The Chosen

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE}

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Zyra panted.

Phil Brooks gave the large, hanging nipples a pinch and grinned up at her. “I’ll bet ya do, baby. You been surprisin’ me all night.”

Zyra felt blissfully lost in herself. How many times had she come? Every so often she’d lose control, she’d do things that startled even her. It was the moment, she knew, and the spontaneity: the quick collision of passion, lust, curiosity, and a plethora of other feelings too intricate—or too dark—to even attempt to put a name to. Maybe it was love—not love for the grainy, over-muscled redneck who now lay exhausted beneath her—but love for herself, and all of the beautiful things she was capable of feeling. Feelings were truth, of a sort, an honest acknowledgement of who she really was in the scheme of things, in the blazing reality of the world. She’d bathed his entire body with her tongue, she’d drunk up his sweat. She’d sucked his testicles, nibbled his perenium, had let herself be sodomized by him, after which she’d immediately fellated him to orgasm. And this had only been the prelude to a very long and energizing evening.

I’m a pervert, she thought, and almost laughed. A pervert of truth. She caressed her own breasts and sighed.

They’d met Phil Brooks and his drunk, flirtatious girlfriend at the old pool hall off Furnace Branch Road. The Factotum had left instructions for them to bring in one more girl; this would be their last abduction for some time. Bar dogs, Zyra had concluded when they’d first entered. Some fat girls, some worn-out older women missing teeth. Not much to choose from. Then Phil Brooks and the girl walked in—Ellen was her name, Zyra thought. Blond hair with black roots, a flowery bracelet tattooed around her wrist, and over-applied makeup, but she was well-breasted, shapely, and seemed to have the type of spirit they were looking for. She and Zyra had got to chatting—Not much for brains, Zyra concluded; all she could talk about were pickup trucks and diets. Zyra had asked her about the Middle East, and Ellen had responded, “Oh, yeah, I have some relatives in Maryland and North Carolina.” Meanwhile, Lemi and Phil had taken to making wagers at the billiards table. “You win the next game,” Phil challenged, “and I lay fifty on ya, and if you lose, we swap squeeze. How ‘bout it, friend?” “You’re on,” Lemi said, and wasted no time in losing the game. They followed them back to their big SilverLine trailer, alone on its own lot back off an old logging trail. The big propane tank outside would provide a fiery finish…

They’d paired off at once. Zyra turned up the heat, way up. It should be hot for this, hot and sultry and damp, to parallel her mood. She left the lights on, as she frequently did. She wanted to see him—or she needed to—and she needed him to see her in every detail. Their bodies blazed in sweat for hours, through every offering of flesh, every configuration she could conceive. Phil was good for several bouts, which gratified her. It made her feel humble to the lot she’d been given in life, and to the Factotum, and to her lord. Where others had faltered and failed, Zyra had been given this holy and cyclic bliss. It was wonderful.

Everything’s wonderful, she thought.

In the interims of their coupling, she masturbated for him, she let him watch. All she could think, for the entire time, was: More, more, more. I want more. She had to be careful, though, she mustn’t masturbate beyond control, not yet. Zyra was a complex woman, and a prudent one, but even she on occasion would lose the reins on herself. She mustn’t spoil the moment, she mustn’t spoil the surprise. Nevertheless, the fervid teasing of herself, and its wet, shiny imagery, revitalized him each and every time, lending him the ability to give her exactly what she wanted. More. More. She felt crazy in her passion, more so tonight than ever perhaps. Was it her growing maturity? Her evolution as a complete woman? Each caress, each thrust into her sex, and each release of his semen into whatever orifice he tended, made her feel more and more real, and more purposeful. But still, there was always the irrepressible desire, the unrelenting urge:

More.

“What’s this?” he coyly inquired. “This right here?” His finger touched her navel, which glittered sharp, faceted purple: the amethyst she wore there.

“It’s my lucky charm,” she replied, still stroking herself.

“It’s pretty. It’s like you.”

Zyra moaned. “You like it?” She slid up, over his wet chest, leaning into his face. “There. Kiss it. Lick it.”

