Pumpking

issue 22

12 hours without incident
I had a red lipstick that mixed between orange and devil red. It was a colour that looked garish on most women, but I’d always been able to pull it off like I was born to it. Washed and perfumed, clutching a neutral black ‘fold’ I was more or less a head-turner as I made my way through the hotel lobby. I looked like a rich-man’s trophy wife, only less the Botox. My ass was natural, my boobs too small to be plastic. I looked like a woman who didn’t need surgery to feel good about herself, and walking through the lobby, seeing men’s heads turn, women’s impressed gaze- I felt it too. I’d been a rolly-polly child, chubby, if you will. Primary school had been hard, but in high-school I’d burst a bit of height into my frame and all the pudgy had gone into length and proportion. I wasn’t a size eight, and I did exercise regularly to keep my frame, but I was confident. I knew my strengths in the looks department and had gotten used to what I needed to do to emphasis those.
Even Miss Sims looked impressed when she opened the waiting Porsche. It was silver, not black as I had expected. I very carefully slid into the passenger’s seat and took a moment to tuck my terror-dress in; looking down to make sure it hadn’t caught on anything.  No matter what happened tonight, I was not letting this dress get a single scratch.
Miss Sims came around to the driver’s seat and slid in. she smiled politely and turned into traffic. And then the real horror began. To say that she was an aggressive driver was a vast understatement.
We pulled into the oncoming traffic without so much as a by-your-leave and immediately had horns blaring at us as the Porsche missed the car in the far lane by half an inch. The Porsche muscled its way down the lane, and suddenly she veered, running a red light and turning without the slightest hint of an indicator before the other traffic had enough time to skid to a stop.
“Uh, this is a forty zone,” I gasped, my knuckles had formed a fusion-like bond with the bar above my head and the arm rest. I didn’t care if it was leather interior; she was going to kill us both.
“I know,” And then the left side of the Porsche lifted slightly as we overtook a car actually doing the speed limit via the pavement.
We hit a main through-way and I swear the speedo must have reached a hundred. Then, abruptly, she slammed on the breaks at a red light; I choked as the car bobbed in to place like a spaniel hitting the end of its leash. The brakes worked.
The rest of the journey was white-knuckle terror and insanity as she broke half a dozen traffic laws. I wasn’t sure I was breathing by the time we finally skidded to a stop at the front of le Chardon d'Or. There was considerable effort involved in prying my fingers off the safety snap and I had to take a moment to regain my petrified body. I was alive. I was alive.
I could handle roller coasters, exotic theme-park rides and all manner of fast paced thrill-seeking adventures. That had been the most terrifying fifteen minutes of my life, bar none. I would happily stand in front of an exploding building than get in a car with Miss Sims’ driving.
The Porsche rolled to a stop at the velvet carpeted entrance of the restaurant with the softest hiss of the tyres. I exhaled, trying to think around the thoughts of how I did not want to die in a car accident. Sims got out and opened my door for me, motioning that it was time for me to emerge. My legs were a little shaky, but a few steps on solid ground later and I was feeling remarkably better.
I had expected the business to be quiet on a weekday, or at least not as packed as it seemed to be; couples lingered outside and from the window, all the tables looked totally booked out.  There were also a lot of security guards, neatly dressed in black suits, loitering around the place.   I hadn’t thought it was that popular- maybe there was a birthday party on?
Sims led me to the maître at the door and held out a slim white card. His imperious gaze swept over me, as though I didn’t even vaguely look out of place. Well, I guess a couple of thousand dollars of fabric will do that.
“Miss Moriarty, please allow me to escort you to your table.”
He bowed his head and ushered me through the milling smoking, drinking crowds toward the entrance. Inside it was subdued but still crowded. There was a small ring of men around the bar, and a great many tables taken. A dark woman in a long, silky cream dress was singing in French on a little stage, her rich voice floating across the floor with old school blues. I was lead up to the back of the room and my escort pulled aside a neat black drape, revealing a hidden door.
