About a quarter of the room had raised their hands, albeit a third of that shakily. Elliot chuckled into the microphone, a leathery purring sound that sent a chill walking up and down Cabe’s spine like an icy finger, and, with his own hand up, said, “I can see I have a lot of educated friends. That definitely gives me a little more hope for humanity.
“What about the Torah? Guru Granth Sahib? The Book of Mormon – the real one, Matt...”
This was Cabe’s chance to thrust a hand into the air. He’d been stuck in Orem six months ago doing surveillance, and the only things to read in his motel room were a topical roadmap of Utah and a Book of Mormon he’d found inside his dresser drawer. He’d read the entire thing cover-to-cover, though admittedly it was only so that he could quote it later at S.S.A. Flint and get him back for the whole orange juice thing. He wondered if, out there in the crowd, Flint was trying to stifle that fuzzy little grin he got on his face whenever his L.D.S. brethren got some sort of a shoutout. He was stationed at one end of the bar, and Emiko was stationed at the other; the great thing about loitering where people were forced to wait for liquor was that you got to eavesdrop on a lot of conversations.
“Religious texts are about more than just religion,” Elliot was addressing his audience again, his warm tenor settling into a soft, smooth, serious timbre. “They teach us to respect one another as people, all of them. They teach us to treat one another with dignity and understanding and, most importantly, with love. Every single one of those holy scriptures I just mentioned features some variation on the Christian moral ‘love thy neighbor’. Leviticus, Nineteen-Thirty-Four: ‘you shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as native among you, and you shall love him as yourself’. Surah An-Nisa, Four-Thirty-Six: ‘and to parents do good, and to relatives, orphans, the needy, the near neighbor, the alien neighbor, the companion at your side, the traveller, and those whom your right hands possess’. Philosophic Journal of E. M. Wright, Twelve-Sixteen: ‘today, I told the world I can do things with my brain, and because the majority of them are good people who understand that doesn’t fundamentally change who I am as a person, they’ll probably all still be attending my charity gala next weekend’.”
The audience laughed openly again. The lion’s share of them seemed to be hanging onto his every word, leaning forward in their seats or taking photos and video on their phones. In the crossover, he could see a pair of technicians from one of the co-sponsors monitoring their feed online. He had to admit – in that suit, in that lighting, Elliot looked good.
“I don’t quite understand what, or where, or when, or by who... but somewhere along the way, somehow, something got drastically twisted.” Elliot leaned forward, putting a little more of his weight on the podium. “Because as far as I can see from my position as one of the privileged white males in the room, most of these religions and sects and chapters that are bitching over land and arguing over which way to best worship whatever lives up are all based on one fundamental theme: love, and warmth, and acceptance.”
As Cabe deflected the charming hypnosis of Elliot’s speech, he found his one-track mind wandering into the realm of security again. If someone were to fire a shot from the crowd, right now, what would he do? It was a game he liked to play with himself sometimes, as if to test his reactions. He mapped out a likely scenario given what he knew about their assailant’s motives, and then gave himself fractions of seconds to boomerang his response. Still taking care not to step over (H)elena’s tape line, the Field Agent began recounting the areas of cover dotted across the stage, their distance from him, their distance from Elliot...
“And so, we have to ask ourselves: in a world where words can have so much weight – but where even the word of God and proven scientific fact can be bent and poisoned and neglected by the rich, white men in suits and ties who run our lives – what authority do we all have as fellow humans, to sit here and judge each other based on exactly how we each interpret quite literally the exact same lessons and beliefs?”
The most troublesome thing about the stage, Cabe decided, was its size. Due to the expansive, minimalistic design and the fact that all of the monitors and hardware were suspended by cables overhead, there was very little at ground-level to take cover behind. Dismissing the idea of a Dimebag Darrell-style assassination, Elliot had point-blank refused to allow the podium to be altered in the days prior so that it could be unanchored and thrown to the ground in the event more adequate cover was suddenly required.
