The Sudden Star

by Pamela Sargent

  She said, "So do I. I wanted to tell you my good news. Werner Takaishi's taking care of me now. He'll give me all the money I need and I don't have to see anyone else. I probably won't come here in the mornings any more. There doesn't seem much point to it now, but I think you can get along without me."

  "Good for you." He didn't seem to care. She realized she had hoped he would.

  "I think I did awfully well, considering how long we've been here."

  "I suppose you did. But you're still in the same business."

  She caught her breath sharply. "As if you're any better." She searched her mind for words, for weapons. "You're seeing patients kind of late these days."

  "Am I?" he said indifferently.

  "I saw Isabeau Rasselle walk out of here a few minutes ago."

  His head jerked back. His fingers were claws. "She wasn't feeling well."

  "I don't believe it."

  "She happened to be nearby, and she didn't feel well."

  She narrowed her eyes, hating him. She grasped the chair's arms, knowing that if she stood up, she would rage out of control. "She wasn't feeling well," she said as evenly as she could, "so she came here, and you gave her some wine so she'd feel better. Then she left, without a bodyguard, with a hood over her head so no one would see her."

  He said, "It's none of your fucking business."

  "It is," she hissed. There was a knot inside her, blocking her throat. Her temples ached. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "Titus might find out, you know." Her voice was shaking. She swallowed. "If he finds out, we're in trouble. He might kill you."

  "It has nothing to do with you."

  "It does if he finds out, he'll think I knew about it, I live right across the hall. He won't act calm about it, he won't stop to think about whether I knew or not." She stopped, knowing her anger had nothing to do with Titus.

  "He won't find out. Don't worry, I'm not stupid."

  "Maybe I should tell him, at least that would clear me."

  He came at her. She jumped up, trying to dodge him. He grabbed her arm and slapped her in the face. She reeled backward, falling on the sofa. He raised his arm again, then let it fall to his side. "You're a fool, Aisha." His voice was low. "He wouldn't believe you, and Isabeau would deny it, and he wants her so badly, her and her money and her respectability, that he'd listen to her. And I'm a doctor. I see women all the time, I'd deny your story, too. And I'd tell him just why you'd make up a story like that."

  "Why would I?"

  "Because you're jealous."

  Her eyes stung. She sat up. "I'm not. I’m just looking out for myself."

  "Be reasonable. You've got what you want. Play up to that businessman of yours and you'll do all right."

  Her mouth tasted sour. She had been a fool, all right, thinking she would ever mean anything to him. "Just tell me something, then," she said wearily. "Why? Why are you seeing her, it could ruin you."

  "I don't expect you to understand. I can't stop myself. That's how it is with me. She doesn't want Titus. She came here, I didn't ask her to, I guess she must have sensed it. I don't think about what it might mean."

  "Oh, I understand." She got up, thinking of Arne's story about the Rasselles. Simon probably wouldn't believe that either. The best thing she could do was stay out, let it happen, guard herself. She opened the door and let herself out. Simon was still standing by the sofa when she closed it.

  "I hate this place," Arne said. "It's much too stuffy and respectable."

  "That's exactly why I picked it," Aisha replied. She nodded at Titus Echeverria as he passed her table with Sean Rasselle. He beamed at her, then disappeared into the private room in the back of the restaurant. Now that she no longer had to work his parties and was a businessman's mistress, she was worthy of his casual friendliness. The fact that she could now pay off her debts more easily didn't hurt either.

  The large room hummed with subdued chatter and the clanking of plates and glasses. Respectable citizens sat in booths and at tables, conducting their business. Aisha was nearly in the center of the dimly lit room, near a table of middle-aged women and their bodyguards. She would talk to Arne openly; Takaishi wasn't going to hear any stories about her. She was only having lunch with her jewelry salesman.

  Arne picked at his stuffed sole and smiled. "I must say, the food is exquisite." He sipped some wine. "I've checked our records. Your ruby pendant was paid for in full. The man must be enchanted with you. But you did a very naughty thing."

  "What was that?"

