Disclaimer and Notes: As usual, not mine, and they belong to Top Cow and Panzer/Davis, respectively. Written as a semi-sequel to Conjunction and Conjecture, although it stands alone, for the crossovers100 LiveJournal community challenge, prompt #34: not enough. Comments welcome at dayea@rainewynd.com.
Not Close Enough
By Raine Wynd
The Witchblade's voices chattered excitedly as Sara paused at the entrance to the pub. For a moment, she hesitated on the threshold, aware that something inside had the semi-sentient gauntlet aroused. Usually, that meant some kind of danger, but this time, the voices seemed oddly...delighted at her choice of pubs.
She glanced over at the sign in the window. "Second Song" gleamed in neon, and she pulled out the note she'd scribbled on a Post-It to confirm that yes, she was in the right place. She shook her head; having the Witchblade excited about anything scared her more than if it gave her the usual vague flashes of psychic insight.
Breathing deeply, she smiled at the doorman who was, by now, staring at her expectantly, and flashed her ID. His eyes widened slightly as they caught sight of the badge, but all he said was, "Enjoy the show, Detective," and gestured her inside.
Sara saw immediately that a long old-fashioned bar occupied most of the right-hand wall. Directly before her and to her left were assorted round tables; several were occupied, but there were still a few empty spaces. A slightly raised stage and a small dance floor anchored the room on that side. Even as Sara looked, a female, African-American singer in a tight-fitting sequined column dress was warming up the microphone as her interracial, three-piece band tuned their instruments.
Not wanting to draw attention by lingering too long in the doorway, Sara eased her way through the tables to the bar and found an empty stool at the end. The grizzled old man on her right nodded a greeting as she sat down, but turned immediately back to his drink.
Two bartenders stood behind the bar, one of each gender, both dressed in blue polo shirts, black pants, and white aprons. Both looked to be in their early twenties, with almost identical features save for a slight difference in height, and seemed to be deeply engrossed in a conversation with someone farther down the bar. She was pleased to find that it didn't take too long before the young woman detached herself from the conversation to greet her.
"Welcome to Second Song; I'm Kim, and I'll be your barkeep tonight. Name your poison, and I'll deliver what I can," the young woman said brightly, leaning forward in a friendly, "You're the only one here that matters" kind of manner.
Sara glanced behind the barkeep at the fully stocked bar, noticing that there were at least twelve beers on tap. "I'm guessing you have a bit of everything here," she ventured.
Kim smiled. "Best selection in Manhattan," she told her. "We're a bit skimpy on some of the microbrews, but we got the better ones. We're mostly a beer and whiskey house, though we have a few good wines, too." She studied Sara a moment. "Let me guess, you're a traditionalist, and want the basics."
Relieved, Sara smiled. "Yes."
"Got it. You want the frog and lizard's choice or the other kind?"
It took Sara a second to interpret Kim's meaning, but once she did, she chuckled. "The other kind."
"Coming right up." Kim pulled a mug out from under the bar and stepped away to fill it with Sara's request.
When the barkeep returned, Sara took the opportunity to say, "I was told I could meet a woman named Amanda LeFavre here. Do you know who she might be?" Sara pulled out her wallet and laid down payment for the beer.
Kim deftly made change. Her eyes were decidedly less friendly as she answered, "She's not here tonight."
"Do you know where I could reach her?" When the question was met by silence, Sara continued, "A friend of mine referred me to her, heard she might be of help to me on some research I'm doing. It's not an official police matter.just my own curiosity."
"She comes and goes. She likes to listen to Johari sing, so we were all kind of hoping she'd be here." Kim hesitated, biting her lower lip. "I'm not supposed to say where she is; I'll get in trouble. It's 'cause I heard Trevor call you 'Detective', and Amanda - well, Amanda's Amanda, and she has issues when it comes to people asking where she is. Especially cops."
Sara waited, guessing that the young woman really wanted to help.
"You might want to talk to Nick," Kim suggested finally. "He and Amanda are close; he might know how to reach her."
"And he would be?"
"See that guy in the brown leather jacket sitting alone at the table by the right side of the stage? He's got sandy brown hair and a kind of basketball-player's build?" Kim pointed.
