The Sudden Star (24 page)

She rose and followed him out of the room. As they walked through the carpeted hallway to Giorgiados's office, Roth took her arm. "I think you got lucky, Gilberto. Looks like a good job." He grinned, showing the gaps in his teeth. She forced herself to grin back. Moe, however patronizing he was, had been on her side, recommending her to his boss after seeing her show her stuff in the gym and on the range. He opened a door and ushered her into the office.

Giorgiados was behind his desk, his sandaled feet propped up on the gray metal expanse. His moustache twitched as he waved his arm at a chair, signaling to Ortega to sit down. She sat, resting her hand on her thigh near the revolver at her waist.

On the other side of the room, opposite her, a pale young woman dressed in violet reclined on the furry white couch. She stared calmly at Ortega with violet eyes. Moe Roth left the room, closing the door.

Giorgiados puffed on a cigar, filling the room with foul-smelling smoke. Removing it from his lips, he waved it at the pale young woman. "Gilberto, I want you to meet Isabeau Rasselle. We're very honored to have her here. For some reason, she's decided she wants a female bodyguard. So you can have the job."

"Almost everybody has male bodyguards," the Rasselle woman said languidly. "Who knows, I might start a new fashion." Ortega watched her, sure the woman wasn't as simple-minded as she appeared. She'd heard the woman's name before, but she couldn't recall where. "I'll try you for a week," the woman went on, "and we'll see how it goes." She got up, smoothing her long dress, and moved toward the door, swaying her hips.

"I want to speak to Gilberto about the job," Giorgiados said, pulling his feet off his desk. "It'll just be a minute, and I'll send her out to you." Isabeau Rasselle nodded and left.

"Close the door," Giorgiados said to Ortega. She got up and closed it. She came back and stood in front of the desk. "You're lucky, Gilberto. Miss Rasselle's father is probably the richest man here. Now this job could be worthwhile for both of us, so don't fuck up." She was annoyed at him for even questioning her competence. "I think you can handle it. It won't be much work for you. The Rasselles have several of their own bodyguards, so the only reason she could want you is, as she said, to set a fashion. But keep your eyes open, you might learn something, inform me if you do."

She said, "You don't have to tell me that." She had never been quite sure whether Giorgiados was running a bodyguard business or a company of spies.

"Don't get smart with me, girl." He spat out the word contemptuously. She gritted her teeth. "Isabeau Rasselle is going to marry Titus Echeverria, and Titus is a guy worth watching. So you just be careful, and nice to the lady, and remember that I gave you a chance when no other agency would. You fuck me up, and you'll never work again."

"I understand," she said calmly, while her mind raced. She now recalled what she had heard about Isabeau Rasselle. Giorgiados waved her away. She turned and left, wondering if she was walking right into a trap. There was nothing she could do about it even if she was. She went back through the hallway and out to where Isabeau Rasselle was waiting.

Isabeau Rasselle's home was a sprawling one-story structure with Moorish arches. It surrounded an enclosed courtyard thick with palm trees and hibiscus, overgrown with weeds. Kathleen Ortega felt she knew the courtyard all too well. She had spent several afternoons there, standing over Isabeau as she sat under a large umbrella conversing with friends.

She thought about the house, and Isabeau, as she moved quickly through the streets toward her hotel. The streets were dark; there wasn't enough power to light the neon signs that hung uselessly overhead or above doorways. She passed a gang of boys; a mounted policeman watched them from across the street. She turned a corner and passed what had once been a parking lot; it was now dotted with tents. A man and a woman sat in front of one of the tents nearest the sidewalk. Two little boys wrestled on the sidewalk. Ortega stepped around them; one of them stuck out his foot, trying to trip her. She kicked him and he retreated, whining at the woman near the tent, who only stared passively at Ortega.

Ortega disliked the tent settlement, having the feeling it was half-filled with crazies. She had heard their howls at night from the hotel. Once the police had come and herded away a few; another time, one man had gone berserk, shooting five people before the police arrived to shoot him.

