In a Fix (12 page)

*   *   *

I’d gallantly refused Dragon Mama’s offer of the limo, claiming she’d need it herself, which earned me an enraptured “
Darling!
” and an air kiss. My search for ready transportation took me several blocks east, into territory I didn’t visit often, but apparently Trey did. Before I could hail a passing taxi, a warmly welcoming voice boomed out behind me. “Mr. Harrison?”

I turned slowly and saw a short, round, mustachioed shopkeeper poking his head out of a tobacco store. He obviously knew Trey. Crap. Can’t anything ever be easy?

“Hi…” I glanced at the name of the shop, and risked it. “Enzo. How are you?”

His mitts engulfed my hand. “Come in, come in,” he said with a broad smile, and waited while I preceded him into the shop. Whew. Guess he
was
Enzo. “I’ve been expecting you.”

I racked my brain for any pertinent info from my files. Came up blank. “Uh, great. So, do you have my…?” I paused, realizing I didn’t know a damn thing about Trey’s tobacco habits.

“Your ‘special order’?” He looked from side to side, saw nobody near, but still whispered. “The finest Cubans my shop has ever seen.” He held one finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said.

The bell on the shop door jangled after Enzo slipped into the back room. The charming proprietor poked his head back out to assure the new customer he’d be with him shortly, and then disappeared again, leaving me alone with the addition to the shop: a tall, bulky blond. No horned helmet, but my inner alarms shrieked anyway. With good reason. After sweeping the room with his eyes to make sure we were alone, the man walked right up to me, not even pretending he didn’t know who I was.

“We know where Mina is. If you wish her to remain safe, you’ll come with me now. Quietly.”

Great. Just freaking great. How long had I been followed? Did Lars tip somebody off? And which Mina did he mean? Me-Mina, newly home from the Bahamas, or the real Mina? Did they know about the lake house or not, for cripe’s sake?

I smiled. Strangely, the non-Chiclets appeared to have no effect on him. Go figure. “I believe I’ll take a pass on tha—
agh!
” His fist was in my stomach, doubling me over, before I could finish my sentence.

Sonofabitch,
that hurt. Nobody had ever punched me before. I decided I didn’t like it a bit. Sucking in air as I tried to straighten up, I was struck by the look of pleasure on his face. Fucking sadist.

“As I said, you will come with me. Quietly,” he repeated.

Nodding my compliance, I pretended to need assistance to move. When he leaned in to take my elbow, I stomped on his instep, grabbed his crotch, and twisted. Hard. Then, while
he
tried to breathe, I carefully placed my other hand behind his neck, and slammed his face into the antique wooden counter. He crumpled.

Damn. Now
that
felt much better. I could get used to having muscles.

Looking down at him, I said—quietly, since that seemed so important to him—“And
I
said I’d take a pass, asshole.”

*   *   *

After explaining to Enzo how his customer had tripped over his own shoelaces (which I’d taken the liberty of untying before the genial proprietor returned with the Cubans), I caught a cab and gave the driver Billy’s address. He wouldn’t be there, of course, but I needed a place to reconnoiter, not to mention recover from my debut punch in the gut.

Billy’s official residence is a wallet-gutting East Village loft. He bought it right after he graduated from college, had it renovated, and furnished it with a heavy emphasis on black leather and steel. Nobody in the family questioned him too closely about how he could afford it. Some things you didn’t want to know.

The kitchen took up one corner of the large open space. It had black cabinets, gray granite countertops, and stainless-steel appliances. I found a plastic bag, loaded it with crushed ice from the refrigerator door, and stretched out on the couch. Thor Thunderfist had missed my ribs, but I was still going to have a hell of a bruise to adapt away.

I hadn’t seen anyone else around Enzo’s, so I didn’t think I’d been followed. But, to be on the safe side, I dropped Trey’s aura and kicked off his pants, leaving me in a baggy, dress-length (on me) men’s silk T-shirt.

I had to think. What was I going to do about Mina? If the Viking in the shop was telling the truth, they knew about my lake house, and she wasn’t safe. I could call and have her moved right away, but what excuse would I give? Besides, maybe they were trying to flush her out. Moving her might expose her to even more danger.

