I've read a couple really great Girl!Marcone prompts, but most of them elide the difficulties Marcone would experience getting the underworld to line up behind her if she was a woman. I wanted to take a look at a Marcone who knew she couldn't replace Vargassi, and how she'd manage. So, uh here, strangely gen, near-het, warnings for homophobic hate-speach. There you go?
I sort of knew about her before. I mean, there's rumours, right? And it's not the kind of thing I listen to, but Bob read anything he could get his metaphorical hands on, the trashier the better, which included the kinds of tabloid with headlines like "Mafia Madame walks after 15m private session with judge!" Whenever my job brought me into contact with ladies of the evening, (which happens to me, professionally, more than you might think) Bob wanted to know if I'd run into "The Mrs. I hear she's quite the looker. C'mon, you'd tell me if you did, right, Boss?"
That was apparently what they called her: "The Mafia Mrs," like she was married to the mob. Later on, I found out calling her that was a bad idea, but that came later.
Anyway, it started out as a find-it job, a guy who came to me looking for his great-uncle's accounting records, lost since he died. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that it wasn't his great-uncle, and the kid was one of several dozen wise guys scrambling to find some documents, "insurance," that a deceased consigliere had stashed with his mistress. Everyone had known about his insurance, and, word was, his insurance was keeping him pretty safe, except that he died in a traffic accident, and no one knew who his mistress was. In the frantic search, someone finally got desperate enough to think of giving me a try. I would have handed the whole thing over without realizing what I was doing, except that when I tracked down the papers (using the deceased's fountain pen) I found out that the reason no one knew who the mistress was was because the mistress was a mister, and the kid was scared out of his mind and hiding out in a twenty-four hour laundromat.
I barely had time to figure out how badly I'd been lied to when the laundromat was suddenly full of large men in suits. "Out," said one of 'em who shaved his head to conceal his receding hairline, who I mentally named 'Curly'. The half-dozen people waiting for their spin-cycles skedaddled. I stayed, since the kid was practically my client, or would have been, if we'd been able to talk long enough for me to make him understand who I was.
"You too," Curly said, when the laundromat had emptied and I hadn't moved.
"I know how it is; I leave here and you're stealing my delicates. You can't trick me," I told him. He and my client both looked at me like I was nuts. I like it when they underestimate me, but my client's lack of faith was a little bit hurtful. What, I can't have feelings?
Curly shrugged. The thugs started opening up the dryers and washing machines that were still spinning. At first I thought they were looking for the insurance in the stupidest possible place, but as the clamour of the laundromat wound down, a large black SUV pulled to a stop, and out got a man who I didn't recognize, but had the sudden unshakeable conviction was Tony Vargassi. A tiny voice pointed out to me that the kid had not actually paid me a retainer, and it might be a good idea to take my lacy unmentionables and depart.
I told the tiny voice that my unmentionables were not lacy, thank you very much.
The laundromat was silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, when Tony Vargassi walked in the door.
Vargassi looked between me and my client and scowled. "Which one is Torrio's butt-boy?" he asked Curly, who was apparently the designated talker for the group. I had the brief thought that I could try taking the heat for my client, but Curly nodded at him before I could claim to be Spartacus. My client seemed to shrink under the force of Vargassi's glare.
I want you to know, I was putting together a plan, (or, at least, I was trying to think of a plan) but even a wizard has problems with approximately two-dozen armed men.
"You're in a fuckload of trouble, you little faggot," said Vargassi, when he was interrupted a click.
Take it from me, it takes a hell of a click to interrupt a guy with twenty armed men at his back, and this wasn't the click of a firearm, but rather the click of a woman's shoe. But she made it seem like the hammer of a revolver being cocked. There was a pause, while everyone turned to look.
I've seen white court vampires wield sex appeal like a bludgeon before, but I never knew mortal women could do it until Marcone walked into that laundromat like it was her goddamn boudoir. I don't quite know how to describe it. It was nothing overt; she was dressed like maybe someone's executive assistant, a black skirt of the sort that looked like it might be tricky to walk in, but it went past her knees, and a white blouse that closed at the throat. It should have looked like a piano teacher, but it looked like Lauren Bacall if she were a brunette. As soon as she had the attention of everyone in the room, she fired off her heels again, tack! tack! tack! and approached Vargassi as if he was the only one she saw.
"Mr. Vargassi. I hope our agreement has not changed?" she asked, sounding like a knife tearing through wet silk. It wasn't just me, either; Vargassi looked slightly dazed as well.
"I don't--" started Vargassi, but his voice sagged to a stop when she started talking again.
