Double Agent

by Gretchen Archer

  “What, Davis?”

  I pulled my phone away from my head and looked at it.

  She and Eddie were chasing the pig up and down the long hallway of the seventh floor of the hotel. She had Danielle parked in a chair at the elevator landing directing traffic. (“It just turned around.” “There it goes again.” “Now it’s going the other way.”) Fantasy said she’d catch up with me if they ever caught the pig. “The pig is like a puppy,” she said. “She thinks we’re playing chase. Did you know pigs laugh, Davis? Did you know that? And they’re slippery too. That ‘greased pig’ you hear? There’s a reason for it. Let Bradley know that as soon as this storm passes, I’m demanding a pig raise.”

  “Is Danielle doing any better?”

  “If you’re asking me if she knows her middle name, no. Have you found the money?”

  “No.”

  “Have you found the shooter?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Have you found Jug?”

  “In the wind, Davis. His room is totally trashed and he’s not in it. No personal effects either. I think that one made a run for it.”

  Great. But in a way, I meant it. We didn’t need Jug there. I wasn’t sure anyone needed Jug Dooley anywhere.

  I called my mother and told her I’d be along before too much longer. (“Well, it’s about darn-tootin’ time.”)

  And my last call, before my great casino escape, was to Bianca. My plan was to lead with an elaborate explanation of why I’d been unable to respond to her many texts, or show up with the coffee I’d promised, but I didn’t have to. She answered with, “David, I’m in danger of starvation.” I told her I was on my way to take her to dinner. I didn’t say where. “Dinner?” she asked. “As in nourishment? That is welcome news, David, very welcome, as there is no prepared food in my home and certainly no one to prepare it. I was beginning to think it was the Second Coming. Or that a nuclear bomb had detonated. Or that a spaceship landed and absconded with humanity, save me. Tell me right now, David, are we the only humans left to inhabit Mother Earth?” Her husband was off the grid, her staff hadn’t reported for duty, I hadn’t responded to her multiple attempts to reach me, she couldn’t find her driver to take her to the airport, not that she could find her pilots, and her repeated attempts to contact the airport directly had been met with “an ominous recording.” Bianca was completely beside herself, which was saying a lot, because generally beside herself was how she lived in the first place. “I am beginning to show signs of malnourishment, David. My only sustenance has been the fruit of the vine, and I had to open the bottle myself.”

  “Bianca? Have you not turned on the television?” Did you consider stepping out your door? Or dialing 911? Or living your life beyond your immediate family, indentured servants, and me?

  “Why, David, during Armageddon, in the middle of an apocalypse, would I watch the television? No, I have not. I’ve been penning farewell letters to my loved ones, editing my will, and polishing my obituary. Now that you’ve finally surfaced, I’ll need you to finish everything. And I’ll have you know, had you been in my will, which you weren’t, you most certainly would have been ousted today.”

  I told her I was on my way.

  “Fantasy just texted, Davis,” Bradley said. “They caught the pig. So everyone except Weather One is accounted for. As soon as we locate and send them to Disaster, we’ll move your mother, the girls, and Bianca.”

  We were an egomaniacal meteorologist away from being locked up on the thirteenth floor.

  “Let’s go,” Bradley said. “We’ll find them.”

  I almost had a foot out the door when FEMA said, “Wait.”

  We stopped.

  “Didn’t the gaming agent ask you to unlock and search the additional areas for the money?”

  He had. But what the gaming agent and FEMA didn’t realize was the dead fake officer hadn’t hidden ten cash carts in Chops, the steak house along the west wall, or in Picnic, the family-style barbeque restaurant near the entrance, or Hops, the brewpub beside the poker room, for the same reason he hadn’t moved them—he’d been busy dying.

  “He did ask us to,” Bradley said, “but we’ll get to that later.”

  “Are you a lobster fan too?” FEMA asked.

