Les Deux Magots Cafe

[The Exodus]

OOC: Santiago/Myron! BIC:


Santiago Ortiz

It was eerily liberating to set your own hours. Santiago had always been at the command of call sheets or higher ups, avoiding police beats. He was an expert at waking early and staying up late and cramming the bits in between with useful things he had to do. But with no one to tell him when he had to be there or why, Santiago found himself at an utter loss. Client scheduled meetings, sure, but besides that, he had to work cases on his own time. Any laziness in his being—if there had been any to begin with—was now going through a trial-by-fire as Santiago worked his first case.

Armand Rousseau was a paunchy Frenchman with a wife who looked like Brigitte Bardot and a conspiracy theory about his wife. Rousseau was utterly convinced Eloise—the wife—was having an affair. Santiago had only been a private investiagator for all of five minutes when Rousseau practically tore the hinges off his office door and yet, Santiago had all the evidence he needed to conclude that was probably accurate. Rousseau’s hair was thinning, his gut thickening. He seemed prone to bursts of unexpected energy—possibly violence—and was so in love with Eloise that it was no wonder the woman probably wanted a little personal space. He also had enough money to waste on private detectives and no other redeemable quality Santiago could see. If the wife wasn’t cheating, it would only be a matter of time. That wasn’t quite empirical evidence, though. So for the last three days, Santiago had been on Eloise’s trail, watching her from a distance as she went about her routine.

It was skull-numbingly dull. So far, she’d gone to work at the daycare she helped to run twice; to the bakery three times. She’d been to the post office once, the market daily, and the same café during her lunch break. Every day. So. Dull.

Santiago had caught her looking his way once or twice. No look of recognition had crossed her features yet. He almost wished she would recognize him and confront him so he could tell her what a pathetic douche her husband was. And maybe suggest that if she hadn’t started having an affair that she find herself a real man real soon. Because dull though she may have been, Eloise Rousseau was too attractive to be tied down to Armand Rousseau.

Today, though, Eloise was supposed to be in Rouen with her sister and Rousseau wasn’t paying Santiago’s travel expenses to follow her, so he had the day off. At least, that’s how he interpreted it. He’d explained to Armand he had other, pressing cases in Paris to take care of and that unless he was prepared to pay for travel expenses and a bonus fee for other, missed work Santiago had, that he wasn’t going to Rouen. No check had been written. Santiago stayed in Paris.

Which left him free to have lunch with Myron.

Myron Bolitar was Santiago’s best friend. He hadn’t seen much of him in the last week or two, simply because life got busy when you were your own boss. He only had one case, but Santiago also had a few capital repairs to make on the building he’d bought. Santiago had spent much of the morning re-hinging a door. Armand had just about taken it off the frame, but the bottom hinge was almost rusted all the way through. There was also the computer system, with which Santiago spent a good chunk of time learning. His license hadn’t been gotten in a conventional way, so there were a few unconventional gaps in his education.

And Myron had likely been just as busy. The man still needed a long-term choreographer for the Moulin Rouge and Santiago wondered if Myron was content changing dance instructors and house moms as often as most people changed socks. And there was the day-to-day business of running a nightclub, which Santiago didn’t know much about. And the day-to-day workings of the performance troupe. The Moulin Rouge wasn’t some one-trick pony. Myron was probably swimming in work.

They’d texted a bit, but Santiago had little love for technology. Often, conversation died when he ran out of things to say. Witty one-liners, which comprised most of his relationship with Myron, didn’t translate well via text. He’d become one of those guys who ended a conversation with “Ok” because he couldn’t possibly think of anything to add. Everything he wanted to talk to Myron about, he wanted to talk about in person. He wanted to know how productive their last boys-night-out had been. Santiago had acted as Myron’s wingman that night, pairing him off with a busty blond. Santiago hadn’t pressed about it via text because there was nothing more tacky or more prone to being sent to the wrong number than a text conversation about sex.

His phone buzzed now and Armand’s number flashed on screen. Santiago looked at the text message sent.

