Remainder
I posted this a couple of weeks ago on lawandorderfic and thought the Mothership fans here might enjoy it as well so here it is.
SVU/Mothership (circa S2/S11 respectively), PG-13, 1100-ish words.
Homage if you will, this was meant as a companion piece to theholyinnocent's The Adventures of La Carmichaela and the Corona Kid.
The Gambler
She’d run through the five borough’s ADA pool faster than a Mexican tourist through toilet paper and was now working her way through the squad. Known for her love ‘em and leave ‘em bedroom antics, Abbie was now also infamous for her poker prowess.
The guys had fled one by one, each exhausting their fun money before conceding defeat, but Olivia had managed to hold her own long after Fin had indicted her for hosting the rout.
Cigar clamped between her teeth, Abbie eyes flashed as she gathered yet another pile of chips. Olivia groggily watched her lithe fingers curl and flex around the deck as she bent its will to her way. With a quick flick of her wrist the cards were dealt and the first flop was flipped. Leaning back she spared a glance at her cards and tapped her index finger on the felted tabletop. “Ante up.”
”I’m out of chips.” Olivia brushed away the crumbs in front of her
“You still have something I want.” The cigar between Abbie’s sparkling teeth wagged.
An hour later Olivia’s bare feet scratched against the carpet and she fought the goosebumps that pricked plane of her bare shoulders.
Though most skilled in the art of folding, Olivia was suddenly infused with confidence. All those celebrity poker shows had finally paid off, she was going to win. And so, instead of conceding yet again, Olivia went for it. Deliberately, she reached behind her back.
“I want the gun.”
“You can have my bra.”
Abbie considered this for a moment. “That is a reasonable offer,” she nodded, “but I’ll have your bra regardless of this hand. I want the gun.”
Olivia scraped her cards against the felt and assessed her hand again. She wasn’t really considering betting her gun, was she? Olivia looked at the cluster of beer bottles to her right… and then to her left. Jesus, what time was it? “All right,” she slurred. “It doesn’t matter; I’m gonna win this hand.”
It was perhaps the greatest bluff ever perpetrated. Olivia, who hadn’t won a hand in the history of poker, set her holstered weapon on the heap of clothing at the table’s center. “And when I do, I’m taking that cigar. It’s disgusting.”
“These socks,” Abbie countered, “are disgusting.”
“You can’t see my bet with socks. The gun and I have history.”
“If you haven’t noticed kid, you’re in it deep,” Abbie fluffed the rumpled clothing and gnashed the cigar in another crooked grin.
“I want the cigar.” Olivia snapped, remembering with perfect clarity when Abbie had acquired the offending instrument. And when she’d last lost her gun to the ADA.
“Jesus Ben, you’re so uptight.” Olivia crossed her arms defiantly. Alas, her posture’s menacing effect was considerably lessened by her mismatched lingerie. Abbie rolled her eyes. And with a pageantry known only to a select few, she removed the burnt offering from her mouth, showcasing it to Olivia before stubbing out on a poker chip. She dropped the gnarled carcinogenic onto the pile. “I call.” She plucked a fleck of tobacco off the tip of her tongue.
Slyly and ever-so smugly, Olivia flipped her cards
Abbie nodded seriously. “A full house; that’s impressive.” Olivia reached for her shirt. “That’s the best hand you’ve ever had, isn’t it?”
“It beats that tired shit you’ve been winning with all night.”
“’Fraid not.” Abbie’s cards crackled as she flipped her hand.
Four Queens laughed at Olivia. And the fifth gently tugged the t-shirt from Olivia’s grasp. “I’ll take that.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” Abbie stacked her chips neatly into the battered walnut box ever-present at these games.
“It’s not like that’s real money,” Olivia stood unsteadily.
A stack of polaroids slid across the table. “You’re right, it’s better than money.”
Even Jack McCoy’s outstretched hand hadn’t stopped the lens from capturing his pasty chicken legs and paisley boxers. Olivia gawped.
“Smiiiiiiile.”
When the spots cleared Abbie winked at her. “Not Jack’s finest moment. He lost a seriously old bottle of scotch to me before giving up the pants.” Her eyebrows waggled and her voice grew tight with excitement. “He didn’t talk to me for a week after that.”
Olivia scanned photo array-a literal timeline and testimonial to Abbie’s insanity. Captured in various states of gloating, Abbie posed with her winnings-pretending to take a bite from Munch’s most prized possession (not coincidentally the only thing his ex-wives had absolutely no interest in): Lee Harvey Oswald’s last meal preserved for all eternity in resin, decked out in Fin’s best bling, long fingers showcasing her best Westside salute and, sure enough, McCoy scowling as Abbie chugged his 1959 Glenlivet straight from the bottle. “I wonder why,” she deadpanned.
“I let him win it back.” She shrugged. “But then he lost the bike…” Abbie tsked fanning herself with Olivia’s photo.
“You? Have a problem.”
Abbie bit down on the cigar again. “I’m doin’ all right,” she snapped the deck of cards for emphasis, “It’s the rest of y’all-“
“She bet her dog?!”
Olivia stared disbelievingly at a photo of Abbie straddling Nora Lewin’s Grand Champion Saint Bernard, Charlemagne.
“Gave ‘im back the next day; Shithead ate my coffee table.” Abbie appraised the most recent photo in her collection. “Not bad, Ben. Just may have to keep this one in my nightstand.”
“That’s good-you’ll have something to keep you warm while you work through the twelve steps.” Speaking of which… Olivia swayed toward the half-empty long-neck.
“There you go being difficult again.” Abandoning her treasure chest, Abbie sashayed toward Olivia. “You wouldn’t send me away,” she licked her bottom lip, “would ya, darlin’?”
Oliva shotgunned the beer. Wincing at its bitter finish, she shivered. “I’ve seen serial killers with smaller collections.”
“But you’d miss me…” she trailed a finger across Olivia’s bare chest, “Right?”
“I would-“ she exhaled. Abbie smiled, thumbing her bra strap. “Because I won’t have any friends left if you keep this up.”
“Nonsense. Now,” she gripped Olivia’s shoulders, “it’s Thursday night and I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that Jack’s passed out in his office. I got a set of keys, a passcard, and I know where he parks. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“I’m not stealing McCoy’s motorcycle.”
“No, yer drunk,” Abbie agreed, “and gutless, but that’s beside the point. G’wan and get changed.”
“Abbie-“ Olivia cocked her head curiously and shuffled toward the table. “Why do you have a picture of Maureen?”
“Never you mind,” she cooed intercepting the wobbly detective and redirecting her toward the bedroom. “Now go put some clothes on. We’re goin’ for a joyride.”
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