Eight
THE MUSIC OKAY, sir?” said Dan Holiday, checking the rearview, looking at his client, a fit guy in his midforties, relaxing on the right side of the backseat.
“It’s fine,” said the client, pressed jeans and a top-end blazer, open-neck shirt, black leather boots, a Tag Heuer wristwatch that must have put him back a thousand beans. Guy had one of those expensive hairstyles, too, shooting off in different directions on top, with that flip-up thing in the front. The look said, I don’t have to wear a tie like all you other suckers, but I have money, rest assured.
Holiday had watched the guy coming out of his house in Bethesda as he sat out in the black Town Car, waiting. He had estimated his approximate age and, knowing he was some kind of writer (Holiday had been contacted by a publishing house in New York, a frequent customer, for the pickup), figured the guy favored the new wave stuff of his youth, meaning ’77 and beyond. Holiday had found Fred, the “classic alternative” program, on the radio before the guy even slid into the car.
“You can change it if you’d like,” said Holiday. “You’ve got your own controls on the back of the seat, right there in front of you.”
They were heading out on the toll road toward Dulles Airport. Holiday had his black suit jacket on but had forgone the chauffeur cap, which made him feel like a bellhop. He only wore the cap when he was driving corporate bigwigs, politicians, and K Street types.
Holiday didn’t feel the need to be real formal with this particular client, and that was nice, but the music, Christ, it was setting him on edge. Some heroin addict was whooping through the speakers. The writer in the backseat was moving his head a little to the beat as he studied the radio controls mounted in the leather before him.
“You got satellite in here?” said the writer.
“I put the XM unit in all my cars,” said Holiday. All. He had two.
“Cool.”
“Same idea behind GPS technology,” said Holiday. “We used it for tracking purposes when I was in law enforcement.”
“You were a cop?” This seemed to waken the guy’s curiosity. His eyes met Holiday’s in the rearview for the first time.
“In D.C.”
“That must have been interesting.”
“I got stories.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Anyway, after I retired, I started up this service.”
“You seem too young to have retired already.”
“I had all my years in, even if I don’t look it,” said Holiday. “Good genes, I guess.”
Holiday reached for the slotted plastic piece under the sun visor, extracted a couple of business cards, and handed them over the bench to the client. The guy took them and read the embossed printing on the face of the one on top: “Holiday Car Service,” in Old English letters. And below it, “Luxury Transportation, Security, Executive Protection.” And then the tagline, “Let Us Make Your Workday a Holiday.” At the bottom was Holiday’s contact information.
“You do security?”
“That’s my main business. My expertise.”
“Bodyguard stuff, too, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
Holiday left much of the “bodyguard stuff” to Jerome Belton, his other driver and sole employee. Belton, a former noseguard at Virginia Tech who had blown out his knee in his senior year, took the security jobs, driving high-level executives and third-tier rappers and other entertainers coming through town for shows. Belton was a big man who could affect, when needed, a hard, unsmiling expression, and so possessed the necessary equipment for the job.
Holiday passed a Washington Flyer cabbie on the left and swerved his Town Car back into the right lane. In the mirror he saw the writer slip the cards into his breast pocket. He would probably throw them in the trash at the airport, but you never knew. You built a business by referral, or so Holiday had been told. Once you got them in the car, it was all about presentation. The items in the backseat, pristinely folded copies of the Washington Post, New York Times, and Wall Street Journal, the tin of Altoids, the bottles of Evian, and the satellite radio, they were all there to leave an impression of service and to make the client feel like he or she was a very special person, to elevate him or her above the cab-and-shuttle crowd. Holiday even kept a copy of the Washington Times in the trunk, in case the client looked to be of that fringe.
“So, you’re a writer,” said Holiday, trying to put a tone of give-a-shit into his voice.
“Yes,” said the client. “I’m leaving for a three-week book tour today, actually.”
“Must be an interesting way to make a living.”
“It can be.”
“Is it fun to be on the road like that?”
Do you get much *?
“Sometimes. Mostly, it’s tiring. The airplane travel takes it out of you.”
“That sounds rough.”
“Getting through airport security is exhausting these days.”
“Tell me about it.”
You little girl.
“I dread it sometimes,” said the writer.
“I can imagine,” said Holiday.
Take off your skirt and paste some hair on your balls.
Holiday said little else for the rest of the ride. He had done his duty and passed out a couple of cards, and now he was finished. He sucked on an Ice Breaker breath mint and thought about his next drink.
He was bored shitless. This was no way for a man to make a living. Wearing a stupid fucking hat.
“I’m going out on United,” said the guy in the backseat as they neared the color-coded signs alerting them to the airport entrance.
“Yes, sir,” said Holiday.
Holiday dropped the client at his gate and pulled the man’s luggage out of the trunk. The writer gave him a five-dollar tip. Holiday shook his small hand and told him to “travel safe.”
At this hour, 495 would be a parking lot from Virginia to Maryland. Holiday decided to find a bar and wait out the rush. Get back on the road when the traffic eased some. Maybe find someone to talk to while he put his head where it needed to be.
He found a hotel in Reston a couple of exits back off the toll road. It was in something called a Town Center that looked like a block of chain retailers, eateries, and coffee shops that someone had lifted out of a real city and dropped in a cornfield. On the way to the bar he introduced himself to the concierge and handed him several cards along with a ten-dollar bill. Much of his business came from the hotel trade, which Holiday cultivated with the personal touch.
The bar was fine, sports themed but not too aggressive with it. There were many high tables designed for those who wanted to stand in groups and stools for those who preferred to sit. A bank of windows gave a view of the fake street. Holiday had a seat at the stick and placed his cigarettes and matches on its marble top, cool to the touch. One good thing about Virginia, you could still smoke in a bar.
“Yessir,” said the bartender, a low-slung blonde.
“Absolut rocks,” said Holiday.
Holiday drank and smoked down a Marlboro. The mostly male crowd was heavy with goatees, Kenneth Cole Reaction slacks, Banana Republic stretch oxfords, and golf shirts for those who had taken the afternoon off. The women were similarly clean and square. In his black Hugo Boss suit, bought off the rack, and white shirt, Holiday looked like a businessman, on the Euro side, slightly more hip than the techies around him.
He struck up a conversation with a young route salesman, and they bought each other’s drinks for the next two rounds. It had gotten dark out, Holiday noticed, by the time the salesman went up to his room. Holiday ordered another drink, got it in hand, watched as steam came up off the rocks in the glass. He was relaxed. He was going down that familiar darkened road, and still he had no desire to turn back.
An attractive redhead who would never see thirty-five again took a seat on the stool beside him. She wore a greenish skirt-and-jacket business suit that complemented her hair color and picked up the green of her eyes. Her eyes were lively and told him that she’d be a freak in bed. Holiday took all of this in with a quick glance. He was good at this.
He held up the cigarette burning between his fingers. “You mind?”
He showed her his teeth and the laugh lines around his ice blue eyes. The first look was all-important.
“Not if you let me bum one,” she said.
“You got it,” said Holiday, and offered her the pack. He struck a match, put fire to her smoke, and blew out the flame. “Danny Holiday.”
“Rita Magner.”
“Pleasure.”
“Thanks for this,” she said. “I only smoke on the road, y’know.”
“Me, too.”
“I get bored.” She winked. “It’s something to do.”
“Sales can be a drag,” said Holiday. “Different hotel room every night…”
“Bartender,” she said, raising her hand.