RP ~ A Call To The States ~ (for anson_greene)

[on_holy_ground]

Things had been going well with Ynez' visit to Rome for the most part, and Darius was pleased that she seemed to be mending. His confusion regarding who exactly he was supposed to be was still muddling his thoughts, but he hoped that being able to retrace some of the paths he had walked so many centuries before would help him to get a firmer grasp on things. With that thought in mind, Darius made a mental note to contact Methos soon, and thank him for the use of the villa.

For the moment though, his concern was in obtaining some things from the new world, and in contacting someone there who could have those things shipped. After a moment's though, he smiled to himself and pulled recalled the young man he had met several months before at that club in New York. Pulling out his wallet, he looked through it until he found the scrap of paper the number was written on. Not bothering to check and see what the time difference was, he then dialed the number and waited for someone to pick up.

Comments

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

It's just after dawn in New York City. Anson's cellphone rings insistently from the bedside table, nearly lost amongst the detritus of a late night. Anson stirs in his sleep, mumbling, nothing of him showing except a shock of dark hair peeking above the bedclothes. After a few moment, he finally snakes out an arm and feels around for the phone, knocking an empty bottle and a pack of cigarettes to the floor in the process. At last, his hand settles on it, and he drags it back under the covers. He doesn't bother to look at the display to see who's calling. He's lucky enough just to get it open and put the right end of it against his ear.

"This better be good," he mumbles.

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius could hear the sound of disturbed sleep in the man's voice, and therefore was more amused at the response than annoyed. Of course, he had been in a relatively good mood since Ynez's arrival in Rome, so that could have been part of it.

"I certainly hope that you will find it to be so, but if not than I can find someone else to take care of things for me."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

It's been months since Anson heard that voice, but he recognizes it immediately. His eyes snap open and he's instantly alert, fumbling the covers from over his head and leaning up on his elbows.

"Darius?" He scrubs a hand over his face. "Sorry," he says sheepishly. "I didn't mean to...uh...I didn't know it was you."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Noticing the change in his tone, Darius was appreciative of the fact that Anson had 'snapped to attention' so quickly. "There is now way that you could have known, so there is no need to apologize."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

"Yes, sir." Anson throws the covers back with his free hand and slowly sits up on the edge of the bed. He glances blearily at the clock and wonders what time it is where Darius is. "What's going on? You need me to do something?"

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius glances at his watch. and notes that it would be time for the midday meal in another hour or so. He makes a mental note to make a quick trip to the market to pick up a few things before then. He then concentrates on the conversation at hand. "I am in need of having some items shipped to me here in Rome."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, sure, I can do that." Anson breathes a silent sigh of relief. He had no idea what Darius would ask of him, but this sounds like a reasonably simple task for starters. He leans down and pulls open the nighttable drawer, rummaging around for paper and a pen. He sits back up, pen poised and ready. "What do you want me to send?"

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius could practically hear the sigh through the telephone all the way in Italy. "I require you to go to a residence in the city, and pack up couple of drums to send to me. Make sure that they are well packaged, so that no harm can come to them."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Anson's pen hovers over the paper. "Drums?" he repeats, puzzled. "You mean 'drums' as in, the musical instrument?"

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

"Yes and no. The item that I wish for you to ship are indeed instruments, but they are more like spiritual drums. One is held in the lap while it is played, and so is not nearly so cumbersome as something you might find in a rock and roll band."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

"Spiritual drums?" Anson echoes, his curiosity aroused. He dutifully writes it down. "Got it," he says, pausing his pen again. "So where am I going?" He waits for Darius to give him the address, idly thinking about the drums. What initially sounded like a mundane task is shaping up to be pretty interesting, after all. He wonders what the drums look like, what they sound like. He frowns, tapping his chin with the end of the pencil. Maybe they're like, ancient artifacts or something. He wouldn't be surprised. After all, Darius pretty much fits that description himself. Anson snickers and covers it up with a cough, deciding to keep that little observation to himself.