“You may have noticed some of the delightful decor we’ve been blessed with this evening, courtesy of Kitten House Arrangements,” the aforementioned man of the hour was saying. “For those of you like me who don’t have the greenest of thumbs and had to get your WrightPhone out and ask Sara what type of flowers these actually are before Snapchatting, you will have found out through a simple search that the purpley-blue ones are in fact irises. Pub quiz junkies might know the iris is the state flower of Tennessee, whose officials we were just praising two days ago for their decision to reverse the Renter’s Right To Accommodate bill implemented in the summer. In his speech, state Senator Riggs of the Republican party claimed that while the bill was written in good faith, it has since been adapted to be used as a weapon of hate against those who identify as Anomalies. And that to allow such hate and discrimination to continue in the name of the religious freedom our forefathers sought to protect would not only be un-Constitutional, but would be, by effect, un-American.”
No, if something were to happen right here, right now (Chemical Bros. song reference not intended, but it got it stuck in Cabe’s head all the same), the best shield he would have to keep Elliot Wright safe from harm would be his own body.
He would tackle him from the side, throwing himself on a curve like an American football and rolling in such a way that the momentum would put his body between Elliot and the audience during the fall, and would ensure that Cabe was the one to land on top. From past experience, he knew he could take a decent half-clip’s worth of direct strikes before adrenaline might not be enough to overcome his body’s natural instincts anymore. A good marksman could probably easily land three shots in the time it would take to stand whilst dragging Elliot with him, and maybe another two while he was exiting stage-left. Once Elliot was backstage, the venue’s own security would be able to take over and escort him to safety. As long as his body could last as long as it took to get him out of the public eye...
... is it really, really, really messed up that I’m standing here actually totally okay with doing all that to myself for a client? he suddenly thought, the sudden surge of awareness jarring him from his working defense strategy.
“Un-American,” echoed Elliot, the single hyphenated word reverberating about the acoustic structure as its implied definition took time to settle on the ears of all those listening. “What does that even mean? If you want to take a leaf out of the history books, being American simply means being an immigrant chasing prosperity or fleeing oppression, an immigrant brave enough and tenacious enough to seek it out on the shores of a strange and unwelcoming new land. It means being one of a nation of inventors and innovators, of opportunists and optimists, of artists and free-thinkers and philosophers. It means standing up for what you know in your heart is right – even if what’s right isn’t always the same as what’s easy, or familiar, or convenient. It means protecting the freedoms of every single one of our great country’s inhabitants... even those we may be the most frightened and judgmental of. Which is why, as you all already know, our spotlighted recipient for this year’s Christmas charity gala is the American Civil Liberties Union.”
The venue erupted in a crescendo of applause as Cabe wrestled internally with his conscience behind the curtains.
“Now I may not be a friend of Jesus,” Elliot added once the din had peaked and begun to die down a little, “but I can appreciate the spirit of any holiday, religious or otherwise, which champions hope and humanitarianism with an emphasis on those less fortunate tha
n ourselves, and I’m more than willing to continue to celebrate it with you all as my father did for years before me.” The handsome young socialite flashed the crowd and cameras a dazzling, devilish smile, threading several fingers back through his soft bangs in a decisively flirtatious motion Cabe recognized well by now.
“Last year, when I stood up here in my favorite indigo Oxfords and spoke to you all on behalf of the Make-A-Wish Foundation, I spoke to you as a guilty, rich, white man who may as well have had a pending Durex sponsorship, who wanted to do something to ease his own feelings of culpability and quandary.” The anticipated pause for laughter, perfectly executed. “I had no personal need of the charity I chose to support.
“But here, tonight, surrounded by a flower which has for centuries been seen as a symbol of hope and wisdom and faith, I speak to you with humility – as a man who may soon have to rely on the work of the A.C.L.U. to protect my own personal freedom, whose life may one day genuinely depend upon how much money we can raise here tonight. I have been lucky to have been born into a social station where discriminating against me because of my Anomaly identity would be an ambitious battle for anyone to want to try and pick.