“Fight w/ E. E going back 2 Paris. Took my car. Find her.”

Santiago had to laugh at the image of Armand standing at his sister-in-law’s house as his wife drove off in his car—a silver Espace IV that reeked of post-modern metro-masculinity, with it’s stupid aluminum doors—cursing and kicking at the ground. He hoped the car really did get as good gas mileage as promised and that Eloise had the good sense to drive the other way, dump the car, and cut her losses. Maybe she’d get some nice convertible on the way and music would play and credits would roll and Santiago would get a real case in the next episode.

Probably not. He’d have to track her down in the city tonight.

F*ck.

His chuckle died and Santiago texted back his usual, quick, “OK” before pushing the phone away. He had about an hour and a half until Eloise was within the city limits again. Just enough time for a lunch break with his best friend.

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

It was a crease. It was an indent that had the frightening power to become permanent and prominent. It caused the male species to feel powerless against it, because if a man were to use wrinkle cream… Well, uh, there went all dignity. It was something that came only to the hard working man of the world and punished him and tortured him for days on end. It was the effect of the cause of those idiotic clients that you must appease, the tardo moves that the employees make that makes you wish you could multiply yourself and just have yourself… work for yourself, and just every stupid move the people around you at work make. Which, was a lot. It was the addition to your face that reminded you of a long day at work.


It was…


The Stupid People Line.


Scholars, philosophers, doctors, scientists, gynecologists, nerd herds from around the world, and pretty much any important title having ‘ist’ at the end of it hadn’t discovered it, but leave it to Myron Bolitar to do so. The ‘stupid people line’ was an infectious disease that was taking on the population of business men from around the globe, at an alarming rate. It was that crease that formed in between one’s eyes from squinting so hard at how dumb people were. It hurt, it burned, and it ached. The stupid people line was something to be taken incredibly seriously. Once one formed the stupid people line, kiss all facial relaxation goodbye. The stupid people line was like a ten pound tension just between the eyes that made you feel on edge, and others around you to think that you were a woman during that time of month. Which, was worse than Godzilla on speed.


Myron Bolitar had formed the king of all stupid people lines today, and from the glances of all the other business men as he walked down the street to the café, they all understood just where Myron was at. Really, they didn’t. Did they have to look at over hundreds of resumes today, all with a pain striking white teethy smile that Colgate would wet their pants about, and beamy eyes that looked at him with obvious photo shopped colors? Did they have to hear the showy music starting over from one spot every two point five seconds, because Velma Kelly or whatever the hell her name was couldn’t do a friggin’ step ball change? Which, seriously, c’mon- it was the basics. Myron nearly step ball changed her head off, because running the Rouge and running the dance choreography until he found his next choreographer, just really wasn’t working out. Myron Bolitar had no patience, he had no feeling left in his feet, and he had a stupid people line from over thirty dancers, three song numbers, seventy five morning resumes, two meetings, and paperwork. The worst was the stupid people line. That was always the worst. The morning beast was permanently on his face. Where was the justice?


The justice was probably how Myron Bolitar still looked damn good.


The only redeeming thing about today would be the now moment, as Myron opened the door to the café and saw Santiago Ortiz, his best friend. Myron Bolitar couldn’t help but smirk, the stupid people line making him feel like a manic hyena *ss, but he was just that relieved and happy to see him. He hadn’t seen Santiago in awhile, and for this bromance, that just was not acceptable. They had- in the spirit of this best friend occasion- ‘mucho’ (see what he did there?) to catch up on, and Myron could use his grumpy and morbid comments today, because frankly, Myron was in that kind of mood too. They might be the perfect pair on a day like today.


Approaching the table, Myron Bolitar slid in across from him. To the outside eye they probably looked like sun and the moon, Obama and Ron Paul, Tom and Jerry, Winnie the Pooh and Scooby Doo- well, just opposites. Myron was sporting a business suit, and Santiago was sporting his leather apparel. Both good looking men, but their stereotypes wouldn’t fit. Screw that, though. It worked and it was nothing but awesome.



