Chapel and Priest: Husks part 1-3
Chapel and Priest
~~ Husks ~~
Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero, he is everything. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honour, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it.
Raymond Chandler
It is the opinion of this house that it must be illegal for a civilian to procure, or be in possession of, a synthetically constructed biological body. As these so called 'bio-bodies' can be perpetually renewed, the prospect of immortality has now become reality. This will only serve to increase the divide between the rich, who can afford this new technology, and the poor, who cannot. Civilians currently inhabiting such bodies will not be permitted to renew them beyond the lifespan normal for their species. Federation-sponsored research may continue, for the purposes of peacekeeping and medical advancement.
Federation Legislature Vote, San Francisco, Stardate 2321.4
One: Red Wind
His credits were running out faster than green grass through a grey goose, and the baize of the table stretched out like a walk to the gallows.
His thumb hit the brim of his hat, pushing it back. “Fold.”
He took his miserly winnings from a man whose face was ridden hard and taken in wet. They were enough for a cheap meal, and an expensive whiskey.
Out front, the bar was smoky, like the aftermath of a blaze; lights too dim, so that clandestine transactions continued, ensuring the loyalty of its clientele.
A shot glass sat on the bar; the contents, but not the container, was what he ordered. Urbanites in this city thought all their booze should come with a drug-like kick. Perhaps if he had to live in this neighbourhood, he would think the same, but he wouldn't order good bourbon.
“Miss, can ya pour this in a decent glass?” The barmaid was hard as jade, and just as brittle. A ghost with skin like the olive in a Martini, all raven hair and rouged cheeks. A glittering, beaded collar choked her throat with a small but obvious padlock at its side, and he wondered if she had an owner. She shrugged, probably didn’t get this request often, but reached anyway for a squat, wide glass and dumped the bourbon in. Finally, he could get his darned nose in and smell vanilla, tarred oak and burnt-black sugar.
“Thanks.” No reaction; perhaps she was a submissive mute, only allowed to speak with her owner. Well, the upside was he could talk more than enough to order cheap chow, and good booze. A man on his own, on a dead-end case? He could talk the forelegs off an Edosian and make him hop back again.
In the corner a band shredded what was left of the tattered remains of a song. Somewhere, cats were throwing themselves from high windows, and being disappointed at their survival.
He talked, she cleared dishes. He talked, she poured. He talked, she wiped tables, until at last, the peacock people who only came to dives like this for some 'authenticity' before they hit a real fancy joint had left, and only a few barnacled lags remained. As she bent to stow polished tumblers behind the bar, he caught a glimpse of her well-upholstered hide in the mirror.
It was an ass to make an engineer kick a hole through a dilithium crystal housing.
The lags left, a wind picked up. Windows and shutters rattled, and the scrape of porch furniture skittering over the deck put his teeth on edge. The barmaid took up a straw broom to sweep up dry leaves blown in at the departure of her penultimate customer. Her dress was heavy red crepe, cut on the bias, contrasting with her skin like traffic lights. The swell and sway of her in it reminded him of ripe apples on a strong tree. He grasped his fedora - the wind would snatch it away from his head - and turned up the collar on his gabardine coat. Ready to go, he put the credits in an enamel plate on the bar and stood, sweeping his hat past his torso with a tipped bow. Before he could leave, she flipped the broom and slid the stick through the door-pulls.
He swallowed, and looked into her eyes; burnt-oak, black and soft as soot.
Like leaves, her hands fluttered up, and they made a sign in standard.
s...t...a...y
~~intermission~~
Two: Breakfast of Champions
“Well, it's got me beat, Kid.”
An older man and a youngster stood in front of a board, pinned with sixteen photographs. “Da, it is a puzzle.”
“You know what these folks all have in common?” McCoy scrubbed at his five o'clock shadow and folded his arms. “Nothing, not a damned thing. I've been through every background check, every file, we talked to everyone who knew them, and their dogs, even the fleas on the dogs. Nada, zip, zilch. People don't just disappear here -- well, at least not the legals.”
“You want I shall do another check?”
“No son, something will float to the surface eventually. Things that stink usually do.”
The bang of the frosted glass door told McCoy it had been opened by an ass, a shapely one. In ambled Christine, her long arms full of Padds, a stylus teetering behind her ear. A short Chinese jacket with elaborate fastenings covered her top half and her magnificent behind was swathed in tight black satin. On her feet she wore black ankle-strapped suede platform sandals . McCoy loved those shoes, they gave the rear-view a pleasing sway. Today her hair was in loose ringlets; it almost made her look soft, almost. Her armfuls of detritus hit the desktop and she stood, one fist at her cocked hip, jaw working her wad of gum. “You still staring at that board? Better watch it or you'll go cross-eyed.”
