The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips Page 12

  I smile sweetly. “Will it mean an upgrade in my status from its need-to-know basis?”

  “You know as well as I do that it’s standard Acme protocol to downgrade all retiring agents the minute they give their notice.”

  “In that case, I’ll think about it, but no promises. Ha! I never thought that I’d have your approval to communicate with Lee Chiffray!”

  “You have a nasty little habit of doing whatever you want, with or without my permission.” He shrugs. “For some odd reason, you find him endearing. So, why not use every asset at your disposal–including Lee–to help Acme? Besides stroking your ego as you go on your merry way out the door, it may actually save innocent lives.”

  I’m so angry that the mallet slips out of my hand–a good thing for Jack, considering my aim. “Jack Craig, the way I see it, my relationship with Lee Chiffray has nothing to do with my ego, and everything to do with yours.”

  He nods grudgingly. “Yes, okay, I’ll admit it. I hate that you find him so captivating.” His eyes seek out mine. “Now it’s your turn to be honest–if not with me, then with yourself, Donna. Do you really want to retire? Frankly, I get the feeling that you’ve had a change of heart.”

  “Even if I did–and I haven’t, mind you–it’s too late for that.”

  “Not as far as Ryan and I are concerned. The decision is yours to make–or not.”

  I wipe away a tear. “Have you forgotten that two women are dead on my watch–all because they wanted to take my place?”

  Suddenly, he’s at my side. “Jesus, Donna! Don’t blame yourself for what happened to Jenny and Pucci.”

  “But I do, Jack! I’ll admit it–Ryan is right. I wasn’t supposed to be hosting them to a girls’ night out. I was supposed to be training them to keep their eyes and ears open at all times! Instead, I encouraged them to let down their guard.”

  “You were only doing what all good handlers do: establishing mutual trust with your assets before sending them out into the field. You can’t assess, let alone train them, if you don’t first know their strengths and weaknesses.”

  I nod, but the truth is I don’t feel any less guilty about it.

  His arms go around me. “If it’s any consolation, from what I’ve read in Tally’s dossier, you won’t have any issue gaining her trust–or for that matter, catching her off-guard. She’s trained to be on high alert at all times.” He kisses me tenderly. “And as soon as she’s up to speed, you’ll be free to focus on the kids–if that’s what you really want.”

  “I do,” I murmur.

  I just never realized how hard it would be to give up something I’m good at, just because it’s time to do so.

  The address that the photo booth dude texted back to me is located in a large warehouse in Culver City. Oddly, there isn’t any signage on the roll-up door, just a number on the side of the building.

  I knock several times before he finally answers. He’s over six feet, a thin string bean of a guy with a scruffy goatee. Above and beyond that, he looks harried, as if I’ve interrupted something important.

  “Enter,” he says curtly.

  The hallway is dark because every door is closed except for the one at the very end of the hall. As we pass the third door on the right, I hear a smack, then a grunt.

  “Those are my models. You see, I’m in the middle of a photo shoot,” he explains before I have a chance to ask. “This party booth stuff is just a way to make a quick buck. My true vocation is art house photography.”

  Intriguing. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “I come up with scenarios that reflect some topic involving an unconventional human plight, then pose models with the right look around set pieces that demonstrate society’s callousness.”

  “That’s a mouthful.”

  He snorts at my joke. “You can say that again.”

  When we enter the open door, I turn around to face him and catch him scrutinizing me from top to bottom. “Fascinating! Hey, um, have you ever done any modeling?”

  “Me? No. Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve got a great look. I bet you photograph sublimely.” He splays his thumbs and index fingers into right angles and holds up his hands so that I’m framed between them.

  Sure, I’m flattered. I smile seductively. “How much does it pay?”

  “Two hundred an hour.” He rubs the lipstick off my front tooth.

  Hopefully, that hasn’t killed the moment for him. So that he knows I’m still game, I pluck his business card out of his hand. “Give me your card and I’ll keep it in mind.” Since I’m soon to be unemployed, maybe I can keep it in mind as a part-time income source.

