The Sudden Star (23 page)

She heard voices in the hallway. Simon was talking to someone. His door closed and she heard muffled footsteps on the stairs. Curious about who was seeing him so late, she went into her bedroom and peered out the window facing the street.

A dark, hooded shape scurried around the corner of the building toward the street. It paused for a moment, twisting from side to side, then ran to the curb and stopped. The hood was thrown back for a moment before the figure proceeded across the street, alone, without a bodyguard.

Even in the dim light, Aisha had seen who it was. The silvery hair was Isabeau Rasselle's.

Simon opened the door, and Aisha marched in, noticing that he was shirtless. She strode over to the far corner of the waiting room and sat down. A nearly empty bottle of wine was on the table near her. Two glasses were next to it.

Simon slammed the door and perched on the desk across from her. In the dim light, his face was almost feral. He had shaved off his beard in early spring, spending several days in the sun, evening out his tan. He looked meaner without the beard. He twisted his mouth into a half-smile and folded his arms. "I don't mind talking for a bit," he said. "But make it short. I have to get up early."

She said, "So do I. I wanted to tell you my good news. Werner Takaishi's taking care of me now. He'll give me all the money I need and I don't have to see anyone else. I probably won't come here in the mornings any more. There doesn't seem much point to it now, but I think you can get along without me."

"Good for you." He didn't seem to care. She realized she had hoped he would.

"I think I did awfully well, considering how long we've been here."

"I suppose you did. But you're still in the same business."

She caught her breath sharply. "As if you're any better." She searched her mind for words, for weapons. "You're seeing patients kind of late these days."

"Am I?" he said indifferently.

"I saw Isabeau Rasselle walk out of here a few minutes ago."

His head jerked back. His fingers were claws. "She wasn't feeling well."

"I don't believe it."

"She happened to be nearby, and she didn't feel well."

She narrowed her eyes, hating him. She grasped the chair's arms, knowing that if she stood up, she would rage out of control. "She wasn't feeling well," she said as evenly as she could, "so she came here, and you gave her some wine so she'd feel better. Then she left, without a bodyguard, with a hood over her head so no one would see her."

He said, "It's none of your fucking business."

"It is," she hissed. There was a knot inside her, blocking her throat. Her temples ached. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "Titus might find out, you know." Her voice was shaking. She swallowed. "If he finds out, we're in trouble. He might kill you."

"It has nothing to do with you."

"It does if he finds out, he'll think I knew about it, I live right across the hall. He won't act calm about it, he won't stop to think about whether I knew or not." She stopped, knowing her anger had nothing to do with Titus.

"He won't find out. Don't worry, I'm not stupid."

"Maybe I should tell him, at least that would clear me."

He came at her. She jumped up, trying to dodge him. He grabbed her arm and slapped her in the face. She reeled backward, falling on the sofa. He raised his arm again, then let it fall to his side. "You're a fool, Aisha." His voice was low. "He wouldn't believe you, and Isabeau would deny it, and he wants her so badly, her and her money and her respectability, that he'd listen to her. And I'm a doctor. I see women all the time, I'd deny your story, too. And I'd tell him just why you'd make up a story like that."

"Why would I?"

"Because you're jealous."

Her eyes stung. She sat up. "I'm not. I’m just looking out for myself."

"Be reasonable. You've got what you want. Play up to that businessman of yours and you'll do all right."

Her mouth tasted sour. She had been a fool, all right, thinking she would ever mean anything to him. "Just tell me something, then," she said wearily. "Why? Why are you seeing her, it could ruin you."

"I don't expect you to understand. I can't stop myself. That's how it is with me. She doesn't want Titus. She came here, I didn't ask her to, I guess she must have sensed it. I don't think about what it might mean."

"Oh, I understand." She got up, thinking of Arne's story about the Rasselles. Simon probably wouldn't believe that either. The best thing she could do was stay out, let it happen, guard herself. She opened the door and let herself out. Simon was still standing by the sofa when she closed it.

"I hate this place," Arne said. "It's much too stuffy and respectable."

"That's exactly why I picked it," Aisha replied. She nodded at Titus Echeverria as he passed her table with Sean Rasselle. He beamed at her, then disappeared into the private room in the back of the restaurant. Now that she no longer had to work his parties and was a businessman's mistress, she was worthy of his casual friendliness. The fact that she could now pay off her debts more easily didn't hurt either.

The large room hummed with subdued chatter and the clanking of plates and glasses. Respectable citizens sat in booths and at tables, conducting their business. Aisha was nearly in the center of the dimly lit room, near a table of middle-aged women and their bodyguards. She would talk to Arne openly; Takaishi wasn't going to hear any stories about her. She was only having lunch with her jewelry salesman.

Arne picked at his stuffed sole and smiled. "I must say, the food is exquisite." He sipped some wine. "I've checked our records. Your ruby pendant was paid for in full. The man must be enchanted with you. But you did a very naughty thing."

"What was that?"

"You didn't refer your friend to me, and Elaine, that little bitch, handled the sale, so I have no commission." He looked at her expectantly.

"Don't worry, Arne, I'll make it up to you."

"I have a very nice suggestion as to how you can make it up."

"It'll be with cash," she said. She took a bite of salad and felt repelled by the food. She pushed the plate aside. She shouldn't eat anyway, she was going to get too fat. She didn't do enough to work off the weight anymore, she was becoming lazy, reading most of the day, grooming herself so that she'd look good with Takaishi—not that he, with his wrinkled suits and scuffed shoes, was any model of fashion. She had to pull herself together, think of her future, now that she might have one.

