Disclaimers in part 01
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"She lied with fluency, ease, and artistic fervor."
~~Agatha Christie -- They Came to Baghdad~~
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LANGLY:
Damn, I got off easy on that one. Figured after all the shit PhysicsJerk poured down on us, I was gonna be swimming in it. Sometimes even Frohike and Byers are human beings, though. It's rare but it happens.
Deb's on the sofa when I get there, she's all bundled up with her blanket and her stuffed animals.
"Hey babe." I want to just grab her in my arms, but I do that, I could do some damage to her, not to mention piss her off, and that would just not be good. That, and I hope she doesn't notice I'm stoned. Deb's a doc. She's not big on recreationals. Really weird, me with a girl who's like totally straight that way, but I like it. After taking a bullet last week, I'm surprised she's still talking to me, let alone happy to see me.
"Thank God they're gone," Deb murmurs into my shoulder when I kneel down next to her. "I love them, but they make me crazy."
No comment. It's okay for her to diss them. It is not okay for me to do the same.
"You got Rae coming in a few hours." Her big sister's coming up from North Carolina to look after her.
"Don't worry about Rae. She's totally mellow."
"You mean there's a remote possibility she won't think I'm a jackass?"
"She'll definitely think you're a jackass, babe. Which you are. But she'll like you anyway."
Damned with faint praise again. Which is a lot more than I probably deserve from her after this shit.
"Wow, she loves me," I joke, rolling my eyes. Hey, it's just the way me and Deb are. "Want anything?"
"I'd love some root beer."
"I'll get you some." I stand up to head for the kitchen. Knees are a bit rubbery here. That was good shit Sean brought over. Never mind what a pain in the ass he is.
"I'm out," Deb calls after me.
"Well, I can get some." I mean, there's a Circle K around the block from her place. No problem. I hope I've got cash. Or at least my ATM card. And maybe there's even money in my account. "You need anything else?"
"Tampons."
"Come again?"
"Tampons."
"I can't buy those!"
"Why not? I have some money in my wallet if you need it."
"Well, uh, no, it's not that--"
"Ringo, they're just tampons, and I really, really need them."
"Can't you like wait for Rae to get here?"
"No, because I'm out of them!"
I'm going to die. I just know it. If the shit from this afternoon doesn't get me, embarrassment will.
***
I decide on the Eckard's instead. They have root beer. And tampons. Maybe enough guys buy tampons in here so that nobody'll notice.
Shit! What kind am I supposed to get? Frohike says women are a mystery. In more ways than one. For once we both agree.
Regular...Super...Super Plus...I'm trying to think what I've seen in her bathroom and what she brings over with her...Oh man...
"Langly, aren't you in the wrong department?"
What the fuck?!
I swing around to see who found me here, and it's not as bad as I thought. It's worse.
Kate Sandridge.
She starts laughing at me. I know I'm red, and it's not just from blushing. This woman is a total bitch! If Frohike hadn't been so stupid as to have a one night stand with her, we'd probably never have this shit from her. Remind me to kick his ass when I see it next.
"Oh, let me guess. You're getting them for your girlfriend. My, she has you trained, doesn't she?"
I wish it were legal to clobber people at moments like this. However, assault is a felony, and I've already been there, done that and gotten the T-shirt. Okay, so it was only house arrest, but for a year, I had to have all the gaming done at my house, so I had to feed everyone for a year. Which really sucked.
"Shut up." I used to pride myself on coming up with fast ones. Seems as if I've lost my touch. Or maybe I've just lost it. Sandridge could make someone lose everything, lunch included.
"Or is it because she's incapacitated at the moment? I heard that something had happened to her--"
"Mind your own fucking business."
She tries to play coy, which, by the way, she sucks at. Sharks should never try to do coy. Doesn't work.
"Now is that any way to talk to a lady?" She puts her hand on my arm, which is about as appealing as being chowed on by a viper. I pull away.
"How the fuck would you know, since you've never been one?"
Really, she should get the fuck out now, because she's pissing me off and the nice high that kept me mellow a little while ago has totally worn off. Not only does she come and embarrass the hell out of me, she kills my buzz.
She clucks her tongue at me like an old schooteacher. "Langly, where are your manners?"
"Hey, at least I got 'em so I can leave 'em at home when I'm around you!"
She does this big tragic sigh. "You know, we really could help each other out."
"Negatory." When Kate Sandridge talks about helping someone out, she's only got one person in mind and that's her.
"So how is Dr. SaintJohn?"
This would be unbelievable coming from anyone else, but from this bitch, it's standard issue.
In desperation, I grab a box of tampons, I'm not even sure what kind, I just hope Deb can use 'em 'cause no way in hell am I going out to do this again. You think she'd take a hint, but she follows me to the cash stand.
