Page 11 of Penny for Your Saints

Before he can protest, I light the cigarette and turn my face to the dreary downtown landscape passing outside my window.

“Q, why don’t you walk us through it—one last time,” I prompt Quentin, his delicate, almost feminine features completely obscured by prosthetics and makeup, the fabrication of the burly, Scandinavian caricature of Hans speaking with Quentin’s incongruous polished aristocratic British accent.

“Caz will drop Sébastien at the front doors. Seb will make his way around to the reception desk and will complete the check-in process as our fabricated John Doe,” Quentin continues academically, pausing only occasionally to delicately sip at his black coffee. “Once he’s checked in, he’ll wait in his suite until Caz makes the drop later.”

“Our bunk laundry van gets parked out back next to the patient transport sprinter vans. I make my way into the staff entrance and get settled into my body work appointments for the morning while Caz and Frank make their way in through facilities with the laundry cart; packing the night-night gun and heavier restraints in the unlikely event that there’s a struggle.” Quentin counts off his fingers as he goes, machinelike in his recitation. “That leaves us approximately two hours between when we enter, and my scheduled appointment with Miss Penny. Once she’s in my massage suite, I’ll tranq her—Caz and Frank will swing by, ostensibly to collect the linens. We pack Penny in the laundry cart. Caz and Frank bring her down to Sébastien’s room while I finish out my next appointment.”

“Yes, yes—and then we put her in some ugly tracksuit and a wig and roll her out the back door in a center-provided wheelchair and wheel her out to the van. You get your fake-Swedish-ass back in the car and Cazimer baby-driver’s us away from this disgusting place,” Sébastien interjects impatiently—his warm maroon eyes still half closed with sleep, his long oil blacklashes fanning lazily up and down as he slurps up the rest of his coffee.

Sébastien nods along, pulling another cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, pulling the lit butt from my mouth to light his with the glowing red cherry of its ember.

“If only you were good at following simple directions,putain,” Quentin sniffs imperiously, his French—much like the twelve other languages he spoke, indiscernible from a native speaker’s.

Seb flips Quentin the bird. Quentin responds with a come-hither pursing of his lips and a fetching wink.

“Now, now, Q, children. No fighting. We’ve got to work together on this one—‘well-oiled machine’ and all that shit,” I caution them like some kind of bizzaro sitcom father figure.

“I’ll well oil your machine, Daddy,” Caz razzes back in the twinkiest of tones; reluctant laughter bubbling up from both Q and Seb.

“And I’ll return the favor—if you boyos can manage to fly in formation for this one.” I give the crotch of my own janitor’s jumpsuit a hyperbolic grab, before adding soberly: “Seriously though—we don’t have a lot of wiggle room today. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you,” I warn.

Everyone’s smiles fade and the emotional temperature inside the van plummets once more.

There isn't time to build more angst over the job. The manicured hedges lining the white stone and brushed brass lettering sign for the “Diamond Placement Center” rapidly approach in the sprinter van’s view.

“Showtime,” Seb sighs—both of us flicking our cigarette butts out the window as Caz rolls up slowly on our turn into the parking lot.

“Alright boys, don’t fuck it up,” I offer my final dire pronouncement as Seb slides the back door open, hopping outof the van with his small rolling suitcase, making his way to the main entrance.

“Eyes on Penny, she’s en route to the spa now,” Seb’s voice crackles over my in-ear monitors as I run my squeegee over one of the massive courtyard windows in the Diamond Center’s lobby. I clear my throat twice, our signal for confirmation while in high-traffic areas where someone might overhear a curious janitor ‘talking to himself’—and start the process of moving on from my current task so that I can inconspicuously connect with Caz and the laundry cart in the service elevator, as planned.

We cased the center a few weeks ago, got a good lay of the land, and set the groundwork for getting Quentin’s alias, ‘Hans Wulf’—body worker and all around attractive employment prospect—a job in the Center’s famous spa. All of our careful preparation and planning seems to be paying off. So far, everything has run smoothly—completely without incident. Not to mention, our target looks like she’s maybe 160 dripping wet—and she can’t be more than 5’5”. I’d seen pictures of her on the Internet, seen her stats and partial FBI academy records—but it’s hard to tell exactly what someone’s going to be like in the flesh until you’ve got eyes on them in the material world.

We’ve got nothing to worry about.

The service elevator doors open and I wait for two waiters pushing trolleys of spent room service dishes and utensils clear out of the way—revealing Caz and the massive laundry bin on wheels at the back of the elevator.

I use the mop handle and the wringer lever on the bright yellow wheeled bucket and cleaning caddy as I slip through the open doors.

“My last appointment before Penny, just left,” Quentin whispers into my earpiece. Caz and I exchange nods as he hits the button for the spa floor. I ditch my yellow bucket and mop, moving in alongside Caz to help him push the massive laundry bin down the hall toward the locker rooms between the gym, pool, and spa.

“I’m collecting our coin now, boys.” Quentin’s voice, soft but sure breaks the silence as I glide toward the massage rooms, the sweet chemical smell of indoor pool chlorine giving way to the earthy, herbal scents of the spa—the tang of acetone and nail polish hovering between both as we push the laundry bin past the line of salon-goers having their fingers and toes painted.

This time it’s Caz who clears his throat twice in affirmation, our strides casual and unbothered as we approach the line of massage suite doors.

I count the seconds silently, stopping into the salon to collect a bin of hand towels from a nail tech eagerly awaiting our arrival.

One, two, three, four, five…

Less than a hundred feet away, Caz and I see Quentin, in full Hans costume, lead the unassuming Louise Penny into one of the massage rooms down the long hall.

Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten…

It should take less than half a minute from the time he’s gotten her, to lights out for agent Penny. Quentin’s one of the best in the business, and she’s guaranteed not to be carrying in a premiere placement center on mandatory repro leave. A bathrobe and slippers are just shy of getting her completely naked and defenseless. We couldn’t have asked for a better setup. No smash, just grab.

I’m about to count off the last twenty seconds when a clatter and muffled scream breaks my concentration.

Caz and I shoot one another a glance—but there’s no time for discussion; the heavy wooden door Q and our target had disappeared through only seconds earlier bursts open; nearly swinging into a passing esthetician—her tray of tools rattling loudly in time with her surprised scream.

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