“Others aren’t so lucky. Others aren’t surrounded by the same people I’m blessed to have – people who are not compelled by law, but who are personally and positively content to look past what I am, and focus on who I am. People who are still willing to trust me with their money, their employment... hell, even their bodies.”
Another series of chortles and snorts broke the crowd’s near-silence, and Cabe flushed, turning as nonchalantly as he could away from the support band’s drummer, who kept hovering around him wearing enormous headphones and banging dented drumsticks against his spangly thighs and noisily chewing gum. He was apparently a temporary substitute, which not only made him a very plausible suspect, but explained the reason he was able to tour with the band and not have been killed by one of them yet for how fucking obnoxious he was.
The kid (because anybody who conducted themselves in that manner was definitely a ‘kid’ to him, at least all the while he was wearing a fancy tuxedo) made eye contact with him and jerked his head up in what Cabe supposed could qualify as a nod. “He s’a fuckin’ dooks, huh, bro!?” he yelled, more over the sound of his own headphones than anything currently in the room around them.
“He is the dooks,” replied Cabe, as neutrally as possible. He presumed given the tone that it was something favorable.
“And so I ask you,” Elliot was concluding his dramatic keynote address with gusto, “with all of my humility, my hope, my wisdom, and my faith – to look around yourselves tonight, wherever you are. And never forget that, regardless of your beliefs or labels, anyone can find reason to align themselves with a season of goodwill to all men, women, and other non-binary folk out there... including those of us who have some... rather unique talents that we never, ever asked to be given.
“So think openly,” he declared. “Drink irresponsibly. Spend frivolously! And let’s make tonight a night of shattering records as well as roadblocks... a Christmas Eve for us all to truly remember. Friend of Jesus, casual acquaintance, or even just those of us who appreciate a little bit of well-seasoned goodwill.”
And then, he was done, abandoning the podium and gliding downstage toward the audience as if even the air itself was in awe of the mic he’d just proverbially dropped and was consequentially endeavoring to carry him to his adoring masses. Cabe was clapping his hands politely in front of his chest, his poised poker face in no way betraying the emotional minefield his thoughts were currently navigating on their way to his brain. Somehow, he had the sense of mind to depress the incognito button on the inside of the bottom hem of his sleeve.
“Echo Whisky will be traveling backstage in sixty,” he murmured, knowing the microphone attached to the top of his back molar would pick it up.
The question you really need to ask yourself, Agent Sparrow... is how far are you willing to go, to fight a war that isn’t even yours...?
How far was he? How deep was he already in? For years, and much like his job with the police force, while he’d always been proud of his work he’d never really considered himself the type of person to become self-sacrificing for his job and clients, or to obsess over a cause. That was Ronnie’s department, maybe Flint’s. He and Gabriella, they were in this business because they’d been realized and recruited by somebody else, because they were damn good at whatever it was they did that had garnered them said attention, and because it sometimes gives ya the warm and fuzzies to pick up your paycheck knowing you earned it making a difference in somebody else’s life.
But, now... now he was starting to wonder just how personal all of this had become for him in the span of the past fifteen months. How much he was willing to do on his client’s behalf, the lengths he was willing to go to. How much he might actually be willing to sacrifice...
“Agent... Sparrow?”
The voice was young and female, and came from behind him. A quick pivot informed him it was one of the stage hands in her black Dickies button-down and twin mahogany braids stuffed messily beneath her headset, an overstuffed and colorful clipboard clutched in one hand. “Agent Sparrow, I just wanted to ask you about the second band’s ten o’clock set. They’ve advised me Mr. Wright will be joining them onstage for a number?”
“He – he will!?” The fact that this was a total surprise to him wasn’t lost on her, and she chuckled nervously.
