"MacGuffin"
Jan. 15th, 2019 07:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonreirSiren
The night starts the way that every other does: by getting dressed and putting on makeup.
Concealer, first -- cover the blemishes and imperfections.
Next, foundation. Cream, because it gives the best coverage.
My face, when I look at it now, is a blank canvas, a mask made of porcelain. I avert my gaze.
I do the eyes next -- mascara, dramatic eyeliner, smoky eyeshadow -- what can be seen easily from the stage. I'm supposed to be the vamp; might as well play it up.
Eyebrows, darkening the blonde hair with the aid of a pencil. Not too dark, just a few shades darker, make it look as though I have eyebrows.
Finally, blush and finishing powder.
It looks harsh, up close, under the vanity lights, but in the dim bar tonight, it will look fine. Natural, even.
There's a tap at the door. I recognize the knock -- two short raps.
"Come in," I say.
Eric sweeps in.
"Are you decent?" he asks. "Davey is waiting in the hallway."
"Am I?"
He eyes me approvingly. The back of my dress is undone, but my hair is finished, as is my makeup. I've got everything on, all the foundation garments, the bra and stockings and shapewear that make me feel vaguely like a sausage stuffed into a case. I'm thin, but I don't have the right shape. The garments give part of it to me, and illusion takes care of the rest.
"Let me zip you," Eric says. I turn, obligingly, and he runs his hands down the bare skin of my back before gently tugging the zipper up. I shiver, a bit, but don't say anything. Better that way.
Tonight's dress is a little red sparkly number that is slit up the side. The slice of skin that shows teases at something, promises -- you could have this, if you play your cards right...
I slip into my heels, dyed red to match the dress. It's not a perfect fit, but in the low light of the stage, no one will be able to tell. It's the sort of thing that distresses me and only me; no one else will notice, or if they do, they won't say anything.
Davey walks in, interrupting my thoughts.
"Beautiful as always, darling," he says. He never uses my name -- I wonder sometimes if he knows it. I doubt he does. I'm not the important one. I'm the distraction; Eric is the one who gets the goods.
Eric is a professional thief.
He has other names for it, different euphemisms that skirt around the truth, but I prefer to cut right to the heart of it: he's a thief and a pickpocket, and he's good at it. You wouldn't think it, to look at him -- he's tall and burly, the sort of man who looks as though they should be standing outside a club, acting as a bouncer, rather than inside it, dancing -- but he is. He has skills in more than picking pockets. Illusion, transmutation -- he's a minor magic handler who can control how much things weigh, what they look like. That, with classic misdirection, makes his job all too easy.
He's also my manager, after a fashion.
What better way to gain access to the elite clubs of the city than through managing a musical act? Get your girl on stage, have her charm the audience, and while they're all busy listening to her sing and gently getting drunk, rob them blind.
I have to admit, it's not a bad plan.
Our act is simple. I play the piano and I sing. I mostly sing my own songs, but I also cover Julie London, Ella Fitzgerald -- the expected repertoire. Not that it matters, because no one remembers what I sing, from night to night, but it's a nicety for the audience. You saw me perform, and this is what I sang to you, for later, when they're trying to recount what they saw.
I don't need a backing band. I could get away without the piano, too, but there are limits even to what I can do, and the piano makes it easier.
You don't need to be good, when you have magic on your side.
"Are you ready?" asks Davey, snapping me back to the present.
I twirl in my heels, wishing quietly that I had a fuller skirt, something that would swing out with me. "Do I look ready?"
"They're waiting for you," he says, turning from me back to Eric. "Are you ready?"
I slip out the door, down the short corridor from the glorified closet they call a dressing room, out to the stage, before I hear his answer.
Over time, Eric moved on -- from picking pockets, to acquiring other...items. That's when Davey entered the picture. His real name's not Davey, but then again, Eric's real name isn't Eric, either. They're the dynamic duo, the two that keep the entire operation running. Eric lifts the goods, or does the pickup, and Davey...Davey's the fence. He gets rid of whatever it is, gets the money, and they split it.
