Knight and The Ungentlemanly Caller
by Thomas Deja © 2005



The good news about Ransome was that due to its elevation above the rest of Chimera Falls, it managed to mostly avoid the low-level fish smell that pervaded the city year-round.  The only time the pungent smell of freshly caught and gutted cod, haddock, flounder and its like made its way to Ransome’s streets was when a northeaster swept in from points south.  At that time, the upper crust that looked down on Posideon Hook and Indigo and Greenline just gritted their teeth and endured; all other times, they silently put an extra 'thank you' to God in their prayers at night.

The good news for patrons of The Round Table was that Coronet Blue and Her Oceanside Saints were playing two shows that night.  Coronet and her boys usually favored Chez Suerte and Major Minor's down in Indigo, but every once in a while, the collection of dentists who made up The Round Table's ownership group would coax them up Ryerson Hill to play the brightest bright spot of the Ever-Changing City.

So it was a given that Gawain Knight would be in attendance.  Even if, according to rumor, Knight lived in the old foundry off Kolochek Drive in Greenline, he was always welcome up the hill.  He had driven off Cassius Delfino when he tried to muscle out the Dentists Who Owned The Round Table, and they thanks him by always having a special seat reserved for him.  And Gawain Knight never missed hearing Coronet sing.

Gawain was in rare form that night.  Decked out in a tuxedo he got from Mo Lewsecka's tailor shop on Cassidy (Gawain saved his daughter from being abducted when she was eight), diamond studded cufflinks and matching tiepin, he drew the stares of all the women in the room.  And why not?  His eyes, so pale a blue as to be clear slowly took in the room with just a hint of self-satisfied mirth.  His hair, a pale brownish-blonde one usually associated with the sand in an hourglass, was swept back and smelled faintly of a hair oil used by only the most exclusive of salons in Ransome.  His tuxedo seemed to fit him well, even though one got a sense that his was a body simply not made for the wearing of clothes.

He hadn't done anything tonight to warrant the whiparound of whispers and rumors that was making its rounds of the club; the closest thing to a major event was the words he shared with Coronet's trumpeteer.  But seeing him in the crowd automatically ignited the retelling of stories people never grew tired of.

Of course, on this night, at this time, it was going to change.

And, as always, it started to change with the entrance of a girl.

The girl in question was tall and lean, with just the hint of long alabaster legs slipping out from the slit in her green silk gown.  Her eyes, a bright emerald that matched her gown perfectly, with flecks of gold that made them all the more beautiful, scanned the nightclub.  Her mouth, maybe a bit too wide to be sensual, twitched nervously; some onlookers speculated that the girl was on the verge of tears.  Her face, while the kind of gorgeous that would make men stare and women spit venom, bore the puffiness that came from a too-long crying jag.

Those who knew Gawain knew he was not a man who took kindly to seeing a beautiful woman on the edge of sobbing.  He stood up, straightened his tuxedo--one of the benefits of a Lewsecka tux was that, no matter how you tugged on it, it always draped spectacularly--and made his way across the dance floor.  It was a busy night, as it always was when The Oceanside Saints hit Ryerson Hill, but Gawain managed to thread his way through the partiers, cigarette girls, waiters and musicians without disturbing any of them.  In a matter of seconds, he was in front of the woman, a handkerchief in hand.

"You look like you're in need of soft linen and strong shoulders," he said, his voice having a quality that was Boston Brahmin one second, Bronx cabbie the next.

The woman looked up at him.  She blinked twice.  "Do I know you?"

"If you do, it's by reputation," he replied, allowing himself an easy smile.  "My name is Gawain Knight."

A strange look came over the woman, as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or be frightened.  A slim, elegant hand strayed upward to push back her pale blonde bangs.  "What sort of name is that?"

Gawain gently took the woman by the shoulder.  "The sort a medievalist gives his son as a joke."  He started leading her back into the club, whispering, "If my instincts are right and you came in to lose some trouble, I would suggest you not stand in the foyer, yes?"