"Because I believe our original agreement was that if you had trouble with one of my employees you would come to me."
Vargassi seemed to regain his faculties. I felt a little bit of sympathy for him, although I pretty much lost it when he started talking. "Are you saying the faggot is one of your girls?"
She looked pissed, but, like, in a sexy way. "Mr Ferdinand is a professional, working in Chicago. That makes him one of mine."
"Wait a second," said Vargassi, "You knew Torrio was a fag, and you never mentioned it to me?"
"The sexual predilections of your employees are outside of our agreement," said Lauren Bacall. "If you wish to renegotiate, I am at your disposal, of course. Although perhaps not here." Her gaze flicked around the laundromat as if she was only acknowledging its existence under duress.
I kinda wished I had popcorn.
Vargassi visibly recalled the reason he was standing in a laundromat with two dozen thugs with guns. "Your butt-boy is holding onto some things which he shouldn't know about."
Ms. Bacall lowered her eyes momentarily in acknowledgement. "I'll contact you within the hour with their location. Mr Ferdinand, Mr Dresden?" and she spun on her heel and tack! tack! tack!-ed her way out the door.
I was half-way out the door myself before I realized what I was doing. In case you're wondering how she knew my name, let me tell you, I was wondering too. When I say I ran into some ladies of the night in a professional capacity, I mean in the capacity of my profession, not theirs. (Although one of 'em had enquired as to whether she could pay my bill with an exchange of services, I had been forced to explain that I did not think that would help me with getting my phone reconnected. She said she bet she could, but I had held out for cash, despite what Bob called me afterwards.)
So I was starting to guess who Ms. Bacall was, but I still didn't see how she knew who I was. And I hadn't a clue why I was following her out of a laundromat, except that I didn't really want to hang out with Curly and his friends, and didn't think I'd get another exit-line that good.
She walked out to where she was triple parked, after the goons, and Vargassi, and a red-headed line-backer held open the back-seat of a land-yacht. She folded herself smoothly in, Mr. Ferdinand followed, and so help me, so did I.
Inside, it was set up so the passengers could face each other, and I had the terrible suspicion that the vehicle had been used for sordid purposes in the past. I had just gotten around to feeling mighty uncomfortable in this carriage of sin with two ladies/gentlemen of negotiable virtue, when Ms. Bacall suddenly said, in a totally different voice, and in fact, a different accent, "And that, Jimmy, is an example of the sort of thing that does't happen when you keep me in the loop." She pulled off her pearl earrings, and I gaped, realizing that they were't even real: they were clip-ons. It was like seeing the back-side of a painted set piece. The sex appeal was switched off like it hadn't even been there, and she looked like a business woman annoyed at getting frappuccino when she'd ordered a latte.
Jimmy (he really didn't look like a Jimmy) covered his face with his hands, and sounded badly shaken. "Sorry ma'am," he plead, sounding very sincere. "I didn't think it was important. I thought it was, like, presents for his grand-kids, or maybe a nice kiss-off for me, or something. He just said I should hold on to it, and take a look at it if anything happened, he never said it was-- you know."
"You'll make it up to me," she told him, and I wasn't sure how exactly she meant that. Jimmy didn't look like he thought it would be fun for him personally, but he didn't look scared, so I put it down under 'man was not meant to know.'
"Mr Dresden," she said to me, as if we'd just met while lined up at a Starbucks, "I'm pleased to meet your acquaintance at last. Where can I drop you off?"
"Lady," I said, in my incredibly suave way, "Who the hell are you?"
"Genevieve Marcone," she said, and held her hand out to be shook. "I've heard of you from various of my people."
I looked at her hand, and wasn't sure if I should shake it. Not because I thought she had cooties, or anything, just, well. It kind of felt like I might be agreeing to something, and I had no idea what. Her face got a little pinched as I hesitated, but her smile stayed, even if it started looking a bit forced.
I felt like a heel, so I took her hand, and gave it a single pump.
"Harry Dresden," I said. "Always pleased to be able to help a lady."
Oh Harry! This Marcone is going to be utterly shameless in using your chivalry/ guilt lemming tendencies to make you dance like a puppet on a string. You're doomed, give in quickly, it'll be easier for everyone.
Something about Marcone not having pierced ears just makes her that much more awesome. I don't even know.
But yes, I agree with the others--Harry, you are so doomed. She will eat you alive and you will like it (and not even in the naughty way). Just give up.
It makes sense. Ripping out an earring it a quick and relatively easy way to mess up someones ear. wearing clip-ons means that if someone grabs them she won't be hurt. Prison guards wear clip on ties for the same reason.
