Seven Books for Seven Lovers

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

  She could hear AJ furiously typing away, and the music in the background suddenly got louder. She thought she also heard the sound of a match being lit. Finally, after some time, AJ exhaled loudly. “Check the back of every drawer. Feel around. See if there’s a hidden compartment.”

  “Honestly, Fingers, I know how to search a room. Do I really have to wait for your go on all this?”

  “Yes. I want to be in control of everything. Sorry. Of course you know how to do this, it’s your job. I just got a little overexcited is all. Ransack and report back.”

  “Roger that,” Susannah said with a smile.

  She began to explore every nook and cranny, using the skills she had honed during years of performing searches. She had to remove all the liquor bottles and feel around the edges. Then she removed a small flashlight from her backpack and shed light on the only unexplored part of the credenza, which was farthest from her reach. The beautiful antique backing was loose, and, with a bit of work from her handy Swiss Army knife, it easily came off, revealing what appeared to be a small rusted brass safe tucked within the wooden frame. “Holy guacamole, Fingers. You’ve done it this time. It’s like I just found the safe at the end of the rainbow. Now how do I get in it?”

  “What does the lock look like? Combination? Keyhole?”

  “Hmmm . . .” Susannah mused. “Neither. Looks like—well, like something out of Indiana Jones. Or Lord of the Rings.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, there’s beautiful handiwork, and Gaelic lettering, and a sort of missing piece, like a key that goes on the surface. It looks like that door in Game of Thrones—did you see the episode where Daenerys is being wooed by one of the statesmen of the weird gated community they all come across, and he boasts of having an entire safe of treasure, but when they get there—”

  “Enough, honey, I got it. For fuck’s sake! Now we need a fucking artifact? I mean, this guy—”

  “I know,” Susannah agreed. “Tell me about it.”

  “I mean, he’s almost TOO good. Really. All right, gimme a minute.” Once again, Susannah heard furiously ticking keys and the music got still louder. She heard AJ mumbling as she typed but could only make out certain words like “fuck” and “holy grail” and “men.” As the time lengthened, Susannah began to get nervous. She was anxious about when Chas would be coming home, and if anyone else would be coming to check on the place, and if she should clean up, and if Chas had really ruined her life or not, and did he feel anything for her at all? Would she ever date again, would she ever like/love/lust again, would she ever wear a pretty dress and flirt and kiss anyone again? Would she grow old and die alone in a big cottage in the woods where trees grew through the house and she had seventeen cats? Feral cats, angry cats, a cacophony of loud, spraying, untrained cats, cats having kittens and playing with balls of yarn and eating off the dining room table? And newspapers from years past piled so high you couldn’t see over them? As she began to have an anxiety attack, she reached for a strand of hair to play with, but she had put her hair back in a ponytail, so she reached for her necklace, which was . . .

  The Celtic family tree.

  “Oh, fuck. Fingers? Fingers, turn the music down. I’ve got it. I think I’ve got it. I’m wearing it!”

  “No,” AJ said. “No way. It’s not that fucking family tree? I thought that was all a big bunch of bullshit.”

  “Well, let’s see.” She pulled it up over her head, and the silver tree fit perfectly on the lock face. She turned it, and it opened.

  Inside the minuscule safe were a flash drive and a piece of paper. And on the piece of paper were four words. “The Italian: Heavenly Balls.”

  ‡‡‡

  THE BOSS, JACKSON, and Lisa Bee were sitting in a New York hotel room playing poker and wondering what their next move would be, both in the game and in the case. The Boss was nearly out of chips, Lisa Bee was holding on to a small pile, and Jackson had everything else. Jackson’s pile of chips was so large that his face could barely be seen over it. Normally, he would be grinning like the Cheshire cat; he did so love to whip Bossman’s ass at cards. But tonight, the mood was somber. They were trying to take their minds off the loss of Susannah, and their FBI contact Fritz’s threats, and the fact that a group of truly unsavory criminals were about to win this de facto war. They each felt like a failure in slightly different ways. The Boss felt like a failure as a boss. Lisa Bee felt like a failure as a friend. And Jackson felt like a failure as a man.

