Discovered in a Christmas Card: January 4, 2017. NS: Card Stack

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

CARD STACK
Warrant card

"This will finish you in the Met, Doyle," Preston raged, tugging at the handcuffs. "Think you'll get points for being a fucking grass? They won't take you on as a constable in some sheep shed in the Norfolk broads!"

"Maybe, and maybe not." Doyle had had that same thought more than once in the days he'd spent investigating Preston. "But no matter what happens to me, you're finished too. You stole those drugs, and I can prove it. Now belt up."

Maurice Richards poked his head through the door. "You done here, Doyle?"

Doyle nodded. "You got the others?"

"Montgomery's on his way to the nick," Richards said with deep satisfaction. "Already bleating for his solicitor and offering to deal."

Doyle felt a flash of relief. If Montgomery was ready to squeal that fast, then the whole mess was just as bad as it looked. He hadn't over-reacted to his suspicions about Preston.

Richards must have seen some shadow of doubt on his face. "It's good work, lad. Don't let this prick tell you otherwise. Do the honours, then."

Preston snarled and struggled against the cuffs. "I'll see you dead, the pair of you!"

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be taken down and used in evidence against you . . ."

Playing card

"Three nines." Bodie spread the cards out on the ammunition crate pressed into use as a poker table. "Read 'em and weep, as the Yanks would say."

"Damn!" Tub shook his head in a mixture of disgust and admiration. "Luck of the devil, that's you, Bodie." He pushed a handful of notes across the table.

Krivas sullenly threw down his cards, and after a long hesitation, did the same.

Bodie swept up the pile and riffled through the notes. "You're short, Krivas. That last bet was over a thousand piasters."

"I haven't got it right now." He glowered at the others around the table. "I had to pay the Pole for the flight out in advance."

"Doesn't help me now," Bodie said mildly.

"You'll get your money when we've been paid." Behind Krivas, Franky half-drew his knife.

Bodie shook his head slowly. "Debts are paid at the table. That's the rule, mate, and it applies to you just like the rest of us. If you don't have the cash, I'll take it in kind."

The trapped expression on Krivas' face almost made Bodie reconsider; in a corner, Krivas was at his most dangerous, and pushing him was never a good idea. On the other hand, Bodie knew if he didn't get his money now, he never would. Krivas was a genius at putting off the day of reckoning.

Suddenly Krivas' expression cleared. "In kind, you say?"

Bodie nodded.

Krivas chuckled. "You, get over here!" He turned to beckon at the girl sitting in the corner, as far away from the mercenaries as she could manage.

Bodie swore under his breath. As far as he could figure it, the girl's uncle had more or less sold her to Krivas in exchange for the rights to supply the company with fuel and food during their bivouac. She was as delicate and timid as a deer, and she visibly cowered every time Krivas so much as looked at her.

Krivas grabbed her arm, and shoved her in Bodie's direction. "She's yours, until I get paid. Then you get your money. Deal?"

Bodie put his arm around the girl's waist. "You okay with this, sweetheart?"

She looked anxiously from him to Krivas and back again, nodded hesitantly and then dropped her eyes. Bodie could feel her shivering.

He met Krivas' eyes across the table. "Fair enough. But next time we play cards, bring enough money to cover your bets."

Calling card

"Major George Cowley. Criminal Intelligence 5." Sir Wilfred Banton tapped one corner of the calling card lightly with his forefinger. "Not terribly informative."

"CI5 hasn't made its mark yet, Sir Wilfred."

"But you intend that it will," Sir Wilfred said.

Cowley nodded.

"So what brings you to my department? There's little opportunity for crime in the office of marketing and procurement. No arms, no drugs, no foreign entanglements."

"I've been directed to look into the matter of kick-backs in the awarding of contracts for various construction projects. Beginning with your department, as it happens. The Home Secretary is somewhat concerned by the allegations appearing in the Guardian."

"Leftist scandal-mongering," Sir William retorted. "I'll give you a word of advice, Major. Your career will not prosper if you give too much credence to politically motivated gossip."

"Gossip?" Cowley gave a wintery smile. "I put more faith in bank statements and eye-witness testimony. I suggest you clean your doorstep, Sir Wilfred, before it's done for you."