“I know... to be honest, that’s sort of what I told him too. Well, actually I said, ‘of course, kind sir, please just allow me to confirm with Mr. Wright’s people his likely location and schedule around that time of your performance, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have clarification on their plans’.”
“You’re honestly my favorite person in this whole entire place today,” Cabe responded with a shaky breath of laughter. “Does Mr. Wright know about his impending debut yet?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Good. I’ll see if I can turn up something way more exciting for him to be busy with around tennish.”
“There’s about a half-dozen news crews supposed to be arriving between ten and ten-fifteen to cover A.R.M.’s Santa for a Cause thingamajig in the lobby...?”
Cabe groaned audibly. “Right... right, I forgot that was also a thing. Maybe I should just... like, take him down there and shake him at his fans, since he’s the one who said they can do their fundraiser here...”
“I think he’d probably like that a lot,” the stagehand said with a knowing smirk, and she turned sharply to walk away.
“Hey – sorry – one sec, real quick –”
She paused, and craned her neck. “Super quick?” she conceded, pleading with her eyes. He could tell from the way her strong leg muscles were tightly coiled that she was ready to spring away and put out the next fire that had to have been dealt with five minutes ago.
“Who was it who asked you to ask me about the performance?”
“Uhh... I forget his name, sorry. The drummer. That guy.”
Cabe’s eyes followed the path of her finger toward where she was pointing, near the entrance to stage right. Tall, skinny, and obnoxious was there with his headphones and his drumsticks, in the perfect position to greet Elliot alone and undefended the instant he stepped off-stage.
Bloody – shit!
The stagehand wasn’t around anymore to see the gloriously epic swan-dive which nearly sent him sailing into the rigging as he tried to turn a one-eighty and move forward at the same time, and completely forgot how to use his legs. In circumstances such as this, the usual etiquette for a Field Agent who was ‘hot’ (a W.A.R.D. term for any agent or asset still in sight of any outside personnel) was to act as cool, calm, and collected as one could for as long as situationally possible, until the straw that broke the case’s back forced said agent to escalate.
That being said, textbook code meant very little when you were out in the field, ‘h
ot’ as hell, and a suspect who had deliberately taken this exact moment to distract you with a stagehand was currently approaching your client in order to hand him a thin, manila package.
Eighteen
“Mr. Wright, sir –!”
There was no masking the urgency in Cabe Sparrow’s higher-than-usual voice as he half-stormed half-stumbled into the quiet, amicable conversation that was happening between Elliot, and a suddenly much more intelligible drummer-boy. His thoughts were a train on a single-rail track, hurtling toward a stop signal with no brakes.
Extraction, extraction, extraction...!
Elliot had accepted the document-sized package in one gracious hand and seemed to have crit’ed on his Charisma roll, now serving his usual doses of of charm with no parsimony. The two men shook hands, Elliot cracked a joke and a brilliant smile, and then the suspect was gone, sauntering back toward the dressing rooms whilst spinning a drumstick around the fingers of one hand.
“Sir...!” Cabe applied the emergency brakes just as he was about to run out of track, the fancy, slick Oxfords not offering the same grip as the combat boots he was used to working in. “Sir, is everything okay? Who was that – what is that?” he asked all in the same breath, staring at the package in his client’s hand with eyes he hoped didn’t scream oh-my-God-please-say-that-isn’t-a-bomb.
Elliot, however, seemed less than enthused with the whole affair. “Oh, it’s going to be a great night,” he bitched under his breath, stuffing the parcel into his bodyguard’s anxiously waiting hands. “I’ve just been subpoenaed.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Apparently an acquaintance of mine bribed him five hundred dollars to hand me some legal papers. He thinks he made out pretty well for himself. Considering I’m possibly about to cripple his entertainment career, I honestly don’t feel I came out of this the biggest loser.”
“A subpoena?” winced Cabe. “Seriously?”
Black Tie: Book One of the Sparrow Archives Page 27