I don't know what tonight's exchange is. I've heard something about a briefcase, in the little bits they haven't hidden from me, but that's it. The secrecy makes me think it must be a handoff of some kind, not a lift. They joke about lifts, about what they're going to get on their fishing expeditions. Handoffs are different.
I'm never quite sure what it is they're picking up, just what's been handed off to them. Drugs, I'd guess, if I had to, but I'm not terribly imaginative.
There's always something -- a bag or a briefcase, sometimes a purse or something else left at the coat check, that they tell the bored employee at the counter belongs to me.
"Her Highness can't be bothered to come and get it herself," Eric will lie, handing over the chit to claim it -- not that he needs to. After a show, everyone is so dazed that he could probably confiscate whatever he wanted without them saying anything. There's a two-hour grace period, after the performance has ended, where everyone's memory stays a bit fuzzy. People attribute it to alcohol -- after all, no one likes to think they've been enchanted -- and Eric and Davey use this to their advantage.
They've been whispering tonight, something about a briefcase. The same name keeps coming up, again and again -- someone they're referring to, derisively, as Mr. Chips, whenever they think I'm out of earshot. They're like two little boys, talking about their big secret -- unable to keep it completely away from the adults, resorting to silly codes and in-jokes, hoping that no one picks up on it.
They think I don't know.
They're wrong, but that doesn't matter.
I'm not a thief -- not like Eric. I don't "lift", as he puts it. I've never taken what's not mine.
There are other things I'm guilty of.
If you had the power to trap people -- to make others desire you, fully, to drive them mad with the want of you, using only your voice and the strength of your belief -- do you think you could stop yourself from doing it?
If listening to you sing made the world bend to your will, do you think you'd stop? Do you think you'd be able to give it up?
"Siren," Eric calls me. It's not the truth, but it's close enough.
I knock on the door of the sound tech. Some clubs have their own sound setups, and some don't. This one does -- it's run by a nice man named Paul. Paul's in his mid-30s, short and slight with thinning hair. He's a big fan of mine, he told me, during the meeting we had to discuss lighting. Heard all my albums and everything.
Mildly enchanted, I thought, when I met him.
The door swings open, and Paul gazes out at me. "You look...good," he says, and I can tell he means it.
I ignore the compliment. "Ready to go?"
He taps the headset he's wearing, his earpiece in. "Ready. They'll let me know when you're on, and I'll take care of the rest."
"Thanks," I say, and I manage a slight smile.
I walk out onto the stage, my heels clicking gently against its scuffed surface. There's remnants of tape here and there, reminders of long-ago sets.
I walk over to the piano, sit at the bench. "Evening," I tell everyone, leaning into the mic. The manager gives me a thumbs-up, sound is good, and I keep talking. "It's lovely to be here, isn't it?"
There's a murmur of assent from the audience -- they've paid a lot to be here tonight. I know how much the cover charge is, and I'm frankly stunned by it, but my reputation precedes me.
"You're not paying me to talk, though," I say, conversationally, and there's a quiet ripple of laughter. "So, what shall we start with tonight?"
Someone yells the name of a song, from the front row, and I smile widely.
"That's a good choice," I say, and I start to play.
Eric found out about me -- I still don't know how. Someone, somewhere, leaked my secret. An ex, maybe, trying to make sense of what had happened. It doesn't matter. He found out about me and arranged to meet me, something about offering me a job.
I didn't realize it was a ruse.
There are many kinds of magic. The magic I do, through singing, is only one of them. There are others, too.
Eric isn't a great magic handler -- there are others out there that are better -- but he knew enough to know where he could find what he'd need, who he could pay to make things for him.
I met him. He spotted what I was right away. I didn't spot what he was -- I hadn't learned to look out for myself yet.