What I should do was stick with my plan to go check on her myself, and stay with her until I heard from Mark that they’d found Trey. That way I wouldn’t have to upset her needlessly. Question was, how to get there? Also, as whom? Not me—if Mina saw me as myself, she’d expect me to hand over a ring, and explanations would be awkward. Better go with being a new employee.

I dialed Hilda, my faithful, overworked doer-of-everything for the lake house. Told her I’d be sending some help her way asap, and that the new-hire would know the password to give to Pete, the security guard. Didn’t go into details, because heaven only knew who might be listening. Figured I could explain more when I got there.

Now I just had to come up with a good way to get there. If Billy were around, I would ask him for a suggestion, but …
Billy
.
Now there’s an idea.
But did I dare? I thought of all the times my cousin had pulled a fast one on me. Oh, hell yeah. I dared.

Chapter 11

Sunlight from the open air side of the garage bounced off the chrome like bullets off Superman’s chest. The cherry red hood gleamed as wetly as a freshly lacquered fingernail, and the white top glistened like a movie star’s caps. It was one damn fine car. And now I was finally going to get my chance to drive it. He would
kill
me if he ever found out, I thought, shivering with delight.

There are few things on earth Billy values as highly as his 1957 Chevy Bel Air. The boat on wheels was a college graduation gift from his father, just as it had been a gift from his grandfather to his father before him. Family legend has it that Billy was born in the backseat, and left there by his real mother when she walked out of Uncle Liam’s life forever, but nobody will talk about it much, least of all Billy.

Suffice it to say, Billy feels a strong attachment to his car. Which is why he never lets anyone else drive it, keeps it in a garage that costs him almost as much every month as his loft, and tips the attendants extravagantly to see that no harm comes to it.

I squelched a twinge of guilt when I opened the driver’s side door. Surely he would understand the urgency of my situation. I didn’t have a car; he did. I needed it right now; he didn’t. It was simple, really. And since he was in Sweden—safely on the other side of the ocean—I was just going to have to
assume
permission. It was the logical thing to do. Besides, who knew when I’d get another opportunity as good as this one?

It started like a charm, the hum of the engine penetrating me from my seat up, making me aware of the singularly male part I was sporting, and I felt another, even stronger, burst of guilt. I’d never projected Billy before. It was considered the height of bad form to use another adaptor’s aura without express permission. Adaptors had better reason than most to be touchy about privacy issues. But, honestly, how else could I get the car? Billy had made sure the attendants wouldn’t let anybody but him near his baby. When you really thought about it, I’d
had
to do it.

Satisfied my reasoning was sound (well, sound enough), I put the car in reverse and eased it out of the parking place, glad none of the parking attendants were around to see how gingerly I was maneuvering—that wouldn’t be in character for Billy at all. Fortunately, I had three levels of driving in circles to perfect my technique before anyone was likely to see me. Easy-peasy.

I was leaning back and driving one-handed by the time I got to the exit, and waved casually as I passed the pudgy young man in the booth. Since I knew Billy paid by the month, I didn’t bother to stop, even though it might have been a good idea, seeing as how the gate wasn’t all the way up.

The sound of metal on metal reverberated in my head like the screech of a banshee.

Shit!
I slammed on the brakes and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. After a brief pause I heard the awed voice of the kid in the booth. “Damn, Mr. Doyle. Look at your car!”

I forced my eyes open and surveyed the damage. The decorative twin ridges on the hood now had distinctive, paint-free gouges from the front of the car to just shy of the windshield. I swallowed, wondering if I had time to stop for touch-up paint on the way to the lake.

“I have some red fingernail polish my girlfriend left here…” the kid ventured helpfully. Maybe he was psychic.

I sighed. “Thanks anyway, but I don’t think a manicure is going to cover it,” I said, while in the back of my head my mother’s voice echoed:
God punishes right away
. No shit.

