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Seven Books for Seven Lovers

Page 79

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair


  “There is one more thing,” Tyka said. “Your father wanted you to have something, something very important. He hid it for you somewhere only you would know. He said, ‘Tell my boy I love him and I’m proud of him. And tell him to find a lady to love—a bride who can weather all that he is.’ He was very specific about this. Do you know what this means?”

  Chas coughed with discomfort. “I have no fucking idea. That’s more than I heard my old man say in one sitting in all the time he was alive.” He paused for a moment. “What did you do for him, anyway? I mean, how did you meet?”

  Tyka inhaled a long draw of her cigarette and smiled. “Mr. Palmer. I met your father because I am an assassin. One of the best, if I do say so myself. I met him because he wanted me to kill the Italian. Unfortunately, we were too late.”

  ‡‡‡

  PIERRE LOOKED AT his watch and sighed. He had an instinct for mistrust, and it was flaring right now—and its focus was Chas. He had had the same feeling about Chas’s father shortly before the shit hit the fan. Chas was up to something, he was sure of it. In addition, Chas was late, something Pierre hated most of all.

  He reached under the table as the din of conversation continued to rise and fall and pressed a small red button sharply three times. Within thirty seconds the door swung open to reveal a woman in stilettos, fishnets, and a glittering red corset. “May I help you, Monsieur Descartes?”

  The conversations around the table came to a grinding halt. “Oui, madame.” Pierre beckoned the woman close to him and murmured something in her ear; she then responded in kind, her voice inaudible to the rest of the men. They continued to speak for a moment or two in lowered voices. Pierre loved the fact that none of the thugs who worked for him would dream that this was the mysterious G—Gabriella, the second cousin and silent partner of the Italian. She had the intelligence and ruthlessness to murder each and every one of them if she needed to, and in her head were the locations and phone numbers for every single member of their organization. She was the one in charge of dispatching the members of their cell to their specific operations. Pierre always referred to her as the G Spot. But only in secret. Pierre knew that if Bruni ever heard him talk about his cousin that way, Pierre would be killed without a second thought.

  “We are tracking him now,” G said into Pierre’s ear in flawless French. “We have eyes and ears around him. He is in an underground café with a woman, a very attractive woman. Not surprising, no? We will follow him when he comes up, and if he goes anywhere other than straight back, we will notify you immediately.”

  “Hmm,” Pierre said, “so maybe it’s just another woman.”

  G smiled. “Well, Monsieur Palmer does like to . . . play . . . in the afternoon—but during a meeting? He usually waits until the night.”

  Pierre smiled back. “Well, you would know.”

  “Yes,” G said, like a cat that had swallowed the canary, “but he doesn’t. Know who I am, that is.”

  “Yes, I rather enjoyed the idea of you in a mask . . . and nothing else. . . .”

  They both laughed, then realized the entire room was staring at them. Pierre cleared his throat, then continued at full voice, slapping her ass in dismissal. “Yes, please send us more cigarettes and restock the bar. That will be all, madame.”

  “Bien sûr, monsieur, heureuse de vous aider,” she said huskily, and left.

  At her exit there were low whistles, laughter, and murmured vulgar comments in various languages. Pierre smiled. “Yes,” he said, lying through his teeth to keep their cover, “I fucked her once. That’s why she gives such good service.” Then he opened the binder in front of him. “All right, gentlemen, shall we return to the maps? Monsieur Palmer will be back shortly.”

  Or so he hoped.

  ‡‡‡

  SUSANNAH SAT IN the back of the falafel truck the Boss had hooked them up with. Lisa Bee was next to her on the computer and headset, and the Boss was busy outfitting the rest of the vehicle for surveillance. Jackson, meanwhile, was running the truck. He had lived in Morocco for a time in his youth and had both excellent French and shawarma skills. When asked about this, Jackson’s only reply was, “I once dated a girl who worked in a sausage factory. Then I dated a girl whose father was the gyro king of Chicago. Street meat has always been my ticket to ride.” No one had any response, not even Lisa Bee, whose father had made his living in smoked fish.