I met him, turned down his offer to work together. "I have career aspirations outside of music," I said.
"I understand," he told me -- and then he cursed me.
Magical servitude, until it could be lifted, and he didn't tell me how. A literal silver chain, that extended from my wrist to his. Flexible, invisible unless you knew what you were looking for, lighter than air -- but still there. Beyond his skill to make, and beyond my skill to break. Something from the underbelly of the city.
I'd do his bidding until such a point as he tired of it and released me, or I managed to win my freedom.
No other way out.
He did have connections -- I'd give him that much. He got me a recording contract, one that was surprisingly fair, and he let me keep most of the profits from what I did. I asked him why, once -- it would have been so easy just to take them -- and he laughed and said that there wasn't any point, not really.
"If I take everything you earn, I look like the villain. If I split it fairly -- more than fairly -- well, who's going to look askance at me when you tell them I'm a monster? I'm fair, I get you good bookings, and I don't push you too hard. Who will they believe, me or you?"
I gritted my teeth and didn't say anything. He had a point, loath as I was to admit it.
"Face it, darling," he said. "You're in this until I get bored, and I'm not bored yet."
He didn't try to sleep with me -- that was another surprise. "There is honor among thieves," he said, when I mentioned it. "Besides, I don't want anyone who doesn't want me."
I didn't want him, but not for lack of trying on his part. He was constantly touching me -- touching my hands or my face, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear -- whenever he could invent an excuse. It amused him, I think, how infuriating I found it.
When Davey came along, later, Eric amped up how often he touched me, how possessive he was in those touches.
"After all," he said, "we don't want Davey getting the wrong idea, do we?"
The wrong idea being, that I was available.
Davey was possessive, violent. Prone to fits of jealousy.
"No," I said, and did my best to play along -- to lean into the touches, to be the simpering, spoiled singer that worked with Eric because she adored him and was too stupid to pick up on the other activities he engaged in, not because of anything else.
Davey knew about magic -- he had seen what I could do -- but he didn't know that Eric knew anything about it.
"It's not, ah, public knowledge," Eric said, when he swore me to secrecy. "And with men like Davey..."
With men like Davey, you needed the upper hand. Magic gave that to him. The knowledge that he could curse Davey, if he tried to pull anything -- that was a comfort. That he could pull a fast one and leave Davey behind (his illusions worked well as long as you knew not to look behind them) also helped.
I would have told, but Davey scared me, too -- and it was easy, too easy, to go along with it.
On stage, I sing. I follow up the request with one of my own songs, then switch to covers -- "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is always popular. That usually earns a mention in the reviews, later -- if anyone bothers to review me.
I've learned, over the years, how to infuse my voice with an illusion, cast it out into the audience. They can be enchanted, and that's fine, but I try to give them something to go with it. Images of the rainbow, of one of my favorite places from childhood -- the city library downtown, all decorated for the holidays.
I can see the looks of pleasure on the faces of the audience. It resonates with them, I think -- whispers into their ears to think about their favorite childhood place, was it anything like mine?
I glance out over the tables, surveying everything. Davey and Eric are out there, and there's another man, looking restless. He hasn't been enspelled by the music, and I wonder if, like them, he's got earplugs in. He must, or he'd be caught too. He has a briefcase at his feet, and I wonder if this is the Mr. Chips they've been joking about for the last few days. He doesn't quite look the part, but he's got the goods, and if he has earplugs in, that means he got their instructions.
I look over, into the wings, where Paul is waiting. I nod at him, and he waves back. Ready whenever you are.
I finish what I'm playing, smile out at the crowd. "Now," I say. "I think it's time for something a little different. At this point in the show, I'd usually take requests, but tonight, there's something I want to play."
I start "Cry Me A River", and Paul moves out from backstage into the audience.
Everyone has their weaknesses. Eric has a need to feel important, to feel in control. Davey is similar. It's a wonder that they can work together at all, though I suppose their different roles help with that.
