One Night (3 page)

“Two, without telling anyone, you dump the number one moneymaker to interview a small-time professor, hoping you can remind people that once upon a time you were a serious journalist.”

She cleared her throat. “I didn’t ask for motivation, Kelly, just the high points.”

“You apparently give the guy the whole two hours because you want to score some points with the people attending a dull conference. People who are probably not listening.”

“I don’t need your speculation, either.”

“Three, you have royally ticked off the bosses.”

Kit opened her eyes.
“
Ticked
off? Oh, honey, ouch.” She smiled. “What should we do?”

Under the heat of her cheerfully expectant gaze I dropped my head and looked down at my bare urchin feet.

“Nice dress,” my aunt murmured, following my gaze. “New, isn’t it? You know, I think I have some sandals that would be perfect—”

“Kit, what’s next? You have to decide.”

She thought a bit. “Simone Sanchez. We work on her and make her happy.”

I nodded. “Be a peacemaker, just like the warlords meeting over at the university. And how do you plan to do this?”

She flipped and caught a pencil with her claw. “Oh, no, you’re the one who did all the research on her, Kelly. That part’s for you.”

*

Dakota City is a small town. The numbers might add up to Big City, but don’t let that fool you. Want proof? Three million people, but only one hotel ritzy enough for potentates and movie stars.

The Poppy Hotel was thick with thugs—swarming with security guys intent on protecting the leaders and diplomats of every nation on earth, or at least every nation that wanted to be seen as concerned about peace in yet another war-torn small country in Eastern Europe. The local police had set up a security check at the hotel, and, patiently, I went through metal detectors, smiled while they checked my name against a list, waited cheerfully while they placed a phone call to the room upstairs to verify a final time that I was expected. A pair of Dakota City cops was handling everything, but they were being watched by what had to be a multinational phalanx of dark suits.

Before they ran the wand over me, I handed over the bag I was carrying. Kit had told me not to bother with gift-wrapping. She’d warned me that I and anything I was carrying or even wearing would be subjected to maximum security. No lie. I was fine with the wand, the questions, the close and skeptical scrutiny of my wallet and KLIP ID. I didn’t even squawk when they confiscated my cell phone, a cop explaining apologetically that all electronic devices that hadn’t been pre-screened would have to be held until I returned from the twentieth floor. Fine. But I must have made a noise when they started in on the gift I was taking to Simone Sanchez, because suddenly all the dark-suited men stiffened and stepped close.

“It’s a rare book,” I said. “It’s fragile.”

The Dakota City cop looked it over and then handed it to his partner, who scanned it with a wand and riffled the pages.

“A kid’s book?” she said.

“A rare kid’s book,” I replied. “Rare and expensive.” Probably twice as expensive as it really should be, because the dealer had sniffed out my desperation.

“You’re taking a kid’s book to Simone Sanchez? A used one?” The cop shrugged, then handed the book over to the nearest dark-suited thug. Then it got passed around, and one by one they made a show of personally examining
Little Girl, Big River.

After they finally handed back the book, two guards escorted me to the elevator in the Center of the lobby. I balked. “When we called, her people said we should take the private elevator. They said to come up that way. I’m expected on that one.”

Simultaneously they pointed at this elevator just as the door slid open. My escorts were twins: both tall, big, and mean-looking. Deciding I wasn’t really in the mood for argument, I stepped into the elevator with them right behind. The one on my left did the buttons while the other one watched me. I hugged the gift bag.

Just as the door started to close, two well-dressed and very tan shoppers rushed toward the elevator, their Neiman Marcus bags banging against their legs. “Hold please,” the man called while his companion popped her mouth open and closed in silent distress. One of my guards held up his hand, palm out, and said, “Sorry.” Outside the elevator, yet another suit stepped into view, barring their entrance. The elevator door closed and we began the smooth ascent.

“How come they don’t need an escort?” I asked.

No answer.