  Jackson had actually spent most of his childhood in Morocco, the son of an American diplomat. He was of Moroccan descent on his father’s side, and Dutch German on his mother’s. The combination gave him a beautiful dark olive tone to his skin, thick brown curly hair, and deep hazel eyes. Of course, no one noticed his eyes—everyone thought they were brown. He was too busy cracking jokes to hold anyone’s eyes for long. But everyone noticed how attractive he was. He was a chick magnet, which made him perfect for being the front man in a falafel truck undercover op.

  Susannah looked at Lisa Bee, who was wearing a wig at the Boss’s insistence and madly typing away at the computer, then her eyes flew to the Boss, who was trying to camouflage a camera in a piece of pita bread. “Guys,” she said, “why do I suddenly feel like we’re in an episode of Scooby-Doo?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the Boss, clearly at the end of his rope, “and I don’t care. I need more eyes out there, but I don’t trust Jackson not to make this into someone’s lunch.”

  “Maybe that’s exactly what you need,” trilled Lisa Bee, turning around, wearing her earphones as she always did, one in, one out, so she could listen to music while hearing everyone speak. Madonna could be heard faintly coming through the earbuds.

  “What do you mean?” asked Bossman.

  “Well,” she said, “if the cameras are attached to people’s lunches, then we’d have eyes on the street. You just need to make sure they can be ingested.”

  “Humph.” The Boss looked around. “Where’s the manila from Doc Scrubs?”

  Doc Scrubs was a local Baltimore doctor who worked part-time for FTP, figuring out internal as well as external surveillance systems. He worked for Johns Hopkins as a heart surgeon but moonlighted as a creator of intelligence props. He loved to think of himself as a real-life Q from James Bond. Part of his time was spent sewing up people’s hearts, part of his time was spent breaking open ladies’ hearts, and the rest was spent on his true heart’s passion: the creation of new gadgetry to give Bossman, his childhood best friend.

  “Is this it?” asked Susannah, holding up a yellow envelope.

  “Yep. Perfect. Scrubs’s newest invention. Amazing, and his timing can’t be beat. Behold: a camera concealed inside a sucking candy.”

  Lisa Bee whipped her head around. “Who to the what?”

  “Yes, ladies,” the Boss said, in a low and excited bass thrum, “why Doc Scrubs and I always got into mischief. He’s a genius. A total fucking genius. This was something I received last week but didn’t know what to think of it. Cameras. Embedded in clear hard candy.”

  “Well, what if they eat them?” she asked.

  “That’s exactly the purpose, Bee. These are ingestible. He got the idea from those camera pills they’re now using to find out if people have acid reflux.”

  “Wait a minute,” Susannah said, “people swallow cameras?”

  “I think I have acid reflux,” Jackson said, “because I’m hopped up like the Energizer Bunny. Always ready to rock out a new job, or rock it on the dance floor. Clearly I have too much acid!”

  “Clearly you do too much acid,” the Boss said drily. “Not the same thing. But I digress. On the positive side, Jackson can put the candy on the plate with the falafel, like a free bonus. Then we’ll really have eyes on the street. The cameras are able to take a picture every two seconds, which is transmitted here, to this device.” Bossman unwrapped a cylindrical package, to reveal what appeared to be a fairly real-looking fake hot dog, equipped with faux bun.

  “Shit,” said Susannah, “is that what I think it is?”

/>   “That’s right,” said the Boss, “it’s a remote access computer and USB port in the shape of a hot dog.”

  “Why a hot dog?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” the Boss replied. “Scrubs has an odd sense of humor.”

  Lisa Bee piped in, “Seems like the good doctor has some odd fetishes.”

  “That,” Susannah said, “or some odd eating habits.”

  “I dunno,” Jackson said with a grin, “I like the guy.”

  “Exactly my point,” Lisa Bee said. “Not really a ringing endorsement.”

  Susannah thought she caught a look of fleeting disappointment on Jackson’s face, but she couldn’t be sure; anyway, she was too invested in figuring out what the point of the hot dog was and if they could use it in their next move.