Phil Brooks obliged, squeezing her rump as he did so. She was getting too close, and in a moment she was turning him over, sculpting his slickened physique with her frantic hands. I can’t kill him yet, she thought. No, not yet.

She gazed down at his tapered, shining back, the muscled buttocks, the sturdy, corded legs. Lord, my lord, the weeping sigh of her thoughts swept through her head. Her breasts were thrumming orbs. Her finger kneaded her clitoris, chasing her ultimate release. But what would she kill him with afterward? Her bare hands? She might be strong enough to do it. Lemi had the gun, and she’d left the ice pick in the console in the van. Strangulation bored her; she’d done it too many times, and bludgeoning seemed too primitive. Blood, she thought. More. Perhaps she’d just bite out the side of his throat and suck him to death. She’d swallowed enough of his semen tonight. Why not his blood too? Yeah, she mused. Oh, yeah. Just gulp down his blood like a famished, raging animal. Swallow it till her belly was fit to burst…

Zyra’s eyes narrowed to the thinnest of slits. Her fervid passion, merged with the panting, hot breaths, seemed to turn her words to steam.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said.

««—»»

“Can’t have you catching cold, now can we, Ellen?” Lemi thoughtfully remarked as he wrapped the limp, naked girl up in the blankets. She hadn’t been much of a tumble—she’d passed out. At least she was slender; she’d be easier to get out to the van. Carrying that tub of lard Mrs. Buluski had been like throwing three or four bags of cement over his shoulder. Lemi was a strong man, but he wasn’t a forklift, for God’s sake.

He set the little timer for thirty minutes and placed it on the cheap fiberboard bookcase, like the kind you buy at Dart Drug for twenty bucks and put together yourself.

Lemi figured that any five pieces of furniture at The Inn probably cost more than this whole place.

He heard the shower turn off. Zyra always took a shower after a job; she had a way of making a mess of herself. I like to watch the blood go down the drain, she’d told him once. It’s sort of symbolic, isn’t it? Zyra went off on these bends every once in a while—weirding out, but the way Lemi saw it, all women were weird. He couldn’t figure them. You do what they tell you, and then they’re pissed off that you didn’t assert yourself. You assert yourself, and then they’re pissed off that you’re overbearing and selfish. Lemi was grateful he didn’t have to worry about romance. I’d go fucking nuts, he concluded.

Zyra traipsed in naked, slipping into her panties. “You turn on the gas?” Lemi asked.

She only nodded. She seemed dreamy, or contemplative. Lemi squinted at her.

“What did—” He squinted harder. “How come your belly’s stickin’ out like that?”

And it was. Zyra was a hardbody—trim, toned, and zero body fat. But right now that lean stomach of hers protruded almost like she was four months pregnant, and wouldn’t that be a kick? Zyra the murderer mother. The Factotum would shit right there on the chancel floor if one of his girls got knocked up.

“I drank his blood,” Zyra said very softly, rubbing the tight belly. It was sticking out so tight her amethyst might pop out. “It makes me all warm inside, and full. I kind of like that idea. Even though he’s dead, there’s some of him still alive in me, like I’ve taken him into me, like he’s become part of me. You know?”

Lemi rolled his eyes. “Quit blabbering all that philosiphal shit and get dressed. We gotta slip.”

“That’s split, Lemi. Not slip. Jesus.” She pulled on her jeans, top, and coat, having to leave the jeans unbuttoned against the grossly distended stomach. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked, peering quizzically at Ellen.

“She passed out.” Lemi chuckled. “I guess my TCL was a little too much for the gal.”

“T-L-C, you stupe,” Zyra complained yet again, regarding Lemi’s continued ignorance of colloquialism. “Tender loving care. There’s no such thing as TCL.”

Lemi didn’t care. He hoisted the reedy black-rooted blonde over his shoulder. “Let’s split, okay?”

“Go warm up the van,” Zyra suggested. “I’ll get the guy.’’

