227: Book recommendation

[smecker]

Attached to a wrapped package sent to the respected law firm of Crane, Poole, and Schmidt, care of Alan Shore:

Shore, I'd like you to have a copy of this.

I think you'll appreciate the stark, but evocative, prose. To say nothing of the quality of the illustrations.

Sincerely,
Paul Smecker

Link is NSFW, and word count obviously doesn't

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[alan_shore]

The FBI's Boston field office is a mere five-minute drive from the respected law firm of Crane, Poole & Schmidt. Just as Alan expects, it's a dull, drab building whose dull, drab corridors are roamed by men (mostly) in dull, drab suits.

It should serve his purposes admirably.

"Alan Shore to see Paul Smecker," he says to reception, and receives a once-over and a snort for his troubles. "Tell him I'm here to turn myself in."

[smecker]

Mail fraud. Mail fraud. Why not give him fucking KP and have done with it, Paul Smecker thinks sourly as the desk printer spits out paper after paper. The sound of the printer is dulled by the Bach on his headphones, but the concerto playing is not quite loud enough to override the telephone's ring.

"Smecker."

"There's an Alan Shore in the lobby to see you?"

Such is Paul's distaste for his current chore that this is a cause for rejoicing. "Jesus. Send him on in, then."

He hangs up and returns to printing endless pages of relevant documents, going so far as to remove his headphones in order to answer the eventual knock on his office's door with a, "Come in, Shore.

"And congrats on navigating the hallways without suffering a lethal overdose of beige," he adds as the door swings open.

[alan_shore]

"So this is where it all happens," Alan says by way of greeting, stepping into the office. His gaze wanders the room a moment before resting admiringly on the ceiling. "Cases bungled, rights trampled." He gives an exaggerated sniff, smiles like a connoisseur who's caught a whiff of an exceptionally fine wine. "The scent of toner in the air."

[smecker]

"And self-righteousness only tolerated--" Paul's grabbing the printer's output and shuffling the papers into a neater pile-- "when it's funded by the American taxpayer. So you may check yours at the door."

He sets the stack of paper down on top of a file cabinet then laces his fingers together behind his head and leans back in his chair, the better to regard one Alan Shore.

"And what brings you by my little corner of this great bastion of civil obedience? It you're here for the Marilyn Monroe sex tape, the Bureau's stated position is that we don't have it, never have had it, and anyone who says otherwise is a dirty little liar."

[alan_shore]

"Unofficially, matinees are held at four in the briefing room." Alan flashes a smirk that gradually morphs into something more genuine. "For the sake of your blood pressure, I'll inform you right now that I'm not here in any professional capacity, though I assure you someone is being billed for this conversation."

He pauses--both for effect and to deposit his attache case on an uncomfortable-looking chair that's been saddled with nearly as much paperwork as its owner. "I received your gift in the mail several days ago. What with the hours of enjoyment I've derived from it, I thought it only fitting that I repay your thoughtfulness and generosity in kind."

[smecker]

Paul inclines his head in gracious appreciation of Alan's considerate disclaimer, but still arches an inquiring eyebrow for Alan to make his intent clear. That comes soon enough, and Paul's other brow climbs to join his first-- a present? From Shore. This should be interesting.

"Do tell," he says with a modicum of wariness, sitting up straight in his chair and folding his hands primly on the desktop. "I'm all a-quiver with curiosity," he adds, and is accordingly craning his head forward for a glance at Alan's briefcase.

[alan_shore]

One does not reach the heights (or sink to the depths) Alan has attained in the legal profession without possessing a certain flair for the theatrical. Showily, he pops open the case, producing from its depths a small, rectangular package which he then sets--carefully--on Paul's desk.

"I'd prefer you found out for yourself," he says, "though if your quivering fingers need help with the bow, I'm of course more than happy to oblige."

When Paul's torn away the three layers of pink tissue paper, he will discover an 8.5 x 11" illustration of a penis that has been brought to vivid, almost psychedelic life through the enthusiastic application of blue, orange, green, red, yellow, purple, apricot, cotton candy, mahogany, mulberry, and periwinkle Crayola crayons. The image also boasts an ornate gilt frame, guaranteed to bring a touch of class to any disgruntled FBI agent's office.

[smecker]

Paul merely arches his brows an impossible bit higher before turning his attention to the package Alan has deposited on his desk.

On opening, the package is revealed to be a, well, package, or at least a very colorful and artistic representation of one. Paul is entirely unable to help the short sputter of laughter that escapes him at his first glimpse of Alan's-- at least, he presumes it's Alan's-- handiwork.

"Oh, very nice." He lifts the magnificently multi-colored masterpiece from the detritus of the wrapping for a closer, admiring inspection. "Mmm, an exciting use of the full visual spectrum. Bold. Daring. I especially like the pink.

"I trust you are sending your other samples from the book on to MOMA?" he asks, gaze flicking up from the picture and its ornate frame to Alan.... and then, almost automatically, to the mostly-bare office walls. Damn it; he knows there are some small nails in his desk, but, on the other hand, this will kill his current 44-days-without-a-lecture-from-his-supervisors record.

[alan_shore]

For one absurd moment, there's a familiar flutter--half anxious, half anticipatory--in Alan's stomach, as though he's five years old again and waiting for a parent to pass judgment on the week's finger painting or macaroni-and-non-toxic-glue sculpture.

Then Paul laughs. Smugness supplants nerves; Alan smirks, leans forward and cranes his neck for a glance at the picture. "I call it 'Stiff Life with Grasping Hand.' Simple yet evocative. It is, you'll be flattered to hear, the only one of its kind."

With none of Paul's furtiveness, Alan surveys the room. "Now for the most important question," he muses, "where to put it."

[smecker]

At Alan's declaration of the artwork's unique status, Paul returns to scrutinizing 'Still Life with Grasping Hand.'

"And you even signed it," he murmurs with one hand on his heart. "I can now make my retirement plan, based solely on the future auction of my fine art, and it's all thanks to you."

Paul follows Alan's gaze, then raises his hand to tap at his chin. "Hmmm. At first I was thinking just across from the door, so it greets my colleagues as they enter--" he gestures at the bare spot above one filing cabinet, "--but if I put it on the south wall I'll be able to see it from my desk, and it will provide me with hours of joy and delight to enrich otherwise-humdrum days."

He sets the picture down on the desk as he speaks, opening a drawer and rummaging inside for the small nails of the sort often used to hang things on walls, such as college diplomas, family pictures, or, God help them all, the requisite picture with the Director. Paul's own walls had been determinedly free from such trappings, until now.

His desk drawer does