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timeasmymeasure
Ms. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
Date: 2011-03-28 08:56 pm (UTC)I sort of knew about her before. I mean, there's rumours, right? And it's not the kind of thing I listen to, but Bob read anything he could get his metaphorical hands on, the trashier the better, which included the kinds of tabloid with headlines like "Mafia Madame walks after 15m private session with judge!" Whenever my job brought me into contact with ladies of the evening, (which happens to me, professionally, more than you might think) Bob wanted to know if I'd run into "The Mrs. I hear she's quite the looker. C'mon, you'd tell me if you did, right, Boss?"
That was apparently what they called her: "The Mafia Mrs," like she was married to the mob. Later on, I found out calling her that was a bad idea, but that came later.
Anyway, it started out as a find-it job, a guy who came to me looking for his great-uncle's accounting records, lost since he died. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that it wasn't his great-uncle, and the kid was one of several dozen wise guys scrambling to find some documents, "insurance," that a deceased consigliere had stashed with his mistress. Everyone had known about his insurance, and, word was, his insurance was keeping him pretty safe, except that he died in a traffic accident, and no one knew who his mistress was. In the frantic search, someone finally got desperate enough to think of giving me a try. I would have handed the whole thing over without realizing what I was doing, except that when I tracked down the papers (using the deceased's fountain pen) I found out that the reason no one knew who the mistress was was because the mistress was a mister, and the kid was scared out of his mind and hiding out in a twenty-four hour laundromat.
I barely had time to figure out how badly I'd been lied to when the laundromat was suddenly full of large men in suits. "Out," said one of 'em who shaved his head to conceal his receding hairline, who I mentally named 'Curly'. The half-dozen people waiting for their spin-cycles skedaddled. I stayed, since the kid was practically my client, or would have been, if we'd been able to talk long enough for me to make him understand who I was.
"You too," Curly said, when the laundromat had emptied and I hadn't moved.
"I know how it is; I leave here and you're stealing my delicates. You can't trick me," I told him. He and my client both looked at me like I was nuts. I like it when they underestimate me, but my client's lack of faith was a little bit hurtful. What, I can't have feelings?
Curly shrugged. The thugs started opening up the dryers and washing machines that were still spinning. At first I thought they were looking for the insurance in the stupidest possible place, but as the clamour of the laundromat wound down, a large black SUV pulled to a stop, and out got a man who I didn't recognize, but had the sudden unshakeable conviction was Tony Vargassi. A tiny voice pointed out to me that the kid had not actually paid me a retainer, and it might be a good idea to take my lacy unmentionables and depart.
I told the tiny voice that my unmentionables were not lacy, thank you very much.
The laundromat was silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, when Tony Vargassi walked in the door.
Vargassi looked between me and my client and scowled. "Which one is Torrio's butt-boy?" he asked Curly, who was apparently the designated talker for the group. I had the brief thought that I could try taking the heat for my client, but Curly nodded at him before I could claim to be Spartacus. My client seemed to shrink under the force of Vargassi's glare.
I want you to know, I was putting together a plan, (or, at least, I was trying to think of a plan) but even a wizard has problems with approximately two-dozen armed men.
"You're in a fuckload of trouble, you little faggot," said Vargassi, when he was interrupted a click.
Take it from me, it takes a hell of a click to interrupt a guy with twenty armed men at his back, and this wasn't the click of a firearm, but rather the click of a woman's shoe. But she made it seem like the hammer of a revolver being cocked. There was a pause, while everyone turned to look.
I've seen white court vampires wield sex appeal like a bludgeon before, but I never knew mortal women could do it until Marcone walked into that laundromat like it was her goddamn boudoir. I don't quite know how to describe it. It was nothing overt; she was dressed like maybe someone's executive assistant, a black skirt of the sort that looked like it might be tricky to walk in, but it went past her knees, and a white blouse that closed at the throat. It should have looked like a piano teacher, but it looked like Lauren Bacall if she were a brunette. As soon as she had the attention of everyone in the room, she fired off her heels again, tack! tack! tack! and approached Vargassi as if he was the only one she saw.
"Mr. Vargassi. I hope our agreement has not changed?" she asked, sounding like a knife tearing through wet silk. It wasn't just me, either; Vargassi looked slightly dazed as well.
"I don't--" started Vargassi, but his voice sagged to a stop when she started talking again.
"Because I believe our original agreement was that if you had trouble with one of my employees you would come to me."
