Page 18 of The Big Fix

To the right, I saw a black Mercedes S550 idling, and the driver got out to greet me. He was young, dressed in a black suit and tie with a white dress shirt underneath.

I thanked him for being there, and he gave me a smile and a nod. In the car, with Jing beside me, I called Hasana.

“Thank you for the clothes.”

“There’s a shaving kit as well, so do clean up once you get some sleep.”

“I will.”

“Let me talk to Jing.”

“Go ahead,” I said, putting her on speaker.

“How—”

“Wait,” Jing snapped, hitting a button to raise the partition between us and the driver. “Go ahead.”

“Oh dear God,” Hasana groaned. “Boss, since when do we chat in front of people we don’t know?”

“He’s fuckin’ exhausted,” Jing told her. “You should see him. He looks like how he did when you were delivering Benny.”

Her first child had been an emergency C-section, and neither she nor her son were expected to live with whatever complication there had been. It had been touch and go for what had felt like days.

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Jing repeated. “He asked me a moment ago how I knew this was our car.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” I growled at them.

“Fine,” Hasana agreed. “Instead of asking Jing, I’ll ask you how you are.”

“It changes minute by minute,” I confessed. “Where did you put us up?”

“The Dwarika. I secured you the best suite available given the notice.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Thank you for being on top of this.”

“Always,” she whispered, and I knew she didn’t want to cry in front of me. We were all worried. We were a family, and Owen was an integral part. If he was gone, it wasn’t just my loss. It would affect them all. “Now please get some rest so Jing doesn’t have to knock you out. I packed her a blow-dart gun, so don’t test her.”

I turned to Jing, who raised an eyebrow and held out her hand for my phone. I passed it to her, and she took it off speaker and spoke at length to Hasana. I got lost in listening to her; she had a soothing, mellifluous voice. She could have made a mint narrating books for a living, and I told her that often.

I nodded off, safe in the car with Jing, the sound of the tires on the road and the lulling speed too soothing to not succumb. Jing woke me an hour later as we pulled up in front of the Dwarika. The eighty-room hotel, a meticulous melding of the valley’s indigenous Newari architecture and contemporary luxury, was an oasis in the bustle of Kathmandu. I was a bit bleary, watching Jing give the driver a tip and her card—apparently, she wanted him to come back for us later. Inside, she went to the front desk and checked us in. The concierge was helpful, asking Jing about luggage. But I had my bag and Arden’s, Jing carrying her own.

“Everything has been taken care of,” the concierge told Jing kindly. “I’ll have someone show you to your suite.”

The bellhop, a man in his thirties, led us to a private elevator that took us to the top floor. He used a card key and ushered us into an enormous living room with a large terrace overlooking the tree-lined courtyard below. The view hardly mattered, but it was lovely nonetheless.

“Thank you so much,” Jing said, taking the card key from him and handing back a hundred-dollar bill. “We appreciate your accommodating us with this lovely suite last-minute.”

The man departed quickly with a big smile for Jing.

Once the door closed behind him, she rounded on me and pointed at the doors to my right, but I said, “You should look and see which room you and Arden want.”

“That’s the smaller one, and it’s yours,” she informed me, her tone brooking no protest. “Arden and I are sharing the one with two queens. Now go take a shower and go to bed.”

I nodded.

“I’m poking my head in there in fifteen minutes,” she warned me. “If you’re not asleep, I’m getting out that dart gun, and don’t think I don’t have one.”