Touch of Magic (8 page)

"Why? When you stand a very good chance of
getting a hole in your neck like
Yussuf
did? Just tell
me that."

She pushed his hand away.

"Because I'm going to do it! That's all. And I'll need another piece of film just like the one you
brought."

They were passing a T-shirt stand. She stopped and unfolded a pink shirt, holding it up so they'd
look like anyone else just here for an afternoon of
fun.

"So where do I go? And when? I gather you're not thrilled about working with me. I can't help that. I'll
do what you tell me, how you tell me, and if some
thing goes wrong, I knew what I was getting into.
It's not on your conscience. Okay? I've made financial provisions for
Serafin
."

  
Her control impressed him more than emotion
could have. Anyway, it was her decision to make.
He took the pink shirt from her and tossed her a green one.

"You go to the Palacio Sol. Tomorrow."

"He was booked there?"

No names. She was good at this,

"Right. You're picking up his schedule, starting the next day. Management's expecting you. I'll be
there the morning after you get in."

They began to walk again.

"And the man I'm to meet?"

Ballieu
, she meant.

"
Yussuf
had two suites reserved for people begin
ning the day I arrive." He frowned. The suites were
reserved for two nights. He didn't understand that part. Why wait around? "We'll be just north of the
Mexican border," he said. "Easy run if
Ballieu
needs
to make it. Have fun in the sun, but don't drink the
water."

"I thought it was throat problems I was supposed
to watch for," she said.

The tart humor, bouncing off his heavier effort,
startled him. He relaxed a little.

"Here," he said, sliding a photograph out of the
envelope that had held the film he'd given her.
"Take a good look at
Ballieu
. Make sure you recog
nize him."

She took a long, thoughtful look and then nodded.

They stopped in front of the Venice Beach Ath
letic Club, an outdoor affair where a few men in
sweatbands were working out inside a pen. Beyond,
across a stretch of sand, surf crashed and children squealed happily, making what they were discuss
ing seem all but unreal. Time to separate, he
thought.

"Any questions?"

Removing her hat, she brushed back her hair. It
smelled of the ocean. She'd been swimming. Ellery
experienced a sharp and jolting vision of how it
would feel to swim beside her, far from the crowds,
far from shore, testing your limits.

Her eyes were on the distant waves.

"Someone broke in last night. Searched the
house. Nothing taken. Do I tell the police?"

Again her calm impressed him.

"First time in your neighborhood?"

"No. There’ve been a few others."

He rubbed the back of his hand against his lower
lip and thought aloud. "Coincidence, maybe. No
body knows about your part in this but me and
Oliver and possibly his boss. Unless someone already thinks you were mixed up with
Yussuf
," he
added grimly.

He half intended it as bait, but she looked as per
plexed as he was. Shrugging, he raised a hand in
departure.

"See you at Fun City."

"Ellery."

He turned back sharply at her voice.

"I have a price for this."

He hadn't thought she was that kind. Her words
disappointed him.

"Sure. You'll get a per diem."

"Not cash." Her hands were planted on her hips.
"
Serafin's
an illegal. I want him naturalized. And
made my ward. Or I don't leave tomorrow."

He was motionless, not sure whether he was feel
ing anger or the impulse to laugh. Also not sure
anymore whether he could believe her earlier
promise to do what he said, the way he said to do it.
He bit his words off, filled with sarcasm.

"Anything else?"

He thought her lips twitched once.

"One thing. I expect your people to pick up the
bill for my underwear."

He eyed her narrowly, trying to figure out what
she was getting at and not giving her the satisfaction
of asking. But her eyebrows raised. She knew he was stumped.

"Silk panties cause static, which I don't need han
dling film, Mr. Ellery. I'm damned if I'll wear cotton
ones at my own expense!"

Five

At Christmastime, Channing always received a card from her local Jeep dealership. They loved her.
She changed models yearly, equipping them with high-priced extras. The one she drove through the
hot, barren stretches of southernmost California
was blue, and she was glad of its reliability. Compared with the traffic in Los Angeles, this stretch of
highway winding toward the plush Palacio Sol was
all but deserted.

Seeing a service station ahead, she decided to pull
over. Her work in remote places had conditioned
her to feel more comfortable when her gas gauge
read almost full. Besides, she wanted a cool drink.
As she pulled up next to the tanks and jumped
down, she heard a muffled pounding from the back
of the Jeep where her luggage was stowed.

"Channing! Let me out!"

She stared. Every bone in her body went hard
with anger, vexation, and sudden fear. Whipping
out keys, she unlocked the large old trunk that held
her stage props.

"
Serafin
! What the hell are you doing in there?
You could have suffocated!"

He looked penitent, and despite his dusky skin, she could see he was flushed.

