Dirty Little Secrets

Eve glanced outside and realized the entire City was engulfed in fog and that she wouldn’t be able to go across town to meet with the person she’d spoken with earlier on the phone. She gathered the papers into neat piles on her desk, picked up her coat and hat, turned out the lights, and locked the office door behind her. She turned and walked quietly down the hallway and unlocked the door. She had an apartment here, she’d just never felt the need to occupy it and hadn’t done more than glance at it when they’d given her the keys. She stepped inside, flipped the lights on, and closed the door behind her.

Eve looked around more closely now, noted the fireplace, wet bar, and other conveniences, as well as the heavy security built into the place. She tossed her coat and hat on a chair, and fixed herself a drink at the wet bar. She glanced up to see a handsome young man wrapped in a towel standing behind her looking at her in the mirror.

“You’re here,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I knew you weren’t leaving the office,” he said.

“I don’t recall giving you a key, how did you get in?” she asked, somewhat annoyed, yet at the same time pleased to have the upper hand.

He looked embarrassed, shamed.

“How dare you assume anything about me!” she snapped, “Do you think I’m some sort of toy?… an amusement of some kind?” Her heels echoed across the Italian tile floor as she came towards him.

He started to speak, “Listen, I…”

Her hand came up and slapped him hard across the face. “People lose teeth talking like that. If you want to hang around, you’ll be polite!” she hissed at him through her teeth, “And when you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it!” She waited for him to get dressed and leave, that was the usual reaction.

Her guest didn’t leave.

“Journeying to this sacred center may last during the moments in which we partake of tea - or we may carry it with our being for a day, week, month, or lifetime. For tea is more than a sublime beverage. When savored with a “tea mind,” it becomes a true alchemical brew from which flows a cornucopia of spiritual sustenance.” — Deborah Kesten, Feeding the Body, Nourishing the Soul

Throughout its history, tea leaves have been enhanced by a wide variety of aromatic substances. Jasmine is a scented tea, meaning that all that is added to the tea is literally the scent. The Jasmine flowers are harvested during the day and stored in a cool place until night. During the night, the flowers bloom with full fragrance. The flowers are layered over the tea leaves during the scenting process. For high quality teas, such as Jasmine Pearls, the flowers are changed several times and the scenting process can last up to a week. The quality of Jasmine tea is determined by the quality of tea used as its base and the effectiveness of the scenting. Jasmine tea is known to have been produced as early as the Sung Dynasty, over 700 years ago.

Jasmine Pearls may be prepared in a teapot or teacup. For teapot service allow approximately 1 tsp per cup (8oz) of water, or place 8-12 pearls in each teacup. Cover with hot but less than boiling water (c.80°C, 176°F) and allow to steep 3-5 minutes. As Jasmine Pearl tea takes a little while to unfurl completely, it may be resteeped several times.

Produces a sweet cup with a light and lingering scent of fresh Jasmine.

“The heaviest mist in the history of the City settled over the town at 4 o’clock this afternoon. All traffic has stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is constantly growing heavier.

“Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred before in the history of the City.”

Eve was pleased with the gift from The Driver… a small box of Darjeeling he’d had delivered to her office. She savored the aroma of the cup she’d just taken a sip from. The faint overtones of smell that reminded her of it’s origins in the Far East. She was very much looking forward to her journey, a continent her mother had once said that Eve would never be able to afford to visit. Regrettably, Mrs. Quinlan hadn’t lived long enough to see her daughter had reached that unreachable goal. Eve had been there twice since her mother had passed on, this would be the third such journey. She opened her diary and began to write.

Asia is a shape-shifter. Something that can’t be relied upon from region to region, decade to decade. Half dream, half all-too-lived reality, it’s alive with the tensions of that contradiction. Modernity contrasts with antiquity, yet the boundaries are not clear, but hazy. In one moment, you can forget Who and even When you are, only to turn your head and be sharply reminded of the incongruity that surrounds you. Oh, how I wait for Asia!