The women at the table next to her got up and left, their bodyguards trailing behind. They passed three men and a woman who were taking seats at the bar. One of the men turned slightly on his stool; Aisha had seen him at a couple of Titus's parties.

"I heard some strange rumors about Isabeau Rasselle," Arne murmured. Aisha turned back to him. "She's still postponing her marriage."
      

"I know that."

"There's a story that she might be seeing someone else."

"My God," Aisha said. She thought of Simon. "You shouldn't spread stories like that." She forced herself to look straight at him. "Titus wouldn't like to hear things like that. He might not be very happy with people who tell them."

"Oh, I put no credence in it," Arne said quickly. "Don't get me wrong."

His blue eyes were wide. He lifted his wine glass and stared over the rim at her. Aisha thought: He's too smart, he sees too much. Uncomfortably, she looked away. The woman seated at the bar next to Titus's acquaintance twisted a bit on her stool, pulling at her long red dress as if the garment constricted her. The lamp hanging over the bar lit her face clearly for a moment before she turned back to her companion.

Aisha froze. Her water glass clattered against the side of her plate. She released it and shrank in her seat, sick with fear.

"Aisha?" Arne said.

She waved at him to be silent. I couldn't have seen it, she told herself, it can't be true. Arne seemed to be far away from her, as if the table had suddenly expanded and pushed him to another part of the room.

The woman at the bar was Kathleen Ortega.

NINE

Kathleen Ortega

Kathleen Ortega sat on a bench, brooding. She didn't like to brood, she didn't like to sit still and have nothing to do but brood. She was used to keeping still; she had trained herself well. She hated fidgeting, hated being around people whose bodies seemed in constant movement with no purpose. She stared out the wide window at the creek, watching the small boats making deliveries. A few men stood on the dock outside this house, unloading rifles, produce, and liquor.

Six men sat on the benches here with her. One of them, a stocky Cuban, was smoking a cigarette. The others were as still and silent as she was. They had all been with her in Giorgiados's gym that morning, working out, testing their reflexes, exchanging tips. They'd had a friendly, informal competition on the firing range outside; Kathleen had won it. This was the real competition, though, waiting to see who would get a job today and who wouldn't.
 

Giorgiados was taking her money and giving her little in return. Every morning, she left a tiny hotel room no bigger than a closet to come here and work out and then wait with the others for an assignment as a bodyguard. She was better than most of the others, she knew that, and yet Giorgiados wouldn't take her on as a regular. Instead, she had to sit on benches with the other free-lancers hoping for an assignment and usually not getting one. And Giorgiados was better than the other owners of bodyguard agencies, most of whom refused even to speak to a woman about work.

The Cuban passed her his cigarette. She took a couple of deep drags, finishing it, then got up and deposited the stub in the standing ashtray in the corner. She stretched her legs and did a few knee bends, then sat down again. She had been careful, she knew that. Nothing should have gone wrong. René had been ready to retire; all she had to do was ease him out. She had moved carefully, getting that doctor of his arrested, setting up Lono, all of it; an open move would have been inefficient and more risky. She had won control of René's entire organization and he, old and tired, had retreated to his farm. All that remained was to consolidate her position and then quietly remove the old man.

Too late, she had realized the old man knew what she was doing. He had lulled her suspicions by letting her have what she wanted, waiting until she had purged the few who had helped her rise, before he decided to get rid of her. Even now, she found herself grinding her teeth at the thought; René had let her get rid of the ones he would have had to seek out and eliminate. There was talk that the blond girl, whom the old man had taken to the farm, had acquired some influence over him, but Ortega didn't believe it. All she could do now was curse her own stupidity.

An informer had warned Ortega. She had left New York at once with the jewels and coins she had set aside, hiring a boat and, for papers, bribing an old friend in the army. She had enough to live quietly and modestly here for many years, but she hadn't stayed alive for almost thirty years, working hard, so she could do that. She would establish herself here. At least she would if Giorgiados ever let her have a decent job. Right now, she wondered if he was making a fool of her. He was taking her money for the use of his gym and shooting range, and she never made quite enough from her infrequent jobs to cover expenses. Her money would dribble away; soon she'd have to sell one of her jewels. If something didn't happen soon, she'd have to try something else.

And then there were the assassins. She knew they must be here, even if she didn't know who they were. She was safe from the law here, but not from René. He would never just let her go, it would give others ideas. She had no way of knowing who the assassins might be; the old man wasn't likely to work through the usual channels, the ones she had often used herself. She had to establish herself here, gain enough power so that René couldn't touch her without risking trouble with the locals. Ultimately, she had to outlive him.

She considered what she had seen in that restaurant yesterday when she was sitting at the bar, sucking up to Giorgiados and getting nothing for it except a large liquor bill. She'd seen that girl, Aisha Baraka, huddling in her seat as if that would keep her from being seen. Ortega, by asking Giorgiados a few casual questions, had also found out that the doctor, Simon Negron, was here as well, doing business with Titus Echeverria as his patron. Echeverria was powerful. He had never, as far as she knew, worked with René's people, but that didn't mean he couldn't. Maybe the old man had been prepared even before moving against her, getting the doctor out of prison and sending the girl here to wait for her in case she got away. He would have known she would try to get to this haven; it was smart to have someone waiting for her. Neither of them could have made it here without help, she was sure. They could identify her, point her out to Echeverria. Perhaps they, innocuous as they seemed, were her assassins, with Negron trading her life for a purchased pardon in New York.

Moe Roth was standing in front of her. "Anita Gilberto," he said. At the sound of her assumed name, Ortega looked up slowly to Roth's thin, lined face, finally meeting his watery blue eyes. "Giorgiados wants you."