[Santa Olivia 02] - Saints Astray

by Jacqueline Carey

  She glanced around the restaurant with its gilded fixtures and elegant diners, silverware clinking softly and the murmur of conversation. “Here? Um, no.”

  “No, of course not.” He smiled ruefully. “Right, then. We’ll meet in the lobby at eight o’clock sharp.”

  After dinner, they returned to the room.

  Loup flung herself on the bed with a sigh. “Why do they always want a demonstration?”

  Pilar picked up the remote and turned on the TV. “Because they do. They’re curious, that’s all. Does it bother you?”

  “A little, I guess.” She watched the channels flip past. “I mean, I know, I get it. I just get a little tired of it, you know? It’s been going on since I was ten years old and C.C. tried to punch me in the face to see if it was true.”

  “C.C. did? Our C.C.?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Knocked the wind out of him,” Loup said absently. “Quickest way to shut people—hey.” She shot upright. “Pilar, go back, go back!”

  “Where?”

  She snatched the remote from her and flipped back to an international news channel. “Holy shit!”

  “Oh my God.” Pilar stared at the screen. “It’s Miguel fucking Garza!”

  They both stared, riveted.

  Miguel was being interviewed in an undisclosed location by Senator Timothy Ballantine from Virginia. The camera cut back and forth between the two men. The senator was statesmanlike and grave, asking probing questions about Outpost 12, the town once known as Santa Olivia, Texas. Miguel Garza answered every question with blunt gravitas, his broad face filling the screen, his answers excoriating the American government.

  “Holy shit!” Loup leaped to her feet. “Go, Mig!”

  “He got out,” Pilar said, dazed. “He actually got out, and that senator guy found him like you told him to! And he’s… he’s…”

  “He’s being a fuckin’ hero,” Loup said softly, splaying her fingers and touching the television screen. “Aw, Mig! I told you so.”

  The coverage cut away.

  “Shit,” Pilar murmured.

  “It’s happening.” Loup whirled, eyes shining. “Things are moving, changing. And we made it happen!”

  “You did, baby.”

  “You and me, we’re a we.”

  “Shit,” Pilar repeated, taking the remote back and flipping channels in the hope of finding more coverage. “God, I want to know more!”

  They searched in vain for almost an hour before Loup yawned and suggested they give up. “We can check the news feeds tomorrow. Right now, I think we’d better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  In bed, Pilar curled against her back, warm and soft.

  “Hey, Loup?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You don’t have a thing for Miguel, do you?”

  “No!”

  “You sure?”

  Loup made an exasperated sound and rolled over. “Of course I’m sure! I like Miguel, yeah. I know he’s crude and a bully and an asshole sometimes, but he’s a decent guy under it all.” She was quiet a moment. “He didn’t help train me just to get a ticket north. In the end, I think he would have done it anyway. Like you said Floyd did, because it was the right thing to do. And he didn’t have any reason to feel guilty about Tommy’s death like Floyd did.” She touched Pilar’s cheek. “When Tommy died, it left a big hole in my heart.”

  “I know,” Pilar whispered.

  “Yeah, well, in his own grouchy, pervy way, Miguel helped fill it. Okay? I lost the best big brother in the world. Mig’s the big brother I never wanted, but kinda can’t help caring a lot about anyway. The only person I have a thing for is you.”

  “Okay, okay! I was just asking.”

  “Good.”

  “The only person?” Pilar asked after a moment.

  “Since I was fourteen years old,” Loup said drowsily. “Now go to sleep, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Vincenzo Picco arrived with an entourage, several rolling cargo crates of couture, and an outsized attitude.

  They saw him from a distance as he swept into the baggage claim area—a tall, slender man with a flamboyant mane of gray hair, yellow-tinted sunglasses, and an immaculately tailored suit.

  “Do you suppose—” Pilar began.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He spotted the sign that one of the other bodyguards was holding and swooped down upon them, trailing a handful of scurrying assistants.

  “Mr. Picco?” Henry stepped forward. “Global Security. Welcome to London.”

