Chapter Text
How the Other Half Lives
“Wh-wh-where are you taking… me?” Kristiane giggled at the back of her friend’s head, rushing to keep up with his hurried steps.
Nigel St Clair took a stiff turn from 41 st Street onto Broadway, his hand squeezing hers as they cut through Times Square’s late afternoon tourists. The sun had descended behind one of the many skyscrapers, but the day was still very much alive, the hum of the city buzzing at an energized clip. Taxi horns, bus engines and street peddlers filled the air with a cacophony of sound, playing the familiar soundtrack of her home. The aroma of subway smog, asphalt and honey roasted nuts filled her nose and rooted her firmly in midtown Manhattan, and she loved it!
“Whe—Nig—Where… Nig?” Kristiane’s feet kept his frantic pace northbound, but her voice wouldn’t carry over the steelpan music and the appreciative clap of the crowd pushing in and stomping along to We Will Rock You.
Nigel pulsed his hand around hers, confidently leading the way to a surprise location he’d planned for her. He’d been thinking of this since the first day he met his little bird almost ten years ago. Kristiane made her Broadway debut in a production of The Man of La Mancha, appearing in the chorus.
One fateful day in July, the actress in the lead role, the woman playing Aldonza, had been hit by car while riding her bicycle through Central Park before the matinee. Mercifully she’d been uninjured, save a few scrapes and bruises, but she’d missed curtain call while filing police reports and filling out hospital forms. In a freak unprepared for event, the one standby and the two understudies for the role couldn’t step in for her, so the stage manager put Kristiane on as the lead.
From her first entrance, Nigel, in the audience with two clients, was enchanted, enthralled and fascinated by the petite singer with the wide innocent eyes, clearest voice and poorly fitted costumes. She wasn’t perfect in the role, too pretty, too young, but by God, she gave it her all. She hadn’t performed for the audience that day, she had done it for her, her passion for the stage, and her love of her voice floating over the notes. And she stepped offstage as a bona fide star with a fan for life in Nigel.
Backstage, the English businessman introduced himself to the twenty year old, using his status as trusted advisor in finance to one of the owners of the theatre to get in the door. An innocent discussion between the singer and the businessman led to dinner that night and an agent for her later, in another acquaintance of his.
Kristiane had gotten her first show by cattle call auditions, casting by type, as most chorus roles were young ingénues, and a great deal of luck. After meeting Nigel and her agent Darren, she no longer had to wake at five to get to six a.m. calls, her agent landed her appointment auditions for leading roles. Kristiane didn’t get all of them, but enough to keep her employed regularly.
Nigel remained friendly with his ‘little bird,’ as he dubbed her from the song of the same name in The Man of La Mancha. He frequented her shows, sent her flowers or gifts backstage, remembered her birthday and took her to dinner about once a month. He treated her well and respected the fifteen year age gap between them. He’d fallen in love with her; but instead of forcing or pushing a romantic or physical relationship on her and risk losing her entirely, he preferred having her in his life as a friend. He never made it weird or uncomfortable, and both were happy enough as friends.
Nigel smiled down at her as he tucked her hand under and through his arm, closing the distance between them as they ducked through another herd of people.
Kristiane’s eyes sparkled with her Broadway charisma and she bobbed her head, giving him the unspoken okay for whatever he had in mind. Some of their conversations were silent, trusting each other explicitly.
When they got to the intersection of 45 th Street, Nigel guided her across the street between two cement columns that supported the Marriott Marquis Hotel. The Marquis Theatre, located on the second floor of the hotel, was the future house of her next show. Fishing keys from his Armani trousers, Nigel unlocked the entrance to the street level stage door.
Kristiane squealed with excitement, reading the clues and sensing her friend’s hyper mood. Her voice twinkled and brimmed with a million questions. “How... how did you get those? When did you get them? How much time have we got?” She squealed with excitement when the door popped open under the shove of his foot. “Nigel? How?”
Enjoying her burst of enthusiasm, Nigel threw his long slim face back with a bellow of laughter. It was just the reaction he’d anticipated and Kristiane didn’t disappoint. “I pulled strings, little bird,” he winked, “for you.”
“You’ll have to show me where these strings are… some of us mere mortals want a yank.” That was the New Yorker in her, blunt, frank, and to the point.
“Stick with me, luv,” he said jovially, depressing the button for the service elevator that would take them to the green room backstage. The doors slid open, making next to no noise, specially designed to run during a performance without disturbing the audience.
They stepped in together, Kristiane wearing that doe-eyed, never-seen-this- before, I-can’t-wait-to-experience-it-all expression. “Not been to this one yet, only the house,” she whispered, excitement stealing the body of her voice. “I saw Bernadette Peters in Annie Get Your Gun in this theatre.”
Mocking her, he matched her whisper, “I know. That’s why I brought you here.”
She pouted for show, sticking her lower lip out in displeasure.
“Ms. Peters rode this very lift actually.” He turned to face her and landed the bigger news. “You’ll be in her dressing room, luv.”
