Simone stepped back. “Tell your aunt she needn’t apologize. I admire those brass balls, in radio jocks or delivery girls. Besides, this way I got to have breakfast with my daughter and her friends before they ran off to your monster mall.” She held out a hand. “My staff told me you were bringing me something.”
I gave her the bag. Simone Sanchez unhooked her eyes from mine, reached in, and pulled out the book. She gasped. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “Oh, my.” Then she gathered her robe closed with one hand and clutched the book to her chest with the other. She turned and walked to the first chair she came to and dropped into it. “I don’t have this one, not the first edition. I’ve found all the other firsts in the series, but not this one.” She beckoned. Her people stepped aside, allowing me to approach. “How did you know I didn’t have it? How did you know?”
“It was a safe bet. Apparently hardly anyone owns this one.”
A man dressed in white entered the living area through a door. “Madame? Your massage?”
“Henri, look: Little Girl, Big River, a first edition. Now I have the entire series in first editions. All of them, Henri. I have them all.”
He stepped to her side. “I loved that show. The pioneer girl, yes?”
Simone made a sharp noise. “That wretched television show.” She looked at me. “These books helped me survive a miserable childhood in Boise. They’re why I came to Minnesota when I ran away at sixteen.” She gave me a very slow once-over. “But I just bet you know all about me, don’t you, Delivery Girl?”
“Of course I don’t, Ms. Sanchez. But it is my job to do research for my aunt, and I do dig deep to find any information that might be useful for her interviews. Most of it I file away up here.” I tapped my head. “You never know what might be useful.”
“And how did you know that I loved these books? How did you know that fact and know it was useful?”
“There’s a very active local fan club for the books. Kit’s had some of them on the show a couple of times. That’s how I’ve learned about the books, especially this rare one. And they’ve done some name-dropping—famous people who like them, that sort of thing.”
Simone set Little Girl on her lap and laid both hands on top of it. “I hear from those women; they send me their newsletters. So you’re saying that Kit Carpenter dumps me but she’s had them on more than once?”
I smiled. “She read the books as a girl. The women amuse her. And they weren’t ever competing with a peace forum.”
Simone looked at the book, now back in her hands, then looked at me. “I presume she wants to reschedule me.”
“Yes, very much. I’m supposed to ask for tomorrow morning.”
She shook her head. “Not the day of a show. She’s missed her chance to have me in-studio, but I’ll do a remote. Sooner, rather than later, I think.” She shrugged. “We haven’t sold out Phoenix. Before then.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not that I need Kit Carpenter.”
“Her producer will call your assistant.” I searched my head file for the name. “Ms. Whittaker.”
Simone thumbed toward Jill Bodyguard. “There’s Ms. Whittaker; make the date.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m just the delivery girl.”
*
Handing me over to Simone Sanchez must have been all that the security guards had needed to do, because they were gone and the hall was empty when I left 20-B. Simone urged me to take the private elevator from her suite to a rear exit, but I needed to reclaim my cell phone. So I said a polite thank you and good-bye and left the way I’d come, through the twentieth-floor lobby. I punched the Down button, then glanced at 20-A. I could’ve sworn I spotted a shadow shift in the peephole.
The elevators were taking their sweet time. One minute. Two. Three. I ticked off the seconds, then realized there was no sense in that. A watched pot never boils. A watched elevator never moves.
Waiting time is lousy time. Hard time. My body always starts moving, keeping itself busy, tapping a hard beat on the floor with my foot, and before I know it I’ve chewed a tag of skin off my lip and it’s bleeding or I’ve worked a thread out of the hem of my shirt. And if I take a deep breath to slow it all down, my nostrils are tickled by memory.
Not a day goes by that I don’t want it.
The shortest way back to work takes me right past Joe Ts, breakfast all day and very good fifty-cent coffee. Joe T’s is like a lot of places I know that serve very good coffee. You can also usually cop there.
I decided to go the long way.
I glanced at my feet, stopped the tapping, and saw that a lace was untied. I bent down and automatically reworked the laces while my head searched through files: Where’s an afternoon meeting? I could use a meeting. One of those two-a-day days. Must be the heat.