*   *   *

I got out of the city with no further vehicular mishaps. After the kid had lifted the gate—there was no damage to
it
, thank goodness—I told him I’d appreciate it if he never reminded “me” of the incident, and slipped him one of the hundred-dollar bills I’d borrowed from Billy’s closet safe. (What? I was going to pay him back. Someday. Probably after I collected my final payment from Mina.
If
I finished the freaking job, which I needed the borrowed Benjamins to do. So I
had
to take the money. If I didn’t, I’d never be able to pay it back.)

As soon as I was safely out of the city I stopped at the nearest rest area, found a stall in a deserted ladies room, and changed both clothes and auras. Maria Rossi, one of my former clients, would be playing the part of the new hired help, giving me the excuse I needed to stick close to Mina until I knew the real Trey was safe.

Maria was an overripe peach of a woman, still beautiful despite the extra twenty pounds she carried, the silver in her hair, and the crow’s feet that framed her eyes. My job for her had been to reconnect with her estranged father before the old man died. Maria had been afraid the cantankerous old goat would leave his millions to his ancient cat in a fit of pique, instead of to her own blameless offspring. In spite of the blissful reconciliation I contrived, I still hadn’t been paid. I’d taken the job on spec, knowing Maria would only be able to afford my fee if the inheritance came through. (Yeah, business decisions like that might have a little something to do with my current financial situation.) As far as I knew, the old guy was still alive and kicking. I’m guessing the cat didn’t last long, though, once the real Maria got back into that house, so I did expect to collect my fee eventually.

In the meantime, I didn’t feel too bad about borrowing her aura as a down payment.

The family cabin in the Adirondacks (gifted to my fledgling business in a show of support from my parents) had been the ideal location to take us kids when we were first getting used to our aura-adapting abilities. Far away from the prying eyes of the public, we could practice changing auras, polishing our skills in private until we were sure of ourselves. The ability doesn’t spring into existence overnight—it appears gradually after puberty, and takes concerted effort to perfect.

I was about to turn onto the private road that led to the lake house compound when a small, black pickup truck cut me off. I jammed on the brakes and let loose with a string of Italian curse words as I skidded to a halt. In my line of work, you have to have a passing familiarity with a lot of languages, and colorful phrases come easily to me in times of stress. One mishap with Billy’s car was more than enough for me.

The man got out of his truck and strode toward me. He looked like a middle-aged gardener, weathered, but appealing enough in that worked-outside-your-whole-life kind of way. Probably a landscaper hired to do some seasonal work for one of the bigger estates around here. Maybe he was lost. Still, that was no reason to cut me off. I got out of the Chevy and slammed my door. “That’s a private road, mister, and you’re blocking my way,” I said. No point in mincing words.

He stopped a pace away. “Ciel, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with Thomas.”

Shit. “Mark? I thought you were looking for Trey.”

“I was. I
am
. But I wanted to check on Mina for myself.”

“Well, now that you know I’m on it, you can just toodle along. You know, save Trey, save my job. Both would be good.”

“Better idea—you head back home, and let me handle it from here.”

“No can do. Hilda’s expecting a new hire, and I’m it. Can’t disappoint her, now can I?”

I must have looked determined, because he didn’t push it. “Fine. We’ll give Hilda a two-fer.” Suddenly he was as Italian as Maria. Still middle-aged, but now drop-dead Mediterranean gorgeous.

“Mark, this isn’t necess—”

“It’s Gianpaolo. Now, what’s our last name,
cara mia
?”

*   *   *

Pete buzzed us through the electronically controlled gate after Mark gave him our phony names and told him that “the asparagus is good in Holland this time of year.” (What? You can’t tell me
anybody
would guess that pass phrase. Even Mark didn’t know it until I told him, and that’s saying something.)

Mark was at the wheel, having hidden his truck in the underbrush on the other side of the main road after transferring a small duffel bag to Billy’s trunk. (He’d insisted on driving the last leg down the private road because “Gianpaolo’s just that kind of macho guy.”) We’d reached a stalemate. After I told him about the Swede in the cigar shop, he was more determined than ever to check things out, and I wasn’t about to leave without seeing Mina for myself.

He parked the Chevy under a tree. God help the bird that dared poop on it, because I wasn’t in a forgiving mood where Billy’s car was concerned, and I knew how to make a slingshot.