by Kate Johnson
In that case, I must be looking really hot.
He pointed to the hotel bar, gave me a photo of Don Shapiro to memorise, and then handed me a little bag containing an earpiece and told me he’d be upstairs, listening in.
“How will you get in without anyone seeing you?” I asked. “Don’t they have CCTV in all these places?”
He grinned. “And?”
Good point. There was nothing Macbeth couldn’t disable.
I went to the ladies and put the earpiece in, switched on the battery and dropped it in my bag. I fastened the little mike inside my bra and said in a low voice, “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear everything,” Macbeth said, and I was sure there was a leer in there. “Go get him and, remember, he likes his girls sophisticated.”
I made a face at the mirror. Sure, I looked pretty sophisticated now, but after a couple of sophisticated cocktails I’d be legless.
I made my way over to the bar, hoping my overall image was one of a sexy wiggle, not a pained hobble, and perched myself on a barstool.
“Can I get you anything?” the handsome bartender asked.
“I’ll have a—” A what? My usual pub drink was lager. At home I drank wine or cider (am I cool, or what?). In Fuerteventura we’d been working our way through the silly cocktail menu of Sex on the Beach and Slippery Nipples. Somehow, I didn’t think any of those drinks would go down well here.
Although…
“Guinness,” I said. Guinness is the Land Rover Defender of drinks. Tough and ultimately cool, no matter who’s drinking it.
Plus, it matched my dress.
It came in a pint glass and I told myself to go slowly. I might look cool now, but in half an hour I’d be falling off the stool if I wasn’t careful.
Half an hour came and went, and there was no sign of Shapiro. I’d sipped a quarter of a pint and was feeling pretty silly sitting there all on my own.
“Are you waiting for someone?” the bartender asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s…he’s late…”
“I see that. Where you from?”
“England.”
He grinned. “I see that, too. Whereabouts?”
“Uh, near Cambridge,” I said, because that always sounds nicer than “I’m from Essex”, and I’d rather be thought of as a toff than a Shazzer, thank you very much.
“And what are you doing here in New York?” He said it Noo Yoik.
“Business,” I said.
“What kind of business?”
The mind your own kind, I nearly said, but I was too distracted, because during one of my many glances towards the door I saw someone familiar walk in. Someone very familiar.
“Excuse me,” I said to the bartender, leaving money on the bar, and hopped off my stool and ran over. “What are you doing here?”
He stared at me. “Do I know you?”
I frowned. Then, “Oh, yeah, very funny. See, I do scrub up well.”
“Uh, yeah. Very well. Look, who the hell are you?”
I stepped back and looked him over. Tall, good body under his jeans and faded green T-shirt, great teeth, lovely hazel eyes, shiny brown hair.
“Harvey?” I said uncertainly. “What are you doing here?”
He stared at me a bit more, and then he started laughing. And I laughed too, hesitantly, feeling slightly stupid, still having no idea what was going on.
“Are you here on—” I looked around, “—business?”
He grinned and nodded. “Business. Yeah, I like that. I guess I am.”
Bloody Karen sending someone out to get in my way. “Is it—is it the Shapiro thing?”
He frowned and took me by the arm to a further away corner of the plush bar.
“What do you know about the Shapiro thing?”
“Duh, it’s why I’m here. Didn’t Luke tell you?”
“Well—”
Of course, Luke and Harvey don’t really get on. Luke thinks Harvey’s as useless as a Ken doll, and besides, they started badly when I met Harvey and, er, sort of snogged him before I got together with Luke, and now Luke still thinks there’s some sort of spark between me and Harvey. Whereas Harvey’s a lovely bloke and all, and undeniably cute, but just… I don’t know, just a little too nice. Maybe there’s something wrong with me that I prefer Luke, who is admittedly a bit of a bastard.
And then someone came up to us, unctuously dressed in the hotel uniform, and asked Harvey greasily, “Excuse me, sir, are you a resident?”
“Well, no, but—”
“It’s just that we do have a dress code here in the Houston bar,” the uniform gave a little sneer, “a tie, and no sneakers or jeans for gentleman.”
“Oh, just for gentlemen?” Harvey said. “The ladies don’t have to wear a tie?”
The uniform didn’t smile.
“Look,” I said, “he just forgot, right, Harvey? Why don’t we get out of here, ‘cos I don’t think Shapiro’s coming, and we can go talk about this, right? My hotel’s not too far.”
They both looked at me, the hotel guy with a leer, and Harvey with panic.
“Listen, lady,” he said, “I appreciate it and all, but—”
Jesus, did he think I was making a move on him? And hadn’t he once invited me up to his hotel room? No, not once—twice?
“I’m not making a move,” I hissed. “Doesn’t the name Luke mean anything to you?”
Harvey opened his mouth, but the hotel guy got in there first. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said.
Harvey glared at him, then me, and said, “Fine.”
And then he walked out.
Bloody hell.
I shuffled after him on my painful feet, mumbling to my mike, “Macbeth, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. I got surveillance set up outside the room, I’ll holler if he’s coming. You go after the Yank.”
“You know why he’s here?”
