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EMMY
Tonight, we were Rico and Emily, out to celebrate Rico’s fake birthday with good food, copious amounts of alcohol, and the best seats in town. Were we planning to keep a low profile? Hell no. If we skulked around at the rear, Kaylin would be able to ignore us if she chose. And if she wanted to, say, slip Nico a note, it would be harder if we were at the back of the room. No, I wanted to see her reaction when we were up close and in her face, and given that I was wearing a shimmery gold cocktail dress that barely contained my boobs, she could hardly miss me.
Emily was a brash Texan with fluffed-up hair, a love of heavy eyeshadow, and a beauty mark on her chin. Blue eyes peered out beneath clumps of mascara. The ring on her finger doubled as a handcuff key, her bra held a switchblade, and there were enough illegal substances hidden in her oversized necklace to either tranquillise or kill everyone in the place. Her handbag contained a stun gun disguised as a lipstick, a box of breath mints that transformed into a single-shot pistol, and an emergency packet of Skittles. As I said, it was just another day in the life of a globetrotting mercenary.
A hostess led us to our table while I kept up a stream of inane chatter befitting of a half-sloshed bimbo with an overblown sense of self-importance.
“I’ve been dying to visit this place for months. Months. Our friends Jim and Laurie came last summer for the Alice in Wonderland show, and they said that the next time we were in New York, we absolutely had to see Daisy de Ville and her Divas. Are they sisters?”
“No, ma’am.”
“My sister used to sing, but me, I can’t hold a note. Isn’t that right, honey?”
Nico smiled and nodded. “That’s right. She sang karaoke on our last anniversary, and I had a headache for three days straight.”
“Aw, don’t exaggerate.”
“Okay, it was two days.”
That raised a smile from the hostess, and when we reached the table, Nico pulled out a chair for me, ever the gentleman. The decor was old, but fake old. Velvet seats, fleur-de-lis wallpaper, a wood-panelled bar. Starched white tablecloths meant nobody could see my hands in my lap, but I couldn’t see theirs either. Fifty years ago, tobacco smoke would have hung heavy in the air, but now, quiet AC units worked unobtrusively near the ceiling, filtering out fifty kinds of cologne. Glasses clinked, and the hum of conversation rose above the jazz playing in the background.
I checked the exits. As well as the door we’d come in through, there was a fire exit stage left and doors to the loos and kitchen stage right. Hallie’s notes said the Cavallaros came in through the kitchen, which meant that if they were present, there’d be a car and security in the alley that ran down the north side of the building. The fire exit would bring me out on a cross street where I could blend into the crowd rather than hiding behind a dumpster while Mafia goons shot at me. Our table was front and centre, so if I had to leave in a hurry, I’d either go for the fire exit or head out the main entrance.
“A server will bring your complimentary cocktails in just a moment. Can we get you any other drinks?”
“A bottle of your best champagne,” I said.
“Better get some water too, baby.”
“Still or sparkling?” the server asked.
“Still. Sparkling tastes like TV static. Who even drinks that stuff?”
“One bottle of still?”
Nico beamed at her, and she blushed.
“One large bottle.”
We’d drink more water than alcohol, but we needed to maintain our cover. Asking inappropriate questions was easier to get away with if people thought you were slightly drunk. I checked the program. The running order was the same as last week, so we had a couple of hours to kill before Kaylin made her appearance. Okay, that was a poor choice of words. I wouldn’t be killing anyone, not tonight anyway.
Nico draped an arm over my shoulders, and we settled in to wait. Even though he looked relaxed, I could feel the stress in him, and I suspected that, like me, he’d had plenty of practice at hiding his true feelings.
“You okay?” I asked quietly after the server had brought our drinks.
“I’ve been waiting for years to see her, and now the last couple of hours are going interminably slowly.”
“Father Time’s a stubborn asshole. And why is it Father Time? Why not Mother Time? Women are arguably more pig-headed than men, or so my husband always tells me.”
“I don’t know the answer, but I’m sure Google does.”
“Okay, another question… Why do you spell Nicolai with a C and not a K? Isn’t Nikolai more common?”
He cracked a smile. “It’s a nod to Niccolò Machiavelli. My father was a big fan.”
“I’m not sure whether to say ‘Yikes’ or ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’”
“Let’s go with the first option.”
