2 Queenie Baby - Out of Office

by Christina A. Burke

  The ringleader asked Andre, "What up with that dude? He playin' in a movie?"

  Andre shrugged. "He's a pirate."

  The ringleader called back to the local gangsters behind him. "Man, I thought you said this dude was a singer. Not no crazy pirate!"

  They replied in Spanish. I caught Carlos' name.

  The ringleader turned again to Carlos. "You Carlos Rodriguez, the singer?" he asked.

  "In the flesh," said Carlos, spreading his arms wide.

  "Look man," said the ringleader, clearly rattled by the pirate costume. "Don' know what crazy-ass game you playin' here, but I'm lookin' for a shorty. Her name's Diana."

  "There's no one here by that name," Andre said quietly.

  The ringleader turned to Andre. "Don' think I was talkin' to you, slick. I was askin' the pirate."

  "Well, I'm answering you." Andre shifted his stance slightly.

  The ringleader glanced towards the limo. I jerked back and sank into the leather seat.

  "Maybe Shorty's in the limo?" he asked, taking a step in my direction.

  "Avast!" Carlos yelled, pulling the cutlass from his waist.

  The ringleader turned towards him, propping his sunglasses on his head to get a better look. "What the fuck is wrong with him?" he yelled to no one in particular.

  "He's a pirate," Andre repeated dryly.

  Carlos brought his sword to fighting stance. "Depart now! Or no quarter will be given. I will cut ye limb from limb."

  That got the ringleader's attention. "Jose," he yelled, "shoot this crazy mother fucker!"

  A buzz of angry Spanish ensued. One of the men stepped forward.

  "He is Carlos Rodriguez," he said rolling his r's dramatically. "He will put Puerto Rico on the map with 'The Rum Song.' We will do him no harm."

  The gangster rolled his eyes and pursed his lips. "He's a crazy pirate. You throwin' in with a crazy pirate?"

  "He is Carlos Rodriguez," said the man simply.

  Carlos smiled and shrugged. "It's good to be Carlos," he quipped and swiped his cutlass in front of him.

  Then he did the strangest thing. He spun around like a dancer, swiping his sword in figure eights as he turned. He leapt into the air and landed directly in front of the lead gangbanger. The tip of his cutlass an inch from the man's tattooed throat.

  "I believe you have worn out your welcome. Or would you be wantin' to go for a visit to Davy Jones' locker?"

  Andre's gun was in his hand and pointed at the two local gangsters. The limo driver had rolled down the window, and his gun was pointed directly at Freddie.

  The two local thugs were backing away towards the truck.

  Freddie said, "This place full of crazy people. Shit like this get you shot in Miami."

  A muscle ticked in the ringleader's cheek. "This ain't over," he threatened. "Tell your girl I've got some questions for her and her boyfriend. An' I better not hear you nuts have been helpin' Charlie. That mother fucker's a dead man, and so is anybody that's helpin' him. Hear that, mamacita?" he yelled, banging on the hood of the limo.

  He turned towards the truck. When he got to the door, he yelled, "I got a score to settle with you. Ain't no one, 'specially some crazy-ass pirate, gonna disrespect me. "He pointed at Carlos, and I heard him mumble, "Crazy, sword-carryin' mother fucker."

  "I look forward to it, sir," called Carlos glibly with an exaggerated bow.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I watched the truck disappear down the road.

  Andre opened the door.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, sitting down beside me.

  "I think so." I was a little shook up by all the guns. Kind of like being in the middle of a low-budget action movie. "What the hell just happened? How did Carlos do that?"

  Andre smiled. "He's a pirate."

  * * *

  It took about thirty minutes for the backup security team to get in place. Andre had hired four more guards to make sure the compound would be safe.

  I called the hotel room to let Mark know what had happened. His voice expressed relief at me being safe and irritation at me being with Andre in the first place. After a few minutes of verbal wrangling, he finally let it go and brought me up to speed on the David situation.

