Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 17

17

I don’t object to luxury. I rail against greedy bastards, but my point is that the world has enough wealth to go around. Deke and I slept in the van often enough that I’m okay with occasional decadence. It averages out.

Like my bed, in the hotel penthouse. I imagine there’s less comfortable clouds.

I wake a little after seven the next morning, with just a hint of that hollow-skulled fatigue you get after too much sleep. The bed is heavenly, but my mouth tastes like a Louisiana drainage ditch, complete with stray crayfish. I shower in a glass-walled cubicle larger than the hotel’s elevator and clean my teeth, spitting foam in a pristine sink of polished green granite. The obsequious porter left my rolley bag near the pedestal beneath a marble statue of some famous Roman, a general or god or whatever, near the door to my private suite.

It’s still a soulless hotel room, but it’s got character. It’s the sort of suite you’d dream up if you wanted Bruce Wayne as a guest. I dress in the severe black capris and white blouse I bought yesterday, slip into the sandals, and unlock my bedroom door by a quarter to eight.

The penthouse’s central room is even more splendid. The black-and-white checkerboard marble floor has the luster that only comes from elbow grease and lots of practice applying it. Morning sun strikes the angled skylights at precisely the right angle to cast rainbows across the glossy white walls. The room is still cool from night, maybe the mid-sixties, but the piercing blue sky beyond the skylights promises the eighties by the afternoon. More classical busts and paintings of half-naked women hang around the high-gloss off-white walls, trying halfheartedly to give the place class.

The round antique dark wood claw-foot table in the middle of the room looks more solid than my childhood home. The six matching chairs around it are spaced far enough apart that people at the table couldn’t quite clasp hands for a séance. There’s this incongruous tall aluminum cart topped with a flat panel monitor, dark but with a blue LED in the corner.

Near the table are three expensive room service carts, each topped with fancily engraved stainless steel serving trays. Steam scented with fish and peppers leaks around the edges, warmed by invisible flames from the Sterno cans below.

Jacka’s crouching near the closest cart. Instead of a plate he’s holding a detector in one long-fingered pale hand, his face focused on the detector’s readout as he checks breakfast for bugs. Transmitters, not insects. His hand glides across the carts with calm patience. He’s ditched the chauffeur suit today, wearing instead a less formal polo shirt and cargo pants over brilliant white sneakers with blood red laces.

Beyond Jacka, a sturdy woman with short red hair stands with her hands clasped behind her back, apparently studying a painting. When I close my bedroom door behind me, she turns her head.

It’s Liza Bradley. Maybe five foot two if she stands up straight, Bradley’s a couple years older and a foot shorter than me. We’d worked together once before, and her firearms abilities, not to mention her skills with empty hands, had made a good impression on me.

Bradley nods at me, but says nothing.

I silently lift a hand in greeting.

The detector in Jacka’s hand gives the short squeak of a stepped-on toy. I glance at Jacka, but he doesn’t even notice me. The squeal cuts off quickly and he continues his check. It’s another few seconds before he rises to his feet. “Clean.”

“Beaks,” Bradley says.

“Bradley.” I turn to Jacka. “Don’t suppose you checked the food while you were at it?”

Jacka picks up one of the heavy stoneware plates and tips a silver lid back in a gush of steam. “I’m on that right now,” he says, forking out a slice of brown toast and scooping a poached egg onto it. “Tell you what, Beaks. You hang around, see what happens to me. You’ll know if it’s poisoned in a day or two.”

Bradley rolls her eyes, stalks over to snatch a plate. “Eggs? Any ketchup?”

I feel a little confused. The last time Deke and I had eaten with Jacka, he’d offered to fill my plate for me. It’s not that I wanted him to offer again, not at all, but this sudden shift to sarcasm made me feel like Jacka had been replaced with a sci-fi clone.

The sensation gets worse when Jacka says, “Not to worry, Miss Bradley. This plate’s for you.”

“Touch my food and I’ll break your face,” Bradley says without heat. She glances at me.

I shrug. Men might be simple, but I’m not going to try to explain Jacka.

Rob’s a better cook than whoever prepared breakfast, but I assemble a plate of oily smoked salmon, hard-boiled eggs, apple slices, and a thin slice of Spanish cheese. The bacon’s done in the Mediterranean manner, thick round cuts like they do in Canada and then boiled, so I skip it. There’s enough coffee for a regiment, but the mugs only hold enough for a platoon.

The three of us sit equidistant around the table, with a spare chair between each of us. The salmon is tasty, actual Scottish I think, and the cheese is soft but tart.

Jacka eats quickly and efficiently, without any sign of enjoyment. He might as well be fueling a car he didn’t like owning. Bradley takes her time, cutting small bites and chewing each thoroughly before swallowing.

There’s way too much food for us. I wonder who else is supposed to appear.

Jacka chases the last bit of egg yolk with the last bite of his toast and sits back in his chair. I pause between (yummy) bites of salmon to say, “So… Mister Jacka. Anything exciting in your life?”

He chews, swallows. “Many things.”

We sit in silence for a moment while I drain my coffee. The food and the rest combine to make me feel almost human after the transatlantic flight. I’m not ready to fight tigers bare-handed, but open for negotiation about wolves. “You’re the one who’s done eating,” I say as I put the empty mug down. “Amuse us.”

“I fear this isn’t a morning for amusement,” Rob says. He’s standing inside the double doors leading to the elevator. Today’s outfit looks much like yesterday’s, except it’s much newer and has been ironed to razor seams. He closes the doors behind him, and twists the heavy deadbolt to lock us in and everyone else out.

“Morning, Fender,” Bradley says.

“Miss Bradley.” Rob’s face has a sober turn, like something’s dangling from his soul. “Miss Salton. Mister Jacka.”

“What happened?” I say.

Rob walks over to the empty chair between Jacka and Bradley and rests his hands on its back. “Secure the chamber. We had two more crew members joining us for breakfast. Except they were killed on their way here.”