by John L. Monk
“See, Alex?” I said. “I’m a guest. A good one, too. I’ve rented like five movies already and used the same towels every day.”
Alex handed back the ID and said, “Very sorry for the trouble, sir. Please feel free to stay as long as you like.”
He turned stiffly away as if offended. Briefly, he paused to look at Spongebob bouncing around on the television. Then he left.
Definitely a Squidward fan.
After my showdown with the hotel muscle, there wasn’t any more trouble. At 7:25, when the elevator lobby was packed with conference attendees, I threw away my trash and stood outside the room where Rachael was speaking. Each attendee wore a little plastic name tag. I didn’t have a plastic name tag, but nobody seemed to notice or care when I shoved in with a crowd of chattering people.
There were more than a hundred chairs lined up in rows, all facing a long table with a number of people around it talking together or reading through papers. Rachael was one of the talkers. She had on a different dress now—blue with black trim. Her face was animated when she talked, and she nodded a lot when listening.
“Excuse me, sir,” a lady said from behind me.
I thought I’d been discovered, but she just wanted to get past. Moving left, I found a seat in the back row and sat with my arms folded so no one could see I didn’t have a name tag.
After everyone had taken their seats, a distinguished man with graying hair and a black beard approached a microphone.
“Hello, everybody,” he said in an enthusiastic tone. “Thank you for joining us for tonight’s very special breakout session. Way more fun than going out on the town, I promise.”
A wave of laughter carried around the room.
“For those of you who don’t know me,” he said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t envision such an unlikely scenario, “I’m Sam Richardson, executive director of the American Bar Association. On behalf of the ABA Leadership Committee, I’d like to welcome each of you to the city of Savannah—but I’m rather busy right now, so…”
He pantomimed walking away, bringing more laughter. The guy was some kind of comedian.
“I hope you all got your packets of things to do while you’re here?”
The crowd murmured, almost as one, that yes they’d gotten their packets of things to do. They seemed pretty happy about it. Now I wanted a packet.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Now, without further ado, please let me introduce Rachael Anderson, Queens District Attorney, and thorn in the side of the Carpino Crime Syndicate.”
Excited chatter bubbled up from the crowd.
“Alleged crime syndicate,” the comedian added.
They laughed again—now clapping as he handed the microphone to Rachael, who stood smiling and beaming around the room.
“Thank you, Sam,” Rachael said with practiced ease. She seemed confident in front of so many people, whereas I would have fallen to pieces right there from stage fright. “When Sam first asked me to come here and speak, I had to decline. My struggle against the alleged crime syndicates operating in my city—not just the Carpinos—along with all the other hassles you’d expect in a city of over eight million people, well … as I said, I had to decline. But when I heard about these spectacular ABA coffee mugs”—she reached behind her and held up a mug with gold writing on it, garnering another laugh—“the decision was all but made for me. I’m so happy to be here. Such an honor. Thank you so much.”
What followed was one of the sexiest descriptions of organized crime law I’d ever seen. Because of RICO—the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act—law enforcement had made an enormous number of arrests in the last ten years, decimating the old world Mafia. Despite that, prostitution, gambling, and drugs were as prevalent as ever, and the problem had gotten worse: criminals were now harder to detect.
“Today’s Mafia is structured much like a terrorist organization,” she said. “Need-to-know chains of command insulate the higher-ups. Some of the most active members may not even realize they’re in the Mob at all.”
This got a chuckle from the audience.
“They’ve also discovered technology,” she said, earning another wry chuckle—even from me, and I never chuckle wryly. “Facebook, Craig’s List, Ebay—anywhere vice can be brokered anonymously, you’ll find the Mob.”
Rachael went on to discuss the Mafia’s use of technology, and their early adoption of Darknet—the untraceable side of the Internet, used to sell drugs, guns, and even set up murder contracts. I found the whole thing fascinating.
The lawyers in the room loved her. She had an engaging personality and sharp wit. We were chuckling like crazy people through the whole thing.
At one point she said, “Instead of gambling in basements and back rooms, they’ve moved their operations offshore to servers in Eastern Europe and—”
Suddenly, she stopped talking. If I hadn’t been watching her face, I might have convinced myself the lights in the room had winked out very quickly and come back on. But I was watching her face. Her eyes … they appeared to flash, but not with light. Rather, with darkness. One moment they were Rachael Anderson’s eyes, and the next they were twin orbs of bottomless night. Wherever the darkness touched someone, that person’s features became shadowed in inky blackness. Beyond them, normal light stretched away like an inverted shadow.
I blinked and looked around, but nobody acted surprised or appeared to have noticed what happened. They remained in their seats, still listening politely.
The change in Rachael, however, was marked. Where before her manner was comfortable and controlled, now she stood stiffly, both hands raised in front of her as if startled. She stared around at the roomful of lawyers, then down at the microphone in her hand.
The attendees muttered quietly in confusion. From the row in front of me, a woman whispered, “What’s wrong with her?”
“Beats me,” a man said.
Rachael raised the microphone to her mouth and said, “Um. Sorry. I have to go.” Then, as if realizing the abruptness of her comment, she added, “Thanks.”
