Double Agent

by Gretchen Archer

  “Lisa, please don’t tell me I’m paying for the game too.”

  “Well—”

  “Why am I just now hearing about this? They charged a block of rooms and a game to me and I find out the day they arrive?”

  She stammered.

  “Spit it out, Lisa.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Try.”

  “All the images they submitted for the game were of you, Davis.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The coordinator, Danielle, submitted pages ripped from a high school yearbook for the game graphics, and they were almost all of you. I told her she’d have to get permission from you to use them while she was getting permission from you to pay for the rooms. You didn’t hear it from me because I insisted you hear it from her. She said she went over everything with you, including the game, and returned the contract signed by you. I put in the order with Sphinx a month ago. The slot machines are here.”

  I flashed back to my high school yearbook, a whisper-thin wire-bound offense I’d tossed ten minutes after the one time I flipped through, and the only picture of myself I could recall was captioned “Stop, Drop, and Roll, Davis!” taken during a football halftime performance when I’d set my majorette uniform ablaze with my fire baton. Someone snapped a closeup of me trying to put my boobs out. Which was right before Danielle doused me out with a Gatorade shower. It was two little flickers of fire. But Danielle was like that, overkill, especially when it came to me.

  “Where are the slot machines?” I asked.

  “They’re in the convention center tournament room.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “What? There couldn’t be more than ten people coming.”

  “It was the minimum order, Davis.”

  “I need them out.”

  “Out where? Do you mean set up and plugged in? You want the game to go live today?”

  “No.” Bex and Quinn startled. I covered the phone with my hand. “Mommy is not upset with you at all,” I told them. “I’m talking to a lady on the telephone. I’m telling her no. You’re very good girls and I love you very much.” Bottom lips retreated, and Pop-Tarts were resumed. I plastered a wide smile across my face and in my cheeriest voice told Lisa, “I need the machines destroyed. Annihilated. Wiped off the face of the Earth. And I need this taken care of immediately.”

  “So…you want me to send the slot machines downstairs to the graveyard with the old Christmas decorations?”

  That wasn’t good enough. “I need them demolished first, Lisa. I need the software out, the graphic cards burned, then send the empty base machines to the graveyard.”

  “It’ll take a few days, Davis,” she said. “I’ll have to put in a work order with Casino Operations.”

  Still not good enough. I didn’t want anyone in Casino Operations seeing them. I’d have to figure something else out. “For now, let’s hide them,” I told her. “Have someone bring them to me.”

  “Wow,” she said. “Wow wow. Are you sure? They’re big, Davis. The games are installed in megatower cabinets.”

  My heart sank to the floor. Megatower cabinets were eight feet tall and weighed six hundred pounds each. I wasn’t sure they’d fit through my front door. Then where would I put them? It would be like making room for twenty-five commercial refrigerators.

  “The tower is a big picture of you,” she said. “Homecoming, I think?”

  My heart sank through the floor. I’d have to take care of this myself. I looked at my watch. It was barely eight. “Are they still crated?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d need tools to crack into the crates. Which was when I remembered I didn’t have time to gather tools, destroy software, or burn graphics cards. I had a full day already. My boss, No Hair, plus the fourth member of our team, Baylor, and to beat it all, my nanny, had just left for Hawaii. Fantasy and I weren’t two people making up twenty-five percent of our team that week, we were two people making up one hundred percent of our team. I had a jam-packed Take Your Twins To Work Day already planned and wouldn’t be able to get to the slot machines featuring eight feet of Homecoming me until at least the next day. I’d need to hide the machines and hide them good until I found an extra few hours. Where would be the one place in this building no one would go? Where was the one place in this building no one could go?

  “Lisa, let’s move them to Disaster.”

  “I’m not sure I heard you right.”

  “The thirteenth floor. Have someone take the slot machines to the thirteenth floor.”

  “Davis, I don’t have access to the thirteenth floor.”

