-Emily-
~~~~~~
When Jim returns again, it's well past midnight; following a vicious grapple between a bleeding sun and a rising moon, night has taken its star-flecked hold and all is relatively peaceful. After this afternoon's abnormal behaviour, I'm somewhat wary about approaching him to discuss my original question: I'd shown him to his office, and was more than unimpressed when he decided to dismiss me in that same, dangerously glacial tone. He even had the audacity to tell me to get dressed. Ten minutes later, and he'd gone again – taking his laptop with him.
I sigh, heavily. I need the work. Besides, I tell myself. I signed up for this. The violent mood swings and cold disparagement were always a part of the Moriarty package. Nothing's changed, in that respect.
I spot him standing by the piano; he hears my footsteps and stops, lifting his chin to watch me move down the stairs.
I don't like the expression on his face.
"Modest enough for you?" I ask, gesturing to my blazer.
Jim says nothing, and waits for me to come to a halt in front of him.
"I need to speak to you about my clients," I say. "I didn't get the chance to earlier, when you–"
"Let's talk about clients, shall we?" His smile is warped, his words forcefully emphasised.
I frown, perplexed. This is extreme even for him; from mortified embarrassment to cold indifference to this savage display of good-natured conversation. I'm struggling to keep track.
"That's what I said," I say, cautiously.
"You've been making house calls, Emily. Tell me," he says, pleasantly enough. "Does he pay well?"
The confusion fades, and is replaced by a swift, growing sickness that works its way from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat.
"Who says prostitution gets you nowhere in life?" he continues. "I'm sure your practice made for some glorious payment. Is it cash-in-hand? Or have you been sullying my bank cheques with his signature?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh," he says, dropping the forceful joviality and taking my jaw in his hand. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
I move to swat his hand away, but he catches my arm, his fingers digging deep into the network of veins at the crux of my wrist.
"Get your things."
I look at him, my breathing shallow. "What?"
"Get your things," he repeats, the smile too wide. "Don't make me wait."
I snatch my wrist away – in that moment of guilty discovery, I consider breaking his, consider pulling back his fingers and wrenching the inflexible bone to its cracking point, just to deflect the attention from the inevitable. However, before I have chance to act on this dark desperation, Jim's tugged his arm free from my grip and walked away, fuelled by a frenzied energy.
"Why?" I ask, a little hoarsely. "Where are we going?"
He stops and spins around, his arms held out in a gesture; an open, indeclinable invitation.
"We're going gambling."
~~~~~~
The casino is full, even at this ungodly hour; there are men standing outside the glass doors, illuminated from behind and by the orange stubs of their cigarettes, and people moving from poker tables to slot machines in surges of legs and jewellery and bright smiles. The noise is overwhelming, a consuming combination of laughter from the blue-lit bar, the rattle of cocktail shakers and the sound of plastic chips – little things, striped red and white like boiled sweets – being embraced straight from the table, swept into open arms. Money is handed over in fistfuls, the lights flash, music is poured like liquid from speakers; I see cards everywhere, a lost queen here, a stray king there, the sly face of the joker being dealt between hands.
I have never wanted to flee a place like I have tonight.
Jim hasn't spoken a word to me since our abrupt departure – he drove, his face set in that strange, shadowed smile and flashing white with each passing street lamp. He handled the gearstick a little too forcefully, swerved corners a little too quickly; I spent the journey clutching the seat with both hands and praying that Ivan wouldn't be there, in his casino, not tonight – that he would have business elsewhere, or a dinner, or women in his bed. Anything.
I adjust my footing, dazed and lightheaded. There's no Irene to ground me now. I swallow, and turn to look at Jim–
Jim is no longer beside me.
I hear a raucous cheer from the corner of the room. The noise startles me; I pivot on the spot, fists clenched. There's a crowd gathered around a polished, round table. Between the black suits and ties, I see two women, striking in shimmering, floor-length pieces – one gold, one silver – with their ring-clad hands on a young man's shoulders; the tallest twists his hair between her fingers, the shorter has her palm clamped somewhat possessively on the back of his neck. They cheer with the crowd when he places his cards on the table. Drinks are poured. Money is thrown like confetti.
