It’s always nice to know people are talking about you, but from the smirks Jackie sent my way, it might not have been the most flattering conversation. But short of snarling and ripping the phone from Jackie’s hand, there was nothing I could do but endure, so I did, and the talk apparently changed to some other topic right after.
“Really,” Jackie said. “On your day off? … I know; that’s why I’ve tried to avoid it.… No … No, I have to go for a fitting.… A costume fitting. For the show … You did know we start shooting Monday? … Oh, good, because …”
She glanced at me again, this time with something else in her eyes—challenge? Speculation? I couldn’t be sure. Her tongue poked out between her lips, and her mouth twitched as if she was trying to fight off a mischievous impulse and not succeeding. “Sure, why not?” she said. “It’s a great idea; they’ll love it.… Well, I don’t mind.… No, she’s a little bit of a witch, but I think it’s okay.… I’ll make sure it’s okay.… Sure, that will be great. Bye.” She touched the screen again and put the phone down. “Your sister,” she said, quite unnecessarily.
“I know,” I said. “How am I?”
But Jackie was already on her feet and rushing away. “I have to get ready,” she called over one shoulder, and then she was gone, wafting herself away into the murky mysteries of makeup, hair, and whatever else it is that women do when they Get Ready.
Ten minutes later the doorman called on the house phone to tell me the car was here, and only two or three minutes after that, we were in the elevator and heading down to the lobby. Benny, the doorman, had finally taken a day off, and his replacement waited by the door for us, staring at Jackie with visible tension, mixed with awe.
Even though there was no actual need for it, I went through my routine of stepping outside and looking around. Everything seemed fine. There was no sign of soaking-wet, barnacle-encrusted stalker anywhere. The Corniche still looked expensive.
The driver in the Town Car was the same man, which seemed a little surprising. I opened the front door and stuck my head in. “Don’t you get weekends off?”
“Not if I’m driving Jackie Forrest,” he said. Then he winked at me. “Besides, I get double time.”
As a fellow workingman, I was very happy for him, and I closed the door and went to get Jackie. I wondered whether I was getting double time. It occurred to me that we had never discussed an actual price for my services, and I wondered how I could bring that up without sounding mercenary. Of course, I actually was mercenary—more than that, with Patrick tucked into his watery grave, I was technically a contract killer now, which seemed just about as mercenary as you can get. I hadn’t thought of it like that before, and I did now; it seemed unimaginable that I had killed for money. I hadn’t done so on purpose—I had killed Patrick so I could relax for a few days and
enjoy the life of a Celebrity Companion.
Of course, that made it seem even worse: I had killed for room service. What a terrible, low creature I was. I wondered whether I should feel cheap and tawdry, or perhaps just jaded and callous. How much lower could I sink? I was already indifferent to the suffering of my victims, so I couldn’t really try to make that fit a new and colder me, if there actually was one.
I didn’t think I was any different, but you are always the last to know when you have changed for the worse. Perhaps the new me was already a monster of ego and indifference. What next? Would I lose my table manners, or stop tipping in restaurants? But in the short walk back to the hotel’s lobby, I couldn’t really work out any details about how this new thing should make me act, so I decided not to worry about it, and I went back to wondering how I could bring the topic of Disbursement for Dexter to Jackie’s attention.
By the time I handed Jackie into the backseat of the Town Car, I still hadn’t come up with anything that didn’t seem confrontational or boorish. So I shelved the topic for the time being and settled back to enjoy the ride.
We rolled across town through light traffic, mostly keeping our thoughts to ourselves. Several times I caught Jackie looking at me with what could only be called a secret smirk, and while it’s nice to be the target of other people’s happiness, I didn’t get any joy from her barely suppressed amusement—especially since I had no idea what was causing it.
The crew, and most of the lesser cast members, had been put up in the Hyatt Regency downtown. It was a quick drive on a Saturday morning, and we pulled into the short circular driveway in front of the hotel only fifteen minutes later. Once again I got out and pantomimed eternal vigilance, looking all around for any sign of a lurking Patrick. I didn’t see any trace of him, which was bad news for zombie lovers, and I reached into the car and gave Jackie a hand out.
Wardrobe had a suite on the twenty-fourth floor, and we stepped into an elevator filled with three businessmen, complete with gray suits and briefcases, which seemed like overkill on a Saturday morning. Maybe there was a board meeting at their church. The door slid shut, and one of them glanced importantly in our direction. He looked away haughtily, and then did a double take. “Holy shit, Jackie Forrest?!” he blurted out, and the other two gave a start and then gaped at us, too.
Jackie smiled graciously and did her part, the noblesse oblige she had talked about. I almost wished she’d been rude to them, since I had to hold the elevator door open for a long minute while she signed one of the briefcases with a Magic Marker. There were distant chimes, indicating that somebody else wanted the elevator, and the door kept thumping me as it tried to close and answer the call.
But finally, Jackie tore herself away from her adoring public and stepped out onto the twenty-fourth floor, and as the doors slid shut I heard the autograph hound excitedly saying to the others, “Hot damn, what an amazing piece of—” And then, happily, the doors slid shut on the last word, leaving me to guess what Jackie was an amazing piece of, and we fled down the hall to the suite where Wardrobe had set up shop.
Stepping into the suite was like finding yourself in a beehive the moment after someone has whacked it with a stick. In the eye of the storm, a tall woman of indeterminate age stood commandingly beside a dress dummy. Robert was parked unmoving in front of her, wearing a hideous Hawaiian shirt as the woman tugged it closed and began to button it. Robert looked very much like he was afraid to move, and I looked at the woman a little more closely to see what could inspire such dread.
Her hair was black, streaked with gray that might have been dyed, and she had large glasses in black frames that swirled out on the sides and glittered with rhinestones. Her face was set in an expression of permanent meanness, lips pinched and eyes squinched, as if she automatically disapproved of absolutely everything and knew just what to do about fixing it and making you sorry.
A tape measure hung around her neck, and she was yelling at someone named Freddy to for shit’s sake get the fucking hot-glue gun before it fucking froze. And a wispy young man, probably Freddy, fled from her in terror, presumably to find the fucking hot-glue gun.
Over by the floor-to-ceiling window, on a low couch and several accompanying chairs, a handful of men and women sat together, chatting. On a side table next to them was a large chrome coffee urn and a few pastry boxes.
Another slender young man ran by in the opposite direction, his arms full to overflowing with blue police uniforms. I glanced at one sleeve that dangled loose; it said, MIAMI POLICE. I wondered where they’d gotten the badges, since I had been around Miami police my whole life and I had never seen anything like them.
“Close your mouth,” Jackie said, and I realized I had been staring in wonder, mouth agape, at the melee. “If Sylvia sees any weakness, it’s all over.”
I closed my mouth and Jackie took my elbow to steer us both to safety. But before I could take more than one step, the door to the suite bumped open, and I turned around to look. And sadly for my self-image, my mouth dropped open again.
Because standing there, framed by the doorway, stood Cody and Astor. Behind them, a baby carriage with two passengers rolled into view, and my jaw dangled even lower as I recognized the two passengers as my daughter, Lily Anne, and Deb’s son, Nicholas. “Dadoo!” Lily Anne called, holding her arms out for me to pick her up, and Nicholas bounced up and down with the excitement of the moment.
And, of course, right behind them, wearing a smirk and pushing the carriage, was Sergeant Sister Deborah.
“Hi, Dexter,” Astor said. “This place looks crazy. Do they have any doughnuts or anything?”
“Aunt Deborah said,” Cody said softly.