18-04-2019, 11:27 AM
"Boris," Helen whispered almost reverently. "I have one more call to make to set everything up, then we can go. Have you had lunch yet?"
"Not yet." Julie admitted.
"Right." Helen nodded. "What's the most expensive place in town? We'll start there."
"Metropolitan Grill's open." Julie said, taking out her emerald green iPad.
"Do they take reservations?" Helen said, getting up and walking toward the balcony door.
"Yeah."
"Perfect. Don't make one. Call's going through, just a sec." Helen started walking toward the master bedroom, speaking Russian to someone, presumably the Boris she'd just mentioned. I turned to Julie.
"Do you know what she's got planned?" I asked her.
"Something requiring an entourage. Helen generally doesn't have one of those, unless you count the Ultimados, but they're on the job. That's where we'd come in: as her hangers-on. I'm not sure what it is yet, but I'm guessing we're about to do something that only rich, famous, pretty white girls can get away with."
"So," I thought aloud. "Absolutely anything."
"Pretty much, yeah."
Helen returned, saying "dosvedanya" to whomever Boris is and ending her call. She grabbed her black Prada Arcade purse from the table and turned back to us. "Shall we go? We're going to need a decent lunch."
We left, and she continued talking on the way down the elevator. Velasquez was still too famous for the video of her and Maisson shooting Morgan to be seen by the media in public again, so Sgt. Pappas and three other Ultimados whom I hadn't met before escorted us. (It's not like I've met every one of them. Just, ya know, a lot.)
"So, if low-profile was what I was trying, and failing, admittedly, to do yesterday, today, I need the exact opposite. I need paparazzi swarming about, watching my every move, and hanging onto my every word. I'm talking about complete overexposure! It's coming up on one, now. By six o'clock tonight, I need Ma and Pa America to be completely fucking sick of hearing the name Contessa Helena de San Finzione, and reporters sick of saying my whole name and title like that and giving me an asinine nickname that makes anyone with a brain change the channel or stop reading right there! If we want to start taking bets now, my money's on 'H-Fin.' So, we're hitting the town. I posted on Twitter where we're going for lunch."
"Didn't Whyte kill some guys at lunch yesterday?" I asked. "Isn't that a really bad move?"
"That was when the Elders were backing him up. Now he's got to be more careful than that. I've got dirt on him, too. At least three confessions to murder and sending Morgan to kill me. But the fucker's right; I have more to lose than he does."
"So..." I thought aloud some more. "Your plan to keep us from being discovered is to drag us in front of cameras all day?"
"Yeah," Mander spoke up. "We've discussed my aversion to cameras, Your Countessness."
"Oh, I'll just tell them you're the taller half of Right Said Fred, they'll ignore you. They're all going to be crowding around me, pointing their cameras at me. And they'll be a small enough group that I'll be able to command them not to take any pictures when one of you is in the shot. If someone shoves a microphone in your face," Helen pointed and me and Julie. "They won't be too busy to do The Thing and make them go away. They can cover each other, too."
"Not yet." Julie admitted.
"Right." Helen nodded. "What's the most expensive place in town? We'll start there."
"Metropolitan Grill's open." Julie said, taking out her emerald green iPad.
"Do they take reservations?" Helen said, getting up and walking toward the balcony door.
"Yeah."
"Perfect. Don't make one. Call's going through, just a sec." Helen started walking toward the master bedroom, speaking Russian to someone, presumably the Boris she'd just mentioned. I turned to Julie.
"Do you know what she's got planned?" I asked her.
"Something requiring an entourage. Helen generally doesn't have one of those, unless you count the Ultimados, but they're on the job. That's where we'd come in: as her hangers-on. I'm not sure what it is yet, but I'm guessing we're about to do something that only rich, famous, pretty white girls can get away with."
"So," I thought aloud. "Absolutely anything."
"Pretty much, yeah."
Helen returned, saying "dosvedanya" to whomever Boris is and ending her call. She grabbed her black Prada Arcade purse from the table and turned back to us. "Shall we go? We're going to need a decent lunch."
We left, and she continued talking on the way down the elevator. Velasquez was still too famous for the video of her and Maisson shooting Morgan to be seen by the media in public again, so Sgt. Pappas and three other Ultimados whom I hadn't met before escorted us. (It's not like I've met every one of them. Just, ya know, a lot.)
"So, if low-profile was what I was trying, and failing, admittedly, to do yesterday, today, I need the exact opposite. I need paparazzi swarming about, watching my every move, and hanging onto my every word. I'm talking about complete overexposure! It's coming up on one, now. By six o'clock tonight, I need Ma and Pa America to be completely fucking sick of hearing the name Contessa Helena de San Finzione, and reporters sick of saying my whole name and title like that and giving me an asinine nickname that makes anyone with a brain change the channel or stop reading right there! If we want to start taking bets now, my money's on 'H-Fin.' So, we're hitting the town. I posted on Twitter where we're going for lunch."
"Didn't Whyte kill some guys at lunch yesterday?" I asked. "Isn't that a really bad move?"
"That was when the Elders were backing him up. Now he's got to be more careful than that. I've got dirt on him, too. At least three confessions to murder and sending Morgan to kill me. But the fucker's right; I have more to lose than he does."
"So..." I thought aloud some more. "Your plan to keep us from being discovered is to drag us in front of cameras all day?"
"Yeah," Mander spoke up. "We've discussed my aversion to cameras, Your Countessness."
"Oh, I'll just tell them you're the taller half of Right Said Fred, they'll ignore you. They're all going to be crowding around me, pointing their cameras at me. And they'll be a small enough group that I'll be able to command them not to take any pictures when one of you is in the shot. If someone shoves a microphone in your face," Helen pointed and me and Julie. "They won't be too busy to do The Thing and make them go away. They can cover each other, too."
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