Friday night was Ian's 30th birthday. Rebecca and I missed the dinner, and Rebecca was so wiped out from work that she passed on the afterparty, but I made my way over to their new place to deliver felicitations and a bottle of Knappogue.
There was some poker, and (as usual, recently) I lost. Surprisingly, I did well at Texas Hold 'Em, which I don't really care for, but it was the other games that sucked me dry. Plenty of good conversations as well. Go to hear a bit about Mike's trip to Italy. Sounds like Pompeii was the highlight for him, and I can well understand that.
For a bit, I was sitting on the couch between Lesley and Colleen (I think). Lesley was regaling me with tales of the Russian mole (who was actually Polish). Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Lesley announces something like, "Oh. That's not good." Then she gets up and heads for the bathroom. That's the last I see of her. After 20 minutes or so, I put two and two together. Poor kid. But it's a good thing there's two bathrooms there.
I got back about 2:30 and hit the hay.
Saturday morning, the first ironmonger stood us up. Then Ice came and I tuted her to the best of my ability for a couple hours. Then, after I slept through most of the Maltese Falcon, it was time to get ready for So Evil My Lovely. Rebecca got me a trenchcoat at Goodwill earlier in the day, and it helped me assume my role as Detective Matt Sterne of the LAPD.
The game was full of some great noir-iness. I got close to solving the Black Dahlia case, but since Richard had put together something at least as confusing as the Big Sleep, I had various threads floating around. Mr. Plankman, who wasn't the original Mr. Plankman, but a substitute along the lines of the Dread Pirate Roberts. He had some severe sexual hangups and I took him into custody for the murder of Miss Ashley, though I suspect his involvement in the Black Dahlia case. Sadly, Miss Ashley was the real culprit, though Plankman was no doubt responsible for some of the... disturbances noted on the body.
I had also figured out that Miss Beauville's 'uncle' couldn't possibly be an uncle, since he was clearly procuring her services through Mr. Curtis.
Ah, shit, it's all too complicated to go through. Anyway, everyone the police collared that night was guilty of something, and that's good enough for me. Even if my own good buddy got hauled away for murdering some blonde dame in an amnesiac state.
Today, I've waded through some Misk U stuff. Not sure if I have the stomach to work on it some more. Soon. Soon.