Black Tie: Book One of the Sparrow Archives

by Kieran Strange

  “To appear in court as the defendant in a gar-gan-tuan class action lawsuit, according to a U.S. District Judge William S. J. D. McCray... geez, buddy, save some letters for the other people.” Elliot huffed out an irritated breath, casting a quick glance about to ensure they were adequately muffled by the stage volume, before pinching the bridge of his nose and hissing out of the corner of his mouth, “A third of my investors are suing me.”

  Ah, shit. That blows. Cabe offered his client and boss an apologetic, sheepish grin. “But hey, speech killed it?”

  “I think just about everybody who caught it subscribed to it,” the young executive was saying lackadaisically, adjusting the front and sides of his styled hair as he led his bodyguard back in the direction of the private dressing rooms. Cabe couldn’t comprehend how he was able to spend so long talking under those harsh, hot lights and not so much as break a sweat.

  When they reached the door (past the stern, stoic security guard who made even Cabe look diminutive), Elliot placed a hand upon the knob and looked coyly back over his shoulder. “Oh, right. Yes. That’s what I was planning on telling you before Sid Vicious distracted me. I, ah, I have a girl in here.”

  I... hate... you. It wasn’t a sense of hurt or betrayal that caused Cabe to roll his eyes; he’d been aware from the instant their bare skin had first touched that their relationship would not be exclusive. Instead, it came from a wishing that for once, just once, Elliot wouldn’t do whatever he could whenever he could do it to make Cabe’s job that much more difficult. “You do?”

  “I do.” Elliot ran his tongue quickly back and forth across his teeth as he thought. “I mean, I’m sure she wouldn’t be adverse to you joining us –”

  “Does she have proper clearance?”

  “She’s on the load-in crew. An old flame. Are you coming in?”

  Cabe grit his teeth. “I, ah... I should probably do at least a quick scan of the room...”

  “If you’re stuck on the fence, then say fuck it. Because I wouldn’t really be adverse to it, either.” The C.E.O. was smirking now in a way Cabe wasn’t sure he trusted, but not for anything criminal.

  “I’m good, sir. I’ll secure the room and leave you to your... your thing.”

  “I mean, she can be a bit... aggressive...”

  Given the fact he had only now managed to get rid of the rope burns on his wrists a week later, Cabe wasn’t interested in meeting anyone a sadist like Elliot Wright would consider ‘a bit aggressive’. The door opened and Elliot pushed it inward to reveal an attractive, curvy woman, probably in her early thirties, sitting on the plush leather couch with a damp bottle of beer in her hand.

  “Hey. Guys.” She raised one eyebrow. “Elliot?”

  “He’s not staying,” Elliot replied carelessly as he sauntered across the room to the chrome bucket on the table, plucking another beer from the ice. His eyes were on Cabe as he cracked the screw-top with his hand. “He’s got no sense of adventure.”

  “I’m just going to ensure the room is safe for you both to... enjoy it,” said Cabe, with as little awkwardness as he was able to muster. Quick and thorough, quick and thorough. By now, he had a mental checklist memorized for this room. The entry points were first, then any other weak spots he had detected when he’d done his initial sweep earlier that week. A full scan of the whole area could be done with just a single pulse from the beeper-looking device in his pocket, which detected any foreign radio waves or wireless networks activated within its range. When it came back clear, he gave the nod to Elliot, who was nestled on the couch deep in conversation with his employee... friend... guest.

  “The guy on the door knows not to let anybody in unless I’m with them. I’m gonna do a perimeter walk and check in with the Geek Squad. Can you sit the fuck down and stay the fuck out of trouble until I get back?”

  The woman on the couch with Elliot stifled an amused laugh as the C.E.O. half-lidded his eyes frostily at his bodyguard. “That will be all, Mr. Sparrow.”

  “What?” For some reason, Cabe liked this woman. Maybe because he had expected her to be shady as all heck, but instead, she seemed totally normal. And not suspicious-normal either, just... normal. He had a wicked grin all over his face even as he yanked the door open again. “No quick-witted comeback? No snappy remark?”