She put the mic in its cradle and started toward the doors. Halfway through the room she turned around and approached the long table with the other speakers. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached over and grabbed a purse off the back of the only empty seat. She looked around as if expecting someone to object, then turned and walked down the aisle, head high, ignoring the concern of the attendees.
The man who’d first introduced her—Sam—followed after her.
I tailed them both.
“Rachael, wait, hold on a minute,” he said when they entered the hall.
“Leave me alone,” she said, turning away.
Sam lightly touched her elbow.
Whirling on him, Rachael shouted, “Back off!”
Sam stopped in his tracks at the sudden vehemence in her voice, staring at her like he didn’t know her anymore. Rachael kept going.
I followed as discreetly as I could.
She entered the lobby, looking everywhere at once and then down at her purse. Quickly, she rummaged through it, took out a wallet, and approached the desk clerk.
I held back about ten feet, trying not to get yelled at like poor Sam back there, so I couldn’t make out everything she said. I did hear the lady working the desk say, “Room 406, ma’am.”
Rachael thanked the clerk and went to the elevators. When she hit the button, I came over and stood next to her. The doors opened, we got on, and I reached over and pushed four. She glanced at me and looked away.
When the doors opened, I said, “After you.”
Rachael swooped past, stopped and stared at the arrows pointing to various room numbers, and then she was moving again.
She found the room she wanted, then rooted through her purse and took out a room key. She inserted it, the door unlocked, and she proceeded to push through.
Again, with me following.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Rachael said in sh
ocked outrage as I shoved her backward into the room.
“A demonstrative pronoun with a great many uses,” I said, brandishing Andre’s gun for her to see. “Now move.”
Chapter Six
I expected her to cringe or fall backward or possibly scream.
Instead, Rachael said, “Am I supposed to be scared?”
“If it helps,” I said. “Get moving.”
Rachael inclined her head as if conceding this round to me, then moved deeper into the room.
“So what’s it gonna be?” she said. “Kill me? Rape me? Been there, done that. But between me and you, before this is over, I’ll see you strangled with your own intestines.”
What the…?
“And no silencer?” she said, tsk-tsking at the shame of it. “In a paper-thin hotel like this one? Whatever you do, it better be nice and quiet, and you best hope I don’t yell or put up a fight. So what do you say?”
Blinking, I said, “Uh … what?”
“Give me everything in your wallet and we’ll call it even. The gun, too. It’s pretty. I collect them.”
I was about to reply when she cut me off.
“Shush,” she said. “Did you hear something?”
Before I could answer, Rachael stepped past me and opened the bathroom door—then backed up in surprise when Ricky came out pointing a silenced pistol at her. I trained my gun on him, and he grabbed her around the neck from behind, shifting his aim to me. He had two black eyes now.
Ricky said, “Don’t you fucking try nothing, dick face. Just put the gun down real slow.”
“Or what?” I said. “You’ll shoot us both? I’m directly linked to the Carpinos. When someone finds my body here, next to hers, it’ll bring down a mountain of heat on the boss.”
He snorted. “Nope, but nice try. After Lenny gave me the job, I bought one of them jumbo suitcases. After I told him you hit me again, he said I could buy another—for you. Now I need that one for something else, so I’m letting you live.”
While I stood there doing math, Ricky aimed at my feet and fired a round, causing me to jump. Just barely, he’d missed putting a leaky hole in my foot. For a silenced weapon, the gunshot was sort of loud, though not enough to carry out of the room.
“Come on, boys,” Rachael said. “Don’t I have a say in any of this?”
“Shut up, slut. I’ll deal with you later. Never banged no DA before.”
When he said that, I clenched the gun tighter, ready to shoot him and wait out my ride in a jail cell if it came to it.
“Oh, look at the little boy scout,” Ricky said, giggling. “Don’t hurt no women and children. Like that makes you a saint or something? That’s the problem with you medigan. All your bullshit rules. Bunch of fucking hypocrites.”
I glanced at Rachael. She had an oddly excited look on her face, and it was freaking me out a little.
“Ricky,” I said, “this is going to sound weird, but you may want to get out of here while you still can.”
Ricky laughed his smug, anti-medigan laugh. “What my uncle ever saw in you, I don’t know. Now scram.” He adjusted his grip on Rachael, then smiled, slipping his hand down her blouse and cupping her right breast with his left hand. When he squeezed, she winced in pain.
What he didn’t see was the brief, tight, smile on Rachael’s face, nor the hot flash of hate in her eyes.
“Go on, Andre,” he said. “Get the fuck out. I got it from here.”
“Ricky,” I said, “I don’t think—”
Before I could finish, Rachael grabbed Ricky’s wrist and pulled it down to her stomach, tearing her blouse in the process. Without stopping, she stepped out with her leg and rolled him over her back.
Ricky fired wildly, putting a round through the desk lamp and another through the window, which didn’t shatter. Rachael raised her leg and stomped down hard on his face. Then again, and again, and again. Then again just one more time.
Despite that, Ricky’s chest rose and fell, so he wasn’t dead. His jaw had completely dislocated, jutting out from his face about three inches to the side.
