by Linda Grimes
bomb with Dragon Mama either. Somehow I had to leave this woman smiling when I left. But how? Hmm …
“Mother, since we’re already out, how about I take my best girl out for a birthday lunch? Bouley okay?” I said, naming her
favorite (exceedingly expensive) French restaurant.
“Darling! That would be marvelous! Wait until I tel the girls—oh, I know! I should ask them to join us. They love you. This is
going to be so much fun! You are the best son ever.”
Geez. Dragon Mama and the girls? Guess it was true what they said. No freaking good deed goes unpunished.
*
The impromptu birthday party went amazingly wel, if I do say so myself. We’d stopped off at the Harrison home, so I could
make a quick change into the casual-elegant clothing Dragon Mama required of her escort, while she marshaled her ranks.
Nothing tickled her more than a chance to show off how much her only son adored her. She even managed to keep her Mina
attacks to a minimum. Plus, al the commotion helped disguise the fact that I was rather shaky on the more minute details of Trey’s
behavior, never having spent time around the actual guy.
Four hours of being giggled and cooed over by the Ladies Who Lunch was enough to make me look back fondly on my time in
the rum warehouse with the spiders. But at least Trey made such a superb showing (smiling and nodding helps a lot in these
situations) that Dragon Mama wasn’t even too bent out of shape when he got a “business text,” and had to beg off dinner later.
The things I do for my clients.
*
I’d galantly refused Dragon Mama’s offer of the limo, claiming she’d need it herself, which earned me an enraptured “Darling!”
and an air kiss. My search for ready transportation took me several blocks east, into territory I didn’t visit often, but apparently
Trey did. Before I could hail a passing taxi, a warmly welcoming voice boomed out behind me. “Mr. Harrison?”
I turned slowly and saw a short, round, mustachioed shopkeeper poking his head out of a tobacco store. He obviously knew
Trey. Crap. Can’t anything ever be easy?
“Hi…” I glanced at the name of the shop, and risked it. “Enzo. How are you?”
His mitts engulfed my hand. “Come in, come in,” he said with a broad smile, and waited while I preceded him into the shop.
Whew. Guess he was Enzo. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I racked my brain for any pertinent info from my files. Came up blank. “Uh, great. So, do you have my…?” I paused, realizing
I didn’t know a damn thing about Trey’s tobacco habits.
“Your ‘special order’?” He looked from side to side, saw nobody near, but stil whispered. “The finest Cubans my shop has
ever seen.” He held one finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
“My lips are sealed,” I said.
The bel on the shop door jangled after Enzo slipped into the back room. The charming proprietor poked his head back out to
assure the new customer he’d be with him shortly, and then disappeared again, leaving me alone with the addition to the shop: a
tal, bulky blond. No horned helmet, but my inner alarms shrieked anyway. With good reason. After sweeping the room with his
eyes to make sure we were alone, the man walked right up to me, not even pretending he didn’t know who I was.
“We know where Mina is. If you wish her to remain safe, you’l come with me now. Quietly.”
Great. Just freaking great. How long had I been folowed? Did Lars tip somebody off? And which Mina did he mean? Me-Mina, newly home from the Bahamas, or the real Mina? Did they know about the lake house or not, for cripe’s sake?
I smiled. Strangely, the non-Chiclets appeared to have no effect on him. Go figure. “I believe I’l take a pass on tha—agh!” His
fist was in my stomach, doubling me over, before I could finish my sentence.
Sonofabitch, that hurt. Nobody had ever punched me before. I decided I didn’t like it a bit. Sucking in air as I tried to
straighten up, I was struck by the look of pleasure on his face. Fucking sadist.
“As I said, you wil come with me. Quietly,” he repeated.
Nodding my compliance, I pretended to need assistance to move. When he leaned in to take my elbow, I stomped on his
instep, grabbed his crotch, and twisted. Hard. Then, while he tried to breathe, I carefuly placed my other hand behind his neck,
and slammed his face into the antique wooden counter. He crumpled.
Damn. Now that felt much better. I could get used to having muscles.
Looking down at him, I said—quietly, since that seemed so important to him—“And I said I’d take a pass, asshole.”
*
After explaining to Enzo how his customer had tripped over his own shoelaces (which I’d taken the liberty of untying before the
genial proprietor returned with the Cubans), I caught a cab and gave the driver Bily’s address. He wouldn’t be there, of course,
but I needed a place to reconnoiter, not to mention recover from my debut punch in the gut.
Bily’s official residence is a walet-gutting East Vilage loft. He bought it right after he graduated from colege, had it renovated,
and furnished it with a heavy emphasis on black leather and steel. Nobody in the family questioned him too closely about how he
could afford it. Some things you didn’t want to know.
The kitchen took up one corner of the large open space. It had black cabinets, gray granite countertops, and stainless-steel
appliances. I found a plastic bag, loaded it with crushed ice from the refrigerator door, and stretched out on the couch. Thor
Thunderfist had missed my ribs, but I was stil going to have a hel of a bruise to adapt away.