“No need to. Just leave him. Let him burn up with the place.”

“But why?” Zyra objected. “It’d be a waste.”

“We don’t need it.” Lemi began to walk toward the door. “The Factotum says we’re all full up on meat.”

««—»»

One step at a time, Vera thought, running her finger down the rezz list at the hostess desk. Sixteen reservations. And that didn’t include the walk-ins. It was only seven thirty and the dining room was half-full. Things weren’t great, but they were sure getting better.

Donna whizzed by with a tray of covered main courses for a four-top in the corner. When she came back, Vera asked, “What’s the kitchen done so far?”

“Twenty-two, and about half of them are walk-ins,” Donna responded as she automatically tabulated a check. “The grilled Louisiana andouille is going like mad, and so is the banana-cream pie and the Michelanglo Peppers. This isn’t bad at all. I’m actually pulling some serious tips.”

“Good. If this keeps up we might have to hire a part-time waitress.”

“Over my dead body,” Donna said. She crammed a wad of bills into the tip jar. “Did you read the book?”

“Yes,” Vera close to groaned. “Ghosts from an insane asylum. The whole story was just so silly.”

“Silly, huh?” Donna shot her a wicked grin, then headed back to the kitchen. Was she chuckling?

She’s a trip all right. Vera just smiled. As far as she was concerned, Donna could believe in ghosts all she wanted, so long as she remained a proficient waitress.

Vera took a minute to slip to the ladies’ room, ever mindful of her watch. In little more than an hour, Feldspar would be coming in for dinner. With me, she thought. Or would he? Suddenly she felt afret. Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe something else came up. Then she smirked at herself. You’re worrying like a little high school girl. And she was: inventing catastrophes. Still, she couldn’t deny the subtle excitement, not just that he wanted to have dinner with her, but she couldn’t wait to probe him out over today’s surprise visit by the chief of police. Or perhaps she was so bored of late that she was also inventing her own intrigues. Nevertheless, another thing she couldn’t deny were her own suspicions regarding The Inn’s financial success—or what Kyle and Feldspar claimed was a success. Is that what they were? Suspicions? Don’t be gullible, Vera, she reminded herself. What did she have to be suspicious of? A country bumpkin cop walks in spouting unfounded implications about money-laundering and ill-gotten gains, and now she was thinking the silliest things. Certainly a cop of Mulligan’s low caliber was no reason to suspect Feldspar of improprieties.

She surveyed herself in the long mirror, checked her hair, made sure her earrings were straight. Quit fussing! You look fine. Actually, she looked great. She wore a flowered pink-white silk jacket, rather low cut, and a white chiffon skirt. Her amethyst necklace sparkled keenly; she always wore it now—since Feldspar had complimented her on it so many times. She easily admitted to herself that she was out to impress Feldspar— via her job performance, her insights, even her looks. But what she still had yet to discern was…why? Do I want to impress him as my boss, or as something more?

The dinner shift seemed to pass in scant minutes. Every single table complimented The Carriage House as they left. From Vera’s end, everything clicked: Donna’s service was outstanding, Dan B. turned out one superior entree after the next, and the place was running without a hitch. But tonight, in a sense, was the trickiest test so far. She could please customers, sure.

But can I please the boss? she wondered now.

He hadn’t been in for dinner before, which seemed strange. He was a connoisseur and probably a snob. He smoked cigarettes that cost five dollars a pack and drank $300-per-bottle wine like it was Yoo-Hoo. A man like Feldspar, ultimately, was never easy to please. Now Vera began to wonder, or even fear, what his impressions would be.

“Shit!” she whispered, glaring at her watch. “I knew it. He’s not going to show.”

Donna laughed beside her. “Vera, it’s only thirty seconds past nine. What’s wrong with you?”

“I—” I don’t know, she thought. But it was only thirty seconds more before the shadow slid across the entry.

“Good evening,” Feldspar greeted. Vera noted the crisp gray suit, and black shirt with no tie—exactly what he’d worn the night she met him. He smiled at her. “I believe we have a reservation.”

