Kicking It(74)

—

That was where the booty shorts came in. It was also how I came to be waiting for my drink order at a bar made of glass block like you’d see in a shower. It might have been cool but for the blue light behind it that had me expecting my Close Encounter of the Third Kind any minute.

Unfortunately, a guy seated in my section, whom I’d dubbed Mr. Musk—for obvious reasons—wanted a close encounter of his own. If he wasn’t careful, it was going to be with the heel of my boot. As satisfying as that would be, it wouldn’t get me any closer to payday, or to my quarry.

According to Marta, Gareth had called, claiming to be pulling another all-nighter at the lab. Tonight I was going to get intel for her on what he was really up to. I’d thought I’d have greater access as an employee than as a random mark off the street, but so far all I had to show for my efforts were blisters on my feet, bruises on my butt from men’s pinching fingers, and some seriously high blood pressure. I understood exactly why my predecessor had quit. I was counting the minutes until my first break, and then I planned on doing some serious reconnaissance. Already I was coming to know the patterns, and noticing that one of the bouncers disappeared frequently to deal with what I assumed to be overactive-bladder issues. But Red—he was the ultimate immovable object.

Until she walked out from the off-limits area. My precog went off like a slot machine that had come up sevens across the board, and Red actually stepped away from his post for a word with her. She wore big black aviator sunglasses that matched her shiny black dress, which was fitted at the top to show off considerable skin and then flared, longer in the back than in the front and with a kind of bustle or hoop to bell it out around her backside. She looked like Trinity from The Matrix all dressed up for a costume ball. Yet, strangely, it worked for her, probably because the power rolling off her in waves kept her from being overwhelmed by her couture, making it complement instead of clash. At a guess, this was her Parlor . . . And all the men and women merely players. Wow, it wasn’t often that my brain defaulted to Shakespeare. Macbeth at that . . . not a good sign.

I looked away as her gaze swept the room, for some reason not wanting to catch her eye. That precog again, warning me. I still didn’t know what the danger was, but I now had a crystal clear idea of where it emanated from. As one of the two harried bartenders leaned close to take my drinks order, I asked him first, “That the boss?” I twitched my head in her direction.

The bartenders got to wear skintight silver pants that were, if possible, even worse than the short shorts. This one had shot glasses strung on bandoliers across his impressive chest. It was the oddest look. Mad Max meets Starlight Express. His chocolate brown eyes flickered toward the lady in question. “Yup. What can I get you?”

“She looks like a hard-ass. And sunglasses in here—is she kidding?”

The bartender huffed impatiently. “Do you have drink orders for me or are you just trying to chat me up? I don’t have time for this.”

So much for my womanly wiles. Christie would be so disappointed.

I gave him my order rather than blow my cover, and I watched the lady work the room as I waited. She air-kissed those who greeted her, slid her hand familiarly over the shoulders of others—regulars, I guessed—who were too focused on what they were doing to pay her any attention. She stopped by a table or two, exchanging meaningful glances and sometimes nods with the dealers, and then she slipped back into the off-limits area toward the back, as silently as she’d entered.

I had to get back there, past Red and whatever other security there might be. I didn’t have what it took to make their invitation-only games, but I bet I knew who did. Apollo Demas. Actor, agent, and general pain in my ass.

—

Gareth never made it home that night, not even in the wee hours of the morning. A frantic Marta called me at six a.m., a mere few hours after I’d gotten off shift and wound down enough to sleep. In the old days, before I’d pissed off some of the greater gods, I might not even have heard the phone, but with my new unasked-for powers of perception, I reached for it before it even rang. The opening notes of Santana’s “Oye Como Va” played out as I struggled to focus and find the right fingering on the phone to accept the call. I did it with probably milliseconds to spare and said a groggy “’Ello.”

The tears came through first. “He never came home!” Marta wailed. “I know I called him a cheating bastard, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want him back. And I never called him that to his face. Do you think he’s left me? What did you find? Is she young? And pretty? And, oh, God, Tori, you have to help me. Tell him . . . just tell him . . .”