  They were at the end of a hand, and the Boss’s eyes lit up for half a second. “Full house,” he said, smiling drily at Jackson. “FINALLY. At least I can keep my man card tonight.”

  Jackson sighed and looked resigned. Fanning his cards on the table he said, “Four of a kind, Bossman. Hand the man card over. Sorry, old friend.”

  There was a long, ugly silence. The Boss took his remaining chips and pushed them to the floor. Then he took a large swig of Jack Daniel’s and said, “Perfect. Looks like I can’t do anything right.”

  Now it was Lisa Bee’s turn to sigh. “Okay, boys, I’ve had it. The truth of the matter is that none of us can do anything right. None of us saw this coming, none of us knew how to save her, none of us knew how to stop this from happening, and none of us know what to do next.”

  “You’re right,” said the Boss. “There’s really only one thing we can do for Legs. We can find these guys, and we can take them down.”

  “Better yet,” Lisa Bee said, “we can stop them before they have a chance to harm her further. She’s been called a whore and an international joke. We can’t stop that. But we can keep her safe. Can’t we?”

  Jackson didn’t say anything. He had already solved the problem. No one messed with his people, especially his inner circle. He still had contacts from his time in Morocco, and some of them owed him big. He had ensured that Pierre, whoever he was, would never talk. Jackson’s oldest friend, Mahmoud, would find the scumbag. And when he found him, he would slit his throat.

  “It’s taken care of,” Jackson finally said. “She’ll be fine. I say we worry about Chas Palmer. After all, it seems they can’t do anything without his say-so, right?”

  “What do you mean, ‘it’s taken care of’?” Lisa Bee asked.

  “I’ve got friends in low places,” Jackson replied. He liked it when he did something that made Lisa Bee curious. “That’s why Bossman hired me.”

  “Yes,” said the Boss, “that and your uncanny ability to seduce every woman in the room while emasculating every man.”

  “Well, he’s not seducing me,” Lisa Bee said.

  “Oh, just you wait,” Jackson hummed, more excitement in his tone than he wished. “I haven’t even tried yet.”

  “Enough. Really, ENOUGH!” Bossman growled. “It’s back to business, team. Jackson, keep it in your pants. Bee, get us hooked up. We’ve got all the intel we need. We’ve got the equipment and the intelligence to deal with the situation. So we know what it’s time for, right?”

  “Enlighten us,” Jackson said grimly.

  “Now we go get the bad guys.”

  11

  SUSANNAH HAD SPENT the night in a decent, if cramped, Midtown hotel room, and the morning buying a light blue Tahari suit at Bloomingdale’s and doing some research. She rarely dressed in power suits, but when she was wearing Tahari she got to play the woman she hadn’t quite grown into yet. She also decked herself out in a stunning shoulder-length black wig with bangs, just to avoid any unwanted attention. She had left the flash drive for Fingers, who was on her way to New York for business and said she’d swing by the hotel straight from the airport. It hadn’t taken Fingers long to figure out the cryptic note; after all, there was only one thing it could mean. Heavenly Balls was the nickname of a restaurant on the Lower East Side. The full name was Heavenly Balls: A Meatball Emporium, and it was set up to look like a food truck surrounded by picnic tables inside an Italian-style garden. The place was tiny and always packed; every night there was a line out
front, and on the weekends the line stretched around the block. You could get any kind of meatball imaginable, and they were all served with the sauce of your choice on a bun or on a plate of pasta. The restaurant didn’t open until eleven a.m., but Susannah decided she’d go down at ten to see what she could find out.

  She was on Ludlow Street when she spotted the restaurant’s sign hanging overhead. As she walked underneath it she saw the quote: “Balls So Good, Even Your Mama Will Want Some.” She laughed, and then abruptly stopped herself. This was not a funny situation, and she wouldn’t be dissuaded from her task. But what was her task, exactly? She figured she’d just ask who owned the place and pretend to be interested in franchising. Then she could get some information, put all her ducks in a row, and figure out where to go from there. It was a half-baked plan, unlike the brilliantly conceived work she had done for FTP in the past, but she had no choice. She was short on time, and long on desperation. In her mind’s eye she could hand Chas the information he needed on a silver platter, have him clear her name, then get her job back. Unless her cover was really blown to bits. But she’d have to wait to find out. Till then, the worser part was that he’d wrecked her credibility.