"Isn't it kind of slumming for you down here?" I glare at her.
"How do you know I don't live here?"
I know exactly where she lives, and this ain't her neighborhood. Fucking bitch is spying on us, I swear to God.
And then she has the balls to cut in front of me in line. I didn't notice her pick anything up, but sure as hell, she's got a tube of AstroGlide. I'll have to share that one with Frohike when I kick his ass for having such crummy taste in women. This is the guy who said there're no ugly women after 2 a.m. He must've really been beyond blind drunk the night he did it with her, or he'd have noticed.
Then she's waiting for me after I get my purchase rung up. Lucky for me the counter clerk doesn't say anything. I don't think the counter clerk is conscious, actually, which suits me fine.
"Listen, Langly, I happen to know that you and the guys have something. I could help you with it."
"Nobody's got the clap." Which is about the only thing she could give us, assuming we'd let her get close enough.
She keeps blocking me. I wish she were a guy in the Limerick Tavern. I'd just slug her.
"Someone shot at your girlfriend, Langly."
"Yeah? They get a lot of crazies at GWU."
"I heard it wasn't random."
"You heard wrong."
"Then what were your friends doing talking to Sean O'Casey last night?"
"How the fuck should I know? I was sleeping."
"Really? Then why was he coming out of your place just a short time ago?"
Oh, she is so dead. Spying on us. That's low. That's beyond low, actually. Then again, she's a total bottom feeder.
"Y'know, maybe we oughta get a restraining order against you."
"I don't think you'd have much success. It's not as if you're well regarded by some aspects of the law enforcement community."
That much is true. I don't think the cops we drink with at the Limerick would be able to help us much, either. Good guys, and they've helped us out before, but they're kind of stuck with what they can do, y'know?
I climb into Deb's car. "I'm outta here, bitch. And don't be showing your ugly face around us again. Got it?"
"So you do have something."
"All we got right now is trouble. Mostly from you."
And with that, I slam the door and gun the engine. Well, as much as you can gun a 4-cylinder Escort, anyway.
***
Deb and I watch Battlebots, and then she crashes out again.
My cue to call Frohike. I take her cordless, which I've scrambled, out to her lanai and dial the HQ.
"Lone Gunmen Newspaper Group, Byers speaking."
"Put Frohike on."
"Langly, is something wrong?"
"Just put the old bastard on, got it?"
A couple minutes later Frohike gets on. Figures he'd keep me waiting.
"There a problem?" Frohike asks me, all innocent like.
"You bet your sorry ass there's a problem. I was over at the Eckard's getting Deb some stuff and guess who shows up?"
"Don't tell me Scotty's jacking pharmacies again." Scotty, our favorite druggie, has been known to pick pharmacies as his targets when he can't con the rest of us anymore.
"No, maybe if you'd think with something other than your dick, Kate Sandridge would leave us the fuck alone!"
"Don't talk to me about thinking with my dick, boy, because that's all you've done lately."
"She saw you with O'Casey last night."
"There were a lot of people at that party. For all she knows, we could've been having a threesome with him." He makes this gagging noise. For once we agree. Not an image anyone needs.
"Yeah, well, she also saw him leave the house."
"What the fuck?"
"She's spying on us."
"I talked to her last night and blew her off."
"Apparently you didn't blow her the right way, 'cause she's out slumming. And you better do something about it!"
He does the tragic sigh he's so famous for. "I make a lousy choice in a one night stand and I'm reminded for it the rest of my life."
"And you deserve it!"
Line goes silent.
"Frohike? You better not have hung up on me!"
"Against my better judgment, I'm still here. I think what we have to do is find out where she's getting her intel."
"I don't think she's got any. I think she's trying to worm it out of us."
"Sandridge may be unethical as hell, but she'll have intel. We need to find out from whom and where she's getting it. And use it."
"Well, I'm kind of like with Deb right now, you deal with it."
"Fine!"
Now that time, he hung up. No question about it.
FROHIKE:
One night stands are supposed to be just that -- one night stands. Cheap, easy, no strings attached.
I've had exactly two in my life. One was in Bangkok with a hooker. A simple business transaction, right?
Yeah, sure. I got interest on that account, in the form of the clap. You'd think I'd have learned from my mistakes. But I always was a slow learner.
After Nikita, I was lonely, and I was drunk, and I was at a party with a bunch of other drunken journalists. ("Drunken journalists," in case you are not aware, is a redundancy.) Kate Sandridge was one of the few who even had proper gender on her side, let alone looks. So of course I had to talk to her. She was certainly flattering. I was amazed that she would even talk to a little troll like me, let alone suggest we get a room.
I later found out why. Hurt worse than the clap ever did and lasted a hell of a lot longer. Some things don't clear up with a seven day course of antibiotics. Kate's not like an infection. She's more like a kudzu plant; never gets cleared out and strangles everything in her path.
