I make a reservation for Saturday? My usual table.”

Eventually, he would earn himself a scarf.

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Wonderful story! Great minds think alike, I was going to include the history and numbers of the jockeys in my story, but pulled it at the last minute.

Well done, and worth the wait.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Oh, thanks - I'd not actually heard of the place before so I had to do some research and the scarves and the jockeys leapt out as being interesting ideas to play with.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

The Jockeys are the most outstanding feature of the place. I haven't been in the 21 Club but have seen it from the outside. It looks rather formidable with its wrought iron fencing. A bit on the exclusive side to say the least.

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

My stomach was letting me know that it wouldn't tolerate the drink---big smile

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

I doubt anyone's would! Thanks.

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

I've never had such a concoction myself, but I have a few friends who have created them. I love the way you weaved the history of the club into you story. Very enjoyable.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Pretty sure there is no scientific rationale for anything like that working. But eh, thought it was a fun idea. Thanks for commenting.

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

Liked the red herring of the jockey, then the twist of the pin. Somerville was vividly drawn, and N & I were as solid as ever.