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alethialia is a shiny medallion that lights up my life. I can't believe you got me a virtual gift for no reason other than being nice, boo ;_; Means a lot (and I am totally NOT prolific!! I think I put out a fic a year, at most DDD:).Without further ado, Chapter 3. In which everybody votes Nate to be a whore (of sorts).
Chapter 1 | 2
“Leslie Benjamin Roth,” Patterson says, dropping a thick folder onto the meeting room table with a resounding thwack. “Thirty-six years old, native Californian of mixed Peruvian and German descent. Runs a manufacturing business, making gunstock out of imported walnut and birch.”
“Likes long walks on the beach…”
Patterson pauses, looking around the room for a culprit before noticing how Ray’s trying to hide behind Walt. To his credit, Patterson merely lifts an eyebrow and continues.
“Of course, nobody’s under the misconception that Roth actually earns any money from selling gunstock. Ten years ago Roth had a lucrative business refining opium.” He crosses his arms before adding, “Roth still has a lucrative business refining opium. He’s by far the most significant player in the field, in fact. We just haven’t been able to prove it.”
As Patterson continues, Nate takes this time to cast his eyes around the room and observe the men he’ll be working with. The SFPD contingency on the case numbers at ten officers, taking up the windowed side of the briefing room opposite the visiting Marshals like they’re all guests at a ball and the sexes are reluctant to mingle. None of the local officers look particularly bothered by Patterson’s words…a little resigned, at most. This Roth character must really be old news to elicit such non-reactions.
Standing in contrast is Nate’s posse, all of them shoulder-to-shoulder against the dark, wooden wall to his right. The natural light from the windows has long faded to dusk, so it’s up to the lamps that stud the walls to illuminate the room. The warm light bathes everyone’s faces in soft shadows, and Patterson looks grim as he describes the opium-related violence that’s surged in recent years. Nate’s men appear equally sober in the face of such gruesome numbers and facts.
Perhaps sensing Nate’s attention, Brad’s eyes flick to the back of the room where Nate’s holding court. Their gazes tangle, stoked by the lapping flames from the lamps—completely innocuous except for the way Nate’s chest clenches at Brad’s slow, feral smile. It makes his skin prickle into goose bumps.
Nate pointedly cocks his head towards Patterson and Brad rightly shifts his focus back to the front of the room.
“…so the chances are, if your woman Cocheta’s shopping for a customer of crude opium in San Francisco, then Roth would be a natural suitor. The other scoundrels in town are small-time, and it sure doesn’t sound like Cocheta’s small-time.”
“Understatement,” Brad says. He hasn’t spoken a word yet throughout the meeting, so he’s got the room’s attention when he continues, “Question is, how do we make sure we’re there when Cocheta and Roth make contact?”
“That’s a good point,” Nate agrees, glad to begin plotting their mission in earnest. “If Roth’s as powerful as he seems, we can’t exactly knock on his door and ask for a tour of his refining business. We need to find a way to track him, to keep tabs on his dealings without being noticed.”
Patterson puts both his palms on the table, leaning forward. “I’m glad you boys mention it, actually.” He crooks a knowing smile and reaches forward to the thick folder he’d dropped on the table earlier.
Everyone in the room cranes in to watch as Patterson flips the cover open, revealing a thick pile of photographs that he spreads out into a messy fan. He seems to be looking for something in particular, one hand sifting through the stacks of photos, almost all of them featuring the same man—Roth, presumably. In the photos, he looks anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five years old, but the same piercing, light-colored eyes stay constant amidst changing hairstyles and various stages of whiskers.
Eventually, Patterson plucks out a picture and holds it up. It’s a small thing, the usual 4x4” silver print showing a candid shot. Two well-dressed men recline against a bar in a smudgy, low-ceilinged saloon. One of them is Roth, donning a derby hat with a neat mustache while his partner tips back a drink. A rowdy-looking crowd mills in the background, men in three-piece suits, women in white tea gowns.
“May I?” Nate asks, holding his hand out. Patterson sets the photograph down on the table and slides it over.
Nate picks up the picture. He feels his face go warm.
Easily missed at first glance, a closer examination reveals that Roth has his hand in his male companion’s back pocket, staking his claim as he looks at the blond with hungry eyes. The overt lust in Roth’s appearance is only slightly tempered by the blond’s clear amusement, his entire visage laughing behind the act of quaffing a martini.
“I see,” Nate says, clearing his throat. The officers in the room look curious, so he dutifully passes the photograph to one of Patterson’s men on his left.
“Is this a pattern of his…to keep male companionship?” Nate asks, hoping his voice betrays no discomfort.
“Oh, yeah.” Somewhere next to Chief Patterson, a man with ice-blue eyes and dark brows pushes himself off the wall, stepping forward. He’d introduced himself as Rich Barrett earlier, Captain of the department. “We haven’t been sitting on our asses this whole time, Marshals. I have a few men infiltrating Roth’s cartel, but let me tell you, it sure as hell ain’t easy. He’s a real stickler for security, doesn’t trust anyone.”