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius gives him the address of Ynez's apartment and tells him where to find a key to get in, all business at the moment. "Be extremely careful with them. They are very important to the lady who I am getting them for, and she would be most displeased if anything happened. Having her displeased would displease me as well."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Darius's severe tone makes Anson clear his throat and sit up straight. "Yes, sir," he says quickly. "You don't have to worry. I'll be careful, I promise."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

He allows a note of warmth to creep into his voice now that the business at hand is taken care of to his satisfaction. "I expect nothing less."

There is a slight pause before Darius speaks again. "Have you seen anything of interest to me?"

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Anson's been expecting this question. "It's been pretty warm here until recently, so I haven't seen much," he admits. "But this is New York, so there have been a few, mostly fashion victims and a couple of guys who just weren't altogether there." He pauses, biting his lip. "But there was one. He didn't seem like either of those things. I saw him near Central Park, just standing off to the side, watching the people. He had a long coat like you said, even though it was over ninety degrees that afternoon, and he wasn't sweating or anything. Not a hair out of place." Anson pauses again, frowning at the memory. "His eyes were...cold, I guess you'd say. Like he wasn't looking at people so much as looking through them. Then he turned and walked away. I followed him for about five blocks, but then I lost him." He swallows hard and closes his eyes, worried Darius will be angry at his failure. "I'm sorry, sir."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius was quiet for several moments as he digested the information. a He couldn't say whether he knew the man that Anson had seen without having seen him as well, but from the description, he was most likely at least a couple of centuries old. Most immortals didn't get that comfortable with the usual manner of hiding swords until a bit of time had passed. They also usually didn't look that, cold, unless of course they were complete bastards.

"No matter. Just be sure to keep an eye out in case you should see him again."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Anson releases the breath he's been holding, relieved that Darius isn't angry. "I will, sir. Anything else you want me to do, besides the drums, I mean?"

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Quite for a moment, Darius debates asking him this next question, but in the end decides it can't hurt anything.

"Are you at all familiar with the way women work?"

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Anson blinks. "With...with the way they work, sir?" He swallows nervously, wondering if this is some kind of test. Why else would Darius ask him a question like that? He wonders for a moment if Darius is shacked up in Rome with this Ynez lady. Maybe they had a fight? Anson's imagination threatens to run away with him until he realizes with a start that Darius is still waiting silently on the line, expecting an answer.

"I was married once, sir, a long time ago. But...uh...I don't think I'd say I really understand women." Well, that's the understatement of a lifetime. "But maybe I can help you anyway, sir," he says hopefully. "If you tell me what's going on, I can try."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius snorted laughter through the connection. "I have been around long enough to know that women are impossible for any man to truly understand, no matter how long they may attempt to do so. No, it is not understanding I need so much as knowing what kinds of things they like. I have been a priest for so long that I am afraid I have lost the ability to really know such things."

He wasn't even sure why he was asking. It wasn't so much that he was wanting to woo Ynez, as it was that he wanted her to feel special.

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Another sigh of relief can be faintly heard from Anson's end of the line. Now that he knows Darius isn't expecting him to solve one of life's greatest mysteries, Anson feels a little more prepared to help. "Well, sir," he says slowly, "I don't know for sure, but I think women like things best when they know you really thought about them." He pauses for a moment, thinking. "There was this one time, I made a special night for Roxy. It was our anniversary. I got all her favorite things...her favorite candles, and her favorite music, and chicken piccata from her favorite restaurant. Man, she really loved that stuff. I got her favorite wine, too, and her favorite flowers." There's a moment's guilty thought about where he got the money to pay for all of those things, but Anson quickly shoves it away. It was wrong, he knows that now, but back then...back then, he just wanted Roxy to smile at him again, like she used to when they first met. "She, uh, she really liked it," Anson continues, smiling at the memory. She'd cried, and kissed him, and she even let Anson hold her all night, after. It was one of the few things he did right during his marriage, and he never forgot it. "So, um, anyway, sir," Anson says, shaking himself out of the past, "I think maybe if you collect some of her most favorite things, or take her to one of her favorite places, I bet she'd like that."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius considered Anson's words for a moment, before realizing that he had actually already done some of those things without even realizing. He had brought her to Rome to recover from her accident, and even went so far as to take her to the Vatican simply because it was what she wished to do. He could have done without that himself. He was having her drums sent over for her to have close. Perhaps he knew more than he thought he did.

