“You looked fine,” Decker answered, unsure of what else he should say.
“Look, I’m not really sure why Mary-Lou Fleming was in Mr. X’s VR world. I have my suspicions, but…” She held up two boxes of hair dye. “…I’m kind of tied up with more pressing concerns at the moment,” she concluded, pushing closer to him. Someone was trying to pass right behind her.
Decker looked down at her, felt the warmth of her body beside him.
“Red or brown?” she inquired.
“Call me crazy,” said Decker. “But, I’d be curious to see what you look like underneath all that crap. The real Lulu.”
Lulu kept smiling at him but the smile took on the aroma of falseness. It faltered and dwindled away. For a second or two, she seemed truly embarrassed. Frightened, even. Then, without warning, she stood on the tips of her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said. “You may not like what you see.”
He cupped her chin in his hand. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, dragging her off toward the checkout counter.
“Excuse me,” he said to the girl by the cash register. He dropped the hair dye and scissors, plus a few boxes of bandages on the counter. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bathroom here, would you?”
CHAPTER 45
They stood at the edge of the Boston Common, looking up through the trees at the Four Season’s Hotel, just through the bushes on Boylston.
“Let’s not take any chances,” said Decker. “We may have cut our hair, changed the color, but that facial recognition software is getting pretty robust these days. Check for cameras as you enter each room and make sure to—”
“Hey, who spotted that cop back on Charles Street? You’re the one who should be paying more attention to my feminine instincts,” she told him. “As my grandmother always says, ‘If I tell you mosquitoes can plow, hitch ’em up.’”
“That’s a Chinese saying? Really? Hitch ’em up?”
Lulu didn’t answer. She crossed the last few yards of the park and headed straight across Boylston.
Decker had a hard time keeping up with her. He bobbed between traffic and followed her up the steps of the hotel into the lobby.
The hotel was jumping. Dozens of patrons milled about, including a pair of young girls, eight or nine, both of whom appeared to be enjoying their birthdays on the same day, and they didn’t seem very happy about it. They were already sharing the season with Jesus.
Lulu and Decker made their way across the imposing lobby, under the huge crystal chandelier, to the front desk.
“Ah, Mister King,” said the young Latin American man behind the counter as soon as he checked Decker’s ID — the one Lulu had chalked for him.
He looked like a matinée idol, thought Decker, the star of a telenovela.
“Happy holidays,” said the clerk. “I’m so happy to finally meet you in person, Mr. King.”
Decker and Lulu took off their hats simultaneously, both looking about them at almost the same moment, searching for cameras.
The man behind the counter stared at Decker’s ID one more time before handing it back to him. “Yes, well. Any luggage?” he asked.
“Coming later,” said Lulu.
Decker glanced over at her. He was still having a hard time getting used to her face. Gone was the EMO hair spiked with purple and pink. Gone the ear-rings and studs. Instead, her hair was cut short and completely black, a lustrous deep burnished black. Almost obsidian. And she had stripped off practically all of the heavy black makeup from her eyes. They looked simple and plain, black on black.
Decker turned back toward the counter and noticed his own reflection in a mirror on the far side of the desk. Lulu looked different — that was true. But he looked positively bizarre.
She had dyed his hair an albino white. Not blond, or honey or sandy, or anything found in nature, thought Decker. No, of course not. More than snow white. Billy Idol white. Rutger Hauer Blade Runner replicant white. And she had cut it close, and spiked it up with some strange glue-like wax.
“If you’d like, I’ll have some refreshments and food sent up to your suite, Mister King.”
“Great.”
The manager handed Decker his room card. And to Lulu, he added, “And here’s one for you too, Miss Lee. Just in case.” He gave her a wink.
“In case of what?” Decker said as they made their way toward the elevators.
“In case you get frisky,” she answered, pushing the button.
Their suite was on the sixth floor at the end of a corridor. Actually, it was more of an apartment than a suite, Decker realized, as they began to wander from one room to the next: a foyer, with a powder room on one side and a pantry on the other; to the left, moving clockwise, a large living room with a baby grand piano, a series of foamy cream- and gold-colored love seats, and a balcony overlooking the Common; then a full dining room; an office or media center (with extra sleeping quarters, just in case); and the master suite, with its imposing king size bed, a gargantuan marble tub in the bathroom with its dramatic view of the city, and that luxurious sitting area.
“I call the shower,” said Lulu, pushing past Decker.
All told, it must have been more than 2,500 square feet, larger than most private homes. By the time Decker had made his way back to the foyer, someone was knocking on the front door.
It turned out to be an energetic young Asian steward with a cart full of food. He made a quick stop in the pantry and then re-appeared carrying tray after tray into the dining room. There was a bucket of seaweed and ice in which Decker spotted two brilliant red lobsters. There was an entire chafing dish of garlic King Crab legs. There was a tower of oysters, from briny Atlantic Bluepoints and Wellfleets, the steward explained, to nut-flavored Kumamotos and Malpeques, Beausoleils and Miyagis. There was even a tray of various caviars and toast points, from pale gray Beluga to Ossetra, and even an amber thimble of Sterlet the color of sunlight. Off to the side, the steward had already set up a couple of wine buckets. One held a bottle of Bollinger and the other a Nicolas Feuillatte Brut Rosé Palmes d’Or.
“Did Ms. Lee order all this?” Decker asked, overwhelmed by the opulence.
“No, sir,” the steward said with a laugh. “Compliments of the hotel, Mister King. As always.”
“Right, as always,” he said. “Thanks.” He took the check from the steward and added a sizeable tip.
“No, thank you, Mister King. If there’s anything else that you need. Anything.” The young man backed away toward the door. He would not turn his back on Decker. “Please call down and ask for Min-jun. Anytime,” said the steward. He bowed once again, felt for the doorknob behind him, and unctuously scurried away.
“Koreans,” scoffed Lulu as she reappeared in the doorway. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe that appeared far too big for her. “Your turn,” she said, drying her hair with a fluffy white towel.
Decker made his way to the shower and spent the next twenty minutes letting hot water course down his body. Every muscle screamed for relief. He cleaned out his wounds — where the assassin had stabbed him in the arm, where the samaras had slashed open his stomach and back, and all the other countless little lacerations and glass cuts he’d picked up on the way. By the time he had finished, the bottom of the shower flowed pink with blood.
He dried himself off, patched up the deepest cuts with some bandages they had bought in the drug store, and slipped on another terrycloth robe. Then, he returned to the living room. Lulu was nowhere to be seen. “Hello. Hello?” he cried.