Gus Keller was dreaming. He was walking through a long hallway…so long that there seemed no end to it. There was an arch of light far in the distance towards which he was walking.
As he walked down the hallway, he passed artwork after artwork, framed and hung tastefully on the walls. As he walked past them, the faces of all the people depicted within each canvas turned to stare at him with accusing eyes. He knew they’d all been stolen…all these masterpieces, and now graced the walls of a filthy rich collector who wanted them for his very own.
Keller glanced at them, trying to catch their eyes, but they never turned to look at him until he was almost past… the Man with the Golden Helmet, the Mona Lisa, Whistler’s Mother, the two farmers from American Gothic, Francisco Goya, every single one of the Night Watch…even all of Rembrandt’s self-portraits were there, glaring at him accusingly.
Suddenly, at the far end of the hallway, he could see that a dark mass had gathered high up in the ceiling, and he could hear an odd sucking sound. He peered at that mass, and with a thrill of horror realized that it was an Alien, from the movie *Aliens, depositing eggs with its ovipositor, only instead of eggs they were those famous works of art.
Then the head turned and looked at him and no, it wasn’t an Alien, it was a gigantic tarantula…with a human face…a lovely face…the face of Taran Tula (or, as she’d signed in in the lobby, Marguerite Zelle)…. That face smiled at him, but suddenly she was shooting webs at him, gigantic webs as thick as ropes that were wrapping around his body so he was unable to move.
And she was coming closer and closer, her big spider belly on top of him, her beautiful face bending down to kiss him, then suddenly her teeth had changed into fangs and instead of kissing his lips her face had glided past his and she sank her teeth into his neck and began to suck…the pain was exquisite but he could feel himself losing his lifeforce.
Keller sat up, gasping for breath. He felt cold, very cold, and not from the air conditioner, either.
“Christ,” he said to himself. “Shades of ‘The Thing on the Fourble Board.’ “
What in God’s name was he doing here? He was risking his career, and maybe even his life, for a woman who was a cold-blooded murderer. A woman who’d made him ride in economy class while she’d flown in first class, damn her.
But now…they were in a suite and she was paying for it. Two bedroom suite probably $300 or $400 a night, and he’d gotten the impression she’d intended to pay the tab on everything else they did here in the city…whatever that might be.
What did she want him for? As “a” Mr. Largo, she must expect him to be an assassin…she must want him to kill someone.
Keller got up and went into the bathroom, and stepped into a cold shower. He’d gone all over this in his mind already. He was going to turn her from the dark side, as the cliché went. Whatever she’d done in the past, she could always turn over a new leaf…maybe go back to her art gallery and run it as an honest enterprise this time…
Keller got out of the shower and looked at himself in the mirror. He nodded to himself grimly. Foolish to let some stupid dream deter him from his purpose. All he had to do was turn on the old charm. Like he’d thought to himself over and over again, she must like him, otherwise she wouldn’t have recruited him for this project, whatever it might be… he just had to play it cool, calm and collected, whatever happened…
II.
From the bathroom, he heard a loud knock on the door to her suite – shave and a haircut, two bits - and she came into the room. Usually one was alerted to someone entering a room by a key being fiddled in the lock, but that noise identification system had went the way of the dodo a decade ago. Now it was the silent key card that let one into the room, and this could be good or bad for the person inside the room, depending on what they were getting up to.
Keller went into his own room again and pulled on shorts and shirt, then went into Michele’s room.
She smiled at him. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, very.”
“Ready for dinner?”
Keller grinned. “Of course.”
“They do things pretty casually here, so I don’t think we need dress for dinner. I saw a Wallaby Steakhouse a couple of blocks away, how does that sound?”
“Brilliant, as the Aussies say.”
“Then let’s go.”
Keller glanced at her. She still wore her dress of the morning – a long sleeved kimono type dress that wrapped around her waist and extended to her ankles. It was black, with a gold and black tiger embroidered on it, and looked very pretty. But hell, it was over 90 degree outside.
“Don’t you want to change?” he asked. “As you said, shorts and a T-shirt, in this weather….”
Michele smiled at him sweetly. “All my dresses are surprisingly cool,” she said (although that was a lie, she admitted to herself. But when one was playing a role, one had to get into and stay in character, however uncomfortable the consequences). “And I love their freedom. A twitch of the fingers at my collar, and I step out of the dress with ease.”
“Oh,” said Keller.
III.
They walked to the restaurant, and were seated immediately, at a table overlooking Sydney Harbor. There was silence as they poured over the menu. Keller blanched a little at the prices, but when the waiter came, ordered the oceanic trout. Michele ordered filet mignon, well done.
“And to drink?” asked the waiter.
“I don’t drink,” Michele told Keller, “but feel free to indulge.”
“Logan Hannah Rose,” Keller told the waiter. The waiter nodded at his excellent choice, gathered up their menus and hurried away.
“You know your wines,” Michele murmured to Keller.
He shrugged. “Yes. I’m not a big drinker, but I know the standard wines to choose for certain dishes.”
“I’ve always been told that the right wine enhances the flavor of the food, but I’ve just never been able to stand the taste of alcohol.”
“You’ve experimented, then?”
Michele smiled. “I’d hardly call it experimenting. I sipped champagne once, it was horrible. Had some kind of red wine once…it was horrible. As for beer…” she shuddered. When developing a persona, one should always stick as close to the truth as possible, but there were some things other people didn’t need to know, and that was that she usually had to suppress a gag reflex every time she smelled the aroma of beer, thanks to her week-long incarceration in a cruise ship’s cabin with a room-mate who made it a habit to drink as much as possible before coming to the cabin, and then depositing it all into the toilet in the early hours of the morning. She’d never been able to drink since.
“So,” said Keller. “You’ve never been to Australia before?”
Michele smiled at him. God, you’ve got a great smile, Keller thought to himself. So..impish.
“No. My sphere has always been Western Europe…and Eastern Europe too, of course, when the Wall came down.” She’d been to Japan, too, but not in her Taran Tula persona, so no need to mention that.
“I was impressed with the artwork we saw this morning,” she admitted. “Some beautiful pieces.”
“Yes…I particularly liked those seascapes by Parashko.”
“Me, too,” Michele agreed. “Her use of color…very good.”
They talked art for a while, until their meals arrived, and then ate in companionable silence.
After dinner, they sipped coffee and gazed out over the harbor.
“Do you know how to operate a sailboat?” asked Michele, as they watched a powerboat enter the bay, piloted by a tan woman with flowing blond hair and a minikini.
“I’ve sailed with friends a couple of times,” replied Keller. “I wouldn’t call myself an expert. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I always like to know the talents of my associates.” She also wasn’t up to snuff on how to run a sailboat. She preferred craft with engines, from cars to powerboats to airplanes. But she’d often thought she should explore the unpowered side as well – sailboats, sailplanes, hang gliding….
They walked towards their hotel. As they passed the Sydney Opera House, Keller noted the banners for the various productions. He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
Keller indicated the banner. “Americans come 3,000 miles to see a production at the Sydney Opera House, and it’s Thornton Wilder’s Our Town.”
Michele smile. “Are you a theatre buff?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Not opera…but musical theatre, comedy, drama.”
“Well, if our schedule allows, we’ll have to see some productions while we’re here.”
“Speaking of schedules…” began Keller.
Michele held up her hand.
“Seven o’clock tomorrow night,” she said. “That’s when all will be made clear to you.”
And with that Keller had to be content.
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