  She sighed and smoothed back her hair. She was living in a fantasy world, wasn’t she? Her desires were as far from reality as possible. But could there be a slim chance? Perhaps. It depended upon one thing: if her name and face had been seen by the inner circles of the intelligence communities or, god forbid, beyond, she was done for. She knew that it was potentially the end of the life she had created, but she wasn’t ready to let it go. Still, there was hope. She’d see if there was anything she could salvage.

  She was hit all at once with a memory of her father. It was something she remembered from when she was a girl, eight or so, and she hadn’t thought of it in many years. She was awoken late at night by the sounds of shouting, her parents clearly having a fight. She could see the light streaming in beneath her door, and she was frightened by the loud sounds. She opened the door, saw her mother and father in their room across the hall, and said, “Why are you yelling?” They stopped abruptly and stared at her. Her mother started to apologize, but her father continued yelling, this time at her. He was shouting that she should go back to sleep and that it was none of her business. She went back to her room and began to cry, quite loudly, hoping to get the attention she desired, until there was a long silence, and her father entered.

  He sat down to comfort her, and she said, “You only yelled at me because you were angry at Mommy.”

  He looked startled for a moment, then said, “You’re right, Susie honey, you’re right. I’m so sorry I did that. How did you know that was the reason? That’s very smart for such a young girl.”

  She thought for a moment as she bit her lower lip. “I dunno. It just felt like it, is all.”

  He stared down at her, smoothing her hair. “That’s called your gut, your instinct. Sometimes in this world, it’s all you’ve got. Trust that, and you’ll never go wrong.”

  She thought of that now as she walked to the entrance of Heavenly Balls and knocked on the door. Something in her gut was telling her to run away, to hand this over to FTP or the police, but she knew she couldn’t turn back now. It was the only chance she’d have to make things right. And she’d be okay, right? She was hopeful that all would be well. Before she could think any further about turning back, a slender young Italian man opened the door, and eyed her up and down. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Hello,” she said, batting her lashes, “I’m a huge fan of your restaurant. I wonder if I could talk to you about some franchising ideas I have? I think this is the kind of place that could be marketed all over the country and would have huge success. Do you mind if I talk to your boss? Is he around?”

  “Oh,” said the young man, hesitating a bit. “Yeah. I guess you could come in. Here, just have a seat while I talk to the owner.” He vanished through a door in the back, and Susannah was left alone to wait.

  ‡‡‡

  JOHNNY WALKED DOWN the steps to the cavernous basement. Though the restaurant was small, the basement ran the entire block, and the entirety of it belonged to the Italian. He had offices just underneath Heavenly Balls, and an entertainment center that sprawled out over the entire middle of the space. Johnny had never been past that. He was told in no uncertain terms that if he walked farther than the office, he’d never live to see another day.

  The Italian was sitting in his leather chair looking over the books when Johnny walked in. “Um, excuse me, signore . . . ?” Johnny said hesitantly.

  The Italian looked at the young man scornfully. “Didn’t I tell you not to bother me this morning?”

  Johnny gulped. At this rate it looked like he might not live till the afternoon. “Yes, signore. I’m so sorry. It’s just that there’s a woman upstairs to see you, about the business. I thought it might be important. And, er, she’s very pretty. . . .”

  The Italian sighed and turned on the surveillance. He had cameras focused on every part of the restaurant, and every part of the basement—except the “panic room.” That was off-limits to anyone but him and whomever he chose to bring there.

  When he saw Susannah, he zeroed in on her face, then chuckled. “Well, well, if it isn’t Ms. Carter. It seems I don’t have to look far to find the bait I need.” Then he looked at the boy. “For once, you have done well. Show her downstairs, then leave us. And make sure, once she is here, to lock the door.”

  Johnny breathed a sigh of relief, then got chills. The sinister smile on his boss’s face was enough to curdle milk. He didn’t want anything to happen to the pretty lady, but he wanted to keep his throat intact. And, frankly, he needed the job. Running up the stairs as fast as he could, he followed his boss’s orders.

