No Shelter (2 page)

Right. If I were a United States general in charge of a non-government sanctioned mission, I wouldn’t want things to get out of hand either.
 

“What’s his definition of out of hand?”
 

“You know it changes with every job. But I believe his exact words this time were something like if it’s going to be news, he’d rather it be local than national.”
 

“I can’t promise anything.”
 

“No, but you can promise you’ll at least try.”
 

“How does he want me to take out Roland anyway?”
 

“The way we figure it,” Scooter says, “th-th-the bodyguard might try to play rough with you too. He tries to slap you around, you fight back. Simple self-defense.”
 

“I don’t know,” I say, glancing back at the photographs spread out on the table, “he’s a pretty big guy.”
 

His cigarette finished, Nova drops it on the ground, grinds the cherry with the heel of his boot. Doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring back at me.
 

I realize Scooter is staring back at me too, leaning back in his chair, and then it hits me.
 

“Roland’s not here strictly on pleasure, he is? He’s here on business.”
 

“Some people are flying in from Argentina tomorrow afternoon,” Scooter says. “They’re going to make the deal then.”
 

“Do we know what for?”
 

Nova says, “Most likely what’s on that flash drive around his neck.”
 

“Okay,” I say, nodding again, “and I’m guessing this is the kind of the deal that can’t be made.”
 

“Of course not.” Nova reaches out to pat me on the shoulder but pauses, his eyes lighting up. “Oh shit, I almost forgot.”
 

“Forgot what?”
 

Grinning now, he glances at Scooter. “Want to give it to her or should I?”
 

Scooter is already jumping out of his chair, starting over toward the other end of the garage.
 

Nova says, “The guy that requested you, he requested something else.”
 

Scooter comes back, a cardboard box in his hands. He sets it down on the table, pushes it toward me. “Happy birthday.”
 

Frowning at Scooter, frowning at Nova, I reach out and open the box. Glance at what’s inside. Start to shake my head. “No fucking way.”
 

“Yes,” Nova says.
 

“No. I’m not wearing that.”
 

“You don’t have a choice.”
 

Scooter pulls out his Blackberry, points it at me. “Can I get a picture then?”
 

I just stare back at Scooter, than glance at Nova when he finally pats me on the shoulder.
 

“So,” he says, “you ready to party or what?”
 

3

Nova drives me in the Town Car to the Bellagio. He doesn’t speak once. He just drives and I sit in the back, watching the bright lights and the people still awake at two o’clock in the morning, finding it hard to imagine how just five hours ago I was at my mother’s place for family dinner. It’s her monthly excuse to get me and my sister and my sister’s husband and their two boys together, so she can learn what’s new and interesting in their lives and subtly hint at her disappointment in my life, what with me being almost thirty with no boyfriend or solid job or even secure future.
 

God how I hate those family dinners.
 

As Nova turns up the long drive to the casino, I close my eyes and take a breath. Then we make it to the front and he stops and one of the attendants hurries over to open the back door.
 

I step out into the cool dry air of the Las Vegas desert. I smile and nod at the attendant, and in broken English say, “Tank you.”
 

I’m wearing a thin cashmere overcoat that comes down to my knees, and as I walk toward the entrance, as I enter the hotel and make my way toward the elevators, I transform myself into tonight’s character: a Japanese working girl, limited high school education, speaks very little English. Just the type of girl who knows what guys like to hear and feel and is willing to give it to them for the right amount of cash.
 

At the elevators a man in a suit approaches me. I can tell at once he’s not hotel security. The suit is Armani, much too nice, and the look he gives me is intense.
 

“You here for the party?” he asks, and I nod, my lips pouted, like I only understand half of what he’s saying. “Okay then, follow me.”
 

He leads me to one of the farther elevators. He has a keycard which he swipes and the shiny, spotless doors open.
 

“Go on up, honey,” he says, “have a good time,” and as I walk into the elevator he gives me a quick pat on the ass.
 

My first impulse is to spin around and pop him one in the face, break his nose, send him to the ground with his eyes watering and blood dripping into his mouth. But I let this impulse slide, remembering that I’m a professional, and I only turn, smile at him, give him a half wave until the elevator doors close completely and then the smile fades and I turn my hand around and drop all my fingers except the middle.
 

As the elevator ascends I step back and look at myself in the shiny doors. I open the cashmere overcoat to reveal tonight’s requested outfit. Black three-inch high-heels, white knee-high stockings, a green and blue plaid miniskirt, a white button up top that’s opened at the chest to reveal my cleavage. Not at all what I was planning on wearing tonight, but if a Japanese schoolgirl is what this bastard wants, a Japanese schoolgirl is what he’s going to get.
 

In my ear Scooter says, “
You alone?
”
 

I’m wearing a wireless transmitter in my ear, a tiny thing smaller than a pebble.
 

“In the elevator, yeah. What’s up?”
 

“
Listen to th-th-this Bazooka Joe comic I just opened.
”
 

“Scooter, I don’t have time for this.”
 

“
But I th-think it’s a good omen. It’s my favorite one, comic number twenty. Joe’s grilling and he says to his buddy, ‘Hey, what happened to th-the hot dogs? Who took the hot dogs?’ And in the next panel Joe’s dog is leaning against a tree, a toothpick in his mouth, and says, ‘It just proves it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Get used to it, kid.
’ ” He pauses. “
What do you th-th-think?
”
 

Nova’s voice comes over the line, saying, “
I think you need to quit bothering Holly so she can concentrate.
”
 

“
Yeah, I know, but don’t you two see the life lesson in the comic? It’s brilliant. And the fortune says it all: We know what goes around, comes around—if you send it, you better duck.
” He laughs. “
Isn’t th-th-that just perfect?
”
 

The elevator begins to slow before I have a chance to respond. I look up at the numbers, see I’ve made it to the thirtieth floor. The elevator stops completely. I close the cashmere overcoat, take a deep breath. Then the doors open and I start to step forward but stop when I see the gun pointed at my face.
 