  Not to mention, I won’t have to worry about blood splatters and bullet holes in my silk blouses.

  His showroom contains three photo booths of varying sizes, as well as a rolling wardrobe rack containing a hodgepodge of costumes, hats, boas, wands and other toys. Some of the costumes are pretty risqué, as if he robbed a Halloween store. The randy schoolgirl, the dominatrix, a baby doll peignoir, the stripper cop, you name it.

  A basket beside the rack contains a few adult toys.

  I pick up a dildo. “I’m hiring you for a middle school prom, so don’t bother bringing these.”

  He giggles weakly. “Hey, you’d be surprised what kids play with nowadays.”

  I don’t giggle back.

  Hastily, he picks up a brochure and hands it to me. “Each booth takes four photos per sitting. You’re charged by the hour, starting at seven hundred bucks for three hours, for the smallest booth. You end up with two four-shot photo cards per shoot.” He points to the one on the right. “It’s the cheapest because it holds just four people at a time, and you only get two four-shots. Usually, the kids like to pile in, and everyone wants a four-shot, so it probably isn’t your best bet.”

  “And the prices on the other two?”

  “Nine hundred and eleven hundred.”

  Yowzah.

  All of a sudden, I hear sirens. They seem to be getting louder and coming this way.

  He must hear them, too, because he quickly adds, “Look, tell you what–I’ll give you the largest booth at a discount–”

  There’s banging on the door. Someone yells, “Open up! Police!”

  Photo Booth Dude winces, but continues his spiel: “–say, the same cost as the middle booth! And I’ll throw in four photo cards instead of two. Whattaya say to that?”

  A loud crack can be heard as the door gives way. Photo Booth Dude takes a step back, better to see what’s happening down the hall. “Wait here, okay?”

  As if.

  Instead, I head for the rear exit.

  Too late. From what I can see just looking out the window, a line of cops are in the back too.

  There’s one other door in the room. I keep my fingers crossed that it’s another exit, but it isn’t. It’s an office with rows and rows of file cabinets. Next to it is a small bathroom.

  I open a drawer and pull out some files.

  Surprise, surprise: Photo Booth Dude shoots porn stills.

  Not only that, many of the pictures include underage teens, both male and female as well as couples and ménages of mixed and same genders, all in various states of undress, desire, nudity, and kids-gone-wild salaciousness.

  In other words, the same sort of poses they’d probably text to their hotties’ heart’s desire.

  Interestingly enough, most of the pictures are four-to-a-card, indicating that they were taken in his photo booths.

  They kept their copies, and he keeps the negative. My guess is that he sells them online.

  Darn it, I snag my skirt as I climb out the bathroom window, just as the police make it into the office.

  By the time Photo Booth Dude and his two underage models are doing their perp walk, I’m safely back at my car.

  This is one vendor I can tell Penelope we’re crossing off our list.

  When I call Penelope to tell her about Photo Booth Dude, she’s livid. “I can’t
believe it! He came highly recommended!”

  I snort. “By whom?”

  “Why, by my husband, Peter…” Her voice trails off as the light finally goes on in that dim bulb she calls her mind. Then: “Never mind! In fact, you’ve got bigger fish to fry. Which band have you lined up?”

  “Band? The kids would much prefer a deejay, so that they can dance to all the music they like–”

  “Are you kidding? A deejay is déclassé. If this party is to be a hit–a sell-out–we need a headliner. Open your binder to page eighty-seven.”

  “I don’t have it on me,” I growl.

  “Go get it, then. I’ll wait.”

  She’s got to be kidding. Okay, then, I am, too. I file my nails for a few minutes. When enough time has passed, I pick up the phone. “Yeah, okay, I’m on the right page now.”

  “Then you see who I’m talking about, don’t you? You see how big this is don’t you?”

  “Um…yeah, sure.” I feel as if I’m talking to a maniac off her meds.