Hello. He unlocked the door and ushered me through into the velvet darkness beyond. I found a set of thin wooden stairs leading up, a neat little side-rail for me to grip unsteadily. There wasn’t much light from below, but a lamp spilled some from above.
I emerged onto a walkway and reached out, drawing back the curtain in front of me. Soft evening lights filtered around me, a halo of candles lined the balcony. It was arguably the best table in the house. The whole balcony was lined with roses and the candlelight flickered about in such a picturesque setting I caught my breath.
Whisper rose like he was on strings, red eyes catching in the lamplight. I wondered briefly if he had some sort of scotopic vision. He was neatly turned out in a proper tuxedo and cummerbund, a red sash tucked around his waist. His unruly hair was brushed behind his ears like someone had tamed it somehow and I noticed the thin crease of his starched pants over a pair of loafs so shiny they might have been starlight. His cufflinks looked like pure diamond and the dress watch on his wrist was an antique twentieth century Rolex.
I paused, taking him in. we were both so very well dressed. Like we had put on the skin of different people. Something about the way he moved made it seem natural though. His gaze swept over me and he waved a hand to the table.
“Please, have a seat. You look uncomfortable in those heels.”
That had to be a new record for him. I forced a smile through gritted teeth and sat as gently as I could. My escort moved to tuck my chair in, but I beat him to it. I was not letting anything happen to this goddamn dress. It would leave totally unblemished. If I got screwed by Whisper, I could sell it to cover some of the trouble he intended to cause me.
“I am. I’m also uncomfortable in this dress. And the things you thought I would wear under it.”
His mouth quirked then, “But you are wearing them.”
“Since it was that or crippling debt, I went with the lesser of two evils.”
“I took the liberty of ordering for us,” He sat back, his elbows touching the side of the chair and his fingers steepled, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I think you’re saying that just because you know I do mind.”
His lip quirked again, “Very perceptive, Dion.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what this is about, Mr Whisper,” I emphasised his last name, since he seemed to be forgetting we didn’t like each other. I was not going to entertain the notion this was a date. God; I was not going to be the next cherry-woman for this deplorable, arrogant jerk.
“Surely it’s obvious,” He took a sip of some sort of crystalline white and his expression softened. It must have been good wine. I was more a beer girl.
“No.  Did you have any breakthroughs with the case?”
“Yes,” He turned, gaze drifting over the balcony to the revellers below. We had a clear view down into the restaurant below; watching as men proposed, women broke up and crooks made deals with money they hardly owned. The world of the upper-crust.
Capita city was flush with foreign bodies and the super-elite like this. It had become a bastion for world leaders since the terrible tragedy in Washington ten years ago. Since I was one of those people whose job depended on such elite, it was poor of me to criticize, but sometimes, like tonight, I wonder how much of the world’s hunger would be eliminated if they put their money into growing more corn, finding better methods of protecting people from the ravages of war and death. Instead they drove expensive cars, wore twenty-thousand dollar jewellery, bought art no one really liked and gossiped about events no one wanted to attend.
“So I suppose you aren’t going to tell me then.”
“I haven’t decided how much you need to know yet.”
“I noticed.”
“You don’t ever pull back the punches.”
“The first words out of your mouth this evening were that I looked like I couldn’t stand.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning politeness is a two-way street.”
“Conceded.”
I tried not to let the shock show on my face and instead hesitantly took a sip of the wine in front of me. It was fruity and nice. The bubbles made my nose tingle. I put the glass back on the table hurriedly, lest I hold it too long and spill some, “You seem happier.”
“I do?”
“Less focused. I think the lack of intensity means that you must be relaxing some. I suppose this is more your natural element.”
He smiled openly at that, like I was a pet that had made an amusing remark.
“So I suppose now is the time to ask about the costume.”
“Did you like it?”
“No.”