And then he saw the young man. He couldn't have been much more than a boy, perhaps eighteen or twenty, standing alone in a corner near the fireplace. He was dressed in the traditional garb of thobe and keffiyeh, the white folds contrasting his dark skin, and enhancing his features. Their eyes met and the young man smiled, signaling for Demarco to follow him out a nearby door.
Well, well, Demarco thought.I haven't lost my touch. And royalty, no less.
But as Demarco made to follow, Senator Roy Kicklighter's round, red baby-face intruded, blocking his path.
"There's my black beauty," he said. "I was hoping to see you here."
Thiswas exactly the kind of annoyance he had been trying to avoid.
"Why hello, Roy," Demarco said, allowing his true accent to bleed in naturally. "Do you say that to all of your beaus, or just little ole me?"
"You, my love, are far from little... so tall, dark, and handsome. I've been thinking about that delicious cock of yours all day."
"How's your wife?"
Roy started to speak, but Demarco had caught him off guard. His mouth closed into a smile instead. He shook his finger...naughty, naughty.
"Was that too forward?" Demarco asked.
"No. And for your information, she's off the trail, for now anyway. I'm thinking of leaving her. Too goddamn bad she's got all the money."
Demarco laughed, as realistically as his conscience would allow. Roy Kicklighter was the epitome of a congressional sleaze-bag. Racist and homophobic for his constituents, but a bossy bottom behind closed doors. The bigger and blacker the top, the better. Recently, the press had busted him with a low-rent hooker at Club Cruise, a gay bathhouse in Dupont. He and his wife, Agnes, were now being counseled publicly with Pat—sometimes Gordon—Robertson onThe 700 Club. Demarco had only been with him twice. He hadn't minded it too much—all in a day's work—but thank Christ he wasn't the poor chump Roy had been caught with.
"I really have missed you," Roy said, slurring slightly. "More than you know."
Demarco turned up his champagne glass and killed it. "Well you can tell me all about it then," he said, handing Roy the empty flute. "But do me a favor, doll. Get me another glass of Champagne. I'm terribly parched."
Roy grinned. He would never be a handsome man, might even make a cute ginger-bear... but fear, alcohol, and desperation had done a number on his complexion and self-esteem.
"Be right back," he said and was off to the bar.
Demarco made for the door, exiting the room after the boy.
3
He reached the hall just in time to see the hem of the young man's robe swirl and disappear around a lengthy corner. Demarco picked up the pace, gaining ground with long strides down the red carpet and putting Senator Kicklighter farther behind. When he came around the bend, he saw the man he'd been in pursuit of standing in front of an elevator, conversing with another man in a suit.
Secret Service again, Demarco thought.
The man in the suit reached out and pressed the elevator button. He nodded at Demarco, and Demarco returned the silent greeting, noticing the earpiece in his ear. When the elevator opened, they entered, leaving the agent behind.
They did not speak while ascending the two floors. Demarco was accustomed to this. Not only was it protocol for such encounters, but Demarco had found from experience that it was simply much easier to be silent until the client spoke... the less conversation, the less likely to say the wrong thing.
Not that miscommunication happened often... he was schooled in the oldest language of the land and, in some cases, that wasallthat ever transpired. Wham, bam, and rarely a thank you, ma'am. Which was fine with him. He preferred it that way. But this was a little different... not a celebrity... not a politician... and most definitely not American.
They made brief eye contact, brief smiles, and that was all. By their muted reflection in the elevator doors, Demarco calculated that he was a good eight to ten inches taller than the man. When the elevator doors opened, he gestured for the man to lead and they stepped out into another hall.
Again they walked, and as they came around another corner, Demarco was struck with a heavy sense of déjà vu. Another Secret Service agent was stationed at the suite door.
But it wastheSecret Service agent...hisSecret Service agent.
The man was just as Demarco remembered only now with a little dark scruff... hinting even more of Nordic ancestry... golden hair, tall and thick, with piercing blue eyes that burned icy-hot from his stoic countenance. He gave Demarco a fraction of a grin and a twitch of the eye that could easily have had multiple meanings—lucky you, I just get to stand here...orrobbing the cradle again, I see...orwhy don't you remove your pants and rest your ankles onmyshoulders...or plain and simple indifference—irritating and impossible to interpret.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said.
"Hello," Demarco responded, offering the slightest of smiles and using every ounce of cultivated control he could muster to keep the situation on a professional level.
The client sensed the palpable allure between them though. He quickly produced a key card and swiped. They entered the suite, leaving the agent behind... but not before Demarco gave a quick glance behind to see if the agent was watching.