The realization dawned on her slowly and her expression melted with it, from her playful pout, to doubt, to shock, to utter amazement. But she couldn’t fully digest the news before they reached stage level, the trip too short for realizations.
The doors shushed open into the green room, delivering them into a long narrow space filled with narrower chairs, sofas and serving tables. The staging area of a production was rarely actually green, rather a neutral gray with pops of color for the actors to wait for their cues in a communal area instead of their dressing rooms. This one awaited its new inhabitants on the eve of their arrival.
“Come on,” he encouraged to the roving eyes of the woman prowling through the somewhat generic space. Until the cast and crew moved in to make it their own, the room wouldn’t have a personality. “This way,” he instructed with a wave of his hand and tip of his head.
Within steps, the pair arrived in the small and crowded wing of stage right and onto the stage. Load-in had begun earlier that week, the crew already weeks into constructing and building sets, lighting techs refocusing lights and replacing gels, sound engineers testing wires and mics. Downstage, near the pit of music stands and nothing else yet, stood a ghost light, glowing in the darkened theatre.
“Welcome to your new home, luv,” Nigel announced, swooping her in and placing her center stage. He beamed proudly, brighter than the free standing light already there. This was a gift for her, one that he’d wanted to give since he first saw her ten years ago.
Kristiane floated down to the proscenium, her ready to please, let me entertain you eyes sweeping over the sea of red velvet seats, a familiar view, but no less special. A theatre house held a certain majesty and respect, a pride all its own, and though she’d been in hundreds, it didn’t lessen its hold on her. She bounced on the balls over her feet, ready to perform every show she’d ever learned for her audience of one.
Two, if the man standing house right in the mezzanine made his presence known. He faded into the near dark wall, watching, waiting, investigating. Kristiane missed the stranger in her excitement. Nigel missed him for watching her.
“Nigel!” she puffed from holding her breath, “This is…” she shook her head, searching for a word, something to capture this emotion that nearly consumed her in hysterical happiness. A word that would describe all he’d done for her over the years. “Have they made up another word for gratitude yet?”
Straightening his Armani jacket, “Stellar always suited me,” he bragged boastfully, his tongue firmly in his cheek.
“You’re a good man.” Kristiane stepped in closer to him, hiked up on her tippy toes and gave him a sound hug. “Thank you,” she murmured airily. “You’ve always been there for me and I’m gonna do you proud… for this...”
“You always do, little bird.” He stroked a hand over her back, breathing in all she was, savoring her, committing every moment of her to memory. He closed his eyes, feeling her breathe against him, her arms around his shoulder blades, her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs lining his. Savored every bit of her and then released her, holding her just that beat longer than usual.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, peering up into his face.
“What?” He blinked tears away quickly covering the moment with a wave of his hand. “Oh, of course, luv… of course, I am,” he cleared his throat, “Excited for you. I get to… show you off to the world.”
“Nigel, I’m ready to take the stage for you now, you know that. But please, don’t put all your chips on me. New musicals are risky… I’ll give it my all, but so few succeed.” She sighed, reeling in her mouth before she prattle on, as she'd been known to do. “You’re a good man, I trust you… have I really earned this much of your trust?” Realistic expectations helped her get by in the business when nothing was a done deal, and things changed within a New York minute.
“I have every confidence in the material and you as my star.” He stood straighter, refusing to believe otherwise. He’d done his research, he knew the market for shows wasn’t always lucrative, but he believed in Kristiane over all else. No one would convince him any different.
She quipped with a roll of her eyes, “I’ve been called the dreamer… they haven’t met you.”
Changing the subject, Nigel confessed, “I have something for you.”
Incredulously she widened her eyes at her friend. “You’ve done so much!”
“One more gesture… I had to,” he shrugged.
With a dubious grin, she reminded, “You say that every time.”
Inwardly, he hoped it wouldn’t be the last. “I wanted to wait until opening night but I don’t think I can.” His voice dropped as he produced a small gift box from his back pocket. “I had this made for you, as a reminder of where you started and who you are.”
Kristiane furrowed her brow and wiggled a forefinger under one of the taped flaps of the white gift wrapped box. It was small, small enough to fit in a pocket, but bigger than a jewelry box. She took comfort in that much, as his gifts were never quite that extravagant. She’d made it clear over the years that she wouldn’t accept anything too expensive or imply more than their friendship would allow for.
“For the rest of my life,” he paused to inhale deeply, suppressing a shiver, “I won’t forget the way you took that stage as Dulcinea.”
She tsked, “Aldonza.” A running joke between them. In The Man of La Mancha, Don Quixote had been struck with love at first sight when he saw Aldonza. She was a simple peasant, selling herself to men in town, but Quixote imagined her as the complete opposite. Her name became a bone of contention between the gently insane man and the kitchen whore. He called her Dulcinea in sweetness and kindness, while she felt she only deserved her given name because of her station in life.
Nigel and Kristiane kept up the back and forth over the years. Nigel believed her to be the most beautiful woman while she cried common, jaded and not as he saw her through rose colored glasses.
