DANCE WITH THE DEVIL [open]

      ❝I suspected my soul, being mischievous, might slip away while I was dreaming and fail to return . . .❞

[STYLE=width: 350px; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: 474747; padding: 5px; text-align: justify;]
[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-color: e8e8e8; float: left; padding: 3px; margin-right: 8px; margin-bottom: 1px; border: 3px solid #2F2F2F;][/style] THE YOUNG MAN'S DAY HAD only begun. Having spent the daylight hours napping, Emil only emerged after darkness had enveloped the city. This was the best time for doing business, really. Emil had come to The Queen Mary for the same reason he usually turned up in up-scale places like this - to pick targets, to study them.

Now, for example, a man probably not much older than he had caught Emil's attention. He looked... vaguely familiar. A model, perhaps? It took Emil longer than he would have liked to identify the familiar-looking young man as Vaughn Granville, the rather popular actor. Despite living in Los Angeles, Emil had apparently neglected to pay much attention to celebrity culture. He made a mental note to make sure to change that in the near future.

Sitting at the opposite end of the room, Emil's eyes had been been fixed on the man for a while now. Surveying him through slitted eyes, Emil watched him send away the woman - a personal assistant? manager? - before slumping in his seat. Perfect, he's distressed so his guard must surely be down. Emil took a deep breath to collect himself. Within a heartbeat his usually emotionless face was lit up with a well-practiced, charming smile, and he was striding over to join the rather famous Mr Granville with a confidence that wasn't truly his own, drink still in hand.

"Long day?" he said sympathetically. Despite the warmth in his words, Emil was cautious enough to hang back, anticipating a reaction. Bars were theoretically social places and small-talk was a norm, but... People sometimes reacted unpredictably, so he had to be careful.

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      ❝I suspected my soul, being mischievous, might slip away while I was dreaming and fail to return . . .❞

[STYLE=width: 350px; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: 474747; padding: 5px; text-align: justify;]
[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-color: e8e8e8; float: left; padding: 3px; margin-right: 8px; margin-bottom: 1px; border: 3px solid #2F2F2F;][/style] THE QUESTION CAUGHT EMIL a bit off guard – he had approached people like this dozens of times, and never had someone asked him anything personal, usually it was the reverse. And it was better that way, because in the not-so-distant past whenever someone were to upfront asked Emil about himself, he would feel his mouth go dry and throat close up. Thankfully, Emil had already prepared a new disposable persona. Tonight he was going to be Elliot Chamberlain, an apprentice curator at the British Museum. His accent (Received Pronunciation only, of course) which developed over the five years he had spent in England for schooling allowed Emil the luxury of getting away with it, assuming he didn’t slip up and make a mistake. And that could never, ever happen – not after all his training and meticulous preparation. If all goes well, maybe he’ll be able to convince Mr Granville to buy some unique pieces… which would of course be high quality forgeries.

“A loaded question…” His voice trailed away, as if he were thinking. Since Vaughn had asked in the first place, Emil assumed that the answer Mr Granville wanted to hear would have to be in the negative. No one would ask such a question if they were themselves entirely happy, right? Shoving aside the memories of backpacking with his father and travelling to France with his mother, Emil heaved a sigh and gave a small shake of his head. “To be quite honest… not really. I guess it would be more accurate to say that we all tolerated one another,” he said softly, flashing a thin smile that could have easily hinted at a deep-seated bitterness and resentment.

Emil held a meaningful pause before continuing. “Why do you ask?” His tone was gentle and just a tad curious. Emil made sure to pick his words carefully as it would be too easy to spook the man, or maybe provoke some sort of aggressive reaction. Even at that moment, Emil swore he could sense some tension, which was understandable given the fiasco with that woman just moments earlier. So the best course of action would be to gloss over it as quickly as possible by establishing some level of familiarity through self-disclosure, a gateway to trust, if you will.