The woman initially gave Gawain some resistance, but it quickly melted away the deeper they retreated into the club.  Gawain caught the eye of the trumpeteer and mouthed, "Need to use the dressing room."  The trumpeteer nodded and motioned to the bouncer.  The bouncer, in turn, scanned the crowd until he saw Gawain and, smiling, unhooked the velvet rope leading to the backstage area and motioned him through.

The woman blinked, her eyelashes looking like some exotic butterfly in the dim light.  "Who would have thought a man named Knight would have come to my aid.  It seems so--"

"Cliche?"

"Yes."

"You're not the first to note that.  I suspect it's something I'll have to live with, yes?"

---

When Coronet caught sight of Gawain leading the woman into the dressing room, she turned to face him.  She attached her right earring speedily and asked with a slight upturn of her full, ripe lips, "Already, Gawain?"

"If I can't have you, my dear Blue," the man said before leading the woman to a stool.  She blinked and took in the new surroundings.  "Then I must suffer askance to look elsewhere."

Coronet Blue shifted her weight from one hip to the other.  She dangled her left earring in her hand, crimson nails entwined in the half-dozen diamond-studded threads.  Her dark brown eyes flashed with mirth.  "I don't know, Gawain.  She shows promise, but--"

"She's not you?  The thought had crossed my mind."  Gawain looked at the woman.  "Do you need a drink of water?"

The woman nodded and wiped her eyes.  Coronet nodded and whispered, "You owe me," before leaving.

Gawain put his hands in the pockets of his slacks.  The woman stared up at him with mascara-smudged eyes.  "You've indicated you need aid.  Now would be the time to let me know why, Miss..."

It took a long moment for the woman to realize she was being asked to identify herself.  "LaRouse.  Evelyn LaRouse."

Gawain acknowledged the information with a smile and a nod of his head.  He reached into his jacket for a cigarette.  "Well, Miss LaRouse, Evelyn LaRouse, what circumstances would require you to look upon a man such as myself for help?"

Evelyn stared at Gawain and batted her eyelashes.  "I do not recall asking for help."

"Well, alas, help you will get," Gawain shot back, barely hiding his annoyance with the answer.  "You've been crying, which to me makes it clear that help is needed, even if it's not wanted."

"But you'd--"

"Be hurt?  Be in danger?  Be killed?"  Gawain shook his head.  "I assure you, Miss LaRouse, that I've had close encounters with all three, and they're not quite the deterrents you may think they are."

The woman was silent as Gawain lighted his cigarette and inhaled deeply.  He blew a plume of smoke up to the ceiling before she said, "I-it's my boyfriend."

"Standard situation for a woman of your beauty."

Evelyn looked up at Gawain.  Her hands seemed to gesture wildly before she dropped both of them, palm upwards, in her laps.  "And, well, he's connected."

"Also standard situation for a woman of your beauty."

"...and I, like, told him to go to Hell earlier after he, well, you know.."

"Hit you?"

The woman shook her head no.

"Asked you to do something that would compromise your fine upstanding moral image of yourself?"

This statement prompted her to nod her head.  Gawain took another puff of his cigarette and watched Evelyn.  The woman nervously looked around, one hand going first to her hair, then to her left eye.

Finally, after realizing nothing was forthcoming, Gawain added, "and what sort of compromise would this have involved?  Did he wish you to sell your charm--"

"NO!"  

"Then what?"

"My boyfriend, he's a...an importer of...less than legally gained materials."

"A smuggler?"

"You could say that," Evelyn replied, a wan smile.  She sniffled, wiped her right eye and added, "and he...wanted me to..."

"Join the business?"

"Yes, he--"

Gawain raised his hand and shook his head.  "No need to give me the specifics, young lady.  Just knowing what I do now...."  He paused, and added, "I assume he may be coming after you?  And that he knows you may be coming here?"

'Yes," Evelyn replied, nodding.

"Then give me a description," Gawain said, gesturing toward her with his cigarette, "And I will do what I can to persuade him of the error of his ways."

