by Jeff Lindsay
Jackie sipped from her glass and nodded. “Yup,” she said, and for several minutes we just sat and sipped.
The rum seemed to take the dark edge off things for Jackie. She visibly relaxed as the level in her glass went down. To my surprise, I did, too. I suppose it was only natural; as I said, I am not a drinker, and I’d already had a mojito and several glasses of wine this evening. I probably should have been worried that all the alcohol would make me too dopey to be really effective as a bodyguard. But I didn’t feel drunk, and it would have been a shame to spoil the experience of sitting on a couch and drinking rare dark rum with a celebrity. So I didn’t: I sat; I enjoyed; I drank the rum slowly, savoring each sip.
Jackie finished hers first and reached for the bottle. “More?” she said, holding it toward me.
“I probably shouldn’t,” I said. She shrugged and poured a splash into her glass. “But it’s very good,” I said. “I’ll have to get a bottle.”
She laughed. “Good luck,” she said. “You won’t find it at the corner store.”
“Oh,” I said. “Where do you get it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “This was a gift.” She lifted her glass in a half toast and sipped. She rolled it around in her mouth for a moment and then put the glass back down. “Those letters,” she blurted. “They scare the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I mean, why?” she said, hunched over and staring down into the glass. “What did I do to make him hate me?”
“He doesn’t hate you,” I said.
Jackie looked up. “He’s trying to kill me,” she said.
“That’s not hate,” I said. “In his own way, he actually loves you.”
“Jesus fuck,” she said. She looked back down at the glass. “I think I’d rather have hate next time.” She picked up the glass and sipped, and then swung her eyes to me. “How come you understand this rotten psycho bastard so good?” she said.
I suppose it was a fair question, but it was an awkward one, too. If I told her the truth-I understood him because I was a rotten psycho bastard, too-it would seriously undermine our relationship, which would have been a shame. So I shrugged and said, “Oh, you know.” I took a small sip from my glass. “It’s like you were saying before. It’s kind of like acting.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. She didn’t sound convinced, and she didn’t look away from me. “Thing is, in acting, you find a piece of the character inside your own self. You expand it, you shape it a little, but it has to be in there or you don’t get the job done.” She took a small sip, still looking at me over the rim of the tumbler. “So what you’re really saying is, there’s something inside you”-she tipped the glass at me-“that is like this crazy asshole.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “So? Is there?” She sipped. “You got a killer in there, Dexter?”
I looked at her with astonishment, and deep in Dexter’s Dungeon I could feel the Passenger squirming with discomfort. I have lived my life among cops, people who spend every waking hour hunting down predators like me. I have worked among them for years, for my entire professional life, and not a single one of them had ever had the faintest misgiving about Dexter’s snow-white character. Only one of them, in fact-Dear Sergeant Doakes-had ever suspected that I am what I am. And yet, here was Jackie-a TV actress, of all things! — asking me point-blank if there was a Wicked Other inside me, behind Dexter’s carefully crafted smile.
I was too amazed to speak, and no amount of sipping could cover the growing, horribly awkward silence as I groped for something to say. Short of admitting she was right, or denying everything and calling for a lawyer, nothing occurred to me.
“Cat got your tongue?” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “Just … just … more like rum got my tongue.” I lifted the glass. “I’m not used to this stuff,” I said, sounding rather lame even to myself.
“Uh-huh,” Jackie said. “But you’re not answering my question, either.”
She was very insistent for someone who should have been a mental lightweight, and I began to wonder whether I had been too quick to decide I liked her. She was clearly not going to accept any cautiously phrased evasions, and that left Dexter somewhat on the ropes. But I am renowned for my conversational quick feet, and seldom at a loss. In this case, I decided that the best defense really was an all-out cavalry charge, so I put down my glass and turned fully toward her.
“Close your eyes,” I ordered.
Jackie blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Acting exercise. Close your eyes.”
“Uh-okay …” She put her glass down, settled back into the couch, and closed her eyes. “All right.”
“Now,” I said. “It’s night. You’re all alone, in a dark alley.”
She took a deep, controlled breath. “Okay …”
“There’s someone behind you,” I said. “He’s getting closer, closer.…”
“Oh,” she said softly, and several emotions flicked rapidly across her face.
“You turn around,” I said. “And it’s him.”
Jackie breathed out sharply.
“He’s holding a knife and smiling at you. It’s a terrible smile. And he speaks.” I leaned close and whispered, “ ‘Hello, bitch.’ ”
Jackie flinched.
“But you have a gun,” I said.
Her hand went up and she pulled an imaginary trigger. “Pow,” she said, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Just like that?” I said.
“Damn straight.”
“Did you kill him?” I said.
“Shit, yeah. I hope so.”
“How do you feel?”
She took another deep breath and then let it out. “Relieved,” she said.
I nodded. “QED,” I said. She blinked at me. “I think it’s Latin,” I explained. “It means, ‘I have proved it.’ ”
“Proved what?”
“There’s a killer in everybody,” I said.
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she picked up her glass and took a sip. “Maybe,” she said. “But you seem pretty comfy with the one in you.”
