by Jillian Kidd
Hitomi had found out Mr. Walton’s suite had two rooms, one belonging to the bodyguard, Gerard. Merritt wasn’t a small man, a little over six feet tall, his build trim. His gray moustache was tidily clipped, his hands smooth and manicured.
We strode over to the poker tables, buying into a game at Merritt’s table. Luck was with me, and I scored a seat right next to the dirty dog. Hitomi crossed her arms behind me and started talking to Girard. At first he was as responsive as a brick wall, but when he discovered that Hitomi could speak his native French, he brightened up and held an unintelligible conversation with her; however, he kept his eyes on his boss at all times.
Merritt’s eyes, on the other hand, had begun to swerve in my direction. I shot him flirtatious glances from behind my mask and lay sets of poker chips out on the table as I made bid after bid. I started to win a little money, but not as much as the card shark next to me. His chips looked like mini Leaning Towers of Pisa. I turned to him.
“You must be carrying your Gris Gris bag tonight,” I said in a husky tone, pursing my lips in a seductive pout.
“No Voodoo luck to it, my dear, only strategy,” he said.
His gaze lingered on me as the dealer shuffled the cards.
“Hmm,” I said, fingering my chips. “I wish I had someone to teach me strategy. My skills pale in comparison to yours. And here I thought I was a master back home.”
“Where is home?” he asked.
“Mississippi,” I lied; that’s where he was from.
“Oh? What part?”
“Biloxi.”
“Really.” He took me in, assessing his prey, not realizing that he was the one falling into a trap. “How interesting.”
“I suppose.”
The dealer cast us our cards, and Merritt gave me another good look-over. “You say you’re interested in strategy? I might be able to spare a lesson or two—that is, if you take off that mask and let me really look into those green eyes.”
A mild flirtation, one that could go in two very different directions. He was being careful. It all depended on me. I shoved all my chips into the center of the table, a high foolish bid. My cards were lousy; I knew I’d lose most likely. But that was part of the plan.
Sure enough, Merritt owned the table once again, and a man in a tall glowing hat across from us cursed and shoved back from the table, storming away.
“Well, there goes all of my winnings for the night,” I said, slumping back into my chair with mock disappointment. I shrugged at Merritt and flashed him a thousand-watt smile. “Better luck next time.”
I stood up to leave, and Merritt also rose from his chair. I stopped, as if surprised he would do so. No surprise at all, really. Men are so terribly predictable.
“Leaving so soon?” he said, deep dimples creasing in his face. He was old enough to be my father. “I didn’t even catch your name, Miss—”
I lifted a finger and dared to place it across his lips. “Buy me a drink,” I said. “And I might share that information with you. Might even take off my mask.”
“Charming,” he said, taking my hand and kissing it.
He then nodded to Gerard, which apparently was the bodyguard’s cue to get lost for a little while. Gerard didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and Hitomi immediately slipped her arm into his. Chattering in French, they disappeared behind a traveling slot machine that was the casino’s newest hit: to play it, a person had to jump on the hovering platform, which wasn’t easy. But it was a guaranteed win, at least $50, just for getting on. Problem was, most people had so much fun playing it and striving for the elusive Bonus Round they tended to lose that $50 faster than you could say “Jackpot.”
Criminals are gamblers. They play a dangerous game, greed driving their wicked movements until they don’t know when to stop. That’s usually where I came in, just in time to let them know their luck had run out.
I told Merritt my name was Celeste, which was his mother’s name, according to Hitomi’s mystifying short-term research. His face fell slack, his skin heating. Mr. Walton, in addition to favoring redheads, also had a mommy complex. Pervo must’ve thought it was destiny.
“Let’s go up to my room for another drink,” he said.
“But you haven’t even seen my face yet,” I said.
“I’ve seen your lips,” he said, breathy, anxious, “and your beautiful green, green eyes. My mother had green eyes.”
“How nice.”
“How can I get you to come up with me?”
