Hot Ticket Read Online Free PDF Page B

the demographics of the neighborhood: few locals looked twice. Leading her bejeweled,
     lily white agent through this scorched earth was obviously another of Maxine’s little rehab exercises: if I couldn’t fend
     off a couple of drug addicts, the odd gang or two, I obviously wasn’t up to Barnard’s killers. I saw men approach her, then
     drop away. They didn’t touch me, either; perhaps they sensed the claws and fangs behind my nail polish and lipstick. That
     didn’t prevent them from exercising their right of free speech as I passed by, of course. After a dozen invitations to sit
     on a face, I would almost have preferred a fight.
    My stiletto heels were not designed for inner-city hikes. Well aware of that, the Queen maintained an Olympic pace, finally
     diving into the Metro station at Judiciary Square. Different world down here, clean, quiet, devoid of pushcarts. Until the
     train
whooshed
in, Maxine and I observed our companions on the platform. Most of them wore neckties and vapid stares, at least until they
     got a load of Maxine’s knickers and my slightly overexposed breasts. I followed her into a car and sat at the opposite end,
     kneading my feet until she sprang out at Woodley Park.
    We stalled at the turnstiles until everyone had gone, then took the steep escalator to Connecticut Avenue. The only person
     who had boarded with us at Judiciary Square strode uphill, scything the thick air with his briefcase. The Queen cut into a
     dark street bordered by woods. Finally, when my shoes were ruined, she disappeared into the brush. Hilly, heavy going; I could
     only pant after her and curse the branches clawing my face. Sweat trickled into my eyes, down my cheeks. My dress was history.
     She slid through a clever break in a chain-link fence. We hit macadam, signposts: the
zoo?
Maxine veered into a thicket tittering with crickets. A second uphill slog and suddenly I was alone against a wall of rock.
     Had she flown away? No such luck. With the heel of a dead shoe, I tapped the rock face. When the sound turned hollow, I ran
     my fingers over the warm stone. A small depression, smaller
ping
as the hinges gave way.
    The single halogen bulb snapped on only when the door had shut behind me. I stood in a cell crammed with the tools of my other
     trade: keyboards, monitors, slots. Inch for inch, this playpen had probably cost as much as a space probe. The Queen was already
     taking two cans of soda from the minifridge. She hadn’t even broken a sweat, but she was more panther than human. “Eleven
     seconds behind,” she said, dropping into the only chair. “You really are out of shape, Smith.”
    “Let’s trade shoes and try again,” I retorted, frowning at a stain on my hem. “Nice little hideout.”
    “Glad you like it. You’re the second tenant.”
    Poor Barnard. “Where are we?”
    “Between the wolves and lions.” Maxine grinned at a wide run in my stockings. “How was Schnitzler?”
    “Couldn’t tell you. Bobby Marvel’s head blocked my view.” Removed my other shoe: looked as if it had been through a lawn mower.
     “I sat between Vicky Chickering and Justine Cortot.”
    “His and her White House staffs? That must have been a farce in itself.”
    “On the way out someone named Fausto Kiss introduced himself.”
    “Humpty-Dumpty meets Oscar Wilde. Bet he liked you.”
    “He liked my Sibelius concerto. Invited me over.”
    “Don’t disappoint him. Who sat behind you?”
    “No idea.” I hadn’t looked: bad, bad.
    “So you still don’t know where Barnard got that ticket.”
    “Don’t laugh,” I said, sliding to a small space on the floor. This room was designed for only one occupant. “But I think it
     came from Bobby Marvel.”
    The Queen laughed coldly. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” Her slender finger touched a video button. “Watch.”
    On screen appeared an opulent bathroom, daytime. Surrounded by plants and potpourri, a blue ribbon in her hair, Barnard soaked