And I was, of course. But I was not at all comfy with having her guess it, so I was relieved that the subject seemed to be closed for now when Jackie put her empty glass on the table and stood up.
“Bedtime,” she said. She stretched and yawned, looking like some kind of golden cat. She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Where do guard dogs sleep?” she said. “At the foot of the bed?”
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I said. “That way I can watch the door and the balcony.”
She blinked. “The balcony?”
“Anyone can get in from the roof,” I said. “All you need is twenty feet of nylon rope and a screwdriver.”
Jackie looked a little bit stunned. “You mean he might-What’s the screwdriver for?”
“I don’t know if he might,” I said. “I know he could. Anybody could: just drop down from the roof, with the rope. The screwdriver is to jimmy open the sliding glass door. A ten-year-old could do it.”
“Jesus,” she said. She stared at me, but she wasn’t actually seeing me. “I really fucking hate this,” she said. And then she shook herself slightly, focused on me for a moment, and said again, “Hate it …” She stood very still, looking at me, breathing in, then out, watching me for some sign that I didn’t know how to give her, and then she shook her head, turned away, and went slowly off to bed.
ELEVEN
I fell asleep quickly and completely, and when I opened my eyes it seemed like no time had passed, but the first orange gleam of light was hammering its way in through the balcony door, so either it was morning or a UFO was landing on the chaise longue.
I blinked and decided it was probably morning. UFOs wouldn’t dare land in Miami-somebody would chop them up and haul them off to sell for scrap metal. I started to stretch and sit up, but froze midway as I realized there was a strange whirring sound coming from Jackie’s bedroom. It did not seem parti
cularly sinister, but I had no idea what it was. As the bodyguard, it seemed incumbent upon me to investigate, so I stood up quietly, took the Glock from the coffee table beside me, and tiptoed to Jackie’s door. I turned the handle silently, pushed the door open, and peeked in.
Jackie sat on a stationary bicycle, pedaling vigorously, and already a light sheen of sweat covered her face. That is, on a lesser human being it would have been sweat; on her it was glow. She wore a skintight leotard that did nothing to make her ugly, and there were earbuds plugged into the sides of her head, and as she looked up and saw me she pried one of them out. “Good morning,” she called out, a little too loudly. “I’ll just be about half an hour-you want to order some breakfast?”
Of course I did; the finely tuned machine that is Dexter requires frequent fuel. But I managed to conceal my unseemly eagerness, and simply gave her a nod and a cheery, “Okay!”
“Great!” she called back. “Wheat toast, grapefruit juice, and some Greek yogurt, please.” And she put her head back down, plugged the earbud back into her ear, and pedaled faster.
I left her on her bicycle trip to nowhere and went to call room service. I tried very hard to admire Jackie for her spartan breakfast order, but it didn’t work. To me, the whole point of eating is lost if you don’t actually eat something, and it seemed to me that toast and grapefruit juice didn’t quite qualify. It was really no more than an upscale version of bread and water, and was not nearly enough to sustain life as I had come to know it.
But at least I felt no compulsion to follow her lead, and I did not. I ordered a ham-and-cheese omelet, rye toast with jam, orange juice, and a fruit bowl. And, of course, the largest pot of dark Miami coffee they could muster in their high-priced kitchen.
Breakfast arrived a mere ten minutes later, and I had the garçon set it up on the balcony. I let him out, put the chain back on the door, and went back outside. The sun had clawed its way aggressively up the horizon, but its heat was not yet as brutal as it would soon be, and there was a light breeze coming off the Bay, so the balcony seemed like an ideal setting. I sat and sipped coffee while I waited for Jackie, looking out over the water and thinking that there was a great deal to be said for my new career as a bodyguard. True, it was potentially dangerous, and the hours were rather long. But on the plus side, I was living like a millionaire without paying higher taxes, and I got to hang out with a Real Live Hollywood Star and eat haute cuisine. Of course, Rita’s food was far from being swill, but it had to be said that she was not truly a five-star gourmet chef, and not a famous and beautiful celebrity, either, and comparing her to Jackie was really no contest. It was an unkind thought, but since no one else could hear it, I didn’t bother to pretend I hadn’t thought it.
Instead, I thought about it some more. It was really nothing but a pleasant mental game, a goofy and nearly human fantasy, but it passed the time. I tried to imagine swapping my drab little existence for the life of a Celebrity Bodyguard. I pictured Me as part of an Entourage, the hawk-eyed presence at Jackie’s shoulder, ever vigilant on the Red Carpets of the world. Dexter the Human Shield, Living It Large in Hollywood, Cannes, and all the great cities of the world. Breakfast on the balcony in Maui and Singapore and Bali. It would not be hard to get used to living like that, and if I had to give up scrabbling for a mortgage on a new house, and do without all the shrieks and squeals and door-slamming that went with family life, what had I really lost except shattered eardrums and frequent headaches? Of course, there was Lily Anne, the living extension of all that is Me, my DNA shipment into the future. And I had, after all, promised to lead Cody and Astor into a safe, well-planned Dark Future. My path was already laid out, and I was completely satisfied with it. Really I was. I did not need to enhance it with private jets and crème brûlée every night and a golden-haired goddess leading me through an existence of pure, diamond-studded pleasure. No matter how much I liked it.