The elevator door glided open and, startled, I sprang up. In an instant I was smashed against the wall, two unfamiliar security men holding me in place. Behind them was a guy about my age, his eyes round with surprise.
I didn’t struggle, just breathed deep and held tight. One man restrained me while the other frisked me, his hands quick, all business, though these thugs probably got their thrills from their business. “Let me go,” I said, my voice recovered at last. “I’m legit. Check downstairs, they cleared me.”
“Let her go,” said the young man, but the thugs didn’t stop. My eyes locked onto his for a moment before he looked away. A blush, for dog’s sake. Because he’d been ignored by the heavies? Or wasn’t he used to being stared at by a girl?
A hand stroked my back; fingers probed under my belt. The search was all business, but I still didn’t like it and I bit back a scream. Focus, Kelly, I commanded myself. Focus on something else or before you know it you might take a swing, kick, or bite; then they’d really work on you. Focus. Who’s the guy, the young guy? He has to be Mr. 20-A. Why are they doing this for him? Why does he rate this brutal security?
I looked him over again. Dark and handsome, wearing a gorgeous suit with a very dull tie. No doubt about it, someone else should buy him his ties. The guy was obviously dismayed—deep breaths, red face, hands curled into fists, lips pressed together. In spite of the suit and the old man’s tie, he looked for all the world like a little boy getting mad. His displeasure chilled my panic and I immediately relaxed. And the moment I did, it hit. All the Lakveria research for Kit paid off.
He was the prince, the king-to-be. The only direct male heir to a throne just restored to the royal family who’d been kicked out after World War II by the communist takeover. Mikel? No, that’s the playboy uncle, great-uncle. An old man, warming the throne until this one was ready. This one, kept out of sight, you hardly ever heard about him, what was his—yes, that’s it. Tomas. Prince Tomas.
Oh, Kit, you should be here, I thought. You should have delivered the damn book yourself. You’d have these thugs by the nuts and an interview in the can before they knew what hit them.
His eyes again met mine, still frantic. His hand ran over his hair, which rolled back from his troubled face in smooth brown waves. “That’s enough,” he said softly. “She’s harmless.”
Harmless. I laughed and the thugs paused. I said calmly, “I’m sorry I startled you. I was tying my shoe and was surprised when the elevator opened. That’s why I jumped.”
No response.
“You can check downstairs. They know I’m here.”
The prince spoke sharply in some strange-to-me language and then his men let me go. One whipped out a phone and punched numbers. Okay, now I know what’s rule number one for a king-in-training: If you want to be obeyed, use the native tongue to command.
The prince seemed tongue-tied, exhausted by the effort it took to finally get his men to do what he wanted. So, keep talking, Kelly. “I delivered a package to Simone Sanchez. The actress? She’s in Twenty-B. You can check with her. I’m just a delivery girl.”
The one with the phone must have heard the same thing. He said something to his boss and nodded when the prince again spoke sharply.
Then both thugs stepped back and assumed the basic bodyguard pose: legs spread, arms behind the back. The prince stepped forward. “I’m sorry,” he said. “They’re supposed to protect me, and you looked like…danger.”
After six months of working for Kit I’ve learned to dig up piles of information. Okay, I missed the stuff about Simone’s bad skin, but I don’t miss much. I could tell you the history of this guy’s wretched country and I could draw his family tree. I could give you the shopping list of atrocities carried out by all sides in the war—Laks and Memots, Christian and Muslim—and state the official reasons the royal family was invited back by the Lakverian Parliament. I could detail the UN’s proposed peacekeeping plans and explain why the US Congress was holding back promised financial support. Pressed, with maybe a moment and no bodyguards glaring at me, I could even tell you where this guy’s parents were buried.
But I had no idea why Prince Tomas Teronovich of Lakveria sounded like a Texan.
“It’s not okay to have your men treat people like that,” I said, “but we’ll drop it.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have to apologize for them often?”