  “Donna, haven’t you heard of her? We’re talking Taylor Swift? Beyoncé…BIG! Katy Perry…BIG! Leonardo Cuthbert handles some of the top musical acts in the country!”

  “What does this have to do with our prom?”

  “Leonardo was my college sweetheart. I bumped into him a month ago, and…well, let’s just say the flame was rekindled–not that I let him touch me or anything!”

  “You? No, of course not.” Not.

  “He told me if I needed anything, to just call.”

  “So then, why don’t you?”

  “Because I’m not the Prom Committee Chair, or did you forget that?” she declares haughtily. “Must I do everything? My goodness, Donna, I’ve given you a golden opportunity to look good. Use it!”

  Suddenly, I’m listening to a dial tone.

  I’m sure it won’t be the last one I hear today.

  Now, I have to find the binder. Where the hell did I leave it?

  Twenty minutes later, I find it in the garage. Jeff’s been using it as part of his skateboard ramp.

  I lug it into the house, and open it to page eighty-seven. Beside Leonardo’s name is his telephone number.

  A man’s voice barks, “Yeah, who is it?”

  A direct line? Maybe Penelope’s right and the guy is still sweet on her. Only one way to find out.

  “Mr. Cuthbert, my name is Donna Stone. I’m a friend of Penelope Bing–”

  “Penny?” He laughs. “Jesus! She didn’t waste any time. What does she want?”

  “She mentioned you represented some musical acts. We were hoping that one might be available for our event.”

  “What’s the date?”

  “It a week from this Friday, at the Savoy. Sorry about the short notice–”

  “Taylor’s available. Would you want her?”

  What…really? Taylor Swift!

  “Of course! We’d love it!” Ouch! Forgot, I need to ask: “Um, how much are we talking about?”

  “I’ve got to warn you, she doesn’t come cheap.” He hesitates. “She has backup singers–and the band, of course.”

  Hopes dashed. I should have known it was too good to be true.

  “But because it’s Penny…okay, tell you what: I’ll let her go for, say, fifteen? I’ll tell Taylor it’s a charity gig. Gets her every time. She’s working on some new dance numbers. She can try them out there. You know, impromptu, try it out in front of a small, hungry crowd. She loves doing it that way.”

  Yikes! Fifteen thousand is our prom budget for the next twenty years…

  Then again, it is Taylor Swift.

  And it was Penelope’s idea.

  “No problem, I’ll send a check by courier, first thing tomorrow,” I promise him.

  He grunts before hanging up.

  When I call Penelope with the good news, she practically crows. “I told you he’d come through,” she declares smugly.

  It’s nice to have one thing work my way.

  “And, don’t forget, you’ve got a meeting with the palm reader in half an hour. The kids eat this kind of stuff up,” Penelope assures me. She must guess I find her claim hard to swallow, because she then quickly adds, “And besides, a few diversions will keep their pea brains off more puerile activities.”

  The memory of Morton’s chest-high handiwork is reason enough to keep the joint hopping with as many bells and whistles as possible.

  A half-hour later, I’m knocking on the door of someone who goes by the name of Madame Zenobia. I must have rung the doorbell a million times when, finally, she answers the door.

  Madame Zenobia is a tall woman in her late fifties. Her stark-white widow’s peak is in sharp contrast to the raven-hued hair falling loosely down her back.

  In other words, she certainly looks the part of a gypsy hag.

  I’m taken aback that she is hastily tying a black silk kimono at her waist. Is she just getting out of bed? In any case, obviously, she forgot we had an appointment. Even if she can read the future, her skills for remembering the present are sorely lacking.

  “Mrs. Stone, is it? So sorry! I was communing.”

  “Ah! With spirits?”

  “Nah! Mother Nature. Take a teaspoon a day of Metamucil, your bowels will work like clockwork.” She stands aside to let me in. “Care to join me in the salon?” She ushers me out of the foyer.