  “I do.” Somewhere in my desk, I had the Disaster code, allowing thirteenth-floor elevator and floor access. “Have maintenance load the machines and meet me at the door of the Disaster elevator on the convention level at ten thirty.”

  “I didn’t know there was a Disaster elevator on the convention level. For sure, I don’t know where it is.”

  I didn’t either. Not on the convention level anyway. I’d never set foot past the front door of Disaster, I’d barely seen the blueprints, and the only access I knew was from my home, via a space capsule hidden in the back of our pantry we’d thankfully never used. Then I remembered another one: a cavernous elevator hidden in a casino wall. I told Lisa to have maintenance and the machines meet me there.

  “I don’t know where the casino Disaster elevator is either, Davis.”

  “It’s behind the waterfall fountain outside of Private Gaming,” I said. “It’s the wall. The elevator door is hidden along the wall.”

  “Spooky,” she said.

  Not as spooky as Homecoming me on an eight-foot-tall slot machine.

  Before I could put down my phone and pick up my babies, it rang again in my hand. It was Bianca Sanders.

  “David!”

  Bianca lived in the Penthouse above me. She was married to the owner of the Bellissimo, Richard Sanders, and she was the other half of my part-time job. I was her celebrity double. As such, I did everything she didn’t want to do, which was almost everything. The way she put it was, “David, why would I mingle with the unwashed when I have you to mingle for me? Go mingle.” I sprayed my (almost red) caramel-colored hair beachy blonde, hid my caramel-colored eyes behind envy-green contacts, then squeezed myself into fresh-off-the-runway couture to mingle with casino high-rollers, headlining entertainment acts, and visiting dignitaries. Around town, I cut grand-opening ribbons, chaired fundraisers, and threw ceremonial first pitches at Biloxi Shuckers games. Several times a year I graced glossy magazine covers, waved from parade floats, and gave the occasional television interview. As her.

  And my name is Davis.

  “Good morning, Bianca.”

  “Good morning? Have you taken leave of your senses, David?”

  (For the record, I was paid a king’s ransom for my double duties, every penny going straight to a 529 college savings plan for Bex and Quinn. It was never more than a few hours a week, and for the most part, it was fun. Last summer, I had brunch with Reese Witherspoon and her youngest son, Deacon. Who wouldn’t want to go blonde, dress up, and have brunch with Reese Witherspoon and her youngest son, Deacon? Bianca. That was who. Only Bianca would skip brunch with Reese Witherspoon so as to not miss a session with her desensitization therapist.) (If you asked me, most days she was desensitized enough.)

  “David! Have you heard the news?”

  “No.” Unless she was talking about the me-on-a-slot-machine news. That, I’d heard.

  “The weather, David.”

  Bianca Sanders was in Miami. Specifically, at Bal Harbour Shops, the most affluent shopping in America, and where she regularly had her frequent-flyer card punched. Had a raindrop dared fall on her? And she was calling to have me do something about it? (Not completely out o
f the realm of Bianca possibilities.)

  “Have my linens changed, David. Have my pillows fluffed and fresh flowers cut. I’m on my way home before Miami is destroyed.”

  What was she talking about?

  “A hurricane, David. A hurricane is coming and I’m on my way home.”

  A hurricane? Florida didn’t need a hurricane. Not that anyone else did.

  “Kevin,” Bianca said.

  Had she changed my name from David to Kevin?

  “Hurricane Kevin,” Bianca said.

  That was the first I heard of Hurricane Kevin. From Bianca.

  Four days later, a text message from her interrupted my attempts to escape a casino shooter so we could evacuate before the hurricane that had followed Bianca home made landfall: David. Where is my staff? Why has none of my staff reported for duty? No one has prepared my coffee. Do something, David.

  If I’d had the time, I’d have texted her back. Bianca, you should have stayed in Miami.