Lifting things, the handoff, their secret codes -- they feel like they're on top of the world, whenever a heist goes right.
They assume, because they do this, that they're the smartest men in the room. They don't look too closely at anyone else. The managers of the clubs, they figure they're fleecing them. The sound guy for the venue their cash cow is performing in -- he's just some loser who can't get a real job.
They thought Paul was beneath them, and so they never bothered to learn his name, find out that he did sound as a hobby, not as a full-time job.
They might have realized, otherwise, that the reason he was a big fan of my work was that he'd realized, long before anyone else did, what I was. What I could do. Paul's speciality, his day-job, was in recognizing and offsetting the effects of magic. He'd recognized the magic in my voice, what I was capable of. He liked the sound of it, sure -- but he was immune to it because he recognized the spell.
He recognized the chain on my wrist, too, and he knew how to break the curse. He'd done it that afternoon, while we were discussing sound setup for the venue.
I was free -- though there was still some unfinished business.
I keep singing, watching as Paul moves forward.
Mr. Chips is handing over the briefcase now. They're haggling over the price, scrawling out the price on cocktail napkins. The napkins will be discarded later; the numbers will seem like nothing important, some random doodling. It's not a bad plan.
I switch songs abruptly. One of mine, called 'Now Now'. I play the opening chords, and...
Paul, poised behind Eric and Davey, rips the earplugs, threaded onto necklaces, out of their ears. They turn to face him, surprised, then turn away as I throw everything I've got into the performance. I have to enchant them, if I'm going to escape.
They turn slowly and face the stage. Mr. Chips takes a moment, and then tries to leave. Paul stops him, yanks out his earplugs too, and he falls prey to the same spell that Davey and Eric are now under.
Paul grins at me, gives me a thumbs-up, and disappears, taking the briefcase with him somewhere backstage.
I finish the set. I don't play an encore tonight -- I don't think the audience can handle it if I do. They're already swaying in their seats as though drunk.
I slip off stage. The sound of applause follows me, and I don't look back.
"Well?" says Paul, in my dressing room.
I wipe off my makeup carefully, unzip the dress and replace it on its hanger. I have at least two hours before everything wears off -- I've got time to be careful. There's a hired car waiting outside, ready to take me wherever I might want to go.
"It worked," I tell him. "Thank you."
He laughs. "You're welcome."
Paul averts his eyes as I take off the foundation garments, the hoisery and body suit that shape everything, and pull on jeans and a t-shirt. Without the outfit and the makeup, I look completely ordinary.
"Shocking transformation," he jokes, once I'm dressed again.
"All part of the job," I say. "Now then."
He swings the briefcase onto the top of the vanity while I tie the laces on my shoes, pull my hair back into a ponytail. "Any idea what's in it?"
I shake my head. "They didn't talk to me about this shit."
He fiddles with the latches. "I mean..."
"God," I say. "Don't. You can keep whatever's in it, but it's probably full of drugs, or stolen shit they're going to fence -- nothing savory."
"Government secrets," he offers, and I make a face.
"Wrong line of work," I say. "Those two wouldn't dare."
"The guy they took it from certainly looked as though he might."
"They called him Mr. Chips, for fuck's sake." I pull on my coat, grab my purse. "I highly doubt he's some trained Russian spy. Probably some low-level mook. Chuck it in a Dumpster and call in an anonymous tip if you don't want it."
"What about you?" Paul asks.
I raise an eyebrow. "What about me? I've already got my story straight."
"Do you?"
"Yeah," I say, laughing. "I was just the singer."
I've never seen Pulp Fiction, but it's where my mind goes when I think of MacGuffins -- the mysterious briefcase that's at the heart of everything.
There's a briefcase here, as well, one that seems as though it may be important at one point, but ultimately is not -- and isn't *that* the point of a good MacGuffin? :)
The night starts the way that every other does: by getting dressed and putting on makeup.
