Operation: Shaboom: Cherry Pie

[x-gambit.livejournal.com]

Things are going from bad to worse, as Remy and Marie-Ange met with the realization that only they and Wanda are the only ones left who still remember their old lives, and even they're starting to falter.



Remy sat at the table in the diner, smoking a cigarette and looking through the local paper. He'd given his order to one of the other girls, knowing that Marie-Ange would notice him soon enough, and under the cover of the order and some typical flirting, they'd be able to talk privately.

Behind the counter, Marie-Ange stuck the stub of a pencil behind her ear, and the pad of paper in the pocket of her apron. "Thanks, Becky. I'll give you the next one? I kinda know this guy, you know?" she said over her shoulder, with a wink, to the waitress who'd taken Remy's order.

Before she came around the counter to the table, she fished the wad of gum out of her mouth and flicked it into a garbage bin. She knew she'd probably just have another stick in her mouth in a few minutes. The habit had come on her that morning and no matter how much she tried, she kept finding gum in her apron's pockets, and pieces kept going into her mouth. She picked up a pot of coffee, and snagged a glass container of sugar and headed to the table. "Coffee? It's fresh - made it a few minutes ago."

"Step up from the week old stuff your boss normally serves in here. Hey Mac, your eyes stuck?" Remy said in that Boston accent, glaring at one of the patrons taking a much too obvious interest in Marie-Ange's ass. Not that he cared about people ogling her, but someone paying too much attention might overhear the wrong thing. LeBeau pushed over the cup for her.

Marie-Ange poured the coffee, returning the comment with a "Ask me about it next week then." and a slightly cheeky smile. "Still trying to get people on the other side of town to buy your life insurance?"

"Everybody dies, no one likes to think about it. Guess I can't complain, because you're the only one listening, toots." Remy tapped the paper against the side of the table. "Sit down a minute. This place is dead, and I haven't bought a pretty girl a drink in days." He reached into his pocket and fished out a couple of dimes, sliding them over to her. With his right thumb, he gestured to the jukebox behind her seat. Remy's body language was completely changed, from his professional self to the character. Seating by the jukebox, the music would also mask their conversation. The trouble was that LeBeau was so good at slipping into his persona, that Marie-Ange wouldn't know if it was the act or if he'd really slipped until he tried to slip a hand up her skirt or something.

Marie-Ange slid the dimes off the table with the practiced move of someone who'd been handling loose change for years. Two went in the jukebox, queuing up a set of songs. The third she kept between her fingers, looking at it carefully. "I used to date a boy who collected coins..." she said, as if idly musing to herself. "They put letters on them from where they're minted. I've never seen a dime with a W on it before."

She slid into the seat across from Remy and sighed in relief. "Getting off my sore feet is a blessing, even if you try to sell me life insurance. But on the tips I make here? Well, I'm just not sure how much insurance you'd be able to sell a girl like me."

The first song came out of the jukebox, following the whirling noise and hard mechanical click of the 45 being moved into place. There was almost something comforting about the machine. It was the kind of thing you could take apart with a toolbox and figure out how it worked, as opposed to the coldly mute circuits and chips of modern electronics. There was a definable solidity to it, which only served to underline Sofia's point. If this was someone's retreat, as opposed to a plot for nuclear warheads or some elaborate trap, it made sense to dive back to something so separate from the modern world, without the complexity it brought.

Not that it was going to stop LeBeau from finding out how to shut it down. He liked complexity, and an eternity as an insurance salesman sounded more like an ironic punishment from the Devil. "Good job wit' de coin. Half de time, Remy not even sure if I'm still who I'm supposed to be, much less every one else."

Marie-Ange laughed darkly. "Doug never collected them, I just remember reading it somewhere. Although I would not put it past Joseph Crockett, Junior to have a coin collection. And to have been a Boy Scout. And a doting grandmother that sends him cookies. And to have played sports in high school. All of them. Hockey and the football and baseball." She paused, snorted and shook her head. "Oh, I forgot. He -does- play sports in college. He has a letter jacket! And a cheerleader girlfriend! Doug! With a letter jacket! Dating a cheerleader!"