“Should I have put the book in a Neiman bag? Flashed cash? Worn different shoes?”

The guy on my left was watching me with mask-like disinterest. I widened my stare, daring him to look down past the tasteful, cleverly belted dress to my feet, now clad sensibly in a pair of gleaming white, never-used Nikes I’d found in my aunt’s office.

His pal cleared his throat. “They were going to a different floor.”

We reached the twentieth floor—the special floor—in seconds. The door opened and the thugs nudged me out. Not surprisingly, it was no ordinary hotel corridor with a long row of doors. This was penthouse country and there were only two doors: one to my left and one to my right. The thugs nudged me to the left, 20-B. I looked over my shoulder at 20-A, wondering who was staying there and why they merited this security. No doubt one of the powerbrokers arguing impotently about peace. Thug Number One nudged me yet again, trying to move me along. I stopped and faced the jerk. “Don’t touch me,” I said “Don’t ever touch me again.”

*

During my first dance with heroin, every now and then I slept in dark places in a favorite park. This wasn’t your stereotypical homeless junkie crash, a sorry public collapse at the edge of an OD. I had a home with my mother and stepfather, and more often than not I snorted and nodded in the pastel splendor of my own securely locked bedroom. But sometimes nature-loving me (admittedly, she’s easily confused with impatient, craving, can’t-wait-to-get-home me) preferred the park. And one time I woke up to find some walking grunting blob of body odor digging through my backpack-pillow with one hand while his other hand struggled to get under and up my sweatshirt. The guy was huge and no doubt loaded on something, maybe insanity, and was intent on both working me over and ripping me off.

I sat up, or as up as I could get with his giant paw pressed against me, and said, “Get off me now; I’m going to hurt you.”

A rapist or a killer wouldn’t have been dissuaded, but Bigfoot was. He ran, fast, something in my voice and eyes showing him I meant business. My growling voice and glow-in-the-dark violet eyes.

Or maybe it was simply the sharp point of the switchblade attached to the charm bracelet on my left wrist.

*

The security guy nodded. “Sorry,” he said.

I cradled the gift bag in my left arm and rubbed that bare wrist with my right hand. No one messed with me. Ever.

His pal had already knocked on 20-B. It swung open, and there she was: Simone Sanchez, the great lady herself, her world-famous face contorted by an award-winning scowl. Right behind her were two more dark suits, one male, one female, Jack and Jill bodyguards. Simone Sanchez looked at each of my escorts, then glared at me as she yanked me on the arm and pulled me in. She slammed the door, shutting them out, and said, “This had better be good; I was about to get a massage.”

I’ve been doing this job for six months, ever since I was released from the halfway house and got permission to work unsupervised. Kit’s show is a must for people grinding out publicity, and she gets the full range of guests. I’ve researched them all and met quite a few. Not much surprises me now, and even less interests me.

Simone Sanchez grabbed my interest on the spot. It wasn’t because she’s been famous for longer than I’ve been alive. And it wasn’t because I’m generally interested in people who grab hold of their lives and change them, somehow morphing into something new, maybe turning Judy Podolski of Boise, Idaho, into Simone Sanchez, star of the world. And it sure wasn’t because this big shot celebrity was nearly naked under a gaping robe, her well-publicized implanted breasts pointing here and there.

It was the skin. A tabloid hea
dlin
e rolled through my head: Film diva battles midlife acne; aliens blamed for outbreak.

Who knew? Movie makeup must really be magic.

But that’s the reality of being an ex-junkie gofer: Everyone you meet gets reduced to something banal. The movie star with bad skin. The radio host with one arm. The retired vice president who goes nuts over sick trees. Even Meryl Streep. I’d always thought she was this serious older actress, but she did Kit’s show when she was in town promoting a movie, and now I know that—

“Delivery Girl? Hello, Delivery Girl.
Wake up,
Delivery Girl.”