  The meeting had not gone as planned. He'd met Charles and David at their motel, but Charles' bullet nick had required bandaging, so Mark had gone to a nearby drugstore. When he'd returned, the tricked-out SUV had been parked in front of the room. He had parked farther away and walked by, pretending to go to another room. It had looked like Charles and David had gotten away. Their rental car was gone. The thugs were tearing up the room, and they noticed him when he walked by a second time.

  "Guess why?" he asked.

  Uh-oh, I had a pretty good idea. "Because your phone was ringing?"

  "Yep." I could hear the accusation in his voice.

  "I was just trying to keep you informed," I apologized.

  "Yeah, well, unfortunately it informed the thugs of my presence, too." He sounded more exasperated than angry.

  "But why would they assume you had anything to do with Charles and David? I mean at that point you're just some guy curious about what they're doing," I reasoned.

  There was a long pause on Mark's end. "Because I had a run-in before with one of the Miami guys—Tyrell Fisher. He recognized me."

  I felt like the room was spinning. "Wow, you keep pretty strange company for a real estate developer. Whatcha do, sell him a condo right before the big real estate bust?'

  "No, the company I worked for before I was in real estate ran an investigation into drug-trafficking between Army units in the Middle East and the United States. His brother got twenty years in federal prison."

  "Unbelievable—I've got to go. I'm starving, and Carlos asked me to dinner. You're welcome to join us if you can tear yourself away from chasing bad guys."

  I was getting tired of all this cloak and dagger stuff. It was almost eight, and I was cranky and hungry. More importantly, I really needed another drink. Carlos had reservations at a hotspot restaurant not far from Mark's hotel. Mark reluctantly agreed to meet us there. If he was hoping to pick up where we left off this afternoon, I wasn't feeling it. And wouldn't be until I had some answers from him.

  I glanced over at Carlos sitting across from me in the limo. He had changed out of his pirate garb into hip evening clothes and now looked every inch the successful performer. Andre sat next to me dressed classic body guard attire—expensive, understated suit with the unmistakable bulge of a gun as his only accessory.

  "Champagne?" Carlos held up a bottle of Cristal.

  "Sure, why not?" I glanced over at Andre, just itching to question him more about his comment about Mark, but not sure I dared in front of Carlos.

  "How come you're not dressed like a pirate anymore?" I asked.

  Carlos sighed as he handed me my glass. "I'm a pirate at heart. Ever since I was little, I knew I had Bluebeard blood in my veins. I've been a pirate role-player since I was twelve. And I still play at twenty-two," he added with a smile. "However, I understand Roger's and Phil's concerns regarding the marketability of a singing pirate. Of course, I wish it were different."

  "So you just talk and dress like a pirate when you are at home?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "Don't you ever worry about being found out? Or slipping in a 'Blimey, mate!' in the middle of a straight conversation?"

  He nodded. "It happens occasionally."

  "So Roger and Phil are making you keep your pirate-ness in the closet, so to speak?"

  A frown creased Carlos' smooth tan forehead. "I suppose that's true, m'lady," he said slowly.

  I made a mental note that he slipped back into pirate-mode when he was agitated. I shrugged. "I guess they know best. But if I was one of your fans, I'd want to know the real Carlos."

  He nodded, mulling over the idea of letting the real Carlos express himself.

  I took the opportunity to lean over to Andre and whisper, "What did you mean ba
ck there by spook?"

  "A spook is a current or former CIA operative," Andre replied like he was reading from a manual.

  "Why would you say that about Mark?"

  "Because I recognize him from an overseas operation I was involved in five years ago."

  "That's ridiculous!" I sat back, folding my arms across my chest.

  Andre shrugged. "So ask him."

  "I'm supposed to ask my boyfriend of two weeks if he is a spook?" I gestured with my hands. "He already thinks I'm a nut. This will just confirm it. He's a real estate developer for God's sake."

  "Yep," he agreed, leaning closer to me, "and I've known lawyers, doctors and accountants who were spooks."

  I just couldn't wrap my head around this.

  "He told me he worked overseas for a couple of years for some college football buddies who had started a security business together after getting out of the military."

  "Razor Edge Ops," he said matter-of-factly. "Yeah, I know those guys. They do a lot of behind the scenes work. Recon stuff."