“Hello, you look good, I’ve missed you, lets never let this two week not seeing each other happen ever again, I wanna’ hear all your updates, bla bla bla-“ Myron Bolitar babbled on, waving his hand as he talked quickly, getting the petty intro out of the way that they were so beyond.


Leaning in closer, he murmured seriously pointing a finger at his stupid people line. “How bad is it, Doc?”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago watched Myron hurry into the restaurant and walk to the booth where he sat—as close to the back as he could get it. Myron slunk into the seat opposite Santiago.

“Hello, you look good, I’ve missed you, lets never let this two week not seeing each other happen ever again, I wanna’ hear all your updates, bla bla bla-“

Santiago half smiled. Myron was a strange man. But at least he didn’t put up with small talk bullsh*t. Santiago hated small talk more than he hated most things, except maybe cops. And these days, it was a toss up between the two. Myron leaned forward and jabbed a finger towards his own forehead.



“How bad is it, Doc?”

Santiago looked.

“How bad is what?” he asked. “That line on your forehead I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t pointed it out? Hideous. Completely disfiguring. But you’ll live.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

If there was one person on this planet Myron Bolitar could count on to tell the complete bare naked truth, it was Santiago Ortiz. His trueness was to the point that Myron appreciated the fact that he was not his wife, so he did not have to ask if a dress made him look fat. The outcome of that would shoot a self esteem. Though, Myron never thought what he would have looked like as woman. Hum, he wouldn't be a fat one, would he?

“How bad is what?”

Myron jabbed a finger in between his eyes.

“That line on your forehead I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t pointed it out? Hideous. Completely disfiguring. But you’ll live.”

Okay, well, ouch. Myron Bolitar sunk against the booth, not knowing to keep that whole, appreciating Santiago's honesty thing going in this friendship. He was obviously in a tizz, the friend could at least lie. Wow, Myron was more of a woman than he thought with all of this back and forth.

"You charmer."

Snatching up a menu, Myron brought it to his lap looking at it and reading the specials. The specials were usually a dissapointment though. What were the specials anyway? It wasn't like they put a big pink bow on it or anything.

"So, long lost friend," He said, glancing up at his menu briefly. "what have you been doing that is more important than me, pray tell."

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

If Myron hadn’t pointed it out, Santiago wouldn’t have noticed the crease. He would have seen it, sure, but he wouldn’t have cared. He still didn’t care. Myron was his best friend and so what if he was getting older? As long as he was always older than Santiago, the world was still turning the right way.

"You charmer," Myron huffed, snatching up his menu.

Santiago shrugged. He wasn’t on this earth to be charming.

"So, long lost friend," He said, glancing up at his menu briefly. "what have you been doing that is more important than me, pray tell."

“Work, mostly,” Santiago said. “I got to say: there are fewer homicide victims and more paperwork than you would guess. But it’s not bad enough to make me miss the Garnier.”

In truth, Santiago missed what he thought of as “his” theatre because he missed the lay of the land. He missed climbing up to the roof for a smoke, or prowling the catwalks during a performance. He especially missed his tech booth. But he didn’t miss the people as much as everyone swore he would. He didn’t miss the divas or the financial backers. He certainly didn’t miss the stage work. He missed the physicality of it, the feel of a saw in his hands or a drill as he worked on set pieces. He didn’t miss the lazy bums who didn’t finish their work on time. He didn’t miss being a part of an organism.

In truth, Santiago liked the idea of working alone or in small groups much more than anyone could imagine. He didn’t miss having to trust multitudes with things he could and would do for himself.

Besides, as far as anyone except Rachel knew, the Garnier had just been an assignment, security detailing after that weird spike of murders around the place. A ruse, a cover, as he ensured there were no more deaths. There hadn’t been. Santiago was lucky; especially since he hadn’t a clue who was behind that nonsense. He wanted to know, but until someone paid him to find out, it would just be another one of life’s mysteries.