4

“Easy, baby, everything’s okay. Just need you to come out slow-like, press yourself flat against this wall.”
 

“Against wall?” I say, using my broken English. At the sight of the gun I’ve raised my hands and do my best to look frightened and confused.
 

“That’s right, baby, against the wall. I need to pat you down, make sure you ain’t carrying something.”
 

“Carry something?”
 

My hands still raised, I move slowly toward the wall. I press myself against it. The man isn’t alone, he has two other buddies watching, and they grin as he steps forward, starts to frisk me. I’m surprised at first that he actually does a good job of it, like a professional, but then he has to go and disappoint me by making sure he squeezes my breasts and pinches my ass.
 

He steps back, says, “Okay, good, you’re clean. Sorry about that, baby, but we just need to make sure.”
 

“Okay,” I say, stressing it into two syllables.
 

He laughs through his nose, shakes his head, motions to one of the men behind him. “Phil, take her in.”
 

Phil steps forward, grabs my arm, pulls me not so gently down the hallway toward Delano’s suite. He has on really strong aftershave that makes my eyes want to water. He asks, “What you got under that coat there, little lady?”
 

I smile but don’t say anything, knowing that he’s not worth the time. Then we’re standing in front of a door and he knocks twice and the door opens and another man is there with a gun pointed at us. He motions me in and the man holding my arm pushes me into the room.
 

The smell of marijuana hits me first. It’s heavy and pungent and as I step into the main area of the suite I see a thick cloud of the stuff floating up by the ceiling.
 

A man stands up from the couches and raises his arms. He’s wearing a plush maroon robe and smiles at me. “Welcome, welcome,” he says, and I know at once this is Roland Delano, my target. Around his neck the gold coin of his flash drive shines in the light.
 

There are six other girls lounging on the couches or standing by the windows. Two are white, one is black, the rest are either Latina or Mexican. They wear tight dark dresses, so short they barely cover their crotches, and all of them have on stilettos.
 

Delano’s bodyguard, the large black man with the fetish for Asian women, sits on one of the other couches. Unlike his boss, he’s wearing a suit. His eyes meet mine and he gives a slow, steady nod, like he approves.
 

Roland Delano approaches me, his arms still raised. It’s clear that he’s drunk by the way he stumbles, and when he takes me into an embrace, tells me how very happy he is I could join him, I can see the residue of cocaine around his hairy nostrils.
 

“Please, please,” he says, “let me take your coat,” and before I know it the coat is being ripped off my body, revealing me in my schoolgirl outfit. I lock eyes again with the bodyguard and see another nod of approval, this time even a slow smile, the man showing off a gold-capped tooth.
 

I look around the room again and notice the other girls noticing me. Their glares are full of menace. I doubt any of them are over twenty-five, but the years of work have worn them down, trampled their spirit, their dreams. And while many of them could be called attractive—I have no doubt both Nova and Scooter would think so—they also have a rough edge that I’ve managed to keep off.
 

Roland takes my arm and leads me to the wet bar, saying, “A drink, please, won’t you have a drink? And please indulge yourself in some of our other party favors. I insist. I have everything—weed, coke, even some X. Please, please, I want you to enjoy yourself.”
 

One of his men stands behind the wet bar, looking bored. I smile at him, say, “Beer?” and he produces a bottle of Bud.
 

When I turn back Roland has disappeared, gone back to the couch where two of the girls are waiting. He sits down and places his arms around their shoulders, smiles at them as he continues telling a story my entrance must have interrupted.
 

I take a sip of the beer and look around. Music is coming from the sound system, a rap beat, and on the widescreen TV a porno shows some lesbian action. The fireplace is on, the flames dancing inside.
 

The bodyguard catches my eye. He motions me to come over to him. When I get there he tells one of the girls beside him to scram and then I’m sitting on his right, his large arm around my shoulders, the man telling me his name is Jerold, what’s mine?
 

“Cho,” I say. When he smiles—the gold-capped tooth gleaming in the light—and says that’s a beautiful name, what does it mean, I tell him, “Means butterfly.”
 

“Butterfly, huh? That mean you like to fly, or are you tasty like butter?”
 

I do my damnedest not to roll my eyes and just smile, take a sip of my beer. In my ear Scooter says, “
I think I’m g-g-g-going to puke.
”
 

The girl on Jerold’s left glares at me, angry that the attention has been taken off her. What I wonder is why she cares, she’s being paid either way, but I’ll never understand hookers.
 

Jerold takes his arm away from my shoulders, places his warm hand on my thigh. “I really dig the outfit, you know. Nice touch. Didn’t know I could have requested that shit or else I definitely would have. I’ll have to remember that next time.”
 

I smile at Jerold but say nothing, while in my ear both Scooter and Nova chuckle softly. Fucking assholes, I swear I’m going to break their pinkie fingers when I see them next.
 

Jerold raises his bottle of Perrier, taps it against my bottle. “Cheers,” he says and leans forward, plants his lips against mine. It’s a quick kiss, a peck, but it’s enough for me to taste absolutely nothing. No alcohol, no liquor, not even weed, which just adds another hurdle.
 

Five minutes pass, ten minutes, and I do my best to nurse my drink, to only take limited hits of the weed when it’s passed my way. I smile and smile and listen and listen but keep my eyes open for all possible exits, weapons, interferences. It looks like all of Delano’s men are packing, maybe even Jerold.