Coat Drama (Harlem's Deck 2)
Paul Smith
Harlem's Deck 2:Coat Drama.
By Paul Smith.
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Harlem's Deck 2:Coat Drama.
Paul Smith
Copyright 2014 Paul Smith
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to people, places or events is purely coincidental, and bears no malicious intent.
ISBN: 9781310232718
Please visit my website for more information, including news about current and up coming projects:
https://paulsmithauthor.wordpress.com
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'For your inner Goth.'
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Author's note:
If you have come across this interlude and would like to find the rest of the book, please visit my galleries on those sites:
gladefaun.deviantart.com
Thank you.
2:Coat Drama.
“What about this one?”
Samara looked up from her magazine. “Seriously, El? You're worse than a woman!”
He pulled a face, disappearing back into the changing room. Reappeared a few moments later in an old naval style jacket cut short at the hips. He'd pulled the collar up so it sat level with his cheek bones, had his hands stuffed into its pockets.
He raised an eyebrow, head thrust forward slightly like a petulant youth. It was an aspect he wore well, despite his rapidly approaching thirtieth.
“It's an improvement,” she conceded, laying the magazine to one side and uncrossing her legs. “But we can do better, I think. It's an odd length.”
He nodded, removing his hands to tug at the garment's hem. “I know what you mean. Always thought if I was going to have a coat like this I'd want it a bit longer.”
Sam nodded. “Yes. More drama.”
“Exactly.”
She stood. “Next?”
He sighed, shooting the pretty girl at the entrance to the fits a guilty look. “Sorry...”
She waved them off. “Just leave them in there. Isn't like I've got a whole lot else to do with the parade on.”
Sam smiled her thanks, shouldering into her own coat and putting an arm round Elliot's broad shoulders as she guided him out into the relative quiet of the hall beyond. She counted five, maybe six other people browsing as they crossed towards the stairs (Elliot had a thing about lifts). And they all looked like they were out browsing on their lunch.
“Have I mentioned you look like Red Riding Hood in that thing?” he asked as they ascended.
She glanced up at him, rolling her eyes. “Every time you're drunk.”
He pulled a face, miming suitably chastened. “What does Beth think?”
“Actually she rather likes it.”
El shook his head. “Yes I suppose she would.”
They reached the revolving doors that let out onto the street. Cagney's main entrance fronted onto Second Avenue, which would normally be heaving with shoppers at this time, but today the lure of the carnival provided the stronger pull. At one time the Midsummer's Day parade had come up here on its way to Central Park. But several of the businesses, including the owners of Cagney's, had protested over the mess and the need for extra security prompting the route to be moved. Now it passed the southern end of Second and turned up Third, crossing the entrance to the Laines. A glance down the street revealed a steady march of stragglers trailing the parade proper, which could be heard faintly in the distance.
Elliot lowered his sunglasses, turning to her. “Where to next?”
Sam grinned. “The ace up my sleeve.”
“Why young lady, I'm intrigued...” He offered her his arm, and she guided them down the department store's impressive glass front towards the cut through at its southern end. In the distance, a fresh bout of whistle blowing announced the start of the parade had reached the outskirts of the park.
Annalise quietly swallowed her ennui and stood to applaud the latest float. It wasn't that she found the spectacle inherently boring. Far from it: the Midsummer's Day parade was always a riot of colour, especially this year with the theme being 'Garden Paradise'. Each boat-like barge that floated past was festooned with blooms, the majority of which she knew had been grown by local school children as part of a campaign of awareness she and a couple of the other wives were spearheading.
Jaret did so like her to be seen to be involved.
To be honest she didn't mind either. It was an aspect of their relationship that she cherished: the chance to get stuck in, to make a difference. True, her own career in medical research offered plenty of that, but still it was nice to get out there, to see people. And the kids! With their little smiling faces...
“Darling?”
“Sorry love.” Sniffing, she reassembled her smile, banishing such sentimentality for later as she focused on the latest float sailing past the podium. This one put together by the steelworkers, with help from St Helen's, their nearby school. A wolf whistle broke the air, but she kept her calm, something she'd never have managed five or six years ago. Even raised an arm in salute, to a fresh round of whooping from the guys on the float. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jaret's face stiffen slightly, knew there'd be some small accounting later. He was a good man, but he was a man.
He would never let it show however, not in public.
That was her husband. Ever the consummate politician. It was a gift that had allowed him to walk away so successfully with the last election, and put him in such a strong position for a second term. All they needed to do was make it through to the end of the summer, when parliament reconvened. A final spate of intensive campaigning, an appearance on Deacon Tonight and the race would be all but won. The clock would be reset for another four years, and all those plans he had carefully put into play could be realised, without having to surrender them to that idiot Jones, or worse the liberals...
And then? Well, people were already whispering the word.
President.
The very thought made her knees go a little weak, even now. Hurriedly, she schooled her thoughts, glancing guiltily at her husband. But he was looking elsewhere, his expression still carrying that fixed glaze that only those who knew him well enough would recognise as displeasure.
Lise sighed inwardly. Nobody ever warned you marriage could be such a trial.
