Pulling her carry-on behind her, Maggie hopped BART and took the subway back to 16th and Mission where she walked the block up to her Edwardian apartment building on Valencia, savoring San Francisco on an Indian Summer night, that rare time when the City was warm and balmy. The old Hispanic neighborhood was fast becoming gentrified. Working in Paris meant she hadn’t been home in a while to her third-floor flat that rent control kept within her budget.
She collected an armload of mail and headed upstairs, where she let herself in, flicking on lights, and was just about to set her mail down on the mahogany side table when she noticed a cut vase containing a mixed bouquet that cost a hundred bucks if it cost a dime, sitting on the black tile countertop to the kitchenette. Roses and carnations and lilies, in purple, pink and lavender. There was even a hint of blue. Her heart beat a little faster, and that annoyed her as much as it pleased her. She and Sebi were history. But who else could have sent them? Only the guy who knew her favorite flowers and made a point to remember. Damn him anyway.
She set her mail down, went over to the counter, picked up the card attached. There was a yellow post-it stuck on top, from Helena, her cleaning lady, who explained that they had arrived when she was freshening up the flat yesterday, prior to Maggie’s return.
The flowers were from Sebi, of course.
Welcome home. Just thinking of you. Right. Was Sebi just thinking of her when he entertained some groupie in Maggie’s apartment when Maggie was in Quito a couple of months ago? The one who left hot pink lipstick on one of Maggie’s wineglasses she found in her dishwasher? It hadn’t been the first time, either. Maggie had given Sebi his marching orders after that, making herself a new rule—no more musicians.
She went through her mail, trying not to think about Sebi and the way he would strut out on stage with his Elvis curl and his guitar slung low, ready to rock the house. She had almost gotten him out of her mind when she saw a letter addressed to her from the very same. There was no getting away from Sebi today. She tore it open, angry at herself for wanting to see what was inside.
A cashier’s check.
Five thousand dollars. And a note.
Long past due!
S.
P.S. In lieu of interest, I propose buying you a cup of coffee at Higher Grounds. I won’t even open my mouth. I’ll just sit there and smile pleasantly while you drink it.
Maggie had lent Sebi the money to buy a Les Paul Goldtop over two years ago. She had never thought she would ever see the money again, Sebi being Sebi. But he was making good. Well, well.
Still, she had a new rule. No more musicians.
She pulled open the old sash windows. The sheer curtains billowed, letting the cooling night air disperse the stuffiness of the locked-up apartment. She straightened the Diego Rivera look-alike that a no-name artist in Buenos Aires had sold her, went into her bedroom, stripped off her business attire, slid into her black Lycra running shorts, pink tank top, and stepped into her duct-taped ASICS sockless. She grabbed her phone and earbuds to catch up on her voicemail on her personal phone—the one she left behind—then locked up the apartment, and fifteen minutes later was sprinting through Golden Gate Park, heading to Ocean Beach, her shoes kicking the fog crawling around her ankles.
One of her voicemails was from Sebi. When it rained, it poured. Secretly she was thrilled, although she would never admit it to anyone.
Sebi sounded good. Not drunk. Or coked up. He sounded like the old Sebi, and she bet he looked good too, because he always did, even when he was a mess, but especially when he wasn’t. Like when she first saw him swaggering out on stage with his band, Los Perros de Caza, and she thought, yep, that one’s got it, and then he tore into a Spanish version of Rattlesnake Shake, which he played like a demon, flirting with her the whole time he ripped out a solo. And it was shameless.
He had some big news. He would love to meet her—for coffee. Just coffee.
She thought about all the times she’d come home from assignments and she’d meet Sebi, at El Rio or some other dive in the Mission with his rock ‘n’ roll friends, and the two of them would have too much to drink, too fast, knowing what was going to happen as soon as they got back to her place, on the floor on the way to the bedroom more often than not, tearing each other’s clothes off, consuming each other with wet mouths and hot hands. And every knot in her body would pop at his guitar player’s touch. Now she was going home to an empty apartment. But that’s the way things had to be. She didn’t return Sebi’s call.
The run helped clear her head. Even as she still felt the five shots spitting out of her pistol, and could still see the black-robed woman tumbling dead, and it still jarred her senses. Kafka was the man in her life now. She’d be Dara until she saw this through.
After a long hot shower Maggie slipped on her kimono. She grabbed a cold Corona and punched in the numbers to the keypad on her reinforced office door, which whirred open and let her into her cyber sanctuary, a seven by nine room facing the light well, buzzing and flashing with machines. She dimmed the lights, dialed in KRZZ and listened to Alex Cuba sing as he played his six-string. It made her think of Sebi. She kicked her bare heels up on the desk, beside her 24-inch monitors, and pulled a keyboard onto her lap. She fired up the Agency’s secure client. Pinged JRAE83. It rang and rang. She needed JR’s help in Paris.
