In The Cut (22 page)

“Love has reasons that Reason doesn’t understand,” she said.

He smiled. “You have a good memory.”

She made another attempt to touch him, this time, he didn’t move. She caressed his face and stepped into his arms.

“You smell like an old man.”

“I thought women liked Brute.”

“Yeah, old women.”

They both smiled.

“I love you, too,” she said, reading his mind.

“When this is over, I will come back to you, I promise.”

“No,” Olivia said, with tears forming in her eyes. “You can’t come back.”

“But, you said you love me.”

“And I do. God knows I do. But love isn’t going to protect us from your enemies.”

“I’ll protect us.”

“You know that’s impossible. The only reason why you’ve survived this long is because you’re a ghost. The moment you become human, they will be able to catch you, or worst. Your enemies will use your love for me to draw you out.”

He looked away as a tear ran down his cheek.

“You know what I’m saying is true.”

“I can find a way for us to be together.”

Olivia shook her head. “I love you Saint Christopher, and I would give anything to spend the rest of my life with you, but we both know that’s not going to happen.” She started crying. “Loving you and knowing that I can’t be with you is killing me. I don’t know how much more pain my heart can take. Please, if you love me, just leave and don’t come back.”

“Olivia—”

She turned her back on him.

He picked his bag up and wiped the tears from his face. He got to the front door and stopped. “MacKalister,” he said without looking back.

Olivia looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“Last night, you wanted to know my last name. It’s MacKalister.”

As soon as Olivia turned around, he was out the front door. When she got to the front door, he was gone. She ran down the steps and looked up and down the street. Like the ghost he was, Saint had vanished.

Chapter 13

Twelve hours on one plane, and then five hours on another gave Saint nothing but time to think. Think about Olivia. There had to be a way for them to be together. Nothing was impossible. He just needed time to figure it out.

La Gomera, a few hundred miles off the coast of Africa, a part of the Canary Islands, he exited the interisland seaplane. He had arrived at La Gomera’s port, San Sebastian, just before midday. He hadn’t been out of the plane’s air-conditioned cockpit a full ten minutes before sweat trickled down his chest, back, and underarms, staining his cotton T-shirt. Even with shades on, he had to squint against the sun’s glare. A few moments later, he walked into a yellow and green shack surrounded by banana plants.

“Can I help you?” The pleasantly plumped woman behind the desk asked.

He recognized her voice from their phone conversation. “Yes, I called and reserved a car two days ago,” he said without bothering to remove his shades.

“Name?”

“George Wilham.”

She typed the name into her terminal. Saint could tell from her bone structure and accent that she was from Spain. She flashed him a courteous smile as she waited for his name to appear on her screen.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Wilham. I see you right here. Mid-size correct?”

“Yes.”

“I just need to see your identification and have you sign right here,” she said, pulling out a pre-printed rental agreement.

“And I’ll take one of these,” Saint said, picking a map from the rack and tucking it in his back pocket.

“You’re all set.” She slid him back his license and credit card, in the name of George Wilham, and a set of car keys. “The red Plymouth parked behind the jeep,” she said, looking over his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

He hopped into the rental and unfolded the map. His eyes landed on the intersection he had to get to. He shot through the narrow streets like a thread through the eye of a needle. Behind his calm demeanor, his eyes and ears were attuned to everything. From the faces of every person he passed to the tropical storm watch warning issuing from the car’s stereo.

Forty five minutes later, he arrived at the intersection. He eyed the bar he was supposed to be meeting his contact at fifteen minutes ago, and hoped the man hadn’t got spooked and left.

He walked in and headed straight to the cigarette machine. His eyes found the thin man sitting at the bar the moment he walked in, but he didn’t want to step straight to him without drawing a quick schematic sketch of the weather-worn building and its patrons. When he first walked in, the thin man spotted him immediately, but dismissed him. And why wouldn’t he? Saint’s appearance had changed drastically from the night they first met. The thin man was Marion Claude’s chauffeur.

That day, in front of Butta Cutz, when Marion Claude was getting into his limo, Saint stole a glance at the chauffeur and caught the split second look of hatred the thin man shot at Marion Claude. Without Saint realizing it, his instincts surmised that the Chauffeur was the weak link in Marion’s armor.

With all the glamour and glitz revolving around Marion Claude, no one ever paid attention to the Chauffeur. Of all the men Marion employed, his Chauffeur worked the hardest and was the most under appreciated. He’s on call 24/7, a gofer, baggage handler, the butt of every joke, and often times a whipping boy when Marion needed to take his frustration out on someone.

A Chauffeur knows his employer better than anyone else. His favorite foods, wines, and women. There are even times when he over hears snippets of conversations taking place in the back of the limo that would be worth thousands of dollars to the right person. To a person like Saint.

After Marion Claude’s razzle dazzle display at Butta Cutz, his driver dropped him at the Bryant Park Hotel for the night. Saint followed the disgruntle employee to a bar on the Lower East Side and made him a deal he couldn’t refuse. Every Chauffeur’s dream. Appreciation, praise, and a lot of money.

Saint asked one of the patrons sitting at a table, nursing a glass of Jack Daniels, where the bathroom was. The man pointed a shaky finger. Saint thanked him and headed for it. From what he could see, there was only one exit, the front door. There were no other rooms aside from the bathrooms and a door that looked like it lead to a storage area. None of the men or women in the bar looked threatening. He headed toward the bar and made eye contact with the bartender.

“A shot of Vodka,” he said sitting next to the Chauffeur.