“What about you? Tell me how that thing with that blonde went.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar


Myron Bolitar wasn't clingy in the least, but if this whole two week of not talking occurred ever again with Santiago, he'd probably have to take time off work and snag his attention somehow. Which, for both of their sake and all of the city's sake- it was best they just made time for one another. Who in the hell knew what Myron would do. Hell, most of the time, Myron didn't know what Myron would do. Not to get the violin strings going or anything, but truth was, Myron Bolitar couldn't afford to lose anyone else in his life. Madeleine, Toddy, but not Santiago. It was kiddie like, but for a sec, Myron had gotten a little anxious about it. But, here they were, and he could stop being stripper Hazel with too many daddy issues to count.


“Work, mostly,” Myron nodded silently. Santiago was preaching that to the choir. “I got to say: there are fewer homicide victims and more paperwork than you would guess. But it’s not bad enough to make me miss the Garnier.”

Myron had completely approved of Santiago's job change. Mostly because he would totally be the spokesperson against the Opera Populaire in a heartbeat, and would be unpaid at that. During his talent agent day he had dealt with prancing two pounders who looked transparent, pompous lards who threw around their money because they could, and at one point Myron Bolitar had become an agent to a man who dressed like a demonic Shakespeare character, and talked like Shakespeare in the park. Without a doubt, Santiago had to be at least a little pinch of miserable, which, a pissy Santiago Ortiz had to make everyone in that building miserable too.

Of course this whole, Reno 911 job had taken Myron a second to comprehend. Santiago Ortiz as a Detective was worth a respectful laugh. He didn't know why but he had imagined Santiago in a cop uniform. Anyways, it was shocking, but then once he thought about it it made sense. If anyone could kick a bad guy's *ss, it was his best friend. He just imagined that Santiago was the 'bad boy' of his teenage prime- you know, Marlon Brando, where you can't understand a single word he says in the movies, but somehow he became one of the best actors ever? Myron respected his friend before, but now, he respected him a lot. It was a selfless job- something that made Myron Bolitar question his own occupation.

“What about you? Tell me how that thing with that blonde went.”

The blonde? It took Myron a quick beat to figure out what he was talking about, but then he realized Santiago was so, so, so out of the loop. Myron Bolitar quickly grinned, and he didn't bother fighting it. Natalie Blackwood. Now, that was a thoughtful image wasn't it? The last time they had left off, she was just 'the blonde' across the room of the club. Santiago Ortiz had done some damn good work that night. Of course, it was suppose to be just a one night stand and that was the goal. So maybe to the world of men, Myron looked like a mushy tardo. He had thought about her, seen her a couple times, and well...

"Natalie." Myron told him, thumbing away his grin, looking down at his silverware, fiddling with the fork. "Her name's Natalie."

Looking up at Santiago now, Myron smirked, "And my friend, you deserve an award for your wing man skills."

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Myron shot Santiago a blank look. Santiago supposed he must have failed as a wingman then. Or that Myron had been a perfect gentleman the entire night, exchanging nothing with the blond but chaste kisses and compliments. Santiago resisted the urge to shake his head. But just as he was about to dismiss the whole thing, Myron’s face split into such a wide grin, Santiago wondered if his teeth might crack.

"Natalie." Myron told him, thumbing away his grin, looking down at his silverware, fiddling with the fork. "Her name's Natalie."

Myron still remembered her name this long afterwards? Santiago wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or concerned. She was a one-night stand. Either she’d been very talented, or Myron was hitching his wagon to the first pretty woman to make eyes at him since his failed engagement.

"And my friend, you deserve an award for your wing man skills," Myron added with a smirk. Santiago decided it must have been the former. He smirked back.

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” he said almost humbly. “Although, I will take credit for steering you away from your original top-four finalists.”