Rachael reached down, picked up his gun and said to me, “What’s this I heard about you not shooting women and children, hmm?”
Almost casually, she pointed the gun and shot Ricky in the face.
“Put the piece down,” she said. “Over on that table will be fine.”
I put it down.
She nodded at Ricky’s corpse. “Start talking.”
Rachael stood there casually with the gun, smirking as if she judo-flipped and shot people in the face every day.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” I said. “I was sent here to kill you, but decided to warn you instead. The, uh, Carpino Crime Syndicate sent me.”
I waited to see if the name registered anything. She just stared at me.
“And?” she said. “What else?”
“There isn’t much else. You were down there giving your speech, and then…”
“What?”
“Your eyes,” I said. “You were standing in the room with all those people and your eyes got dark. Like shadows.”
Her smirk fell away, replaced by something more serious. “Shadows?”
“More like inky wells of darkness. Does that happen very often?”
“Inky wells of darkness,” she said in a musing tone. “What fancy turns of phrase you have. Sorry, what’s your name?”
“Andre,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Is that your real name?”
Not quite knowing why, I shook my head. “Dan Jenkins.”
Rachael stepped over Ricky’s cooling body and put the gun on the TV stand.
“You’re a big one, Dan,” she said, eyeing me appreciatively. “What month is it?”
The question was so absurd I laughed out loud. “What?”
“I know what you are, Dan. You’re like me. You saw my special place.” Her eyes searched mine, then widened in wonder. “You poor fool. Did you think you were the only one?”
I stared at her, dumbstruck, finally putting it together. Whoever this was, she wasn’t Rachael Anderson. She was someone else. Just like I was someone else and not Andre Murphy. That’s why her eyes got all inky black with special effects—she’d stepped through a portal into Rachael’s body. That must be what it looked like from this side. Yet nobody had noticed but me.
“It can’t be,” I said.
Patiently, the woman said, “You still haven’t told me what month it is.”
“Huh? Oh. August. Uh … we’re in Georgia.”
“I know we’re in Georgia,” she said bitterly. She stepped over Ricky again and tugged him around by one foot. “Grab his other leg.”
When I stood there not moving she added, “Please?”
“Yeah,” I said, moving to help. “Sure.”
Together, we dragged Ricky out of the way, over against the air-conditioning.
“Thanks,” she said softly, then grabbed me by the shirt.
“Wait a minute, hey…”
“Shush,” she said, and pushed me backwards onto the bed.
I tried to get up, but she shoved me back with her foot.
“Stay put or I swear I’ll shoot you,” she said and turned to look at herself in the mirror. “Wow, she’s a pretty one. Lucky for you, huh?” She unbuttoned her blouse, took it off, and stood admiring herself in her bra and skirt. “Hop to it, Dan. I haven’t been laid in weeks.”
I shook my head and swallowed. “I’m not having sex with you. We need to talk about stuff. This is the most amazing thing I ever…”
Her skirt came off, then her panties and bra. She turned and looked at me. Her skin was smooth and shiny. And her curves were so … so curvy.
“If you do this for me,” she said, “we’ll talk later, I promise.” She leaned in and kissed me. “If you don’t, I’ll clam right up and leave now, and you’ll be alone forever. Go ahead and think about it. I’ll wait, but not for long.”
I thought about the lonely
years of death and more death, about the Great Whomever and who he was, and the mystery of why he’d chosen me. This woman knew things I didn’t. It wasn’t fair. She’d boxed me in.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said helplessly.
I almost added, And this isn’t your body.
She climbed on top, pinning me in place.
“Call me Rose,” she said and kissed me hard while her hand probed downward.
I let her unzip me. I let her pull my pants off. I wasn’t helping much, was I? Ricky’s dead body lay over there slumped against the air-conditioning unit leaking into the carpet, and the air smelled like gunsmoke and blood. But did that stop Andre’s stupid body from flushing with heat and rising to the occasion?
Pulling away with a sucking sound, I said, “What about Rachael?”
“That’s what they say about roses,” she said, smiling down at me. “Sweet by any name. Wow, you’re a big one…”
* * *
We were lying together in the dark with the covers pulled up around us. Not touching. I’d tried cuddling closer but she scooched away. The last time she kissed me was right at the end, and then it was more of a bite than a kiss.
Rose had used me, and I’d used her back, lured by the promise of a whispered secret. I felt terrible. To find someone like me—a thing I’d never imagined could happen—only to have it be the most underwhelming and shallow experience ever.
Soft snores from her slumber added to my feeling of inadequacy, as if there was something wrong with me that I couldn’t roll over and be happy and unconcerned.
Those times we’d come up for air, I’d tried quizzing her.
Who are you?
What was that black stuff?
Did you commit suicide too?
She’d shushed me each time. Gently at first, then angrily at that last question. She hadn’t liked that one at all.
Rose turned over, half-asleep and facing me. Her fingers played circles in my brand-new chest hair, the closest she’d come to non-sexual affection yet. I shouldn’t have loved it, but the thrill of our shared condition merged with the human need, supercharging the attraction.