Concealer, first -- cover the blemishes and imperfections.
Next, foundation. Cream, because it gives the best coverage.
My face, when I look at it now, is a blank canvas, a mask made of porcelain. I avert my gaze.
I do the eyes next -- mascara, dramatic eyeliner, smoky eyeshadow -- what can be seen easily from the stage. I'm supposed to be the vamp; might as well play it up.
Eyebrows, darkening the blonde hair with the aid of a pencil. Not too dark, just a few shades darker, make it look as though I have eyebrows.
Finally, blush and finishing powder.
It looks harsh, up close, under the vanity lights, but in the dim bar tonight, it will look fine. Natural, even.
There's a tap at the door. I recognize the knock -- two short raps.
"Come in," I say.
Eric sweeps in.
"Are you decent?" he asks. "Davey is waiting in the hallway."
"Am I?"
He eyes me approvingly. The back of my dress is undone, but my hair is finished, as is my makeup. I've got everything on, all the foundation garments, the bra and stockings and shapewear that make me feel vaguely like a sausage stuffed into a case. I'm thin, but I don't have the right shape. The garments give part of it to me, and illusion takes care of the rest.
"Let me zip you," Eric says. I turn, obligingly, and he runs his hands down the bare skin of my back before gently tugging the zipper up. I shiver, a bit, but don't say anything. Better that way.
Tonight's dress is a little red sparkly number that is slit up the side. The slice of skin that shows teases at something, promises -- you could have this, if you play your cards right...
I slip into my heels, dyed red to match the dress. It's not a perfect fit, but in the low light of the stage, no one will be able to tell. It's the sort of thing that distresses me and only me; no one else will notice, or if they do, they won't say anything.
Davey walks in, interrupting my thoughts.
"Beautiful as always, darling," he says. He never uses my name -- I wonder sometimes if he knows it. I doubt he does. I'm not the important one. I'm the distraction; Eric is the one who gets the goods.
Eric is a professional thief.
He has other names for it, different euphemisms that skirt around the truth, but I prefer to cut right to the heart of it: he's a thief and a pickpocket, and he's good at it. You wouldn't think it, to look at him -- he's tall and burly, the sort of man who looks as though they should be standing outside a club, acting as a bouncer, rather than inside it, dancing -- but he is. He has skills in more than picking pockets. Illusion, transmutation -- he's a minor magic handler who can control how much things weigh, what they look like. That, with classic misdirection, makes his job all too easy.
He's also my manager, after a fashion.
What better way to gain access to the elite clubs of the city than through managing a musical act? Get your girl on stage, have her charm the audience, and while they're all busy listening to her sing and gently getting drunk, rob them blind.
I have to admit, it's not a bad plan.
Our act is simple. I play the piano and I sing. I mostly sing my own songs, but I also cover Julie London, Ella Fitzgerald -- the expected repertoire. Not that it matters, because no one remembers what I sing, from night to night, but it's a nicety for the audience. You saw me perform, and this is what I sang to you, for later, when they're trying to recount what they saw.
I don't need a backing band. I could get away without the piano, too, but there are limits even to what I can do, and the piano makes it easier.
You don't need to be good, when you have magic on your side.
"Are you ready?" asks Davey, snapping me back to the present.
I twirl in my heels, wishing quietly that I had a fuller skirt, something that would swing out with me. "Do I look ready?"
"They're waiting for you," he says, turning from me back to Eric. "Are you ready?"
I slip out the door, down the short corridor from the glorified closet they call a dressing room, out to the stage, before I hear his answer.
Over time, Eric moved on -- from picking pockets, to acquiring other...items. That's when Davey entered the picture. His real name's not Davey, but then again, Eric's real name isn't Eric, either. They're the dynamic duo, the two that keep the entire operation running. Eric lifts the goods, or does the pickup, and Davey...Davey's the fence. He gets rid of whatever it is, gets the money, and they split it.
