No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1)

by Robert Swartwood

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Can you tell us about it? How you took out Roland?”

  For Friday evening at eight o’clock this bar is surprisingly empty. Only a few people lined up on stools at the bar, a few other people scattered around the tables. Nobody close enough to overhear us, not if we keep our voices down, and besides, the music pulsing from the speakers is a healthy rock beat and will help drown out my voice.

  Still, I wonder, should I tell them?

  I glance at Nova. He’s watching me. His look is almost cautious. He has his large hand wrapped around his beer glass and is rubbing his thumb up and down the side. It’s such a small thing I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it.

  I know I shouldn’t. My work is classified, even if it is non-sanctioned. But nobody has ever asked me to tell stories before. Sure, I’ve described things to Nova and Scooter, even Walter, but that was more or less a simple debriefing of the events. Not storytelling simply for amusement.

  “Well?” Boylan says. His eyebrows are raised, his lips curled in a smile. I notice he’s wearing a wedding band now—he hadn’t earlier during the surveillance—and I wonder about his family. Whether he has any children, and if so, how he treats them when he’s home. About what he tells his wife when he comes home from work, what he might say to her on the telephone if he hasn’t seen her in weeks.

  I glance at Nova one more time, see the caution still in his eyes, and then I lean forward and say, “Delano was having a party at this casino ...”

  The story doesn’t take long to tell. Five, maybe ten minutes pass. When I’m done I finish off my beer and sit back and cross my arms. I can’t stop smiling. I don’t know why, exactly, but the look on the guys’ faces, the one of complete awe, is something I’ve never had aimed at me before.

  Beside me, Nova takes a sip of his beer, looks away. He doesn’t say anything.

  Finally Reed says, “And then what happened? You just ... went home?”

  I told up to the part where I returned to the garage. Where Nova and Scooter confronted me about Rosalina. Where Rosalina told me about the ranch.

  I lower my eyes, thinking now about Scooter. Remembering how he saved me even though I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

  I think about him chewing his Bazooka Joe bubblegum. About him aiming his Blackberry, ready to take a picture of me in the schoolgirl outfit.

  He’s gone now, having died in my arms, and today may have been my very last mission.

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice soft, “then I went home.”

  Nova glances at me, glances back down at his glass. His hand is still wrapped around it and his thumb keeps rubbing the side.

  “Did you say anything to him?” Boylan asks.

  “Who?”

  “Delano. Before you shot him. Did you say anything?”

  I find it a strange question, an unlikely question, in fact, coming from a guy like Boylan. As far as I can tell, he’s a professional agent. And saying something to the target before you kill him, that’s just too ... Hollywood.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “That’s a pity.” Something dark enters Boylan’s eyes. “If it had been me, I would have said something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I would have reminded him about Abraham and Kenneth. Made him think about their deaths in the instant before he died.”

  The mood has shifted. The music continues around the bar, people talk and laugh, but it’s like a glass partition has suddenly inserted itself, cutting us off from the rest of the world.

  Boylan has gone silent, now staring down into his beer. Reed glances at him, then glances at Philippe. Finally he looks at me.

  “Abraham and Kenneth were a part of our team two years ago. Roland Delano had them killed.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “Delano had men come after them. Actually, he had men come after all of us. We were the team assigned to keep constant surveillance on the man and his dealings. Delano somehow found out about it. He didn’t like it and sent men to scare us off.”

  “He really thought doing that would work?”

  “The thing about men like Delano is they don’t think. They just do. And so he sent men and...” Reed looks down, swallows, shakes his head.

  Philippe clears his throat. “One of the main reasons Boris isn’t with us now, why he’s still up on the rooftop watching the mansion, is that he was shot in the leg that night by Delano’s men. They almost killed him. He now has to use a cane to get around.”

  Boylan looks up at me, his face even darker. “They shot me too. Right here.” He pats his left shoulder with his right hand.

  I glance at Reed. “What about you?”

  “Me?” He shakes his head. “I happened to be taking a piss at the time. Wasn’t in the room when Delano’s men stormed in. There were four of them. Abraham and Kenneth were closest to the door so they died first. We returned fire and managed to take two of them out, and the other two...”

  He shakes his head again. Nobody speaks for the longest time. That invisible glass partition is still around us, keeping out the rest of the world.

  Finally Boylan shakes his head. “On second thought, I wouldn’t have said anything to him before I pulled the trigger. I would have just shot him five or ten times first. Then if I had the time I would have walked right up to him and spit in his face. Either that or pulled out my dick and pissed all over him.”

  A beat passes, then another. Reed smiles first. Then Philippe smiles. Then Nova. Then Boylan. I’m the one who laughs first though, and it starts the rest of them off, all of us laughing, contained in that invisible glass partition that ensures nobody else in the world knows the joke.

  38

  By the time we leave the bar it’s nine o’clock and it has already started raining. Philippe’s sedan is parked two blocks away in one direction, Reed and Boylan’s car parked three blocks away in another direction. We say our goodbyes on the sidewalk, shaking hands, patting shoulders, nodding heads. Knowing that we did everything we could today to try to save the world but sometimes your best just isn’t good enough.

