27-04-2019, 03:52 PM
"One I went to were in Africa." Mander added. "More obvious guns, of course; but there, who cares about some rich foreigners who ain't really even stoppin' and spendin' money on their way to their Rich Foreigner Whatever?"
"Speaking of which." Troy asked him. "How did you get that Desert Eagle under your jacket so well?"
"Ya get a jacket that's a couple sizes too big, then ya fuckin' learn how ta sew."
Helena's dress had no room for such concealment. She wore an off-the-shoulder velvet gown with a long slit up her right leg. She would have gone with one slit up the left, but after the punishment it had taken the past few days, the bruise on that thigh was enormous, and there'd be no way to conceal it. Her pistol was in her black bag, where it was usually kept. She didn't worry about being searched or having it taken, since she could always tell security to ignore it and any detectors it set off.
The cars headed out of town, toward an old country road. Instructions had said to give the car in front of you a few minutes before heading down the road, to prevent traffic jams. Like most such advice, it had been largely ignored, and now it had become an obvious line of slow-moving fancy vehicles winding its way down a deserted road, toward a single destination; an old farmhouse, next to a large barn that looked like it predated the railroads. Behind the barn were parked three black semis with black cargo trailers hitched to them. A fourth truck, hauling a generator, was parked alongside the barn, cables leading into it.
"This was the OTHER reason I didn't want to have STRANGERS here." Helen told Troy. "Seattle people PRIDE themselves on this shit! I mean, in Anchorage, or San Finzione; yeah traffic can suck sometimes. Ok, except for if you're me in San Finzione, but still, you know you're going to get to your destination EVENTUALLY! 'I can't make it, because nobody's cars are allowed to move' is a legitimate fucking excuse to cancel plans here!"
"I have no defense for that." Troy replied.
The line of cars eventually moved until it was time for them to emerge from the limo. Mander got out first, followed by Helen, then Troy. They stepped out onto a red carpet leading to the barn. Troy thought the scene was missing spotlights and photographers, but then supposed that wasn't the kind of thing the Auctioneers went in for. Helen stepped up to a man with a clipboard by the open barn door. Troy thought he could hear music coming from inside.
"Contessa Helena de San Finzione." Helena said. The man looked at the list, then up at Mander. "He's my Plus One." She commented.
The man with the clipboard looked at Troy.
"And who is he?" He asked.
"He's my Plus One More Because I'm La Fucking Contessa, that's who he is. Others are being aided or represented by attorneys, consiglieri, advisors; he is my financial advisor."
The man remained unfazed and ticked the list.
"Welcome, Contessa. Right inside."
He gestured to the open barn door. Helena made a nod at Mander, who stepped up to the man and shook his hand, slipping him a hundred-dollar bill in the process. Mander then held the already-open door open for her and Troy before following them inside.
"Pretty rude to someone whose invite list you want to stay on. Mander doesn't go in first?" Troy whispered to Helen as she took his arm.
"La Contessa makes the entrances, Troilus." She whispered back. "The bodyguard does not. And arrogance is to be expected from the sort of people we're about to join. Followed by a hundred-dollar tip, once they've seen reason."
"That explains trusting Mander with a stack of hundreds. So, what does the financial advisor do?"
"Arm candy." Helen replied. "Until it's time for the other thing."
Troy looked around the barn. He'd been to a couple of farms on field trips in Alaska and knew some people up in the Valley who'd bought farmland, and he'd been to state fairs, but didn't recall seeing a string quartet and cocktail bar set up in the other barns he'd had call to go inside in his life.
"Speaking of which." Troy asked him. "How did you get that Desert Eagle under your jacket so well?"
"Ya get a jacket that's a couple sizes too big, then ya fuckin' learn how ta sew."
Helena's dress had no room for such concealment. She wore an off-the-shoulder velvet gown with a long slit up her right leg. She would have gone with one slit up the left, but after the punishment it had taken the past few days, the bruise on that thigh was enormous, and there'd be no way to conceal it. Her pistol was in her black bag, where it was usually kept. She didn't worry about being searched or having it taken, since she could always tell security to ignore it and any detectors it set off.
The cars headed out of town, toward an old country road. Instructions had said to give the car in front of you a few minutes before heading down the road, to prevent traffic jams. Like most such advice, it had been largely ignored, and now it had become an obvious line of slow-moving fancy vehicles winding its way down a deserted road, toward a single destination; an old farmhouse, next to a large barn that looked like it predated the railroads. Behind the barn were parked three black semis with black cargo trailers hitched to them. A fourth truck, hauling a generator, was parked alongside the barn, cables leading into it.
"This was the OTHER reason I didn't want to have STRANGERS here." Helen told Troy. "Seattle people PRIDE themselves on this shit! I mean, in Anchorage, or San Finzione; yeah traffic can suck sometimes. Ok, except for if you're me in San Finzione, but still, you know you're going to get to your destination EVENTUALLY! 'I can't make it, because nobody's cars are allowed to move' is a legitimate fucking excuse to cancel plans here!"
"I have no defense for that." Troy replied.
The line of cars eventually moved until it was time for them to emerge from the limo. Mander got out first, followed by Helen, then Troy. They stepped out onto a red carpet leading to the barn. Troy thought the scene was missing spotlights and photographers, but then supposed that wasn't the kind of thing the Auctioneers went in for. Helen stepped up to a man with a clipboard by the open barn door. Troy thought he could hear music coming from inside.
"Contessa Helena de San Finzione." Helena said. The man looked at the list, then up at Mander. "He's my Plus One." She commented.
The man with the clipboard looked at Troy.
"And who is he?" He asked.
"He's my Plus One More Because I'm La Fucking Contessa, that's who he is. Others are being aided or represented by attorneys, consiglieri, advisors; he is my financial advisor."
The man remained unfazed and ticked the list.
"Welcome, Contessa. Right inside."
He gestured to the open barn door. Helena made a nod at Mander, who stepped up to the man and shook his hand, slipping him a hundred-dollar bill in the process. Mander then held the already-open door open for her and Troy before following them inside.
"Pretty rude to someone whose invite list you want to stay on. Mander doesn't go in first?" Troy whispered to Helen as she took his arm.
"La Contessa makes the entrances, Troilus." She whispered back. "The bodyguard does not. And arrogance is to be expected from the sort of people we're about to join. Followed by a hundred-dollar tip, once they've seen reason."
"That explains trusting Mander with a stack of hundreds. So, what does the financial advisor do?"
"Arm candy." Helen replied. "Until it's time for the other thing."
Troy looked around the barn. He'd been to a couple of farms on field trips in Alaska and knew some people up in the Valley who'd bought farmland, and he'd been to state fairs, but didn't recall seeing a string quartet and cocktail bar set up in the other barns he'd had call to go inside in his life.
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