So Night Follows Day Pt. 18

"The drinks flow, people forget.
The big wheel spins, hair thins, people forget.
Forget they're hiding.
The news slows, people forget.
The shares crash, hopes are dashed, people forget.
Forget they're hiding.
Behind an Eminence front. Eminence front.
It's a put on, it's a put-on."
-The Who, "Eminence Front"

The "back from commercial" jingle played, as Sally and Cara, America's favorite contractually-obligated BFFs, pretended to have been involved in an intense conversation and just now noticed that they were back on.

"Welcome back," Cara said to the camera. "To Up Your Morning! With Sally & Cara." She turned back to her co-host; whom she would always silently resent for getting front billing, because 'Cara & Sally' even made fucking sense alphabetically, but noooo! "Well, Sally, like we were discussing during the commercial, lots of big news out of Seattle yesterday!"

"I'll say, Cara." Sally replied, aware of her co-host's resentment, but not giving a fuck, because HER tits would be 'television-worthy' without surgery for two years longer than Cara's, so of course the co-hostess leads the audience to the real one. "First STRANGERS and the protests, and that weird violence on the first day. All of that business with the phones. And then, of course, what happened yesterday, on DAY TWO!"

"Thank you, Sally." Cara said, because that's what the HOSTESS says to the CO-hostess, even if she is only made bearable by the contracts that say that they can drink wine on TV. "Yes, especially the big news about friend of the show, Contessa Helena de San Finzione! Her name's been in the news coming out of Seattle a LOT these past two days! First, that terrorist attack on her hotel Monday, and then what happened YESTERDAY! Can we even show the footage?"

"I'm not certain we can." Sally responded. "It's probably too shocking for our viewers." She perked up for the camera. "But it'll be up on the show's website, at the link at the bottom of the screen! Remember, it's not suitable for the faint-of-heart." She quietly wondered if anyone had ever said "Oh yeah, this is totally for the faint-of-heart. Come check it out, faint-of-heart!"

"That's right, Sally! And speaking of San Finzione, what do you suppose this secret movie project going on there is?"

* * *

While Sally & Cara were three hours into their previous day's episode, Contessa Helena de San Finzione was being offered caviar by a passing server at the Washington State Convention and Trade Center.

"No, thank you." She told him in English, before turning back to the men she'd been talking to and returning to Farsi. "But no, you don't get America to change anything by killing their soldiers. You do it by inconveniencing their soccer moms."

She wore an asymmetrical black dress, with a light-blue collar detail; which Vincenzo's pendant hung down over. Houndstooth heels almost completed the outfit, but there was one more vital accessory that she had to get at the convention: a half-empty champagne glass.

That was as much as she ever drank at these things. From that point, the glass qualified as an accessory. It wasn't that she'd been afraid of being poisoned; everything she drank had been supplied by the San Finzione vineyards and was under Ultimado guard from the vineyard until it was in her hand. She knew she had the genetic pre-disposition to walk over and consume the whole bar if she wanted; but the problem was that she knew she had the genetic pre-disposition to walk over and consume the whole bar if she wanted.

There were better drugs than alcohol, anyway; she'd had them. Everything but heroin and that skin-eating one, that she knew. She'd almost tried heroin once, had the vein tied off and everything, until the thought "Whatever happened to Persephone, this is probably how it started," ran across her mind, so she stopped and never looked back; except to deal with the guy who'd thought he'd get to take advantage of her once she'd shot up and felt 'cheated' somehow. Alcohol held little appeal for Helen for a similar reason. When it started to look obvious that she'd been holding the same glass for a half-hour or so, she'd refresh it and share some with the plants. George Carlin had been right, yet again. If you really want kids to stop drinking with a warning label, try "Alcohol will turn you into the same asshole as your dad."

"Well, it was a bold decision to come today; after yesterday, Contessa." One of the men said to her.

"The only kind I make." She replied with a wink. "Like a few bullets have ever kept me from anything." She lit a cigarette. There was no smoking allowed in the convention center, but hers wasn't the only one burning. Nor was tobacco the only substance she could smell burning, as someone else in the hall had decided to one-up her and others' flaunting of their Diplomatic Immunity.

