Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

THE PURSE

That purse came into the Ilium Inn, my workplace, three nights ago.

The Ilium Inn is the older and swankier of three hotels in town. Like the other hotels in Ilium, it gets next to no business; at least the local motel gets the johns and whores, even if they are just paying the hourly rate. Total, in the two years I’ve worked at the Ilium Inn, no more than twenty-five guests have checked in—usually wealthy businessmen, and the occasional lost traveller who doesn’t know there’s a cheaper option five minutes down the road.

I, like most Iliumites, make minimum wage—but I don’t do it for the money. I don’t do it for the love of nightshifts either. I work at the Ilium Inn to cover up my independent bootlegging business. It’s the perfect cover; the government doesn’t wonder where I get my money, and the empty hotel makes a great place to meet with clients and suppliers.

When I was working the other night, that same purse from the bus—that same leather, made from porosus crocodile—came into the hotel. It was almost midnight, still early into my graveyard shift. There was only one room booked out and the couple that reserved it still hadn’t showed up. Aside from me, the only person who had showed up was the new maid, who came in to ask if her paycheque was ready. Since the day she was hired, she’s come in every night, and every night I tell her when payday is: every second Thursday. She barely speaks a word of English, and never understands what I’m telling her. I think she’s from Korea.

I was surfing the Internet when I got a text message from a supplier who wanted to meet up. He said that a deal had fallen into his lap and he thought I would be very interested. I told him to swing by the hotel.

Just as I put down my phone, a couple walked into the hotel—a petite woman and a tall, stocky man. Their black umbrella left a long trail of rainwater between the front door and the front desk. Sunglasses covered the woman’s crow’s feet. A fur shawl covered her black satin dress, which hardly covered the nipples of her very fake breasts—or as I prefer to call them, her bolted-on tits. Her facelift did nothing to cover her wrinkled smoker lips.

The man must have weighed three hundred pounds, but I couldn’t tell if that was three hundred pounds of fat, or three hundred pounds of muscle. His skin looked like leather—and not like soft porosus leather, but like cheap leather collected from a box of old shoes. It was like the Hulk finally ripened.

Before greeting the couple, I noticed the black leather purse hanging from the woman’s shoulder—a black purse made from porosus crocodile leather. There is only one company that uses porosus leather—Hermes Paris, and even they use it sparingly because it’s rare and expensive. That purse was no Hermes Paris, but I couldn’t make out what it was. The woman stayed back, far enough that I couldn’t read the golden, monogram logo.

“Pesconi,” the man grunted.

“What?” I said, my eyes still glued to the purse.

“Pesconi,” he repeated with half the speed and twice the volume. He had a strong New York accent. “Pes-co-ni,” he said even more slowly, a third time

“Oh,” I said, snapping out of my daze. “Your name is Pesconi! You’re checking in, right?”

“Yeah.”

I opened his reservation on the computer. “Carmine Pesconi—we have you booked in the Presidential Suite.” When dealing with hotel customers, I put on a bubbly, high-pitched voice, complete with a big fake smile and wide, owl-like eyes.

The woman reached into her mysterious purse and pulled out a box of cigarettes. She didn’t notice—or she didn’t care—that, two feet from her face, was a no-smoking sign. She revealed a golden lighter.

“Um—I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no smoking in here,” I said in my bubble voice. I bobbed my head to the side and shrugged—my way of saying, ‘what a silly rule, right?’

The woman paused—completely frozen as if the bubbly night auditor at the Ilium Inn had just diagnosed her with cancer.

“What?” Pesconi asked for her. His voice was low, growling.

“Um—there’s no smoking in here,” I said—a surprisingly difficult sentence to get out with those unblinking eyes staring into my soul.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Carmine Pesconi said to the lady.

And she didn’t. She finished lighting her cigarette.

He leaned over and scanned behind my desk. I wanted to ask him what he was doing, but I was afraid he would bite. “Pass me one of those water bottles,” he said, motioning towards the stash of water bottles under the desk, kept there for employees.

