Black Monday, "Meet the Taylors", pt. 1
Aug. 5th, 2005 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardMore Black Monday, in lieu of my actually working on Omerta (it's coming. slowly. hopefully Flack won't shoot anyone.). This takes place right before the M/S and is part one of probably two. Maybe three. Any discrepancies in dialogue I blame on the fact I've been reading Great Expectation for school.
"Oh, Maclarin!" Stella had a brief impression of gold silk and perfctly coiffed white hair before the old woman's bony arms closed around Mac's neck. She pulled back a moment later and said to the facelesss horde of richly dresed Somebodys that had followed her rush, "Hamilton, Evelyn, darling, you never told me you'd managed to roust Maclarin out for my party! However did you keep it a secret?"
"I had nothing to do with this," a tall man with Mac's chin said, staring at Mac with something hard and unsatisfied in his eyes. "Evelyn?"
The woman at his side fluttered anxiously for a moment. "Maclarin, I didn't know you were in town? Why didn't you call?"
Mac looked like he'd just been hit with a two-by-four while at his wife's funeral, but he swallowed and said quietly, "Hello, Mother, Father. Happy birthday, Great Aunt Beatrice."
The older woman - who was ninety if she was a day - gave Mac another bony hug. "You are too good for me, young man. Come, come, we can make room for another two chairs. Lionel, you can take care of that, can't you, sweetie?"
"Of course, great aunt," a wispy young man said, and Stella almost expected him to bow as he backed away.
"That's not - really necessary, Great Aunt Beatrice," Mac said uncertainly. "I didn't actually know - I mean, Stella and I were just on our way out. I wouldn't want to be any trouble -" Chicago was thick and frantic in his voice, thicker than Stella had ever heard it before, and she stepped up beside him and put her hand on his arm, feeling him filnch, then relax when he realized it was her.
"It's no trouble at all, Maclarin," Beatrice said. "Why, I haven't seen you in more than twenty years! We really must catch up." She hooked her arm in his and towed him towards the long table in the back. Stella followed, wishing she had her gun so she could shoot the guy with the camera that was clicking away rapidly, an expression of glee on his lanky face.
They were fit in across from Beatrice and between Mac's parents and another couple, both which who kept looking at Stella like they weren't sure what rock she'd sprung out from under. She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at them and isntead picked up the menu laid across her plate, unable to keep herself from comparing it to a New York restaurant of equal status.
Beatrice snuck a look at Mac's left hand. "Why, Maclarin, you hadn't told me you'd married! Is this your lovely wife?"
Mac went dead white, staring down at his menu with speechless grief behind his eyes.
Stella put her hand lightly on his knee in sympathy - fucking lot of lunatics you got for a family, partner, I'm glad I'm an orphan if this is the alternative - then cleared her throat and debated a moment the wisdom of turning Danny's outer boroughs accent at its thickest on her, but finally dismissed the notion as being cruel and unusual punishment for an old lady. "Actually," she said, "I'm his partner. Stella Bonasera."
"Maclarin, you don't mean to tell me you've been living in a state of sin with this young lady?" Beatrice demanded, looking a little thrilled at the idea.
Stella almost spat out the mouthful of wine she'd just inhaled. Coughing into her wrist - she hadn't heard anyone say "state of sin" with a straight face since Sister Mary Katherine died six yers ago - she said, "Mac and I work together, Mrs. - uh -"
"This is my great aunt, Beatrice Amronklin," Mac said, staring at a point on the wall. Stella followed his gaze; nothing interesting there.
"Actually, it's Goldklang again," Beatrice said. "I married your great uncle's brother about a decade ago, and we had a few years of happiness before he passed away, God bless his soul."
"Maclarin, darling, why don't you introduce us to your - lady friend?" Mac's mother said, with a barely noticeable pause before "lady" and a soft Southern accent.
"Oh," Mac said uncertainly. "This is Stella Bonasera. Stella, my parents, Hamilton and Evelyn Taylor, and my uncle and aunt, Everett and Sofia Taylor." He glanced around at the other occupants of the table, visibly struggling to fit a name to each face. "Lionel Amronklin...Marcus Taylor...Diandra Goldklang -" This was a slender woman with artlessly styled red hair and a familiar logo on her silver bracelet.
Being from New York, Stella was no virgin to celebrities, even having once worked a case with Aiden that had ended proving Penelope Gutenberg innocent of murder. The designer had been so grateful both of them still received packages with prototypes of new clothing tailored especially for them, and it was one of the few advantages that came along with the job. Still, from the arrogant look in Diandra's eyes, she at least expected acknowledgement. "I've always admired your work," Stella said, and tried not to think too much about the last place she'd seen the Goldklang logo, on the strap of a purse wrapped around a teenage girl's neck.
Diandra shot her a bright smile. "Why, thank you. It's always good to hear I've made a name for myself. Where did you say you were from again?"
"I didn't. New York City."