“Is there a particular table you’d prefer, Mr. Feldspar?” Donna inquired, assuming the role of hostess.

“The choice is Ms. Abbot’s.”

Vera chose the furthest four-top in the east section, well removed from the few diners who remained. It flustered her at once: Feldspar still called her Ms. Abbot, and of course she still called him Mr. Feldspar, as he’d yet to bid otherwise. Donna seated them, as she passed them their menus, Feldspar said, “Perrier-Jouet, the flowered bottle.” He glanced to Vera. “Yes?”

“That would be perfect,” Vera responded.

Feldspar immediately lit a Sobraine. “So. How are things?”

“We actually did some business tonight,” Vera was happy to answer. “And we had a lot of walk-ins, which is always a good sign.”

“Any complaints about the restaurant?”

“None. Lots of compliments, though.”

“Good.” He seemed distracted, but then he always did in a way, as though there were always something of the future on his mind. He seemed clipped, ever the businessman. Just once I wish he’d lighten up, Vera thought. Be himself. Or was he doing just that? The possibility depressed her.

“I’ve spoken to Kyle, regarding your room-guest complaints of last weekend,” Feldspar mentioned. “I suppose it’s rather embarrassing for you.”

“Well, no,” she said. Actually it was; it pissed her off to receive complaints about Kyle’s room guests. “It comes with the territory. Even rich people get rowdy.”

“Actually much more so than the middle class, more often than not, I’m afraid. It can cause one to wonder about civility and sophistication—that the extravagantly wealthy generally behave as ill-mannered, inconsiderate idiots.”

There had, in fact, been still more complaints of late, always from room guests of the first-floor suites, Vera’s rooms, and never from Kyle’s guests. In fact, Vera had yet to even see any of the guests renting the second- and third-floor suites. Evidently, they were content to order all their meals from room service. Not once had any of them come down to eat at The Carriage House, which only furthered Vera’s irritation. But now the complaints were more descriptive. “We kept hearing this awful thunking sound all night long,” came the grievance of the town’s podiatrist, who’d spent several weekends at The Inn with his dowdy wife. A good-paying customer, and one Vera didn’t want to lose. There’d been similar “thunking” complaints from others, too. Vera concluded that this thunking was actually the room-service elevators opening and closing, which she’d heard many times at night herself. The funny thing was she couldn’t hear the elevators running, just the doors opening and closing, which made little sense. And still more complaints were made about noise in general.

“I’m still getting complaints from my room guests, though,” Vera elaborated, “about loud noises at night, you know, typical party noises—loud talk, footsteps, laughter.” She fingered her chin in contemplation. “The weird part is the noises don’t seem to be coming from the second and third floors, but from below.”

“Hmmm,” Feldspar remarked without much interest. “Perhaps some of the night owls are taking their revelry into the atrium during the wee hours, or the pool.”

“That probably explains it. And another strange complaint I keep getting is elevator noise.”

Feldspar made a facial gesture of befuddlement. “It’s true that the room-service elevators are in fairly constant use, but I’ve never heard them making any undue noise while running.”

“Well, no one’s complaining about the elevators going up and down, they’re complaining about a thunking noise. I figure it’s the doors opening and closing.”

Feldspar nodded, still without much interest. “I’ll have Kyle get a service person out here, and maybe a contractor to see about some more soundproofing. It’s difficult to forecast a building’s acoustics.”

“And one more thing,” Vera began. Then she paused partly in reluctance and partly in amusement. Mafioso, she thought. Drug financiers. That’s what Chief Mulligan had implied The Inn actually catered to. But how should she bring the matter up?

Fortunately, after Feldspar poured the champagne, she wouldn’t have to. “And I feel absolutely dreadful about the business this morning with the police,” he owned up. “Kyle reported it to me.”

“It’s nothing to feel dreadful about,” Vera told him. “If you want to know the truth, it was kind of funny. I’m still not quite sure what the man was digging for.”

Feldspar leaned forward slightly, looking at her. “What do you suppose he was looking for?”