“Then I wouldn't have to look at you when I'm talking, Slim.”
“Yeah, well, it’d probably improve your face. When was the last time you shaved? You look like a bum.” Her eyes roamed over his slack tie and stubbly chin.
“Hey!” McCoy wiped the back of his hand on his cheek. “It was yesterday. You could shave me, bet you’d work up a nice lather.”
Chapel shook her head. “Bones, if I was your wife I'd poison your coffee.”
“Slim, if I was your husband, I'd drink it.”
Chekov rolled his eyes. “When is our new communications operative coming?”
“She'll be here at ten-thirty. Wanna grab some breakfast, kid?” I can get a shave while I'm at it, if it'll keep my nursemaid here happy.”
Chapel raised an eyebrow worthy of Spock himself. “Well, don't do anything I wouldn't do, boys, and take Porthos. He needs some fresh air.” A whine preceded the scrabble of claws on the parquet, and a stocky beagle emerged from under Christine's desk. Stretching, and shaking his head so that his ears whirled, he padded over to Chekov and put a paw on the boy's boot, blinking in bright-eyed adoration.
The Russian knelt on one knee and proceeded to scrub the little dog's coat with his knuckles. “I know, boy, it must be boring for you listening to these old grumps. I bet you can't wait until Scotty is back.” At the mention of Scotty, Porthos' tail thrashed, and he looked about for his master. “Let us go and eat boy, I get you some nice sausage.” He took a lead from his pocket and clipped it onto the dog's collar.
**
It was a humid, dull morning and the air clung to them like a drunken date. When he was first posted here, McCoy couldn't stand it, now he barely tolerated the precipitation. Poor Spock struggled; his Vulcan physiology was ill-adapted to the climate. Chapel clucked over him (Spock brought out a rare chink in her armour), making tea and concocting potions that were illegal on several federation worlds. Of course, McCoy knew nothing about that. The Vulcan took it with his customary stoicism. Never mind, only two years left in this dump, then a soft posting somewhere nice. Risa, now it had obliging inhabitants.
Overhead, black taxicabs conveyed folks in a hurry, giant polished insects weaving between the high buildings and disgorging their contents onto platform balconies at every level. Today, like many days, the sky was pearl-grey, watery light seeping through clouds. Silhouettes of ornate stonework and statuary broke into the scene. It reminded him of an Eastern European shadow puppet theatre he was taken to as a child. At six, it had looked crude, historic and frightening; at forty, he found the nacreous light disquieting, and days when the weak sun shone at this particular wavelength caused cold ripples over his hide. He pulled his collar a little higher.
Chekov was as cheerful as Porthos, wearing McCoy down with his constant questioning. By the time they got to the diner, his skull felt as if it was full of bees. They slid into a booth and hailed a waitress.
“Coffee, large, black. I want it to dissolve the spoon. Pancakes, bacon, syrup.” McCoy barked his order. “The kid'll have hot chocolate and...?”
“Two fried eggs, bacon, pancakes, syrup, two waffles, sausage, hash browns and mushrooms. Oh, and toast.” The Russian's face grew pink as he spoke to the waitress; she was attractive, in a girl-next-door way. “And two more sausages for the dog.”
“He's seventeen -- all that food won't even touch the sides.” Bones took off his hat and laid it on the window-ledge.
“Grumpy, your dad, isn't he?” The waitress giggled.
“Dad? I'm his boss, darlin'. You new here?” She had some chassis, built for comfort. Strange hair though; an elaborate do that must have taken an age to construct and looked like an upended basket. He didn't much care for it. In addition, her face had the look of a woman resigned to living a life of unrequited love, and he wondered if she practised flower arranging.
“I transferred from the branch across town.” Her words stumbled a little, as if she'd heard his thoughts.
“Janice,” McCoy read her name-tag, “Mornin' Janice.”
“What line are you boys in?”
“Here you go,” McCoy fished in his suit pocket for a card, “that's us.”
“Chapel & Priest; Enterprise Detective Agency. Wow, you're kidding, right?”
“Deadly serious doll. Call us if you need us. I hope you don't.”