He smiled and started to answer but stopped when a thug cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. Evidently the bodyguards protected more than physical safety; indiscretion was also the enemy.
The prince rerouted his thoughts while he smoothed his awful tie and absently patted down his pockets. As he moved, a lovely scent fluttered in the air. Something familiar, what was it?
He said, “Did you actually meet Simone Sanchez when you made your delivery? She’s there now?”
The elevator had closed and returned to the main floor. My hand hovered over the Down button a moment, then I let it drop. Tilted my head and looked at the guy. His Royal Highness was dead serious, earnest as could be, an eager boy waiting for an answer. Hardly a mile away grown-ups with real power were gambling with the future of his country while he wanted to know about a movie star. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You probably can’t say, can you?”
I drew a breath as I thought how to answer. Oh, man, what was that scent? Way too subtle for cologne. Lotion? Soap? Warning buzzers went off in my brain and I exhaled to quiet them (and rid my system of the mysterious fragrance). Pay attention, Kelly, the buzzer said. You have the crown prince of Lakveria waiting for you, an ex-junkie gofer, to say something. Don’t be thinking about his pretty smell.
“Simone was there,” I said.
His head whipped around so he could look at 20-B. He furrowed his brow and stared. I memorized it all, this snapshot of a prince mustering his nerve to make a royal decision.
Day after day, hour to hour, moment to moment, I expend most of my energy fighting one strong, life-threatening desire, and the surest way to win that struggle is to beat back all longing. But it roiled in me now, the longing. I wanted something, wanted it bad. I wanted him. I had to have him.
Whoa. Let me clarify. I wanted him, yes, but—cute as he was—not for me. No, I wanted to wrap him up, haul him out, and deliver him to Kit. Here, Auntie, the future king of Lakveria. The shining hope of a troubled nation. Tomorrow’s show has a guest. Holy rap, wouldn’t she have fun with this tender one? I could almost hear the first question, one that was really no question at all: You, a king?
*
Sometimes big decisions are made with no decision at all. The very first time I snorted dope it was like that. I’d just joined the house band at Poetry Haven. We played little jazzy interludes between readings, something to fill the air while the poets nerved themselves or fumbled with notebooks, or cleared their heads before speaking. The night in question had been an extra-long session because a vanload of kids from a writing camp at the university had descended on the Haven and they were all sharing their stuff. When the last reader produced a fat sheaf and launched into what promised to be an epic, I quietly unplugged my violin, tucked it under my arm, and followed Jake (keyboard) and Celeste (percussion) off the stage and out the back door. The Haven was on the second floor of an old warehouse in the riverfront district, and the back door only led to a small balcony overlooking the Dakota River. We closed the door on the smoke and poetry and started laughing about how screwed up writers were. The next thing you know, the powder came out. When it was my turn, I didn’t say no because the question wasn’t even asked. Of course, plenty had gone on in my life to bring me to that place, but at that moment, with something so huge in the balance, there was no decision to be made at all. Without even thinking or pausing or acknowledging any alarms going off in my head, I simply took the next step.
* * *
“Simone was there,” I repeated. Then without even thinking, added, “Do you want to meet her?” I didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbed his arm to lead him along. Before his men could jump, I was knocking on 20-B.
Ms. Whittaker opened the door. How long since I’d left? Ten minutes? Five? I knew I had to move fast before anyone realized I shouldn’t be moving at all. I said cheerily, “I know Ms. Sanchez was headed toward a massage, but this gentleman would like to meet her.” I walked right in and pulled him along.
The assistant stepped back, allowing it all. “I’m glad you’re still here, because Simone had a question.”
I whispered in her ear. “His bodyguards are very jumpy; they worked me over in the hall.”
She blocked their entrance. “Ms. Sanchez and her guests require no extra security. Please wait outside.” A lady thug, but still a thug, and one of their own. They nodded respectfully and backed off. She closed the door.
I took a deep breath. Step one accomplished: I had the prince. Help me, Kit—what happens next?
