Diaries of a gentleman

My name is Albert Stroller. I’m a long con man. A semi-retired long con man. I only work when my former apprentice Mickey Stone, aka Bricks, makes me an offer I can’t resist. Besides, I live in America now, so I’m not too keen on going to London any more. Don’t take me wrong; I’m in no need of the cash, I’m in it for the thrill. I'm on my way home from London this very minute. I've been there more or less continuously for months, so pardon my mixed metaphors.

Mickey presents me with an intriguing enough case, and my blood is off boiling in my veins, like in my youth.

I’m 65. Old you say? Not at all. Experienced, I say. Matured as vintage wine. I plan on sticking around for at least another twenty years. I can afford the best medical help money can buy. The doctors will 'renovate' me as long as it’s possible. Besides, I’ve got my own live-in-doctor, so to speak.

Talking about sticking. I know something I want to stick in just about now, and I know where, too. Into my partner.

My partner; Donald Mallard. You might have heard about him, he’s the chief medical examiner at NCIS in Washington DC. People call him Ducky, as if he was a harmless old man. He’s not. Kind and compassionate, perhaps. But sharp as a knife, ruthless and persistent. Woe to those who hinder his search for truth and justice. Donald is my Achilles heel, I’ve always been very careful with whom I reveal our relationship to.

I call him Duckman sometimes. His strange co-worker Abigail heard me once, and adopted the nickname. Abigail and I, we see eye to eye on many issues, I wonder what she’s been up to while I was away in London.

I’ve been working in London for some time now. Mickey and the gang tempted me with a lucrative string of cons; none of us will have to think about our finances for a good while. But I’m tired. I want my rest, my home and my partner.

It hasn’t always been like that, though. A long time back, during our first years together, we both fought it in our own ways. We could go days, sometimes weeks, even months without seeing each other. I conned my way through the civilized world, leaving a trail of bankrupt crocks and broken hearts behind. I was quite the womaniser in those days. But there was always something missing. The twinkle in a pair of sharp, blue eyes; the take-no-prisoners-discussions; the exhaustion after a bout of emotional, passionate…heck…hot lovemaking. Simply put; I missed his stories and his body. Even his beloved bow ties.

Donald coped in his own way, not all his former employees would have taken kindly to him being associated with a con man, if you take my meaning. London became too small for him, he needed to fill his days with work and adventure. After working a bit here and there, sometimes with me nearby, he moved to the US. – Via Africa, Asia, you name it.

He lives in the house I bought, which is large enough that when his Grand Old Mother needed company, she moved in with us. I love that woman, if not only for bringing Donald into the world, and teaching him how to cook.

I’ve always made sure he can defend himself. I taught him how to fight, and he taught me how to dress the wounds after a fight. A good working relationship, I would say.

What happened to the snazzy stewardesses of old times? The tired person wearing the sign has just announced that we must fasten our seatbelts, as we are about to land at Dulles International Airport.

On time, and about time.

It is morning here in the capital, but my body doesn't know that yet. For me, accustomed to London's GMT, it's afternoon, and I desperately want the afternoon nap on the couch middle-aged men crave. It will have to wait. First things first; I want to hold my dear old man close. If only for a brief moment and between the bloody and mutilated bodies he occupies himself with nowadays.

Security is a bitch, but I give the uniforms my most charming smile and breeze through customs. It's not as if I have something to declare anyway. Well, at least not much. Maybe a trinket or two. Nothing they need to know about.

I hire a cab to take me to the NCIS headquarters, promise the driver a generous tip, and get there smoothly in no time. The receptionist recognises me, smiles, tells me Dr. Mallard is in, and asks long time, no see. Here and there, I answer, leave my luggage with her, and 'sshes' it's a surprise so she won't alert Donald to my arrival.

I saunter towards the lift...no...elevator, but I'm stopped by a round-cheeked youngster I haven't encountered here before. Timothy McGee he says his name is, puffs himself up and what am I doing here.

I'm here to see Ducky, I say, and sssh, it's a surprise.

He scrutinizes me, still sceptical as if thinking I'm out to hurt the doctor, who is someone he knows. There's steel behind that innocent baby-face, Gibbs has got hold of a good one there. I'll have to try my skills on him. Maybe a coin trick. But first...

I leave Timothy in the corridor, sneak oh so silently into the lab, and stop just inside the door.

And there he is. My lovely Duckman. I know I'm a sentimental old fool, but to me he is still as beautiful as when we first met more than thirty years ago. He still makes me shiver and ache like back then. I still lose control when he wants to take command.

Donald is hunched over one of his steel work-tables, luckily there's no slit open body in front of him; only papers. He stiffens, as if he can sense my gaze on him, and turns around. Blue, longed-for eyes.

“Albert, my dear. You're back,” he says in that soft voice of his, as if I had only been to the market to pick up fresh vegetables. But then he smiles that pouty, real grin that tells me I have been missed, and everything is good.

And I smile back, and I run, and we embrace, and finally, finally, we kiss.