While she was speaking, her hands had reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and a matchbook, going so far as to light the cigarette before she stopped, staring at it in disgust and then stubbing it out in the ashtray on the table.

"No offense, Marie-Ange, but right now, Remy couldn't care less if his otherworld identity was as de urinal next to de town's favourite glory hole. It maybe you, me and Wanda left at dis point, and unless we come up wit' something fast, you better get used to being Mary-Anne Colby." Remy reached into his pocket and slid over a list. "Made a trip out to de laptop. Bad news is dat de range of dis thing? It's growing. De bus stop/gas station is now straight out of a retro calendar, and Doug's laptop is now a pad, a telephone and a slide rule 'gain. Managed to get far enough along to make a few calls. Dat factory dat went down? Here's de names of all de people who worked dere most dere lives, and retired within a year of it closing."

"Far enough along to what?" Marie-Ange's faint Lyon accent had slid to something twangy and nasal. "What are you talking about? The factory didn't close. What... Mr. Ludlow, you're new, but even you should know that. Some of those people you sell insurance to, they work there. I heard there might even be a big government contract for it." She shook out another cigarette and lit it. "If it does.. I'm hoping I can get a job as a stenographer. A girl can't work at a diner all her life.."

Remy slumped back in his seat. Now went Marie-Ange, and she was the one working directly with the other, younger members. All that research, gone into the new life of a fucking counter jockey from the rough end of town who liked getting fondled out back on her breaks. He took a large swallow from his cup and lit a cigarette.

"My mistake. I was thinking 'bout 'nother factory. Back east." Remy picked up the laminated menu and sighed. "So, how's de cherry pie here?"

Under the table, there was the quiet drop of a shoe, and then a foot crept up the side of Remy's leg. "Fresh. We made it this morning." The words talked about dessert. The tone said something else entirely. "I could get you a plate, or you could get some to go? I could even heat it up for you, if you wanted..."

Remy rubbed his eyes tiredly. The CIA had it wrong. All you had to do to be a master of seduction was to take a team into a retro hellhole and be recast as an insurance seller three-time loser for all of them to want to jump you.

There was a part of him that just wanted to leave. Not just the booth with Marie-Ange's foot slowing working its way up his inner thigh, but the town itself. Get back to New York and forget that Adenville and even better, the entire 1950s had ever existed. That was the problem with a team. You couldn't just leave them behind.

Remy caught her foot just before the toes reached a more intimate purchase, and put it back down on the tile. "Maybe I'll skip dessert dis once."

Across the table, the red-head gave a sad little huffy pout and slumped in her seat. "Yeah, well, you could stand to, if you know what I mean." She put her foot back in her shoe, and pushed away from the table. Standing, she saw the expression on Remy's face, and stood still for long enough to blink at him, and then slowly sat back down. "I was just sitting here. Why was I getting up? You said something about the factory, yes? I was going to talk to delivery boys after my shift. Every single one of them seems to know me by name. And reputation. And where I live. I had thought, maybe to see who was a shut-in. Getting a lot of delivered groceries, or take-in meals sent to their house.

"Marie-Ange, don't wait for de end of you shift. Start now. Dis is happening faster den we hoped." Remy said, before getting up himself and leaving a couple of bills on the table. "Tell dem you sick or something. Remy going after Wanda. I'll try and meet up wit' you in an hour downtown. If we don't show up, get out of here. Someone going to have to get de rest of de details to Pete, wit' first hand knowledge, not just our e-mails, before dis thing grows too big to ever fix."

"If you do not show up, I am stealing your car." Marie-Ange said dryly. "I am not kidding. It is not as if Mary Ann Colby can afford a car, and I will need one. And I can trust you to leave it unlocked for me." She remained seated, perched on the edge of her seat until after Remy had gone, and then walked behind the country. "Hey, Wally?" She called to the line cook. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna take off for the afternoon. It's dead, I owe Becky a table and I've got the chills. Don't wanna get any customers sick either."