Angel - Shakedown Part 4

At least, that's what he was going to tell any of the Serpentene if they questioned where he was, which was strolling down the hallway away from the party.

In Doyle's experience, people with a lot of money always had something to hide. Of course, sometimes that thing was just a big heap of money, but not always. More often than not it was something illegal, immoral, or really disgusting. The Serpentene had gone from completely secretive to we-want-to-bebestfriends way too fast for Doyle; he'd been around enough scam artists to recognize the taste of blarney when it was being fed to him.

So it was time for a little look around-without aguide. Hopefully, he could discover something useful.

Why, he might even impress Cordy . . .

"This is impressive," Cordelia said. "What did you say it was called again?"

"Lagavulin," answered Maureen, taking a sip from her own gla.s.s of cut crystal. She and Cordelia were standing by the bar while a young Serpentene named Ian poured them drinks. Ian, Cordelia decided, had a kind of Sting-like quality to him, but with better hair. He was wearing a charcoal Armani suit and managed to make it look casual.

"I'm not really much of a hard alcohol kind of person," Cordelia said, "more of a white wine spritzer girl, you know? But this is really yummy- how much did you say it costs?"

"Around two hundred a bottle. But it's not the best Galvin stocks, not by a mile. Try some ofthis."Ian poured another shot into her gla.s.s. "It's called Glenfarcus, and it's older than you are."

Cordelia took a sip. "Wow. It's sosmooth. . . is that the right term, or do you have your own scotchy language like wine drinkers? It goes down real easy, anyway."

"Aye," Ian said with a grin. "Aye, that it does . . ."

Doyle had been up and down three hallways before he found it, in a room markedSTORAGE,justoff the telemarketing center. The door wasn't locked.

The room was lined with shelves. At first glance, Doyle was reminded of a police evidence room; everything was bagged and tagged.

But he wasn't looking at rows of impounded weapons and drugs. The items on the shelves varied so widely he wasn't sure what they had in common: they ranged from toys to canisters of film. He picked up a teddy bear in a clear plastic bag and looked at the tag. "S. Powell, 12/25/57," he whispered to himself.

"Kinda late for a Christmas present . . ."

Other items were marked the same way, just a name and a date. He examined an old pair of jeans, a framed photo of someone's grandmother, a cookbook-he couldn't figure out the connection between them.

And then he heard footsteps.

"Gluck?" Galvin asked.

"Gluck is good," Angel answered after a moment's consideration. "EspeciallyArmide. Although Haydn'sSymphony Number 22 in E-Flatis still one of my favorites."

Galvin was seated at the piano now, and he tinkled out a few notes. "I was there when Haydn was appointed Kapellmeister to Prince Esterhazy, in 1761," Galvin said. "Quite the affair."

"You're older than you look."

"But not quite as well-preserved as you," Galvin said with a chuckle. "Long life-another thing we have in common. But unlike vampires, we do age; we just shed our skins every few years, which keeps us looking young. I've let this skin get a little wrinkled on purpose-a patriarch should look the part, don't you think?"

"How old-or young-you look does matter," Angel admitted. "I saw Mozart on his first European tour. He was six years old. Sixteen years later, when Beethoven went onhisfirst tour, they claimedhewas six-actually, he was eight." Angel shook his head. "People always lie about their age in show business .

The footsteps receded. "Time t'go," Doyle muttered to himself. He waited another minute, then slipped out the door.

Back at the party, no one even seemed to notice he'd been gone; Doyle wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or insulted. One feeling was becoming more and more clear, though.

Doyle didn't belong.

It wasn't something coming from the Serpentene; they all smiled and responded pleasantly whenever he tried to join a conversation. Problem was, Doyle couldn't relate to anything they were saying. Hedidn't know much about the stock market or antique furniture or vintage wines, and after his fifth failed attempt to start a discussion on the merits of the Dodgers versus the Padres, he gave up.

Doyle had never felt like he fitted in, even before he'd learned about his half-demon heritage. People seemed to sense there was something strange about him; it made him work all the harder to be likable.

Be quick enough with a drink or a joke, and they won't have time to reject you, Doyle told himself . . .

but still, n.o.body seemed to hang around very long. He had many acquaintances but few friends.

Sometimes, he thought that's all he really wanted-a true friend. Somebody who accepted him for himself, somebody who wasn't a demon or a vampire or anything else-just a nice, normal person.

Somebody to make him feel like he belonged.

Of course,he thought to himself.And who do you fancy? Miss Cordelia Chase, who wouldn't touch a demon with a ten-foot pole-ax and a note from her mother. Ah, Doyle, you must be outta your mind.

He joined Cordelia at the bar. And despite Cordelia's often-stated aversion to creatures demonic, she didseem to be enjoying herself. . . .

"You know, I can't decide which one is my favorite," Cordelia said. "Nowthisone I like. I really, really do."She lifted her gla.s.s and drained it."Mmmm. It tastes like dirt, but in agoodway. A good way, y'know?"

"That's the peat," Maureen said.

"Well, old Petedefinitelyknows his Scotch, that's all I have to say . . . but that one's good, too. And that one. And that one. And that one, too."

"Uh, Cordy?" Doyle said. "How many have you had?"

"Just afew,"Cordelia said. "To be soshabubble. Excuse me."

"I think she's had enough," Doyle said. "Stay here-I'm gonna get Angel."