Elliot stood in the middle of the shop (Boutique would be a better word, but she was always leery of offending his masculinity. He had the oddest blind spots in that area), twirling this way and that so that the coat's tails danced about his calves.
“Really...?!?” she asked finally, unable to contain herself any longer as he spun once more in front of the mirror. She had to admit though, he did look good. She was reasonably confident his brother would approve. It was incredibly important, after all, that a family's Nu Shakya give the right impression. Present the right image, if you will. Given their current political position the Roscan's definitely needed that to be 'bad ass', with a healthy dose of 'no nonsense' for all those goodie two-shoes voters out there who needed reassuring their candidate was suitably protected from corruption by the otherside.
Elliot turned to face her, hands outstretched so she could see the fading Horus eye he'd had tattooed on his left palm. The coat followed at a suitable delay, folds of black cloth settling about him with casual grace. The rich red lining caught the light at the cuffs and hood, dark as split wine. “What?”
She shook her head. “You and that coat clearly need to get a room.”
“Hey, it was your idea to come here.”
“I know.” She cast an apologetic glance at the sales assistant, who was stood at a discreet distance, trying desperately not to smirk. Sam offered him a lopsided smile and a wink, careful to keep her face averted fr
om the man in front of the mirror. “We'll take it, I think?”
“Oh most definitely. Can I wear it out?”
“Absolutely not, your brother would kill me.”
He cast his eyes heavenward, but relinquished the garment, albeit with the poor grace of a child denied ice cream. Sam followed the bemused queen to the till, producing the gold card Jaret had leant her for the occasion from her purse and authorising payment, trying not to think about the amount of money that had just changed hands.
Typical of Jaret, to ask her indulgence in this without considering the potential for personal insult. It would require a good month's wages for her to even think about stepping into a place like this, and that was if she had the luxury of suspending all her other out goings. Including food.
Sighing, and smiling for the young man behind the counter, she collected the suit carrier and its carefully stowed contents and turned round. The reason for the sales assistants continuing amusement became clear as she clocked Elliot trying on feather boas at the far side of the store.
Glancing back, they shared a look before she crossed to frog march her friend out into the early afternoon sun.
“Seriously man, do you not pay any attention to your brother's the image counsellor?”
“What? I thought the purple one was rather fetching...”
Sam sighed. “It's lucky you're so good at what you do, that's all I can say.”
“Quality and style. I am the complete package.”
“Hmm. I don't know, I'm still sure there's a few sandwiches missing from that lunch box.”
An eyebrow arched questioningly over the rim of his aviators. “When did you ever see my lunch box?”
“Christmas party, senior year. You were...”
“...pole dancing. I remember now.” He smiled fondly, producing an unexpected burst of nostalgia in her gut. “Samara?”
“Yes love?”
“Next time, take us straight to the ace.”
Her own smile broadened. “Will do.”
He cocked his head at the sound of trumpets. “Come on; if we drop this back at your flat we should have time for a few drinks in the park before I have to go play lapdog.”
“Okay, but after that little escapade, you're buying.”
“Sure thing, doll face.”
“Don't call me that.”
Elliot stood admiring himself in front of the full length mirror in the hall. It was one of several he owned. The others were located in the bathroom and his bedroom, fitted to one of the doors on his built-in wardrobe. Though in order to use that one he'd need to be able to close the bloody thing.
Not an option at this point, he mused glancing through the gap in the doorway at the small mountain of clothes currently littering the room. The overall effect was of the armoire having vomited across the floor, with stray shirts and the odd belt having made it as far as the bed itself. Boots created a small shoal near the dressing table. It had been a gift from Beth, who always took the Mick out of him for wearing more make up than she did, and featured a light bulb surround for its (smaller) mirror.
The only things not in disarray were his underwear draw (tonight was a lucky pants night, clearly) and his sword collection, all arranged neatly in a matching pair of hat stands that also housed his vintage umbrella and the trilby Annalise had given him for his twenty-eighth birthday.
Tonight, obviously, he was wearing his katana. Many of the other blades were as fine, one or two were even worth more as collectors pieces. But none of the others possessed a soul.
Smiling, he fingered the pommel where it jutted up above his left shoulder blade, shaking his head as always at the vaguely dirty feeling it gave him. The weapon was a family heirloom, belonging to the Roscan dynasty for five generations now, its acquisition dating back almost as far as their arrival in Neppon. The weapon itself was far older, of course, its forging taking place deep in the historic past of feudal Japan. Lovingly restored, it was as beautiful now as the day it had been birthed in fire and steam.
Lowering his hand, he shuffled his shoulders to settle the new coat in place beneath the shoulder scabbard. He'd paired it with black trousers and a dark, charcoal coloured vest that Lise always said set off his kohl rimmed eyes.
A pair of cheap baby blue flesh plugs were his one concession to colour. Guaranteed to irritate Jaret's PA.
(PA baiting being a recognised sport, after all.)
“Time to get this show on the road...”
Turning, he strutted from the apartment, boot heels clicking on the hall floor beyond.
