The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (31 page)

I knock tentatively.

I don’t hear anyone, but what the heck, supposedly he’s waiting for me.

The room is dark. There are three monks in white hoods chanting in the corner. The gentle tinkling of their ring cymbals drowns out the soft drone of the plane’s engine.

But it can’t hide the gurgling sound of my new boss’s bowel cleanse.

Nor can the roomful of vanilla candles hide the odor emanating from a man whose every meal is some sort of green juice concoction.

And the fact that it’s happening behind a gauzy rainbow-hued sheet doesn’t make it any less grotesque.

His upper torso is bare. I feel sorry for the woman manscaping the rug on his back, because she’s a little too close to the action, if you catch my drift.

I’m sure she’s caught his, despite her facemask.

“Hi, I’m Lucy, your new calendar assistant.” I keep my head down, fixated on the GryPad. I’m sure I sound as if I have a cold, but that’s only because I’m trying hard to breathe through my mouth as I talk. “I’m supposed to go over the agenda for the evening.”

The woman sets down the razor to glare at me. “Now? Can’t you see we’re busy?” I recognize her as Doreen.

“Yes, but…well, Serenity was quite insistent.” There is an open valise under Gaylord’s massage table. It is monogrammed with the letters
GM
.

Gaylord’s key is probably in there.
 

 
“It’s okay,” Gaylord groans. “I need something to take my mind off the fact that these fucking monks are disemboweling me.” He motions for me to stand closer to him.
 

Lucky me.
 

I sidle in. Doreen takes this as an invitation to look over my shoulder.
 

“We should be on the tarmac in approximately thirty-three minutes,” I inform him. With my foot I inch the valise closer. “When we land, Serenity has allotted an hour for you to get settled in your cabin before you’ll take one-on-ones with a few of the early birds, who include—”

The names I read aren’t just the crème de la crème of Silicon Valley in the west to Silicon Alley (New York) in the east, but all the Silicon cities in between (Mountain for Denver; Hills for Austin; Slopes for Utah; Beach for Santa Monica; and, of course, Canal for Seattle).

“Afterward, there will be a meet-and-greet cocktail party with the early arrivals,” I continue. “Dinner is served promptly at eight. By then, the rest of the guests will be gathered. The chef will be carving wild boar, served with other island delicacies. The floor show is Beyoncé.”
 

I glance down, as if scrutinizing the memo. In truth, I’m looking in the valise.
 

I find what I seek—the golden key.

“Are you kidding me?” Gaylord stares back at Doreen. “Since when do I eat boar?”

“The PR staff says it’s buzz-worthy,” she explains. “
Wired
is sending a reporter to do a review of the food during the whole week. It’ll be in restaurants all over San Francisco by the end of the month.”

He grunts, “That’s just great! A week of crap like that, and I’ll be hooked up to this shit machine on the way back to Palo Alto.”
 

Suddenly, the monks’ cymbal symphony hits its crescendo. “You’ve reached metabolic transcendence,” Doreen murmurs to him.

“About damn time. I need a drink.” He takes the mirror she left on the table beside him and holds it up to see what’s going down the shit machine.

Not a pretty sight.

“Don’t stare,” she hisses at me.
 

No arguments there. I avert my eyes.

I avert my hand, too—into the valise.

Got it.
 

Two keys down, three to go.

 
“Okay, you can go.” Gaylord waves me away.

Gladly.
 

I’m almost at the door when he says, “Hey, you—stop right there!”

I freeze, but I’m afraid to turn around. Is he looking in his valise? I steel my shoulders and turn with a smile.

As it turns out, he’s looking at his manicure, thank goodness. “Anything else?” I ask.
 

“Yeah. Listen: I need you to set up my week in Burning Man—you know, with personal tours of the theme camps and the art installations. And make sure I get front row seating for all the musical events, and of course on the night of the big burn. And I want my costumes to be original! See if the guy with all the Tonys—you know, William Ivey Long—can whip some up for me.”
 

