Eddie ordered room service the next morning; Nikki was awake and watching the sunrise when he got up.  She took a piece of toast and covered it generously with grape jelly for herself, then another.  And another.  She ate as though she were starving.  He watched her for a while without saying anything; she tore through four slices of toast, a cup of coffee, a glass of juice then two of water, all of the sausage, and two plate-sized pancakes and paid him no attention at all.  Finally he spoke.  "Here's the plan.  I've got to go to Chicago," he said to her.  "I'm going to fly out in two hours.  I need you to do a quick thing here for me this evening, and then drive the car out to meet me in Chi-town the day after tomorrow."

Nikki's mouth fell open.  "What?"  She all but jumped to her feet.  "You're leaving?"  What the fuck would Taiisha do?  She glanced at her bag, on the floor next to her bed.  Her knife was in there.  She'd have to kill Eddie right here and now, unless she wanted Taiisha to "school" her again.  Why was he doing this?

"Don't panic, Poppet," he said, misreading her agitation.  "I promise not to abandon you.  We just have a couple of different things going on right now, and it'll work best for us to split up."

Maybe it was because he said we instead of I, but Nikki decided not to lunge for her bag.  It took her a moment to find her voice.  "What's in Chicago?" she asked.  She sat on her bed and hugged her knees.

"That production company, the one who did the Ile du Soleil documentary that never aired.  They're going to let me screen one of the production tapes.  Shouldn't take but an afternoon, but I've got to fly out there today.  I'll be at the Whitehall Hotel, that should make it up to you.  It's a nice place.  Very much your style," he added with a touch of sarcasm. 

She sighed.  "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Play usher tonight, is what I'm told," he said.  He wrote an address on a hotel pad.  "Super-simple.  If you get bored, steal some pagers for me.  I can use them."

Nikki frowned.  She didn't move from her position on the bed with her knees to her chest.  "These people can't find an usher on short notice?"

"Not one willing to carry listening devices in and out," was the reply.  "I told you, half of my business comes from people who're too paranoid to trust the average moron.  And I can't tell if you understand what I'm saying because your face never changes."

"I hear you," she said.

"Figured you did.  Just checking."

"When do I need to leave?"

"Around seven forty-five."  He wrote the time on her note as well.  He didn't ask if she had ever been an usher before.  She didn't ask what it entailed, either.  Eddie liked that.  She had apparently decided that she'd handle the situation, like she'd handled it in San Francisco (well, hopefully not exactly like that, as no faces needed to be smashed in).  That independence was one of his favorite things about her.  He wrote the Whitehall's Hotel's name on the note, leaving it up to her to find the place and find him there.  He didn't doubt she would, or could.