A stream of baby-talk aimed at Porthos was her answer. Who'salovelyboy, repeated over and over in a rapid, high-pitched, blabber. The boy and the beagle were magnets for young girls, middle-aged women, and grandmothers. Hell, any female with a pulse reacted with sudden and exaggerated animation. Often, this was useful on a case; Chekov was probably a Russian double-agent - KGB trained - since he could prise information from an oyster. Two sets of puppy-eyes trained on a vulnerable broad were enough to make the dam bust wide open. Sometimes, McCoy wondered if they were exploiting the boy. This morning, with his fogged head, McCoy was in no mood.
“Coffee? A man could die of thirst here.”
“Keep your hair on, granddad.” The waitress bustled off, shoving her Padd into a uniform pocket.
Chekov's eyebrows lowered. “You better pray she does not spit in it.”
**
Freshly shaved, and perked up by the injection of coffee and pancakes, McCoy bounded into the office.
Arms folded to support his chin, Chekov was slumped over his desk. Porthos lay beside him on the leather, head on paws, mirroring the posture.
“Come on, boys, why the long faces?”
Chapel answered. “S - c - o - t - t - y called,” she spelled his name, flicking her eyes to the dog, “he'll be back to pick up Porthos this afternoon. I don't know how they can allow dogs in the service hangars.”
“He is the boss, they will allow him anything.” The Russian lowered his chin even further.
McCoy whipped off his hat and hung it on the coat stand. “It's probably not regulation, but Sc - the engineer sure seems to know his way around the rules.”
“Hmm...” Chapel leaned back on her chair. “And of course, everyone here is straight as a die.”
Bones winked at her. “Straight as the seams on your stockings, doll -- eh, Chekov?”
“Noooo, she is old enough to be my mama. I am not thinking of her stockings.” Chekov took a hold of Porthos' far-side paw, and struggled to cover his eyes with it.
Christine glared in response, and gave her hair a self-conscious pat. “I am not old enough to be your mama!” She looked over at McCoy. “Well, maybe in some parts of Mississippi. I don't know what Starfleet Intelligence was thinking, sending a teenager to this seedy space-dump.”
“I am genius, that is why, and it is the most strategic space port in the galaxy.” Porthos inclined his head, and licked his friend's ear in acknowledgement. “See? Even the dog agrees.”
Chapel gave Chekov a motherly smile, then turned to her boss. “Bones, I let a friend sneak in before your ten-thirty interview. I put her in the good office; she's a lady.”
“Well, that's a first 'round here, Slim.”
**
When he entered the room, she didn't turn around, which gave him the opportunity to observe, unseen. Purple wool crepe, in the form of a fitted jacket and skirt, clung to her. He'd know that shape anywhere, it could KO a heavyweight champ from ten yards. The suit's shoulders were shrouded in a dark fur wrap, and a felt cloche hat topped off her look. When she turned towards him, he saw a scallop-shell of shining Marcel waves, the colour of a new penny, peeking out from its edge. On the floor, the scrape of her sole as she pivoted drew him to a high instep and slim green ankle. The pyramid shapes at the heels of her silk hose made arrows that merged into twin roads leading straight up to her rear, and my-oh-my was the drive worth it.
“You're not my new communications officer.”
“You know I'm not, Bones.” Indigo nails ran along the spines of books; fingers caressed the leather as if it were alive.
“Do you have information from Jim? I'm not sure you should be here, your cover could be compromised.” McCoy's brow furrowed. She’d never come to the office before.
“I'm on a private matter, a friend... I was supposed to meet her last night. She didn't show up, and she didn't come to work this morning.” His visitor sat and crossed her legs, real slow. If Chekov was there, the whisper of silk slithering over a thigh, and the swish of warm satin beneath her skirt would put his not-quite-mature endocrine system on the fritz; it might even be terminal. That was why McCoy rarely took the teen to visit Jim; there was a lot of feminine susurration at JT's penthouse.
“You think this has something to do with the other disappearances?” He used the corner of the desk for a perch.
“I - I hope not,” tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, “please, no Len, the others... are probably dead.”
Never a man to resist a crying woman, he pulled a tissue from a box on the desk, passed it over and took her free hand. “Now, where's my happy girl?” To calm her, he patted the olive skin on the back of her hand, as he used to do with patients. “It's OK, Red, tell your old uncle Leonard. From the beginning.”