I don't know what tonight's exchange is. I've heard something about a briefcase, in the little bits they haven't hidden from me, but that's it. The secrecy makes me think it must be a handoff of some kind, not a lift. They joke about lifts, about what they're going to get on their fishing expeditions. Handoffs are different.
I'm never quite sure what it is they're picking up, just what's been handed off to them. Drugs, I'd guess, if I had to, but I'm not terribly imaginative.
There's always something -- a bag or a briefcase, sometimes a purse or something else left at the coat check, that they tell the bored employee at the counter belongs to me.
"Her Highness can't be bothered to come and get it herself," Eric will lie, handing over the chit to claim it -- not that he needs to. After a show, everyone is so dazed that he could probably confiscate whatever he wanted without them saying anything. There's a two-hour grace period, after the performance has ended, where everyone's memory stays a bit fuzzy. People attribute it to alcohol -- after all, no one likes to think they've been enchanted -- and Eric and Davey use this to their advantage.
They've been whispering tonight, something about a briefcase. The same name keeps coming up, again and again -- someone they're referring to, derisively, as Mr. Chips, whenever they think I'm out of earshot. They're like two little boys, talking about their big secret -- unable to keep it completely away from the adults, resorting to silly codes and in-jokes, hoping that no one picks up on it.
They think I don't know.
They're wrong, but that doesn't matter.
I'm not a thief -- not like Eric. I don't "lift", as he puts it. I've never taken what's not mine.
There are other things I'm guilty of.
If you had the power to trap people -- to make others desire you, fully, to drive them mad with the want of you, using only your voice and the strength of your belief -- do you think you could stop yourself from doing it?
If listening to you sing made the world bend to your will, do you think you'd stop? Do you think you'd be able to give it up?
"Siren," Eric calls me. It's not the truth, but it's close enough.
I knock on the door of the sound tech. Some clubs have their own sound setups, and some don't. This one does -- it's run by a nice man named Paul. Paul's in his mid-30s, short and slight with thinning hair. He's a big fan of mine, he told me, during the meeting we had to discuss lighting. Heard all my albums and everything.
Mildly enchanted, I thought, when I met him.
The door swings open, and Paul gazes out at me. "You look...good," he says, and I can tell he means it.
I ignore the compliment. "Ready to go?"
He taps the headset he's wearing, his earpiece in. "Ready. They'll let me know when you're on, and I'll take care of the rest."
"Thanks," I say, and I manage a slight smile.
I walk out onto the stage, my heels clicking gently against its scuffed surface. There's remnants of tape here and there, reminders of long-ago sets.
I walk over to the piano, sit at the bench. "Evening," I tell everyone, leaning into the mic. The manager gives me a thumbs-up, sound is good, and I keep talking. "It's lovely to be here, isn't it?"
There's a murmur of assent from the audience -- they've paid a lot to be here tonight. I know how much the cover charge is, and I'm frankly stunned by it, but my reputation precedes me.
"You're not paying me to talk, though," I say, conversationally, and there's a quiet ripple of laughter. "So, what shall we start with tonight?"
Someone yells the name of a song, from the front row, and I smile widely.
"That's a good choice," I say, and I start to play.
Eric found out about me -- I still don't know how. Someone, somewhere, leaked my secret. An ex, maybe, trying to make sense of what had happened. It doesn't matter. He found out about me and arranged to meet me, something about offering me a job.
I didn't realize it was a ruse.
There are many kinds of magic. The magic I do, through singing, is only one of them. There are others, too.
Eric isn't a great magic handler -- there are others out there that are better -- but he knew enough to know where he could find what he'd need, who he could pay to make things for him.
I met him. He spotted what I was right away. I didn't spot what he was -- I hadn't learned to look out for myself yet.
I met him, turned down his offer to work together. "I have career aspirations outside of music," I said.