Cocaine was undoubtedly being snorted close by, as well. She'd never had a problem with it; it was something she'd done for fun, and quitting had been as easy as her husband asking her to. Count Vincenzo Ramon de San Finzione had led men to repel the Nazis from his castle and then his nation at the age of thirteen, saved his country's post-war economy by merging La Familia's business interests with the government; taking a direct hand in both, always with the good of the people foremost in his mind, at twenty. When he died at 79, convincing his fifty-seven years younger second wife to give up smoking was the only fight that he never won. But cocaine had been no problem. Nowadays, on the rare occasion that someone convinced her to do a line, when she came down, she felt a feeling that only Troy could get away with describing as "very Helen Parker of you."

She'd at least been able to do The Thing to a few of the delegates that morning. Mostly convincing the ones who really were there to attend the various sub-conferences to go in with an open mind; but not too open, because all of the issues for discussion did have clear right and wrong sides, and she told them what they were. Helena recognized another face in the crowd and excused herself from the conversation. She walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

Supreme Comrade and President-for-Life Simon Kiburi, of The People's Democratic Republic of Uongo turned around and his eyes widened. He must have managed to avoid Rita yesterday. Helen hadn't had time to get a proper debriefing from Rita, so had to go in cold, not knowing for certain whom "she" had talked to or hadn't yesterday, and what the subject was. Helena greeted him with a warm smile, and put her hand up to his neck, forcing him to bend forward a little so she could whisper into his ear.

"Simon, dear. There's no way you give a fuck about any of the topics, so that means you're here for the Auction, too. You can't possibly afford Lot 15, so you want something else. Whatever it is, you're enough of a dumbfuck to try to use it on San Finzione's troops or the Uongoian people."

The dictator was about to open his mouth to bluster something. Helena put her finger to his lips, stopping him.

"The Leopardess of San Finzione has tolerated you until now, Simon, because she's always had you under her paw. But the warlord partners who were going to betray you are gone, and it's time to give the country back to the original owners. So now, she allows you to run. Because the Leopardess has better things to do today, and she knows she can always catch you. Whatever you think you have to say, this is not the time for it. This is the time to go home and start trying to figure out how many golden candlesticks you can stuff into a suitcase. It's four, by the way. It'll look like you can get one or two more in there; but gold's heavy stuff. Any more than four, and you'll destroy a perfectly good suitcase."

Kiburi turned and left the building. Helena didn't finish watching him leave the room, because she'd heard a grumbling moving through the crowd. An ocean of murmured profanities in a miasma of languages; all of which, she understood, washed over her. When she noticed that everyone in the throng who'd uttered them had been looking down, she took out her phone.

It was 10:13 AM, and there was no signal.

She gave a half-smile. Whyte seemed to be counting on her overestimating him, so a hit on the summit itself wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, but it would certainly be foolish in the extreme. In addition to her Ultimado detail, other attendees had their own security as well. A hit squad would be lucky to make it through the door. The building was being continuously swept for bombs after the explosions at her hotel yesterday, so he wouldn't strike that way. Helen considered for a moment that he might gas the convention hall, but wrote that one off. Despite what he wanted her to think, Whyte wasn't The Joker; his goons weren't about to rappel down from the skylights, firing machine guns, wearing costumes, and being named around a theme.

The murmur was rising now, as people even more unaccustomed to inconvenience than most began shouting at their phones for failing to give them a signal. Waving and holding their phones at arm's length and up in the air, trying to get a bar.

And then, as quickly as it began, it ended. Most of the attendees were too happy to have their own phone service back to have noticed that it happened to almost everyone.

"Except the ones carrying Whyte Telecom phones." Helen thought. She looked at her phone to see if Whyte was about to call. The only message delayed by the lack of signal was one from Ramirez, which she replied to. She looked up to see someone with a video camera running toward her, security running behind.

Before the man got close enough to say anything, something hard had slammed him in the stomach, causing him to double over. Another impact to the back of his knees forced him to the ground. Finally, the first collapsible metal baton that had nailed him in the stomach was pressed down onto the back of his neck, forcing him to kiss the floor of the convention center.