Laziness and craziness; this city had a lot of both. No one, Ortega thought, seemed to have his wits about him. She was used to New York, having to keep alert every minute. Here, the sun and the sea air drained people; they spoke and moved more slowly. Already grass and weeds were sprouting in the streets and along cracks in the sidewalks; the sea was threatening the beaches, sometimes rising to the walls that protected the buildings near it. Ortega imagined it sweeping over Miami Beach, washing away the houses and hotels, leaving only sand and palm trees. The only pockets of energy were the crazies, who roamed the streets and the beaches. Most of the large hotels had fenced off their beaches to protect their guests; no one with any sense went to the public beaches.

Ortega crossed the street to her hotel, a tall crumbling structure on the corner across from the tent settlement. A few people sat in worn chaise longues on the porch near the door. A dark-haired young woman roamed among them, trying to sell jewelry made of shells. This would be Ortega's last night here. Isabeau had promised her at least another month of work, and Ortega was to move to the Rasselle house tomorrow. She had been sent back here to pick up her things.

She stopped by the pushcart in front of the hotel and bought a beer. She gulped the warm liquid thirstily. After a week with Isabeau Rasselle, she had learned nothing, not even any useful gossip for Giorgiados, who was beginning to wonder if she was holding something back. Isabeau did nothing of any interest. She got up late, entertained guests in the courtyard, went shopping, went to a party or two at night. Ortega never went to the parties because Titus Echeverria always sent someone for Isabeau. But something about the blond woman bothered her; once, she had caught Isabeau observing her, with a cold curious look totally unlike her usual expression of indifference and boredom. It was odd. People didn't often pay much attention to bodyguards.

Ortega finished the beer, hurried up the steps to the lobby, and paused at the door. Her neck prickled. The tiny lobby was different tonight, emptier. Two old men sat in a corner next to a rubber plant. The night manager, a tall, big-boned woman with graying hair, sat in back of the desk, reading a comic. Ortega bent her shoulders a bit and ambled inside and over to the desk. She leaned on it, feigning a tired yawn. The night manager put down her comic and looked up. Her eyes widened slightly. She heaved herself off the stool to get Ortega's room key.

Ortega said, "I'm checking out tomorrow morning." The manager paused, then turned toward her. There was an expression in her eyes that Ortega couldn't read. She yawned again while watching the woman from lowered lids. "I'll pay you now, all right?"

The manager smiled broadly. "I have to get the records, I'll be back in a minute." She disappeared into the nearby office. Ortega glanced quickly at the two old men. They were still absorbed in their card game. She leaned over the desk, peering at the keys hanging on the wall. There should have been three keys there for room 207, her room. There were only two.

The manager came out of the office. Ortega signed the bill and paid the woman. "You hafta be out by noon," the manager said, handing Ortega a key. "You can give this to Davey tomorrow. I hope you enjoyed your stay. Would you like to leave a forwarding address?"

"No." Ortega pocketed the key. "Is the elevator still out of order?"

The manager shrugged apologetically. Ortega crossed the lobby and opened the door to the stairwell. She closed it. The stairwell was only dimly lighted. She listened for a moment and heard nothing. She pulled out her revolver and put a silencer on the barrel. Her thoughts raced. Isabeau had sent her here to get her things. She had known she would be here. She crept up the stairs silently. She had nothing in the room except a few clothes; she kept her jewels in her belt and her papers in her pocket. She did not have to go to the room at all. But she had to settle this business now, send a message to whoever was after her that she would not be that easy to kill. She ground her teeth; whoever it was must think her very stupid. She went up the next flight and stopped by the door, pressing her ear against it. At least one person had to be in her room; she hoped another wasn't waiting in the hall. She crouched, pulled the door open, and rolled quickly into the hallway. It was empty.

Breathing more easily, she put her revolver away. She longed to use it on Isabeau Rasselle, or that bitch downstairs, who probably would have already called upstairs to the room if the intercom system had been working. She leaned against the wall, considering her options. Her room was at the other end of the hall, just around the corner.