  ‡‡‡

  AJ GOT TO THE New Yorker Hotel in Midtown in record time. She had hightailed it out of Denver, speeding to make the first plane out. She wasn’t scared of speeding, since she was sleeping with one of the higher-ups in the Denver police force. If she saw a policeman trying to pull her over, she simply texted the word “Fuckball” to her lover, and he saw that they got off her back. Fuckball was a game they played often. It was the nickname they’d given to their repeated bouts of “strip pool.” AJ was an excellent billiards player and seldom wound up naked first. Regardless, she always felt like she won.

  She had left in such a rush not because of business, which was the lie she told Susannah, but because she was worried. She had a bad feeling in her gut, and she was scared Susannah would get hurt, or worse, that she’d wind up as a casualty in a game played to the death.

  She got the package from the front desk, noting that the flash drive looked like something from the Dark Ages, and made her way to her New York apartment to see what she could uncover. Her apartment was located in Harlem, above a jazz club owned by a man named George Robinson. George Robinson didn’t exist. AJ had fabricated him so that she could masquerade as his niece. Her pad was the perfect place to regroup. She wanted to be able to settle in, figure out the next step, and get back downtown as soon as possible. She felt in her soul that her friend’s life might depend on it.

  ‡‡‡

  PIERRE DESCARTES WAS in his Paris apartment enjoying his favorite French jazz station and drinking cheap wine. He had finished one bottle, and was about to open a second, when the doorbell rang. It was five in the afternoon, and he wasn’t expecting anyone, but he went to the door. A uniformed courier was holding a package and clipboard, looking bored. Pierre didn’t think twice when he took the envelope and the pen to sign his name. He had just touched the pen to paper when the man pulled a dagger from his jacket and slit Pierre’s throat.

  Mahmoud Assouline wiped his knife off on his trousers and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. Leaving Pierre lying in the hallway, he sent a quick text to his old friend Jackson as he removed his uniform and stuffed it in a garbage bin under the stairs. Underneath it was a $3,000 bespoke Gieves and
Hawkes suit hand-tailored on Savile Row. He removed his cap, his toupee, his moustache, and his messenger bag, and wrapped them all in a black plastic garbage bag he’d brought inside the messenger. He carried it out with him, threw it in the trunk of his rental car, and made his way to the airport. He would dispose of it in a gas station along the way.

  He checked his watch and smiled. He had a lady friend to meet at a hotel in Khartoum late this evening. It looked like he would be right on time.

  ‡‡‡

  CHAS PALMER ENTERED his town house at eleven a.m. He hadn’t slept, he was no closer than he had been to accomplishing his life’s goals, and he was racked with guilt about Susannah. Was there any way for him to make this right? He didn’t know. He only knew that he had to try.

  He walked into his entryway and closed the door. An ominous silence descended. It felt to him, for the first time, that his space was too large. Why was that? That was the problem with possibility: it opened doors, and then sometimes, it left you feeling like the life you previously had was worth shit.

  Chas sighed and juggled a huge pile of mail, depositing it on the oak table in the entryway. He threw his bags down, removed his coat and his suit jacket, and dragged his feet upstairs. Beginning at square one. That’s what it felt like. He had a clue about his father’s death from Tyka, that was a good thing, but damn if he could make heads or tails of it. He’d appeased Pierre and the Italian for the moment, so he could continue to hunt for answers. But he felt world-weary, soul tired. He was wondering if he’d be condemned to this life forever, chasing answers that could never be found.

  He walked into his office and sat down at his desk, letting out another long sigh. Susannah. How could he possibly contact her again? After all, he had ruined her life. Those tabloids were vile . . . and they were wrong. That’s what he couldn’t understand. They painted her as a call girl, as some sort of international sex vixen. That was a good thing, he guessed. It was actually a good cover, and public too. Agents paid for that sort of press sometimes. So maybe it could all work out okay? He shook his head from side to side, trying to shake his thoughts away, but they were back instantly. As for them being a couple, that was a fantasy, and nothing more. Why would she believe anything he said in the future? Better yet, why should he believe her? She had lied to him, drugged him, stolen from him. The whole thing was simply hopeless.