  Vincenzo Picco looked from one strapping bodyguard to another, then looked down his nose at Loup and sniffed. He snapped his fingers. A young woman hurried to his side. He uttered a rapid spate of Italian.

  “Vincenzo Picco would like to know why his detail is not matched in appearance and height,” she said in harried English. “Vincenzo Picco very much likes symmetry.”

  “Ahh…” Henry blinked. “Apologies to Mr. Picco.” He put one hand on Loup’s shoulder, then withdrew it. “Perhaps Mr. Picco would be interested to know that Ms. Herrera is the world’s only optimally engineered bodyguard.”

  She translated.

  Vincenzo Picco stooped, peering through his tinted glasses at Loup. He poked her sternum experimentally with one long finger; poked harder when she didn’t budge, but Loup merely raised her brows at him. He spoke to his assistant.

  “Vincenzo Picco is intrigued,” she said, turning to Pilar. “Who are you and why are you here?”

  “Pilar… Mendez. I’m just here to assist you, ma’am.”

  The assistant sniffed. “Alessandra.”

  “Alessandra.”

  Another exchange.

  “Vincenzo Picco approves of your dress,” Alessandra said grudgingly. “Now you must all retrieve the wardrobe.”

  They waited at the carousel where Vincenzo Picco pointed imperiously at crate after crate.

  “You so got the best clothes out of this deal,” Loup whispered.

  Pilar glanced down at her 1940s-inspired wraparound dress with little polka dots. “I know. I totally did.”

  The entourage and bodyguards rescued the last crate of couture.

  “Ready, sir?” Henry asked.

  Vincenzo Picco clapped his hands twice with authority, then let out an alarmed cry at the sight of a careening, giggling toddler carrying an open, sloshing cup of soda bearing down on him, his mother in hot pursuit.

  “Whoa!” Loup darted around the client, lightning quick. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, little man!” She snatched up the boy in one arm, securing the cup in her free hand. She bounced the delighted toddler on her left hip before setting him on his feet. “Here you go, lady,” she said, handing over the unspilled drink. “Sorry about that.”

  The mother gawked.

  A lot of people gawked.

  Vincenzo Picco brushed off the sleeves of his suit and inclined his head, issuing a soft utterance in Italian.

  “Vincenzo Picco is impressed,” his assistant offered.

  Loup eyed her. “Does he talk about himself that way or is that just you?”

  She tilted her head in an effort to look down her nose. “That is not your concern.”

  “Whatever. Ma’am.”

  They escorted the designer out of the airport, falling into a neat four-square formation while members of his entourage pushed the rolling crates. When it came to loading the crates into the cargo van, Loup helped, hoisting them effortlessly.

  “Jesus,” Henry Kensington murmured. “What you did back there with the kid… you know what kills me?”

  “No.”

  He nodded at her crisp white shirt. “You didn’t even spill a drop.”

  Loup shrugged. “I’m pretty dexterous.”

  “In oh, so many ways,” Pilar added absently, studying the news feed on her Dataphone.

  Henry Kensington blushed. “Ah… right.”

 
; The designer insisted on going directly to the venue, an elegant space that had once been an art gallery. There was a showdown with the Fashion Week security people, who refused to admit them without passes. Vincenzo Picco harangued his assistant in Italian. Alessandra translated his harangues into voluminous English. Many phone calls were made. Photographers snapped pictures of it all. Loup took her cue from Henry and the other guards and simply held her position, alert and attentive.

  In the end, they were admitted. The cargo trunks were rolled into the secondary gallery space that served as the backstage. The entourage fanned out and began unpacking the clothing and hanging it on racks while Vincenzo Picco strode up and down, examining items and giving curt orders.

  “Um… what do we do now?” Loup asked Henry.

  “Stand around and look stern. Stay out of everyone’s way.” He stifled a yawn. “Truth is, we’re probably just window dressing on a job like this. PR stunt. But on the other hand, you can see why someone might want to kill the bloke, eh?”

  “Yeah, kinda.”