  THREE

  “Who’s texting you and why isn’t Bradley answering?” Fantasy and I were inching the cash cart forward. She was busy wielding our only weapon in a wide arc above it, so I was doing most of the inching, stopping every half-inch to try and reach my husband again.

  “I have bad news.” Inch, inch.

  “What could be worse news than us trapped in the casino with your ex-husband who may or may not have shot himself, Davis?”

  “We forgot Bianca.”

  “We?” she asked. “I didn’t forget her. That’s your deal.”

  I tried Bradley again. Straight to voicemail again. “What if we’d finished the drop, evacuated, and left her in the penthouse alone?”

  “Davis, what if we don’t finish the drop, don’t evacuate, and end up on Disaster with her? And why is she alone? Where’s Mr. Sanders?”

  “He’s ice fishing in Norway.” I speed dialed my husband again. No answer. “Totally off the grid until this weekend. He probably doesn’t even know about the hurricane.”

  “He has to know.”

  I tried Bradley again. Voicemail again. “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s the one who gave Weather One permission to broadcast here.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  “The storm wasn’t headed straight for us yesterday.”

  I scooted the cash cart a few more inches, then dialed for the twentieth time. Finally, Bradley answered. “Hey. I need you to run thermal imaging again.”

  “Why? What’s wrong? And why are you whispering?”

  “We’re not alone in the casino.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not alone? You most certainly are alone. I ran the thermal imaging myself.”

  “You need to run it again.”

  “What’s happened?” The tension in his voice rose to match mine. “What’s wrong?”

  “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t have time to explain.” I could hear him tapping on a keyboard.

  “Have you finished the drop?” he asked.

  “Finished enough.” The row I hadn’t dropped could keep its money.

  “Here we go,” Bradley said. Then, gravely, “Davis.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not alone in the casino.”

  “I know,” I loud-whispered. “I just told you that!”

  “There are two figures on the east wall.”

  “That’s us,” I said.

  “And thermal imaging is showing two more heat sources along the west wall.”

  I knew that too, because that was where the shot had come from not ten minutes earlier, and that was where the buffalo-giving-birth noises were coming from just then.

  “Plus, there’s something going on behind the waterfall,” he said.

  The waterfall in front of Private Gaming. “Another person?”

  “Probably just the heat from the water. Did you let anyone in?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “The two people I can see look like they’re sleeping,” he said. “Both figures are prone. One is barely moving. The other isn’t moving at all. What in the world is going on? Who is in the casino with you? If you didn’t let anyone in, who did? I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’ll come see for myself. The girls and I are on the way.”

  “NO!”

  “Davis!”

  “Bradley! Don’t bring the girls! Stay right where you are. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” Which would be just as soon as I got my gun from my ex-ex-husband and finished killing him.

  “Davis!”

  “I have to go, Bradley. I’ll check it out and call you back.” I hung up and turned to Fantasy. “It’s just two people. Go check it out.”

  “Me go check it out? You’re going too. He’s your ex-husband.”

  “And you’re the one with the gun.”

  “Get up,” she said. “We’re both going.”

  * * *

  Casino open, it would have taken ten minutes to fight the crowd from one side to the other, and that would be moving at a clip. Casino closed, the space could be covered in two minutes running, which was what Fantasy was doing, or two hours crawling, which was what I was doing.

  “DAVIS! WHERE ARE YOU? I’M DYING!”

  Fantasy made it to the center aisle before she realized I wasn’t right behind her. She stopped, turned around, pointed to the carpet at her feet, then yelled, “There are only two people and we know who they are. The girlfriend isn’t dead, Davis. She showed up on thermal imaging. Dead people don’t radiate heat. Now, come on.”

  “She could be very dead and not cold yet,” I yelled back.

  “SHE’S DEAD!”

  I yelled again, louder, “SHUT UP, EDDIE.”