---

Gawain left Evelyn, still struggling with her reddened eyes, in the dressing room.  A quick word with Horace the Bouncer assured that an eye would be kept firmly upon her.  Another word with Isiah and Coronet assured that eyes would be open for someone matching the description given him of the Importer of The Less Than Legal.  A third word with the Dentists Who Owned The Round Table assured him of back-up when and if he needed it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Gawain knew he was going to missing out on at least the beginning of the Saints' set.  He resolved that The Importer of The Less Than Legal would know his displeasure.  A further resolution in that area was made when Gawain realized he ventured out into the Ryerson Hill night without retrieving his coat--and a Ryerson Hill night had the bite of winter as early as late August, so the early October night was merrily nibbling on Gawain's underdressed hide.

Well, maybe this blackguard will be of the prompt variety, he thought to himself.

As was his fortune, The Importer was not exactly prompt.  As the minutes ticked away, a pretty young waitress came out with a cup of Irish coffee to warm Gawain's interior.  He cursed under his breath when he heard the greatly muffled sound of the Saints going into their first number.  He pushed himself closer to the window, hoping to discern enough to figure out which songs they were playing, when The Importer made his appearance.

He was as Evelyn described him--tall and thin and wrapped in a great gray coat that seemed a part of the night, the lower buttons undone so that the skirt could flap in the breeze.  The Importer's face should also have been gray, seeing as it looked like it was carved from granite.  Vivid blue eyes stared straight ahead with such intensity Gawain expected light to emerge from them.  The man's outline was not smooth; one side of his chest seemed uneven, leading Gawain to assume he was carrying a gun.  Gawain stood up as the man strode forward, meeting him halfway on the stairs leading to The Round Table.

"Looking for Evelyn?"

The Importer glared at Gawain.  "Who wants to know?"

"A thoroughly disinterested party, I assure you," Gawain said with an easy smile.  "But as I've been led to believe you wish to cause her harm and thus disrupt a lovely night of music for everyone, I must intervene."

The Importer continued his glaring ways, to the point that Gawain feared the man was going to bore straight through him with the force of his stare.  "You should stay out of this."

"I should, shouldn't I?  But as much as I wish, I can't."

The man in the gray coat tried to push past Gawain, but he held fast.  "You don't know who you're dealing with, mister."

Gawain chuckled and resisted rolling his eyes.  "You would be surprised how many times I have heard that warning."

"That woman has something that doesn't belong to her," The Importer countered.

"From what I hear, it doesn't belong to you, either."

"You got that right," The Importer said.  "But I got something that'll change your mind."

It was at that point that The Importer reached into his coat.

To be fair, The Importer thought that Gawain Knight was just some muscle-bound, well-intentioned townie looking to get rewarded for being gallant.  He didn't know enough about Gawain, about the training he undertook at a young age, about his multiple letters in high school and college, about how he conducted daily drills that kept his speed and power at top shape.  Thus, The Importer was totally unprepared when Gawain let loose with a mighty punch that knocked him back to the ground.

The Importer did not have a moment to recover before Gawain dropped down on him, straddling his chest and pushing his head back against the pavement with his right hand.  With his left, Gawain reached into The Importer's coat and retrieved the man's pistol.  "One thing I can't abide, it's ungentlemanly callers whose heat comes from a pistol."

"Y-you're wrong about that," The Importer managed to mutter as Gawain continued to feel around inside the man's coat.

"Yes, I am very, very wrong.  Has not helped you much, Mr.…" Gawain pulled out a black billfold and flipped it open, desiring to know the name of the man he was beating.

"By Excalibur," Gawain Knight choked out in genuine surprise.

---

When Gawain returned to the interior of the club, he was disheartened to learn that the Oceanside Saints was halfway finished with their first set.  Considering what he had to do, the loss of time spent in enjoying the music made him all the madder.  He glanced across the dance floor to the stage and caught Coronet's eye, nodding to indicate that things were wrapping up.  The beautiful singer flashed him a secret smile between stanzas and watched him go back to the dressing room.

Evelyn had stayed put where he left her, hands folded and eyes still puffy.  Upon hearing his footsteps, she stood up.  She walked up to him with a sashay borne just as much from nervousness as from sensuality.  She batted her eyelashes coyly.  "Is he..."

"For now," Gawain assured her.  "I make no allowances for the future."