The thin man looked at the heavy-set, salt and pepper hair, gentleman and nodded.

Saint cleared his throat and greeted the man in French. “Good to see you again, Vince.”

Vince recognized the voice and downed the rest of the Vodka in his shot glass before looking at Saint. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” he said in French.

“That was kinda the point, Vince.”

“I thought maybe you changed your mind and weren’t coming.”

“The trip was longer than I expected.”

Vince looked at his watch. “I’m cutting it kind of close. I have to hurry and get back.”

“So, talk quick.”

“He’s been here ever since you did something to Petrescu. Hanging him off a balcony or something. Since then he’s been trying to contact Josephine, but she’s not taking his calls.” Vince leaned closer to Saint and whispered. “He’s talking crazy.”

Of course he is, Saint thought. He’s been a prisoner in his estate for the past month. A man not used to being in the same place more than a few days at a time tends to get a little jittery and erratic.

“The estate is impregnable. He never leaves, he doesn’t even walk in front of the windows. He has an army of men on twenty-four hour watch, most with automatic weapons and guard dogs. He even has men testing the food and water for any chemical agents you may have slipped into them. He’s impossible to get to. I don’t see how you’re going to—”

Saint cut him off with a look. “You better head on back. The money will be deposited in your account tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t you want to know which bedroom he’s staying in this evening? He stays in a different one every night.”

“You were only obligated to tell me where Marion Claude disappeared to if he decided to run, and you have.”

“For the amount of money you’re paying me, I thought you would want me to do much more.”

Saint patted him on the shoulder as he stood to leave. “There is one more thing I do need you to do.”

Vince winced as he mentally kicked himself in the behind for pressing the issue.

Saint leaned down and whispered in his ear. “Tell Marion I’m here, and that I’m going to kill him.”

Saint navigated the dizzying roads out of San Sebastian onto a road that led him through fields of banana plants and palm trees whipping dangerously in the wind. Over the radio he heard the radio announcing a tropical storm advisory, being issued for the umpteenth time again. A cover of blackness blanketed the sky and before he had a chance to look up, raindrops the size of quarters pelted his windshield. He pulled over and got out. He closed his eyes as the warm rain bounced off his face. A gust of wind, almost strong enough to whisk him off his feet, slammed him against his car. He climbed into the safety of his car. He knew if he couldn’t get into Marion’s compound, he would just have to get into his mind. Telling Vince to warn Marion that he was here was the first step of his plan. Next, he had to get his hands on some weapons.

“Start from the beginning!” Marion Claude shouted. Spittle flew out of his mouth and onto Vince’s face. He didn’t dare wipe it off.

“Boss, I’ve already told you five times—”

“And you will tell me five thousand more times if I choose to hear it again. Now start from the beginning.”

“I walked into the bar in San Sebastian and I ordered a drink. A few moments later, a man sits besides me and says ‘tell Marion that I am here and I am going to kill him’. Then he got up and walked out.”

“He tells you that he’s going to kill me and you just let him walk out of the bar?”

“Boss, I… I… I… my head… so many things were going through it, at first I could do nothing, but just sit there in shock. Then I ran to the pay phone and called you.”

Marion struck the man standing next to him on his chest. “Get on the phone, I want more men flown here, immediately.”

“Sir, we already have twenty well-trained men.”

“I want twenty more! Do as I say, now!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you,” Marion said, sticking his pudgy finger in Vince’s face, “You do know that he will kill everybody here, including you just to get to me?”

“I wasn’t thinking—”

“Which is why you will never be anything other than a driver. Get out of my sight before I have you cut up into small pieces and fed to the dogs.” Marion screamed for his assistant. “Jean!”

“Yes, Marion,” she popped her head in from the other room.

“That bitch is still avoiding my calls?” he asked, referring to Josephine.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any word from Jimmy?”

“Last I heard from him, he and his men had landed in Germany and were heading to Josephine’s suite at the Villa Kennedy, but I don’t think she’s there, sir.”

“I don’t pay you to think, I pay you to do what I say without question.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep calling her until she answers.” Marion jumped as the lights flickered off and on. “What the fuck!”

“It’s the storm, sir,” Jean said.

Marion shook his head. “Get what’s his name on the phone. The one who was with Saint in Las Vegas.”

“Glenn Lemora, sir?”

“Yes, get him on the phone, now!”

In New York City, at the Apollo Theatre, Glenn was sitting backstage, rubbing his temples and taking deep breaths.

“There you are,” Grace said, walking up on him. “I’ve been looking all over for you. She hugged him and could feel him trembling. “Boo, stop worrying. Everything is going to be just fine.”

“It should be. I’ve spent the last two weeks, day and night, ensuring that everything tonight would be perfect.”

“And it’s going to be.”

“This is it, baby. Tonight, we are officially unveiling Beautyfull clothing to the public.”

“Mr. Seeger’s really coming through for you. He got your fashion show at the Apollo, like he promised, he’s introduced me to at least five potential investors already, and… Puffy can’t wait to meet you.”

“What? You saw him?”

“Mr. Seeger introduced me to him.”

Glenn started wringing his hands.

“C’mon, Boo,” Grace said, rubbing his back. “Talk to me. What’s really bothering you?”

“It’s just that… I’ve never done a show without Saint. He had a way with making me believe in myself. Whenever I got nervous, I would just look for him in the crowd and he would give me that look.”

“And what look was that?”

“That I’m-gonna-kick-your-ass-if-you-embarrass-me-look.”