“Thank you.” I took the clipboard, scribbling a fake name and address in the blanks as she greeted the next person in line. While her back was turned, I ditched the clipboard on the counter and hurried to the locker rooms before she could ask for my fingerprint.
I kept my head down, only glancing up to peek into the workout rooms, eyes peeled for the sleek, dark hair and surgically sculpted face that matched Vero’s description of Irina.
A crowd of women gathered in a long hallway flanked by brightly lit racquetball courts. One by one, they filtered into a training room. I caught a flash of raven hair among them and hurried to catch up. Irina’s money bounced against my back as I wedged myself into the line for the Spinning room.
I merged into the flow of traffic, careful not to step on anyone’s feet. They were all wearing the same black shoes, like bowling slippers with Velcro and cleats. My white sneakers stood out starkly in contrast, as out of place as Delia’s backpack.
I followed the herd into a dark, square room where rows of stationary bikes were illuminated by purple lightbulbs that dangled from the trendy exposed ductwork in the ceiling. The women around me each claimed a bike. They climbed on, adjusting their seats and snapping their water bottles into holders, talking animatedly as they stretched in their stirrups.
The instructor perched on a bike in the center of the room, testing the volume of the microphone that dangled from the headset around her ears. I caught the flash of Irina’s onyx hair as she leaned to buckle her shoes into the pedals. Her ponytail glowed violet under the black lights as the room dimmed, and I rushed to the open bike beside her as the music started.
“Is this one taken?” A techno beat blared through the speakers on the wall behind me. I raised my voice over the music and asked again.
Irina glanced up at me. She shook her head and smiled placidly, her brows rising when she caught sight of my bright white shoes. She didn’t look at my face again, showing no sign of recognition. This was good. A dark room, lots of people, loud music. She wouldn’t get a good look at me, and we probably wouldn’t be overheard.
I planted my feet in the stirrups, my neon-white shoes beginning to move in lazy circles as I pedaled. Watching Irina out of the corner of my eye, I mimicked her movements. This wasn’t so hard, I thought to myself as the instructor called out a series of commands to the group.
The class rose in unison, pushing up in their stirrups like a wave, then down again as the lights switched with the beat of the music from purple to green to blue. I tried to find a rhythm, rising and falling with them, but I was always a half beat off. The faces of the riders around me were focused, concentrating. It was now or never.
“Irina?” I said her name as loud as I dared, just loud enough to be heard above the music.
Her head turned by a fraction, the only indication she’d heard me.
“You met my friend,” I said between breaths as I pedaled. “You gave her some money and asked me to do a job for you. But I think there’s been a mistake. I’d like to talk to you.”
Her eyes drifted to my arms, my legs, then my shoes as they struggled to stay connected to the pedals. She’d hardly broken a sweat. “There’s no mistake,” she said. Her voice was as dark and severe as her eyes, the clipped words heavily accented. “The money’s yours,” she said, jutting her sharp chin at me, her pin-straight bangs falling in jagged layers around her face. “You get the rest when the job’s done. There’s nothing to talk about.”
The instructor called out to the group, “You ready to pick up the pace, ladies?” Cheers erupted as the tempo quickened. I tried to keep up, rising out of sync with the wave, my butt smacking onto the seat as my pedals lurched out from under me. The stirrup bit painfully into my heel before I managed to catch the pedal again. I was pretty sure I wasn’t getting paid enough to be here.
“But see … that’s the problem,” I panted. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not qualified to do the type of work you hired me for.”
“That’s not what Patricia said. She said you were competent. Neat.”
“She was wrong.”
“I don’t think so. Patricia knows my husband’s line of work. She would not have recommended you if she wasn’t confident you were suited to the job.”
“But it wasn’t me!” I let go of the handlebar with one hand, pressing it to my chest. The gesture cost me my balance and I slipped again. I wedged my foot back into the stirrup. “I wasn’t the one who…” I looked around, lowering my voice as much as I could over the persistent thump of the bass. “I wasn’t the one who finished that job.” Sweat dripped down my neck, and my thighs were beginning to burn. “Can we go somewhere private where I can explain? I have something of yours. I’d like to give it back.” As I pedaled, I cut my eyes to the Disney backpack on the floor between us.