"It would seem I am alread on my way then. My thanks for your help on the matter."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

"Yeah?" Anson grins. "Well, all right. Pretty smooth there, sir." He pauses, forcing himself to be serious again for a moment, in case Darius has further orders. "Is there anything else you want me to do?"

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

There is another moment of silence as Darius considers whether he wants to ask this question or not, but in the end he decides he might as well. "Do you know where St. Julien's church is located?"

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

"Yes, sir," Anson replies, intrigued. He wonders why Darius wants to know. "I've never been inside but I've passed by it many times."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius was glad he wouldn't have to try and give Anson instruction. "Excellent. I want you to watch the church. Then tell me what you see. People coming and going that seem a bit odd. Anyone that seems to be watching it as well. And even the building itself."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

"Yes, sir." Anson writes the name of the church down and circles it. "Sir?" he says tentatively. He hesitates, then plunges onward, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Who are the people in the long coats? Who is it I'm supposed to be looking out for?"

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

"Possibly nobody. Possibly people like me. I simply like to know the people who are moving around in a city that I sometimes call home."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Anson's eyes widen. He'd had a feeling about the man in the long coat, and now Darius has confirmed it. He wonders how many others there are like Darius in New York, and what they're doing there. "Are you coming back to the States soon?" he asks. It's none of his business, he supposes, but he's still curious to know when he'll see Darius again.

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

"I'm not sure when I will be returning, as I am currently helping a friend recover from an accident. I do however hope to be back before the celebrations for Samhain begin."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

So, then, Darius should be back within the next month or so. "I look forward to it, sir," Anson says. "I'll go over and get the drums and ship them first thing this morning."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

"My thanks. Oh, and one more thing. I'm afraid I can't get you a key to the residence, so you'll have to be inventive. That won't be a problem, will it?"

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Anson grins. "No, sir. No problem at all."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

"Excellent."

There was a slight pause before he spoke again. "A word of caution. Get in and out as quickly as possible, and do not touch anything that you do not absolutely have to touch. This is not a trust issue, but one of safety. Understood?"

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Anson's eyes widen at the cryptic warning. He wonders what's in the apartment that could be a danger, but Darius does not seem inclined to elaborate, and Anson doesn't quite have the nerve to ask. In fact, he's not sure he wants to know. He swallows hard, resolving to do exactly as Darius says, not that he wouldn't have anyway. He's not going to this lady's apartment to paw through her things, he just wants to get the drums and get them safely off to Rome.

"Yes, sir. I understand."

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

"Very good. I will call you in a few days to see how things went."

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

"Yes, sir. Goodbye."

Anson puts the phone down and digs in the bottom of the nightstand for the telephone directory. It takes a few moments, but at last he finds what he's looking for: 'Sorrento Shipping - Rare, Valuable, Oversized - Custom Packaging - International Air Service'. He hesitates for a moment, having never used the service before, but he has to trust someone with the drums. His eyes linger on the small line of type at the bottom of the ad: 'Serving Lower Manhattan since 1940.' Well, they must be good if they've been around that long. Anson glances at the clock and frowns. It's early still, before sunrise even, but this is the city that never sleeps. It's worth a shot. He dials the number listed, but gets a recording which informs him that the shipping office doesn't open until eight a.m. Anson sighs and puts the phone down. Of course, he could go over to Darius's lady friend's apartment and get the drums, but he doesn't want to have them in his possession any longer than he has to. He's too afraid of something happening to them.

Finally, he decides to set the alarm and nap for another couple of hours, then get up and shower and head out. He sets the clock and turns off the lamp. He manages to doze off, but his sleep is light and restless.

