Everybody Loves Evie (9 page)

T
HE SUN WAS SHINING
as I peeled rubber through the Inlet and parked in the semimuddy lot of the Chameleon Club. My mood was black. I'd tried calling Arch three times while I'd packed. I needed his advice and all I got was his voice mail. Instead of leaving a message, I'd hung up, disconnected from the man in more ways than one.

My pulse and brain raced in tandem as I scaled the steps and power walked toward the boardwalk entrance. No umbrella. No spiky heels. No mishaps. I breezed inside and glanced at the bar. Pops was engrossed in conversation with two barflies, neither being Tabasco. I scanned the club for Beckett. Not seeing him, I strode for the door marked Private.

“Not there.”

I forced a smile and faced the leathery bartender, dressed much as he'd been the day before, only his vest was red instead of black. “Is he around?” Again I thought of secret rooms for secret-agent plotting. “Somewhere?”

“He is.”

I motioned Pops to the opposite end of the bar, away from his friends' big ears.

He approached me with wary eyes, palming that retro rolled-brim hat to the back of his silver head. He looked a little like Morgan Freeman, dressed a lot like Buster Keaton and sounded exactly like Barry White. “Aren't you supposed to be home, recovering?”

I fidgeted under his stern expression. “I feel much better.” I pinched my nose and suppressed a sneeze.

“Uh-huh.”

I bucked up before he could offer me a shot of whiskey or fatherly advice. “I need to speak with Beckett. It's important.” I could have called but felt better asking for a leave of absence in person. My stomach knotted thinking I could be ruining any chance of ever becoming a full-fledged Chameleon. Quite possibly the government agent would question my reliability, my dedication to the cause. Sure he was nice, but business was business.

“He's in a meeting,” Pops said. “Also important.”

I instinctively knew that, unlike yesterday, he was not going to steer me in the direction of the boss. The silver fox had shifted into guard dog. Any other time I'd be tempted to win him over. Just now, I was desperate to split town.

“Okay. Here's the deal.” I braced my hands on the bar and leaned forward, delivering the spiel I'd intended for Beckett. “I need to take a leave of absence. Postpone my engagement. Whatever. I know this looks bad—I haven't even started—but this is an emergency. A family emergency.”

“Should've said right off.” Pops turned and made a phone call. His voice was low, the conversation brief. He hung up, telling Stan, one of the two old coots sipping beer, to mind the store. He grasped my elbow.

Thinking back on how I'd pulled one over on that bartender in the London pub, I leaned in to Pops and whispered, “Aren't you afraid Stan might steal from the register or liberate a beer from the fridge?”

“Nope.”

A trusting con man? At least I
assumed
Pops was a former con man. Beckett had called him a vital part of the team. Someday, when I wasn't in a hurry and he was more talkative, I'd try to find out more about him. Just now, I followed silently as he guided me through the ill-arranged tables and chairs, past the jukebox and
appropriated
sound system. Tabasco sprang to mind.

From what I remembered of my Midol-fogged discussion with Beckett, in addition to being a transportation specialist, Tabasco also begged, bargained and borrowed props for stings.
Location scout
was the technical term. Apparently his many talents extended to the acoustic guitar. Whether he was a decent player remained to be heard.

I banged my hip on a chair, swallowed a yelp and focused on where I was going. For the first time I noticed a pronounced hitch in Pop's step. “What's wrong with your—”

“Old injury,” he said, a
mind your own beeswax
lingering in the stale air.

He unlocked a door and guided me through a jam-packed storage room. I was rubbernecking at the eclectic collection of
stuff,
likening Beckett to Arch's pack-rat granddad, when I realized Pops had opened a second door, a door I hadn't noticed. A dangling yellow bulb cast minimal light on a cobwebbed stairwell. Pops and I descended the creaky wooden stairs into near darkness. Together we clung to the banister—me for nerves, him for support.

The basement, I assumed. Was Beckett doing laundry? But, wait. Pops had mentioned a meeting. Maybe the basement wasn't a basement at all but a high-tech hidey-hole for Chameleon HQ. The theme from the sixties sitcom
Get Smart
welled in my brain along with visions of Maxwell Smart and Chief behind closed doors plotting CONTROL's latest mission to obliterate KAOS.

The music died the moment we reached the bottom and Pops clicked on a light. Nothing high-tech about this low-ceilinged basement. Cluttered like the storage room with box upon cardboard box. The room felt damp and cool and smelled musty, although I did catch a whiff of fabric softener. My gaze followed my nose, zeroing in on a washer and dryer that, given the avocado finish, dated back to the seventies. The nearby freezer looked a decade newer, which still made it a dinosaur in appliance years. Next to that, shelves stacked with cans of assorted party snacks. I wondered how long
they'd
been there.

I did a visual sweep of the room. Crates of liquor and soda. A wall of tools and a carpenter's table. Weight bench and barbells. So that's how Beckett maintained his chiseled torso. Except he wasn't pumping iron now. Or pounding nails. Or washing clothes.

“Pops, I…” My impatience evaporated when I whirled and caught him swinging aside a wall clock to reveal a security pad.

“Turn away,” he said.

“Why?”

“Heard you got total recall.”

My chest bloomed with pride. So Beckett hadn't focused solely on my mishaps. He'd touted my talents, as well. This time my smile was genuine. “I don't know about total recall, but I do have an exceptional memory when it comes to—”

“Turn away.”

“Right.” I faced the opposite wall and soon heard voices, one louder than the others and not happy. My mouth dried with excitement and nerves as Pops tapped me on the shoulder and I saw the snack shelves had slid open.
A secret room.
I took in the blue carpet, acoustical-tile ceiling and soundproof walls. It reminded me of a posh recording studio complete with state-of-the-art audio and visual equipment, computers and a too-cool-for-your-shoes black leather sofa and chairs. Yowza.

