Double Strike (A Davis Way Crime Caper Book 3) (6 page)

SIX

My family checked out of the Bellissimo at seven Sunday morning, stopped by our place for coffee, a light breakfast I did not cook (croissants from Dunkin Donuts and fresh frozen fruit from Dole), and to say goodbye to Bradley’s mother. Anne Cole’s car was gassed up and her packed bags were loaded. If it were up to me, it would’ve been running with the driver door open. We wished the whole lot of them happy trails and safe travels at 8:30. We locked the door behind them and agreed the dishes could wait.

SEVEN

The biggest difference between Bellissimo Ballet Barre and every other workout since the beginning of workouts was you do this barefoot and the instructor has a foreign accent. Otherwise, it’s every yoga move you’ve ever seen plus seven thousands squats, all assumed from a standing position, hanging on to a waist-high bar for dear life, and at a mirror. The music is nice, if you can hear it over the British woman yelling, “Extend! Lift! Point!” She also said things like, “Relevé plié! Parallel plié pulse!” and “Embrace your inner ballerina!”

Watching Baylor embrace his inner ballerina was well worth being here at six on a Monday morning. I doubt Baylor would ever, ever, ever let Little Sanders talk him into anything else. Ever.

He was way overdressed in running tights and a long-sleeved microfiber shirt, and as a result, he was sweating like a boy pig. He was the only male in the small, hot room with fourteen small, hot cocktail waitresses, the British instructor, Hashtag Elspeth, Fantasy, and me. Fantasy rose above it all. At almost six feet, she was a head taller than the other waitresses, and when she went to “
Extend! Extend! Extend!
” she extended halfway across the room. She smacked the girls in front of and behind her a dozen times. “Sorry, honey. My bad.”

I was Amy Medina, Social Media Virtual Assistant. My hair was sprayed Chocolate Covered Bing Cherry and my colored contact lenses were amethyst. “I’ve never met anyone with, like, purple eyes.” Elspeth’s ponytail bobbed. “Mind if I Instagram you?”

When she adjusted to the odd combination of my black/red hair and violet eyes—I really need to slow down and invest a little more time in my disguises these days—and I adjusted to her thirteen-year-old speech patterns, I stuck my neck out and questioned the wisdom of the grueling workouts. For one, everyone in the room already had abs of steel, and for two, working out every day this week couldn’t possibly have much impact on next week.

“Oh, we’ve been at it for, like, five weeks already,” Hashtag said. “Except for, like, the two new ones. Who just landed in my lap.” Her lap held fictional personnel files on the two new ones. Right then, one of the new ones, the Baylor new one, busted his ass when he fell out of a rond de jambe and slid across the floor. The other new one, the one who kept kicking everyone else, doubled over laughing.

“So you didn’t ask for two more waiters?”

“Not at all,” she said. “It came down from the president’s office that there wasn’t enough diversity on the waitstaff.”

Hashtag cared nothing about personal space. She was so, like, in my face.

“I would have never thought to hire a man to serve cocktails at a casino,” she said. “He’s, like, clunky.” Hashtag slurped her pink lumpy breakfast from a big plastic bucket. “Cute,” she said, “but a clunk.”

Clunk stripped off his shirt, tossed it, and, like, hit me in the head with it. Clunk had abs of steel, too, which didn’t escape the short waitresses.

“And she’s black.” Hashtag tapped Fantasy’s fake folder. “So we’re diverse.”

Fourteen Barbie dolls, six-foot dark-skinned Fantasy, and a clunky man child. Yes. Diverse.

“These workouts are more about, like, media than fitness,” Hashtag said. “The waitstaff is the face of Strike, and if they didn’t, like, look fab, they wouldn’t be here in the first place.” Hashtag Elspeth and I were on short stools in a corner of the room. As her virtual assistant, I would be running her electronic errands for the next two weeks, because she was going to be, like, very busy (doing what?) and, like, she was training me. “They’ll have more overall media coverage than anyone else,” she said. “Having them here this early keeps them in shape and in line. Hey,” she placed a camera, no larger or thicker than a credit card, on my thigh. “We need to shout out.”

She wanted me to scream?

“Tweet a pic,” she said. “Shout out to the Strike team.”

She picked up the camera, tapped it several times, then passed it back to me. I looked through the small screen and found Fantasy, who had a leg wrapped around the back of her head, teeth bared, and a childbirth expression on her face. I thought she made an excellent shouting subject. Shoot. Shout. Send.

When it was over, Baylor spread eagle on the floor and threatening to throw up, Hashtag Elspie sent me on a shoe mission to New Orleans, since Baylor wouldn’t look good in gold stilettoes.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Have you had him try any on?”

Baylor raised one finger off the floor.

Hashtag Elspie punched me in the arm and laughed. We agreed to meet again at seven that evening for Waitress Dress Rehearsal at Strike, which gave me the rest of the day. Baylor could find his own shoes.