Primo Tenente Marisol Velasquez of La Squadra de Ultimados knelt down onto the man's back, ready to send the next blow into his skull at the slightest provocation. Helena motioned for her to let the man up to breathe. Once she mentally appraised the man's outfit and camera, she realized what he was; a 'reporter' from some conspiracy site, who broke through the press line to ask her about being a witch, or a sex-assassin, or wanting a confirmation or denial that La Familia de San Finzione's wealth came from being bequeathed the lost treasures of the Templars, and that the Ark, the Holy Grail, and Excalibur were all in a secret vault, a mile beneath Castle Finzione.

Sometimes, the beatdown itself was what they wanted, to "prove" that she MUST be hiding something! Otherwise, why would she be so "afraid of the truth" as to sic her guards on the "intrepid reporter" for running up and getting in her face with "a simple question" one month after someone had just done the same thing and ended up stabbing her four times and trying to cut her throat? He still had one hand on his video camera, and pointed it up from the floor, trying to aim for her face from this angle.

"Contessa!" He gasped out when Velasquez let up on his back and let him breathe. "What do you have to say about the video?"

That made Helen pause. Video? Did the one with her and Rita get out? Or the one with her and... she racked her brain, thinking of how sex tapes she might potentially have out there.

"There are a number of videos that you could be talking about, sonny." She said to the man ten years older than herself. "I'm afraid I'm going to need a little more information than that."

"The one the internet's talking about; of you ordering men to torture each other."

Helen stopped in her tracks. There was, in fact, a video like that, of which she was aware. She bent down to look directly into his camera and smile.

"Young man, everything they say about me is true. The lies, doubly so. Oh, except that one about having Excalibur in my vault. The sword won't leave England without the One True King, everyone knows that. Won't go onto a ship or a plane, can't even fool it with the Chunnel. It just 'refuses' to go past the shores of the Isle without Arthur's true heir."

She motioned for Velasquez to release him to security and turned around, only then allowing her Camera Smile to vanish. She knew Whyte had her on video, but would he really just release it? Helen told another of her guards to bring the limo around as she dialed Whyte's number. She lit another cigarette while it rang.

"Morning, Contessa." Leonard Whyte CBE's voice said on the other end. He took on a faux-lusty tone. "What are you wearing?"

"Christian Dior." She responded. "And I've just heard something about a video, Leonard. Care to elaborate?"

"Well, it's like this." He replied, obviously talking over breakfast. "With your friends, the Equals, undoubtedly under constant guard, the Elders pulling out of our arrangement, and you probably classifying the guy in the helmet last night as 'an innocent,' you force me to take somewhat more drastic action today, Helena."

"More drastic than burning down a building to kill me? Which, by the way, you missed again, too. As you can tell by the fact that we're talking. And you're right, whatever you paid him, I'm sure blowing up his head wasn't part of the deal, so you're well past 'Upset' now, Leonard. You seem to have forgotten that I have tapes of you, too. Your confession to orchestrating the limo hit yesterday didn't mean much to the Elders, but I'm certain it would to the press or the Feds. Oh, also, we've compared it to the recording of the first call and can confirm that it's your voice behind the scrambler, so I've got your confession for the assassination attempt on me, as well. Oh yeah, and you admitted to killing Helmet Guy just now, too, so that's three confessions for them, Leonard! Are you ok, Leonard? You're not sick? Jeanne didn't sign me up for some wish-fulfillment charity for dying billionaires who want to go out like a Bond Villain and I forgot?"

"Afraid not, and using all of that stuff just wouldn't be your style, would it, Helena? Going to The Man, watching on TV as someone else leads me into a courthouse in handcuffs, airing my dirty laundry and waiting for The Judges and Public Opinion to decide my fate. That might satisfy Mr. Equals, but you never would have accepted my Jimenez 'gimme' if that was sufficient for you. And if I didn't end up somehow beating the charges, you already know what they'd give me; at my age, with my money." She heard him take a bite of something. "They'll 'lock me away' under house arrest in my palatial mansion like Madoff." He swallowed the bite. "Or I'll 'rot' in a minimum-security Federal Country Club with all my old golfing buddies. Until you inevitably pay me a visit, of course. That's if you can once the world knows 'Contessa Helena de San Finzione Can Control Minds.' That's an impressive headline, don't you think? I mean, 'Rich Old Fuck Did a Bunch of Evil Stuff to Get There?' That one's so DONE! Which link would YOU click first! If your name wasn't in one of them, I mean."