**
Fifteen minutes later, Gaila was gone and he sat, again in the good office, examining the resume of their new communications officer now sitting opposite. Unable to concentrate after the Orion's visit, his eyes kept drifting to the top drawer of his desk where another picture for the Missing Individuals board lay, name of Devna.
“Very impressive ma'am, you appear to be the best communications officer in the fleet.”
“Why, thank you, Commander.”
She was upright, a little too much; closed off, or was it contained? Time would tell. Wide-legged, high-waisted sailor pants were buttoned in twin rows at her hips and her black hair was tight in a ballerina ponytail that fell in a tarry drop over her right breast. The hair's tension looked painful to him; it was at odds with the fashions on New Glasgow, and he could see the ends beginning to frizz in the humidity.
“No ranks here -- ever. The risk of using one outside is too great. Names only. I'm Bones, McCoy, Leonard or Sir. Nobody ever uses the last one -- kids today got no respect. You go by…?”
“Uhura.”
“Not Nyota?” His stylus rattled on the Padd; she was a tough nut. Pretty, but he liked his women with a little more cushion. “Seems a bit formal.”
“That's how I like it, Com - , sorry, McCoy.” Her lips pressed together for a second and he got the feeling she was impatient with him.
“Your Captain's serious injury won't affect your work here, will it?” He asked this almost as an aside, still pretending to look at her credentials. Observing a narrowing of her shoulders, he tried another tack. “You joining SI in some misguided attempt at dirt-digging, to get revenge?”
Her up-tilted eyes narrowed; they were made up with wings of black, and her short nose and upright carriage reminded him of a Siamese cat. Something in those eyes made him wriggle in his chair and loosen his tie some more. In the space of a few seconds he'd gone from interrogating an agent to kicking a kitten. “This is Starfleet Intelligence, in case you were wonderin' what post you applied for. It's my job to know the background of my staff and to know if it will affect their work. And, for the record, I happen to like revenge-driven broads.”
“It won't affect my work.” Long, slim fingers brushed imaginary lint from her pants.
McCoy leaned into the comm and asked Chapel to process Uhura's hiring, then he reached inside his jacket and drew out a slim, silver cigarette case. “Smoke?”
“No, I don't, thanks.”
“Well, you should. It's an ice breaker on a case. ‘Got a light? Can I bum a cig?’ A conversation starter comes in handy.” He withdrew a smoke and tapped the end on the lid of his case. “You can't just go up to someone and start talking; you need an angle. Smoking draws attention to the mouth, gives off sexual signals, if you need to be persuasive. Something to do with your hands if you're nervous. Don't worry, these are harmless, not like some of the weed that half the population here smokes. Nasty stuff, grown on rooftops. Police turn a blind eye.”
Getting into his stride, he opened his desk drawer, pulled out a pack of Old Navy and slid it over the desk. “Gotta blend in doll. Besides, these are a mild anti-fungal, keeps us from getting lung-rot in this damp atmosphere, it's not great on the human constitution. Doctor's orders.”
She lit up and inhaled. “What's a medical doctor doing running Starfleet Intelligence?” Bolder now her paperwork was going through.
“That's not all I do. I got a sideline, in righting wrongs. Medical wrongs, but that's not for this conversation.” Damn right it wasn't, he liked to keep that part separated from his detective work. It made him feel grubby. “Now move along and speak to Christine, she'll show you the ropes, and your apartment.”
As she rose to leave, the door flew open and a black and white streak skidded in on smooth leather soles.
**
Starfleet's Intelligence chief at New Glasgow was not what Uhura expected. Although clean-shaven, he wore an air of dishevelment. His tie was just a little too loose, his shirt just a little too crumpled, and his hair stuck up in the manner of a man who'd yanked off his hat without reference to a mirror. In another Universe he could be attractive, but his humours seemed unbalanced, his shoulders bowed under some mysterious weight.
During her interview he was distracted, almost grumpy, but thought enough of her credentials to let her through, although she still couldn't believe this damp, dark planet housed one of the most sought-after postings in Starfleet. Compared to Kenya's bright heat and colour, this was hell.
As she rose to go speak to Chapel, the door flew open and a black and white streak skidded in on smooth leather soles. A boy in a neat black suit and tie plopped himself up onto the desk. Gleaming two-tone brogues dangled from slim ankles, and he wore a Fedora at a jaunty angle, pulled over his forehead. It made it impossible to tell his age, but he was whippet-slim, and small, about five-three.
Uncaring of the audience, he flung his arms about McCoy and planted a sloppy kiss on the doctor's cheek. At once, Uhura saw McCoy as a six-year-old, rubbing his face in disgust at the osculatory assault of an aged aunt.