An unsteady smile crossed her face.  She put both hands on his chest.  "Oh, thank god.  I was so afraid that I--"

Without warning, Gawain looped his arm around Evelyn and spun her about, so that her back was flush against him.  With his free hand, he slapped her hard across the shoulders; if someone was watching them, he would have assumed he was trying to save her from choking.  Her head snapped forward, eyes wide, and Gawain heard a single tiny chiming sound.  He pushed the gorgeous blonde aside and stepped forward.

"What are you doing?"

"Retrieving the merchandise for Agent Grendine," Gawain said, bending from the waist and gingerly seeming to sweep the floor with his fingers.

Evelyn straightened up.  Her hand went to her chest; a shiver went up her curvy form.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You thought you were lucky, running into me," Gawain continued as he stepped forward, deeper into the dressing room.  "But I am not the unobservant Good Samaritan you took me for, Ms. LaRouse.  I knew you had been crying--and the way you were blinking and wiping your eyes indicated to me that it was physical discomfiture, and not emotional distress, that was causing this condition.  I also thought it was odd that you seemed dressed for the Round Table, and not in something more ordinary you'd throw on if you were looking to leave an unpleasant paramour in a hurry.  Still, I was willing to accept that Agent Grendine was an Importer of Illegal Materials; Lord knows the man certainly looked the part.  Ah, there it is."

Evelyn slowly backed away as Gawain stood up, something small resting between thumb and forefinger.  Her hands wandered to her side.

"But then I got the chance to search the good agent, and learned he was with the FBI.  And that was when Grendine told me about the comely young spy he was trailing, and how she was smuggling some papers containing government secrets out of the country for sale to the highest bidder, and how she was going to be leaving the United States via a fishing boat leaving Chimera Falls in the morning."

"You...you can't believe that," Evelyn stammered.  She spread her arms wide, giving Gawain a very clear look at her luscious form packed into her emerald gown.  "I mean, look...look at how I'm dressed.  I'm not carrying a pocketbook or anything...why, this thing is on so tight, I couldn't hide papers of any sort if I wanted to."

"Yes, that is true, isn't it?"

Evelyn grinned and nodded her head.  "He's a vicious man, Mr. Knight.  He'd make up any lie to turn you against me."

"But is it a lie?" Gawain countered.  He stepped forward, his thumb and forefinger pressed together.  "I had spent some time in California when I was younger, you see, and I knew about certain cosmetic lenses make-up artists were using to alter appearances.  From what I gathered, the lenses are near invisible but very uncomfortable.  Actors who wear them can only stand them for short periods before they start bawling their eyes out from the irritation.  And look what I found on the floor here...it looks like, yes, a cosmetic lens."

"I-I've never seen that before!" Evelyn blurted, her arms falling to her side.

"But there's a doctor over on Cicero who says you have," came a voice from behind the beautiful blonde.  Gawain smiled.

Evelyn looked over her shoulder to see the gray, craggy countenance of Agent Grendine.  He held an aged revolver in his left hand.

"A lens like this would be a perfect place to hide a microdot containing, oh...government secrets?"

'I would think so," Agent Grendine replied, his mouth twisting into something Gawain supposed could be interpreted as a smile.

"No!" Evelyn screamed and turned toward Gawain.  She came at him at a furious pace, one hand raised.  Gawain dodged to the left and grabbed hold of the extended limb, twisting it using a kendo move.  A long, thin shaft --looking somewhat like a small knitting needle, only sharpened--skidded to the floor.  A second chop to the back of the woman's neck caused her to black out.  Gawain released his grip, and the spy slumped to the floor.

"Seems you were able to hide something away in that dress after all," Gawain noted wryly.

"I would have shot her, but--"

"You were worried about hitting me."  Gawain adjusted his tuxedo.  "Probably for the best you didn't.  This way was more...viscerally satisfying."

The FBI Agent fished a pair of handcuffs from his coat and stepped forward, straddling the unconscious Evelyn.  "Don't like being lied to, I would think."

"Oh, being lied to I can stand.  Being made to miss the first set, however...."  Gawain said, trailing off as he strained to determine how little time he had left to enjoy the Oceanside Saints.  He watched Agent Grendine cuffing the beautiful woman and sighed, thought of what a waste it was.

Well, he added after a minimum of mourning, There's always the late evening show.