  "He said it wasn't as glamorous as it sounded. He has an MBA. He said he was their logistics guy. Does that sound right to you?" I turned to Andre.

  I must have had a woebegone look on my face, because Andre put his hand on mine. "Hey, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with your new boyfriend. I'm sure most of what he told you is the truth."

  Most? That didn't sit well with me at all.

  "So what part isn't true?" I asked between clenched teeth. "For sure," I added.

  Andre sighed and glanced out the window. "One thing I know for sure. He didn't work for Razor Edge Ops, they worked for him. At least that was the way it was when I worked there."

  "You worked for him?" I asked in surprise.

  "No, I worked for Razor Edge. Mark hired us to do recon work for him. I wasn't there long, but from what I could tell he threw a lot of business Razor Edge's way."

  I sipped champagne and digested this new information in silence. Carlos also seemed lost in thought. I hoped he was planning to come out of his pirate closet in some fantastic manner. Maybe I should suggest he do it at a live show. Hmmm…

  There was a large crowd waiting on the sidewalk as the limo pulled up to the restaurant. Andre stepped out first and turned to offer me a hand. I managed to exit the limo without providing a peep show to the paparazzi. I had my hand on Andre's sleeve as we waited for Carlos to climb out.

  He emerged in full rock star mode, the crowd screaming and shouting his name.

  He gave them a big, wide smile and waved. Just for good measure, he kissed the hands of several ladies as he passed.

  "Who's the girl, Carlos?" a reporter yelled in English. There were more questions in Spanish.

  "Her name is Diana, and she is my muse." He took my elbow and led me grandly up the stairs into the restaurant.

  I gave him a nasty look out of the corner of my eye. "You meant to say, 'She's my songwriter!' Right, Carlos?" I snapped.

  He looked uncomfortable. "Alas, m'lady, my fans are not ready for that."

  "I think we should let them decide for themselves," I cried, not caring who heard. "I challenge you to a 'The Rum Song' sing off!"

  We were ushered into a large private room overlooking the ocean. A soft breeze ruffled the elegant floor to ceiling sheers. There were already a dozen groupies on their feet rushing toward us. Carlos went to them gladly, completely ignoring my challenge.

  "Nice try," Andre said with a grin.

  "Oh, it's not over yet." Carlos was going to get served tonight if I had anything to say about it.

  "You sure are sexy when you're on the war path." He turned towards me.

  I pursed my lips. "Don't start that."

  "Start what?" he asked, running a finger along my forearm.

  My skin tingled at his touch. "That," I said. "Don't do that!" I smacked his hand away. "I've had enough man problems to last me a lifetime. I don't need anymore right now."

  Andre chuckled. "Maybe I can change your mind."

  "About what?" I heard Mark say behind me.

  I spun around, happy to see him despite my misgivings about his past. I gave him a hug and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

  He nibbled on my lips. "Is that champagne I taste?"

  I nodded. "But I desperately need a martini."

  "Well, I certainly don't want you sobering up," he said with a laugh. "I need all the help I can get to get you in bed and keep you there."

  I had to agree with him. Our foreplay was starting to stretch into week two. It was time to take the training wheels off this thing once and for all.

  I watched Mark walk over to the bar for my drink.

  Andre edged close to me. "You two haven't had sex yet?"

  I rolled my eyes at him. "None of your business."

  "Because it sounded like you two haven't had sex yet," he said with a grin. "I'm right, aren't I?"

  I pursed my lips and watched Mark approaching with our drinks.

  "This changes everything," Andre said.

  I turned to him. "What are you talking about? This changes nothing. I'm with Mark. You go call your wife!" I snapped and moved forward to meet Mark halfway.

  I grabbed my drink gratefully and took a swig. Mark led me to a table next to Carlos'.

  "We'd better get some food in you before you start dancing on the tables."

  I stared sullenly at my glass. The combination of hearing Carlos ramble on about my song, having Andre's comments about Mark play like a slideshow in my mind, and experiencing complete and utter sexual frustration were taking a toll on me.