  It had nothing to do with lobster and everything to do with not wanting to set foot in any adjacent venue until we had Smith & Wesson with us. Or Uzi. He’d work too. Because if I had fifty million dollars stashed in a dark room off a casino waiting to stuff it down a drain pipe, I’d wait with it, and I’d be heavily armed. And anxious for the stragglers in the casino to leave so I could escape with my money. Which was when it hit me: The eight-digit lockdown code the fake officer used to get in the casino were the same eight digits that would let anyone who might be lurking with fifty million dollars out. The minute we left, anyone hiding with the money and my laptop could code themselves out.

  “Bradley,” I said. “We need to change the code.”

  He thought about it for exactly one second. He passed me his phone. “Change the code.”

  “What code is this?” FEMA was alarmed. “What?”

  “The casino lockdown code.” I was in, on the website, through the firewall, and verifying the new lockdown code before I finished saying the words. I passed Bradley’s phone back. He held my hand longer than he needed to. I’d loved him long enough to know why. For the time being, our children and my mother were contained in the fortress of our home. Bianca was safe in the bastion of hers. And Fantasy was armed. The two of us were together, but when we left the casino, we wouldn’t be. And he didn’t want to split up until we had everyone on Disaster. Just then our two-way radios beeped, and Filet’s voice bounced between them.

  “Hellos to all? Filet, who is my person, has cooked the dinners and to be serveded to soons. Filet will not promises hot lobsterses suppers to persons not to unlucky floors. That is all. Beautiful artisans sourdough loaveses bakes in hots ovens. Filet, who is my person, cannot speaks more or will burn breadses to devil hells. Everyone to wash filthy handses please.”

  “I found Weather One.” While FEMA and I had been busy translating Filet’s transmission, Bradley pulled up the live stream from Weather One. He grabbed my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We locked down the casino and anyone possibly hiding in its abysses with the new code, then ran straight into Weather One. They were broadcasting live from Cork, the lobby wine bar just outside the casino, and it looked like the whole time we’d been looking for money and disposing of a body inside, they’d been celebrating their sky-high ratings from under the pergola on the veranda of Cork, a shockingly deceptive gorgeous Gulf sunset low in the western sky behind them.

  “Wow,” FEMA eucalyptus whispered. “Chip Chapman.”

  Mr. Weather was live, on air, every word a little slurrier than the one before. The stranded Michiganders, who it would seem had attached themselves to the Weather One crew, looked the slurriest. There were four empty wine bottles at their small table, full glasses of wine in front of them, and they were heads down, bent over their phones. I pulled my phone from my pocket and found the Michiganders quickly with a #Bellissimo search. Jenn Chojnacki and Summer Shugart. According to their social media posts, they were having the time of their lives being #stuckinthesouth because of #comeonKevin! at the #Bellissimo on their #girlsjustwanttohavefun #vacay with @ChipChapman who was, in their cyber estimation, #sohot. I added it to my endless chore list, after escorting my daughters, my mother, my dog, and Bianca Sanders to Disaster, then setting up camp in the control room to watch endless hours of surveillance video in an effort to determine what exactly happened to the fake officer, and if not by his own hand, at whose, then locating and securing an estimated fifty million dollars that disappeared with the cash carts, not to mention my missing gun and my laptop, so we could evacuate. At some point in all that, I’d have to shut down the Michiganders
Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, and Instagram. And if Chip Chapman didn’t get off the air soon, I’d have to shut down his satellite.

  “Let me tell you what’s going to happenth, Chipperoonies.”

  He tried to look grim. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t contain his wine-fueled joy at the prospect of Hurricane Kevin.

  “Do you see where I’m standing, Chippomaniacs? If I don’th move soon, and I justh mighth not, I’ll be underwater.” He struck an Elvis pose. “Under the sea!” He sang off-key. “Under the sea!” He kicked a drunk leg. “Under the sea!” He ripped off his sunglasses and got down to business, his nose an inch from the camera. “I’m calling it, and check my perfecth record if you want to, but don’t believe the National Hurricane Centher when they say the thidal surge will be minimal in Biloxith, Chippers and Chippettes. Your buddy Chipth’s here to thell you the thidal surge will be at least thirthy feeth. You heard me, I said thirthy.” Chip’s head dropped. He gravely shook it. He raised it slowly. “Let’s talk about what thath means for a secondth. All one-story homes will be demolished. The power outages will last for weekths. There won’t be a tree left sthanding. Think vicious thsunami, people.” And there, he settled his sunglasses back on his nose. “Think thsunami, with hundredth-mile-an-hour winds. If you’re in Biloxith, like I am, you have ten, maybe fiftheenth hours to get outh.”