“No idea. Not like they ever tell us anything.”
“Cheers,” I muttered, and caught up with Harvey at the revolving doors. Then I got stuck and went round twice before being ejected onto the pavement and nearly knocking Harvey over as he lit up a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said in surprise.
“What you don’t know about me could fill the Empire State,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
“This isn’t funny—”
“Nope. Listen, lady, I’m not who you think I am.”
No kidding.
“You know Harvey, right? James Harvard Esquire. Lives in England, right?”
“Right,” I said, trying to figure this out in my head.
“He’s my brother.”
I stared.
“My twin brother,” he clarified.
“But—”
“You didn’t know he had a twin brother.”
I shook my head, unable to think of anything else to say.
He flicked ash off his cigarette onto the ground. “Well, here I am. I can show you ID if you want.”
I nodded dumbly, and Harvey II got out a wallet and flicked it to a driving licence. Alexander Henry Harvard. State of Ohio.
I peered at the birth date, but not knowing Harvey’s, it meant nothing to me. But I did know he was from Ohio. Shit.
“If you’re Harvey’s brother,” I said, “what’s his girlfriend called?”
“Angel. Sweet little thing. Tiny and blonde.” He studied me. “So who the hell are you?”
“I—I’m Sophie. I’m a friend of Harvey’s. We sort of work together.”
“Sort of, huh?” Alexander Henry said, and I wondered how much he knew about Harvey’s work for the CIA and SO17.
He started walking, and I stumbled after him, wincing. These shoes might be pretty, but I wasn’t altogether sure I’d worked out the sizing right and they were pinching and rubbing like a bad Swedish massage.
“So what’s your business with Shapiro? And what’s my bro got to do with him?”
“And who’s Luke?”
“My boyfriend. Look—”
“Where is he?”
“England. Look, Alex—”
“Xander.”
“Xander, right—”
“Is he cute?”
“Who?” I was confused now.
“Your boyfriend.”
“Yeah, he’s gorgeous.”
“Got a picture?”
“What?”
Xander stopped and turned to me. “Of your gorgeous boyfriend? Can I see him?”
“Uh—” Completely thrown now, I reached in my bag for my wallet, thinking for a moment that this odd Harvey clone was going to mug me, but he just stood there, watching me.
“I’m not going to take your wallet,” he said, “I just want to know if you’re after my brother.”
I frowned, but pulled out a file photo of Luke looking moody. It’s not the best picture of him and he doesn’t even know I have it, because I printed it off the office computer once when he was out. He has his arms folded, he’s wearing a black shirt, his hair is tousled and he looks kind of sallow and hungover, as well he might, because I think it was taken the morning after a pretty bad night out. But he’s still damn fit.
I watched anxiously as Xander scrutinised the photo in the dark. I was still at the stage where I desperately wanted everyone to approve of my boyfriend. I thought he was pretty damn stunning, but was I being deluded?
“Nice,” was Xander’s verdict. “Looks pissed off, though.”
I grabbed my precious photo back. “He always looks pissed off.”
“Even with you?”
I scowled at him, and Xander laughed, flicking away his cigarette. “So how far’s this hotel of yours?”
“Erm, I don’t think—”
“I’m not going to make a move on you,” Xander said firmly. “Trust me.”
“Oh, cheers.”
He grinned, and it was Harvey’s open, friendly grin. “Where are you staying?”
I knew Macbeth was still in contact, so, feeling safer for having him as back up, I said, “Hotel Philadelphia, on Seventh.”
Xander looked like he was considering this. “We’ll take the subway,” he said, and I followed after him slightly helplessly.
My Metrocard was still valid, so I followed him down onto the platform. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.
“Where exactly on Seventh?” he checked as we went down to the platform.
“Between 32nd and 33rd.”
He nodded and switched lines easily, me following along like a little hobbling dog.
We got off at Penn Station and waited for the Walk sign to turn to our advantage. Xander hesitated outside a grocery, then went in and bought a bottle of vodka.
“You want anything?”
“Erm…” Getting drunk with a complete stranger would not, I surmised, be a very good idea. “I’m supposed to be working.”
“Am I in your way?”
“Well, no, but I shouldn’t really be drinking…”
“Tell you what, I’ll drink and you can watch.” He added some Coke and then started shovelling junk food into a basket, proper Homer Simpson junk food that we just don’t get. Lay’s potato chips and Hershey bars featured in large quantity. I spotted some Jolly Ranchers and lobbed them in for good measure. I love Jolly Ranchers, but no one seems to sell them in England anymore.
We got to the till and Xander looked at me hopefully.
“Nope,” I said, “you picked it out.”
Scowling, he dug out some cash and paid for it. Then he followed me back to my hotel. I know I could have protested, could probably have got one of those scary guys by the elevator lobby to have kicked Xander out for me, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to attack me. I had a hunch. Well, okay, more than a hunch, but that sounds cooler.
I stopped off at a drugstore (which always sounds shady to me, because I’m a good girl who Says No To Drugs) and bought some fat sticking plasters and waterproof tape for my feet. I chucked in a bottle of water, feeling very virtuous, and off we went again, Xander slouching moodily ahead, me hobbling behind.
