“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Here, let me help you.” I moved in front of him and undid the clasp. He dropped his pants like they were on fire. He couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough.
“Frank’s dead.”
I stopped in my tracks, my throat closing on the news. How could Frank be dead? My knees turned to toothpaste, and I sat hard on the toilet seat.
“H-How?”
Max turned away from me and shook his head. He gathered his clothes and threw them into a shopping bag, then turned on the shower and jumped in, too eager to check the temperature. Billows of steam rolled out from behind the curtain.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked when I finally found my voice. I blinked back tears, knowing now was not the time to deal with my grief. If I let them loose, they wouldn’t stop.
“I don’t know . . . I . . . I don’t know.” His voice was muffled from the curtain and the running water, but it sounded like he was crying. He was too shaken up to explain more. I sat on the toilet and waited, giving him a moment. It would come out when he was ready.
The porcelain seat was cold through my jeans as I sat listening to the shower cascading on the tiles. I took several breaths to clear my thoughts and suppress my emotions. As if lifting a veil from my face, I suddenly felt cool and collected, ready to take on the problems we were facing. I was in control again, my mind now thinking of the tasks at hand.
“Did anyone see you enter the hotel like this?” I was worried about the kind of attention a man covered in blood would draw.
“No, I came up through the garage.”
I nodded, hoping he was right.
I needed to know what happened in order to plan what to do next, but it could wait. Max was in trouble, big trouble, but we had set up the job in a way that I was completely behind the scenes, hopefully unknown to everyone. I wasn’t at the scene of the crime, and the room was in a false name. If no one had seen Max enter the hotel, I felt we were in relative safety there. That gave us time.
The water stopped, and Max shoved the curtain aside. He stood naked and dripping, but now seemed a little more composed. As he toweled himself off, the white terrycloth turned pink, then red from the still-bleeding wound on his arm. The knuckles on his right hand were abraded, like he’d rubbed them across a cheese grater. The small cut above his eye was also bleeding, trickling a pale pink line down his face as blood and water mixed.
“Do you have the first-aid kit?”
“Yeah, but that’s going to take more than a couple of Band-Aids,” I said as I took a closer look as his arm. “You need stitches.”
“You can do that,” he said nonchalantly as if he’d just asked me to make him a sandwich.
“With what?”
“This is a nice hotel, eh? They always have sewing kits.” He dropped the towel onto the marble-tiled floor and leaned over the sink to rummage through the small basket of complimentary soaps, shampoos, and other bathroom necessities the hotel provided.
“Right between the shower cap and the shoe polish.” He tossed the sewing kit to me. It looked like an oversized pack of matches, but inside it contained a choice of four thread colors and a needle.
My experience helping Jillian in her vet office suddenly was invaluable. I had plenty of practice suturing incisions. This, however, was the first time I had stitched up a person. I was terrified I would hurt him. The only good thing was, I didn’t have to worry he’d bite me if I did.
I washed my hands in hot water with plenty of soap, walked out to the bedroom, and pulled the first-aid kit out of my bag. I threaded the needle, then, using Max’s Zippo, burned it to sterilize it. I poured vodka from a little nips bottle I found in the mini-bar into a clean glass and placed the needle and thread in the pungent liquid.
Max came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. He pulled the chair out from the desk and placed it next to where I waited on the bed. He sat and closed his eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”
I took a deep breath to steady my hands and picked up the needle. I was about to pierce the skin when I paused. “Do you need a drink first?”
“No. My head needs to be clear. Just do it quickly.”
I nodded and plunged the needle in. With a sharp intake of breath, he clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, moaning quietly in the back of his throat. I stitched the ragged edges of skin together, matching the sides perfectly. I tied and snipped each knot of black thread, then disinfected the wound, carefully bandaging it after.
“Doing okay?” I asked before moving on to the cut over his eye. He nodded slowly as he concentrated on breathing in a meditative rhythm. He was holding up amazingly well.
The cut, a small but deep crescent just under the eyebrow, also required stitches. I cleaned and sewed it up, then covered the five sutures with a Band-Aid. By the end of the day, his eye would be swollen shut. I’ll need to get some ice for that, I thought. I put the needle back in its cardboard holder and threw it into the first aid kit, thinking it was a good addition.
I picked up his hand and washed his knuckles. Although it wasn’t deep, the ripped skin oozed blood and puss as a dark purple swelling around the gouges started to blossom.
“That looks like teeth marks. Do you need a rabies shot?” I asked.
“Rabies?” He looked at me with real fear in his eyes.
“I’m kidding,” I said to reassure him, but I was thinking of how many germs are in a human mouth. I’d rather be bitten by a dog. I cleaned it again for good measure, and he squeezed his eyes against the sting as the alcohol passed over the open flesh. I covered it with gauze and wrapped a clean white bandage around his hand. I held it up to my lips and kissed it softly.
“Anything else?” I asked. He shook his head then opened his eyes to meet mine.
“Thank you.” He brushed his fingers along the side of my face then pulled me into a kiss. His cheeks were unusually smooth as he had shaved that morning to complete the businessman look. He smelled like hotel soap.