I nod as I click furiously on the GryPad’s digital keyboard. In fact, I’m writing REDRUM REDRUM REDRUM.

Even Gaylord can’t hear himself over the gurgle of his lower GI tract. He shouts, “Also, book me into the orgy dome every day, and for Spanky’s Wine Bar every night, along with at least three other happenings. In fact, talk to Elon Musk’s calendar girl. See if you can get your hands on his itinerary. I’m sure he won’t mind if I hang with him.”

The monks are chanting so furiously now. I guess they don’t like the sound of his bowel evacuation, either.
 

“Regarding my Burning Man accommodations,” Gaylord gasps over the chanting and the flushing. “I’ve got Skidmore, Owens & Merrill sending over the architectural plans for my yurt. Remind them that I don’t like the damn sand fleas, so it’s got to be at least three stories, all air-conditioned. Last year they forgot to add the electrified security gate—you know, to keep out the hippies. It almost ruined the whole experience for me!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Oh, and see if that chef from the Spotted Pig, April Bloomfield, will sign on for the whole week. And this time around I want three personal sherpas. That way, if the first two pass out from the heat, I’ve got another backup. And arrange accommodations for my facialist, my masseuse, my manicurist, and my hair stylist. I don’t want to look like one of those burner bums who have nothing better to do than hang out on the playa! An RV will do. They can share it. Oh, and I guess we’ll need a tent or something for Moe, Larry and Curly here.” He points to the monks.

I tap furiously on my GryPad screen, as if getting this all down. Actually, what I’m writing is:

BURNING MAN: MUST EXPERIENCE IT IN THE RAW. ONLY NEED A TENT AND WEEK’S WORTH OF PLAIN WATER AND BEEF JERKY.

With a tap, the note is forwarded to Serenity.
 

Gaylord pauses in thought then adds, “Jesus, about tonight—I almost forgot the most important thing! Hand me the Lark’s guest list again.”
 

I try to do this without looking directly at him and miss his hand completely.
 

He snorts as he snatches it from me. With his index finger, he highlights five names. “I’m having a private confab at eleven tonight—in my cabin. Find these five guests’ rooms. I want a personal note, hand delivered—understand? To them, not an underling! When you do so, ask them if they have any special needs for the meeting. More than likely, they will. They always do. Memorize it verbatim, but don’t write it down! I don’t need my friends’ wish lists showing up in Sam Biddle’s next column. Afterward, check back with Serenity regarding their requests.”
 

“Sure, no problem,” I assure him.

I wait until I’m out of there to look at the list. I’m not at all surprised to see Milton Otis’s name, or those of our other three suspects.

The fifth one is identified as Charles Babbage.
 

Who the hell is that, and what is his role in all this? Just what we need—one more stranger in the mix.

The monks rise, replacing their cymbals with rubber gloves. Smart move.

As they unplug him, we hit an air pocket, and shit goes flying.
 

Ladies and gents, this is not just a figure of speech.

Timing couldn’t have been worse. He has just stood up. His sheet falls to the ground. I avert my eyes, but it’s too late. I can’t but help noticing that Doreen’s manscaping is incomplete. His treasure trail is still scraggly. His junk is hidden somewhere in that bush.

Maybe her true talents lay elsewhere.

Each of Gaylord’s special guests has been given a private cabin, as opposed to a room in the lodge. All of the cabins are spaced far enough away from each other to allow for privacy. Each one has a spectacular view of the sea and the necklace of islands that make up the San Juans.

The one hard fast rule about the Lark is that any personal assistants and body guards brought ashore can never go beyond the boat houses that rim the island. There, they are free to relax when they aren’t assigned to a shift of watching the security cameras in search of boats or planes carrying unwanted intruders.