A redhead, a blonde, a brunette, and a man walked into the bar and instead of forming a terrible punch-line to a joke, they had been the ones Myron pointed out in a game the American called “Einey-Mieney-Miney-Hoe”. Needless to say, Santiago’s wingman skills had been necessary that night. Santiago plucked up his menu, and started to scan it. His phone vibrated with a text and Santiago looked down. It was from Armand and it said: Call if you find E as though Santiago was actively looking for the wayward wife. Santiago set down the menu and texted a quick “Ok.” Then, looking at Myron said:

“My delusional client about his supposedly slutty wife. Sorry.” He shook his head and grimaced. Right. Client confidentiality clause. Next time, he’d remember. “The man is loco, but he pays well.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

Myron was thankful that his best friend wasn't a 'bro'. Santiago Ortiz was far from it, and Myron Bolitar felt just amplified emotions of gratitude toward that fact. See, in bro land, the land of wearing jeans below one's *ss crack, walking in what he hears the young generation call 'swagger', and speaking in a language that made Myron feel as if Webster had never existed- the talk of the one night stands and the like, was just disgusting. Sure, there was the details that friends share with friends, but it was kept at a level of class that the 'bro' chat surpassed by a long shot. For instance, Myron would not be exclaiming how he 'got some', and how he, 'gave it to her'. Unfortunately, in the past, Myron had heard nothing but that talk around him, and mostly from his clients of the rich and famous. There was something that was said about it all between Myron and Santiago's smirks that could be kept at just that. So, no, Myron and Santiago weren't going to drop their chains low anytime soon, G-Unit.

"Well, I can’t take all the credit. Although, I will take credit for steering you away from your original top-four finalists.”

Myron grimaced, picking up his menu and having a gander. He wouldn't even think about the levels he was thinking of stooping to in the beginning of that night. Although, the creation of “Einey-Mieney-Miney-Hoe” was one for the books.

A phone rumble made Myron glance over to see Santiago looking down and picking away at the keys of his phone. He figured he'd save the 'don't text at the table, little Jimmy' lecture for another family dinner, and he looked over a little curiously. Texting Myron was stretching it for Santiago. Myron supposed that Santiago, the way he tapped the buttons in a short way meant that he was doing the infamous Santiago Ortiz text- 'Ok'. Myron Bolitar couldn't count how many times he had received that text message. Not that 'Ok' wasn't a word or anything, it was just textually frustrating. Myron considered himself to be a texting enthusiast. Since a person cannot tell how the other person is saying something, it is best one indicates through exclamation points. At least, that's how Myron Bolitar saw it. His version of 'Ok', was- 'Okay!' or, 'Yap!' or, 'Sure thang'. Which, who didn't like a charming smiley now and then? Santiago was at least not one of those, 'K.' people- he would at least give him that credit. Those people deserved to get their texting plan cut off, along with their fingers. Yeah, he felt that passionate about it.

“My delusional client about his supposedly slutty wife. Sorry.”

Myron rose his eyebrows and Santiago grimaced. Myron Bolitar got the whole, client confidentiality, since he use to have his own in his old field, but when it came to annoying clients and best friends- there really was no filter.

“The man is loco, but he pays well.”

"Would you like me to seduce her and see if she budges?" He asked with a smirk. Then, thought for a moment. "Damn, is the sanctity of marriage seriously coming down to this? Texting Detectives about their wives they're having be man hunted."

Myron Bolitar had a relief that he was single for the moment. Things like this just set him off, made him not like society and the way it was all heading. Then again, this dated back to a long ago time- only top hats and the old fashioned dirty secrets made it seem a little more scandalous and hot- at least in the movies. But now, with the texting and the desperate pay- with the 'slutty' wife- C'mon mankind, get it together.

"Got a clue if she's a skank-a-roo or not yet?"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Myron’s brows rose into a skeptical “M” on his forehead. They accented the line he’d pointed out earlier and now Santiago wondered how he was supposed to look at Myron without noticing it. He looked at the crease.

"Would you like me to seduce her and see if she budges?"

Santiago snorted derisively and took a sip of his water. He wondered if this was an extension of his wingmanning duties somehow, or if Myron really expected to get very far with an Old Hollywood replica, when he thought it was appropriate to play games like “Einey-Meeney-Miney-Hoe”.

