Her eyes flashed over the wounds and scars that covered his chest and ribs as he peeled the shirt over his head — one of them caused by her blade.
“The years have not been kind to me,” he said.
“We all have our scars, Mr. Quinn,” she said, draping the damp towel around his shoulders. “They are what make us who we are. You are like Odysseus.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things”—Quinn laughed—“but never Odysseus.”
“You know the story,” she said. “How he was recognized by the scar on his knee he had received from the wild boar as a child.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’d just never thought of my scars like that.”
Her robe brushed against his arm. He could feel the heat of her as she leaned in to begin cutting. Quinn closed his eyes, listening to the scissors as she worked around his ears.
“Do you know any of Big Uncle’s associates?” Quinn said, relaxing in spite of the snipping blades so close to his neck.
“There is a man named Lok,” she said. “A sort of bodyguard who acts as what the Italians might call a consigliere. His hair is long and pulled back in a ponytail, so he will be easy to recognize. He spends a lot of time lifting weights and looking at himself in the mirror.”
“Curls for the girls.” Quinn chuckled.
“I’d say that describes Lok,” Song said. “I have never seen him in action, but Big Uncle is a wanted man in several countries with a large reward for his capture. The fact that he remains alive and at large speaks to Lok’s abilities. From what I hear he is trained in kung fu and Muay Thai kickboxing.” She stopped cutting for a moment. “And, of course, he will be armed.”
“Good,” Quinn grunted, ready to get on with things. “I need a gun.”
“You are so confident,” Song laughed. “I suppose that comes from experience.”
“Or apathy,” Quinn said, only half joking.
“Oh, you care deeply about many things,” she said. “Just not your own safety. But I understand. Warriors prepare themselves to die. It is your way.”
“Our way,” Quinn reminded her.
“I am not prepared to die,” Song said, hand flat to her chest. “I am just incredibly brave.” She started back in with the scissors. “Anyway, does this not remind you of an American adventure movie? The handsome spy getting a shave from the mystery woman.” She laughed the most honest laugh she’d given him since they’d met. “Is that what you’re thinking of, Mr. Quinn?”
“To be honest,” he said, “I was thinking more of Sweeney Todd.”
“Who?”
Quinn glanced up, careful not to move his head and chance a nick with the scissors. “The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. It’s a play about a barber who cuts people’s throats and takes the bodies to a lady who uses them in her meat pies.”
Song stopped cutting for a moment. “Well,” she said, “I suppose sometimes a haircut is nothing but a haircut.”
Finished, she stepped back and nodded to herself. “Extremely passable,” she said.
“Thank you for the nothing but a haircut then,” he said.
Song sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. “Did you know that Mrs. Nabe gave up a career as a classical dancer with the National Ballet Company of Japan?”
“I did not,” Quinn said, stopping at the bathroom door, towel in hand.
“Apparently, their twelve-year-old daughter is traveling with them,” Song said, brown eyes twitching back and forth with the images on the television. “She is a dancer as well.”
As always, the mention of anyone’s daughter made Quinn think of Mattie. He sighed, pushing the thoughts away.
Song suddenly sat straight up, looking directly at Quinn, mouth pinched as if she’d eaten something sour. “The Prime Minister’s wife abandoned her passion in order to follow her husband.”
“Maybe she found another passion,” Quinn said.
“Perhaps.” Song nodded, unconvinced. “In my country, it would not matter what I gave up,” she said. “Few Chinese men would consider me marriageable material.”
“That’s not true,” Quinn said, wishing Ronnie or even Thibodaux were there to rescue him from talk of marriage and relationships.
“No,” she said. “It is. In China there are said to be three genders — men, women, and women with graduate degrees. An educated woman like me who has spent a decade as a government operative may as well be another species.” She stretched her feet out in front of her, kicking off one of the slippers. “My grandmother certainly does not approve of what I do. She thinks I should have quit school while I was yet marriageable and given her a great-grandson. Perhaps if I would have listened to her, I would still be able to spend time with the violin instead of dying young working for the Ministry of State Security.”
“Life can play tricks on us,” Quinn said, not knowing what else to say.
“My grandmother lectures me on it every time I see her.” Song looked up with a wan smile, shaking her head at the memory. “She asks me if the people I kill have toes. Can you imagine such a thing? Then she says, ‘Do you yourself not have toes? People with toes should not be killing other people who have toes,’ as if such thinking made all the sense in the world.” Song fell back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“That’s a well-meaning sentiment,” Quinn said softly. “Until those toes are attached to feet that would be happy crushing your neck.”
“I wish you would speak to my grandmother,” Song said, a catch in her voice as if she was about to cry. “Go. Have your shower. I will try on my new dress.”
Quinn closed the door, happy to step away from the outpouring of emotion. He felt like he was stuck in this adventure with a college student who was pretending to be a spy — acting out the things she’d seen in the movies. Song had done a good job on the haircut — as good as possible with his unruly mop. But he didn’t need a barber and certainly didn’t need “Love” Song — some “Unchained Melody” crooning on about tenderness and emotion. He needed the Song who had dispatched Anton Scuric without hesitation.
He showered quickly, then scraped away the stubble on his face with a cheap razor from the front desk, before stepping into a new pair of navy blue slacks. He left the bathroom with his white shirt unbuttoned and the French cuffs hanging over his hands. Song turned to face him when he opened the door. She stood facing the wall mirror wearing a loose T-shirt and a pair of skintight spandex shorts that would presumably allow her to fight while wearing the dress. Dark eye makeup lined each eye and bright rouge highlighted her cheeks. It was twice the makeup she normally wore, meant to capture Big Uncle’s attention. A deep red lipstick had transformed her from college coed to femme fatale while Quinn had been in the shower. The tiny purple dress lay draped across the foot of the bed shimmering under the room light like the feathers of some exotic bird. Beside it was a thin ripping dagger in a sheath that would wrap around her thigh. Made of a sticky neoprene, the sheath was held in place by a garter that presumably snapped to her spandex short shorts. Ronnie used similar shorts when she wore a dress; they gave her extra support for the holster as well as a touch more modesty during a fight. The neoprene sheath had enough room for a small pistol as well as the blade — in the event that Song was able to find one. Quinn looked at the rig and smiled.
“What?” she said, turning away from the mirror to help him with his cuff links.
“Nothing,” Quinn said. He didn’t say it, but he was glad “Killer Queen” Song was back.