"And you say you and Maclarin work together?" Evelyn Taylor broke in. "Are you partners in a law firm, perhaps? I had so hoped Maclarn would follow in his father's footsteps, even though he's always been interested in...other things." She shot Mac a unreadable look.
Mac looked away. Stella said, "We enforce the law, not argue it." At the sudden influx of blank stares she received, she added, "Mac and I are detectives in the Crime Scene Unit of the NYPD."
Beatrice clapped her hands together delightedly. "Detectives! How quaint. I do love to read mysteries. All those villains!" She shuddered expansively. "Tell me, what's been your favorite - what do they call it - case. What's been your favorite case, Detective Bonasera?"
"There have been so many," Stella murmured, deciding the decapitation they'd worked last week probably wasn't a good topic of conversation.
Everett Taylor - Taylor Steel's CEO, Jesus Christ, one seat away from her - leaned back with his arm around his pretty wife's shoulders. "Well, come then, tell us about one. Have you been in many shootouts?"
"Not in the past week."
"Have you ever killed a man, Miss Bonasera?" Sofia Taylor - a trophy wife if she'd ever seen one - asked ina cultured British voice.
"Sofia, I don't think that's a very appropriate subject of conversation for the dinner table," Mac's mother said sternly. "And hardly an appropriate interest for a lady. Do ignore her, Miss Bonasera. She's young."
Since Sofia Taylor was probably around Stella's age, there was something faintly hypocritical in this statement, but Sofia lowered her eyes immediately and poked at her newly arrived salad with her fork. Evelyn sniffed. "How did you come to make the acquaintance of my son, Miss Bonasera?"
Stella skewered a neatly sliced half of baby tomato and chewed for a moment swallowing. "My first day with the Crime Lab, I got called out of bed at two in the morning because of a triple over in Brooklyn. We didn't have much chance to talk until we got back to the lab, though, but after that we didn't see daylight for another twelve hours. Or was that the decomp in Queens?"
Mac gave her a grateful, somewhat scandalized look. "It was the triple," he said. "I remember; you got -"
"- footprints in the blood, yeah. I wasn't the only one, buddy-boy, we were practically swimming in the stuff." At the rest of the table's still shocked faces, "COD was exsanguination, and the basement looked like someone had painted the room with the stuff." She gaver Everett her brightest smile. "Not my favorite case, but my first."
"Oh, Maclarin!" Stella had a brief impression of gold silk and perfctly coiffed white hair before the old woman's bony arms closed around Mac's neck. She pulled back a moment later and said to the facelesss horde of richly dresed Somebodys that had followed her rush, "Hamilton, Evelyn, darling, you never told me you'd managed to roust Maclarin out for my party! However did you keep it a secret?"
"I had nothing to do with this," a tall man with Mac's chin said, staring at Mac with something hard and unsatisfied in his eyes. "Evelyn?"
The woman at his side fluttered anxiously for a moment. "Maclarin, I didn't know you were in town? Why didn't you call?"
Mac looked like he'd just been hit with a two-by-four while at his wife's funeral, but he swallowed and said quietly, "Hello, Mother, Father. Happy birthday, Great Aunt Beatrice."
The older woman - who was ninety if she was a day - gave Mac another bony hug. "You are too good for me, young man. Come, come, we can make room for another two chairs. Lionel, you can take care of that, can't you, sweetie?"
"Of course, great aunt," a wispy young man said, and Stella almost expected him to bow as he backed away.
"That's not - really necessary, Great Aunt Beatrice," Mac said uncertainly. "I didn't actually know - I mean, Stella and I were just on our way out. I wouldn't want to be any trouble -" Chicago was thick and frantic in his voice, thicker than Stella had ever heard it before, and she stepped up beside him and put her hand on his arm, feeling him filnch, then relax when he realized it was her.
"It's no trouble at all, Maclarin," Beatrice said. "Why, I haven't seen you in more than twenty years! We really must catch up." She hooked her arm in his and towed him towards the long table in the back. Stella followed, wishing she had her gun so she could shoot the guy with the camera that was clicking away rapidly, an expression of glee on his lanky face.
They were fit in across from Beatrice and between Mac's parents and another couple, both which who kept looking at Stella like they weren't sure what rock she'd sprung out from under. She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at them and isntead picked up the menu laid across her plate, unable to keep herself from comparing it to a New York restaurant of equal status.
Beatrice snuck a look at Mac's left hand. "Why, Maclarin, you hadn't told me you'd married! Is this your lovely wife?"
Mac went dead white, staring down at his menu with speechless grief behind his eyes.
Stella put her hand lightly on his knee in sympathy - fucking lot of lunatics you got for a family, partner, I'm glad I'm an orphan if this is the alternative - then cleared her throat and debated a moment the wisdom of turning Danny's outer boroughs accent at its thickest on her, but finally dismissed the notion as being cruel and unusual punishment for an old lady. "Actually," she said, "I'm his partner. Stella Bonasera."
"Maclarin, you don't mean to tell me you've been living in a state of sin with this young lady?" Beatrice demanded, looking a little thrilled at the idea.