  The three of us walk quickly toward the sedan. As we near it Philippe reaches into his pocket for the keys. I hurry my step, snatch the keys from his hand, and tell him I’ll drive. Before he can protest I hit the button for the car alarm and locks and slide into the driver’s seat.

  Reluctant, Philippe gets into the passenger seat. Nova sits in the back.

  Philippe says, “Do you even know where you’re going?”

  “I’ve driven in Paris before.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  I put the car in gear and wait for an opening in traffic before I pull out into the street. The sedan handles better than I thought it would, the engine very powerful, and it takes me a minute to adjust.

  The rain picks up. One of the wipers is obstinate and doesn’t clear the windshield properly.

  I drive up one street, down another. I stop at traffic lights, stop signs. I know what I’m looking for but start to wonder whether it’s worth the risk. As much as I’m dreading the flight back home on the cargo jet, I don’t want to miss it.

  Finally I find the street I’m looking for. I make the turn and drive down it, and as I do Philippe starts to notice what section of the city we’re in. His body tenses. He sits up straighter in his seat. He looks at me, just stares, before speaking.

  “What are you doing?”

  I spot the club two blocks up. It’s almost impossible not to, what with the bright flashing lights and the large neon sign that in French proudly proclaims Xerxes’ Palace.

  There’s a vacant spot along the curb. I park the sedan there, shut off the ignition.

  “Holly,” Philippe says, his voice heavy, “just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “Being reckless and irresponsible,” I say, undoing my seatbelt and reaching for the door handle.

  Philippe grab
s my arm.

  Nova, just as fast, leans over the seats, grabs Philippe’s hand, and pulls it back off. He says, “What the hell is going on here?”

  Philippe ignores him, keeps staring at me. “You can’t go in there.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you expect to accomplish?”

  “I just want to see him.”

  “There’s no guarantee he’ll be in there.”

  Nova says, “What the fuck are you two talking about?”

  Philippe jerks his hand out of Nova’s clutch, jerks his chin at the bright building a block up. “The man who owns that club was an associate of Roland Delano. It now appears he’s planning to take Delano’s place.”

  Nova closes his eyes, lets out a breath. He says my name, starts to say more, but I open the door and step out.

  “I’m not going to do anything. I just want to see him for myself.”

  “What about your flight?” Philippe asks.

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  Nova says, “And if you’re not?”

  I smile at him. “Then you know what to do.”

  Even with the rain there is a line outside the club. Thankfully a canopy has been set up and I find shelter underneath it.

  The line moves fast. I don’t have identification on me but the bouncer likes my smile and lets me in anyway. I’m forced to pay a cover charge. Then I enter a dark atmosphere of head-pounding music and flashing lights. A corridor past a small bar leads to the club itself. It is a wide open space with four levels. The middle is open with a large dance floor on the first floor. It’s packed.

  I move along the first level, past booths and tables, past waitresses dressed in skimpy outfits. Smoke is thick. I take the stairs to the second level, where the booths and tables have been replaced with plush beds. People lounge on these beds, drinks in their hands. I walk to the balcony and stare down at the dance floor, then glance up at the ceiling to see a mirror reflecting the flashing lights.

  I start to head up to the third floor but decide to go back downstairs instead. If Xerxes is here, he’s in a VIP room or another level I’ll never be able to enter.

  I make it to the first level without any problems. A guy wearing too much cologne and too much gel in his hair approaches me. He has a drink in each hand. He hands one to me, asks me if I’d like to dance.

  “No thanks,” I say, handing him back his drink.

  He calls after me, his voice rising above the head-pounding music, asking what’s wrong baby, don’t I want to party? I just keep walking. Past the tables, past the booths, past those skimpily-clad waitresses. Down the corridor past the small bar, twenty feet from the exit, fifteen feet, ten feet, when suddenly two men in suits place themselves in my path.

  “Excuse me,” one of the men says in English. “If you wouldn’t mind, please come with us.”

  In French I tell them I don’t speak English. I tell them I was just leaving.

  The man steps closer. “Please don’t make this difficult on yourself, Miss Lin. Mr. Xerxes would like to have a word.”

  In French I tell them again I don’t speak English. I raise my voice, hoping to draw attention.

  The other man, the one who hasn’t spoken yet, places his hand inside his suit jacket. He pulls it out, only slightly, to reveal the butt of his gun.

  I glance past them at the exit, only ten feet away. I think about Nova and Philippe waiting outside in the sedan. I think about witnesses. I think about how many seconds it would take the man to fully bring out his gun and what all I could do in that time. I think about my reason for coming here, how I just wanted to see Xerxes, to glimpse him, and how now I’ve just been given a personal invitation into his quarters.

  I smile and in English say, “All right then, lead the way.”

  39

  A private elevator takes us up to the fifth floor. The one who showed me the butt of his gun earlier was the one who frisked me. He’d spent a little too much time around my ass and crotch and breast areas and when I told him that would be twenty dollars he muttered fuck off.