[on-holy-ground.livejournal.com]

Darius hangs up as well, knowing that Anson can reach him on his mobile phone if he has any problems or questions. He just hopes that the young man listened to his warning, for his own sake.

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

It's nearly ten o'clock in the morning when Anson strolls down the sidewalk toward the building. It's about what he expected, given the Upper West Side address; a towering old brick and marble pile replete with gargoyles and a view of the park. Not quite Park Avenue, but given the price of Manhattan real estate, ritzy enough to put it in the if-you-have-to-ask range. He's timed his arrival to coincide with the relative quiet of after rush hour, those tenants unfortunate enough to have to work for a living being long gone by now. There's still plenty of foot traffic - this is New York City, after all - but the fewer obstacles Anson has to deal with, the better.

As he nears the building's entrance, he sees the doorman open up the big brass doors to admit an older woman. He takes the woman's suitcase and follows her inside. Anson pauses, watching through the glass as he escorts her across the vast lobby to the bank of elevators that line the far wall. The doorman's back is turned, leaving the lobby unprotected, but Anson doesn't go inside. Doorman or no doorman, you don't walk in through the front door, not unless you're a wet-behind-the-ears wannabe thief. Or a fucking idiot, Anson thinks to himself. He continues down the sidewalk, then turns the corner, making his way toward the back of the building. He passes by the delivery entrance with its big steel door. He doesn't even pause, except to note the camera pointing directly down at it. He walks briskly, with a purpose, as though he has every reason in the world to be there. Reaching the back of the building, he frowns. Where is it?

Every building has one, especially buildings like this. The weak spot. They're heavy on the window dressing, with their lights and cameras and doormen in their spotless uniforms. But there's always something, hidden away where the paying tenants can't see. The forgotten junk room door, half-hidden by ivy, its rusty lock all but crumbling to dust. The broken basement window no one thought to repair, just large enough to squeeze through. Anson walks along, ducking behind a row of shrubs. There's a narrow brick staircase leading down below street level and he starts down it, the air growing cool and damp around him. It's musty down there, water puddled beneath his boots, spiderwebs hanging overhead. He walks along the length of cracked cement, looking for the entry point. There are a couple of windows, fairly large and close to the ground. He peers through one cautiously and sees rows of fenced storage lockers, piled with boxes and furniture, the usual detritus of apartment life. He also sees the alarm wires affixed to the glass, and so leaves them undisturbed. There's a row of smaller windows after them, set higher in the wall, a good five feet off the ground. These have no alarm wires. Anson smirks. Cheap bastards. He proceeds along nearly to the end of the passage, where he finally finds what he's looking for. The next to last window is open about a third of the way. Anson gets close and peers at it, nodding with satisfaction at the thick layer of dust and grime on both sides of the windowsill. No one's been here for a while.

The window's narrow but it's enough. It takes Anson only a moment to push the window up the rest of the way and hoist himself up, disappearing into it headfirst. His boots touch the cement floor and he stands up, looking around, squinting in the gloom. It appears to be a janitor's closet, rarely used, if the dusty equipment and boxes of supplies are any indication. He goes to the door and unlocks it, then opens it a crack, looking up and down the empty hallway. He steps out, pulling the door shut behind him. He ignores the elevator, unsure if a passkey is needed to operate it from the basement level, and heads for the stairs.

continued...

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

It's a long climb to the upper floors and he's slightly out of breath by the time he locates the lady's apartment. Checking out the hallway and finding it clear of both cameras and residents, he kneels down in front of her door. He peers at the lock and makes a soft, exasperated sound, reminding himself to tell Darius to advise his lady friend to invest in a real lock. He shakes his head, reaching into his jacket pocket for the slim leather case that holds his tools. Extracting the thin lockpicks, he sets to work, still grumbling to himself. Typical New York...you've got a doorman, what do you need decent locks for? Works out great, unless Carlton is sitting on the can with the fucking sports page when trouble comes calling. Anson snorts. It's not her fault, of course, more the fault of the people who own and design these buildings. They'll happily spend thousands on wall sconces and crown molding and shit, but then they put these rinky-dink twenty-five dollar locks on the doors and call it secure.