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      ❝I suspected my soul, being mischievous, might slip away while I was dreaming and fail to return . . .❞

[STYLE=width: 350px; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: 474747; padding: 5px; text-align: justify;]
[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-color: e8e8e8; float: left; padding: 3px; margin-right: 8px; margin-bottom: 1px; border: 3px solid #2F2F2F;][/style] NEXT ON HIS CHECKLIST eye contact. Real, sincere eye contact was of course necessary to establish a connection. Emil had seen fleeting glimpses of his own reflection in mirrors, and he could see that even on a neutral face, his piercing blue eyes were almost inherently defiant, always intense and searching for something. And that wasn’t right, these operations are not interrogations and nobody must feel under scrutiny. So at this stage, Emil had to be absolutely relaxed. Angling himself opposite Mr Granville, Emil tried to catch the man’s gaze. He looked curious, maybe, with his brow creased into a concerned frown.

“Oh… Did something happen?” In the past, his wonderful partners in crime had accused him of over-acting or simply laying it on too thick. God, what he would give to have Mallory do this sort of work for him. Of course, Emil had objectively improved, largely because of the many hours he had spent observing others. In cafes, airport lounges, and bars like this. No, that’s not to say that Emil was ever necessarily bad at this – he was just more comfortable with a different persona. The arrogant investment banker or the equally arrogant playboy son of a shipping magnate was easier to portray than the soft-spoken and sensitive museum curator talking about family issues with a random stranger at a bar. Perhaps the explanation for that is rather simple – Emil had met plenty investment bankers and playboys with the world at their fingertips and was therefore able to pick up their mannerisms, the manner in which they spoke and how they held themselves. This was a challenge, and that in itself was rather exciting.

Suddenly, as if remembering something, Emil gave himself a little shake and straightened up. “God, I’m so sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. Elliot Chamberlain, pleasure to meet you Mr…?” he said flashing a pleasant smile. Familiarity – giving a name, an identity, to what would otherwise be yet another forgettable face among the flickering lights of Los Angeles. Hopefully the accent would give away his foreign-ness and Mr Granville would thus not expect the man to know who he was. Though he hadn’t encountered them himself, Emil had heard of celebrities with painfully large egos and apparently not recognizing them could earn you an earful of ‘Don’t you know who I am?!’ Vaughn Granville didn’t seem like the type, but even so…

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      ❝I suspected my soul, being mischievous, might slip away while I was dreaming and fail to return . . .❞

[STYLE=width: 350px; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: 474747; padding: 5px; text-align: justify;]
[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-color: e8e8e8; float: left; padding: 3px; margin-right: 8px; margin-bottom: 1px; border: 3px solid #2F2F2F;][/style] UPON HEARING THE ACTOR introduce himself Emil allowed a shadow of acknowledgement to flicker across his face, of minimal intensity but enough to show that the name at least sounded familiar. He gave a small, gracious smile, just as he had been taught to do when meeting guests at dinner parties before stretching out his right hand to give Mr Granville a handshake. Emil was thankful that he was left-handed and had subsequently been holding onto his glass of wine in his left hand, leaving him free to give a ‘good’ handshake (‘good’ because according to Mallory, cold and clammy hands do not make a good impression, at least on the subconscious level). Emil obliged and took a seat opposite Mr Granville mouthing a ‘thank you’ as he did so.

This was good, a satisfactory level of contact had been reached, and this gesture implied that Mr Granville, Vaughn, had at least some interest in him. And that was good, because Emil hated losing and he wouldn’t want to be forceful or pushy, which would likely be the tactic he would be forced to resort to if things don’t go his way. Actors tended to have a safety-net – unlike private businessmen and the like – which would make any non-personal con borderline impossible to put through. But this was something new, and Emil was prepared to rise to the challenge, even if he felt the smallest twinge of guilt about it. Maybe, if things go exceptionally well, he could keep Vaughn around as a source…

Propping his chin up on his elbow, Emil’s eyes slid towards the city backdrop. Imagining that he was being forced to take some rather unpleasant medicine, Emil’s face twisted into a faint grimace. “Regarding what you said earlier, about family… I’m a bit relieved, to be honest. What I mean is, we’re always told to love our relatives because of blood-ties, but I just… can’t. It’s not that easy. I suppose I’m just glad to meet someone who seems to feel the same way. It’s a first.” Emil’s gaze had returned to Vaughn and he was now searching the man’s face for a reaction, not entirely sure what to anticipate. In fact, he may have been laying it on a bit thick, but the risk may well be worth it.

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