Stella almost spat out the mouthful of wine she'd just inhaled. Coughing into her wrist - she hadn't heard anyone say "state of sin" with a straight face since Sister Mary Katherine died six yers ago - she said, "Mac and I work together, Mrs. - uh -"
"This is my great aunt, Beatrice Amronklin," Mac said, staring at a point on the wall. Stella followed his gaze; nothing interesting there.
"Actually, it's Goldklang again," Beatrice said. "I married your great uncle's brother about a decade ago, and we had a few years of happiness before he passed away, God bless his soul."
"Maclarin, darling, why don't you introduce us to your - lady friend?" Mac's mother said, with a barely noticeable pause before "lady" and a soft Southern accent.
"Oh," Mac said uncertainly. "This is Stella Bonasera. Stella, my parents, Hamilton and Evelyn Taylor, and my uncle and aunt, Everett and Sofia Taylor." He glanced around at the other occupants of the table, visibly struggling to fit a name to each face. "Lionel Amronklin...Marcus Taylor...Diandra Goldklang -" This was a slender woman with artlessly styled red hair and a familiar logo on her silver bracelet.
Being from New York, Stella was no virgin to celebrities, even having once worked a case with Aiden that had ended proving Penelope Gutenberg innocent of murder. The designer had been so grateful both of them still received packages with prototypes of new clothing tailored especially for them, and it was one of the few advantages that came along with the job. Still, from the arrogant look in Diandra's eyes, she at least expected acknowledgement. "I've always admired your work," Stella said, and tried not to think too much about the last place she'd seen the Goldklang logo, on the strap of a purse wrapped around a teenage girl's neck.
Diandra shot her a bright smile. "Why, thank you. It's always good to hear I've made a name for myself. Where did you say you were from again?"
"I didn't. New York City."
"And you say you and Maclarin work together?" Evelyn Taylor broke in. "Are you partners in a law firm, perhaps? I had so hoped Maclarn would follow in his father's footsteps, even though he's always been interested in...other things." She shot Mac a unreadable look.
Mac looked away. Stella said, "We enforce the law, not argue it." At the sudden influx of blank stares she received, she added, "Mac and I are detectives in the Crime Scene Unit of the NYPD."
Beatrice clapped her hands together delightedly. "Detectives! How quaint. I do love to read mysteries. All those villains!" She shuddered expansively. "Tell me, what's been your favorite - what do they call it - case. What's been your favorite case, Detective Bonasera?"
"There have been so many," Stella murmured, deciding the decapitation they'd worked last week probably wasn't a good topic of conversation.
Everett Taylor - Taylor Steel's CEO, Jesus Christ, one seat away from her - leaned back with his arm around his pretty wife's shoulders. "Well, come then, tell us about one. Have you been in many shootouts?"
"Not in the past week."
"Have you ever killed a man, Miss Bonasera?" Sofia Taylor - a trophy wife if she'd ever seen one - asked ina cultured British voice.
"Sofia, I don't think that's a very appropriate subject of conversation for the dinner table," Mac's mother said sternly. "And hardly an appropriate interest for a lady. Do ignore her, Miss Bonasera. She's young."
Since Sofia Taylor was probably around Stella's age, there was something faintly hypocritical in this statement, but Sofia lowered her eyes immediately and poked at her newly arrived salad with her fork. Evelyn sniffed. "How did you come to make the acquaintance of my son, Miss Bonasera?"
Stella skewered a neatly sliced half of baby tomato and chewed for a moment swallowing. "My first day with the Crime Lab, I got called out of bed at two in the morning because of a triple over in Brooklyn. We didn't have much chance to talk until we got back to the lab, though, but after that we didn't see daylight for another twelve hours. Or was that the decomp in Queens?"
Mac gave her a grateful, somewhat scandalized look. "It was the triple," he said. "I remember; you got -"
"- footprints in the blood, yeah. I wasn't the only one, buddy-boy, we were practically swimming in the stuff." At the rest of the table's still shocked faces, "COD was exsanguination, and the basement looked like someone had painted the room with the stuff." She gaver Everett her brightest smile. "Not my favorite case, but my first."
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Date: 2005-08-07 12:12 am (UTC)Exactly. He's tried to erase his past, in a way, except you can't really do that. I am surprised he never changed his name, but maybe the idea just didn't occur to him. Or maybe it did, but he's not that type of person. Like he did with Claire, he just tried to get rid of everything that reminded him of his past, and ignore it completely. I bet he doesn't have any high school yearbooks, or if he does they're boxed up in storage somewhere, or pictures or anything like that. But because he thought he'd never have to face them again, he just...didn't prepare for that. At all.
...I think I want to *be* Aunt Beatrice when I'm ninety. She also seems to be embracing her wonkiness with great cheer. Poor Mac, still, but it's nice to see that not *all* of his family members have sticks planted quite so firmly in their asses.
Great Aunt Beatrice is insane, but she's rich and insane and not all that bad compared to the alternative. I think Mac would have spent a lot of time at her house if his parents had allowed him to.