"I understand," he told me -- and then he cursed me.
Magical servitude, until it could be lifted, and he didn't tell me how. A literal silver chain, that extended from my wrist to his. Flexible, invisible unless you knew what you were looking for, lighter than air -- but still there. Beyond his skill to make, and beyond my skill to break. Something from the underbelly of the city.
I'd do his bidding until such a point as he tired of it and released me, or I managed to win my freedom.
No other way out.
He did have connections -- I'd give him that much. He got me a recording contract, one that was surprisingly fair, and he let me keep most of the profits from what I did. I asked him why, once -- it would have been so easy just to take them -- and he laughed and said that there wasn't any point, not really.
"If I take everything you earn, I look like the villain. If I split it fairly -- more than fairly -- well, who's going to look askance at me when you tell them I'm a monster? I'm fair, I get you good bookings, and I don't push you too hard. Who will they believe, me or you?"
I gritted my teeth and didn't say anything. He had a point, loath as I was to admit it.
"Face it, darling," he said. "You're in this until I get bored, and I'm not bored yet."
He didn't try to sleep with me -- that was another surprise. "There is honor among thieves," he said, when I mentioned it. "Besides, I don't want anyone who doesn't want me."
I didn't want him, but not for lack of trying on his part. He was constantly touching me -- touching my hands or my face, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear -- whenever he could invent an excuse. It amused him, I think, how infuriating I found it.
When Davey came along, later, Eric amped up how often he touched me, how possessive he was in those touches.
"After all," he said, "we don't want Davey getting the wrong idea, do we?"
The wrong idea being, that I was available.
Davey was possessive, violent. Prone to fits of jealousy.
"No," I said, and did my best to play along -- to lean into the touches, to be the simpering, spoiled singer that worked with Eric because she adored him and was too stupid to pick up on the other activities he engaged in, not because of anything else.
Davey knew about magic -- he had seen what I could do -- but he didn't know that Eric knew anything about it.
"It's not, ah, public knowledge," Eric said, when he swore me to secrecy. "And with men like Davey..."
With men like Davey, you needed the upper hand. Magic gave that to him. The knowledge that he could curse Davey, if he tried to pull anything -- that was a comfort. That he could pull a fast one and leave Davey behind (his illusions worked well as long as you knew not to look behind them) also helped.
I would have told, but Davey scared me, too -- and it was easy, too easy, to go along with it.
On stage, I sing. I follow up the request with one of my own songs, then switch to covers -- "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is always popular. That usually earns a mention in the reviews, later -- if anyone bothers to review me.
I've learned, over the years, how to infuse my voice with an illusion, cast it out into the audience. They can be enchanted, and that's fine, but I try to give them something to go with it. Images of the rainbow, of one of my favorite places from childhood -- the city library downtown, all decorated for the holidays.
I can see the looks of pleasure on the faces of the audience. It resonates with them, I think -- whispers into their ears to think about their favorite childhood place, was it anything like mine?
I glance out over the tables, surveying everything. Davey and Eric are out there, and there's another man, looking restless. He hasn't been enspelled by the music, and I wonder if, like them, he's got earplugs in. He must, or he'd be caught too. He has a briefcase at his feet, and I wonder if this is the Mr. Chips they've been joking about for the last few days. He doesn't quite look the part, but he's got the goods, and if he has earplugs in, that means he got their instructions.
I look over, into the wings, where Paul is waiting. I nod at him, and he waves back. Ready whenever you are.
I finish what I'm playing, smile out at the crowd. "Now," I say. "I think it's time for something a little different. At this point in the show, I'd usually take requests, but tonight, there's something I want to play."
I start "Cry Me A River", and Paul moves out from backstage into the audience.
Everyone has their weaknesses. Eric has a need to feel important, to feel in control. Davey is similar. It's a wonder that they can work together at all, though I suppose their different roles help with that.