  "You didn't refer your friend to me, and Elaine, that little bitch, handled the sale, so I have no commission." He looked at her expectantly.

  "Don't worry, Arne, I'll make it up to you."

  "I have a very nice suggestion as to how you can make it up."

  "It'll be with cash," she said. She took a bite of salad and felt repelled by the food. She pushed the plate aside. She shouldn't eat anyway, she was going to get too fat. She didn't do enough to work off the weight anymore, she was becoming lazy, reading most of the day, grooming herself so that she'd look good with Takaishi—not that he, with his wrinkled suits and scuffed shoes, was any model of fashion. She had to pull herself together, think of her future, now that she might have one.

  The women at the table next to her got up and left, their bodyguards trailing behind. They passed three men and a woman who were taking seats at the bar. One of the men turned slightly on his stool; Aisha had seen him at a couple of Titus's parties.

  "I heard some strange rumors about Isabeau Rasselle," Arne murmured. Aisha turned back to him. "She's still postponing her marriage."

  "I know that."

  "There's a story that she might be seeing someone else."

  "My God," Aisha said. She thought of Simon. "You shouldn't spread stories like that." She forced herself to look straight at him. "Titus wouldn't like to hear things like that. He might not be very happy with people who tell them."

  "Oh, I put no credence in it," Arne said quickly. "Don't get me wrong."

  His blue eyes were wide. He lifted his wine glass and stared over the rim at her. Aisha thought: He's too smart, he sees too much. Uncomfortably, she looked away. The woman seated at the bar next to Titus's acquaintance twisted a bit on her stool, pulling at her long red dress as if the garment constricted her. The lamp hanging over the bar lit her face clearly for a moment before she turned back to her companion.

  Aisha froze. Her water glass clattered against the side of her plate. She released it and shrank in her seat, sick with fear.

  "Aisha?" Arne said.

  She waved at him to be silent. I couldn't have seen it, she told herself, it can't be true. Arne seemed to be far away from her, as if the table had suddenly expanded and pushed him to another part of the room.

  The woman at the bar was Kathleen Ortega.

  NINE

  Kathleen Ortega

  Kathleen Ortega sat on a bench, brooding. She didn't like to brood, she didn't like to sit still and have nothing to do but brood. She was used to keeping still; she had trained herself well. She hated fidgeting, hated being around people whose bodies seemed in constant movement with no purpose. She stared out the wide window at the creek, watching the small boats making deliveries. A few men stood on the dock outside this house, unloading rifles, produce, and liquor.

  Six men sat on the benches here with her. One of them, a stocky Cuban, was smoking a cigarette. The others were as still and silent as she was. They had all been with her in Giorgiados's gym that morning, working out, testing their reflexes, exchanging tips. They'd had a friendly, informal competition on the firing range outside; Kathleen had won it. This was the real competition, though, waiting to see who would get a job today and who wouldn't.

  Giorgiados was taking her money and giving her little in return. Every morning, she left a tiny hotel room no bigger than a closet to come here and work out and then wait with the others for an assignment as a bodyguard. She was better than most of the other
s, she knew that, and yet Giorgiados wouldn't take her on as a regular. Instead, she had to sit on benches with the other free-lancers hoping for an assignment and usually not getting one. And Giorgiados was better than the other owners of bodyguard agencies, most of whom refused even to speak to a woman about work.

  The Cuban passed her his cigarette. She took a couple of deep drags, finishing it, then got up and deposited the stub in the standing ashtray in the corner. She stretched her legs and did a few knee bends, then sat down again. She had been careful, she knew that. Nothing should have gone wrong. René had been ready to retire; all she had to do was ease him out. She had moved carefully, getting that doctor of his arrested, setting up Lono, all of it; an open move would have been inefficient and more risky. She had won control of René's entire organization and he, old and tired, had retreated to his farm. All that remained was to consolidate her position and then quietly remove the old man.

