Chapter Nineteen
We stood frozen for a fraction of a second and then I marched over to him, my face twisting into an expression of fury.
“Excuse me?” I said loudly. “What is the meaning of this?”
He blinked, surprised. “I’m sorry?”
“This!” I pointed at his right boot, where the tip was slightly scuffed. “You were all told to keep your boots in good shape. Is this how you maintain your uniform?” I hoped fervently that the security staff was large enough to account for unfamiliar people.
“Uh… I shined the boots last week. I thought—”
“You must shine them Every. Single. Day. You should know that by now.”
Harutaka’s voice whispered in my ear. “Okay, I have the personnel file open. The photo here matches him to the dot, he’s our guy. According to the file, he’s called Gavin Pollard. And you’re in luck. He was hired only two weeks ago. He probably knows nothing about anything.”
“You’re that new guy, right?” I placed my hands on my hips. “Mollard?”
“Uh… Pollard. Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, Pollard. Since you’re new, I’ll give you a break. But you better shape up. This is not a job at mall security. This is the real deal. This is Ddraig Goch’s mansion. You know that, right?”
“Last week he was docked a day’s pay for not cleaning his gun,” Harutaka murmured.
“Of course, ma’am, I…”
I grabbed the submachine gun and lifted it to my eye, peering into the barrel. My heart hammered hard with the thing pointed straight at my face.
“Looks like you’re learning to maintain your weapon, at least,” I said. “Don’t want last week to repeat itself, do we?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Look, Pollard, I’ll level with you, I talked with your shift captain…”
“Frank Lowe,” Harutaka said.
“Lowe,” I continued. “He said you look promising. And I trust his judgment. But if I ever see you walking around here with your boots looking like that again, you’re out. You got that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath, realizing that if he saw me rejoining the serving staff, all would be lost. “For the rest of the shift, I want you to stay out of sight. There are people here preparing the dining hall for tomorrow, and I don’t want the state of your boots to disgrace us. So go patrol the southern wall until they’re gone, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m really sorry.”
“Just don’t let it happen again, Mollard.”
“Pollard. Yes, ma’am.”
He scuttled away. I glared at him darkly until he disappeared, and then let out a long, relieved breath.
“That was amazing,” Harutaka whispered.
“Amazingly stupid,” I muttered. “We should have checked to see if anyone was coming before I walked back. Any other surprises?”
“No, you’re good to go.”
I quickly marched back, logging out of the chat and removing the earphone from my ear. I glanced at the time. Nine thirty-two. Damn it. I had been gone for seventeen minutes. Just as I was about to reach the door of the dining hall, it swung open.
Maximillian Fuchs stood in the doorway, close enough to touch.
“Oh,” I said. “Uh… you startled me.”
His eyes burrowed into mine. Could he see through my disguise? My palms began to itch with warmth, and I desperately tried to think of my daughter. I lowered my eyes and tried to walk past him.
He moved slightly, blocking my path. Leaning forward, he inhaled deeply through his nose. Creepy.
I raised my head, meeting his gaze while thinking of Tammi, her smile, the way she skipped to school.
“Can I go back?” I asked, making sure to maintain the meek tone of the subdued waitress.
He looked at me for another second, then smiled. His teeth were impeccable, as white as snow. “Of course.” He moved aside.
I brushed past him and entered the dining hall, relieved. The guard eyed me, quirking his eyebrow. Right. I’d been gone for seventeen minutes.
“So much better,” I said. “You know how it is, sometimes.”
He nodded with uncertainty, but his face didn’t strike me as particularly suspicious.
Jonathan Roth was less amiable. “Where the fuck were you?”
“Lady problems,” I informed him shortly.
“Oh.” His eyes widened. “Listen, tomorrow is the banquet, and you can’t just disappear—”
“It’s okay,” I said. “The first day is the worst. I sometimes need to change tampons every thirty minutes. Ugh, I’m so bloated. But tomorrow—”
“Okay, okay!” He waved his hands in panic. “Just… don’t disappear like that tomorrow.”
Say the words “bloated” and “tampons” to a man, and he dissolves. I smiled politely and returned to setting the tables.
The evening seemed to stretch out forever. My nerves were shot after the near thing with the guard in the hallway, and all I wanted to do was leave. But the tables seemed endless, and Jonathan Roth was true to his word—he made people set the same place over and over until they got it just right. As the hours ticked by, almost the entire catering staff became united by our shared hatred of the nasal-voiced banquet captain. When he turned his back to us, we commiserated with the time-honored tradition of pantomiming to each other motions of strangulations, of cutting throats, of legs kicking his butt. Middle fingers were raised. Eyes were rolled. I earned a lot of love by doing very precise imitations of the way he strutted, my face wearing the same pompous expression he had. And, like kids in a classroom, whenever he turned around to see what the giggling was all about, we were all intently busy with the cutlery, lips pursed in concentration. As the evening progressed, his armpits began to acquire matching sweat spots and he had to change shirts again. How many identical shirts did he have in there? Three? Four?
At a quarter past eleven, the final seat was arranged. Jonathan gave us a speech he presumably thought would be motivating. He told us to get a good night’s sleep, that there would be no room for mistakes tomorrow. Most of the staff stared at him numbly, his words meaning nothing. But I took them to heart. There really would be no room for mistakes tomorrow. When I broke into the vault, even the smallest mistake could be fatal.