  “He’s never wrong,” FEMA said.

  My phone rang again.

  Bianca.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  FEMA put a heavy hand on my arm. “Do you have any formaldehyde?”

  “No.” And even if we did, I wanted nowhere near it. “Why?”

  “It might be too late to test everyone’s hands for gun residue, but it’s not too late to test their hands for cocaine.”

  “What does cocaine have to do with anything?” (Or formaldehyde to do with cocaine?)

  “All currency has traces of cocaine,” he said. “Whoever has your money has cocaine on their hands. We could use formaldehyde to test for cocaine in lieu of formal drug testing. If we hurry, we can catch everyone before they wash their filthy hands.”

  I appreciated that FEMA, and for that matter, Carlos Ray Norris too, seemed to be as upset, if not more, than we were about the dead man and the missing cash, but I wondered if we’d made a mistake, agreeing to let CSI’s Number One Fan join us on Disaster. Fifty normal FEMA agents might serve us better than the throat drop-addicted one we had. More than anything else, he was a distraction. Before I could round him up a to-go lobster plate and point him in the direction of the front door, my phone rang again. Bianca again. Mother and my girls were safe for the time being. I absolutely had to get to Bianca.

  * * *

  I finally had a minute to listen to endless messages my mother had parked on my phone on my way to Bianca’s penthouse. They went on and on. “Davis, we’d better get going. I think the wind is picking up.” “Davis, your father says we need to leave. He says the gasoline situation is dire. Motorists are stranded in the medians.” “Davis? Are the bone-shaped biscuits in the cookie jar with the pawprints for your dog? Bexley is telling me they’re Quinn’s.” “Davis, the news is saying Biloxi residents only have a few more hours to evacuate. And Bates Turkey in Greenville has closed. So many evacuees have stopped for turkey they ran out. Have you ever?” “Davis? Should we leave my car here and all ride in a big casino car? Surely they’re not being used right now. Can Bradley drive a car that big? Do they get good gas mileage? Does Bradley know how to siphon gasoline from one car to another with a garden hose?” “Davis, I’m watching the weather. That Chip Chapman is such a handsome young man. He just said the eye of the storm was less than two hundred miles from Biloxi. We really need to put a move on it.” “Davis, is there a garden hose here? I don’t think you have a garden hose. I’ve looked everywhere.” “Davis, do you remember the time Danielle said you pushed her out of that big old laurel oak in her grandmother’s front yard and had you carry her books for months because she insisted you’d broken both her arms and her arms weren’t the least bit broken?” “Davis, you have spoiled your dog rotten. She won’t obey a single command. Not sit, not stay, not hush up with the barking. And I think she’s starving. Bexley said she only eats chicken nuggets and chocolate ice cream, and I’ll have you know there are no chicken nuggets or chocolate ice cream here. Frankly, I’m glad, because that’s a horrible diet for your dog. Do you have any suggestions? She is becoming increasingly unhappy.” “Davis, I think someone had better check on Chip Chapman. He’s in one of the restaurants downstairs, surely closer to you than me. He looks dizzy. He might be running a fever. Or he could be suffering from hurricane exhaustion. He seems jolly enough, but he can barely stand.” “Davis, Bexley is telling me Quinn’s bedtime is seven, while hers is nine. Is that true?”

  I texted Mother back telling her I’d be there in fifteen minutes, don’t believe everything Bexley said, please don’t feed Quinn Milk-Bones, no, Quinn’s bedtime wasn’t two hours before Bexley’s, and Candy’s food was in the pantry.

  Mother texted back immediately. Who is Candy?

  Our dog, Mother. Candy is our dog.

  Bexley told me her name was Pickle. Have I been calling your dog the wrong name all this time?