The solid gold voice yanked me out of the daydream riff. I felt the bag in my hand and took a breath. “Ms. Sanchez, Kit Carpenter extends—”

“Oh, please, don’t tell me she apologizes.”

Okay, lady, I won’t.

“I didn’t miss a thing by sleeping late today, Delivery Girl. I don’t need Kit Carpenter; she needs me.”

A smart ex-junkie gofer would have agreed, handed the old book to the movie star, and gotten out of there. But I said, “No, she doesn’t.”

Honest, the suits behind her stiffened. I guess anything less than complete obsequiousness must be a threat. One even patted his suit coat. An automatic gesture, no doubt, but I wondered if maybe he would’ve pulled a gun if I’d actually insulted her, if I’d said something like, Hey, lady, ever hear of benzoyl peroxide?

Simone tapped my arm. Weird: She was all smiles. “So the delivery girl has brass balls, just like the lady she works for.” The female suit leaned in and whispered in the star’s ear. Her eyebrows shot up upon receiving whatever information was relayed. She tilted her head, then Jill Bodyguard whispered a second dose of dirt.

I knew what it was. Simone moved closer and her eyes searched mine.

Never fails. They always do it. Once anyone knows, they check it out. Are you clean? Are you high? The eyes don’t lie. I suppose for the rest of my life people who know will check it out. And because I live with a woman who talks to the world for two hours a day, plenty of people know.

Simone stepped back. “Tell your aunt she needn’t apologize. I admire those brass balls, in radio jocks or delivery girls. Besides, this way I got to have breakfast with my daughter and her friends before they ran off to your monster mall.” She held out a hand. “My staff told me you were bringing me something.”

I gave her the bag. Simone Sanchez unhooked her eyes from mine, reached in, and pulled out the book. She gasped. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “Oh, my.” Then she gathered her robe closed with one hand and clutched the book to her chest with the other. She turned and walked to the first chair she came to and dropped into it. “I don’t have this one, not the first edition. I’ve found all the other firsts in the series, but not this one.” She beckoned. Her people stepped aside, allowing me to approach. “How did you know I didn’t have it? How did you know?”

“It was a safe bet. Apparently hardly anyone owns this one.”

A man dressed in white entered the living area through a door. “Madame? Your massage?”

“Henri, look:
Little Girl, Big River,
a first edition. Now I have the entire series in first editions. All of them, Henri. I have them all.”

He stepped to her side. “I loved that show. The pioneer girl, yes?”

Simone made a sharp noise. “That wretched television show.” She looked at me. “These books helped me survive a miserable childhood in Boise. They’re why I came to Minnesota when I ran away at sixteen.” She gave me a very slow once-over. “But I just bet you know all about me, don’t you, Delivery Girl?”

“Of course I don’t, Ms. Sanchez. But it is my job to do research for my aunt, and I do dig deep to find any information that might be useful for her interviews. Most of it I file away up here.” I tapped my head. “You never know what might be useful.”

“And how did you know that I loved these books? How did you know that fact and know it was
useful
?”

“There’s a very active local fan club for the books. Kit’s had some of them on the show a couple of times. That’s how I’ve learned about the books, especially this rare one. And they’ve done some name-dropping—famous people who like them, that sort of thing.”

Simone set
Little Girl
on her lap and laid both hands on top of it. “I hear from those women; they send me their newsletters. So you’re saying that Kit Carpenter dumps me but she’s had them on more than once?”

I smiled. “She read the books as a girl. The women amuse her. And they weren’t ever competing with a peace forum.”

Simone looked at the book, now back in her hands, then looked at me. “I presume she wants to reschedule me.”

“Yes, very much. I’m supposed to ask for tomorrow morning.”

She shook her head. “Not the day of a show. She’s missed her chance to have me in-studio, but I’ll do a remote. Sooner, rather than later, I think.” She shrugged. “We haven’t sold out Phoenix. Before then.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not that I need Kit Carpenter.”