It was only mid-morning, and she could still get in a few hours at work. She’d tell them she felt better after taking a little medication. Employers appreciated any effort you made to come in. If Julia did indeed call, Max would have to drop the temp assignment like a hot potato. Or a used-up lover.
Climbing into her car, she pulled Witt’s cell phone out and keyed in Ladybird’s number. The little woman chirped into the phone. Yes, she’d slept well. No, she didn’t have a headache. Yes, she’d drink lots of fluids today. No, Witt hadn’t stopped by. Did Max intend to go back to the hotel tonight? Because, of course, Ladybird was available to help with surveillance.
Oh my God. Witt was right. Max had created a monster.
Max told her she was doing reconnaissance, not surveillance, and that was far more dangerous. She wasn’t quite sure of the difference, but it sounded good.
When Max finished work for the day, she headed out alone for the Embassy Hotel. Ladybird managed to discount the danger part, but had seemed satisfied with the rest of Max’s reasoning. Last night Max had wanted to avoid attention. Tonight, she wanted to gain Angela Rocket’s confidence. Doing it alone increased her chances. Ladybird agreed, albeit reluctantly.
Same time, same place. Eight o’clock. This time Max went for the valet parking despite the dent to her wallet. She had no intention of walking back to Union Square alone and without Ladybird’s dubious protection.
Max had donned another black suit, different tie, this one gray and black. Very conservative. The shoes, however, were not. The four-inch spike heels were sex personified. She couldn’t quite decide why she wore them except to say that she was going up against a woman who made her living by attracting men. No self-respecting female would take her on without being well armed, and the shoes were Max’s weapon of choice. Understated, hidden, a wrapping that suggested there was more to the package than first meets the eye.
With her purse clutched beneath her arm—she’d chosen a smaller accessory this time—she entered the hotel, then the bar. A quick scan disclosed that Angela had not arrived yet. Amidst several empty and perfectly placed tables, her preference was for one against the wall where no one could sit at her back.
She did an inventory of the bar’s occupants. Five couples, all older and dressed to dance, three female friends seated together, loud and lively, and four businessmen slash potential johns. She wondered inanely if that was johns with a capital J; was the word even in the dictionary with that particular meaning? She ordered a white zinfandel to ponder the question. Max favored cheap and sweet.
Once more, the music was light, instrumental, and dreamy. Couples danced. Max recognized one or two pairs from the previous night, the skirts of the women’s dresses flouncy, the men in tailored suits that moved gracefully with their bodies. Ballroom dancing was the most beautiful thing on earth, as Ladybird had said.
Second in beauty was the Greek God seated a few tables away. Max smiled appreciatively. He was here again, having sneaked in when she was enraptured with the dancing. His chin shaved, his hair two inches shorter, he appeared to have spiffed up for the night. Coincidence? Or hoping to be Angela’s choice tonight? Max couldn’t have said if he’d watched the woman last night; she’d been too engrossed herself in the interplay between Angela and Blondie.
She did a double take. What if he was a cop? What if they were on to Angela? Did that solve Max’s problems, or complicate them?
Angela arrived fifteen minutes, fifty million questions, and half a glass of wine later. She wore the pearls, but had opted for a cream suit this evening, the skirt fashionably short and on the acceptable side of tight. The jacket, Bolero-style, reached only to her disgustingly tiny waist. The whole package flattered her figure. Picking a table in the middle of the room, she sat with three of the four business suits facing her and the three girlfriends at her back. She ordered from the wine list, once again with great consideration, the bartender returning with her undoubtedly expensive chardonnay. Max wondered why he seemed to serve her exclusively while all the other tables were taken care of by the two waitresses. Within five minutes, Angela’s pimpish companion slid into a seat at the same table he’d occupied last night. Conveniently close to the entrance. Quick getaway, easy exit for him. He watched Angela work the room with her eyes. Ah, the target—poor Greek God, he didn’t make the cut—another blond, not so tall as the last, a little older, thicker around the middle, but with a certain, friendly smile that even Max found attractive.