The ABC Affair 2019 - O is for Oaktree

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

The flick of Nate’s arm telegraphed to Illya that he was about to be shot at and grabbing the nearest thing he could to shield himself, he held up a silver serving tray.

The bullet hit with surprising force for such a small caliber weapon, and Kuryakin would have remained on his feet were it not for an oblivious busboy who ran into him.

Illya stumbled backwards, tripping over a chair and landing hard on his rump. He yelped as most likely his stitches had burst open.

Napoleon, seeing the commotion, charged across the room, leaping up on top of the poker tables, sending chips and cards flying while heading straight for La Croix.

The players weren’t happy but none of them were able to stop him; Solo was a man on a mission.

Unfortunately his footing wasn’t the most sure and as he dove at Nate, he missed and landed face down on the floor.

He grabbed La Croix by the pant leg, but Nate kicked Solo right in the gut.

“OOF!” Napoleon let go his grip and La Croix took off.

In the melee that followed Solo rose to his feet but instead of heading after Nate he went to his partner, giving him a hand up from the floor.

“Napoleon he is getting away!” Illya barked

“Au contraire, mon amis.” Napoleon took out his communicator and after setting it up he activated it, the device was receiving a signal.

“I put a homing disc in the cuff of his pant leg, “he grinned.

“You my friend can be quite resourceful at times.

Solo wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, but now wasn’t the time to discuss it. They needed to get off the boat before the police arrived and arrested them for wrecking half the casino.

They ran out onto the deck, though Illya was hobbling more than running as his wound was now giving him more pain than he would admit.

Shoving through the crowds of passengers while uttering ‘pardon me’ and ‘excuse me,’ they made their way to the gangplank that had just been raised. They grabbed it, dropping it back into place just as the Natchez was preparing to leave. It wobbled as they bound down it and just as they hit the dock, it fell into the muddy river.

They disappeared among the crowds waiting on the dock, waving their farewells to the river boat with white handkerchiefs in their hands.

“This way,” Napoleon pointed. They had no visual on La Croix, but the signal from the disc was tracking strong.

They stopped running and switched to a brisk pace, though Illya was obviously limping.

“Do you need to stop tovarisch?”

“No, I will be fine. Keep going.”

All Solo could do was shake his head at his stubborn friend.

The signal drew them to City Park. Founded in 1854, it was considered one of the largest in the United States, with more acreage than Central Park in New York.

It was famous for being the home to the world’s largest collection of live oak trees, some more than 600 years old.

The park was also famed for being a location once used for dueling. In the 1800s, men would defend their pride and honor by dueling each other under the oaks as it was a normally a quiet spot secluded from the rest of the city. It was where such things as two men trying to kill each other with pistols at twenty paces were remained discreet as duelling was frowned upon.

Originally, there were two trees referred to as the ‘dueling oaks’, as it was in their presence duels often took place. Sadly one of the magnificent oak trees was lost during a hurricane in 1949.

Many of the disputes between parties were either reconciled before the duel took place, but some were not. Dueling deaths were apparently kept as public record, with a number of notable government officials having died in this manner, however, by 1890, dueling was finally outlawed.

There would be no pride and honor involved here once Napoleon and Illya caught up with the duplicitous La Croix. No dueling either. He would be captured or killed, period. Preferably the former but neither agent had a problem doing away with a traitor.

The signal had become even stronger, indicating their quarry was close at hand, though there was a problem over which the UNCLE agents had no control. The sun had set, and with minimal lighting available in the park, it would make it all the more difficult to find the man.

The trees covered in lichen and Spanish moss filtered the light of the rising moon. That would be the only light by which they could rely on to see, but as a soft breeze blew, everything around them moved. The rustling gave the the impression that someone might be there hiding in the darkness at every turn.

Cicadas sang out, croaking frogs added their voices, and owl hooted off in the distance.

The shadows cast by the branches and moss danced in the moonlight, making it impossible to see if Nate was there.

The signal strong, and as they crept closer to its perceived position the agents readied to pounce.

As they dashed into the darkness they discovered Nate was gone; the homing disc was there on the ground as it must have dislodged from his pant leg.

“I’m getting a little tired of this cat and mouse game tovarisch,” Napoleon leaned against one of the mighty oaks. When his partner didn’t respond, he squinted into the darkness.

“Illya? Are you okay?”

He finally heard a grunt and moved towards it.

“Here Napoleon, I am on the ground. I am bleeding again; my stitches need replacing.”

Solo gave his partner a hand up, and wrapping his arm around Illya’s waist, holding the Russian’s arm across his shoulders, he helped him hobble along.

It was going to take them some time to make their way through the darkness and find a place where they might get to a telephone to call for an ambulance.