Lifting things, the handoff, their secret codes -- they feel like they're on top of the world, whenever a heist goes right.
They assume, because they do this, that they're the smartest men in the room. They don't look too closely at anyone else. The managers of the clubs, they figure they're fleecing them. The sound guy for the venue their cash cow is performing in -- he's just some loser who can't get a real job.
They thought Paul was beneath them, and so they never bothered to learn his name, find out that he did sound as a hobby, not as a full-time job.
They might have realized, otherwise, that the reason he was a big fan of my work was that he'd realized, long before anyone else did, what I was. What I could do. Paul's speciality, his day-job, was in recognizing and offsetting the effects of magic. He'd recognized the magic in my voice, what I was capable of. He liked the sound of it, sure -- but he was immune to it because he recognized the spell.
He recognized the chain on my wrist, too, and he knew how to break the curse. He'd done it that afternoon, while we were discussing sound setup for the venue.
I was free -- though there was still some unfinished business.
I keep singing, watching as Paul moves forward.
Mr. Chips is handing over the briefcase now. They're haggling over the price, scrawling out the price on cocktail napkins. The napkins will be discarded later; the numbers will seem like nothing important, some random doodling. It's not a bad plan.
I switch songs abruptly. One of mine, called 'Now Now'. I play the opening chords, and...
Paul, poised behind Eric and Davey, rips the earplugs, threaded onto necklaces, out of their ears. They turn to face him, surprised, then turn away as I throw everything I've got into the performance. I have to enchant them, if I'm going to escape.
They turn slowly and face the stage. Mr. Chips takes a moment, and then tries to leave. Paul stops him, yanks out his earplugs too, and he falls prey to the same spell that Davey and Eric are now under.
Paul grins at me, gives me a thumbs-up, and disappears, taking the briefcase with him somewhere backstage.
I finish the set. I don't play an encore tonight -- I don't think the audience can handle it if I do. They're already swaying in their seats as though drunk.
I slip off stage. The sound of applause follows me, and I don't look back.
"Well?" says Paul, in my dressing room.
I wipe off my makeup carefully, unzip the dress and replace it on its hanger. I have at least two hours before everything wears off -- I've got time to be careful. There's a hired car waiting outside, ready to take me wherever I might want to go.
"It worked," I tell him. "Thank you."
He laughs. "You're welcome."
Paul averts his eyes as I take off the foundation garments, the hoisery and body suit that shape everything, and pull on jeans and a t-shirt. Without the outfit and the makeup, I look completely ordinary.
"Shocking transformation," he jokes, once I'm dressed again.
"All part of the job," I say. "Now then."
He swings the briefcase onto the top of the vanity while I tie the laces on my shoes, pull my hair back into a ponytail. "Any idea what's in it?"
I shake my head. "They didn't talk to me about this shit."
He fiddles with the latches. "I mean..."
"God," I say. "Don't. You can keep whatever's in it, but it's probably full of drugs, or stolen shit they're going to fence -- nothing savory."
"Government secrets," he offers, and I make a face.
"Wrong line of work," I say. "Those two wouldn't dare."
"The guy they took it from certainly looked as though he might."
"They called him Mr. Chips, for fuck's sake." I pull on my coat, grab my purse. "I highly doubt he's some trained Russian spy. Probably some low-level mook. Chuck it in a Dumpster and call in an anonymous tip if you don't want it."
"What about you?" Paul asks.
I raise an eyebrow. "What about me? I've already got my story straight."
"Do you?"
"Yeah," I say, laughing. "I was just the singer."
I've never seen Pulp Fiction, but it's where my mind goes when I think of MacGuffins -- the mysterious briefcase that's at the heart of everything.
There's a briefcase here, as well, one that seems as though it may be important at one point, but ultimately is not -- and isn't *that* the point of a good MacGuffin? :)
no subject
Date: 2019-01-17 09:33 pm (UTC)