I let out a sad little sigh. “Well, my friend Nina and I were meeting some friends tonight for drinks. We promised them. But I’m free tomorrow evening.”
He looked off, downing his martini. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to get together with you if it’s too late in the evening. I have another engagement.”
Yes, I knew that, I thought resentfully. A little date with Roberto and crew, to pick out a human slave for your sexual kicks. But I’m betting you’re having second thoughts now, after meeting me, your sweet, breast-feeding, reincarnated mommy, Celeste.
“Afternoon then?” I asked. “I could probably manage that. In your room. For a little Poker tutoring.” I leaned in and whispered, “I’ll show up minus the mask.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. Only promise me that big manservant of yours won’t be around. I’d feel a little uncomfortable being watched.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I think you know.” I crossed my legs on the hovering bar stool and sipped seductively from my drink.
He weighed this decision visibly, his throat working as he struggled to gulp. Choices, choices.
“I could tell him to fetch me something at the French Market,” he said. “It would keep him away for at least an hour.”
“Mmm, that might be enough time. But I have to ask, why on earth do you need someone guarding you? You aren’t part of the mafia, are you?” I giggled. “How terrifying!”
“No, nothing as odd as that,” he said. “But I do have a lot of money, my dear. A lot. Of money.”
I gave him the satisfaction of a delighted purr. “I do love a stable man.”
He told me his room number and insisted I meet him there tomorrow, at 4:00 p.m. sharp.
“We should have plenty of time before my meeting,” he said. “And Gerard will stay away long enough, I assure you.”
“Good.” I smiled. “And I assure you I’ll be right on time.”
* * *
Wednesday morning around 8:00 a.m., when Hitomi and I hit the streets of the Quarter to see what treasures we could find, the phone in my purse rang. I’d kept it on me, in case anyone from home called. My nearest and dearest were all so antsy lately about my safety. I looked at the caller ID. It was Colt.
“Crap,” I said. “Excuse me for a minute, Hitomi.”
I slipped into a cobblestone alleyway that led to a small shaded courtyard with a fountain. I sat on a wrought iron bench, still cool from the recent night, and answered the call.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hello,” said Colt.
“How are you?”
“I went by your house yesterday, but nobody answered. I saw your car there, though.”
I had a ready-made excuse and used it now: “Oh, I went out to the park, took a nice long walk and packed a picnic lunch for me and Rogue. I’m actually in Fort Worth right now, getting ready to do some shopping. A buddy of mine from college was in the neighborhood. I don’t guess you met Elizabeth Frank?”
“No,” he said, his voice lit with suspicion. “I haven’t.”
That was probably because I’d invented her.
“She’s really nice. Listen, Colt, my battery’s low. I’d better get off here. I’ll give you a call later tonight or tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” His tone was flat. “Tonight or tomorrow.”
“Yep! Gotta go, little brother! Bye!”
I hung up, my neck breaking out into a cold sweat. I had no idea how good or bad a
liar I was. I’d never been on the receiving end of one of my fibs, which were extremely rare among those I loved. Had my brother bought it? Oh well, it didn’t much matter. He was in northern Texas, and I was in southern Louisiana. What all could he do? Order me to come home?
I rejoined Hitomi. She didn’t ask any questions, just pointed out with glee a vibrant painting of a fat cat who sat inside the curve of a crescent moon; the artwork was perched on a wooden stand behind a large glass window.
“Let’s come back when it’s open!”
“Okay, sounds good.”
For the rest of the morning, I tried to enjoy myself. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the ticking clock, bringing us closer and closer to busting Roberto. Plus, something about that phone call from Colt made alarm bells go off in my head. He was up to something.
*
By the afternoon, our legs were well exercised, and we alternated taking cool showers to rid ourselves of the New Orleans inspired perspiration.
I put on a tight-fitting gold dress and piled my hair on top of my head, letting a few tendrils fall into my pushed-up cleavage. Hitomi, wearing black slacks, heels, and a thin white V-neck shirt, watched out the window. She sat, still as a statue, in the wide sill, holding a fold of the curtain in between two long slender fingers.