Simone was still in the chair reading Little Girl. She looked up. “Oh, good,” she said. “It’s you. Maybe you know and can—”
I gambled and interrupted. “This is your neighbor, from Twenty-A. We met at the elevator. He wanted to meet you.”
Simone set down the book, rose, secured the cord of her robe, and held the stage with a single slow inhalation. Then, while we waited, she breathed out. Finally she said, “Well, goddam, it’s the prince. So you’re the reason my daughter and her friends couldn’t have that suite.”
He stepped forward, brushing right past me. Again, that scent. Must be a lotion. “I’m sorry we butted in like this, Ms. Sanchez. And I’m sure sorry your daughter couldn’t have the room. I didn’t know. I just go where they put me.”
Simone briefly glanced at me, eyes widened, telegraphing as if to say: “A prince? You’ve got to be kidding.” I pulled on a mask.
She gave him a sweet smile and waved away his apology. “It doesn’t matter, really. She and her friends prefer the distance from me because they think then I won’t notice how often they order from room service. So tell me, Prince: How’s the peacemaking?”
“Not going well, ma’am.”
“Oh, dear, is that really a politic answer? How come you’re not shut up with the players?”
“It goes on without me.”
“So you skipped out and grabbed the chance to meet a movie star. You’re a fan, then?”
“My sister is a fan.”
She made a little noise. Disbelief. “Your sister. Right.”
I scanned the head files. Sister? What did I know? Yes, there it was: an older sister. Something else, something recent… The files flipped too fast, I couldn’t find it.
“She’s in the hospital,” he said.
“How awful,” Simone replied briskly. “I’ll autograph a picture for your sister the fan.” She snapped fingers and people moved.
“No, thank you,” he said. Some steel in his voice stopped the action. This was new, I thought. And it wasn’t just his voice: He stiffened, stood taller, found the royal backbone. Even the tie looked better. “A photo wouldn’t mean a thing,” he said. “She’s blind now.”
We all froze.
“She’s been a fan of your music for a long time,” he said, “and now I can tell her that I
met you. That’s all I wanted. Thanks for your time.” Prince Tomas made a slight, gracious bow to Simone, then turned to leave.
Think fast, Kelly Ray, or Kit’s chance for an interview walks back into the arms of his thugs. I touched his arm. “Did I read that she’s in a Paris hospital?”
His eyes rested on mine. “Yes,” he said, coolly. I dropped my hand.
Simone stepped into our space. She looked at him (looking at me) and then looked at me (looking at him). This time, however, I could tell she wasn’t checking for drugs as she locked onto my eyes. She was reading my mind. A hint of a smile, then she turned to the prince and hooked her arm into his. She said, “You can’t possibly leave, young man; I want to hear all about your sister.”
It was the weirdest thing: For a brief while he’d been able to be the prince—regal, gracious, poised, and cool—but now he was melting, a boy near tears. Simone and I saw it at the same time; she knew what to do. She gently guided him toward a chair and said, “No, I have a better idea. We’ll have tea and then talk about her. And while they prepare it, tell me this: Why do you sound like a Texan?”
After a moment he reclaimed his composure. “My mother’s second husband was a Fort Worth business man. We moved there when I was two. They divorced after a few years, but by then I was in a good school, and she…wasn’t settled. So I stayed in Texas until I was ready for college.”
I must have read that. I’m sure I’d known that. I should have remembered it.
He turned to me. I was standing behind the chairs, keeping a proper distance for an ex-junkie gofer. “How did you know she’d been moved to Paris? That wasn’t widely reported.”
“It’s my job to know things,” I said. “I’m a—”
“Delivery girl,” Simone Sanchez blurted. She sprang up and pulled a chair over for me, motioning me to sit. “She found and delivered the loveliest rare book for me. What with all the important people in the hotel, they don’t let just anyone in. I’m sure her…agency has her well- primed on anything and anyone.” She sat back down just as Ms. Whittaker brought the tea service from a back room of the suite. Simone poured, regally. First she served the prince, then me. Her very bland expression as she handed me the cup was eloquent. It said: Shut up, Delivery Girl. If you want him, proceed with care.
One Night Page 3