We got back to my room and Xander looked around. “Jesus,” he said, “did something explode in here?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t feel at home unless I’ve made some mess.”
“Then you must be planning to live here.” He got out another cigarette, and I took it off him. “Hey!”
“This is a no smoking floor,” I told him. “There are smoke detectors all over the place.” I wasn’t sure if this was true, but I didn’t want my room stinking of smoke.
Xander scowled at me and stalked into the bathroom for one of the plastic cups by the sink. He threw himself down on the double bed and tore open the bag of Lay’s crisps—sorry, chips—and sloshed out a strong measure of vodka. No Coke.
“So,” he looked up at me, “how do you know my brother?”
“We sort of work together.”
“Uh-huh. What do you have to do with Shapiro?”
“It’s business.”
“Business my brother’s involved in?”
“Well, kind of,” I hedged. “What do you have to do with Shapiro?”
“Asshole owes me five grand.”
I blinked. “What for?” I asked, praying it wouldn’t be drugs.
“I’m an artist,” Xander began earnestly, and at my disbelieving look, sighed. “He commissioned a portrait. I did the portrait. He took the portrait. Now I want my money.”
“Shouldn’t you have got your money before he took it?”
“Didn’t know he had. Came home one day and it was gone.”
“So he stole it?”
Xander shrugged and opened up the Pringles, his eyes averted from mine. “Could have.”
“But…”
“But nothing. What’s your business with him?”
“I work for a bank,” I said. “We have a few deals with him.”
“Deals that involve you wearing Anna Sui and Beverley Feldmans?”
That sealed it. I knew I was safe.
I flumped down on the opposite side of the bed and began unstrapping the glorious foot-torturers. There was a patch on one side of my left foot that had been rubbed raw and was bleeding slightly and I hobbled into the bathroom, ran some water in the sink and stuck my foot in.
“Very impressive,” said Xander.
“I used to do yoga.” When I was five.
“Bet your boyfriend loves that.”
“Oddly enough, he’s not turned on by me washing my feet.”
“Got the shoe size wrong?”
“…Maybe.”
I bathed my poor feet, dried them off, then sat down on the bed to parcel them up. By the time I was done my feet looked vaguely mummified. Xander poured me a shot of vodka and I took it. For the pain.
“So what do you really do?” he asked, and I sighed.
“I work for a totally secret British government agency and I’ve been sent here to investigate Don Shapiro.”
I was expecting him to laugh. Usually people do.
“What’s he done?”
I stared at him. “I was joking!”
“No, you were talking into a mic when you followed me out.” He grinned at me. “Artist, see? I’m very observant.”
I scowled and reached inside my bra for the mic. Then I took out my earpiece and switched off the battery.
“I can’t tell you what he’s done,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not entirely sure.”
“You’re not a very good secret agent, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Bet ol’ Harvey pisses you off.”
I gave him a sharp look. He grinned again, and it was the same charming smile Harvey often gave.
“Oh, please. We grew up in a small town, everybody knows everybody’s news. The whole town knew when Harvey went to Pr
inceton. The whole town knew when he joined the SEALs. And then the whole town knew when he started working for the CIA.”
“Does the whole town know about you, too?”
“The whole town despaired of me. I was the evil twin.”
“I’ll bet.” I drained my vodka. “More, please.”
“Hey, if you’re gonna drink it, pay up. I’m five thousand dollars down.”
I fetched a twenty from my wallet and held it in front of his face. “Why did you come to see Shapiro this evening? Did you have an appointment?”
“Did you?”
“Answer the question or you don’t get your vodka money.”
He made a face. “I went to get my money. Figured I could talk to him about it.”
But he still looked shifty. Maybe I’d wait until I got him more drunk to ask him again.
A is for Apple
Chapter Three
I was woken by the sound of doom pounding into my head. Der, der, der, derderder, derderder. Der, der, der, derderder, derderder.
“What the fuck,” Xander groaned, “is that noise?”
“My phone,” I mumbled, mouth full of pillow. I fumbled for the hellish device, wishing I’d never agreed to a triband phone, and groggily answered the call.
“Hey,” Luke sounded peppy, “good morning.”
“Meh,” I said.
“Don’t tell me I woke you up?”
“Blegh.”
“Sophie, it’s four in the afternoon here. Which makes it eleven in the morning where you are. How did it go with Shapiro last night?”
“He didn’t show. My feet hurt,” I moaned, to no one in particular.
“Poor baby,” Luke said without a trace of sympathy. “Are you going back there tonight?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to Macbeth yet. How’s it going where you are?” I added, proud of myself for thinking to ask.
“Okay,” Luke said boredly. “Listen, Karen said you might want to keep an eye out for Shapiro’s kid. Uh, his name’s Marc-Paul. Want me to send you a picture?”
“Yes please. Is he cute?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I thought he was in Scotland?” I glanced over at Xander, still sprawled beautifully across my bed.
“He was, but not now it’s summer. He came out to see his pa a week or so ago. Only just found out. He’s staying at the Park Ave. with his old man.”