It's A Trap
Nov. 20th, 2010 05:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talonkarrdeI had been watching the target for weeks now, watching as he stole and lied and charmed his way through the nights, and I was reasonably sure that I knew his path, style, and dealings. Tonight was my chance to put what I knew to the test.
I’d been following him almost every night, the same repetition of events with only backdrops changing. Last week, it was a high-profile dinner, a late-night soiree, and then the afterparty at a producer’s mansion every single day. Last week was New York, the week before that Paris, and I had seen more people on the Fortune 100 and Who’s Who of Hollywood than I ever thought I’d meet. But it was worth the time; I had stayed anonymous and figured out the alpha and omega of his modus operandi, and fuck, he was slick.
Slick enough that he never made a bet he couldn’t win, slick enough that even if you hated his fucking guts, you had to give him credit for pulling off things you could never pull off. Maybe if our positions were different, I would’ve appreciated him more, but I’ve never been in the business of giving people credit.
Come to think of it, I wasn’t much in the business of righting wrongs either, but ask any one of us and you’ll hear of a case we’ve taken outside of our normal affairs. It’s not about money, or righting wrongs, or anything as obnoxious as what someone considers legal; for me, it was getting a chance to go up against Goliath — and more than that, knowing I would win.
How often do you get to bring down a giant?
Tonight’s party was at the Burj Al Arab. Yes, that one, where Federer and Agassi played on the helipad a thousand feet above Dubai, the five star hotel that’s shaped like a sail. Twenty third floor, suite of a well known actor, known for a few indie films he did in his younger years and his strong male leads that tend to sweep women off their feet. Happily married now — or at least, that’s what the papers say. This party would give them something to think about, if only they could get in.
Here the target comes, striding through the room like he owns it, and I know, know, he’s looking for the next target. The next conquest, a word he’s used once or twice while joking with the guys, but the word isn’t a throwaway phrase for him. I watch as his eyes slide down necklines and around hips, and finally settle on a friend of mine. It surprises me; I thought he’d go for one of the bigger names. She doesn’t notice him, unfortunately, and he’s forced to walk over to her and slip into the conversation, which he does, smooth as butter, bringing out laughs from the two ladies she’s with.
If only we had got to him first, I think. Then maybe he’d be my partner instead of my target, and we’d be somewhere else. Kabul, maybe, or Beirut, or—
I watch as he casually touches her arm and asks if she wants another drink, and I have to marvel, even if it’s just for a second. Honeypot, I almost whisper, and I wonder if she’ll fall for it. She smiles, that small purse of the lips and crinkle of the eyes, the half-blush, and I can see him adjusting, changing his tone, altering himself to suit her, to win her. There’s no dallying around when he gets the drinks, just a quick order and he’s making a beeline back for her, and she’s gotten rid of the others.
She asks him for a toast, and I can’t help but wonder what he’ll come up with and sidle a bit closer.
Never lie, steal, cheat, or drink. But if you must lie, lie in the arms of the one you love. If you must steal, steal away from bad company. If you must cheat, cheat death. And if you must drink, drink in the moments that take your breath away.
Of course. A natural. And I watch her eyes soften, as she smiles and whispers into his ear, and I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t need to. He chuckles quietly, letting his hand smoothly rest on the small of her back, and as they talk, you could be forgiven for thinking that they had known each other all their lives.
She says something else, a few minutes later, and you can see it on his face and leans in to kiss the corner of her mouth before he leaves and she turns to find her friends, tell them where she's going, no doubt.
It's a few minutes after that, after I'm sure he’s waiting for her in a suite somewhere, that's when she comes over to me, my friend, my colleague, my black widow, and she pouts ever so prettily, and says, “Do you think we have him?”
Whether he’s an actor, a professional con-man, or whatever else, he can’t hold a candle to the training she has. We’ll know all about him soon enough, and our work here is just about finished. All I can say is this:
“Don’t have too much fun, Delilah.”
I’d been following him almost every night, the same repetition of events with only backdrops changing. Last week, it was a high-profile dinner, a late-night soiree, and then the afterparty at a producer’s mansion every single day. Last week was New York, the week before that Paris, and I had seen more people on the Fortune 100 and Who’s Who of Hollywood than I ever thought I’d meet. But it was worth the time; I had stayed anonymous and figured out the alpha and omega of his modus operandi, and fuck, he was slick.
Slick enough that he never made a bet he couldn’t win, slick enough that even if you hated his fucking guts, you had to give him credit for pulling off things you could never pull off. Maybe if our positions were different, I would’ve appreciated him more, but I’ve never been in the business of giving people credit.
Come to think of it, I wasn’t much in the business of righting wrongs either, but ask any one of us and you’ll hear of a case we’ve taken outside of our normal affairs. It’s not about money, or righting wrongs, or anything as obnoxious as what someone considers legal; for me, it was getting a chance to go up against Goliath — and more than that, knowing I would win.
How often do you get to bring down a giant?
Tonight’s party was at the Burj Al Arab. Yes, that one, where Federer and Agassi played on the helipad a thousand feet above Dubai, the five star hotel that’s shaped like a sail. Twenty third floor, suite of a well known actor, known for a few indie films he did in his younger years and his strong male leads that tend to sweep women off their feet. Happily married now — or at least, that’s what the papers say. This party would give them something to think about, if only they could get in.
Here the target comes, striding through the room like he owns it, and I know, know, he’s looking for the next target. The next conquest, a word he’s used once or twice while joking with the guys, but the word isn’t a throwaway phrase for him. I watch as his eyes slide down necklines and around hips, and finally settle on a friend of mine. It surprises me; I thought he’d go for one of the bigger names. She doesn’t notice him, unfortunately, and he’s forced to walk over to her and slip into the conversation, which he does, smooth as butter, bringing out laughs from the two ladies she’s with.
If only we had got to him first, I think. Then maybe he’d be my partner instead of my target, and we’d be somewhere else. Kabul, maybe, or Beirut, or—
I watch as he casually touches her arm and asks if she wants another drink, and I have to marvel, even if it’s just for a second. Honeypot, I almost whisper, and I wonder if she’ll fall for it. She smiles, that small purse of the lips and crinkle of the eyes, the half-blush, and I can see him adjusting, changing his tone, altering himself to suit her, to win her. There’s no dallying around when he gets the drinks, just a quick order and he’s making a beeline back for her, and she’s gotten rid of the others.
She asks him for a toast, and I can’t help but wonder what he’ll come up with and sidle a bit closer.
Never lie, steal, cheat, or drink. But if you must lie, lie in the arms of the one you love. If you must steal, steal away from bad company. If you must cheat, cheat death. And if you must drink, drink in the moments that take your breath away.
Of course. A natural. And I watch her eyes soften, as she smiles and whispers into his ear, and I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t need to. He chuckles quietly, letting his hand smoothly rest on the small of her back, and as they talk, you could be forgiven for thinking that they had known each other all their lives.
She says something else, a few minutes later, and you can see it on his face and leans in to kiss the corner of her mouth before he leaves and she turns to find her friends, tell them where she's going, no doubt.
It's a few minutes after that, after I'm sure he’s waiting for her in a suite somewhere, that's when she comes over to me, my friend, my colleague, my black widow, and she pouts ever so prettily, and says, “Do you think we have him?”
Whether he’s an actor, a professional con-man, or whatever else, he can’t hold a candle to the training she has. We’ll know all about him soon enough, and our work here is just about finished. All I can say is this:
“Don’t have too much fun, Delilah.”