“Amy, before you go,” Hashtag said, “stop by Strike. The gaming installation is underway. Check out the chairs. Take a peek at the game and take a ton of pictures. You’ll need them.”

*     *     *

To see the future of gaming and have a shot at striking it rich, contestants had to qualify by playing a cyber scavenger hunt, bouncing around Google+, Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Instagram, Snapchat, Vimeo, Pinterest, Flickr, and Tumblr gathering clues. Of the fifteen thousand registered participants, seven thousand were successful. The seven thousand were allowed access to the virtual casino—strikeitrich.com—where a week of competition point play narrowed the field to two hundred. Forty-two thousand concurrent viewers attended the four-hour webcasted finals event that got down to a single hand of blackjack, seventy-two players against the house, and the fifty who didn’t bust against the house’s eighteen were the final contestants.

The Bellissimo was feeling the buzz. Occupancy, gaming revenues, tempers, and without a doubt, social impressions were up. We were Internet Darlings.

All anyone really wanted to do was sit in the chairs. The closer we got to Strike, the more we heard the word “chair.” Chair, chair, chair. Time for me to see the chair.

No less than six hundred pounds of security stopped me at the door. “Ma’am,” the first three hundred said, “this area is closed.” The gold-icicle spike chandelier looked like the sun blazing behind him.

“I’m an employee.” I flashed my new purple-eyed Amy Medina badge. “I’m here on behalf of social media.” They parted; I choked.

What was that
smell
? For the second time, I pulled my shirt over my nose.

“Yeah, it’s strong,” the other three hundred pounds said. “It’ll calm down when this place opens and the players light up.”

“Let’s hope.”

I joined a roomful of people—technicians, construction-types, suits—all heads bent, all working. Levi Newman looked up from a clipboard. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to shoot you. Pictures of you. Pictures of the casino. I’m Amy Medina. I work for Elspeth.”

His eyes wandered to my employee badge. Then back up to my purple eyes. “Have we met?”

“Today’s my first day.”

He looked at his Bedazzled watch, and told me he had five minutes. Which was fine, because I had four. “We have one kiosk up. This way.” I followed him through a maze of crates and cords, up three steps, then stopped cold. No wonder people were willing to stay up all night gathering cyber four-leaf clovers. It
was
about the chair.

“Have a seat, Miss Medina.”

It was a black leather recliner with wide arms and a wraparound headrest. I sat down and as soon as I did, the chair started moving.

“You’re sitting in a chair made of full-grain European leather. It’s designed for every seating position from upright to fully reclined, and it knows you.”

It must have known I needed a hug and that I was short and cold. It adjusted to my height, it closed in on pressure points on my back, and it radiated heat.

“Lay your head back,” he said, “as if to rest.”

The chair stretched me out like I was on the beach. The canned lights trained on the chair dimmed.

“Say music.”

I said music, and Bruno Mars came softly out of the headrest.

“It’s equipped with THX surround sound,” he explained, “and an air filtration system to eliminate all traces of smoke for those who do and for those who don’t, and it has a built in light-therapy system, delivering full doses of Vitamin D at regular intervals.”

Hashtag impressed.

“It has a heating and cooling system that responds to body temperature and spa features from a low vibration to deep-tissue massage.”

“So, where’s the game?” I got the chair. It’s a beaut.

“Take your right hand,” he said, “and rest it comfortably on the arm.”

As soon as I did, I felt four buttons at my fingertips.

“Push the first button.”

Goodbye, cruel Earth.

Three 24-inch LED touchscreens dropped from the ceiling to land almost in my lap, and my jaw dropped all the way to the floor.

He put the game in to demo mode. The screens tilted to wrap around me, then came alive. Millions of
future
Gaming logos swam in and out of all three screens. Who wrote the programming for all this? I turned my head to speak, and the screens automatically backed away. I was in my own personal gambling robot. “One last question, Mr. Newman. What is that smell?”

“The human brain is manipulated by fragrance.” He tipped his toupeed head back and sucked in two lungs full. “Our take on these gaming stations will be forty percent higher as a direct result of aroma branding,” he said, “and these players will return to the Bellissimo again and again, after the Strike sweepstakes is over, just to get another whiff.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

“The chair.”

“What is it?” I asked. (Legal, I hoped.) It wasn’t vanilla. It wasn’t cinnamon. It wasn’t gingerbread.

“It’s chocolate chip cookies.”

*     *     *

We left my car at home. Bradley’s legs didn’t fit in it.

“Are you ready?” His hand was on the gearshift.

“No.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it, Davis.” He tucked a lock of my chocolate-covered-cherry hair behind my ear. “Have faith.”

“I have hives, Bradley. I have heartburn. I have the heebie-jeebies,” I said. “Everything but faith.”