  ‡‡‡

  TYKA AND CHAS emerged from the underground café into the sparkling Paris sunshine. They both took a moment to light another cigarette, surreptitiously looking around to make sure the coast was clear. Tyka looked at Chas for a moment. “You are a marvelously attractive man, Chas. Much like your father. I wish we had met under different circumstances.”

  He smiled. “I do too. But to be frank, I’m otherwise engaged at the moment. Or so I hope.”

  “Hmm.” Tyka licked the corner of her mouth. “Lucky lady. Pretty too. I have always thought white-collar criminals preferred blondes, but perhaps redheads are a challenge?”

  Chas appeared startled. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  Tyka put a hand on his chest. “I have been tracking you for some time, Chas. I know much more than you would be comfortable with. It was your father’s explicit instructions that I not make contact with you—not give you this message—unless I needed help getting to Bruni, or, god forbid, you were in some kind of trouble with these men. I think we have come to the place where both of those things are happening. Your father had a peculiar ability to sense future possibilities. It is exactly what made him such a good businessman.” Suddenly, her eyes darted over his left shoulder. “Shit. We are being watched. I know that one—Luigi, the Boot. He’s a snake. Thankfully, he does not know me. Kiss me, quickly. And make it look good.”

  Chas did as he was told, grabbing Tyka and pulling her to him in a passionate kiss that left, to the observing eye, no question as to their relationship. When they finally pulled apart, Chas let his hand linger upon her ass for a bit, just to make sure they were creating a believable cover. Tyka’s eyes darted over his shoulder. “Good,” she said, “he looks smug, like we have turned him on. Filthy bastard. I’ve seen what he has done to the whores he hires every night. Filthy fucking bastard.”

  “Can I take my hand off your ass now?” Chas asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Thank you, Mr. Palmer, that will be enough. I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed it, however.”

  The side of Chas’s mouth curved upward. “Well, I can’t exactly say that either.”

  “Time for me to leave, Mr. Palmer. Please take my lighter,” she said hurriedly, brandishing the lighter with the red lips upon it. “If you should need me, run your tongue along these engraved lips, and I will find you.”

  “Seriously?” he said, both delighted and unnerved. “How does that work?”

  “A true magician never reveals her secrets,” she said with a smile. “Till then, Chas. Perhaps I will see you at some point in the States. I have consistent work from a client in New Jersey. And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Well,” she replied, “you are all your father promised. And to see one real man alive on this earth, well—this gives me hope. Which is something I have not had for a very long time.”

  And with that, she stroked his finger with one cheek and left. Chas was left alone, wondering what sense there was to be made of any of it.

  ‡‡‡

  LUIGI RAISED HIS wristwatch to his lips and blew lightly on the surface. Within moments, his earpiece crackled to life. “Sì, signore?” a husky female voice asked. G. Such a turn-on. Having a woman like this as his boss was enough to make every workday a pleasure and every conversation incite a searing pain in his nether regions. In somewhat low-class Italian attempting to be high-class Italian (his way of impressing G, or so he hoped), Luigi filled G in on Chas Palmer’s activity, receiving the praise he longed for. One time he tried to garner more than praise, and he wound up in the hospital for a week with a scar on his dick that, strangely, looked like the map of Italy. For this reason his colleagues now called him “Lo Stivale,” the Boot.

  “You did a fine job, Il Stivale,” G murmured in his earpiece, causing him to harden against his wishes. “Take the rest of the day off. I’m sure Madame de Louvain will be happy to see you again tonight.”

  With a click, he was released from duty. He put his hands in his pockets and made a beeline for the local brothel.

  ‡‡‡

  SUSANNAH, LISA BEE, and the Boss sat in the back of the falafel truck, eyes glued to the screens in front of them. Jackson had managed to hook up the hot dog to the surveillance system on one of his breaks and was back to making shawarma. The candied cameras had been more difficult than they had initially appeared. At first the picture was patchy, but adjustment on the transmitter side seemed to solve that problem. Once or twice, the candy was bitten in half, bifurcating the image and sending a split-screen picture to the homing device of both the street view and the view of the customer’s esophagus. But this only happened a couple of times; for the most part they had eyes on the street for the length of time it took for the customers to finish eating their shawarma. By the time the customers got to the candy, Jackson would instantly remove the link to that particular camera and switch to one of the others that were active. It was one of Jackson’s great talents: he was able to make anything work with whatever he had at the ready. The Boss liked to say that Jackson was his own personal MacGyver.