  “Mr. Sparrow, if you don’t remove yourself promptly from this dressing room, I’m going to take your body down to the Willamette and ask the Boston Tea Party to hold my beer.”

  Cabe was still chuckling amiably to himself as he shut the door behind him, jerking his head in a friendly salute at the security guard stationed between the private dressing rooms and the rest of the backstage area. The tank’s face barely cracked and his sunglasses hid any and all emotion as he returned it.

  He was a good man, an Anomaly with the ability to read people’s emotions as an aura of color, and one of Dhawan’s most trusted veteran guys. There weren’t many people Cabe was content to leave Elliot in the hands of tonight, but over the past week Mr. Dhawan and his senior staff had set off zero alarm bells and massively gained his trust with their fidelity and cooperation. It would buy him a little time to stretch his legs and cover some ground.

  “Check in: eight-thirty, and Echo Whisky is in the Jar-O,” he mumbled to himself (and, in effect, his teammates) as he walked. “Charlie is hot and mobile. Gonna go fishing.”

  A gentle vibration in his pocket announced another text, probably again from Ronnie. During any kind of sting operation or event this hot, radio comms were always reserved for business chatter and business chatter alone. Mostly because there was nothing more grating than having to sit and listen to two of your colleagues discussing the hockey results while you’re in deep undercover. And so, anything that may relate to the assignment or be of interest, but which wasn’t crucial or pressing or urgent at all at the time it was sent, would just be sent via text.

  “Golf is very hot and very mobile,” came Gabriella Dasilva’s voice, feathery and brittle from the static of unperfected molar technology, as Cabe stepped out past security (showing his badge, as was required when entering or leaving the backstage area) and onto the main venue floor. “Spoken to several of our suspect characters so far, but I’m going to conclude that unless they’re incredibly gifted actors, they aren’t getting anywhere near the security system Wright’s got set up. Zeroing in on a pretty big fish right now.”

  It took a few seconds longer for Flint to check in. No doubt, he was busy serving a patron in his own undercover role. “Juliet is hot and static: first position. And absolutely nothing to report on all fronts. I’m telling you, all these hippies seem to wanna talk about is the restaurant’s vegan food options and their rescue chihuahua’s photography portfolio.”

  “Hipsters, Juliet,” Cabe replied to him, stifling a smirk. “They’re called hipsters.”

  Using an agent’s first initial to assign their phonetic radio handle had been the common practice at W.A.R.D. since the North American branch was founded along with two Directors by S.S.A.s James Flint and Erik Flores – which, coupled with two Field Agents at the time named Fry and Faucheux, made using an agent’s last initial completely impractical. And so, even when Flores had been killed during the only ever direct assault on W.A.R.D.’s North American headquarters before Cabe had been recruited, they had continued to use the same moniker assignment system out of habit.

  Which worked out fairly well for Cabe, considering how often he had to work in conjunction with Agents Stein and Santana.

  Free from his ward (whom looking after was akin to babysitting a small, sugar-hyped toddler), Cabe stole half a minute to check his phone. The text had been from Ronnie, as he’d predicted, and contained simply the word ‘LOL!’ and a link to a tweet, which opened up in the appropriate app on his WrightPhone.

  The tweet was from a gay journalist and political pundit who, according to his bio, wrote for several different print and online editorials that were more on the center-left side of the spectrum.
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  #ifihadmyownjamesbond, the tweet declared, alongside a heavily-filtered photo of the stage snapped from the far-right of the V.I.P. balcony audience and taken right as Elliot was walking off-stage, once I’m done dropping bombs and saving the word, he would be waiting for me~. In the photo, anxiously hovering behind his fluorescent tape line, Cabe was clearly visible, swathed in shadows and his elegant tuxedo. The photo had already garnered over two-thousand shares, and triple that amount in likes.

  I love my job, I love my job, I love my job... he repeated his well-practiced mantra, once again reminding himself there were worse things in the world than having to relive his five minutes of de trop fame in cases like this.

  Shrugging off what Faraj had dubbed the Twitter Jitters, the well-dressed blond only managed to get halfway across the dance floor toward the bar before he was intercepted by a tall, attractive woman with hair the color of strawberry taffy and a titanium barbell in each of her dimples. She was brandishing a handheld recorder almost politely, as if to let him know it was there and she wasn’t trying to catch him off-guard.