  SEVEN

  Salvatore Casimiro built the Bellissimo in the late nineties. At the time, he owned half the Las Vegas Strip, so he knew what he was doing. And having just walked the youngest of his five children and only daughter down the aisle, effectively transferring Bianca from his to Richard Sanders’s payroll, and with the newlyweds on their way to Biloxi where his new son-in-law would open his new Gulf casino, Casimiro built the Bellissimo with his daughter in mind. First, her no-extravagance-spared penthouse. Second, the thirteenth floor. He built it to serve several unlikely and undesirable purposes, but the main one Salvatore had in mind was his daughter’s, son-in-law’s, and future grandchildren’s safety, of which, present day, there were two. (Grandchildren.) Grandsons, specifically. Neither in residence at the moment, thank goodness. The older son was in the process of being expelled from his fourth college in two years, and the Sanders’ three-year-old son was at French camp, in France no less, with his team of nannies. Bianca was alone. Completely alone. Even her beloved senior citizen Yorkshire Terriers, Gianna and Ghita, were with their offsite nanny. So when I finally stepped in her door, wondering where to start—Hurricane Kevin? The dead fake officer? The missing cash carts?—and found her in front of the television watching the Michiganders drunkenly singing “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” to half of America, I didn’t have to start anywhere.

  “Bianca?” I put a soft arm around her shoulders.

  “David, take me to the refuge from the storm my father built for me.”

  * * *

  Bianca’s refuge from the storm was the same wall-to-wall square footage as every other Bellissimo floor. The ceilings were lower, the only windows were portholes, the hallways were tighter, and everything had a more utilitarian feel, but plenty of room. Which was to say I wouldn’t be stuck in a small space with her, my ex-ex-husband, my mother, or a pig. I wasn’t sure which one of those would be worst.

  Built mainly with the volatile Gulf weather in mind, but with more terrifying possibilities considered too, all access points led to one entry smackdab in the middle of the thirteenth floor. It was a great steel-walled hall that would hold, if it had to, twelve hundred people. Not comfortably, mind you. But if the unthinkable were to happen and we had to evacuate the casino, we could. And it would be to the great hall of Disaster.

  Behind the great hall, a control room, behind the control room, a generator large enough to power a small city.

  At capacity, we were a small city.

  Double steel-walled doors on the right side of the great hall led to the residential wing. It was built out like the hotel; it had lodging accommodations and an all-purpose great room mea
nt for lounging, recreation, and dining, but with, well, disaster in mind, as opposed to luxury. Disaster’s guest wing came with the resort, so it was dated. Every other guest venue at the Bellissimo had been remodeled at least a dozen times. The residence wing of Disaster was like stepping back in time.

  There were two scaled down four-bedroom suites. One, a presidential palace, gilded to the point of gold plated, which would be Bianca’s. We took the other. Not gilded. Down a narrow hall and a vault door away from the suites were twenty-five small guest rooms—think dorm rooms—to accommodate the Storms and any other strandees. Behind the single rooms there was a large bunkroom that slept fifty. We’d have close to a full house, and if someone didn’t cough up ten cash carts and confess to aiding, abetting, or killing the fake officer by three in the morning, we could be stuck there until the storm passed.

  After breaking the news to my mother, gathering my children, my dog, the contents of our gun safe, my backup laptop, and the ridiculous amount of luggage and groceries Mother had packed for us, then manhandling two full bellman carts, one with our luggage and the other with an entire set of Louis Vuitton luggage Bianca insisted she needed for one night, we made our way to Disaster via a dedicated elevator in Bianca’s penthouse. My children rode the luggage on one of the bellman carts and my dog ran circles around and barked at the other, the whole time Bianca and my mother chatting, as if poolside. I coded us into the steel-walled great hall of Disaster to great company. My entourage and I brought up the rear of everyone (waiting on lobster) who would spend the night on the thirteenth floor the night before Hurricane Kevin. The noise level was deafening—everyone complaining at once—and all the complaints were being lobbed at the huge bald man behind a clipboard at the front of the room. He was wearing the loudest, flashiest, most ridiculous Hawaiian shirt I’d ever seen in my life. I think it was neon.

  It was my boss. No Hair.