Come on, JR. Don’t let me down.
Finally John Rae answered, sitting down at a table in a corporate hotel in a pair of shorts and a sweaty tank top. He must have just worked out. She’d never really seen him that way before. He was trim, nicely muscled. Brushing his long hair back behind his ear. Thinking about Sebi had put her in a mood.
“Hey, Maggs.”
“Do I know that hotel?” she said.
“All Hiltons look the same.”
He was back in Berlin, last she heard. “I’m betting it’s about seven AM in Berlin.”
“It’s meant to be a classified op.”
“I don’t know much more beyond that,” she said. “If it makes you feel any better.”
“You’re back in SF. I know that kimono, too. I saw you in it when that guitar-player accused me of hitting on you and wanted to punch me through the wall. Fun times.”
“Sebi’s history.”
“Sure he is.”
“I’m looking for a helping hand in Paris.”
JR frowned. “Don’t start packing yet, Boo Boo.”
“Why? What have you heard?” John Rae was a font of intel.
He shook his head. “I’m not falling for some half-dressed woman trying to pump me for information.”
“Interesting choice of words.”
“Bottom line: You’re not going until the word is official. And it’s not.”
Maggie let out a sigh and re-crossed her ankles. “Brahms is going to approve Abraqa. SDAT is going to get control, removing our level of commitment. It’s all falling into place, JR.”
“The question is, will it?”
She looked at him sideways. “Why wouldn’t it?”
He picked up a glass of orange juice and drank, his Adam’s apple bouncing. He set the glass back down. “No talking out of class, homie.”
There was a time, not too long ago, when he might have told her what he knew.
Maggie related the events of the last twelve hours to him—connecting with Kafka, Elizabeth filling in for Dara on the phone call, Ed working on bringing Bellard and SDAT in.
“It’s not too late to get in on the action,” she said. “You’re a few hours from Paris. This’ll be quick. I meet up with Kafka, and you and Bellard’s Neanderthals grab him. Done.”
John Rae shook his head.
Maggie suppressed a sigh. “You could easily talk Walder into it,” she said. “With Bellard taking the heat. This is a major score. All ready to go.”
“Not quite. This one’s got hair on it.”
“Come on, JR.”
“There’ll be other ops.”
A wave of disappointment washed over her. Her voice cracked. “I don’t care about the others yet, JR. But I really care about this one.”
“You’re pushing too hard. You need to learn how to finesse things.”
“Like you did the Quito op? Played me for a damn fool? All I did was leave you in a fucking taxi cab.”
“That’s not what this is about,” John Rae said.
“So you say. But you still owe me one, Bud.”
“And I’m good for it. Just not this time.”
She let out a heavy sigh. “OK, guess I’ll call you when I get to Paris.”
“Don’t go.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do unless you join the op, JR.”
Now it was John Rae’s turn to sigh. “Watch out for Bellard.”
“How about you tell me why?”
“How about I can’t? I shouldn’t have even told you that.”
“OK,” she said, more than disappointed. “I’ll let you go. Thanks for the head’s up.”
“Anytime.”
“Right.”
“Don’t go away sore.”
“Just go away?” She grinned. “Never mind. I’ll get over it.”
Maggie hung up, the image of John Rae fading as her frustration level rose. But her feelings weren’t important. She’d focus on what she could do. And she could do plenty. She just wasn’t exactly sure what. Not yet.
She’d get dressed soon, pack, get ready to head back to Paris on the early flight. In the meantime, she transferred a selfie from Dara’s phone to her laptop. Dara was sitting in a restaurant, smiling. Maggie opened it up in her photo editor, turned up the music, and went to work on the image.
She could do plenty.
Just before sunrise, her carry-on freshly packed, Maggie let herself quietly out onto Valencia Street where the Yellow cab was puffing exhaust, waiting to take her to SFO. She stepped down to the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for any homeless types who sometimes slept in the lee of the stairs and tended to scare the holy bejesus out of her.
And sure enough, Maggie startled when across the street a figure appeared, emerging from the doorway to Starlite Bakery. They opened early. The smell of fresh baked bread wafted across.
Then she relaxed. Somewhat.