"You're right about that, Leonard. Orange would NOT be a good look for you, and I won't let you be caught dead in it. Red is more your color. And I have some ideas on how you can work it into what you've got going now that I'll be happy to share when we catch up."

"Oh, I don't doubt it, Contessa. With the Elders out, I'm back to the same old problem, aren't I?"

"Yes, indeed, Leonard. And although I don't like playing on your level, I did make a couple of calls to some friends in Sicily and updated them on everything that's been going on, so they'd like a word with you, as well. Don't worry, their instructions are to hand you over to me."

"Then I'm even more of a hunted man than I became when I decided to cross you, Helena. I'll own that, it's my fuckup. Now there's no way I'm getting Springheel from you unless you're out of the picture before the Auction even begins, and there's no way I'm going to outlive you without it. Oh, I could try spending the remainder of my fortune and my 'golden years' keeping on the run from you until time robs you of the satisfaction; and I'm just enough of a petty prick to drag that game out as long as I can. But you're a runner, Helena. You'll catch me. I mean, sure, you could target my grandkids, but..." He laughed as he took another bite. "Go right ahead! Stupid, spoiled cunts, the lot of them, especially the boys. 'Grampa' is whose name is on the checks. After that, they only remember it when they feel like shouting it in someone's face after the words 'Do you know who I am' fail to stop them getting kicked out of the club or some bimbo's pants. Anything you did to them would be an improvement of their character, I assure you."

"I definitely know their type." Helen replied, getting into her limo after the first two Ultimados entered, but before the other two. "But no. I already thought about that, and leaving them pissing away your money and your name after you're gone is far better than anything I could do to you in that department. Their gravy train is coming to an end, anyway." Helen turned on the TV in the limo and began flipping through news channels. "So, what channel am I on, Leonard? I want to see the video, too."

"Oh, none, yet. You don't just drop something like this on the public. It's just like coming out with a new product: I leaked the rumor to some of the conspiracy nuts first, get that 'internet buzz' to start things off, you know. It should hit the mainstream news about the time Ma & Pa Middle-America are gathering 'round the old Philco set to watch Uncle Milty. Gives 'em something to talk about during the commercials."

"I know you're doing a bit." Helen interrupted. "But I have to congratulate you on a solid Uncle Milty reference this far into the 21st century."

"Thank you. So, the video goes on the eleven o'clock news tonight, and there are torches and pitchforks waving outside Società Finzione hotels around the world just in time to give the morning shows something to blather about. A new phone needs to make an entrance, too, you know." He chewed on something a moment. "Say, thinking about it now, being able to control minds explains a lot of Mr. Equals' good fortune in the markets, as well. And if the two of you know how to do it, it only follows that Mrs. Equals does, too."

"Surprisingly," Helen said. "It's really all him with the money. And I'd like to thank you for bringing them up again. Because you're right about Helmet Guy, you're fucked for him alone. But bringing Troy & Julie back into things reminds me that I can't allow you to live, Leonard. Because now, you've endangered THEM. How ever much longer I continue to tolerate your presence on this Earth, you'll be a threat to them the whole time. A man I greatly admire, who had a terminal illness and knew that his time was short; was asked his advice on life now that he was facing the end. His reply was 'Enjoy every sandwich.' So, I hope that whatever you've been eating in my ear while we've been talking has been amazing, Leonard; because we won't be having many more of these conversations."

"Well, I think our little chats have been worth this entire endeavor, Contessa. But yes, you'll either find and kill me soon, or be too busy hemming and hawing at reporters to stop me, so I guess this is really it. I've lit the fuse on your big 'secret;' good luck putting your whammy on every reporter in town before it goes off, Helena. However much longer we play, know that I'm having fun. And if I can't win now? I'll settle for 'You Lose More.'"

He ended the call. She let him have the last word. Because it wouldn't be.