Vargassi seemed to regain his faculties. I felt a little bit of sympathy for him, although I pretty much lost it when he started talking. "Are you saying the faggot is one of your girls?"
She looked pissed, but, like, in a sexy way. "Mr Ferdinand is a professional, working in Chicago. That makes him one of mine."
"Wait a second," said Vargassi, "You knew Torrio was a fag, and you never mentioned it to me?"
"The sexual predilections of your employees are outside of our agreement," said Lauren Bacall. "If you wish to renegotiate, I am at your disposal, of course. Although perhaps not here." Her gaze flicked around the laundromat as if she was only acknowledging its existence under duress.
I kinda wished I had popcorn.
Vargassi visibly recalled the reason he was standing in a laundromat with two dozen thugs with guns. "Your butt-boy is holding onto some things which he shouldn't know about."
Ms. Bacall lowered her eyes momentarily in acknowledgement. "I'll contact you within the hour with their location. Mr Ferdinand, Mr Dresden?" and she spun on her heel and tack! tack! tack!-ed her way out the door.
I was half-way out the door myself before I realized what I was doing. In case you're wondering how she knew my name, let me tell you, I was wondering too. When I say I ran into some ladies of the night in a professional capacity, I mean in the capacity of my profession, not theirs. (Although one of 'em had enquired as to whether she could pay my bill with an exchange of services, I had been forced to explain that I did not think that would help me with getting my phone reconnected. She said she bet she could, but I had held out for cash, despite what Bob called me afterwards.)
So I was starting to guess who Ms. Bacall was, but I still didn't see how she knew who I was. And I hadn't a clue why I was following her out of a laundromat, except that I didn't really want to hang out with Curly and his friends, and didn't think I'd get another exit-line that good.
She walked out to where she was triple parked, after the goons, and Vargassi, and a red-headed line-backer held open the back-seat of a land-yacht. She folded herself smoothly in, Mr. Ferdinand followed, and so help me, so did I.
Inside, it was set up so the passengers could face each other, and I had the terrible suspicion that the vehicle had been used for sordid purposes in the past. I had just gotten around to feeling mighty uncomfortable in this carriage of sin with two ladies/gentlemen of negotiable virtue, when Ms. Bacall suddenly said, in a totally different voice, and in fact, a different accent, "And that, Jimmy, is an example of the sort of thing that does't happen when you keep me in the loop." She pulled off her pearl earrings, and I gaped, realizing that they were't even real: they were clip-ons. It was like seeing the back-side of a painted set piece. The sex appeal was switched off like it hadn't even been there, and she looked like a business woman annoyed at getting frappuccino when she'd ordered a latte.
Jimmy (he really didn't look like a Jimmy) covered his face with his hands, and sounded badly shaken. "Sorry ma'am," he plead, sounding very sincere. "I didn't think it was important. I thought it was, like, presents for his grand-kids, or maybe a nice kiss-off for me, or something. He just said I should hold on to it, and take a look at it if anything happened, he never said it was-- you know."
"You'll make it up to me," she told him, and I wasn't sure how exactly she meant that. Jimmy didn't look like he thought it would be fun for him personally, but he didn't look scared, so I put it down under 'man was not meant to know.'
"Mr Dresden," she said to me, as if we'd just met while lined up at a Starbucks, "I'm pleased to meet your acquaintance at last. Where can I drop you off?"
"Lady," I said, in my incredibly suave way, "Who the hell are you?"
"Genevieve Marcone," she said, and held her hand out to be shook. "I've heard of you from various of my people."
I looked at her hand, and wasn't sure if I should shake it. Not because I thought she had cooties, or anything, just, well. It kind of felt like I might be agreeing to something, and I had no idea what. Her face got a little pinched as I hesitated, but her smile stayed, even if it started looking a bit forced.
I felt like a heel, so I took her hand, and gave it a single pump.
"Harry Dresden," I said. "Always pleased to be able to help a lady."
Re: Ms. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
Date: 2011-03-28 09:06 pm (UTC)This is nifty and shiny and awesome!
Re: Ms. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
Date: 2011-03-28 09:15 pm (UTC)Re: Ms. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
Date: 2011-03-28 09:46 pm (UTC)Re: Ms. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
Date: 2011-03-28 11:14 pm (UTC)Re: Ms. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
Date: 2011-03-29 03:02 am (UTC)But yes, I agree with the others--Harry, you are so doomed. She will eat you alive and you will like it (and not even in the naughty way). Just give up.
Re: Ms. Marcone Makes Do [1/several?]
Date: 2011-03-29 11:08 am (UTC)