Max stood and pulled me against his chest. He kissed me harder, a deep hunger welling up from inside him. Reaching under my sweater, he ran his hand over my breast, held its weight in his palm and rolled my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. I could feel him pressing against me, hard, making the towel pop out like a pup-tent. He let it fall to the floor, revealing his excitement.
I pulled the sweater over my head and yanked off my jeans, quickly stripping down to nothing. He shoved me to the bed and climbed on top, wildly licking my neck and biting my shoulder, tasting my flesh like a ravenous wolf.
Rough and aggressive, he thrust into me with a vigor I had rarely before seen in him. As the violence of the afternoon spilled out of him in passion, I screamed with pleasure, clutching his back and squeezing his body against mine. My body temperature rose, and my skin slicked with sweat. I shuddered with pure ecstasy as every muscle in my body tensed in orgasm.
When we finished, we both lay back against the pillows, exhausted. I reached for his hand and held it, careful not to hurt him. He pulled me against his chest and let me cuddle into the warmth of his body.
“What do we do now?” I whispered.
“I don’t know. I need to think.” He kissed me on top of the head. His breath slowed to a steady rhythm before turning to a quiet snore. I lay against him, too worried to sleep.
The phone rang, rousing me from the comfort of the bed and waking Max. I wondered who would be calling on the hotel phone. Anyone I knew would have my cell number.
“Hello?”
“Eleanor Fox.” The voice was cold, saying my name in a flat statement to let me know my identity and location weren’t a secret.
“Yes?”
“Do you know who this is?” he asked, a slight Asian accent underlying his voice.
I could make a good guess but didn’t dare speak, letting my silence answer for me.
He continued, “I’m disappointed in your behavior.”
I swallowed hard, not sure how to respond to his statement. The language was mild, but the meaning was brutal. My pulse raced to a rapid machine gun fire, my heart beating too hard in my chest. How did he find me?
Max looked at me with questioning concern. He mouthed the words, Who is it?
When I found my voice, I started, “Sir, I --”
“Don’t try to explain yourself!” he interrupted, his words harsh and biting. “I don’t like it when people fuck with me. You fucked with me.” He hung up.
I stood in the middle of the room, still holding the phone to my ear, listening to the drone of the dial tone on the other end. My blood had turned to slush.
Max got up and took the phone from me, replacing the handset on the cradle. “Who was that?” he asked.
My voice was a whisper. “Hashimoto.”
18.
We dressed, packed our things, and were out the door in less than two minutes. At the elevator, we waited impatiently for the bell to announce the arrival of the car. It felt like an eternity. Every moment passing was one wasted in our getaway. Finally the doors slid open, and we jumped inside.
“Are you okay?” I asked. It was a silly question.
“No. Not really.” Max leaned back against the wall and repeatedly bumped the back of his head against the faux wood paneling. There was nothing I could say that would make him feel better, so I pressed the button for the ground floor and kept my mouth shut.
“I killed him.” His voice was so low I didn’t know if I had heard him correctly.
“What?”
“I killed Frank!” He shouted it this time, turning to glare at me.
“No, Max --”
“Yes! I killed him! I killed Frank. He was happy, then I came along with this stupid plan and now he’s dead.”
“You didn’t kill him.”
“I might as well have been the one with the sword.”
“The sword?”
“Yeah. The fuckers were waiting for us. Just on the other side of the door. He knew we were coming. He cut Frank’s head off. Clean off!” He blew out his breath and wiped a hand across his face. This was the first detail he’d given me about what had gone down.
“Oh, shit.” I sank to the floor of the elevator. The bell dinged and stopped for a couple on their way out. They took one look at us, and the man said they would wait for the next one.
My stomach felt like it turned inside out. He knew we were coming. I realized now they had advance knowledge of our plan. Someone had leaked information, and I no longer knew whom to trust. We were in more trouble than I thought.
In the garage, I walked through the rows of cars, trying to decide which to take. The selection was made up of luxury vehicles driven by the upper class patrons of the hotel. This could present a problem, as fancier cars were usually equipped with security systems, alarms, and electronic entry devices, although I often found that people didn’t activate them when they were parked in a place like this. They seemed to think the hotel actually provided security. I had discovered a way past most of the alarms anyway, but I didn’t want to take the time to play around.
I turned the corner and saw the car I wanted. It was a burgundy red Aston Martin. I walked over to it, fascinated to see one for real. Its shiny front end curved down with an aggressive stare, the headlights like cat eyes. I ran my finger around the chrome grill and felt a buzz of titillation zip through me. I had always wanted to drive one of these.
Max came up behind me, checking out my find. I turned toward him, my face lit up like Times Square. He wrinkled his brow and shook his head, then walked on.
“No? Come on, this one’s perfect!” I wanted to feel that car, the speed, the power. When would I ever get the opportunity to drive one again?
“Can you find something a little less flashy? People will look at us in that,” he said. There was a look of disapproval on his face that reached beyond my idiotic choice in a vehicle.