Vera nearly sighed. Go for it, she thought. “It’s my impression that Chief Mulligan is suspicious of The Inn’s location and is therefore suspicious of The Inn’s clientele.”

She expected Feldspar to scoff, or laugh. But he didn’t. He just looked at her.

“Why?” he asked.

Vera shrugged. “I’m not sure. He just thinks it’s odd that a place like The Inn, very upscale, could turn a profit in an area like this.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“The same thing you told me from the start. That The Inn caters to a very upscale and very private clientele.”

“A select clientele.”

“Yes. And I think that’s why he’s suspicious,” Vera went on, hoping she wasn’t saying too much, or exaggerating what Mulligan had seemed to imply. But Feldspar had asked for her opinion. So I’m going to give it to him. “I think he believes, in other words, that our ‘select’ clientele aren’t legitimate businessmen but white-collar criminals. Mafia. Organized crime. Drug distribution. That sort of thing. He’s also very suspicious that Magwyth Enterprises is a holding company. For instance, he knows that you wired several million dollars into the bank in town, and in addition to that, he wasn’t able to find out anything about Magwyth Enterprises itself. It’s pretty clear to me that he’s challenging the legitimacy of your company. He seems to think it’s a money-laundering outfit, and that you’re the honcho behind it.”

“Preposterous,” Feldspar said. Yet he seemed off kilter at once, even slightly perturbed, and it was obvious. Is it my imagination, Vera wondered, or is he hiding something? “Yeah, preposterous,” she went along with him. “What I don’t get are his motives. It’s one thing to make implications like that. But what are his grounds?”

Feldspar made no immediate reply; instead he refilled their champagne flutes and set the towel-cloaked bottle back into its ice bucket. “Small town police chief, big ideas, I suspect. Who knows, really? Nevertheless, whatever his motives, I can assure you, Ms. Abbot, The Inn is quite legitimate in its services to its guests, and its guests are equally legitimate.”

“Of course,” Vera said.

They dined first on an array of appetizers: Equadoran Shrimp Cocktail, Lasagnettas with Roasted Peppers, and Dan B.’s famous Minted Pea Salad in Radicchio Leaves. Vera ordered Crayfish Brittany as her main course, and Feldspar the Fillet of Charollais Beef in a truffle gravy. Even Vera was astounded by Dan B.’s skills tonight; everything was state-of-the-art, yet Feldspar scarcely made comment during the meal. Instead, he spoke off and on of business in general, some upcoming banquets, etc., nothing of note, and nothing really of himself. Vera had no choice but to deduce that her revelations regarding Chief Mulligan’s visit had put him on edge. But why? she kept wondering. If The Inn is legitimate, what’s he so distracted about? It was a good question, and one that continued to occur to her throughout the meal. Select clientele, money-laundering, Mafia, she repeatedly thought. Earlier she’d found these implications amusing. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure.

And if it was so “preposterous,” why did Feldspar keep bringing it up? “I suppose I should go and speak to him,” he said next, quite by surprise.

“I’m sorry?” Vera said.

“This…policeman.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Vera said. She paused. Careful, girl, careful Perhaps it was the champagne, which was gone now, unraveling her better judgment. Or perhaps it was her own suspicions. “But may I ask you something?’’ she said next.

“Of course,” Feldspar granted, and then very inappropriately ordered a bottle of 1983 Montrachet.

Just what I need, Vera thought. More booze. I’ll wind up getting sloshed in front of my boss. I’ll be asking him how he got his start washing money for drug lords. “It just seemed a little curious,” she said. “When Chief Mulligan asked to see you, Kyle said you went to the airport.” She paused once more. “Why did he lie?”

Feldspar nodded, stroking his trimmed goatee. “A sound query, Ms. Abbot, and one to which you are entitled a sound answer.” He sipped the Montrachet, peered at it in the fine Cristal d’Arques glass. “I have somewhat of an aversion to police. And I’m sure you’ve been wondering, quite understandably, if I’ve ever been in any trouble with the law.”