Eve Quinlan spoke with Poison Ivy on the phone for several hours, filled her in on the key people she would meet during her stay, and promised to send over a dossier containing various business propositions. She looked at the phone and thought about arranging some entertainment for her guest, but wasn’t sure how receptive the lady would be towards the kind of entertainment she had in mind. She smirked.

Business had been going so well that she was taking the night off for a change. Tomorrow she would make the final arrangements for her trip overseas. A flight to Paris, the Orient Express to Istanbul, and then overland to Lhasa, Nepal, and points east. A caravan was being assembled and, of course, guides, assistants, and bodyguards would be waiting to ensure her safety and comfort on the journey. The Monkey Machines shouldn’t present much of a problem while she was away. She’d made arrangements to keep them busy elsewhere. Kingpin and the Cartel would handle any emergencies while she was overseas.

Eve flipped through the pages of a small black book and quickly dialed. It was immediately picked up on the other end. “Meet me tonight,” Eve said into the phone in a husky voice, “Yes… see you then.” She placed the phone onto its cradle and smiled. He seemed to be always there waiting for her call. That pleased her.

She arranged the papers and placed them into the portfolio, tying it securely with the attached ribbon. She posted the portfolio and a hand-written note to Poison Ivy, and placed it in the hands of a trusted courier. Poison Ivy would likely be pleased by the proposals. If acceptable, it would mean consolidation of resources in various industries, and the creation of a solid partnership for future opportunities that could arise. Eve liked the woman, which was unusual for Eve. She usually got along better with men… but this time, perhaps things would be different, just as her journey would be a great change in her life.

Friday morning, an obituary for Donald Tucker appeared on page 9 of the Paper… just a small blurb giving no details of how the man died, it simply said he’d been found floating by the docks the previous evening. He’d been without wife or children, so there wasn’t much to read. The Paper had sporadically begun to roll off the presses again, now under new management. Old management of the newspaper system could no longer support the diversity of the Paper’s business and lacked the flexibility to change at the rapid pace necessary. Eve Quinlan skimmed the pages while sipping a cup of Darjeeling tea. She was hopeful that new management would bring about the necessary changes and turn the tide.

Despite a year of cuts and belt-tightening, the Paper still was paying out more than it took in. �Our beginning fund balance for the year has declined by $200,000 compared to last year,� said the Paper’s finance director Morley Mulrooney in a somber quarterly financial report at the City Council meeting. �General fund revenues are not keeping up with expenditures,� he said.

Advertising revenues would soon take an upturn. Eve estimated an increase of 5.3% for the year, which should see the paper through to at least December. The viability of the newspaper concerned her, it was the voice of the City, and an indication of the health of the City. Besides, it kept the people thinking about other things, and not minding her business. She wrote “Media Industry” in a small green book with her quill and ink, right below the entry marked “Tea Commodities.” Several columns of numbers also appeared on the pages of the book, a lifetime’s worth of investments and trade. Much of the information was now out-of-date and useless, but she kept it nonetheless… sort of a short-hand record of her past business failures and successes, all of it above-board and legal.

The interesting part of Eve Quinlan’s business career was never written down… and tracking it would have stumped even the most brilliant of Pinkerton’s detectives… but then, she wasn’t paying them to be brilliant, just blind. Over the past year, Eve had significantly enhanced her ability to quickly seize new business opportunities as they arose and managed her operations more actively than ever before. Soon she would be able to turn customers into business partners, derive greatly increased value from access to information, and proactively develop her business objectives during a period of tremendous technological and market change. It left little time for the simple pleasures of life, something she thought she’d have more of when she became wealthy. When she’d had time, she’d had no money… and now that she had money, she had no time.

She sighed, then resolved to find an assistant who was more trustworthy than Tucker had been… one who could handle more of the mundane details of day-to-day business without getting ideas about taking her seat at the Cartel. She pulled a list of traders out of her desk drawer and began to go through the names.