“Looks like he’d trust this guy,” Ray says cheekily, wagging the picture in the air before passing it to Brad.
Nate doesn’t wait for Brad’s reaction to the photo. He asks Barrett, “You have men under cover?”
Barrett hesitates, glancing at Patterson for clearance but Nate quickly retracts, “I’m sorry, I’m sure that’s classified information. But for our own purposes, I’d like to draw on your experience, Captain.”
“Shoot,” he says.
“You’re saying Roth’s paranoid about security, but this photograph seems to indicate the contrary. If he’s so careful, why is he traipsing around town advertising his proclivities?”
“That much money and power buys you a certain…let’s say, blind eye,” Barrett says with a smirk. “Nobody’s gonna call Roth a faggot to his face, knowing it’ll lead to a grisly death. Man doesn’t own a gunstock company for nothing, I suppose.”
“Right,” Nate says, nodding to himself. It makes sense that Roth can afford to be open about this—the new West Coast elite have proven themselves to be equally ostentatious as they are reckless and Roth seems to be cut from similar stock.
“This is good,” Nate says decisively. “Hell, we couldn’t have asked for better positioning ourselves. There’s no better blind spot than a romantic one and we won’t even have to outsource the job to a potential defector. We can keep the work internal.”
From his vantage point at the back of the room, Nate can see everyone nodding, turning over his words in their heads and the fact that nobody’s countering him is indication that they’re onto something—that exploiting Roth’s weakness for male companionship can be a decent springing-board to a full, fleshed out plan.
“I like it,” Patterson finally concludes. “My department can back you up with any necessary equipment or intelligence for this operation. You might be hunting your own quarry, Marshals, but who’s to say we can’t take down two birds with one stone?”
“Indeed,” Nate smiles.
“After ten years of surveillance, we’ve got Roth’s type down to a science. It can help you choose a candidate for the infiltration,” Barrett offers. “He likes younger men in their twenties or early thirties. Likes them tall, thin, and blond. Sometimes he goes for redheads. He brings them out, whether in public or at smaller gatherings, so they’re never complete idiots because he has to impress his friends. Usually picks from western Europeans or university-types.”
Barrett stops, watching Nate expectantly. Every head in the room suddenly follows suit, like hunting dogs turned to a whistle. Nate’s smile falters.
“Gentlemen,” he says, “I don’t feel comfortable designating a candidate on my own. I think discussion and perhaps a vote are in order.” When nobody even so much as blinks, Nate slowly realizes, with mounting apprehension, that they’re not looking to him to make a fucking decision.
Nate is the decision.
“Oh no,” Nate says incredulously. “No way. Are you kidding me?”
Unfortunately, nobody looks like they’re kidding. The roomful of SFPD merely seem sheepish, while Nate’s posse appears to be on the verge of outright laughter. Only Gunny has the decency to look pensive, while Brad…well, Brad’s a lone, stormy expression in a sea of nodding assent.
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no subject
Date: 2010-09-27 03:12 am (UTC)Nate is the decision.
BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAH. I'd feel bad for Nate, only oh wait, no I don't. Bless his little cocksucking lips. &hearts
no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 12:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-27 06:21 am (UTC)Except, HEEE.
Yeah, okay :D. This continues to be brilliant.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-27 09:23 am (UTC)as if there was any different choice possible! no kidding, nate, you're so perfect for the job, whatever brad's feeling about it might be! :p
no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-27 02:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 12:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-27 09:50 pm (UTC)Oh yes! I can imagine THIS expression! lol
no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 12:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-27 11:11 pm (UTC)This sounds like there's going to be stormy times ahead - I approve!
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Date: 2010-09-28 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 04:18 am (UTC)LOVE the description!
Easily missed at first glance, a closer examination reveals that Roth has his hand in his male companion’s back pocket, staking his claim as he looks at the blond with hungry eyes.
Oh! You ARE going there! AWESOME!
Nate slowly realizes, with mounting apprehension, that they’re not looking to him to make a fucking decision.
Nate is the decision.
AHAHAHAHA! Oh, NATE. So precious. And yeah, Brad isn't going to like that one bit.
Unlike me, for I revel in the brilliance! ::happy::
Also, yay, I'm glad you like the v-gift! 'Cause you rock.
no subject
Date: 2010-10-02 06:57 pm (UTC)Oh, good! Because I was totally planning on taking it out later, haha. That line kind of just came out in a mash of keys, but it seemed really cheesy when I read it back. But then I was too lazy to change it for a rough draft.
You ARE going there!
Yess....yes I am. As I told
Brad isn't going to like that one bit.
No. He really isn't ;) Trust me, I'm gonna milk it for all it's worth. Sorry Brad!
no subject
Date: 2010-10-03 06:43 pm (UTC)I really want this to be kind of a mash-up of fandom cliches and like, utter ridiculousness but most of all I wanted it to be GUILTY FUN.
YAYYYY! Oh, this makes me so HAPPY. Cliches done well are the bestest.
So yis, Nate as a consort is apparently my idea of fun. DON'T JUDGE ME
I LOVE YOUR BRAIN!