"Yeah?"
"That's Nick. He's my boss."
Sara thanked the barkeep, grabbed her drink, and made her way to the table as the singer's voice floated through the pub, sultry and longing in the way of a classic torch singer. The singer's performance was impressive enough that Sara just stood for a while, admiring the talent while she waited out the song, though the volume in the club was such that conversations could still be held. She clapped briefly, then took the relative silence as an opportunity to slide into the empty chair at Nick's table and introduced herself.
"I'm Sara Pezzini," she said. "Kim said you might know how to get a hold of a friend of yours, Amanda LaFavre."
Hazel eyes studied her warily before he took the hand she extended. "Nick Wolfe," he introduced himself. "And yes, I do know where she might be, but it's hard to say where exactly." He chuckled softly. "She's a butterfly, here, there, and gone. If you're lucky, the storm she brings passes you by." He assessed Sara more carefully, in much the same manner she'd use to assess a suspect, and her initial judgment of him as being probably some collegiate has-been altered. "What do you want from her?"
"Just the opportunity to ask a few questions about a piece of jewelry I own," Sara answered. "I was told she's an expert."
Nick grinned openly, softening his sharply defined face, and took a drink from his glass. "Who told you that?"
"A woman I ran into at a bookstore this morning," Sara told him. "I was trying to find a book on rare objects, and she seemed quite insistent that I wouldn't find the answers there, but that Ms. LeFavre would know."
Nick's face darkened momentarily. "That explains Amy's call," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Well, Amanda would be the one I'd ask if I wanted to know about some old piece of jewelry. She's quite enthralled with stuff like that."
"You wouldn't know how to get a hold of her? A phone number, maybe?"
He chuckled. "Not for a cop," he told Sara, regret and amusement lacing his voice.
Quirking an eyebrow at that, Sara asked dryly, "She has something to hide?"
"Everyone has something to hide," Nick countered. "It's just a question of how dangerous that secret is."
"Oh?" Intrigued despite her own suspicion that Nick wasn't going to tell her much of anything, Sara leaned forward. "And what dark, ugly secret do you have to hide?"
"I used to steal all the erasers and stick chalk in the center so that they'd squeak when the teacher used them," he replied promptly.
"Oh, really?" Amused, Sara added, "And I suppose you've always been a Boy Scout otherwise." She wondered, briefly, at the Witchblade's maddening flashes of swordfights with Nick as one of the combatants, and wondered what the lightning storms meant.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "Except, of course, when I graduated to Eagle Scout."
"Of course." She studied him a moment, then went with her gut. "You used to be a cop. What would you do if what you knew to be true wasn't anymore?"
He didn't answer right away, apparently caught in a memory. Finally, he sighed. "Got drunk, tried to ignore it, tried to disprove it, and after a while, found a way to live with it," he replied quietly. "Sometimes the only choice is to live with it or die."
"And if you can't?"
He shrugged. "Someone else might have the chance to turn the world on its head. Might be for better, might be for worse, might be for nothing." He paused and sipped on his drink. "So what's your deep, dark secret, Sara Pezzini?"
"I'm this generation's wielder of the Witchblade. And it's telling me you do some pretty deadly duels with a sword."
Nick's expression didn't waver. "And?"
Sara smiled and silently admired his poker face. "And nothing," she told him. "I don't always understand what it tells me or why. I came here hoping to find someone who might explain better this destiny I've been handed."
"Sorry," Nick apologized. It took Sara a second to register that he sounded genuinely regretful. "But I doubt Amanda would tell you more than what you already know. God knows she didn't tell me everything I needed to know."
"About what?"
"About how to tend a bar," Nick dodged, and rose to his feet. "Your drink's on the house. Enjoy the rest of the show, Detective, and good luck finding answers. Watch your head."
With that, he left.
Sighing, feeling more than a little frustrated, Sara waited until the end of the show, hoping that perhaps she'd get lucky, then reluctantly departed the pub. Every time she got closer to finding answers, it seemed she was never close enough. Mentally, she added the pub to her list of places to watch, suspecting even as she did so she could show up seven nights in a row and miss Amanda every time.
finis 10/30/05