As he expected, it takes only a moment or two to pop the lock. He quickly pockets his tools and he's in. He closes the door quietly behind him and stands there for a few seconds, looking around. It feels weird, being in this stranger's home. It reminds him rather uncomfortably of other stranger's homes he's been in. Cookie jar, coffee canister, top of the closet, under the mattress. People tended to be rather unimaginative when it came to hiding their valuables, but you had to give some of them an 'A' for effort. He found five hundred dollars in a lady's refrigerator once, rolled up inside a rubber head of cabbage. He'd pocketed it with a shake of his head. Well, shit, lady. You think thieves don't get the same stupid catalogs you do?

His stomach twists and he looks down at his boots, a wave of shame washing over him. He wishes he could get it back to her, to all of them, that somehow he could make all the wrongs he's done right. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard. He wonders if this counts as a good deed, doing this for Darius. If having the drum will help the lady. Darius mentioned an accident... Shaking himself out of his reverie, he forces his attention back to the matter at hand. Darius said to get in and get out as quickly as possible. He also said not to touch anything that wasn't necessary, and Anson is very careful to keep his hands in his pockets as he ventures into the living room. He glances down the hallway toward what looks like the bedroom, its door half-open. Ahead of him, the living room expands into the dining room, creating an open, airy space, large even for a building like this.

The drum sits on the dining room table. Anson approaches it cautiously. There's not a doubt in his mind that this is the drum Darius spoke of. It looks old, though how old is impossible to guess. What appear to be animal skins are stretched tightly over the wooden frame and secured tightly with knotted rope. He peers curiously at the drawings that decorate the sides of the drum. He wonders what they mean.

Re: continued...

[anson-greene.livejournal.com]

Come on, Anson. Move your ass already. Grab the thing and let's go. Moving quickly, Anson reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of black leather gloves. He's not concerned about fingerprints - it's not that kind of a job - he's just nervous about touching the thing.

A moment later, he lets himself out of her apartment, making sure to lock the door behind him. He retraces his route, taking the stairs back down to the basement level. He left the janitor's closet door locked, just in case, and now it's the work of a few seconds to let himself back in. Once inside the musty room again, he has the luxury of a few minutes' time, which he uses to find something suitable to transport the drum to the shipping office. He rummages around for a moment, finally coming up with a dry and reasonably clean cardboard box. He puts the drum into it and closes the top flaps, not wanting to explain the thing to any curious cabdrivers or passersby, then it's time to go.

It's not easy, getting himself and the box out of the window, but he manages, thanks to the old-fashioned wide windowsill. It allows him to balance the box on it just long enough to reach back through and grab it. Then he's up the stairs and heading for the street, the box tucked safely under his arm. An hour and a half and two cab rides later, he's unlocking his own front door - with a key, of course - and tossing his jacket onto the nearest chair. He grabs a cold beer from the fridge and sprawls on the couch, breathing a sigh of relief that his task is complete. Well, not quite...he still has to sweat it out until the drum arrives safely in Rome, but he's done everything he can on his end. The wizened old man he'd found waiting behind the counter at the shipping service had listened patiently as Anson told him over and over again how valuable and irreplaceable the drum was, that his very job (and very likely his ass, Anson thought with a gulp) depended on its safe arrival. He'd watched nervously as the drum was carefully packaged, surrounded on all sides with some thin stuff like straw, and placed in a wooden shipping crate, bright green "fragile" stickers festooning the outside. It wasn't until he'd watched them carry it into the back room to await the truck which would take it to the airport that he finally headed out to his waiting cab, his American Express card significantly depleted.

He's not worried about the expense, though by the time the next-day air and insurance charges were computed, it was truly astounding. He's sure Darius will reimburse him, and besides, he'd have happily paid three times that if it meant keeping that drum in perfect condition until it's in Darius's hands.