She walked quietly over the cracked linoleum and stopped at room 215. She knocked on the door and waited. At last it opened. A young brown-haired man, his shirt open to the waist, stared at her and smiled.

"Well, hello," he said.

"Hello," she answered. She searched for words; she wasn't very good at this. She tried to smile.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, I think I want the same thing you do. I've got some time. Nights get lonely. I hope you aren't busy."

He narrowed his eyes. "You sure as hell weren't so friendly when I made the moves last week."

"I changed my mind."

"Well, all
right."
He put a hand on her. She forced herself not to pull away, hating the feel of it. "Come on in."

"Let's go to my room, I've got some gin."

"I got gin."

"Listen," she said, "it's a thing I have. I like to be in my own room."

He shrugged. He went back inside, got his key, and came back out, locking the door. They went down the hall. He put his arm around her waist and gave it a squeeze. Sickened, she forced herself to rub his back, then handed him her key. They rounded the corner. They stopped in front of her door. He released her and began to unlock it. She stepped behind him and put her hand on her gun. He opened the door and went inside. She flattened herself against the wall as a hand with a gun came down on the man's head, knocking him to the ground.

He seemed to crumble slowly, falling forward. Ortega grabbed the hand and pulled it, hurling the assassin across the room. The figure fell against the dresser, yelping in pain. Ortega aimed and fired, aided by the dim lighting in the hall. She heard a moan. She fired again at where the head should be. The room was silent. She waited.

She heard footsteps in the hall. She pulled the man inside, then closed the door, kicking it with her foot. She scurried to the night table next to the bed and turned on a lamp.

A woman's body sat against the dresser. Her hands were over her bloody chest. Under the hole in her forehead, her gray eyes stared blankly at Ortega. The footsteps were closer now. She aimed her gun at the door, then recognized the shuffling limp of an old man who lived down the hall. She heard him shuffle by, then stop to unlock his own door.

She crawled over to the young man. She leaned over him. His breathing seemed shallow. She checked his pulse. It beat feebly. He was badly injured, she realized gratefully. She would not have to waste a bullet finishing him off. She got up and stared at her would-be killer. The woman must have been an amateur, a free-lance, coming here like this.

She paced the tiny room. Now she had two bodies to worry about and no assurance the woman had acted alone. She could have an associate outside. The night manager might have been only bribed, or might be more involved. She could not go out through the lobby. She clasped her hands, took several deep breaths, and felt better.

There was no problem, no problem at all. She was on the second floor, she could go out the window. She went to the bed, pulled out her knife, and cut a slit in the mattress. She picked up the bottle of gin on the night table and sprinkled the sheets, then took a swig. She went to the window and opened it, gauging the distance to the ground. There was soft grass below; a small path led to the street. It seemed quiet.

She turned back, pulled out some matches, lit one, and tried to get a fire going in the mattress. She had to light several before it finally began to smolder. Before anyone would be able to piece things together, she would at least buy some time. She waited, forcing herself to be patient. At last she saw flames. By the time anyone noticed the fire, the room would be ablaze, the wood furniture burning.

She went out the window, hung by her hands, then let go. She dropped to the ground and felt a twinge in her foot. She leaned over and felt it; she had only pulled a muscle. Then she ran.

Isabeau Rasselle had told her to be back at the house in the morning. Ortega waited in a rickshaw across the street, wondering what she was going to do, staring at the palm trees that almost hid the house from her view. It was morning; her eyelids felt gritty. The smart thing would be to hide out. Coming here was risky, but she longed for a confrontation, and she doubted anyone was looking for her in this neighborhood. At any rate, she had the advantage; Isabeau, if she knew anything, would assume she was dead.

An old car was chugging up the road. Ortega slouched under the hood of the rickshaw, hiding her face. The puller sat on the curb, drinking a beer. The car, an old blue Lincoln, powered by hydrogen, gasped to a stop. It was one of Echeverria's cars; she'd seen it before. Isabeau got out and the car pulled away, turning to go back down the curving street. Isabeau was coming home late from another party.