It was Sebi, his telltale taut stance, one hand jammed into the pocket of his ripped-beyond-belief leather jacket, the other holding a bag of what had to be pastries. He knew she salivated over Starlite scones. His hair gleamed for a moment in the streetlight. He was growing it out, combing it back, Rockabilly style, ducktail and all. Her heart pulsated when she saw his eyes crinkle.
He crossed the street in a brisk walk.
“Hey, Sebi,” she said, her voice just a little shaky. “What’s the haps?”
“Hey, chica.” He gave his customary smirk of a smile. “I’m not really a stalker. I just wanted to catch you before you went to work. I didn’t want to bug you so early. Thought I’d wait until you left.” He held up the bag and raised his eyebrows. “Blueberry scones?”
“I have to catch a flight,” she said. He looked good—eyes clear, cheeks lean and shaven, not sunken, the first sign that he was partying too hard. He had just the right amount of muscle on his slender frame. His shoulders were set; he’d been working out. He had a relaxed, confident air.
“Oh,” he said, looking at her carry-on, assuming a frown. “Taking off again.”
“I guess you wanted to talk,” she said.
“Since you didn’t answer my phone call. Or my note.”
She took a breath. “Thanks for the flowers. And the check.”
“You were due.”
The cab window whirred down and a grizzled old geezer leaned out, his unshaven face turned. “You wanted to go to the airport, right?” he said to Maggie.
“I do,” she said. “In just a minute.” She turned back to Sebi.
“Where did you get five K?” she asked. “Rob a bank?”
He laughed, showing white even teeth. “We got signed,” he said. “999 Records.”
“Get away!” Sebi’s band had been hunting a record deal for years. “But that’s great, Seb. When?”
“Last week.” He grinned. “We’re already in the studio. Finished laying down the demos yesterday.”
She felt a pang. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Didn’t want to brag. And I kind of wanted to tell you in person. Besides,” he said, “you aren’t exactly talking to me much, these days—not that I blame you. Well, not too much.”
“I’ve been tied up with work.”
“You just better come to the record release party,” he said. “Even if you don’t talk to me. You did pay for half my gear.”
She laughed. “Are you sure you want to use your advance to pay me back right now? I could always wait until your album hits number one.”
“Cash the check now,” he said, smiling. “Get it while it’s there.”
Their eyes met.
“Anytime you’re ready,” the cabbie said, arm hanging out over the door of the cab.
“You could always put my bag in the trunk,” Maggie said to him. “While I say goodbye to my friend here.”
The cabbie gave a theatrical sigh, ignored her.
“You look good,” she said to Sebi. And he did.
“You too—but that’s a given.”
She wasn’t going to respond to that.
“You’re not sleeping,” she said. Sebi didn’t, in general, when he was either under some kind of chemical assistance or was wrapped up in a music project. This looked like the latter. It was good to see.
“Been on a creative jag,” he said. “Alexis wants ten new songs.”
Alexis. Alexis was a tall redhead who got what she wanted. She was a rep with 999 Records and Sebi had been trying to get her attention for years. Maggie found herself just a little bit jealous. When Sebi got a woman’s attention, it was generally for one reason.
But that wasn’t her concern anymore. Right?
“I won’t ask where you’re going,” Sebi said. He knew the rules about what she could and could not talk about. “I just hope it’s mundane.”
“It is,” she lied. “Business meeting.”
“Are you sure you need a cab?” the cabbie said to Maggie.
“Turn the damn meter on,” she said. “And while you’re at it, close the window. Next time, I use Uber.”
The cabbie swore, turned on the meter as the window hummed back up.
Sebi grinned. “Get rid of that clown. I can take you to the airport. We can talk on the way. You can eat your scone.” He raised his eyebrows again. “Blueberry . . .”
She actually thought about it. How she wanted to spend just a few minutes with the new, improved Sebastian. But she didn’t want any more pink lipstick on her stemware.
“Is that really such a good idea, Sebi?” she heard herself say.
“I think it’s one of my better ones.”
She shook her head. “I guess I need to think about it.”
She saw his shoulders slump. “Come on, Maggs. Give me a freakin’ break here. I haven’t touched a line for months. Los Perros are killing it in the studio. I’ve finally caught a wave. But it’s not that much fun on my own. I want to share it with you.”
If only he’d said something like that before.
Her voice cracked. “I need some time, Sebi.” But the finality of her tone gave her away, she feared.
Sebi’s chest fell. “OK,” he said. “OK. Got it. Call me when you get back?”
“Sure,” she said, without enough conviction to generate a smile out of him. He was getting let down, gently, in his eyes. He leaned forward, squeezed her shoulder with his strong guitar player’s hand. Then he handed her the pastry bag. “Take care of yourself out there.”