Well, if she’s stepping out on her husband, Myron wouldn’t be wrong to call her a ‘hoe’…

Still, Santiago wasn’t budging on that skeptic snort. No way was Myron seducing his client’s wife.

"Damn, is the sanctity of marriage seriously coming down to this? Texting detectives about their wives they're having be man hunted?"

Santiago shrugged. He wasn’t sure if he believed in the ‘sanctity of marriage’. His parents had been faithful—insofar as he could tell—for nearly twenty years. It was possible to hold marriage vows sacred. But it was equally possible to hold a set of plastic beads sacred or a statue or a cow. People were strange, constructing rules and laws and religions to pacify some need to believe in something. Santiago had been a devout Catholic once, though. Sometimes, he still was. And he knew that marriage vows weren’t to be taken lightly. It was one of the reasons he resolved never to make them. Santiago set down his glass.

"Got a clue if she's a skank-a-roo or not yet?"

Santiago processed the Myronism and shrugged again.

“Well, if she is cheating,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame her. But no actual leads.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

If Myron had counted a sheep every time Santiago gestured in a shrug during a conversation, Myron Bolitar would be snoring away all over the table by now. Though, his friend was interesting and not snore worthy, and Myron had turned into something of an insomniac in the last few days. So there went that whole sh-peel. Then again, he didn't even want to venture into the depth of all the things Myron did during a conversation.

“Well, if she is cheating, I wouldn’t blame her. But no actual leads.”

Myron, who had picked up a spoon to examine his forehead, looked over at Santiago and snapped, pointing upward, "Ah! I know what that means. May I join forces with you, Sherlock?"

Knowing that he would be getting some sortive' glare, and well deserved at that, Myron returned back to his reflection, moving his forehead up and down and then trying to rub away at the crease. Was wrinkle cream too girly? He had thought of asking Toddy St. James, but he was dreading an excited squaw and a planned out 'spa day' happening.

"Which, speaking of joined forces." Myron said, setting the spoon down, and cocking an eyebrow. "How is that joined force with Rachel going over there?"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Hunches were bullsh*t. Any cop, any detective, any lawyer who relied on them was a fatalistic fool. Santiago got gut feelings, but many of those were instinctual, heat-of-the-moment feelings during a fight or a getaway. In investigating Eloise Rousseau, it didn’t matter how many “gut-feelings” Santiago got. Until he had hard evidence, he couldn’t satisfy his client. Even if a hunch was right, unless he could demonstrate it being right, Santiago had nothing. Even still, he’d be willing to place money on Eloise being faithful now, but a cheater within the next two years. Maybe Armand Rousseau was psychic.

"Ah! I know what that means. May I join forces with you, Sherlock?"

Santiago said nothing. He refused to let Myron in on his business venture. He wished he could say it was because Myron had no experience, but primarily, he didn’t think Myron could keep a low enough profile to be a private investigator. He’d be a wonderful contact someday and always his best friend, but if Santiago had to pick a Watson to his own Sherlock, Myron wasn’t it. Maybe Rachel or Georgette, but not loud, wisecracking Myron. Santiago stared at his menu.

"Which, speaking of joined forces." Myron said, setting the spoon down, and cocking an eyebrow. "How is that joined force with Rachel going over there?"

“Fine,” Santiago said, not looking up. “We know each other well enough not to drive each other too crazy.”

Not that Santiago had ever been particularly sane. Even still, Rachel was probably the only secretary he wouldn’t scare off. She called his bluffs, ignored his moody silences, and didn’t wonder what a guy like him liked Puccini for.

“She calmed this guy down the other day,” he said. This time, he looked up. “He came in, basically ripped the door off the hinges, and somehow Rachel had him sniffling into Kleenexes by the time he actually made it to my office.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar


It was like that Twilight phenomenon, and Myron was the stupid girl that was rooting for Jacob, when it was obvious anyone with a brain in their head, that it was all about team Edward. Ignoring the fact that Myron Bolitar had actually tried the series out, it was what he felt toward Santiago and Rachel. He would always be team them. Myron thought they were a power couple, and he had never seen his best friend be so happy and then be so miserable. Miserable was an understatement when he remembered Santiago's eyes when he handed him the gun. When someone felt that hard though, it was true love. Of course, they would both probably kill him if they ever figured it out, but Myron had always wished their would be a second chance for them. He firmly believed that they had never stopped loving each other. Then again, Myron could have been a hopeless romantic too much for his own damn good. The partnership between them probably was more exciting for him than anyone else. Myron's failed marriage made him really wish that someone would just get in love and stay there.