The glass door slid open, interrupting my pleasant daydream, and Jackie stepped out into the sunlight. “Good morning,” she said, and sat beside me. Her hair was damp, and she smelled of shampoo and the same very faint perfume I had noticed yesterday.
“Good morning,” I said. “Coffee?”
“Oh, God, yes,” she said, and she pushed a cup toward me. I poured it full, and watched as she stirred in artificial sweetener. She slurped it and said, “Aahhh,” just like a normal person, and set the cup down, glancing up at me and smiling. “I hope I didn’t wake you up?” she said.
“Oh, well,” I said uncertainly, since she had, after all, but it didn’t really seem politic to say so. “I mean, I have to be awake.…”
“Sorry,” she said, reaching for the coffee cup and slurping again. “I have to work out every morning, no matter where I am, or I get fat.”
“That’s hard to believe,” I said.
She reached over and patted my hand. “Bless you,” she said. “But it’s true. I miss one morning, and then missing two seems like no big deal, and then why not three, and before you know it I weigh a hundred fifty pounds and I’m out of work.” She shrugged. “Part of the job. I don’t mind.” She took another noisy sip of coffee and raised an eyebrow at me. “What about you?”
“Me?” I said, a little surprised. “What do you mean?”
Jackie gestured with the cup. “You obviously work out. I mean,” she said with a wicked smile, “I can see you have a pretty good appetite, but you look pretty fit.” She actually winked at me. “Just like a real bodyguard should.”
“Oh, well,” I said, still a bit uncomfortable. “I like to run. And, um, some tai chi …?”
She nodded. “Thought so,” she said. “The way you moved, when you made Kathy pee on the floor.” She smiled again and finished her coffee. “Which reminds me,” she said, setting down the empty cup and reaching for a piece of toast. “Kathy will be here in a few minutes, so you might want to take the chain off the door, and remember not to shoot her this time.”
“I’ll try to remember,” I said.
I had just barely finished my omelet when I heard a knock on the door. “That’s probably her,” Jackie said, and started to stand up.
“Let me get it,” I said, and Jackie paused halfway to her feet. She held the awkward position for a moment, blinking, and then said, “Oh, right,” and settled back down into her chair and slouched over her grapefruit juice.
I opened the door with the chain still on and looked out. Kathy stood in the hall with an armful of papers, her smartphone, and another Starbucks cup. She gave me a poisonous glare. “Let. Me. In,” she said through her teeth, and I could tell that my legendary charm had not yet melted through the awkwardness of our first encounter. But that would almost certainly come with time. So I closed the door and undid the chain anyway, and Kathy huffed past me and into Jackie’s bedroom before I could direct her to the balcony. A moment later she huffed back out, gave me an even more venomous look, and went out onto the balcony.
By the time I got back outside to where the remains of my breakfast were waiting, Kathy had taken my chair, pushed my plate onto the floor, and spread several sheaves of paper across the tabletop, and she was busily pointing to the different documents with a pen and babbling on at a rapid rate.
“… except the ancillary rights, which Myron says is the best we can do right now, so go ahead and sign it, here, here, and here-Oh. And then the Morocco thing? Which Valerie says is actually a very good deal, and publicity we couldn’t buy, so here’s the packet for that. And Reel Magic magazine wants a photo shoot; they’re on your call list for this morning.…”
It went on like that for several minutes, with Kathy shoving papers around, Jackie occasionally signing something as she chewed toast and sipped her juice and tried to look like she was paying attention. Once or twice she looked up at me and made a wry face, which Kathy didn’t see. I contented myself with lurking in the background and trying to seem vigilant, and eventually Kathy ran out of breath, gathered up the papers, and huffed out, favoring me w
ith one last angry snarl as she went by.
I came back from letting her out and rechaining the door to find Jackie sipping another cup of coffee. She had eaten one of the toast halves and one bite of another, and about two-thirds of the small serving of yogurt. It didn’t seem like quite enough to sustain human life, and certainly not nearly enough for nonhuman life like me, but she seemed content. I sat in my chair and poured myself another cup of the coffee.
“I don’t think she likes you,” Jackie said, in a throaty voice filled with coffee and dark amusement.
“Inconceivable,” I said.
“I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” she said.
I sipped my coffee. “It may take a little time,” I said. “But someday she will come to appreciate my many virtues.”
“It may take a little longer than usual,” Jackie said. “She really doesn’t like you.”
I was sure she was right, but it didn’t seem terribly important-especially since there were three chunks of perfectly ripe cantaloupe left in my fruit bowl, and a full cup of coffee to go with it, so I shrugged it off and finished my breakfast.
The room’s phone rang a few minutes later to tell us that a Town Car was waiting for us downstairs. We went down in the elevator together, and I went out front first to look around, which was standard bodyguard protocol. I left Jackie in the lobby with a doorman who was all too eager to watch her for as long as possible. I walked out and across the cobblestoned driveway, and looked into the Town Car; it was the same driver we’d had the night before, and he nodded at me. I nodded back and turned to look at the rest of the area around the entrance.