With the wrapping paper ripped away, Kristiane opened the box to find a music box keychain inside. It was a small box stenciled with pretty pink and blue birds all over it. The box itself opened with a clasp like a jewelry box and the inside played ‘Little Bird’ from The Man of La Mancha. He’d obviously had the keepsake made especially for her, because it was their history. She hugged it to her heart and then attached it to her bag with her other keychain. “I love it so much, Nigel.” She gave him another hug. “I’ll treasure it. Thank you.” She pulled back, marveling at the overwhelming number of gifts. “You’re a good man and you’re so good to me.”
“Sing for me,” he imitated The Phantom of the Opera, a glint in his eyes that he reserved for Kristiane. “Sing for me, my Angel of Music.”
Dropping her bag at the foot of the ghost light, she did as he instructed to make him happy.
*
Jonathan Pine adjusted the blue tooth headset on his ear, paired with his mobile in his hand, and speed dialed Angela half a world away. He was only three minutes late for their nightly briefing while he was undercover in a New York City theatre. Unexpectedly, the man he’d been investigating arrived at the theatre with a date after the crew had left for the day. He hugged the wall and maintained his low profile while the pair talked. He couldn’t hear their conversation from so far back.
The call connected to a clipped and precise, “Burr here.”
“The accountant has arrived at the theatre,” he whispered into the headset, not to raise suspicion with the two people center stage.
“What’s he done?”
“I think he’s dating. There’s a woman with him.”
“What? Who? Is she part of the portfolio? Part of his business?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s chattin’ her up.”
“Pine, who is she?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her about yet. First time I’m seeing her.” He’d been in New York City for two days, and had begun his surveillance straight away. MI6 had an agreement with the hotel owners and the theatre management to investigate a possible money laundering operation within the new production. Pine had to keep his presence on the down low until rehearsals began in a fortnight in order to have his cover as catering chef for the cast and crew.
“What’s she look like?”
“Female. Brunette. Looks to be… mid-twenties, I think. Wide blue eyes…”
“Take a photo. I want her in the file, if she knows St Clair. Find out who she is and if we can use her. She could prove useful.”
While Angela spat out order after order and plan after plan, Jonathan used his phone to snap a shot of the female on stage. He texted the picture to Angela to work with on her end with Singhal, to get a name and identity so he could angle in close to her, possibly use her to get close to their intended target.
If he allowed himself the luxury and if he personally subscribed to these things, he could admit that she was an attractive woman, the woman on stage. He couldn’t subscribe to these things anymore. He got himself into more scrapes, bruises and sores because of a woman than he cared to admit. He’d shut that part of him down, shut it away and locked it up.
But he could confess that this one with a diamond shaped face, plump lips and legs for days that he could distinguish from the distance, long thick wavy hair the color of butterscotch and shapely arse hat her jeans had the good sense to hug was a pretty one. He pegged her for a performer and his suspicion only confirmed when she opened her mouth to sing.
Angela heard it. “What’s that?”
“She’s singing,” he deadpanned. When he agreed to case out a theatre, Jonathan hadn’t considered the acting, singing and dancing part of it. The reality dawned with the sounds coming from the woman on stage. Not that the sounds were unpleasant, far from it in fact, quite the opposite, but he was wholly unprepared for it.
“It’s quite lovely, that.” She paused, presumably to listen to more through the long distance phone call. “This her?” the picture had arrived at its destination.
Jonathan grunted a sound of agreement, watching the simple act of a woman singing, but this one seemed different somehow.
“Disney princess, that one. Do ya reckon that St Clair is shaggin’ her?” A blunt question, but Jonathan read the motive behind it. Everything centered on working the Accountant and getting to him.
Ignoring the surprisingly accurate comparison, Jonathan focused on the girl and Nigel St Clair’s response to her song. The dark cloud of uncertainty dimmed or cleared from above his head. After tracking the man for several months, Jonathan watched the dealings in Zurich, London and now New York City play on the Accountant. The stress wore him down, the pressure of working, cooking the books, running numbers for the bigger shark grayed his temples and had him popping ulcer meds like candy. A true genuine smile brightened his face and made St Clair look years younger, not that he was an old man. A few years shy of that status, but Jonathan would’ve easily guessed ten years older when he first laid eyes on him in London.
“She’s not stopping,” he finally informed Angela in a flat tone. He heard fingers on keyboards from her end, and wondered if she might just work through the night with another face to concentrate on.
“She will.”
“If you want me to follow this one, I’ll need a muzzle and a lifetime supply of paracetamols.”
Angela snorted. “Care package on its way. Anything else to report?”
“I’m in place. Rehearsals start in a week for the new show. I’m doing what recon I can once the crew leaves for the day.” Patience. That was the key to this mission, but Jonathan felt the need for action build at the base of his spine. The tingle of anticipation of forward momentum clawed at him, swirled in his head, and put him at the ready.
“Wait for my signal to move forward with the next bit. Got Joel runnin’ sumthin’ here. A few days… Stay out of sight for now. Ear to the ground, learn what you can ninja like.”
“Understood.” He rung off until the next check in and disappeared into the darkness of the theatre.