No security cameras are pointed toward the resort itself, and cell phones or other wireless devices aren’t allowed, so that guests have absolute privacy. Overheard conversations can make or break the stock prices of their companies. If being disconnected from the rest of the world doesn’t drive these perpetually-connected guests crazy, at least it gives them a legitimate excuse to unplug—if only for a few days.

In case anyone is watching, I’ll hit Milton’s (aka, Jack’s) cabin last. I’ll make my next-to-last stop that of Mr. Babbage’s so that I can take a few pictures of his face to run through Acme’s facial recognition software.

My first stop is the cabin of the Russian tech entrepreneur, Ivan Surkov. He opens the door wearing only a towel and a smirk. Eying me from bottom to top—well, almost to my face, until he gets waylaid around the chesticle area—he mutters, “You are less than desirable. Not big enough on top.”
 

Pointedly, I eye the towel—specifically around the testicle area—and cluck my tongue.
 

His glower only makes me smile as I go into my spiel. “Gaylord is requesting your presence for a private meeting at his cabin—eleven o’clock tonight, after dinner. He says you’re already versed on the topic at hand.”

Ivan shrugs. “Yes, of course.”

“He also wants to know if there is anything you’ll need, in preparation of the meeting,” I add.

“A hooker—someone with more boob.” He cups mine, and hefts them to gauge their perceived inadequacies.

I suppress the urge to cup his inadequacies and squeeze tightly.

Instead, I shrug. “There are plenty of boobs around. Consider it done.”

He grunts as he closes the door in my face.

The cabin belonging to Ji Wong, the Chinese Internet browser entrepreneur, is next. When I knock on the door, he shouts, “Enter!”

He is lying on the floor with a towel draped over his ass. “To crack back, yes?”

“Er…no. I’m here to deliver a message from Gaylord.”

Disappointed, he starts to rise. The towel slips.

“No, no! No need to get up! Feel free to stay as you were!” I turn my head toward the window. “Gaylord would be honored if you joined him after dinner, for a private gathering of a select few. Eleven o’clock, promptly.”

“Ah, yes.” He frowns. “It is I who am honored.”

“I will relay that message to him. In the meantime, is there anything you’d like?”

He looks down at my feet for the longest time. Finally, he shrugs and motions me to him. “They are too big—like a clown’s feet, alas.”

“Yes, alas.” Since when does Bozo wear a size nine A-width? He’s a size thirteen, at the very least!
 

All of a sudden, Ji Wong’s back looks like the perfect place to practice my jumping jacks.
 

Instead, I bow my way out the door with the promise, “I’ll see if I can find your perfect Cinderella.”
 

As if.
 

Abdullah Ahmad’s cabin is on the other side of the resort. By the time I get there, I know what to expect: another naked mogul, trying to be one with nature. I knock carefully.
 

Instead, I’m happy when I find Abdullah dressed for a round of golf. He smiles wide when he sees me. “Ah! They say no hookers on the island, but here you are—and just in time to join me in the shower!”

What is it about me that exudes
whore
? It can’t be the button-down oxford shirt and khaki Capris.

“Sorry, no, I’m only here to deliver a message from Gaylord. He asks that you join him after dinner for a private meeting, at eleven. In preparation for the gathering, is there anything you may need?”

“I am fully prepared.” He frowns. “But for next time, tell him
hookers
.”

“Sure, I’ll pass it along.” Even before I’m through saying this, he slams the door in my face.

That does it.
 
If the next dude comments on my tits, ass, feet, or any other part of my body, he won’t be feeling well enough to go to the cocktail party, let alone dinner or the eleven o’clock shindig.

I knock gently. Nothing. Then again, this time louder.
 

Maybe he’s out?

I guess I should wait. I have strict orders to deliver the message.

I’m still thinking it over when, suddenly, the door opens. A woman is heading out. She still has her back to me as her laugh deepens into a seductive purr. “I can do that easily—with my tongue, in fact. But you’ll have to make it worth my while.”