Savant

6: Don't Touch the Turkish Delight

"Colin, you there?" I pressed my finger to the earpiece while making it look as if I were simply brushing my hair behind my ear.

"Loud and clear." I winced and turned the volume down a bit.

The lobby of the Midori Building looked as if the interior designer had gotten his notes confused and made a spa instead. The walls to our left and right were made of dark slate and water poured from the ceiling above to run in a thin, clear film over the stone. The entire wall behind the reception counter was lit pale blue, but as we watched, it faded to green, then purple, and back to blue. The room was so peaceful that I thought I could crawl into the corner and sleep for a solid eight hours. But then the phone at the counter rang, and the trim receptionist in her blue uniform answered it. I remembered why we were here.

Diego and I were dressed in our best clothes; we'd packed everything from black tie to grungy paint-covered overalls, not knowing what we'd find or who we'd have to become for this particular mission. We settled for what was closest to "business formal," him in a dark, pinstripe suit with a thin crimson tie-looking handsome enough to eat, his dark hair carefully combed into a cocky faux hawk to fit his part-and me in a light gray skirt suit that stopped just at my knees. My beige heels were killing me, but they added a much needed three inches to my natural 5'4 stature. My unruly brown curls were pulled back into a French twist, courtesy of Nina, who was a surprisingly adept stylist when she wanted to be, and I had a pair of fake rectangular glasses perched above lips as red as Diego's tie. The overall effect, we hoped, was that we were professional twenty-somethings with egos as big as our wallets. Diego was pulling it off unsettlingly well, throwing in just enough slouch into his posture to look bored with everything he saw. I was doing my best to just stay upright.

We approached the counter. A small dish of candy was set on the smooth tile edge, and at first I did a double take. It looked like green Turkish delight, but when I popped one in my mouth it had a taste completely unlike any Turkish delight I'd ever had. In fact, it tasted utterly gross. I don't know what you expected, Jennifer. It looked like a gooey snotball and yet you still went in. Faced with a lack of trash cans in which to expectorate the mouthful of neither Turkish nor delightful slime, I was forced to swallow it as quickly as possible.

"Hello," said the receptionist (it sounded like herro), putting the phone down and giving us a prim smile. Her hair was pulled back so tightly that it look painted on. "How are you?"

"Super, thanks. I'm Anita Rhodes. I'm a talent agent from Los Angeles, here with my client, Tomas Estrella, to see Mr. Himura at the Hoshi Agency, twelfth floor."

"Ah, American supermodel, yes?" she asked, giving Diego an overly appreciative look.

"Yup, he's a looker." My smile remained frozen on my face as she openly ogled my boyfriend. "Uh, miss? You gonna...?" I mimed a telephone to my ear.

"Oh! Just a moment please." She picked up the phone and held a quick conversation in Japanese. I heard her mention both of our aliases, then she waited, said goodbye, and hung up. "Everything seems to be in order, Miss Rhodes."

Of course it was. I'd made the fake appointment myself, just fifteen minutes ago, after trying and failing to bluff my way into a meeting with the companies on floors two through eleven. Thank God for the Hoshi Agency on floor twelve, which specialized in foreign models. And thank God for Diego's film-worthy face. I doubt they'd have bought our cover story if I'd been the talent and him the agent.

"Elevators are to your left," she said, indicating the direction. "Down the hallway. Thank-you-have-a-nice-day. Nice to meet you, Mr. Estrella. "

"You too," said Diego, grinning at her.