  “You! Assistant!” Alessandra beckoned imperiously to Pilar. “I have a job for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  She pointed to a gleaming espresso machine that had emerged from one of the crates. “Watch.” She demonstrated. “One level scoop. No more, no less. Use only bottled water.” Frothing brown espresso hissed into a delicate white cup. “When Vincenzo Picco shouts, ‘Caffè!’ you will make one immediately and bring it to him. Understand?”

  Pilar sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.”

  They stood around for hours while the designer and his entourage engaged in a flurry of activity, steaming and primping his collection. Or at least Loup and the other guards did; Pilar dragged a folding chair over to her coffee station and sat, reading the news online in between cries of “Caffè!”

  “So what’s up?” Loup asked eventually, deciding she could stand and look stern next to Pilar as well as anywhere.

  She made a face. “Not as much as we’d hoped. That guy Ballantine, he’s trying to get Congress to hold hearings, but he can’t force them. And the administration’s made it a big huge crime for members of the military to talk about it. National security.”

  “That’s bullshit. They’re just afraid their big huge lie’s gonna get out.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Pilar looked up. “It’s crazy, you know? People there really think Mexico tried to invade America?”

  “We did, too,” Loup reminded her.

  “You didn’t. Anyway, it’s not like any of us had access to real news.” She gestured with her Dataphone. “They do!”

  “I think the whole world went kinda crazy for a while.”

  “True.” Pilar looked thoughtful. “If this is all coming out in the open, I wonder if Ballantine showed anyone the interview we did.”

  “Maybe,” Loup said. “If he did, that means Magnus was right.”

  Pilar paled. “And maybe it’s a good thing we’re here, and not in Mexico, huh?”

  “With fake passports and everything,” Loup agreed in a low voice. “Do you ever get the feeling Magnus knows more than—” She glanced over at a sudden commotion. “Oops. I gotta go be a bodyguard.”

  Vincenzo Picco was flinging plastic cups of fruit-flavored sherbet to the floor while members of his entourage dove to protect the clothing from splatters. He massaged his throat, complaining to a defensive Alessandra in voluble Italian.

  “Hey, Alessandra,” Pilar called from behind Loup, having abandoned her coffee station. “Did he say something about gelato?”

  “Yes!” she said irritably.

  “There’s an Italian gelateria about five blocks from here.”

  Loup glanced at her. “There is? How’d you know that?”

  “I did my homework, baby.” Pilar poked her. “See, this is the kind of stuff Addie taught me to do. It was in the dossier. Lemon gelato. It’s like ice cream, only Italian. It soothes his throat.”

  Alessandra conferred with a mollified Vincenzo Picco. “Yes, please. But he would like the fast one to go. As fast as possible.”

  “Me?” Loup blinked. “Okay, but it’ll attract attention.”

  The corners of Vincenzo Picco’s mouth twitched upward.

  “He wants to attract attention,” Pilar whispered in Loup’s ear. “And he so totally speaks English.”

  “Mm-hmm. Give me the directions.”

  She ran the five blocks at a quick jog, dodging startled pedestrians, overshot the unobtrusive gelateria, and backtracked, finding it. By the time the lemon gelato she ordered was ready, there was a small knot of onlookers awaiting her on the sidewalk.

  “Excuse me—” a man began.

  “Can’t talk.” Loup shook her head. “Got a big, important designer waiting for his fancy ice cream. Vincenzo Picco, you know? Very important.”

  “Erm…”

  She took off at a run and made it back to the venue before the gelato had even begun to soften. The designer received it with a courtly bow. After the first spoonful, he smiled and spoke to Alessandra.

  “Vincenzo Picco is pleased.” She turned to Pilar. “Is it, um, possible that you might know of a reputable sushi restaurant nearby? Vincenzo Picco wishes to have lunch catered so everyone may keep working without pause.”

  Pilar smiled happily. “Sì, signorina!”

  After a day of standing around interspersed with errand-running, they got the designer and his entourage ensconced in the hotel. Mercifully, he elected to dine alone in his room. “Vincenzo Picco desires privacy the night before a big show,” Alessandra informed them. “He will expect you in the morning.”

  “Of course,” Henry Kensington agreed.

