The Undead Kama Sutra by Mario Acevedo Page A

furniture.
    The corridor led into the lobby. Gigantic chandeliers ofamber glass hung from the vaulted ceiling. The carpet was plush enough to hoe and sow corn.
    I checked in and went looking for Goodman. I followed a map of the resort, which took me through the lobby mezzanine, across a glassed-in corridor that bridged over the outside sidewalks, and to the adjacent clubhouse.
    The corridor emptied into a foyer. Arrows on the wall read: PRO SHOP, LEFT. GOLF COURSE ADMINISTRATION AND TRAINING, RIGHT .
    I went right, down a hall to an arched threshold with double doors and beveled glass inserts. Both doors were open, revealing a round vestibule lined with office doors. In the middle of the room squatted a wide, circular desk of teak trimmed with brushed aluminum.
    Behind the desk sat a slender black woman, who looked to be in her early thirties. The brushed aluminum nameplate on the desk said that she was Mrs. Mikala Jamison. Sitting perfectly upright, dressed in a tailored business suit that matched the room décor, Jamison looked like she’d been ordered out of an office-supply catalog. She stared at a thin monitor screen. A headset boom jutted around her left cheek. Her manicured fingernails clicked across the keyboard. She had a gold wedding set so heavy and ornate that it would have been the envy of any Babylonian queen.
    Large paintings of fairways at famous golf courses hung along the walls around us. Corporate plaques and trophies filled the spaces between the paintings and office doors.
    The only golf pro I had ever known before, my unclePancho, would have found such sumptuous digs beyond comprehension. His office was a plastic crate behind the pro shop at the Fresno public links, where he used to sit, smoke, and hold court.
    I announced myself to Mrs. Jamison and added, “I’d like to see Dan Goodman.”
    She nodded and raised a hand, gesturing that I wait. Her fingers tapped on the keyboard while she muttered in business-speak, as if talking to herself. She clicked some buttons and turned toward me. “And your business, sir?”
    I raised my sunglasses.
    Her eyes popped open, the whites broad, concentric circles around the caramel rings surrounding the dilated pupils. Her aura lit with a luminescent burst of crimson.
    I closed and locked the doors.
    I stepped next to Jamison and swiveled her chair toward me. Cupping her chin, I stared deep into her eyes to strengthen my hold. Her chin was sharp and delicate. Her skin had the texture of a fresh rose petal.
    I gave her another stare. “Is Goodman here?”
    Jamison didn’t answer. She held her breath. I stroked her cheek with my thumb.
    She slowly exhaled. “The colonel is not in.”
    Colonel? Interesting. Goodman was vain enough to use his rank despite being retired.
    “Where is he?”
    Another pause and a breath. I took Jamison’s hand and massaged the web of flesh between her thumb and index finger, to deepen the hypnosis.
    I repeated my question.
    She answered in a whisper: “Chicago.”
    “When is he expected back?”
    Jamison’s jaw muscles tightened. Hypnotic interrogation wasn’t a simple process. Press a reluctant victim too hard and her subconscious could tighten into a protective ball, like an armadillo’s hide. Better to gently coax the answers from her.
    I let go of her hand and touched her neck. My fingertips traced across the tender spots of her throat. Her aura simmered into a low burn of contentment.
    She said, “I don’t know.”
    I looked about the vestibule. “Where’s his office?”
    “Over there.” Jamison lifted a finger in the direction of the widest door on the opposite side of the entrance.
    Figuring the door might be locked, I asked Jamison for a key. She groped in a desk drawer and brought out a key on a ring with the logo of the resort.
    I took the key and was about to tell Jamison to close her eyes when I thought to ask: “Is his room under surveillance?” I hadn’t seen a security camera in here.
    Jamison shook her