  Too late, she had realized the old man knew what she was doing. He had lulled her suspicions by letting her have what she wanted, waiting until she had purged the few who had helped her rise, before he decided to get rid of her. Even now, she found herself grinding her teeth at the thought; René had let her get rid of the ones he would have had to seek out and eliminate. There was talk that the blond girl, whom the old man had taken to the farm, had acquired some influence over him, but Ortega didn't believe it. All she could do now was curse her own stupidity.

  An informer had warned Ortega. She had left New York at once with the jewels and coins she had set aside, hiring a boat and, for papers, bribing an old friend in the army. She had enough to live quietly and modestly here for many years, but she hadn't stayed alive for almost thirty years, working hard, so she could do that. She would establish herself here. At least she would if Giorgiados ever let her have a decent job. Right now, she wondered if he was making a fool of her. He was taking her money for the use of his gym and shooting range, and she never made quite enough from her infrequent jobs to cover expenses. Her money would dribble away; soon she'd have to sell one of her jewels. If something didn't happen soon, she'd have to try something else.

  And then there were the assassins. She knew they must be here, even if she didn't know who they were. She was safe from the law here, but not from René. He would never just let her go, it would give others ideas. She had no way of knowing who the assassins might be; the old man wasn't likely to work through the usual channels, the ones she had often used herself. She had to establish herself here, gain enough power so that René couldn't touch her without risking trouble with the locals. Ultimately, she had to outlive him.

  She considered what she had seen in that restaurant yesterday when she was sitting at the bar, sucking up to Giorgiados and getting nothing for it except a large liquor bill. She'd seen that girl, Aisha Baraka, huddling in her seat as if that would keep her from being seen. Ortega, by asking Giorgiados a few casual questions, had also found out that the doctor, Simon Negron, was here as well, doing business with Titus Echeverria as his patron. Echeverria was powerful. He had never, as far as she knew, worked with René's people, but that didn't mean he couldn't. Maybe the old man had been prepared even before moving against her, getting the doctor out of prison and sending the girl here to wait for her in case she got away. He would have known she would try to get to this haven; it was smart to have someone waiting for her. Neither of them could have made it here without help, she was sure. They could identify her, point her out to Echeverria. Perhaps they, innocuous as they seemed, were her assassins, with Negron trading her life for a purchased pardon in New York.

  Moe Roth was standing in front of her. "Anita Gilberto," he said. At the sound of her assumed name, Ortega looked up slowly to Roth's thin, lined face, finally meeting his watery blue eyes. "Giorgiados wants you."

  She rose and followed him out of the room. As they walked through the carpeted hallway to Giorgiados's office, Roth took her arm. "I think you got lucky, Gilberto. Looks like a good job." He grinned, showing the gaps in his teeth. She forced herself to grin back. Moe, however patronizing he was, had been on her side, recommending her to his boss after seeing her show her stuff in the gym and on the range. He opened a door and ushered her into the office.

  Giorgiados was behind his desk, his sandaled feet propped up on the gray metal expanse. His moustache twitched as he waved his arm at a chair, signaling to Ortega to sit down. She sat, resting her hand on her thigh near the revolver at her waist.

  On the other side of the room, opposite her, a pale young woman dressed in violet reclined on the furry white couch. She stared calmly at Ortega with violet eyes. Moe Roth left the room, closing the door.

  Giorgiados puffed on a cigar, filling the room with foul-smelling smoke. Removing it from his lips, he waved it at the pale young woman. "Gilberto, I want you to meet Isabeau Rasselle. We're very honored to have her here. For some reason, she's decided she wants a female bodyguard. So you can have the job."

  "Almost everybody has male bodyguards," the Rasselle woman said languidly. "Who knows, I might start a new fashion." Ortega watched her, sure the woman wasn't as simple-minded as she appeared. She'd heard the woman's name before, but she couldn't recall where. "I'll try you for a week," the woman went on, "and we'll see how it goes." She got up, smoothing her long dress, and moved toward the door, swaying her hips.

  "I want to speak to Gilberto about the job," Giorgiados said, pulling his feet off his desk. "It'll just be a minute, and I'll send her out to you." Isabeau Rasselle nodded and left.