I hadn’t seen anyone else around Enzo’s, so I didn’t think I’d been folowed. But, to be on the safe side, I dropped Trey’s aura
and kicked off his pants, leaving me in a baggy, dress-length (on me) men’s silk T-shirt.
I had to think. What was I going to do about Mina? If the Viking in the shop was teling the truth, they knew about my lake
house, and she wasn’t safe. I could cal and have her moved right away, but what excuse would I give? Besides, maybe they were
trying to flush her out. Moving her might expose her to even more danger.
What I should do was stick with my plan to go check on her myself, and stay with her until I heard from Mark that they’d
found Trey. That way I wouldn’t have to upset her needlessly. Question was, how to get there? Also, as whom? Not me—if Mina
saw me as myself, she’d expect me to hand over a ring, and explanations would be awkward. Better go with being a new
employee.
I dialed Hilda, my faithful, overworked doer-of-everything for the lake house. Told her I’d be sending some help her way asap,
and that the new-hire would know the password to give to Pete, the security guard. Didn’t go into details, because heaven only
knew who might be listening. Figured I could explain more when I got there.
Now I just had to come up with a good way to get there. If Bily were around, I would ask him for a suggestion, but … Billy.
Now there’s an idea. But did I dare? I thought of al the times my cousin had puled a fast one on me. Oh, hel yeah. I dared.
Chapter 11
Sunlight from the open air side of the garage bounced off the chrome like bulets off Superman’s chest. The cherry red hood
gleamed as wetly as a freshly lacquered fingernail, and the white top glistened like a movie star’s caps. It was one damn fine car.
And now I was finaly going to get my chance to drive it. He would kill me if he ever found out, I thought, shivering with delight.
There are few things on earth Bily values as highly as h
is 1957 Chevy Bel Air. The boat on wheels was a colege graduation gift
from his father, just as it had been a gift from his grandfather to his father before him. Family legend has it that Bily was born in the
backseat, and left there by his real mother when she walked out of Uncle Liam’s life forever, but nobody wil talk about it much,
least of al Bily.
Suffice it to say, Bily feels a strong attachment to his car. Which is why he never lets anyone else drive it, keeps it in a garage
that costs him almost as much every month as his loft, and tips the attendants extravagantly to see that no harm comes to it.
I squelched a twinge of guilt when I opened the driver’s side door. Surely he would understand the urgency of my situation. I
didn’t have a car; he did. I needed it right now; he didn’t. It was simple, realy. And since he was in Sweden—safely on the other
side of the ocean—I was just going to have to assume permission. It was the logical thing to do. Besides, who knew when I’d get
another opportunity as good as this one?
It started like a charm, the hum of the engine penetrating me from my seat up, making me aware of the singularly male part I
was sporting, and I felt another, even stronger, burst of guilt. I’d never projected Bily before. It was considered the height of bad
form to use another adaptor’s aura without express permission. Adaptors had better reason than most to be touchy about privacy
issues. But, honestly, how else could I get the car? Bily had made sure the attendants wouldn’t let anybody but him near his baby.
When you realy thought about it, I’d had to do it.
Satisfied my reasoning was sound (wel, sound enough), I put the car in reverse and eased it out of the parking place, glad none
of the parking attendants were around to see how gingerly I was maneuvering—that wouldn’t be in character for Bily at al.
Fortunately, I had three levels of driving in circles to perfect my technique before anyone was likely to see me. Easy-peasy.
I was leaning back and driving one-handed by the time I got to the exit, and waved casualy as I passed the pudgy young man
in the booth. Since I knew Bily paid by the month, I didn’t bother to stop, even though it might have been a good idea, seeing as
how the gate wasn’t al the way up.
The sound of metal on metal reverberated in my head like the screech of a banshee.
Shit! I slammed on the brakes and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. After a brief pause I heard the awed voice of
the kid in the booth. “Damn, Mr. Doyle. Look at your car!”
I forced my eyes open and surveyed the damage. The decorative twin ridges on the hood now had distinctive, paint-free
gouges from the front of the car to just shy of the windshield. I swalowed, wondering if I had time to stop for touch-up paint on
the way to the lake.
“I have some red fingernail polish my girlfriend left here…” the kid ventured helpfuly. Maybe he was psychic.
I sighed. “Thanks anyway, but I don’t think a manicure is going to cover it,” I said, while in the back of my head my mother’s
voice echoed: God punishes right away. No shit.
*
I got out of the city with no further vehicular mishaps. After the kid had lifted the gate—there was no damage to it, thank
goodness—I told him I’d appreciate it if he never reminded “me” of the incident, and slipped him one of the hundred-dolar bils
I’d borrowed from Bily’s closet safe. (What? I was going to pay him back. Someday. Probably after I colected my final payment
from Mina. If I finished the freaking job, which I needed the borrowed Benjamins to do. So I had to take the money. If I didn’t,
I’d never be able to pay it back.)
As soon as I was safely out of the city I stopped at the nearest rest area, found a stal in a deserted ladies room, and changed
both clothes and auras. Maria Rossi, one of my former clients, would be playing the part of the new hired help, giving me the
excuse I needed to stick close to Mina until I knew the real Trey was safe.