“He’s leaving,” she said, referring to Gerard.
She slung a round white bag about the size of a bowling ball over her shoulder. We took the elevator in silence to Merritt’s floor. Hitomi slipped into a corner where a couple of tall, column-like vending machines hummed.
“Coke Machine,” she said.
A robotic voice from the red Coca Cola apparatus spoke, “How may I help you?”
“One medium Sprite, please. Bill to room 247.”
“Initiating voice-pattern recognition program. One moment please.” After a few quick seconds, the machine let off a ding. “Voice pattern accepted. Thank you, Hitomi Aomori.”
The machine hummed as it prepared the ice-cold bottle.
The sound of it grew quieter as I stepped away from her and up to Merritt’s door.
“Nasty, skuzzy perv,” I said under my breath. I pushed up my breasts so they’d be nice and enticing. “Here goes nothing.”
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my fist, faux rings sparkling against my pale knuckles, and I knocked three times.
28
Merritt answered the door with the offering of a single, long stemmed rose. I took it, smiled, and entered his hotel room.
“You are breathtaking, Celeste,” he said.
A bottle of champagne rested on the table in front of a pale green loveseat, framed in flowery French wallpaper. Two columns filled with fluorescent water and glowing bubbles added a modern touch to the room. A deck of cards waited next to the champagne.
Merritt locked the door and bade me sit down.
“Of course,” I said.
He was barely containing himself. The ol’ boy had probably worked himself into a frenzied state, waiting for me. That’s the advantage of making people wait for you: the anticipation drives them a little crazy.
“Will you sit beside me?” I asked, smoothing the cushion next to me.
I tried to make my eyes as stoned with desire as possible so he’d take the bait. He sat very close to me, almost too close for me to dig into my purse. He leaned in.
“Wait,” I said, holding out a hand.
A touch of anger flashed in his eyes, but then his face smoothed over with a humoring expression as I reached in my purse for a specific tube of lip gloss. I rolled the stick out and ran it over my lips, which had already been covered in a thin layer of wax so I wouldn’t feel the potent secret effects of the gloss. My lips now covered in a liquid shiny sheen, I motioned with my pointer finger for Mr. Walton to go ahead and give me a smooch.
He leaned in again, and I planted a big one on him, careful not to let my tongue run across my lips. Merritt pulled back, his eyes wide. I leaned back on the couch and waited as his body jerked once, twice, a few more times. Then it became completely paralyzed. He just sat there, staring at me like a guppy, unable to move anything except for his eyes. Blink, blink.
Removing a tissue from my purse, I wiped off the paralyzing gloss and applied another type of chap-stick that would absorb anything I’d accidentally left behind.
“Blink if you can hear me,” I said, reaching for the champagne, which had already been opened. Impatient boy. “Go on, don’t be shy!”
He blinked.
“Good.” I poured myself a glass and sipped on the bubbly drink. “In a moment I’m going to get up and let Hitomi in. And then she’s going to copy your face.”
It was impossible to tell if he was more angry or scared. But he blinked a lot. I took another drink, stared at him in disgust, and let Hitomi into the room. I locked the door behind her as she worked with impossible speed setting up a face-shaped device made of a clear plastic. Glowing blue wires flashed inside the strange mask.
“Hold still, Mr. Walton,” she said with a girlish giggle and held the mask over his face.
The blue wires lit up brighter and tiny nerve-like synapses flashed through the plastic. All told, the process took less than five minutes, Hitomi remaining as still as Merritt. When she pulled it away, she pressed a few buttons on the side of the contraption and then held it to her face.
The wires inside turned a reddish purple, white lights whizzing along the tiny glowing highways inside the mask. Even though Merritt was supposed to remain frozen for 30 minutes, I pulled out my gun and aimed it at his head just in case. As I stood ready to fire, Hitomi pulled the mask away.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “Where can I get one of those?”