  In their hotel room, Pilar flopped down on the bed. “Ohmigod. My feet are totally killing me.”

  “That’s what you get for wearing sexy little pumps that are a little too tight.” Loup pried them off. She sat cross-legged on the bed and rubbed Pilar’s feet. “I told you not to buy them. You could have waited to shop in London.”

  “Mmm. I know. But they were perfect with the dress.”

  “Vincenzo Picco approves of your dress,” Loup intoned.

  “Hey! That’s actually a pretty big deal.”

  “I know, I know.” Loup squeezed her foot. “You were great today. Everyone was impressed.”

  “I made coffee.”

  “You did a lot more than make coffee, Pilar.”

  “You think?”

  “Uh-huh.” She dropped Pilar’s foot and slithered up her body, bracing herself. “And not a single screwup. We just have to get through the big show tomorrow.”

  Pilar kissed her. “We can do that, right?”

  “Right.”

  Backstage at the venue the following day was pandemonium. In addition to Vincenzo Picco’s entourage, there was a small army of dressers and stylists provided by the event organizers to assist, plus members of the media and assorted celebrities and fashionistas. Pilar was back on coffee duty, while Loup and the security detail were expected to restrict access to the designer. In between granting interviews and schmoozing with luminaries, the designer ranted and raved about tardy models.

  At last the models began trickling in, and were immediately set upon by the army of stylists. Vincenzo Picco ordered everyone not involved with the show to clear the backstage area.

  “Pardon me, sir.” Loup took hold of a recalcitrant photographer’s elbow. “Time to go. Mr. Picco’s orders.”

  “Just one more… hey!” He gave her a startled look as he found himself being steered firmly and inexorably toward the exit.

  “Okay. Bye-bye, now.”

  After that came more standing around while everyone else worked frantically. There was a flurry of gossip surrounding the belated entry of one of the show’s top models, who ignored it to drift her way elegantly toward the stylists’ tables.

  “Elise, you’re late!” a stylist snapped.

  “Not for me, love,” she said c
omplacently, blowing a kiss toward a scowling Vincenzo Picco. She caught sight of Loup and smiled. “Look at you! Are you supposed to be a bodyguard?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s just the cutest thing! Was it Vincenzo’s idea?”

  “Um… no. I’m with Global Security.”

  “That’s perfectly adorable.” The model gave her a one-armed hug and kissed her cheek, then looked startled. “Oh!”

  “It’s not a gimmick, Elise,” someone called. “She’s a GMO.”

  One of the other models glanced up from beneath a cloud of hair spray. “Honest to God?”

  “Yeah, it’s true.”

  Elise stroked Loup’s arm, then snatched her hand away. “It’s so odd! You feel like… I don’t know what.”

  “I want to see!”

  “Me too!”

  Loup blinked, unsure how to respond to being surrounded by a sudden crowd of tall, curious models, touching her with the impersonal lack of self-consciousness of women used to being handled intimately by relative strangers.

  “Ooh! It is odd!”

  “Ever work with big snakes?” one model asked another, shivering a little. “I did a shoot with a Burmese python once. It’s sort of like that but completely different.”

  “Basta!” Vincenzo Picco came roaring down on them, scattering the models. He railed in Italian until they sat obediently in their chairs.

  “Sorry, sir,” Loup murmured.

  His expression softened. He spoke to a breathless Alessandra, arriving on his heels.

  “Vincenzo Picco says it’s not your fault. You may wait with your friend and bring caffè for him when he calls. Things will move very quickly now.”

  “Okay.”

  At the coffee station, Pilar eyed her. “You know, baby, I wouldn’t have wasted time worrying about Miguel Garza if I’d known you were gonna get petted by a bunch of models today.”

  “Yeah, well, petted is about right. I think they thought that’s what I am. A pet.”

  “Clive warned us you were just gonna be a novelty act,” Pilar said with sympathy. “I’m afraid there’s gonna be a lot more of that, baby.”

  “I guess. Pilar, do I feel like a big snake?”

  She smiled. “No, but you can sure as hell move like one when you feel like it.”