  "Close the door," Giorgiados said to Ortega. She got up and closed it. She came back and stood in front of the desk. "You're lucky, Gilberto. Miss Rasselle's father is probably the richest man here. Now this job could be worthwhile for both of us, so don't fuck up." She was annoyed at him for even questioning her competence. "I think you can handle it. It won't be much work for you. The Rasselles have several of their own bodyguards, so the only reason she could want you is, as she said, to set a fashion. But keep your eyes open, you might learn something, inform me if you do."

  She said, "You don't have to tell me that." She had never been quite sure whether Giorgiados was running a bodyguard business or a company of spies.

  "Don't get smart with me, girl." He spat out the word contemptuously. She gritted her teeth. "Isabeau Rasselle is going to marry Titus Echeverria, and Titus is a guy worth watching. So you just be careful, and nice to the lady, and remember that I gave you a chance when no other agency would. You fuck me up, and you'll never work again."

  "I understand," she said calmly, while her mind raced. She now recalled what she had heard about Isabeau Rasselle. Giorgiados waved her away. She turned and left, wondering if she was walking right into a trap. There was nothing she could do about it even if she was. She went back through the hallway and out to where Isabeau Rasselle was waiting.

  Isabeau Rasselle's home was a sprawling one-story structure with Moorish arches. It surrounded an enclosed courtyard thick with palm trees and hibiscus, overgrown with weeds. Kathleen Ortega felt she knew the courtyard all too well. She had spent several afternoons there, standing over Isabeau as she sat under a large umbrella conversing with friends.

  She thought about the house, and Isabeau, as she moved quickly through the streets toward her hotel. The streets were dark; there wasn't enough power to light the neon signs that hung uselessly overhead or above doorways. She passed a gang of boys; a mounted policeman watched them from across the street. She turned a corner and passed what had once been a parking lot; it was now dotted with tents. A man and a woman sat in front of one of the tents nearest the sidewalk. Two little boys wrestled on the sidewalk. Ortega stepped around them; one of them stuck out his foot, trying to trip her. She kicked him and he retreated, whining at the woman near the tent, who only stared passively at Ortega.

  Ortega disliked the tent settlement, having the feeling it was half-filled with crazies. She had heard their howls at night from the hotel. Once the police had c
ome and herded away a few; another time, one man had gone berserk, shooting five people before the police arrived to shoot him.

  Laziness and craziness; this city had a lot of both. No one, Ortega thought, seemed to have his wits about him. She was used to New York, having to keep alert every minute. Here, the sun and the sea air drained people; they spoke and moved more slowly. Already grass and weeds were sprouting in the streets and along cracks in the sidewalks; the sea was threatening the beaches, sometimes rising to the walls that protected the buildings near it. Ortega imagined it sweeping over Miami Beach, washing away the houses and hotels, leaving only sand and palm trees. The only pockets of energy were the crazies, who roamed the streets and the beaches. Most of the large hotels had fenced off their beaches to protect their guests; no one with any sense went to the public beaches.

  Ortega crossed the street to her hotel, a tall crumbling structure on the corner across from the tent settlement. A few people sat in worn chaise longues on the porch near the door. A dark-haired young woman roamed among them, trying to sell jewelry made of shells. This would be Ortega's last night here. Isabeau had promised her at least another month of work, and Ortega was to move to the Rasselle house tomorrow. She had been sent back here to pick up her things.

  She stopped by the pushcart in front of the hotel and bought a beer. She gulped the warm liquid thirstily. After a week with Isabeau Rasselle, she had learned nothing, not even any useful gossip for Giorgiados, who was beginning to wonder if she was holding something back. Isabeau did nothing of any interest. She got up late, entertained guests in the courtyard, went shopping, went to a party or two at night. Ortega never went to the parties because Titus Echeverria always sent someone for Isabeau. But something about the blond woman bothered her; once, she had caught Isabeau observing her, with a cold curious look totally unlike her usual expression of indifference and boredom. It was odd. People didn't often pay much attention to bodyguards.