Parked in the center of that cushy sofa was Tabasco. Standing over his shoulder, arms crossed and hands tucked under his pits, was the Kid, the technical brains of the outfit. Looming center stage in a face-off with Milo Beckett—Gina “Hot Legs” Valente. It was the first time I'd seen her since the Simon the Fish fiasco. To say we had unresolved issues was an understatement.

Focused on one another in an intense showdown, they'd yet to notice us. I stood, silent and mesmerized, as the Angelina Jolie clone knocked the back of her hand against the government agent's shoulder. “What are you smoking, Jazzman? Say no to the AIA director and you can say goodbye to your career.”

Beckett, who reminded me a little of George Clooney, glowered. “I didn't sign on to act as a politician's personal avenger.”

“No,” she shot back. “But you did sign on to dupe swindlers who feed off poor, vulnerable saps.”

“The senator's wife is not vulnerable, nor is she poor. She's a gambling addict. His problem. Not ours.”

“Not true,” Tabasco cut in. He planted his feet on the floor and braced his forearms on his knees. “The new boss—what's-his-name…”

“Special Director Vincent Crowe,” said Woody.

“Crowe, whose shit list we're on at the moment, made it our problem when he asked you a favor,” Tabasco said. “Way I see it, we win back the senator's money, we win over two powerful men. Men who could make our lives heaven or hell. I vote for the easy life.”

“Doesn't cost us anything but time,” Gina said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Beckett said. “I have a bad feeling about this one.”

“You're just bent because the victims are rich and influential,” she said. “Stop focusing on the financial angle and consider the emotional damage. Guilt, shame, anxiety. I'm not ready to turn my back on a mark just because she's privileged.”

Woody cleared his throat and pointed to me.

Gina glared. “You have
got
to be kidding.” Pinch-mouthed, she angled away from Beckett and planted her knockout body next to Tabasco's.

She didn't say anything else. She didn't have to. I could read the disapproval in her kohl-lined eyes. She didn't like that I was in this room. Didn't like that, because of Beckett, I now circulated in her professional world. Basically, she didn't like me, although I had never understood why. Mostly everybody likes me. I'm a likable kind of girl.

Tabasco smiled at me in a way that probably caused most women to swoon. All I felt was the urge to roll my eyes. Gina elbowed him in the ribs.

Woody backed away when Pops nudged me deeper into the room. The Kid probably doubted my mental stability. Based on our interaction thus far, I couldn't blame him.

Beckett turned. “What's this about a family emergency?”

He didn't look any happier than Gina. My anxiety skyrocketed. I didn't want to blow my job with Chameleon. I loved this job that I hadn't even started. But I couldn't, wouldn't, ignore the troubles on the home front. Still, I didn't want to discuss my parents' behavior in front of the entire team. “I didn't mean to interrupt—my timing stinks,” I blurted.

Gina grunted. “What else is new?”

Beckett shot her a look, then approached me. “Spill.”

His tone was no-nonsense, but when he moved closer, I realized concern shone in his gaze. My gut said he'd understand. “Something's wrong with my mom.”

“Is she sick?”

“She's…not herself.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Right away,” I said, grateful when he didn't press for details. “I don't have a flight yet, but—”

“Tabasco can fly you. He owns a plane.”

“What kind of plane? One of those little propeller jobs?”

“Not so little,” said the pilot. “Single-engine Cessna. Seats six to eight, depending on cargo.”

“Propeller?” I pressed.

“Yes,” the team answered as one.

“Thanks, but no, thanks.”

“Motion sickness,” Beckett explained, and though he probably thought he was being helpful, he'd made me look weak in the others' eyes.

Feeling defensive, I looked around his shoulder to Tabasco. “I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn't want to pull you away from the senator's case.”

“About that,” Beckett interrupted. “What's said between these walls—”

“Stays within these walls. Understood.” I pantomimed zipping my lip and throwing away the key. Not that I even knew who they were speaking of specifically. Still, I could keep a secret. My diary was full of them.

There was an awkward silence. I'm accustomed to being the center of attention. I'd made a decent living in the spotlight for more than twenty-five years. But this was different. This was personal. I scratched my neck.

“Commercial flight will cost her a fortune,” Pops said, “considering she's booking last-minute. Why don't you have the Kid work some of his magic?”

“Good idea,” Beckett said.

I was stunned by Pops's lengthy sentences as much as his thoughtfulness. As he'd said, a last-minute ticket wouldn't be cheap. If Woody could help…“Is it illegal?”

Beckett's mouth curved. “We call it
creative.
” He turned to Woody. “Round trip. Philadelphia to Indianapolis.”

“Return date?” Woody asked.

Beckett looked at me and my insides churned. “I don't know. I…you see…” What the heck. I blurted a condensed version of my brother's story, bracing myself for snorts and scoffing when I summed up with, “I'm worried someone's swindling my mom.”

“Sweetheart scam?” Tabasco said.

Gina shrugged. “Maybe she's just letting her hair down.”

“Let's find out.” Beckett looked at Woody. “Book two one-way flights, plus a rental car.”

“I'll ready your suitcase,” Pops said, and limped from the room.

Gina stood. “Hold up, Jazzman. What about the senator?”

Beckett rocked back on his heels, considered. “He lives just outside of Hammond. How far is that from your hometown, Twinkie?”

I blinked. “Hammond, Indiana? We're talking about a senator from my home state?”

“Yes and yes. How far?”

“Two, maybe two and a half hours.”