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Their cover ID’s got them through the door of the party. Mac’s cover, Bryce Edwards, had an expensive taste in cars and a PhD in engineering and Mac was enjoying walking in his highly polished Italian shoes. The party was tasteful and sophisticated, music from a string quartet drifted unobtrusively through the house setting a mood of refinement and gentility, and the canapés were delicious. Nobody stood outside looking in would have been able to tell that half the people in attendance made their money in illegal, often deeply unpleasant ways. Mac had spotted the head of a notorious crime family, three drug lords and a man who’s fortune had come from conflict diamonds.
Mac and Desi were drinking champagne, shmoozing and searching for the perfect moment to slip away and plant a listening device in their host’s office. Or at least Mac was trying to shmooze, he’d been trapped for a full five minutes by a guest who’d misunderstood the ‘Doctor’ part of his cover name.
“The rash started on my shoulder,” the man was saying, “and it gets really itchy, especially at night, I've been scratching so much I’ve made myself bleed. I haven’t been able to sleep for days.”
“That sounds awful,” Mac said, trying to think of a polite way to escape, “but I’m not the right person to help you, I don’t do,” Mac waved his hands up and down at the man who had quite literally cornered him, “bodies.”
“Then last week it started to spread,” the afflicted man continued as if Mac hadn’t spoken, “now it goes across the other shoulder and down my arms, it’s all red and raised. Do you think it could be a type of fungus?” Mr Itchy took off his dinner jacket and started undoing the top button of his shirt.
“I’m really not that kind of a doctor!” Mac reared back, looking around him wildly.
“Honey,” Desi appeared at Mac’s side, she smiled and laid a hand on his arm, “I’m sorry to interrupt but I’ve just spotted Phyllis over there. You remember saying that you wanted to talk to her?”
“Oh yes, Phyllis!” Mac grabbed Desi’s hand and squeezed, “Thank you, sweetheart. It’s very important that I talk to her. Urgent even.” he turned to Rash Man who, thankfully, had stopped taking of his shirt. “I’m sorry I have to go, I need to speak to Phyllis. Good luck with your fungus.” Mac turned and scurried away as quickly as he could without making his relief too obvious.
“Thank you!” he hissed to Desi in an undertone. “I kept telling him that I’m not a medical doctor but he wouldn’t listen.”
“You’re welcome. I’m pretty sure the last thing anyone at this party needs is that guy taking his shirt off.” Desi snagged two glasses from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to Mac.
“Who’s Phyllis anyway?” Mac asked after he’d taken a sip of his drink.
Desi shrugged. “It was the first name that came into my head.”
“Well, thank you Phyllis, wherever you are,” Mac raised his glass.
As the champagne continued to flow the mood of the party mellowed. Guests loosened their bow ties, found somewhere comfortable to sit and payed less attention to what was happening outside their own circle of friends. Mac and Desi joined a group of people who’d turned the orangery into a ballroom. The dance floor had the tactical advantages of excellent lines of sight and multiple exits, and joining the swaying couples had the added bonus of giving Mac and Desi a chance to slow dance together.
“We should do this more. Why don’t we do this more?” Desi asked as she settled her head more comfortably on Mac’s shoulder.
“We danced around the kitchen together when we were making dinner the other day.” Mac rested his head against Desi’s, her hair smelled like his shampoo which right then was the nicest thing he could think of.
“We were dancing to Let’s Go Crazy by Prince, that’s not the same as doing this.”
“You’re right it’s not but I don’t know if you can slow dance and cook spaghetti and meatballs at the same time.” Mac tried to imagine the logistics of making that work but could only picture a tomato based mess.
“I think it would be fun to find out.” Desi lifted her head from Mac’s shoulder. “The guests are spreading out, I think this would be a good time to hit the office.”
“Copy that,” Mac said, and he and Desi carefully started to move towards the door.
Planting the bug was easy, sneaking back into the party afterwards less so. There was a big security officer who went down without much trouble and a thin, wiry one who put up a much better fight. The skirmish took him and Desi into the garden on the side of the house before Desi bested the guard with the help of a crystal ashtray and dumped his unconscious body behind a bush. She straightened, dusting herself off, and scowled at the cut on her arm the fight had left her with.
“Mrs Edwards?” A voice called. The party’s hostess was stood in the open French windows that Desi had crashed through moments before, confusion just visible on her botoxed face. “Are you okay, do you need anything?”
“Just some air.” Desi hoped her wide smile looked sincere and not as manic as it felt, “You’re garden is beautiful, the flowers are lovely and so are the, um, hedges.” Blood was running down Desi’s arm, over her tattoos and would soon start to drip from her fingers onto the manicured lawn under her feet. If she turned the hostess would see the cut and Desi couldn’t think of how to explain it away.
“Thank you, we’re very proud of them.” The confusion on the hostess’ face was shifting to worry, “I-”
“There you are!” Mac stepped out from around the corner of the house, “I was worried that you’d get cold.” he walked towards Desi, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “Here.” he sai, and draped the jacket over Desi’s shoulders.
“Thank you, sweetie.” Desi pushed her arms into the jacket sleeves to hide her injury under the fabric that was still warm from Mac’s body heat.
“And they say that chivalry is dead.” The alarm on the hostess’ face had been replaced by a dreamy smile. “Isn’t that sweet?”
“He’s a prince.” Desi slipped her arm around Mac’s waist to steady herself.
“Honey, are you ready to head back inside?” Mac put his arm around Desi and gave her a small squeeze, she understood the ‘are you okay?’ in the gesture.
“Yes, I’m all done here.” she said, meaning, ‘I’m fine, mission complete, let’s get the hell out of here’.
They headed back into the party, expertly winding through the guests and waiters in a way that made it look like they had nowhere particular to go while taking them in the direction of the exit as quickly as possible.
“It’s a shame we didn’t get to dance together again," Mac said as he closed the side door they’d just stolen through. “That was the best part of the evening.”
They crunched over the gravel drive to where they’d parked their car, careful to avoid cameras and security lights.
“We could dance when we get home," Desi said as she slid behind the driver’s seat, “it'll be more fun without these heels on.”
“We’ll need to look at your arm first but then we could definitely do that.” Mac grinned. “Are you thinking of upbeat dancing in the kitchen or the slower kind?”
“Oh, the slower kind,” Desi said, “there isn’t a string quartet in the house but I think we’ll find a way to make it work.”
“Well...” Mac said.
“You’re not going to tell me you know how to make violins and a cello out of things you have lying around are you?”
“No but I have some of my grandfather’s old vinyl albums and a record player. There’s bound to be something to slow dance to among them.” Mac had a feeling that Moonlight Serenade was one of the songs his grandfather had owned, and there probably wasn’t a better song to slow dance to.
The albums and the record player were carefully stored and covered to keep out the dust. Mac had always liked his grandpa’s records, he’d been fascinated by them as a kid. He liked the precision it took to lower the needle onto the record and the scratch and hiss that came out of the speakers before the songs started. He liked that you had to put a bit of careful work in to hear the music and it didn’t just appear at the unthinking tap of a button. It made him feel like he was part of the process rather than just an observer. Dancing to music like that would mean more than selecting Spotify on his phone and he wanted dancing with Desi to mean something.
“I love that idea, it sounds perfect.” Desi checked her mirrors, turned left at the next set of traffic lights and drove them home.