“Charlie, get off me, you holy terror!” McCoy pulled his sleeve down over his hand and used it to wipe his face, just as predicted. Adding insult to injury, the boy ruffled McCoy's hair, compounding its state of disarray.
“Sorry Doc, missed ya when I was on vacation.”
McCoy sighed and pulled off the boy's hat to reveal a young woman with large eyes, symmetrical features, silky, even-toned skin and wild hair scraped up into a high puff. Without its restraint, her hair bloomed outwards.
“Uhura, this is Charlene Masters. Special skills: explosives, sleight of hand, pickpocketing and annoying her boss. She'll never be short of a meal as long as she can fleece gullible marks at cards. We call her Charlie, or the Pocket-Rocket. Believe it or not, when she wears a dress she looks like a film star. We keep that side of her for special missions. Oh, and she's also shacking up with our engineer, Scotty.”
~~intermission~~
Three: By the red stones of Brooklyn, I sat down and wept
Ash, red, green. Those were the colours of a Brooklyn day in the sun. Tenements shone, pavements radiated heat and street trees gave off a soft emerald light. Why was the deep, blood sandstone glow described as a 'brownstone?' It was no more brown than the sea was blue. Charlene knew the very lie of the stone, if it was with or against the grain. Blocks laid against the grain flaked, they were meticulously patched; fitting for grand old ladies of almost four hundred years. Each year, another carved lintel or stoop crumbled and a restoration team came to mend it, until spots here and there looked odd, new and too-crisp.
Streets like that were now museum pieces, originally with rents beyond imagination for those who’d grown up in the area, servants to the rich folks. From the last decade of the nineteenth century, and well into the twentieth, her ancestors lived there, worked for low pay, and had few rights. Then they moved away, and forty years later, returned in wealth. Flophouses were gentrified, the Navy Yard turned over to industry and the Eagle Warehouse, where Walt Whitman once worked, was converted into apartments. The family wealth lasted almost two centuries, until the money was lost and they were forced to leave for the final time.
When she cut herself, the blood was red as sandstone, and full of iron, as were the high railings upon the dwarf walls. The buildings were in her bones. No man understood; she'd asked a few on a visit. For them, it could have been the Neolithic -- and in some ways, it was -- the stone age. They mocked the privileged, rich people who lived there in the historic neighbourhood, but she didn't care. A wealthy people's theme park was better than a razed landscape, and the feel of rough, hot sandstone beneath the pads of her fingers was real. Too many synthetic surfaces passed beneath her hands now.
Then, she met Scotty, an engineer to her explosives expert. Gossips told her his previous girlfriends were 'decorative', which made her nervous. Long ago, as a teenager, she’d decorated herself. But trouble followed by day and night, until she hid her beauty in boy's clothes, and was released from the cage made from the judgement of others.
Montgomery Scott took one look at her ancestors' homes preserved in aspic and sat down on the steps of rusty stone, his eyes shining with tears. Terran history was not her strong suit, but she soon found out that Scotsmen were emotional, and Glasgow and Brooklyn were both made of rich, red stone. Months later, after watching her defuse a device with seconds to spare, her heart slowed by deep breathing, she saw his admiration, and was relieved. One day, he would find out the truth and more than likely leave her, but each day it became easier to pretend. It wasn't her fault her parents lost all their money, was it? Her mother told her it wasn't.
**
Chapel and Priest, or the Enterprise as the crew called it, was set in a large tenement, its apartments a convenient front for Starfleet Intelligence. Spock's concealed a science lab, Chekov's a navigational computer used to track comings and goings at the spaceport, and McCoy's, an operating theatre. Nurse Chapel had a lab, too, she was quite the chemist, with a pill for every ill and some you didn't even know you had. When Charlie first started work in SI, she asked McCoy why they were disguised as a detective agency, and he replied the best hiding place was in plain sight.
The agency had contacts everywhere, official and unofficial; they even had a plant in the New Glasgow police department, Lieutenant Sulu. All kinds of stuff fell into his hands so that he was part cop, part 're-homer' of confiscated goods. They named him “Hikaru The Fence'.
Now, as she descended the front steps of the brownstone in three jumps, she felt at home. Today, she had a small job to do.
~~intermission~~
Awesome fanmix With our Rain Washed Histories by i_am_32_flavors
Beautiful character art by theoreticalpixy
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