  “Alice Armstrong, Portland Mercury... I was told in my invite that it would be all right to ask you a few super chill questions?”

  Ah, fuck. Serious!? Cabe struggled to clear his throat and tried his best not to show just how uncomfortable that request had made him.

  “I, ah, I mean, I can try, but you won’t get anything near as eloquent as you just heard from me,” he laughed in as friendly and non-threatening a manner as possible. Sometimes, with his natural social ineptitude, he forget that he was over six-foot tall and that his goofy behavior was often easily to mistaken for aggression. “Can we do it at the bar, though? Wicked dry mouth.”

  The two of them waded through the tables of now-mingling guests toward where Flint and five other bartenders (two men and three women) seemed to have developed an intense system that kept a steady rotation of customers happy with a limited waiting time to be served their liquor. There was a gap at one end, ironically near where Flint was measuring out what had to be at least twenty-eight shots of Jack Daniels, and Cabe snagged it for himself and the punky journalist before anybody else could.

  “Sorry, what did you say your name was again?” asked Alice, having to shout just a little over the volume of the D.J. currently spinning (that was the correct word, right?) on the stage where Elliot had been speaking shortly before. Apparently, the D.J. booth was rigged to raise and lower from the rafters as needed.

  “I didn’t,” replied Cabe. “It’s, uh. Mr. Wright’s been introducing me as Agent Sparrow all night, so I’ll just go with that.”

  “Sparrow?” she repeated, probably wanting to make sure she got it on tape. “Like the bird?”

  “Like the bird.”

  “Is that your real name?” she asked coyly, and he laughed with the demeanor of a man who had been asked that same question almost every time he’d introduced himself.

  “Yeah. It was my mum’s maiden name before she married my dad.”

  “That’s so cool. Armstrong’s mine, which is pretty killer as a Green Day fan. Is this your first time in the U.S.?”

  “No, no... no, I live here now. I love it.”

  “And you work for Elliot Wright?”

  “After a fashion,” Cabe said somewhat raggedly, and he paused as Flint approached the two of them. “Yeah, um, hey, can I get... uh, what are you drinking?”

  “I can get my own, it’s fine.”

  “No, please, I insist.”

  “All right,” said Alice with a smirk, and she switched her attention to the good-looking, salt-and-pepper bartender who was waiting patiently for their order. “Bourbon on the rocks, dry as fire.”

  Cabe bit his lower lip for a few seconds in thought before asking Flint sheepishly, “Don’t suppose you’d know how to knock up an Aviation, would you?”

  “Of course, sir. It’s a classic.”

  “Okay. That then, and we’re still not supposed to buy you guys drinks over here, right?”

  Flint quirked an eyebrow. “Leaving a tip is more customary in the United States, sir. But I believe you and your guests are on Mr. Wright’s private tab for the evening.”

  “So that’s why I keep getting such terrible service whenever I go out,” Cabe jibed, and while Alice seemed to find it amusing enough, Flint merely rolled his eyes and moved away to make their drinks. Sometimes, he wondered if his supervisor took these roles in order to have a chance at publicly sassing him.

  “Mr. Wright’s private tab, huh?” Alice was smirking at him. “Someone’s got it made.”

  “You have no idea the hell I have to endure, it hardly makes it worth it.”

  “Is he hard to work for? I’ve heard mixed reviews.”

  “Actually, surprisingly, no.” Cabe laughed a little, trying to convey an open and laid-back demeanor. This was a good opportunity to gain some decent public and editorial support for his client. “The only hell he gives me is when he tries to do too much for others and we have to try and rein him in. He’d work twenty-four hours a day if his body would let him.”

  “So, you work closely with him most of the time then?”

  Cabe nodded smoothly. Flint had already briefed them on all how to approach the subject of Agent Sparrow’s employment, if ever they were asked. In a bit of an apple-polishing, possible-daddy-issues-signalling stab of pride, he was grateful that his supervisor was in earshot and would be able to hear him flawlessly executing his cover.