Sir Wilfred half rose from his seat. "Are you threatening me, Cowley? Do you know who you're dealing with?"

"Not threats, Sir Wilfred. Simply putting my cards on the table. And you are dealing with CI5. Not some polite flunky who'll take your word because you have a country house and membership in the right clubs." Cowley smiled again. "No, don't get up. I can show myself out."

Sir Wilfred stared at the closing door for a long moment before shaking his head in disgust.

"Cheeky bastard," he murmured. "Clean my doorstep, indeed. Just another quango to placate the newspapers. Clean them all up, I should say."

He tossed the calling card into the rubbish bin, and put the impertinent George Cowley out of his mind.


Credit card

Doyle ripped open the envelope on his desk and grinned widely at the small rectangle of plastic that fell out.

"About time! I was starting to think they were going to turn me down."

"Credit card?" Bodie said, looking over his shoulder. "Thought you didn't approve of the evils of debt."

"Yeah. That was before I realized how long I'd have to wait to get my expenses approved. At least this way, I won't be paying out cash weeks before I get any of it back from accounting." He waved the card under Bodie's nose. "Want to help me break it in?"

"Plane tickets to Cyprus?" Bodie said hopefully. "Visit to Saville Row?"

"You'd be lucky. Dinner at your favourite restaurant, and no, not the Ritz."

"Moghul Palace," Bodie said after a moment's thought. "Lamb rogan josh, onion bahji, naan bread, pilau rice, that cauliflower and potato thing you like—"

"Trust you remember everything except the name of the vegetable dish."

"Cauliflower and potato," Bodie enunciated clearly. "Wouldn't mind some poppadoms, come to that."

"Might as well go all in, then." Doyle gave the credit card a rueful look. "Mango chutney, and cucumber raita all round."

Bodie clapped Doyle cheerfully on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! Not like you have to worry about the bill for another month, right?"


Christmas card

"The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, make a right mess of the front walk," Bodie warbled cheerily as he swung open the front door. He paused to sniff appreciatively at the scents of roasting joint and mulled wine drifting down the hall from the kitchen while he hung up his anorak and removed damp boots.

He padded down the hall to Doyle's studio, in what had originally been the dining room of their bungalow. Doyle was working at his drafting table, angled to catch the pale light of mid-winter afternoon. Watercolours spread out on the bench beside him, he was creating a very delicate web of bare branches on a scene of winter trees.

He put the brush down as Bodie entered and dumped his parcels unceremoniously on the floor.

"Find everything you needed?" He stretched lazily, bending back into an awkward bow as Bodie brushed a chilly kiss over his cheek.

"Yeah. Don't know why I do this. You'd think I'd remember from one year to the next how bloody awful the shops are between Christmas and New Year."

"The thrill of the hunt?" Doyle grinned. "Bringing home the bargains from Marks and Sparks to lay before your appreciative mate?"

"More like bargains from the DIY. I nobbled the last of those laser spirit levels they were pushing."

"And every straight line in the house trembles in fear." Doyle pushed back from the table. "How does it look?"

Bodie examined the painting. Two figures walked along a path in a snowy wood, all black and white except for an occasional deep russet oak leaf, or a dark green sprig of holly. The figures were more outline and suggestion than anything else, except for a plaid muffler wound around one neck. Their footsteps in the snow matched stride for stride.

"In the bleak midwinter?" he said, a bit uncertain.

"It's called 'Taking the Long Way Home'," Doyle said.

"That we did." Bodie looked from the painting to Doyle. "But we made it in the end."




Title: Card Stack
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: Slash (but only a hint)
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: yes, please
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended and no money made.

Comments

[loxleyprince.livejournal.com]

Another Verlaine story! SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! *g*
What a splendid selection of cards you've given us, dear, and YAY! for the lads finding their way home. :-)

Thank you card

[loxleyprince.livejournal.com]

RE: Thank you card

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is gorgeous! Time for a SQUEEE! Of my own.

When I get my printer running again, I'm going to print this out and put it up.

Re: Thank you card

[loxleyprince.livejournal.com]

:-) I'm so glad you like it!

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I had fun thinking up card ideas, and fitting them into the lads' lives. Glad you enjoyed it.