Plus, Nick had me on the payroll, took off taxes and deductions and made me log my hours and everything, so really, technically, I’m spending my own money, which makes this feel even better.
The only thing that’s harshing my mellow right now is fucking creepy invisible Anslem goddamn See.
Finally, I got sick of it. I couldn’t handle it anymore. So I found a little café with a nice shaded outdoor eating area, ordered a mug of coffee and sat my ass down. Seeing as I’m not the type to sit around idle, I took matters into my own hands.
In my purse—the old one, since I hadn’t switched my things over yet—I had two cell phones. One was a big white iPhone in a sparkly case—Swarovski-sparkly, not diamond-sparkly, sadly—the other was more like the prepaid one I’d used in Brazil, an ancient plain black Razr, no case, no bling, no features, not even a smart phone. One of those phones was my every day cell, and the other was for use in case of emergencies. Can you guess which is which? Yeah, duh. I’d never used the Razr, seeing as Nick had gone all Scary Harris on me when he gave it to me, told me it was not for fun, not for needing a ride home from the bar because I’d had too much too drink. It was only for real, serious, life or death emergencies.
Yes sir, I’d said, all doe-eyed and innocent.
Ha. Has he met me? Since when do I do what I’m told? Never, that’s since when.
Thusly, I pulled out that old Razr, flipped it open—and god, what a marvelously nostalgic sensation that was!—and hunted laboriously through the contact list. Laboriously, I say, because I had to use actual buttons, not just swipe. I mean, there was only what, seven contacts in there? Harris, Duke, Lear, Puck, Anselm, Alexei, and Sasha. The heavy hitters of Alpha One Security. The kind of men you were really glad were your friends, whom you knew you really didn’t want to know too terribly much about, because the details of their lives tended be a little…gnarly, shall we say. Even sweet, geeky Lear had his secrets, and he was as vanilla as you could get and still work for Nick.
I found the entry I was looking for: Anselm See.
Before I could remind myself that this was a bad idea and certain to get me in trouble with Scary Harris, I dialed him.
It rang three times.
“You should not be calling me. You know this.”
“I know, but it’s creepy, knowing you’re out there. Can’t you just…hang out with me?”
“I do not…hang out.” Anselm’s voice contained a sarcasm so potent it almost hurt. “And certainly not somewhere like Rodeo Drive.”
“They have really good espresso here,” I said.
I’d seen the break room at A1S headquarters. There was a fridge stocked with craft beer, a bar stocked with bottles of expensive scotch and bourbon, a humidor full of cigars, a cabinet full of junk food and Mountain Dew—I’m sure you can guess who that’s for—and…an espresso machine. And not just a rinky-dink Mr. Coffee plastic piece of shit, but a full size, chromed-out, two-brewer-handle monster installed by the contractors who built the HQ because it wasn’t the kind of espresso machine you just plunked down and turned on.
Anselm took his espressoveryseriously.
“Bah. American piss water.” He hung up without warning, because that’s what spooks and soldiers do, apparently.
Knowing he was watching from somewhere, I flagged down a waitress and ordered a double shot of espresso. A few minutes later the waitress set down a cute little white ceramic mini-mug full of espresso. It was thick and rich, with a frothy goldencrema, just the way it’s supposed to be. I slid thedoppioespresso across the table to the empty chair and waited.
It was like baiting a bear with honeycomb; I didn’t have to wait long.
I was looking in my compact, checking my makeup—the seat across from me was empty. I touched up my eyeliner, reapplied my lipstick, closed the compact—and there he was, Anselm See in the flesh.
I jumped a foot, and clapped a hand to my chest in a vain attempt to slow the thudding of my heart. “Jesus, Anselm. Make some noise, would you?”
He lifted the espresso to his lips, inhaled. Lowered it, peered with extreme scrutiny at the contents, swirled the liquid the way a sommelier would a glass of fine wine. Finally, he took a sip.
“Not bad. Not so good, but not piss.” He eyed me. “What do you want?”
I shrugged. “I don’t want anything. I just don’t liked being watched. If you’re going to babysit me, do it in person, not from far away with a telescope or whatever. That’s just creepy.”
Anselm smirked. “Telescope? You are not a star in the space for me to use a telescope.”
“Then what do you use?”
He laughed, a quiet chuckle. “My eyes,FrauCampari.”
“I always pictured you watching people from the top of a building with a rifle or something, muttering to yourself in German the whole time.”
He snorted. “I am not from one of your Hollywood movies. If I have a rifle, I am going to shoot you. If I am watching you, then I just…watch. And I do not mutter.”
Anselm was, at first glance, utterly unremarkable. Medium stature, perhaps five-ten, five eleven. Not short enough to be called short, but not tall enough to attract notice either. His hair was somewhere between dark blond and light brown, side-parted in the kind of classic haircut that never really went out of style. Shaved jaw, with a day or two worth of stubble. Brown eyes. Dressed in dark-wash blue jeans, a collared black polo shirt, only the front hem tucked in under his belt, the rest left untucked, and sensible hiking boots. If he put on a blazer, he could sit down at a nice restaurant. You’d never notice him in a crowd.
