Lost and Found pt 2

Nerisse in Wonderland

Rufus Balthazar is not accustomed to being bumped into. The collisions he's involved in are far more intentional, and he's rarely on the receiving end. He looks down at fifty inches of chaos in a hundred pound bag. His cheroot is smoldering next to an ill fitting G.I. flyer. She reads his gaze, spots the smoke on the floor. Her head snaps back and her eyes go full moon. Startles and stomps as she plucks it off the desiccated pile carpet. No fear of that catching fire. She reaches up to put the cheroot between his lips, thinks better of it, holds it up to him. Where in hell and heresy did this toe tag come from? She'll be lucky to see daylight. The eye contact is fuckin’ unnerving. She attempts to square whatever pass for shoulders beneath her oversized bomber. Takes a deep breath and sputters a sigh.

"You have bullets in your eyes."

Balthazar cocks a brow, slight smile hidden behind his well cared for western handlebar. He chuckles and takes the cheroot from her pale pink little hand. 

"And you got secrets in yours."

He saunters around her how a person does when they mean to be seen and witnessed, returns to his table in the back corner, half obscured in veils of seamless shadow. The sort of Passion Play for people in the bar who shouldn’t know he is who he is, and watches the walking corpse approach the bar. Shame to see that kind of barefaced cheek go to waste. Ain't got a chance at the 9 lacking sanity and self awareness. But the look on Bishop's face was priceless. 

Grim is still lying in bed, holding the phone receiver with one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other. Of course it's a job. Pinch wouldn't call before sundown for shits and giggles. She sits up, shakes her platinum blonde bob into place, runs a pinky along the corners of her mouth. 

“May I assume this job comes with a description or shall we play charades?” Honey and bile, venom and vogue. The sweet siren song before sinking. 

“The stowaway has made an appearance.” 

“The waif in the van? I thought she was a non entity.” 

“She was. Then she entered my hotel. Be a lamb and have a chat with her, won't you?”

Grim rolls her eyes. “ ‘A chat’? I hope you're not serious.”

“As a heart attack. Double your rate. I want to know why she's in my hotel. 48 hours.”

She slips the phone back in its cradle, stretching bone china limbs as she perches on the edge of her bed. The ask felt beneath her, but Pinch offered more than enough to swallow her pride. In for a penny, in for a pound. Coined during a time when debts were treated with the same severity regardless of how much was owed. Same still applies at the nine.

Grim makes it a point never to owe anyone anything.

She ambles towards the bathroom, plucking clothes off the floor as she goes. Black lace thong, carmine lycra, platforms with a waiver. Just enough time to put her face on. If luck holds, the little duckling is still in the lobby. 

<break>

Bishop gawks at the blue haired sprite approaching his counter. 

“Bugger all, you got a rabbit foot in yer foof or are ye always this fuckin lucky?”

He navigates his way from the opposite end of the bar on a bespoke raised platform intended to keep him level with his patrons. It was for their own good. Too easy to judge a man by stature alone when you're knackered. Bishop would have them gutted and flensed before their glass hit the woodwork, but that wouldn't be proper. Got a reputation to immortalize.

Nerisse cocks her head to the side with a bewildered smile, vacant grey eyes taking occupancy in his. Bishop finishes shining the glass in his hand, fills it with water and places it in front of her. Keep her well dry. No tellin how much this lunatic has knocked back before stumbling in here.

“Bloody hell. That was Rufus fuckin Balthazar. Most sods ‘ear that voice are kissin their gravestone soon after.”

Nerisse sips her water, eyes still settled on his. He scowls and leans against the counter, palms flat against the Brazilian rosewood. 

“King of killers. Archangel of assassins. Feared by the fearless. This ain't a storm in a teacup ye wally bint, that was a constitutional with Death ‘imself.”

Nerisse leans back with a gasp, reaches benearh her shirt and clutches a clunky brass ankh. Bishop nods, grabs another tumbler off the rack. The gravity of her situation seems to have grounded her. Dizzy broad needs to know she almost left here in pieces. 

An omen in red exits the elevator, offering Mr. Valentine a sideways scarlet smile as she passes a blind man. Crimson bodycon dress serpentines around blades of hips and shoulders. She passes the concierge desk, Pinch offers a so barely nod in the direction of the bar he could just be slow shaking a thought out of his head, if something at the bar caught the eye of a snake. Grim spots Bishop, winks in spades, then centers her sights on Nerisse.

Bishop sighs and shakes his head. “I'm afraid our time ‘as been cut short. What do we put on your ‘eadstone?”

Nerisse blinks.

“What are ye called, poppet?”

She smiles broadly, still gripping her glass. “A rose. By any other name.”

Bishop's exasperation is palpable. “Not said a word now you’re quoting the Bard? At me?” He scoffs and hangs the dish rag on his shoulder, calling over it as he struts down the walk.

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”