Maria was an overripe peach of a woman, stil beautiful despite the extra twenty pounds she carried, the silver in her hair, and
the crow’s feet that framed her eyes. My job for her had been to reconnect with her estranged father before the old man died.
Maria had been afraid the cantankerous old goat would leave his milions to his ancient cat in a fit of pique, instead of to her own
blameless offspring. In spite of the blissful reconciliation I contrived, I stil hadn’t been paid. I’d taken the job on spec, knowing
Maria would only be able to afford my fee if the inheritance came through. (Yeah, business decisions like that might have a little
something to do with my current financial situation.) As far as I knew, the old guy was stil alive and kicking. I’m guessing the cat
didn’t last long, though, once the real Maria got back into that house, so I did expect to colect my fee eventualy.
In the meantime, I didn’t feel too bad about borrowing her aura as a down payment.
The family cabin in the Adirondacks (gifted to my fledgling business in a show of support from my parents) had been the ideal
location to take us kids when we were first getting used to our aura-adapting abilities. Far away from the prying eyes of the public,
we could practice changing auras, polishing our skils in private until we were sure of ourselves. The ability doesn’t spring into
existence overnight—it appears gradualy after puberty, and takes concerted effort to perfect.
I was about to turn onto the private road that led to the lake house compound when a smal, black pickup truck cut me off. I
jammed on the brakes and let loose with a string of Italian curse words as I skidded to a halt. In my line of work, you have to
have a passing familiarity with a lot of languages, and colorful phrases come easily to me in times of stress. One mishap with Bily’s
car was more than enough for me.
The man got out of his truck and strode toward me. He looked like a middle-aged gardener, weathered, but appealing enough
in that worked-outside-your-whole-life kind of way. Probably a landscaper hired to do some seasonal work for one of the bigger
estates around here. Maybe he was lost. Stil, that was no reason to cut me off. I got out of the Chevy and slammed my door.
“That’s a private road, mister, and you’re blocking my way,” I said. No point in mincing words.
He stopped a pace away. “Ciel, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with Thomas.”
Shit. “Mark? I thought you were looking for Trey.”
“I was. I am. But I wanted to check on Mina for myself.”
“Wel, now that you know I’m on it, you can just toodle along. You know, save Trey, save my job. Both would be good.”
“Better idea—you head back home, and let me handle it from here.”
“No can do. Hilda’s expecting a new hire, and I’m it. Can’t disappoint her, now can I?”
I must have looked determined, because he didn’t push it. “Fine. We’l give Hilda a two-fer.” Suddenly he was as Italian as
Maria. Stil middle-aged, but now drop-dead Mediterranean gorgeous.
“Mark, this isn’t necess—”
“It’s Gianpaolo. Now, what’s our last name, cara mia?”
*
Pete buzzed us through the electronicaly controled gate after Mark gave him our phony names and told him that “the asparagus is
good in Holand this time of year.” (What? You can’t tel me anybody would guess that pass phrase. Even Mark didn’t know it
until I told him, and that’s saying something.)
Mark was at the wheel, having hidden his truck in the underbrush on the other side of the
main road after transferring a smal
duffel bag to Bily’s trunk. (He’d insisted on driving the last leg down the private road because “Gianpaolo’s just that kind of
macho guy.”) We’d reached a stalemate. After I told him about the Swede in the cigar shop, he was more determined than ever
to check things out, and I wasn’t about to leave without seeing Mina for myself.
He parked the Chevy under a tree. God help the bird that dared poop on it, because I wasn’t in a forgiving mood where Bily’s
car was concerned, and I knew how to make a slingshot.
We left our luggage in the trunk and went to the main cabin, where the extremely cheerful Hilda Perkins greeted us. Sixty-ish,
with a cushiony figure of the sort that invited hugs, she was thriled to learn she was getting not only indoor help, but outdoor as
wel. From the look on her face you’d think it was Christmas morning. Geez. I was going to feel like such a bitch when I had to
tel her she couldn’t keep us.
Hilda, of course, knew about aura adaptors. She was a nonadaptor member of another adaptor family—the gene doesn’t
always carry through to the next generation—and so could be trusted. Her husband had died several years before, and her
children were grown, leaving her without anyone to take care of. My clients filed the gap. Mark and I had decided not to mention
who we realy were unless we had to—no chance of Hilda slipping and caling one of us by our real name that way.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rossi? So happy to meet you. I hope you had an easy drive,” she bubbled.
“Fine, fine. It was smooth sailing the whole way,” Mark lied. “You are Mrs. Perkins? But I wasn’t expecting someone so
young.”
I tried not to rol my eyes. Great. Now Hilda probably thought I was an ass for teling the new hired help she was old.
“Oh, I’m no spring chicken.” She wiped her hand on her apron before extending it to Mark, who held it just a shade too long,
flicking his eyes up and down her body, pausing for a beat at chest level. If he kissed her hand, I was going to slug him.
I cleared my throat. Hilda broke away from Mark and held her hand out to me. Her grip was firm and no-nonsense, just as I
remembered it. It had been one of the reasons I had hired her in the first place—I hate a wimpy handshake.