Knowing he was right, I moved on to find something more suitable. I settled on a black BMW, an elegant but fairly common, nondescript car. The lock was a regular switch lock and not a numbered keypad, making it a lot easier to break into. Pulling out my tools, a wooden wedge and a metal rod with a hook, I took a quick survey of my surroundings to make sure no one was watching. I inserted the wedge between the glass of the window and the door, making a nice opening for the tool. It was long and flat, about the length of my arm, with a small hook on the end that could pull the locking pin out of place. I inserted it and started jimmying the lock until I heard the distinct click signifying the release of the door. I put my tools back in my bag and opened the door with a satisfied smile.
Max found a dumpster and threw out the shopping bag of his bloody clothes, then trotted over to the car and jumped in the passenger seat. I pulled out a flat head screwdriver and a small cordless drill. In all probability, I was the only woman staying in the hotel who carried power tools in her overnight bag. I leaned down to get a better look at the ignition and inserted the bit. I drilled a few holes in the mechanism to destroy the steering lock then used the screwdriver like a key. The engine turned over with a quiet purr.
I looked up at Max and grinned. “Bingo!” I settled back in the seat, strapped myself in, and pulled out of the parking space. The car handled beautifully, just what I was looking for in a getaway vehicle.
We got to the parking gate. A sign stated there was a $15 fee for lost parking tickets. I pulled out a $20, rolled down the window, and spoke to the attendant.
“I’m sorry, I lost my ticket,” I explained.
The attendant, an attractive young black man, bent down to take the money. As he looked into the car, Max leaned across and waved. “Salut, Philipe.”
A smile spread across the attendant’s face, his teeth shining white against his dark skin. “Hey, Max! Ça va mieux?”
He went into a flutter of French that I couldn’t understand. The two chatted like they had all the time in the world. I kept thinking, Hurry up! We need to get out of here.
Finally, Philipe pressed the button to lift the gate and said with a wink, “Don’t worry about the ticket.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“No problem.” He grinned and waved to us as I drove out of the underground garage and turned onto the street.
“You know that guy?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s Philipe. We go way back.” Max always knew just the right people.
“Do you think he’ll say anything?”
“No, he’s trustworthy. One of the reasons why I always stay at this hotel. I told him we were in trouble, so he’ll cover for us. He’s a good guy. A little strange, but good.”
“What do you mean ‘a little strange’?”
“Nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He waved his hand, hoping to dismiss my curiosity.
“What?” I insisted.
“You really don’t want to know.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
He hesitated, the frown creasing his face now tugging upward on his lips, transforming into a smirk at what he was about to say. “He gets off on watching girls poop on a plate.”
“What? That’s gross! I don’t even want to know how you know that about him.” I had never heard of someone getting turned on by that. I wasn’t one to make judgments on others, though, so I shrugged and said, “It kind of gives a new meaning to the term PuPu Platter.”
He actually laughed, lightening his mood further than I thought possible.
I pulled up to the stop sign and signaled to turn onto Sherbrooke Street. Max rummaged around in his bag until he found his gun, the good old Smith & Wesson. For the first time ever, I was relieved he had it. He ejected the magazine then pulled out a cardboard box from his backpack and shook it upside down in disbelief.
“No ammo,” he said as he looked at the useless object. “Great. The one time I might need to shoot someone, I don’t have any bullets.”
Circling past the fro
nt of the hotel, we were delayed by a parking limo. When the car finally maneuvered itself into the space, a man jumped out of the back seat, not waiting for the driver to open the door for him but held it for another man who calmly exited and stood with his arms crossed, white hot anger on his face. It was Hashimoto. The first man, obviously an assistant, barked orders at the underlings who had jumped out of another car, directing here and there, gesticulating with pointed anger. Hashimoto presided over them like royalty, watching his men follow their directions as he coolly lit a cigar.
“If it were loaded, I could pick him off. Just point and shoot,” Max half joked as he lifted the gun, sighting down the barrel at his target. He chuckled humorlessly, then lowered the weapon and shoved it back into his knapsack. The darkened windows gave us the privacy to drive by without being seen.
I drove out of the city toward Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu. We had to get to the plane and get out of the country, the sooner the better.
The sun slipped past the horizon, darkening the sky to a deep purple. The cover of darkness gave me a false feeling of safety.
“You should call Laurent and tell him what’s going on,” I suggested.
“He’s going to kill me,” Max said. Laurent was going to be furious, but that didn’t mean we could put off the conversation. He took out his cell phone and dialed, listened for several rings, then hung up.
“No answer.” Max pinched his eyebrows. “That’s odd. He’s always home.”
“Maybe we should stop at his place on the way to the plane.”
He nodded in agreement even though he was afraid of Laurent’s reaction when he found out that Frank was dead, killed in a crazy scheme Laurent himself was against.
He looked out the window and watched the concrete highways turn to flat fields as we left the city. It was a 45 minute drive to Laurent’s, long enough for a discussion neither of us really wanted to have.
“Max, I need to know what happened.”
His eyes scanned the passing houses as he absently tapped a finger on the window. He sat still for so long I didn’t think he was going to answer me until he swallowed hard and finally began.
Hashimoto Blues Page 13