Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future, so you know what keeps me hanging around...
Fall is coming to Chicago. The air is cooler, there are clouds thick in the sky (but not thick enough to be heralding rain just yet- just enough to be pleasantly cloudy), and while the leaves haven't started turning yet, the overabundance of pumpkins for sale and preemptive Halloween decorations give all the indication that the season is coming up
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1) Burning down Chicago.
2) Starting a tequila company.
3) Signing on with the National Enquirer or, be she in a somewhat more legitimate mood, the Washington Post.
4) Taking matters into her own hands, because that tends to work out well.
She's gone with Option 4, armed to the teeth with mace and what may be a Conrad Hotel panic button, and she's just sneaking around to Bambi's office when she sees someone being not entirely subtle about being there. She grinds to a halt, eyeing him and fingering the catch on a bottle of mace experimentally.
Even Chicago can't be cruel enough to pull the same trick twice. Right?
"Generally speaking, that's not a face I want to run into while I'm doing a bit of forensic legwork around places I have no business being," she says, "but I could probably be persuaded to overlook it for the right guy," she says. "You wouldn't happen to have heard of lockpicks, would you?"
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This is followed by a shrug and a nervous smirk. It's really hard to perfectly imitate Des's brazen stupidity. Most people don't expect anyone with a lick of sense in their head to lack subtlety like Des does.
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She's not terribly concerned that she just showed off exactly where it's kept. She has more.
"I hear that the police and Neighborhood Watches don't so much, though," she says, with an arch of the eyebrow. She pulls out the lockpicks, flashing them at him. "You need some help with that?"
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"I walk on the wrong side of the law, I laugh in the face of lockpicks, but if you want the tactically smart, visually anticlimatic method..." He takes another step back and gestures grandly at the door. He's pretty sure the damn thing is reinforced anyway and Grace will have legitimate questions if she suddenly feels like someone broke her foot.
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She pauses. Glances up at him. Considers for a moment.
"...which I don't think you are. Wrong chin."
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"Either way, I have my methods, Langolier. They are... Sometimes effective. When the universe was different, anyway." Pffft. Universe discrepancies. Des laughs in the face of them.
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"I think the word you're looking for is 'vulnerable,' Desco." A few jiggles and the lock almost slides open, but not quite. Dmitri frowns. "This... this is a really nice lock. No match for a determined and talented Angel of Knowledge, but seriously, this lock on a bookstore? Must have an assload of first editions."
Or be running a forgery department in the basement. You know. One of those.
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"I thought Dalton worked for the mob, you know," he says, by way of explanation. "I mean, nobody does the shit she does for free without getting something out of it, but the mafia don't exactly make a habit of going all Jesus of Nazareth: Uncut and Uncensored on people." And, okay, that actually offended him and he's a celebrated atheist. He cringes and quickly covers it up by adding, "Seriously, it's too elaborate for a mafia-whacking and the CLF ain't that inventive, so what the fuck?"
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"The Mob, local demon underlord, band of angels too convinced they're pressed-white on the morality scale and with a fetish for old-school Old Testament justice; who knows, in this city? I'm just hoping the place isn't booby-trapped." She glances back at Des. "And that the door will give you something that starts out quiet. Or shall I get a window for you?"
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"I think I'll take the risk," he mutters.
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"That's what we call 'with style,' Dizzy. What are we expecting to find? A receipt for the value adjusted for inflation of thirty gold pieces in one of the visitor boxes?"
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"They do that to piss me off," he mutters, stepping out of the doorway quickly to stop the music. In response to Dmitri's question, he just shrugs, "Have no idea. Odds are, there won't be anything in here, but I had to look."
True enough, judging by what his flashlight keeps landing on, all signs show the work of someone planning a hasty retreat. "This isn't a mook job- looks like Bambi had plans to get out of Dodge all on her own."
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They also do a good job keeping her fingerprints off things. The hair, she's just going to have to deal with - all her baseball caps are at home or in another universe.
"I'm guessing that anything interesting would be down in the forger-cave," she says, looking across the spines of a few books as she heads in that direction. After a moment, she pauses. "Look at that. First edition on The Origin of Species. Has a little label reading that and everything." She flicks the spine. "What do you think would happen if we pinched that, then fenced it to a used book shop around here? Found someone on the inside, got them to share if anyone came looking for it? Can't be too many copies circulating around Chicago." And if anyone is keeping tabs on this place, that tells them a lot more than if they just had Bambi
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"It couldn't hurt," he says, straightening up and making his way towards the beaded curtain behind the front desk. "No operation is so huge that they're keeping tabs on every bookstore in town." Unless they're an operation so big that piddly little things like first editions are kindling to them. "It's probably safer than most alternatives." Des? Des laughs in the face of safe, but if Dmitri's gonna be doing this, he's happy she's a smart girl, even if... Yeah, he's not thinking about that.
He parts the beaded curtain with his flashlight and waves at Dmitri to come over. "Ladies first."
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