Mr Yakovich is in the building, all right.
If I can't escape myself, the last thing I can do is warn him of the incoming threat. Checking to make sure Jim isn't behind me, I slip into the crowd, elbowing disgruntled people out of the way; it is a veritable fight to his side.
He's got his cards in one hand, a wad of banknotes in the other – he shuffles both in combination, rapidly stacking them on top of each other and flexing them between his fingers, sending notes and cardboard across the table in a large, perfectly divided arc. People dive for the money, laughing warmly – someone shouts "bring more drinks", and Ivan, responding with something I don't catch, produces another stack of notes from his blazer pocket, waving them in the air as a signal to the bartender.
I push one of the women to the side with a little more force than is necessary – she overbalances, and shrieks in protest as she's swept away from her blue-eyed prize by the ever-encroaching audience.
"Ivan," I say, and, when he doesn't hear me, I twist his head to look at me. "Ivan."
He blinks, mildly surprised and more than a little intoxicated, but then his pale eyes light up in recognition and he smiles his white-lacquered smile. "Zdravstvuyte, lisichka. I was not expecting to see you here." He gestures to the table. "You are welcome to play."
I don't mince words. "Jim knows. He's here. You need to get out."
Ivan's smile fades, just for a second – but then it comes back with convincing ease and he addresses his audience in high spirits, emptying the contents of his trouser pockets – more banknotes, this time bound by a white band of paper across their middle – onto the table. He tells his audience to enjoy themselves and excuses himself, pausing only to talk to the remaining woman in the silver dress; to my hot-cheeked impatience, he presses the remainder of his money into her palm and leans forwards to brush her hair back and tell her his hotel room number.
Once he's disentangled himself from the clutches of the crowd, and we have a little more breathing space, he lowers his voice.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "He came in with me, and I haven't seen him since."
Ivan processes this information then nods, thoughtfully.
"I will talk to him."
"What? No – no, that's not a good idea. Trust me. Leave now, while–"
"Come with me." He tilts his head in the direction of the bar. "We will wait."
"Listen, Ivan, I don't think you understand–"
"I understand completely." He starts towards the counter, and holds out his hand; an invitation. "Would you join me?"
I hesitate, look around, then, cursing my own helplessness, take his hand, his fingers cool and smooth beneath my own, and am navigated through the crowds to the bar counter. The discarded woman in the gold dress shoots veritable daggers in my direction as we come to a halt by the marble. I try not to look as sick as I feel.
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"Do not look so worried," he says, eyes translucent in the coloured light. "I have been meaning to talk with Mr Moriarty for some time."
I lean forwards. "Jim wants you dead. I've seen it. He's got a list, for God's sake, and you've been his number one target for weeks."
"You came with him. He has no gun."
"That's not the point. I don't know who he's contacted. He might have the place surrounded."
"When we know for certain, we can panic. Until then," says Ivan, calmly, "we may as well relax." He turns to the barman, and looks back at me. "Can I get you a drink?"
"She doesn't drink."
I stop breathing.
Ivan's eyes travel over my shoulder and he pauses, before straightening up and saying, perfectly pleasantly, "My apologies. You are Mr Moriarty?" He extends his hand. "It has been a long time coming."
I do not move as Jim joins me by my side, unsmiling, black-eyed in the blue glow of the bar.
He regards Ivan with blank-faced indifference, then, with deliberate, painstaking slowness, reaches out and shakes Ivan's hand, his tone exaggeratedly amicable but expression flat.
"Moscow's con artist extraordinaire. You're in your element tonight."
Ivan laughs. "Да. It is a home from home. Bad habit."
"I can think of worse."
Jim's words are dripping with a venom so acrid, I can feel my fingers curl in apprehension. The casualness of this conversation is excruciating.
"I do not doubt it," says Ivan, cordially. He receives his drink from the bar and raises it to his mouth, pausing before it touches the flushed skin of his bottom lip. "You do not strike me as a gambler, Mr Moriarty. I am told you are here to talk."
Jim places a hand on the bar counter. "You've been told a lot of things," he says. "Emily here can't keep her mouth shut. You know Emily, don't you, Mr Yakovich? Quite the kiss-and-tell."
