Logs:Vignette - Conciergerie

Vignette - Conciergerie
cn: allusions to murder and child sex trafficking
Dramatis Personae Lucien	2022-05-30 '
Location <HFC> Concierge's Office - Hfc Ground Floor
The space is small, luxuriously appointed, if rather mild by the standards of the Clubhouse at large. There's little in the way of the chess theme here, just dark wood polished to almost mirror-like finishes, rich leather upholstery, and a splendid view of the garden. Decor is minimal beyond the shelves of beautifully bound antique volumes and a few white marble replicas of classical statuary: Melpomene and Thalia framing the desk from their perches on the shelves behind it, and Ganymede watering Zeus in the form of an eagle on the otherwise unadorned sideboard. There's someone at Lucien's door already when he arrives to work in the morning. It's hard to say that the man is waiting for him -- she's already stopped one of the housekeeping staff, mop still in hand, to berate the poor woman for not magically producing the concierge on demand. "Do you have any idea who I am," carries, perhaps, a little less weight in these halls: everybody passing through the front doors is Somebody. Lucien materializes at the man's elbow mid-tirade with a quiet greeting, a gentle urging away from the housekeeper and into his office. There is very little change in his expression as the yelling redirects toward him. He's deftly plucking meaning from the ranting, listening attentively just long enough to discern: "-- I assure you, those ice cubes are made with bottled water. If you --" He breaks off patiently when he is interrupted, his head tilting minutely before he echoes, exceptionally gently: "-- harvested from the wrong glacier. My deepest apologies, I will make sure some Svalbarði is frozen for you posthaste." --- "-- specified a blonde masseuse," Lucien is telling his phone with some degree of exasperation, "and is now complaining that the woman who arrived was dark blonde -- I know, I know, but you know how she is. Of course we'll pay them both for their time -- If I could give her an ETA --" He's glancing up swiftly as the door is flung open. "-- you are, as always, a lifesaver." His expression has returned to his wonted calm, all traces of annoyance shed from it when he looks up -- though his gaze stutters and catches on the creature in the doorway even before he's looked to its owner. The lady at the other end of the leash seems to think nothing of the sleek cheetah with its jeweled collar that she is leading in: "I can just leave him here, right? I'll be back as soon as I'm through at the spa and he just can't stay in the room, not since that incident with the maid." Lucien is blinking slowly, lifting his eyes from the spotted cat to the woman offering him the leash. He reaches for the leather lead gingerly. "Ah -- just so I know, will he need to be --" But the woman is already sweeping back out before he concludes, "-- fed?" --- There's a makeshift bed now on one armchair, a pile of blankets arranged hastily into a nest; it may be inelegant but seems to serve fine for the feline who has draped itself languidly across the seat. Lucien's next visitor had stared at the occupied chair with irritation before shooing Lucien out of his own chair to take the seat behind his desk, prop his feet up on the desktop. "Look, normally you all do a good job here but I wanted old New Coke, that shit you delivered to my room is the ripoff new New Coke," he's currently saying. "The fuck am I going to have with my lunch, now?" Lucien is standing several feet away from the Cheetah Chair, hands folded primly behind his back. "I do not know how I could have made such a grievous error," he answers gravely. "Please, let us handle your lunch, if you can bear to eat after such calamity, and I will set you right by dinnertime." The man opposite him seems at least partway mollified by this, the deference in Lucien's tone enough to keep him from bothering to think too hard about what the concierge is saying. --- "-- not my fuckup, I would have told you I needed the cleaning back by four. It's this brainless fucker who said tomorrow." The man is leaning over Lucien's desk, one hand planted firmly on its surface and his tall and bulky frame leaned aggressively forward; his other hand has just flung out angrily in a guesture towards his hapless personal assistant, waiting in a corner with a patiently longsuffering expression. His eyes grow just a little wider; he snaps, points toward Lucien like he's so pleased to have solved this problem All By Himself. "That suit. I need it." Lucien has been watching the guest steadily, and his lips purse ever so slightly. "The suit -- that I am wearing?" Just a hint of pointedness has crept into his quiet voice. "The fuck else do you want me to do, wear a suit I've worn before?" Another insistent snap of fingers, a beckoning curl