“There are plenty of water bottles up in your room—” His brow lowered into a scowl, so I handed him a water bottle. “There you are.”

He cracked the lid and downed half the bottle. “How long did we book for?” he asked, wiping his mouth at the same time.

“Four nights,” I said. “We have a smoking suite available, but it wouldn’t be on the same floor.”

“No, the Presidential Suite is fine.”

“Okay.” I tried to fake a smile, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

“Make it seven nights. Plans changed.”

“Okay, sure,” I said, making the necessary changes in the computer.

“Hurry it up. We’ve been driving all day.”

I activated the key cards and walked around the desk. He stared at me with a taut expression as I handed him the room keys.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m giving you your keys.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Why did you come out?” His teeth clenched and his face reddened, as if I had dented his car and slapped his wife.

“To help you with your bag.” Again, it came out more like a question than a statement.

“I don’t need help. Do I look like I need help?” His teeth remained clenched.

I stepped back. “No, sir.”

“Don’t touch my bag,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“C’mon, honey,” Pesconi said to his lady.

The couple turned away and disappeared up the stairs, not noticing me flipping them off behind their backs.

A Google search of “BV brand purse” brought up nothing, nor did my search of “BV porosus leather.” Out of curiosity, I searched “Carmine Pesconi,” but that too brought up nothing. I would have continued my investigation had my supplier not interrupted me with a text message.

James Derrick is one of my suppliers—or I should say, he
was
one of my suppliers before he got himself arrested. He was a thin, ratty-looking guy, with scruffy hair and a scruffy beard. Unlike my other suppliers, James did all of his work by himself. He made his own deals and he sourced and delivered his product. He was cheap, but he was also… slow. He once brought me eight boxes of Alaskan furs—a retail value of around $80,000. James had no idea they were worth anything, so I only paid $8,000—though I wasn’t able to sell half of them when I discovered they were stained with what I’m almost sure was human blood.

Before getting himself arrested, James was the closest thing to a friend I had in Ilium. We’d been close for years, long before I started my own business. We were in the same gang before the big bust. We were two of four that didn’t get arrested. James—the stupid, crazy bastard—stole a cop car during the bust, and actually managed to escape. The cops eventually found the cruiser, abandoned at the edge of town. James hid in the woods for three weeks.

The two other members that avoided arrest never showed up for that meeting. They were already fifty miles away when it went down. Someone tipped them off but neither of them bothered to warn anyone. I don’t know where they ended up. Hopefully in a ditch, where they belong.

I’m lucky that I wasn’t arrested during the bust. I jimmied the warehouse air purifier open and crawled through the vents, out to the alleyway. I lost a beautiful pair of Chanel earrings in those vents.

And I gained a crippling fear of rats…

Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #202: A building has two air purifiers: one in the basement, and one on the ceiling. The purifier on the ceiling cleans and carries new air into the building; the one in the basement recycles old air. Both connect to the building’s master ventilation system, which is wide enough to crawl through. It’s also where rats tend to live.

As much as I liked James, since the bust, he reminded me of those rats, crawling over my body in those vents: his slouched posture, patchy scruff, yellow teeth, and pushed-up rodent nose.

After the Pesconi’s checked in, James was waiting for me behind the Ilium Inn, sitting on the bumper of a cube van, almost certainly stolen, vandalized with uncountable layers of spray-paint.

“Hey Liv,” he said. “Long time, no see.” He stood up to give me a hug.

“Hi Jamie,” I said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

As usual, his face turned red. “How’s hotel life treatin’ ya?” he asked.

“Don’t get me started. I just had to deal with some huge prick—Carmine Something. Ever heard of him?”

James tilted his head, his clunky brain searching through all of the names that he knew. “Carmine? I don’t think I know any Carmine. What’s his last name?”

“Pes-Co-Ni,” I said, imitating Carmine’s condescending New York accent.