“Fine. We know each other well enough not to drive each other too crazy.”

Myron found a lot of irony in the sentence, and rolled his eyes at his menu.

"She calmed this guy down the other day."

Santiago looked up and Myron stopped rolling his eyes, looking up with a pleasant face as if nothing were happening over on that side.

“He came in, basically ripped the door off the hinges, and somehow Rachel had him sniffling into Kleenexes by the time he actually made it to my office.”

He laughed at that, picturing Rachel doing just that and not finding it to be too hard to believe. "Women." Myron said, sighing and putting down his menu, deciding on pates à l'italienne. "They seem to have this power I'll never understand." It was true. Madeleine always had that power that honed in everyone when she walked into a room.

The waitress came around to them and they both ordered their drinks. Myron decided to have a rum and coke.

"I have these two resumes in my briefcase." He told Santiago with a defeated look. Myron had narrowed it down to two people. A man, Alexander Sokoll, who had top notch skills and could easily bring quality entertainment for the Rouge. A younger twenty seven year old, Andi Foster, that was in New York City, who was young, but had a spark and talent in her that Myron was interested in. Every time he went to make the decision though, he was hit by some wall of the past. Everyone was pressuring him for a decision, and he knew he didn't have much time. The Rouge was practically on a standstill until he made a choice. The press was getting antsy. Everyone was asking why it was so hard, but Myron would not admit why.

He'd admit it to his best friend though.

"For the new choreographer, you know?" Myron folded his hands and shook his head, looking down at this thumbs. "I can't seem to get myself to make a decision, because I keep thinking about Madeleine and how she was the best for the Rouge, and there's no one that can take her spot."

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Rachel’s kindness made up for anything Santiago lacked. He couldn’t help but to be impressed with her ability to put people at ease. Even still, only time would tell if this working arrangement would be good for them. Santiago suspected that eventually, he would go crazy with or without Rachel there and there was nothing anyone could do about that. He lived each day one at a time, simply because he didn’t think tomorrow was a guarantee. Rachel merely delayed the onset of madness by keeping Santiago organized and talking to people he otherwise found distasteful and petty.

"Women," Myron sighed. "They seem to have this power I'll never understand."

Santiago said nothing but instead decided on the catch of the day. Before he could order his drink, however, Myron ordered a rum and coke. Santiago said nothing, but he was fairly certain drinking this early in the day was frowned upon in America. Either Myron was going native or something was bothering him. Santiago said nothing and instead insisted he was fine with water.

"I have these two resumes in my briefcase,” said Myron after the waitress left them. "For the new choreographer, you know?" Myron folded his hands and shook his head, looking down at this thumbs. "I can't seem to get myself to make a decision, because I keep thinking about Madeleine and how she was the best for the Rouge, and there's no one that can take her spot."

Santiago bit down on the inside of his mouth. Even though Myron and Madeleine hadn’t been together in nearly a year, Myron was still stuck on her. Santiago wished all ex-couples could be like he and Rachel were—at peace with the other’s existence, friends even. But Santiago had little love for Myron’s ex-fiancee. He’d been her boss up until recently, and Madeleine de Chandon hadn’t exactly endeared herself to Santiago. She was MaCarthy’s problem now.

“You aren’t replacing her,” Santiago said. “It’s just business. And if she gets bent out of shape, it just goes to show she made a dumb choice.”

Of course, Santiago was certain there were smarter, better women out there his friend could go for. Why he got hung up on an alcoholic, disrespectful wreck of a dancer was beyond him. He didn’t want to know why.