"It's got a good lock. I thought I'd be able to
open -- "

"If I hadn't heard you, you could have died in
there. Understand?
Muerto
!" She was feeling pro
gressively weak with the aftershock.

He hung his head, brushing rivulets of sweat from
his neck.

"You said we were going to be like partners. Part
ners stick together." His eyes turned up, pleading.
"I want to make sure you stay okay. You're going to this place because of that spy business, aren't you?"

"Not another word about that," she said between
her teeth, and to the attendant who approached
them, "Fill it."

Grabbing
Serafin's
shoulder, she began to march
him toward the service station.

"Don't get sore," he said, and his expression undermined the toughness she knew she should mus
ter. It told her better than words that he was afraid
of being alone. He was afraid of losing her. Maybe
he was even afraid her promises wouldn't be kept.

She shoved him toward the men's room.

"Go run water over your head. Lots of it."

When he returned, she handed him a cold
canned soft drink.

"You going to send me back?" he asked, his voice
subdued.

"No," she said. She'd thought it over. Having
Rundell
come down to get him would cause more
commotion than she wanted right now, and maybe
a child's need for security had to count for more
than logic in this case. "But don't you ever, ever pull
anything like this again. Do you hear me?"

He nodded meekly.

"I can help you set up your props and stuff. I
didn't mash anything."

They walked back toward the Jeep. Out on the
highway a car pulled off and meandered slowly by
to stop at a curio stand a few hundred yards away.
Channing frowned. It was brown with a vinyl roof.
A small Cadillac. She'd swear it had been behind her when she'd left Los Angeles. She'd liked the
color.

"Think there's something wrong with that car?"
asked the boy beside her.

She recoiled slightly, irritated that her face had
betrayed her thoughts.
Serafin
read people quickly.
It was unnerving.

"Not a thing," she said. But the prowler two
nights ago, on top of what she was about to do, made her edgy. "If you want to try reading my mind," she
said, climbing into the Jeep again, "try guessing the
lessons I'm assigning you for tomorrow. I helped
tutor a free-lance photographer's son last year. I
have a fair idea what a kid your age is supposed to
be learning."

He gave her a somber, unruffled smile. She
checked the license plate of the brown car as she
passed it. Final digits: 321. Then they made their way through the hot afternoon toward Palacio Sol.

  
It was a high-priced resort carved out of the des
ert. Three pools. Tennis courts. Golf and horseback
riding. Palm trees and irrigated flower beds made
the grounds that housed it an oasis. There was an outdoor art exhibit, and music wafted from one of
the numerous lounges. The nearest town was a
wide spot ten miles away. Closer to the resort, a few
dusty paths suggested an occasional private dwell
ing lost somewhere in the scrub beyond. Before
they had even finished registering, an assistant
manager came bounding out to welcome
Channing
.

"We're so pleased you could fill in for the gentleman who was booked here," he burbled, taking
her hand. "A terrible tragedy."

More than you'll ever know, thought Channing.
For whatever
Yussuf
had become, he had been good once.

"I didn't realize you had an assistant," the man
ager said. His name was Wilbur. He was bald on top
but preening for her all the same. With a look of concern at
Serafin
, he leaned closer to her. "Is he
old enough to be in the club?"

"I'm a midget," said
Serafin
, deadpan.

"Oh." Wilbur's face turned red.

Channing closed her eyes to hide their rolling.

"Well. We've put you in one of our bungalows.
Gives our entertainers a little more privacy, we've
found." He gestured gallantly after her luggage.

"I'll be along in a minute," said Channing. "I for
got something in the car."

Wilbur wasn't her type, and she wanted to study
the layout of this sprawling complex. As she turned,
a man on one of the lobby couches cracked open a newspaper. Paranoia, noticing that, she told herself angrily. There was no reason she should think he'd
been watching her. Maybe her nerves weren't
steady enough for this job.

  
Outside, just to reassure herself that she was
growing over-imaginative, she scanned the parking lot. There it was, at the opposite end from her Jeep, a small brown Cadillac.

Drawing a slow breath, she started to walk.
Maybe it was Bill Ellery. Maybe he'd come early.
She began to move casually toward the car, picking out details beyond. A shrub-screened path cut away
toward what, by the sound of it, was one of the
pools. She kept her eyes down, prepared to sweep
across the license plate without slackening her
steps. The last three digits were 321. Her thoughts raced in the disciplined confines she imposed on
them. She moved toward the pool, saw someone appear from the sheltered path, looked up, and fought for breath.

The man facing her had piercing blue eyes.
Straight blond hair. Aristocratic features except for
rather thick earlobes. His face wore a studied pleas
antness that might hide any emotion. It was Henri
Ballieu
.