Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 11

11

Two days later, I’m relaxing in a streetside café in a small town in a state I’m not going to name, sipping a mocha latte and contemplating a blueberry scone, anonymous in a bustling crowd intent on their own post-holiday business, when my phone rings.

Rob.

I pick up. “Hey.” I keep my voice relaxed, but my nerves are on fire. I’ve always thought he’s a complete professional, but this might have hit home. But one of his died. I fouled his gig—I had to, don’t get me wrong, but he might take it personal.

“Beaks.” His voice is rich and cultured, like he’s a BBC announcer. I happen to know he’s Jersey born and raised. New Jersey, not the Brit one. “How are you?”

“I’m doing great.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He sounds relaxed and happy, like always, but I still can’t get rid of the knot of animal awareness in the back of my skull. “I was terribly sorry to hear about Deke.”

The shadow doesn’t cancel my tension, only cloaks it. The Butterfly data’s gone, uploaded to the Internet. Even the most stubborn client would know that killing me won’t recall it—but they might find my death satisfying for purely non-professional reasons. “Thanks,” I finally say.

“I’m on to a new show,” Rob says. “And I fear I must call in my marker.”

My heart beats a little faster. A trap? “What’s the gig?”

“When I accepted my last commission, you were mentioned by name.”

Sudden alarms ring in the back of my mind. Without moving my head, I glance around at rooftops and passing cars. Move too quick and I’ll attract attention, highlight myself that way.

“Don’t worry, dearest,” Rob says. “That performance is complete. You have my inviolate word. Besides, I fear I’m rather peeved about how the whole thing came about.”

I make myself relax. Rob’s word is good—if he says he’s not on the job, he’s not on the job. “How come?”

“You were mentioned only in passing. Something along the lines of ‘if someone interferes, like that self-righteous autodidact Billie Carrie Salton, we’ll need you to handle the matter thoroughly.’”

Translated: kill them.

“Pretty standard clause,” I say.

“Indeed.” Rob is almost purring, he’s laying the accent on so thick. We might be sitting over tea and cigars, planning the next expansion of the Empire. “But I have to wonder why your name, specifically, was dropped.”

I feel a cool flutter in my soul.

“And then I must wonder, why you were there. I know you, my dear. You do not work alone unless it’s tied to one of your personal obsessions. I’ve advised you to practice caution so many times before.”

“Sometimes there’s no choice,” I say.

“Your last performance met with poor reviews,” Rob says.

The lingering hint of coffee in my mouth tastes bitter. “You can just say it,” I say. “It was a f*****g disaster.”

“Everyone canned but you,” he says. I wish he’d drop the acting pretense, and just say it. Deke. Four more, well-known—no. Well-loved, all. Friends, occasional co-workers.

But, first and front forever: Deke.

“So I have to ask,” Rob says. “Who would want my dear Beaks retired? And who would put her in the way of another operation?”

The cold flutter in my soul turns to a lump of dry ice.

“This means that someone tried to short me,” Rob says. “I agreed to a single performance—a bit of a spectacle, true, but still, one performance. And someone tried to make it a double ticket.”

The edge of the sun slips out from behind the awning overhead. The sudden warmth feels good, and I raise my hand to shield my eyes.

“I do not appreciate anyone taking advantage of my good nature,” Rob says, his voice cold.

“And you want me to help,” I say.

“Rehearsals start in Lisbon, Portugal. Two days. Can you make it?”

I suck in a deep breath and look at my van, parked in the lot nearby. “Rob, I want to. I really want to. But I’m flat busted right now.”

He paused, then gave a little laugh. “You misunderstand, my dear. The favor isn’t you take the part without compensation. The favor is you agree to take the part at all.”

Something inside me melts.

“The pay isn’t much, I have to say. Let’s call it community theater. But I’ll send you a token. Enough to get a halfway civilized flight here and back, and at least a three-star hotel.”

I know damn well Rob doesn’t have a customer. He’s fronting me a stake out of his own pocket.

“I’m in,” I say.

“Let me know when you arrive,” Rob says. “I’ll meet you at an airport, and we’ll have a toast. To absent friends.”

My eyes water. “Absent friends.”

“Soon,” he says.

The phone goes dead.

I down the last of my latte and head for the van.