“Oh, Mr. Feldspar, that’s not what I was thinking at all,” Vera…lied. Of course she had. Deep down she knew she’d been wondering about that all day. But—

“The answer, I’m afraid, is yes.”

Vera blinked. Holy shit, she thought. Now I’ve really done it! Next time keep your big mouth SHUT!

Feldspar didn’t seem at all fazed by the alcohol—he never did. Vera didn’t believe that it was the champagne and wine that had loosened his personal armor. Feldspar wasn’t a man to go blabbering on drink. Vera knew that type—the typical general manager. Feldspar’s high rank in the chain of command didn’t allow him to confide in anyone. So why is he confiding in me? she wondered.

“Quite some time ago, I held a similar post for an investment company quite like Magwyth Enterprises. It was an identical operation to what we’re doing here, and it was very successful. And I’m ashamed to have to admit, however, that it wasn’t entirely…clean. Money corrupts, Ms. Abbot, just like power. In many ways they’re very much the same.”

“Mr. Feldspar, you don’t have to tell me your personal b—”

“One thing led to another,” he went on. “Improprieties…I’m not creating excuses for my conduct, mind you. What I did was wrong.”

What! Vera thought with fervor. What did you do! She couldn’t ask, of course—that would be uncouth. But—Goddamn!—she wanted to know.

Feldspar smiled meekly across the table. His rings glittered as he poured more wine. “You’re wondering—naturally. I can tell. Who wouldn’t be, under such circumstances?”

“Really, Mr. Feldspar, I don’t—”

“I’m afraid I was accused of the very same offenses that our ever dutiful Chief Mulligan has accused me of now.”

Vera set down her fork. She tried not to appear floored, but she was. She tried to think of something diverting to say. “I don’t think Mulligan was accusing. Just implying.”

“You’re too kind.” Feldspar smiled again, very faintly. “I’ve told you that I was accused. Aren’t you going to inquire as to whether or not I was guilty?”

“No, that’s your—”

“I was, quite guilty. At least in an indirect sense. However, I was never charged.”

If he was never charged, why did he tell me all this? Vera now wondered. Why practically verify to me that Mulligan’s suspicions are right on the money? This made no sense at all.

“Which is hardly an excuse,” he continued. “Guilt is guilt. Guilt by association, in my case. Now, though, as I’ve stated, The Inn is absolutely legitimate, and I can guarantee you of the same in regard to Magwyth Enterprises, Ltd.”

Some dinner, she thought. Some date. She couldn’t imagine anything more awkward, or more difficult to maneuver through.

“I cannot prevaricate,” Feldspar said then. “Not to you, at any rate.”

“I don’t understand,” Vera told him, for lack of anything else.

“After all, you’ve made quite a sacrifice for me: coming here cold, running a restaurant for an enterprise you know nothing about, giving your all. It would be immoral of me to leave you uninformed. I appreciate your loyalty and discretion, and I’m grateful to you for handling this unpleasant business with the police. You know as well as I, loyalty is perhaps the most essential interpersonal element in this kind of business. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded, nor will your outstanding performance.”

At first, this depressed her, because it sounded as though he were merely patronizing her, for getting Mulligan off his back. But as she watched him, and continued to assess his demeanor, and the manner with which he expressed himself, she began to doubt that patronizing her had any part in what he’d just told her. But what is his motive then? she wondered, sipping her Montrachet.

Perhaps there was no ulterior motive at all. Perhaps he was coming clean with her for the reasons he’d just explained.

“So much for confessions.” Now Feldspar leaned back in the plush armchair, his smile going wan. He diddled with an ash in the ashtray, almost as if he felt embarrassed now. “It must not be an easy thing to reckon,” he said.

“What?”

“To suddenly become aware that your employer has a bit of a checkered past.”

But Vera couldn’t help continuing to think: Select clientele. Mafioso, money laundering. “I don’t guess anybody’s slate is perfectly clean,” she excused.

“No, perhaps not.”