Ivan does not blink. "I do. She is most talented at information retrieval." He takes a sip from his drink. "I need the help."
"Thing is," says Jim, lifting a finger, "Ms Schott really isn't supposed to be outsourcing those talents. She knows better."
"I am to blame entirely. I contacted her. It is just business, is it not? "
I decide now is not the time to voice my opinion.
"Very true. Business. We can discuss business, if you'd rather," continues Jim, smoothly. "You've charmed your way into the heads of seven of my associates. It's cost me a small fortune to compensate their loss."
"It is not a question of charm, Mr Moriarty. I only offer them what you do not."
Ivan delivers his discord with a con-man's smile; a sugar-coated barb. I flinch, preparing for backlash.
"Oh? And what's that?"
"Security of self."
Jim's lips curl in distaste. "How compassionate."
"It has proven very successful," says Ivan. "You standing here is testament."
Jim leans forwards then, and I sense that the thin line he's drawn around his limited sanity has been overstepped.
"I could have you shot, Mr Yakovich. I could take a leaf out of Lenin's book and have you dragged from your pedestal, lined up against a wall and peppered with lead at the click of my fingers. It would be that easy. A bullet to the chest. Bang. A bullet to the arm. Bang. A bullet to the shoulder, to the throat, to the chin." He punctuates each word with the aforementioned finger snap. "Bang. Bang. Bang. But I won't. Would you like to know why I won't make a Tsar out of you, Ivan? No guesses? Fine. I'll tell you. I want you stuffed. I'll have you gutted and turned inside out, rinsed and dried and stuffed full of foam so that you, Ivan Yakovich, will be my taxidermy testament to those who think themselves pretty enough to knock me from my throne. Don't worry. I'll keep your eyes in their sockets. You've got very striking eyes."
A treacherous silence ensues.
I look at Jim, at the conviction in his tone and the smile on his face, and then I look at Ivan.
His expression catches me off guard.
It's not fear. It's not intimidated, or apprehensive, or angry, even – it's hungry; a deeply unsettling, dark, moving restlessness that stops me from opening my mouth and keeps me very still and very silent.
"Mr Moriarty," he says, and I realise that I have not heard this voice before, either. It's altogether grittier than his usual, silk-lined intonation, and his eyes have taken on an unnatural glaze; unblinking. "You underestimate me. I do not want your old throne. There are some things in this world you cannot have. They are mine." He places a hand on Jim's shoulder. "And if you try to stop me, or take those things away, Mr Moriarty, you are going to see a side of me you will not like. You can try to shoot me, you can try to pin me down long enough to stuff me, but I promise you, if you try either, I will make you red."
Jim is looking at Ivan with a slow, progressive smile; his eyes flit across his face and that smile widens, an unnerving acknowledgement I can't quite fathom.
"Oh, Mr Yakovich. You bad, bad man. You had me there, for a minute."
"What are you talking about?" I say, looking from one to the other. I turn to Ivan. "What is he talking about?"
"You understand me, I think."
"I see," says Jim, drawing out the words. I get the impression I am trapped between two men of two very different mental capacities and moral standings with no means of middle ground. "I see it now."
Ivan drains the rest of his glass and places it on the counter. When he turns back to Jim, I relax marginally, because he is recognisable once more.
"See what?" he asks, genially.
Jim nods, silent and seemingly mollified. I grasp the opportunity with both hands.
"We should really be going now." I look at Ivan pointedly. "You've got a game to return to."
"She is right. I must excuse myself," says Ivan. "I hope I have alleviated your business concerns. Do not think poorly of me: I will not contact Ms Schott again."
It is not what I was expecting to hear.
I look at Ivan, trying to catch his eye, but he avoids my gaze with an easy professionalism.
"Kind of you," says Jim. He moves to leave.
Ivan bows his head as means of farewell and we turn away, Jim pensive, me half-paralysed by a growing sense of betrayal – however, before I am swallowed by a passing crowd, I feel Ivan's hand on my wrist; I stop, and look over my shoulder. He brushes past me as he walks, and, in doing so, leans down, his lips brushing my ear as he delivers an indiscernible message.
"I am an excellent liar, lisichka."
~~~~~~