And we were off. Destination: 4
th
Judicial Circuit of Alabama, Wilcox County Courthouse, Camden, Alabama. Somewhere between the Municipal Court on Walter Street and the Judicial Court three blocks over on Broad, my divorce had fallen through the cracks. We were on our way to walk the same path, find the crack, and dig my divorce out of it. Our goal is to take care of this matter without my ex-ex-husband, or anyone else who didn’t already, knowing. Bradley Cole is an attorney; he knows the law and his way around a courthouse. I’m a former police officer, current Super Spy. Between the two of us, surely we could get this done.

We hit the drive-through of Starbucks.

“When do you need to be back?”

“I have to be in the new casino at seven.” I blew across the top of my tall skinny double-shot pumpkin spice latte with easy whip.

“Where are you supposed to be now?” We were on I-10 east, headed for Mobile. I knew every bump and grind of this road, having traveled this route from Biloxi to Pine Apple, Pine Apple to Biloxi, at least once a month for three years. Sometimes more often, depending on what was going on at home. (My mother and my niece had birthdays that were just days apart. Could we celebrate them together? No.)

“I’m supposed to be buying Baylor shoes.”

“Why can’t Baylor buy his own shoes?” Bradley asked.

“That’s what I said.”

We crossed the state line into Alabama and I started getting twitchy.

“You’re not going to have any eyelashes left if you keep trying to pull them out, Davis. Think about something else.”

I doubt he wanted to think about what we might find up the road either. We’d managed to spend the entire day alone yesterday without discussing it once. Not that I’m complaining.

“Talk to me,” Bradley said. “Tell me about Strike.”

“I told you I was fired, didn’t I?”

“What? Who would fire you, Davis? The nerve!”

“Exactly!”

My job had me working in tons of positions within the Bellissimo, always in disguise, and I got fired from them all the damn time. A few months ago, right after Fantasy and I graduated from cyber blackjack school (I might have skipped a few lessons. How hard can it be?) I was fired on my second shift of dealing blackjack. “Lady,” the pit boss said, “you just can’t
count
.”

“I’ve already been hired again,” I said. “I’m the new social media assistant.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Bradley.”

He pushed a button, the sunroof noiselessly slid back, then falling-leaves, chili-supper, football-crisp air filled the car. “What, exactly, Davis, does a social media assistant do?”

“I’m not sure.”

Which entertained Bradley.

“Have you seen today’s paper?” he asked. “There’s a big write up about Strike. Countdown to the casino of the future.” He shifted in his seat to a more comfortable position and offered a hand my way. I took it. “With a big picture of everyone standing under the sun.”

“That’s a glass-blown light fixture in the little casino,” I said. “Very pretty.”

“The new casino manager? Levi? Looks like David Hasselhoff.”

Bradley nailed it. “
Baywatch
David Hasselhoff?”

“No,” he said. “
Knight Rider
David Hasselhoff.”

“Maybe he
is
David Hasselhoff.” For some reason, right then, on the interstate going ninety, we met over the console and kissed. Just a peck. It felt good to be away from the Bellissimo, out of Biloxi, with Bradley. “Did you see my new boss in the picture?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Who does he look like?”

“It’s a she,” I said, “and you can’t miss her. She wears a ponytail that looks like a fountain coming out of her head, lots and lots of glittery makeup, and crazy clothes. Her name is Elspeth.”

“It is not.”

“Yes it is.”

“There was no one in the picture with a fountain head.” Bradley passed a motorhome that had a Twitter address and invitation to follow their travel tweets painted along the driver side. “There were women,” he said, “but I didn’t notice any glitter or crazy clothes.”

“My new boss Elspeth is in charge of social media,” I said. “Actually, she was my old boss, too. She’s in charge of social media and the waitstaff. No Hair had me waitressing for this gig, but now I’m her virtual assistant because I was fired from waitressing.”

“Why is the same person in charge of both social media and the waitstaff?” Bradley asked. “I don’t see the connection.”

And with that, I didn’t either.

“It sounds like Jeremy
wants
you working for Elspeth the whole time.”

A good point I’d been too busy to make. No Hair had me working for Hashtag Elspie twice. Interesting. No Hair generally knew a lot more than he let on, and he generally threw me in the fire without a briefing. The method to his madness was this: Let Davis figure it out.

“Davis?”

“You’re right,” I said. “No Hair wants me on her.”

“Why?”

“Why, indeed.”

“Okay.” Bradley said. “Get a step ahead. What’s so interesting about Elspeth?”

“I can tell you one thing about her, she’s on Red Bull. Seriously. I haven’t seen her when she wasn’t bouncing off the walls.”

“Not necessarily a bad personality trait for someone in her chosen profession,” Bradley suggested. “What else?”

“She’s gay.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I just do,” I said. “We didn’t discuss my sexual orientation either, but she knows.”

“How does she know?”

“She just does.”

“Okay, Davis. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Nothing.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I raised two. “Since when do I care what people do when they’re not at work?”

“Davis, there’s a reason Jeremy wants you glued to her, and I doubt it’s so you’ll become a Twitter expert. You might want to care what she does when she’s not at work.”