  We both ordered the catch of the day. As I nursed my martini and nibbled on the delicious fish, I started to perk up. Maybe all this worry was for nothing. Stop wondering and just ask him already!

  "Mark," I began. "You remember when you were telling me about your not-so-adventurous job working for the security company in the Middle East?"

  "Yeah," he said, stuffing a piece of fish in his mouth and not meeting my eyes. "What about it?"

  Time to rip the band-aid off. "Are you a secret agent?"

  Yeah, it felt as stupid saying it as it sounded.

  He choked on his fish and took a drink of water. He coughed into his napkin, but said nothing. I peered at him closely.

  "Where does this stuff come from?" he asked, like I was some lunatic on the loose.

  Not what I wanted to hear.

  "Andre said he knew you when he worked for Razor Edge Ops."

  Mark froze when I said the name. A myriad of expressions from surprise to anger flitted across his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "If you ever want to see me naked again, you'll answer my question truthfully," I said, putting my hand on his. "Do you work for the CIA?"

  He turned to face me, finally meeting my eyes. "I used to," he said quietly. "Until they asked me to kill my fiancée."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I stared at him in stunned silence. "Do you know how crazy that sounds?" I asked.

  He gave me a look. "Not half as crazy as most of the things that you say on a daily basis."

  He had a point.

  "So…" I prompted.

  "She's alive and well and married to an Israeli podiatrist."

  I glared at him. I needed details after that bombshell.

  He raked his hand through his hair. "Long story short: She was supposed to be at a big family reunion. Unfortunately, her black sheep cousin, a top ten most wanted terrorist, was supposed to be there too. Someone at headquarters got the bright idea to bomb the whole thing and make it look like a terrorist attack. Even if Kara hadn't been connected, I'd have had strong feelings against such a plan. Knowing she was in harm's way sent me over the edge." I felt a twinge of guilt as I watched him relive the painful memories.

  He stared at his drink for a few seconds before continuing. "No one was bombed. However, I ended up telling her about the plan. She told Uncle Amid, who told Aunt Sara. Aunt Sara told her nephew, the terrorist
. Needless to say, the department wasn't happy with me. We parted ways shortly thereafter," he added.

  "How about your fiancée?" I imagined it wasn't easy to get over the fact that your husband-to-be was part of an organization that considered bombing your whole family to smithereens. Probably was a deal-breaker for her.

  "She's married to an Israeli podiatrist. I'm here with you," he replied in a tone that didn't invite more discussion.

  I nodded. Enough said. I'm not sure I actually felt better knowing the whole story, but I didn't feel worse.

  "For what it's worth," he added, "my role in the CIA was mostly logistics and behind the scenes set-up. I wasn't an undercover agent. I didn't kill people. I was recruited because of my MBA education and background. And," he looked directly at me, "I really am a commercial real estate developer."

  I met his gaze. He sounded sincere. I wanted to believe him. Maybe I should just run the whole thing by Andre…

  "That how you ran afoul of Tyrell, the Miami thug? Working on the logistics of a drug deal case?

  He nodded. "I was in charge of tracking how the drugs moved from one place to another. I spent months combing through shipping ledgers."

  "Doesn't sound very exciting," I said to buy time.

  He narrowed his eyes like he had read my mind and leaned back in his chair with a sighed.

  "It wasn't. How's your dinner?"

  I glanced down at my half-eaten plate. "Good," I replied. "But I could really use another martini."

  "That I can do." He kissed the top of my head as he rose.

  My phone rang. It was Mark's number.

  I glanced around. Mark was nowhere to be seen. I decided to answer it, anyway. Might as well see what the thugs wanted, right? No need to be rude.

  "Hello?"

  "Yeah, this Diana?" one of the thugs asked.

  "Who wants to know?"

  "Bitch, you know who wants to know," yelled the thug into the phone.

  "If you can't control yourself, I'm going to hang up."

  "Don't you hang up on me, bitch!" he cried.

  Click. I put the phone back on the table. It rang again.

  "Hello?" I said pleasantly.

  "Look here, you crazy bitch," the thug began.