“So… close your eyes and pick if you have to.” Santiago shrugged. “If they’re both qualified, don’t let Madeleine hold you up. It’s just business.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

“You aren’t replacing her, it’s just business." Santiago said, telling something Myron already knew but needed to hear over and over every time he thought about making a decision. At times like this, Myron Bolitar often thought about just selling the damn place and taking his money's worth. Then he could start writing books, maybe start his own Agent business again, but this time not linger around the Opera House. Hearing about Santiago Ortiz's job move only inspired him. Of course, he wasn't going to be some lame copycat teenage girl, but it was something to think about and he had been thinking about. Then again, this could have all been a way to just run away and be a wuss from making this decision. He never knew with himself.

"And if she gets bent out of shape, it just goes to show she made a dumb choice.”

Myron wasn't so sure if Madeleine had made the 'dumb choice' to leave. He never really thought about how she was doing it. It made him pissed off too much.

“So… close your eyes and pick if you have to. If they’re both qualified, don’t let Madeleine hold you up. It’s just business.”


He nodded, almost wishing that he had never mixed business and pleasure together. It would have saved Myron from being so- Well, he was drinking a rum and coke in the afternoon. There was math to be done here.

"Yeah. I'll just suck it up." Myron said finally with a sloppy forced smirk over at his friend. Adjusting in his seat, he sighed, "Maybe I'll just hire you to check both of them out for me." He teased.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan technically didn’t have the day off. Tristan never had the day off. As long as the Grim Reaper was on the clock, so was Tristan. The last several days had been spent fixing up bodies for funerals, calling insurance companies, and penciling in sleep only to have the phone ring to tell Tristan he had to pick up another corpse or call the next-of-kin about scheduling conflicts. But now—freakishly—the embalming room was empty; the viewing room, too. The only bodies in the funeral home rested in the freezer.

“What do you mean you’re going home?” Tristan asked when Solange knocked on his office door to say goodbye. She shrugged as she slid into her coat.

“I mean there’s nothing to do here anymore,” she said. “We don’t have another funeral until tomorrow and unless you plan to go on a killing spree or something, you’re out of bodies to embalm. The phone hasn’t rung for two hours. I’m going home. You should, too.”

Apparently, even the Grim Reaper took a break every now and then. Tristan had gone home and slept for an hour. He took a shower and dusted his apartment. He hadn’t been home enough for there to be much else to do. He put some new lettuce in Isolde’s terrarium. He tried to sleep again.

But there was nothing to do. Tristan had a free afternoon. He hadn’t had a free afternoon in fifty-six days. He could remember that day. Like now, he’d been disoriented and restless. He felt like a waste of space when he wasn’t working. He called the school he usually volunteered for, only to discover that it was fall break. He tried to sketch, only to find that his hand wavered too much to draw a straight line. Too much caffeine in his system, if he had to guess.

And then Tristan remembered: Gwendoline. She said to call whenever. He felt stupid for not thinking of that first, but it had been so long since he’d had a friend who meant it when they said, “Call whenever”. He picked up the phone, dialed, and invited her to lunch.

And now Tristan sat across from Gwendoline Les Deux Magots. He looked out of place in the upscale restaurant, wearing jeans and a t-shirt as he was, but Tristan didn’t much mind. His clothes were clean and he spent too much time wearing suits at work. Besides, Tristan was with Gwen, whose clothes didn’t even match. Tristan had dressed enough bodies to know what went together and what didn’t. Tristan rather liked the zaniness of Gwen’s plaid dress, but he knew that most families wouldn’t bury their dead in it, so it probably wasn’t fancy enough for upscale restaurants. He gauged formality of dress that way. Everyone else in the restaurant seemed to be dressed elegantly. Corpse-clothes. But he and Gwen were dressed like normal, living, breathing folk.

I guess most people dress like stiffs for Sunday brunch…

“Thanks for coming with me,” Tristan said. “I haven’t had a day off in fifty-six days and I wasn’t expecting to have free time. I know it was short-as-hell notice.”