Her face was now a nearly exact replica of Merritt Walton’s. She pulled a gray wig out of her purse and secured it on her head, then added adhesive to a replica gray moustache and placed that under her nose. Now she looked just like Merritt. At least in the face. Her body needed a little work. Luckily for Hitomi, she didn’t have much of a chest to try to hide. From her pocket she pulled out a set of metal frame-like contraptions, which she folded out and attached to her feet, making her several inches taller. Rifling through Merritt’s closet, she found a suit and a pair of shoes. Moving at a magically fast rate, she produced a bottle of white, salt-like grains, and sprinkled them onto the clothing. They shrank before my eyes. She slipped out of her clothes and put the now smaller set of Merritt’s on. They were a perfect fit.
Finally, she returned to Mr. Walton and held out a copper-colored oval device no bigger than her thumb and held it up to his throat. Tiny feeling wires extended out like mini tentacles and danced over his neck and Adam’s apple and then into the skin, somehow absorbing the exact measure of his vocal chords. The curious filament retreated back into the oval. Then Hitomi held it to her throat, and this time the threads did the same on her throat. Hitomi had an implant that could read and copy anyone’s vocal patterns. When she pulled the egg-shaped device away, she cleared her throat; the sound of it had a man’s deep timbre.
“How is everything?” she asked in Merritt’s voice.
“Amazing,” I said.
Merritt then let out a muffled, “Mmmmm!”
The numbing was beginning to wear off.
“We have to hurry,” she said.
Then we heard the knock at the door.
I glanced at Hitomi, and she confidently strode to the door, motioning me to get behind it. She opened it, and there stood Gerard. I gripped my gun tighter.
“What are you doing back so soon?” Hitomi asked in the guise of Gerard’s boss.
“Something didn’t feel right,” he said. “You told me to let you know if I ever get a bad feeling.”
His eyes rose to the paralyzed figure of his true boss sitting on the couch. Merritt released another closed-mouth cry, and Gerard did a double take.
“What the—” he said and went for his gun.
I was half a second away from shooting, but Hitomi, in
a burst of moves so quick I could barely see them, took the gun from him and brought him to his knees. I closed the door behind him, and we girls stood with barrels pointed at Gerard’s head.
Hitomi looked at me, which was more than a touch creepy because she looked just like Merritt.
“Keep the gun on him,” she said. “I have another little toy to use so they won’t get away. Then we go to Bourbon Street.”
* * *
We stopped by the hotel room long enough for me to change into some leather pants and a black blouse. I put wide-rimmed sunglasses on my face and strapped my sheathed Seigi to my waist underneath a sequin-laced teal-blue sash. Hitomi knew what it was without my having pulled out the blade. She gave a slight bow in reverence to Gakuya. Though her body looked like Merritt, her eyes were still Hitomi’s, and the moisture gathering told me she still loved and missed her father.
I had to admit, Hitomi had some great toys. We’d tied Merritt and Gerard up with a rope as thin as fishing line. But one move—one sound, even—and an electrical current would jolt them into keeping still and remaining silent. Hitomi had scattered bits of incriminating evidence around their tied-up bodies: photographs, Swiss bank account statements, and of course as much information as she had on Merritt’s illegal plan to buy a kidnapped girl tonight. She would call the police into that hotel room as soon as we made our bust at the bar.
But not yet.
She wanted me to have every chance possible to catch Roberto myself.
Not wanting to bother with the vehicle, we walked over to Bourbon Street and split up. Always a party, the street was blocked off with orange cones so traffic wouldn’t drive through. Music, from New Orleans blues to modern techno, flowed out of the bars and mixed among the cheering, drunken “adults” having the time of their lives in the French Quarter. To my right, I passed what once was Marie Laveau’s building of operation. Long ago, she’d sold love potions, cast hexes, and predicted the future. Modern youth carried on the traditions. Tarot Cards, shrunken heads, and fortune telling were all still available for a price.
I nearly jumped when a shirtless man with an albino boa constrictor bumped into me.