"And where would I go?" Cordelia said with an exaggerated shrug. "I'm happy righthere. Even if hereis five stories underground with a buncha snakes. N'offense."

"None taken," Ian said with a grin.

"-saw Handel'sMessiahin LondonandBerlin," Angel was saying to Galvin when Doyle walked up.

"And in my opinion-what?"

"Cordy's a little-well, looped," Doyle said. "I think we should take her home."

"All right. Galvin, it looks like we'll have to be leaving. Thank you for your hospitality, though."

"Our pleasure," Galvin said. "It's been a while since I had this enjoyable a discussion about music."

Back at the bar, Cordelia was telling Maureen, "I hope you didn't take that remark about dirt thewrong way. I understand that dirt is veryimportantto you people. Well, it is to me,too. Without dirt there would be nothing for things to be ontopof. Except other things. And then everything would have to bebalanced.

And you know what? That's not as easy as itlooks."She fell out of her chair.

Angel and Doyle caught her before she hit the carpet. "Good night, ladies," Doyle said, shaking his head.

"Could we get someone with an elevator key to let us out?"

On the drive home, Doyle rode with Cordelia in the back of Angel's convertible."Pleasedon't let her throw up on the upholstery," Angel told him. "If there's one thing I don't miss about being human, it's the smell of recycled food."

"Oh, m'fine," Cordelia said. "Can we stop at a Wendy's? I want one of those square hamburgers. Hey, howc.u.m they don't have square buns, huh? I mean, haven't they heard ofbread?And robots."

"What?" Doyle said.

"Robots.Theyhave square buns." She started giggling.

"Geez, Cordy, you're really loaded," Doyle said. "I mean, I been on a few benders in my time, and on the hungry-drunk and non sequitur scale, you're somewhere between a lost weekend and Spring Break."

The car slipped through the California night. Oncoming headlights threw shadows across the interior that moved like living things. Doyle could smell the petrochemical tang of asphalt cooling after a hot day, mixed in with a breeze from the ocean. Summer midnight in L.A.

"I'm cold," Cordelia said. She snuggled up to Doyle; after a second's hesitation he put his arm around her.

"Y'want me to tell Angel to put the top up?"

"No. This is good." She looked up into his face. "Y'know, you are actually very cute. Inna Irish way.

Did you know that?"

"I've heard rumors."

She laughed. "And you'refunny. Ilikeyou, Doyle. Inna Irish way."

"I think right now it's more aScotchway, Cordy. But thanks just the same."

A gentle snore came from beside him.

Doyle sighed.

CHAPTER THREE.

Darlaand Angelus returned to the barge to sleep away the daylight hours, but not before they'd taken a few precautions; they moved the barge from the river to the bay, anchoring offsh.o.r.e to reduce the risk of uninvited visitors. They could still be boarded, but the looters seemed to be concentrating their attention on the smoldering corpse of the city.

Before that, though, they had to take care of their "buried treasure."

"Maria!" Angelus called down. "I've got some bad news, darlin' . . ."

". . . what's wrong? Oh G.o.d, you can't get us out, can you?"

"Now, now, dear, nothing like that. It's just that the Spaniards are comin'."

". . . I don't understand . . ."

"Spain is taking advantage of the disaster; they're tryin' t'take the whole country. It's said they're slaughtering all the survivors they come across. We have to take cover until tomorrow, for fear of bein'

discovered. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

". . . no . . ."

"Good. We'll be back under cover of darkness, but you have to stay quiet until we return. No callin' for help-"

"No. No! You can't leave us here! Francesco is dead and maybe Estrellita too and we'lldie,don't you understand?You can't leave us here!"

"Well, well," Darla said with a smirk. "Looks like you pushed her just a little too far. A pity; hysterics are only entertaining for the first minute or so."

"I'm not done yet," Angelus shot back. "Maria! Maria! Calm down, darlin'."

". . . you can't, you can't . . ."

"Shhhhh! Listen. Listen and tell me what you hear."

". . . what? I hear . . . gnawing. It sounds like rats, chewing on wood . . ."

"Not rats, darlin'. It's a drill. I'll be through these floorboards in a minute. There. Can you see the hole?"

"Yes! Yes, I see it!"

"Get your mouth underneath it. I'm going to pour some water down . . ." Angelus upended a canteen and watched the cool, clear water gurgle into the hole he'd made. He listened carefully; when he heard Maria's frantic, choked gulping, he smiled.

"That's right, drink deep. We wouldn't want you peris.h.i.+n' of thirst while we're away . . ."

"Mornin', Cordy," Doyle said.

Cordelia managed to glare at him through a pair of sungla.s.ses as she entered the office and took off her coat. "Don't talk to me. Don't eventhinkat me until I've had coffee."

"You . . . sound a little upset." Doyle rubbed the back of his head and looked uncomfortable.

"Upset? I spent the first twenty minutes of my day reviewing what I ate over the last twelve hours.

Reviewing in a very unpleasant way that I would prefer not to discuss, so just shut up, okay?"

"Bit of a rough night, I guess."

"I wouldn't know. The last thing I remember is drinking with someone named Pete. Or maybe Glen. Did we go to Wendy's?"

"It was suggested," Doyle said. "But cooler heads prevailed."

"Huh. Anyway, the next thing I know I wake up in my own bed, which is doing a pretty good impression of a Tilt-a-Whirl. Doyle, you have to tell me- did I do anything . . ."

"Anything what?"