Another glass of the fine Montrachet. God, she thought. She was getting drunk. The wine left her buzzing, warm inside, but remotely unhappy. She had a parfait for dessert, while Feldspar ordered expresso and smoked. Afterward, he paid cash for the meal, which seemed odd. He owned The Carriage House. Why pay? Vera supposed he was just trying to seem gracious. It depressed her further, though. The meal had been outstanding, yet Feldspar made no comment whatever. At least Donna was happy. She bubbled enthusiasm in silence, upon discovering Feldspar’s fifty dollar cash tip in the leather tab book.

“I’d invite you to the convention with me,” Feldspar said next, “but I’m afraid that would leave The Inn a bit short in the management department. Kyle’s a very loyal, steadfast employee, but I wouldn’t be too keen on leaving him totally in charge. A bit uncultured, if you will.”

Vera had to backpedal on everything he’d said; the wine and champagne wasn’t mixing well. “Convention?” she queried.

“Oh, I mustn’t have mentioned it to you, sorry. I’ll be gone for several days. The East Coast Hotel/Motel Association is having their annual convention tomorrow, in Maryland. I’m expected to attend, not that I really want to. At any rate, you and Kyle will be in charge.”

“Okay,” Vera said. But she’d barely heard the words. Now it was her own distractions that diverted her, and of course the alcohol. This whole dinner thing had been a bust; it was obvious to her now that Feldspar’s only interest in her was professional. He was the boss giving the little restaurant manager a pat on the head.

“Well.” Feldspar rose; his bulky shape left the table enshadowed. “Your company was a pleasure, Ms. Abbot, and the meal outstanding…” He squinted forward. “Are you all right?”

No, I’m drunk, she felt inclined to say. “A little tired, that’s all.” She rose herself, and escorted Feldspar to the entry. “Thanks for dinner. I hope you have a good time at the convention.”

“Yes,” he said. “Oh, and forgive me for neglecting to mention one thing.”

“What’s that?”

His smile seemed distant. His entire self, in fact, all evening, seemed more and more distant. “You look lovely tonight,” he said.

The words were like a dull shimmer in the air. Before

Vera could reply, he was saying “Good night, Ms. Abbot” and leaving.

“How’d it go?” Donna came up from behind and asked.

“It didn’t, not really,” Vera said.

“You look bummed.”

I am. “I don’t know, I just thought—” What, though? What did you expect, Vera? You expected him to wine and dine you and take you to bed? Your boss, for God’s sake? “I’m tired, I guess. I drank too much.” She had to actually lean against the service bar to keep steady. “How are things going in the kitchen?”

“Lee and Dan B. are cleaning up now. They’re going to check out that little bar in town if they get out early enough. If you ask me, we did pretty good tonight.”

“Yeah, it’s catching on.” Vera handed Donna the Lamborghini keys. “Tell Dan B. he can take my car. I never have time to drive it—might as well let him have some fun with it.”

“Oh, he’ll love this!” Donna enthused. “I’ll be sure to tell him not to wrap it around a phone pole.”

“Please. Are you going with them?”

“No way. Once I get all the tables changed, I’m going straight to bed.”

“That’s what I’m going to do right now,” Vera said. “See you tomorrow.”

She trudged out into the atrium, woozy and weary. Then: “Yes. Yes sir,” she heard. It was Kyle’s voice. Vera glanced across the atrium and saw Kyle signing someone in at the reception desk: a man of medium height and build, dressed in a tailored crisp brown suit. “Right this way, sir,” Kyle was saying, and picked up the man’s suitcase. “Your suite’s ready now.”

Vera tried not to appear obvious; this was the first upper floor room guest she’d seen, and as she watched from the corner of her eye, all she could be reminded of was what Mulligan had implied. Money laundering, mafia, drug lords? Some people had a look—you could tell, just by looking at them, what they were into, and this guest that Kyle was checking in—he had it. The man’s face reflected a darkness, even an ominousness, which clashed with his fine suit. He looked like a thug.

Select clientele, huh? Vera mused, then went up the stairs to her room.

Whoever that guy is, he’s bad news.

— | — | —