  Currently, the screens were filled with various versions of the same image: Chas and the blonde making out. One screen had a close-up of their lips, another had a full-length body shot, and another was a still of Chas’s hand on the blonde’s ass. Susannah choked down the bile rising in her throat. Even though she figured that all she was to Chas Palmer was a quick, easy screw, a brief fascination and nothing more, she still had developed some deeper feelings for him. It had been so very long since she had even wondered about someone, and she was embarrassed both about her own feelings and about how easily he was on to the next girl. She felt stupid for thinking there was some greater possibility here, and even more stupid for feeling so hurt that there wasn’t. She had a lump in her throat and thought there was a strong chance that she might lose her lunch.

  Bossman looked at her with concern in his eyes. “You okay, Legs?”

  She sighed. “Yeah. I’ll be better as soon as we can stop looking at these pictures. Yuck.”

  Lisa Bee cursed. “Fucking men! Goddammit, Legs. You will not allow this prick to get the best of you. He’s an idiot and a player. And a bad, bad man. We’ll get him, honey. We’ll get him if it’s the last thing we do! Hey, Bossman?”

  “Yeah, Bee?”

  “Can you hop up front with Jackie and close the window? I gotta talk to my girl for a sec.”

  “Do we have to do this now?” the Boss asked, a note of tension in his voice. “I really think we’ve got to figure out our next move.”

  “You and Jackie can figure it out up front. I need a minute.” Lisa Bee fixed the Boss with a nasty stare, one she only used on ill-behaved children or frat boys during Mardi Gras. “Now.”

  “All right, okay,” the Boss grumbled. “Don’t get your waders all twisted in knots—”

  “Don’t talk about my waders unless you want a Cajun kick in the balls, and get a move on.”

  “Got it, Bee, got it,” the Boss said, scurrying out the back and making his way to the front, where Jackson stood watching with a grin on his face.

  “Oh, how I love a little Southern spark,” Jackson said. “It
’s almost like the Fourth of July.” Then he shut the connecting window before Lisa Bee could yell at him too.

  ‡‡‡

  THE SECOND THE WINDOW closed Lisa Bee spun around to look Susannah square in the eye. “Okay,” she said, putting her hands on Susannah’s shoulders. “It’s just us girls. Spill it.”

  Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, Susannah burst into tears. She just couldn’t help it. Lisa Bee let out a long melodic sigh. “Yeah. They always get us right where it counts, and just at the wrong time. Here,” she said, offering Susannah a tissue from a girly pink plastic Hello Kitty makeup bag, “go to town.”

  Susannah cried quietly for a few minutes, making sure the Boss and Jackson couldn’t hear, and blowing her nose periodically. She was terribly ashamed that all this was coming out in the middle of a stakeout, but she was more embarrassed that her feelings had gone deeper than she thought. The only person she would have felt comfortable letting it all hang out in front of was Lisa Bee.

  Lisa Bee rubbed her back as she cried, then gave her a huge hug. “It’s all right, Legs, honey. We all get reeled in sometimes. Guy’s got a lot of promise and some mad skills. But you dodged a bullet on this one, I’m sure of it. And the fun part is that now we get revenge. We’ll take him down, hon. And soon.”

  “Yeah,” Susannah said, blowing her nose again. “I know we will. And maybe there’ll be some satisfaction in that. But it doesn’t really help, does it? I mean, I know I’m not supposed to get personally involved and all. . . .”

  “Look,” Lisa Bee said, “you can’t help how you feel. What are you gonna do? Close up for the rest of your life and never let anyone in?”

  “Well, right,” Susannah replied. “Been there, done that. I don’t want to be one of those people who looks back on life and realize they never let themselves love. Except that it sucks so bad when it doesn’t work out, and it just keeps sucking worse each time. You’d think it’d get better, right? Or easier? But, no. It just gets worse and worse and worse, and this time, I just fucking hoped—”

 

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