  When we enter the salon, she takes a turban from a hat rack and slaps it on her head before ushering me over to the circular table in the middle of the room. In front of it, two chairs sit side-by-side.

  In the center of the table is a crystal ball. Madame Zenobia takes the chair directly in front of a deck of Tarot cards that sits on a silk kerchief. She sweeps an arm over both objects. “I presume you’ll want a demonstration. By the way, I also read palms, and I’m a hypnotist. Which would you prefer first?”

  I point to the cards. “Why don’t we start here?”

  “Yes, I presumed it would be your first choice!” She grins grandly. “And what question can I answer for you?”

  Now, there’s a question I wasn’t expecting. “Hmmm. Okay…” I take a deep breath. The thing most worrisome to me is not the school dance, but Jack’s mission–not that I’ll say that to a psychic. “A major event is about to take place. I’d like to know how it may affect my life.”

  Madame Zenobia’s eyes open wide. “Let’s find out, shall we?” She takes the cards and shuffles them. When she’s finished, she turns to me. “Please cut the cards with your left hand.”

  After I do as requested, she takes the right stack and lays it over the left one, then lays them out: the first in the center; the second one, to the first card’s left; the third, centered beneath the first; the fourth, above the first card; then the fifth, sixth, and seventh to the first card’s right side, in that order.

  With my nod, she turns over the first card. “Ah! The two lovers–reversed! The event you mentioned has the potential to tear them apart.”

  Not good. However, I hold a poker face. “Go on.”

  She flips over the second card. It depicts a devil. “He represents captivity, or bondage. Just out of curiosity, is this event that concerns you an S&M party?”

  “Hopefully it won’t turn into one,” I murmur.

  “Should you think otherwise, keep my card handy. I excel at such gatherings. Go figure!”

  She shrugs then turns over the third card. It shows a man in a chariot. “Some interaction during this time will force you to make an important decision.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  She snorts. “At the rate Mrs. Bing negotiated?” She knits her fingers over her eyes. “Sorry, things are too cloudy.”

  I sigh, but nonetheless I slap a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

  “Clarity comes with the next card,” she promises, as she pockets the cash.

  Yeah right, we shall see.

  As she turns over the lone card on the top row, her eyes grow big. “Ah, the Tower! With whatever decision yo
u make, old allegiances will crumble, and new ones will be built in their place!”

  “Your statement could mean anything,” I point out to her.

  Adamantly, she shakes her head. “Duh! You’re not supposed to take it so literally. The point is to look inward, to draw the true meaning out of yourself!”

  If I did that, then why would I need you?

  When she flips over Card Number Five, she gasps.

  I stare down at it. “What is that, a compass?”

  “It’s called the Wheel of Fortune. It portends that this event will change your destiny for good, one way or another.”

  My destiny will be decided on that night? It’s unmitigated malarkey! She doesn’t know what she’s saying…

  Then why the hell am I so scared?

  Card Six depicts a king on a throne. In one hand, he holds a sword. In the other are the scales of justice. Madame Zenobia’s caterpillar brows arch into bat’s wings. “It’s the card of judgment. Unfortunately, it’s reversed.”

  “Why is that bad?”

  She shrugs. “Depends. Let me put it this way. If you get stopped for speeding, don’t expect to beat the ticket.”

  She doesn’t know it, but much more is at stake. Will whoever commits the crime get away with murder?

  The final card, Number Seven, is also reversed. It shows the World.

  Madame Zenobia sighs mightily.

  “What?” I implore her. “What do you see?”

  “It ain’t pretty. Whatever you’re planning, don’t expect it to be a cakewalk.”

  Noting that the color has left my face, she picks up my hand and turns it palm up. “Maybe we’ll have better luck with this,” she promises.

  She spoke too soon. She winces as she looks at my lifeline, then asks, “Are you in charge of paying my fee?”

  I nod.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get paid in advance–you know, just in case.”

  Despite being insulted, I write out a check in her fee amount and hand it to her.