It'd be nice if Mel was here, but right now, I'm glad she's not. Saves me from having to explain an indiscreet liaison, although labeling it as such is dignifying it far more than it ever deserves.
"Frohike?" Byers calls out to me.
"What is it, Byers?" Really, I'm not in the mood.
"We've got a lot of work to get done!"
"So get to it, boy!"
"I could use some help here!"
"That's what I'm about to do!"
"Well, then, why are you getting ready to leave?"
"Because I have to find out something!"
"I thought O'Casey gave us what we needed."
"Not everything."
Not by a long shot.
***
I'm off to where I do my best thinking, as well as my best drinking. The two go hand in hand. I've got one hangover in progress; shouldn't hurt to add another one. I head for the Limerick Tavern.
"Frohike, you're looking in fine form," Bernie says to me with an evil smile as I plop myself at the bar. "Some hair o' the dog that bit ya?"
"Just bring the whole damn coat, fleas and all." Hell if I care. It's been a long day and it's not even close to sundown. It is, however, past noon. I certainly don't need to feel guilty, even if I were capable.
"Better take the corner booth. Can't have you scaring off the regulars," Bernie says, bringing a bottle of J&B around the bar.
"Bernie, your regulars make the Ten Most Wanted look like choirboys." I drag my sorry ass over to the corner booth. Okay, so it's more comfortable than the barstool. "You seen Skinner around?"
"Not today."
"Dammit."
"Anything I can help you with?"
"Bernie, there's nothing in it for you, so don't worry about it." He's a good bartender and can keep his mouth shut, but he's also not likely to do something for you unless he can benefit.
"And how would you be knowing that?" The wicked smile again. For a guy who's drinking himself to death, Bernie's pretty sharp.
The place is nearly empty right now. It'll be another hour before the regulars begin to trickle in, and at least another three before the view is obliterated by cigarette smoke. This means I can't kick Bernie out from my table, especially since I owe him on my tab.
So we sit and drink together in silence. Guys can do that. Women seem baffled by the fact that two guys can sit there all night and not say anything other than 'pass the peanuts.'
A couple of the local beat cops come in and that forces Bernie to get up. Support your local police. I know these guys, actually, and they're all right. They don't bash on the hookers in the area and they've normally got enough violent crap on their shifts that we fall under their radar.
I dig my cell phone from my pocket.
Dammit. Batteries are almost gone. I pull up the phone list and head for the pay phone in the back, which hasn't been replaced since 1970 and probably hasn't been cleaned since then, either. The '5' key sticks.
Well, the bastard's not at work, and he's not picking up his cell. If he's having hot sex I'll have to hurt him the next time I see him.
I could try Mulder, but the problem is that he'd show up. I really don't think I can cope with Mulder and a headache at the same time. It'd be nice if he could answer our questions and get a life as well, but I've nearly given up hope for that moron. And there's no way I'm going to bother the lovely Agent Scully with this. For one thing, she'd tell Mulder, and he'd find me, and then I'd still have to put up with him.
Wonder if Sandridge showed up here recently. I doubt it. This isn't her usual watering hole. She prefers bars with ferns and clean restrooms and bartenders that know how to make a cosmopolitan. The Limerick most assuredly does not feature ferns, the plumbing -- assuming it works, which is rare -- hasn't seen anything remotely resembling disinfectant in decades, and if mixed drinks are your bag, you don't come here. Order a cosmopolitan or any other girlie drink and you'd be laughed down the block.
Plus, if she has been here, the last thing I want to do is let the word out that I'm asking after her. She might get the wrong idea. Like I'd be willing to exchange information for sex, for example. If she'd stick to vibrators, she'd be doing every male in the city a service. I've been tempted on more than one occasion to send her one, and have gone so far as to look at them on line. And let's not even consider that she isn't worth the $12.95.
Fuck. What am I doing here? I was hoping to catch up with Skinner. He slums on weekends frequently, except when there's a woman involved. Then it's the beach house, bubble bath and champagne. Traitor. In the meantime, I should head out. Mulder's been known to show up here in search of anyone that will listen to him, and there have been too many times when I've been an unwitting audience --
"Frohike, you gonna share or do I have to buy my own?"
Too late. I knew I should have left while I had the chance.
"Cheapskate," I mutter at him. "What brings you here? Nothing good at the Love Machine?" That's our local XXX rated theater. It's too filthy for even my standards, but Mulder loves it.
"Already seen 'A Decade of Dirty Delinquents.' Twice."
I'm tempted to ask why he doesn't do something worthwhile, like invite Scully out for dinner, but I suspect she sees enough of him as is. And while it's a sore subject, it won't do the job of getting rid of him. No, as if having Kate Sandridge on our ass and the world's worst hangover to boot wasn't enough, now I'm cursed with his presence.