The ever stubborn Kuryakin protested against that plan, but Napoleon insisted.

They eventually reached a street and there on the corner under a street lamp was a phone booth.

Not seeing a street sign, Solo left Illya by the phone and enquired inside a local jazz bar as to where they were.

It was surprisingly quiet inside.The musicians were white haired and looked as though they’d seen hard times;  their faces were deeply creased with careworn lines.

They were playing softly in the corner of the bar; there was no stage; playing mostly to themselves as there were few patrons.

There was the distinct odor of marijuana wafting in the air along with the smell of cigarette smoke.

“You all right sugar?” A waitress asked. “Someone beat you up? You look like you was on the Natchez with those fancy duds of yours.”

“Very good guess on your part ...Miss?”

“Fanchon, Fanchon DuBois. This here is my bar.”

“Fanchon, my name is Napoleon; my friend is outside by the phone booth and he’s in need of some medical assistance. Where are we so I can call an ambulance?”

“Napoleon? Well sugar don’t that name beat all. You bring your friend ...wait. Henri DuBois, you get yourself over here right now and help this gentleman. His friend outside and he be hurting.”

“Oui ma mère!” A lanky teenager with dark curly hair called out to her as she was obviously his mother.

Together Napoleon and Henri brought Illya inside to a back room. There Frachon appeared with box of medical supplies, mostly bandages, iodine, tweezers, along with spool of black thread and a needle. She also carried a stainless steel bowl filled with clean warm water and a cloth with which to wash the wound.

Kuryakin was laid face first on a cot, and said nothing as Frachon examined his injury.

“This nothing cher, I can fix you right up.”

Frachon went about cleaning the wound, removing the old stitches and adding her own neat stitching to close it. She snipped the thread with a small pair of scissors, and then with a cotton ball she applied iodine.

That made Illya hiss just a little.

“Sorry cher.”

“No, it is fine, thank you for your assistance,” Illya tried getting up, but she pushed him back down.

“Non non, you need to rest a bit. You as pale as a fantom.”

“I assure you Madam this is my natural coloring.”

“Well you need to eat before you leave. You lose a bit of blood. You hungry I think, oui?”

“Oui. Je me sens un peu... peckish.”

“Oh vous parlez français monsieur. C’est bon!”

“Oui, et merci.Je parle un petit peu,” he lied, telling her he only knew a little French as he was in no mood to engage the woman in any sort of conversation, even though he was grateful for her ministrations. It was better than having to return to a hospital and less complicated.

Napoleon stood by in silence, enjoying watching his partner squirm just a little bit, in the figurative sense that is.

Frachon brought them both heaping bowls of bouillabaisse. It was loaded with ingredients...sea bass, red snapper, scallops, clams, crab meat and shrimp in a delicately seasoned clam broth.

“Merci Frachon,” Napoleon said.” This is absolutely out of this world. It was perhaps the best bouillabaisse he’d ever tasted.

“How is it with food like this your place is not overflowing with customers,” Illya asked.

“Alors, we aren’t in a very good location I’m afraid.”

“Then why not get a job as a chef in one of the better restaurants in the city, where people would no doubt flock to eat this,” Napoleon said.

“Monsieur, I am Creole and people of mixed blood aren’t hired in such places exceot to do menial work. We make do on our own. The locals come here enough and I make a nice living. Besides, this is my place and no one tells me what to do. Vous comprends?"

“We will recommend your establishment to anyone we know who is coming to New Orleans.  Frachon, thank you for your food as well as your assistance,” Illya said. “I am afraid we must be going.”

“What do we owe you?” Napoleon asked.

“Nothing Monsieurs. It was my Christian duty to help someone in need.”

“Merci,” Illya bowed his head to her, but Solo saying his thanks, kissed her on the hand.

They bid her au revoir and headed out the door.

“Bon chance,” she wished them luck as she had a funny feeling these two would need it.  She recognized a gunshot wound when she saw one, and wondered what kind of trouble in which they might have been entangled.

The Natchez usually didn’t have problems with their clients, but still now and then arguments over gambling debts did arise, and they'd been dressed like the people frequenting the riverboat.

Comments

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Good work on both the action and the settings.

La Croix is proving himself more formidable than most Thrushies - hope they get him.

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

He's a slippery customer this La Croix. Poor Illya and his wounded posterior. This assignment is not going well for him.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

La Croix is definitely not the greenhorn Section III they thought he was!

I'm having internet connection issues, and hopefully I'll be able to schedule tomorrow's story. Still working on it and letter Q. Letters R & S are real head scratchers.. Eeeek!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I don't think they're going to underestimate him an more,