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This is from my current work in progress: Tesla's Stepdaughters. In a world where men are all but extinct, Agent John Andrews has been assigned to protect the world's most famous rock band, The Ladybugs, and find out who is trying to kill them.
The vendor handed her the hotdogs already loaded with beans and avocado. Stepping to the end of the cart, she scooped on the jalapenos and then squirted on squiggly lines of red and white. Handing one of the dogs to Andrews, she watched as he took a tentative bite. She then opened her mouth wide and shoved in about a third of hers.
“Good huh?” she asked, her mouth full.
He nodded and then took another bite. Ep!phanee began strolling down the sidewalk and even though she was moving slowly Andrews had to take a few quick steps to keep up. He was still eating his hotdog, being careful not to spill the condiments on his jacket. She dropped the little paper hotdog caddie in a trashcan beside the street and he saw that she had finished hers.
“I should get you back to the hotel.”
“I’m staying in this hotel now.”
Andrews looked skyward to find that they were in front of the Palmer House. When he looked back down, Ep!phanee was already going through the revolving door. He stuffed the last bit of hotdog into his mouth and dropped the paper waste in a can beside the door, following her inside. The lobby was huge, with a tiled vaulted ceiling that looked like it belonged in a cathedral. Andrews felt self-conscious even walking on the rugs.
“Why are you staying here now?”
“We have two more days in Chicago. I’ll go crazy if I’m cooped up with the girls the whole time.”
“You have two entire suites at the American. And it’s under complete police protection.”
“I’ve got my own suite here.” She twirled around a few times but kept on course for the elevator. “It’s the same one Ulysses S. Grant stayed in. He used to be on money, you know.”
She skipped into the elevator and he followed. An attendant, a small woman in a tight red uniform, was waiting inside.
“Twenty fifth floor,” said Ep!phanee.
The attendant nodded, and then turned the lever sending the car gliding swiftly upwards.
“Ulysses S. Grant died in 1885,” said Andrews. “There weren’t any twenty five story buildings in Chicago then.”
“I think I feel his presence though.”
“Uh-huh.”
When the elevator came to a stop the door opened and Ep!phanee skipped to a door at the end of the corridor. She produced a key, but said, “Maybe you should go inside first and make sure it’s safe.”
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