"So see it again. Or check out the Candy Apple. They have naked female mud wrestling on Saturday nights."
"Seen it. With you, I might add."
"Well, since I know you don't have any friends, I won't suggest getting together with them."
"Oh, that was cold, Frohike."
Bernie comes over. "You gonna order something, Mulder?"
"Yeah. Gimme a double shot of Jose. Put it on Frohike's tab."
"Asshole."
"You're flattering me, Frohike."
"Mulder, really, you should get out of here." I really don't want him getting into the meat of what's troubling us. It'd create a mother lode of problems for him with Skinner. Which is why I wanted to call Skinner first. Not to mention that Skinner's a much better drinking partner. He knows how to shut up.
To my amazement, after Bernie brings his drink, he manages to keep quiet for a while.
"What's going on, Frohike?" He finally asks.
I stare at him.
"About?"
"What we talked about earlier this week."
"Oh, that. No... "
"Where is my goddamn data file?" We're interrupted by hissing and spitting, a familiar voice behind the bluster. Christ. Can this night get any worse?
Mulder leans back. "Do we know you?"
"Oh, you most certainly do, my friend."
Mulder appears genuinely puzzled. "Frohike?"
"I'd like to deny ever having been in his presence. Mulder, meet Morris Fletcher."
I'm waiting for Mulder to pull his Sig Sauer, or at least jump up and strangle the bastard, but instead, he smiles congenially. "So we meet again."
This knocks Fletcher more off balance than ever. "What do you mean, again?" He blusters. "We never met."
Mulder smiles more broadly. "Oh. Perhaps I mistook you for someone else. C'mon, sit down and have a drink. Frohike here's buying."
Of course I am, you cheap bastard. You're always willing to spend other people's money.
"Uh -- I should really get going... "
Mulder pulls him by the sleeve and forces him into our booth. "No, no, have a drink with us." He signals to Bernie. "The best in the house for this man, Bernie."
Well, he's getting Bud on tap.
"I really don't have time... "
"What? You come into a bar and have no time for a drink? What's wrong with you, Morris?"
"Listen, not that it's any of your business, but I have a date with the hottest brunette in DC tonight... "
"Well, certainly she'll wait a few extra minutes for a man of your caliber."
Mulder, what are you thinking? This is the last person I want around me at this time!
"I don't think so--"
"Then call her. Here, use my cell." Mulder proffers the phone from his pocket.
"Amazing. You haven't lost this one yet."
"Hey, just got it last week," Mulder grins like a kid at Christmas time.
"You've kept it a whole week? New land speed record for you."
"Frohike, you have no manners," Mulder chides me. I almost spit my Scotch across the table. This is really the pot calling the kettle black.
"Look, I really have to go!" Fletcher is really beginning to sweat. I smile a bit. I'm seeing where Mulder is going with this. "I have business with Sneezy here, and I'd like to get it done!"
"Oh, what sort of business would that be?" Mulder inquires, all wide eyed innocence.
"That's between him and me," Fletcher hisses.
"Oh, but Frohike and me, we have no secrets," Mulder is just having a blast, toying with him. "Do we, Frohike?" He kicks me under the table.
"Oh. Right." Fuckhead had the nerve to call me Sneezy. He's going to pay for that one. We'll see if he gets his files now.
"So if you want to do business with Frohike, you can do it right here with me."
Fletcher turns to me and in a harsh whisper, spits at me, "Gimme my files and give them to me now."
"Oh, these wouldn't happen to be those Area 51 files?" Mulder smiles like he just made a free throw.
Fletcher doesn't answer.
"You knew the deal. You give us Monroe. We give you the files." I'm playing this one.
Fletcher looks desperate. "I'm telling you, I have no idea what Monroe is up to."
Mulder smiles at him. "Oh, but I think you do."
"I don't! I'm telling you, I don't--"
A cell phone rings. It's Fletcher's.
"What?" He hisses into it. "I'm sorry, I've been held up, I'll be there as soon as I can." He flips the phone into his pocket. "Listen, that was my date and she is pissed. Now if you gentlemen will just hand over the files--"
"When you hand over Monroe, you get your toys back," I say levelly.
Fletcher gets up angrily. "You're going to be sorry you did this."
"Not half as sorry as you're going to be for calling me Sneezy."
"So who do you think he's seeing tonight?" Mulder asks, downing another shot of Jose. "Enquiring minds want to know."
"Generally he picks ones whose IQ's are smaller than their shoe size."
We drink in silence for a while longer.
"If he ever calls me Sneezy again, feel free to shoot him."
"Why? You do kind of look like Sneezy."
I hate this punkass. I really, really hate him.
End part 17