  “Pretty much. I guess my formal title would be his Secondary Personal Assistant? He has a separate P.A. who handles the business side of things, and I assist Mr. Wright with formal and informal matters on a day-to-day basis.” He shrugged loosely. “On the good days, I get to come to the best parties on the west coast and sip cocktails with you lovely people, and the only real downside of it all is having to take care of his laundry.”

  “I don’t imagine handling an attractive billionaire’s dirty shirts is that much of a chore though?” Alice played along with a flirtatious glimmer in her eyes, and Cabe grinned back at her.

  “Yeah, but who likes doing laundry?”

  He wondered for a moment as he studied her, because of something in the bridge of her nose and above her eyes, if she might be transgender. Then, about a second and a half later, he scolded himself internally for that presumption. And scolded himself hard. Maybe he needed to relax a little, have a drink, and stop taking his own apprehension out on other people’s privacies. He needed to focus on keeping his nerve intact for when, in his supervisor’s own words, the proverbial shit did hit the proverbial fan.

  “Fire on ice for the lady,” announced Flint as he reappeared between them with a cocktail glass in one hand and a rocks glass in the other, “and an ironic twist for the gentleman.”

  “This is for you, mate.” Cabe discreetly (but not too discreetly, of course) handed Flint a twenty from his wallet. He wanted the journalist to think Elliot paid him generously, though that didn’t stop him from making a mental bookmark to ask Flint for it back later.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” replied Flint gratefully, and then he was gone again, serving another couple – who turned out to be Agent Dasilva herself, here under the cover of Gabriella Santos for TIME magazine, and a man Cabe immediately recognized as Raul Espinoza, the Democratic candidate who was the favorite to replace President Dunn as the head of the party in the summer Primaries.

  “So, I’m not gonna lie to you,” Alice was saying. “The Mercury is primarily a music magazine, and I was hoping to get a little bit more of an intimate angle on Elliot Wright’s relationship with music in general.”

  “From someone who knows him... intimately?” Cabe queried with a drastically quirked eyebrow, sipping his cocktail. He would never tell his boss, but it was nowhere near as good as Elliot’s.

  It was Alice’s turn now to laugh to break the tension. “No, not like that. I’m not gonna make any assumptions or commit any libel here, I just imagine if you spend
a lot of time around him, you’ll know if he, y’know, listens to music while he’s working, or plays guitar. Sings in the shower. That sorta thing.”

  Cabe smiled to himself for a moment, fondly. It was true, he had spent a lot of time around Elliot Wright in the last eight days, invading his personal space for his own safety and security whether he liked it or not. During that time, squished into each other’s bubbles, there was a lot they’d learned about each other. Thankfully, Cabe had the good sense to filter out what might not represent his client in such a good light, and stick to that which was more flattering.

  “Does Mr. Wright read your publication?”

  “I honestly can’t say, sir, I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.” Cabe sipped his beverage again. It reminded him of that night with Elliot, of the verbal sparring back and forth between the two of them. Against his ribcage, his heart began to slam a little faster as the memory kicked up some adrenaline. “Well then, I’m really running the risk of losing my job here, but you’ve been proper nice to me and your hair is to die for, so I’m gonna tempt fate.”

  He caught the way Alice made sure the mics of her handheld recorder were unobstructed and close enough to pick up whatever it was Cabe was about to say.

  “Mr. Wright loves music,” he said, his lips curling into a sliver of a smile over the curved rim of his triangular glass. “I don’t know if he’s aware that I’ve noticed it. But there’s always music playing, whenever he’s in his office or just at home in his condo, he’s always got something on in the background, and sometimes I catch him singing along to it.”

  “What sort of music?”

  “Man, everything and anything... classic rock, symphonic, jazz... I’ve heard some pretty eclectic stuff coming outta his office in the wee hours of the morning, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Can Elliot Wright sing?” pressed Alice between sips of her bourbon. She seemed content to push her luck and see where this rabbit hole led her.

  “Honestly?” Cabe leaned in toward her a little. “Yeah. From what I’ve heard, he’s not half bad. But I don’t know if he’d want anybody knowing that... I’m guessing it’s something he keeps pretty close to his chest.”