of hand. "I don't have all day." When they are gone Lucien exhales a small sigh, closes the door and locks it behind them. With a press of a button one of his bookshelves is shifting aside; he retrieves a new grey suit from its garment bag in the closet behind, drawing the windowshades as he gets himself dressed. --- The cheetah has been reclaimed, and now its former throne is taken up by a statuesque woman whose severe features don't match the breezy excitement with which she's gushing to Lucien: "I'd heard this city was full of them but I've never seen so many freaks in one place. I am definitely going back to that coffeeshop, one of them had a tail. I tried bringing it back here but it said no, can you believe that? Like I'm sure it gets so many offers with that ugly ratty thing swinging behind it." Her eyes have rolled with the absurdity of being turned down by the mutant. "Could you get me one, here? Like with a cat tail? Do they come in cat?" Lucien's fingertips are tracing slow and steady circles against the side of his mug of tea -- cooling but as yet untouched. "Some mutants do have feline features," he allows mildly. "Though I believe you may have mistaken Evolve Cafe for a brothel, which --" "A brothel?" The woman's eyes have gone brighter with delight. "Do they have those here? Order me one with a cat tail, I don't care what their price is." Lucien is opening his mouth -- perhaps to object, though he closes it again in silence. His fingers squeeze at the mug and then return to their slow circling. "I will see what I can do." --- Lucien has refreshed his tea, and only just set it down on a coaster when the door opens again. There's a beat of delay before he arranges his features into their careful neutrality, though one eyebrow twitches up just a hair when the guest begins speaking. "-- pardon," he's saying very carefully, "supplies for your -- ah, I do sincerely apologize but I am not very familiar with the procurement of game --" "-- please, pheasants and clay pigeons? I can get those," the man opposite says with a dismissive wave of his hand. My guests are looking for something more." There's a silence at this from Lucien, his eyebrow hitching up just a bit higher. "You seen the fucking bums plaguing every other street corner here? I figure you round me up some of those -- shit," this comes on a cheerful guffaw, "this new Mayor would probably thank us." Lucien blinks, just once. "I imagine he might," he allows softly. "I do so apologize but I am afraid," despite his words, the customary deference he wears with the Club's guests is shed from his tone, no apology in it, "that this is a bit outside my purview." --- The sign on the door says the concierge is OUT, though the voices from inside tell a different story. There's a high-pitched peal of laughter -- across from Lucien an absolutely delighted child is kneeling on the chair so as to be high enough to see the Uno game they have in progress. Lucien's expression is exaggeratedly woeful as he draws the requisite four cards before asking the child: "What color do you intend to inflict on me, then? You are going to bury me in this deck before your mother's shift has finished." His gaming partner is still studying their hand with great scrutiny, indecisive on the matter of color, when -- sign notwithstanding -- the door opens. It's a couple outside, dolled up like they're ready for a night out, and their hopeful request for some coke seems eminently unsurprising to Lucien. "I can arrange delivery to your suite," he's replying, bland as though drug deals in front of kindergarteners are just how life goes, sometimes. He's not looked up from his cards until the man reaches out to ruffle the child's brown bowl cut. "You could send this up, too --" the man is suggesting, the same casually indifferent tone he'd used to ask for the drugs. He looks positively shocked when Lucien gets out of his chair, his hand clamped firm on the guest's wrist to keep it away from the wide-eyed child who is leaning baaack in the seat to avoid him. "I'm sorry," Lucien's voice is very soft, "can you run that by me again?" "Or," the man is hastily trying to backtrack, "another one like him, we aren't picky. In Dubai --" His words cut off with the firmer clamp of Lucien's hand. "I think you will find we run things differently, here." He's none too gently ushering the pair out of his office, and this time he locks it behind them. --- Lucien's shift is long since over. His jacket is hung over the back of his chair, his tea -- yet again cold. The Club's current guest list is pulled up on his screen, with his very extensive notes on each of their clientele. He has been looking over the notes, over the schedule, for some time, but now he is backing up all his files and closing out his work. The last email he sends before he shuts the computer down is brief, its subject simply: Resignation.