  Fantasy, tapping a foot, stood in the center aisle whistling at the ceiling. I reluctantly picked up my pace to turtle, reminding myself that possibly-dead Danielle was behind the twenty-five eight-foot-tall slot machines somewhere on Disaster featuring Homecoming me. My mother, wanting to evoke “the spirit and sentiment of our town’s signature fruit” made my dress on the kitchen table with her Singer sewing machine, clearing the Southeastern United States of lemon-yellow taffeta and tulle while she was at it. Above the five-foot perimeter bulb of my pineapple dress, she had me in an itchy bamboo shoot shawl, representing a pineapple crown, and to top it off, she made me wear a maraschino cherry fascinator that was twice the size of my head. The cherry stem kept falling down and slapping me in the face. The worst? Mother wanted my younger sister to wear it when it was her Homecoming turn the next year, and Meredith was at least six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than me. So every yard of the offensive lemon monstrosity was either pinned, duct taped, or drooping off me. I was wearing, quite possibly, the ugliest Homecoming dress in the history of Homecoming dresses. Beside me in the picture? My ex-ex-husband, who then and now, looked like Batman—somewhere between George Clooney and Ben Affleck Batman. It had been pouring rain that night. The bottom half of me was mud; the top half of me was drowning, yet somehow, Eddie, beside me in his muddy football uniform, looked like Football Batman. It could very well have been the best picture of him and the worst picture of me ever taken. And to think Danielle had chosen it to plaster on the tower of an oversized slot machine, as if I wanted to relive my youthful wardrobe disasters or decidedly worse youthful marital catastrophes. I’d weathered the Eddie Crawford storm, many times in fact, and could hardly believe that at Danielle’s hands I had to go through it, and put my husband through it, again. My thoughts of Eddie and Danielle offenses perpetrated against me, and there were so many, were interrupted by, “OH MY GOD, TELL MY MOTHER I LOVE HER.”

  That got me moving, because I didn’t want to talk to Eddie’s mother.

  If we’d both been armed, we’d have split up. As it was, Fantasy led wit
h her gun, me on her heels, so she stepped into the circle of Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory Oompa Loompa slot machines first. I knew she’d found my ex-ex-husband when she stopped so fast, I ran into her. I ran into her so hard I knocked her down, then fell on top of her, so I felt the muffle of gunshot through her body.

  Time stopped.

  The next thing I knew we were a catawampus tangle of bodies. I thought she’d been hit, and she thought I’d been hit. At one point, we were rolling in a big body ball, bouncing off Oompa Loompa chairs. When we stopped scrambling long enough to realize we were still alive, and the ticket printer of a Gonzo’s Quest had taken the runaway bullet, we melded into a blubber of a best friend puddle. With one last hug, we separated. My face was wet. She looked like she’d narrowly escaped death, and I can’t imagine I looked much better.

  My ex-ex-husband, ten feet away and covered in blood, propped against the base of a Mega Moolah and watching the Davis and Fantasy show with a bloody smirk, said, “Heh, heh, heh.”

  She batted around, found her gun between two Willy Wonkas, then aimed it at his nose. “Do you want me to finish you off?”

  I scanned him from a distance, head to toe, and found his wound: the edge of his right hand, through and through. He’d live, so I looked past him to what I could see of Danielle five feet away, on the other side of a Pharaoh’s Fortune, flopped feet, one pink strappy sandal on, the other off. I braced myself before rounding the slot machine to find the rest of her. Lying in a lake of blood.

  Frozen in place—I’d known Danielle my whole life—it took me a minute to grasp the fact that she was still alive. I might have started breathing again. She was knocked out cold, had a blue-black-red dinosaur egg forming across her forehead, her mouth slack, her tongue darting left (dead tongues didn’t do that), her chest rising and falling (dead chests didn’t either), and most telling, the blood pool under her head led away. Blood didn’t travel away from the body spilling it in a large boot-shaped path. She’d either hit her head or been knocked in the head, then fallen into the blood. It wasn’t hers. Whose blood was Danielle lying in?