  Now when the elevator doors open he’s the one who steps out first and motions me forward.

  The first thing I notice is that the room is large and sparse. A few potted plants, a bar in the corner, and in the middle of the room three plush chairs. Sitting in one of those chairs now, right in the middle, is a black man in his forties. He has an intelligent face with a sharp goatee.

  The second thing I notice as I’m pushed from behind by the other suit is that the floor is glass. No carpet, no wood, no concrete, but glass. It’s broken up in square segments by the steel frames keeping this level supported, and as I walk I remember looking up and seeing only a mirror that reflected the flashing lights and the images of the people on the dance floor.

  Despite the head-pounding music playing downstairs, it’s quiet up here. The only sounds are our footsteps on the glass as we approach Xerxes. He just watches, a drink in his hand. It doesn’t appear like he’s going to say anything, so I decide to break the ice.

  “Nice two-way mirror,” I say, looking down at the club below. “I didn’t take you for a voyeur but I guess it’s not surprising.”

  He wears black dress pants and a pink collared shirt. Not many men can pull off pink, but he manages to do it swimmingly.

  Xerxes keeps watching me for another moment, then smiles. When he speaks, I’m surprised to find he has a British accent.

  “I’m glad you approve. I hope my men weren’t unprofessional when they stopped you on your way out.”

  Besides the two suits behind me, there are three others stationed around the room. All wear suits and keep their eyes trained on me.

  I jerk my thumb back at the suit behind my left shoulder. “This asshole was a little too fresh when he patted me down. Just so you know, if he ever does it again, I’ll break his fucking nose.”

  Xerxes smiles, bows his head. Then he glances at the man I just indicated and raises an eyebrow. “Do you think she has the ability to break your fucking nose?”

  “Who,” the man says, “her?” and as he steps forward and touches my arm, I spin around and jam the heel of my hand into his nose. My intention is not to kill him, so I don’t hit him with my hand raised up which might send bone particles into his brain. Instead I keep the hand straight, popping him just enough to break the cartridge, and then he’s down on the ground, his hands to his face, blood running down his suit and spreading on the glass.

  Already the three men stationed around the room move forward. The suit to my right grabs me.

  “You cunt!” the suit on the ground murmurs, his mouth full of blood. He starts to stand, reach for his weapon.

  “Enough,” Xerxes says loudly. “Richard, she gave you fair warning. You were stupid enough to test her. Now get out of here. You’re making a mess.”

  The man keeps one hand to his face, glaring back at me. I can tell he wants to ignore his boss, pull out his weapon, shoot me in the head. I can tell he even considers the idea.

  Then with another curse he turns and stalks out of the room, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

  Xerxes sighs, rattles the ice in his glass. He motions for me to sit in the chair beside him.

  “Would you care for a drink?”

  The chair is some large modern piece of shit that threatens to swallow me whole. Not very comfortable at all but it’s not like I’m going to complain.

  “No thank you.”

  “May I ask you, Holly—may I call you Holly?”

  “Right now you can call me whatever you want.”

  “Okay then, Holly it is. May I ask you then what it was you expected to accomplish by entering my club tonight?”

  “I actually had thought this was a karaoke bar.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. I’ve been having the urge to sing some Gwen Stefani lately.”

  “Then why did Philippe and your other friend stay in the car?”

  “They don’t
care much for my singing.”

  Xerxes’s smile is thin. “What did you think of the message?”

  “What message?”

  “Don’t play coy. After all, you were the one who eventually ended up with the briefcase, no? It seems almost appropriate when you think about it.”

  “To be honest, I thought it was a little overdramatic. It just felt too ... hack.”

  Two women enter the room with paper towels and bottles of cleaner. They get down on their hands and knees, start spraying and wiping the floor.

  Xerxes says, “Roland was a very close friend of mine.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “He was like a mentor to me.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “He taught me everything I know.”

  “Does that include sucking cock?”

  The women pause in their cleaning, stay motionless for a second or two, start up again.

  Xerxes shakes his head. “You are a very arrogant woman.”

  “That’s what people tell me.”

  “You should have taken your plane ride back to America. You should have walked away.”

  “Like I told you, I thought this was a karaoke bar.” Thinking, how does he know I’m already supposed to be headed back to the States?

  The women are quick and concise. Less than a minute after they’ve entered the room, they have cleaned up the blood, gathered their things, and exited.

  “How is Philippe anyway?” Xerxes asks.

  “He still blames you for his parents.”

  “Pathetic. I had nothing to do with his parents’ passing.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  “I wasn’t even in the city when it happened.”

  “No, you’re much smarter than that.”

  “Just as I won’t be anywhere close by for your unfortunate death tonight. Not that anyone would suspect me.”

  “Of course they wouldn’t. You’re a model citizen. Drugs, weapons, whores, pornography—I’m surprised they haven’t given you the Nobel Peace Prize yet.”

  “Again, you are very arrogant. Aren’t you afraid to die?”