envelope and handed it to him. “I have to watch you count it.”
“Oooh, well, it’ll be my pleasure, won’t it,” he said. He counted out the twenty thousand pounds and put it in two piles on the glass table.
“They want to know if you can help them another time,” she said.
“My pleasure again.” He picked up his glass once more and took a mouthful of rum. “When?”
She laughed. “Well, they don’t want you to rush into anything. You should relax a little first.” She turned slightly on the sofa and her dress fell open, revealing a good length of her thigh.
“Relax?” he asked. “I could do some relaxing … How about you?”
“Oh, yes. I could relax.” It was incredible how little body language was required to set an imagination like his going.
He reached over and put a hand on her bare leg. She let it stay there.
“I have something that could help us relax,” she said. She reached into her purse again and tossed the two packets of cocaine casually onto the table. She smiled. “One for you, and one for me.” She shifted her legs and let him have a glimpse of what he wanted.
“I’m all for this,” he said. “I’m bloody well all for this.”
In her briefing she had been told that he was reckless and that he would not turn it down. There was a fifty-fifty chance he would pick up the right packet. She had to do it this way so he wouldn’t be suspicious; she had to let him pick his own packet. If he got the red one, she would have to devise an opportunity to switch. He picked up the green.
Within moments they were on their knees laying lines on the glass top of the coffee table. She went first, taking one of the British notes from the pile on the table, rolling it deftly into a cylinder. But first she tested one of her lines, licking her finger, putting it in the powder, and rubbing it on her gums with a relishing smile. Just to make sure. Then she leaned over and sucked up a line of baking powder, throwing back her head and sniffing. Then a second line. He was rolling his own bill from the pile. Quickly inhaling and snorting like a bull, he sucked up one, two, three lines in rapid succession.
She had no idea what they had mixed for him or if the drug was simply uncut, but it didn’t happen immediately. He sat up straight, smiling. He wiped his nose, he closed his eyes. His smile turned to a grin, a big broad grin that grew wider and wider, grotesquely wider, until she realized it had become a grimace. His eyes squeezed shut as his body began to tense, stiffen, and then jitter. Saliva began seeping through his gritted teeth, drooling down his expensive silk shirt. Then it began flowing, his locked teeth slowly becoming obscured as the saliva turned to froth. His eyes opened slightly; the irises had rolled upward, exposing slivers of white. He began convulsing as the saliva gushing from his mouth commingled with something lumpy and fatty yellow. She watched as he slowly slid over onto the floor, choking, groaning, shuddering.
It would take a few minutes.
Ignoring his mewling and worming at her feet, she opened her purse and pulled on the surgical gloves. Picking up her glass, she took it into the kitchen and washed it and returnedit to the cabinet. She dampened a paper towel and went into the living room and wiped up the baking powder and dried the place where her glass had been sitting. She picked up the money, leaving the one bill he had used still loosely rolled next to his remaining lines of cocaine—or whatever the hell it was—and put it back into her purse.
One of his feet was rhythmically kicking a chrome leg of the coffee table, but she didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to look again until she had to feel his pulse.
She took the damp paper towel and went into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet along with the red-lined bag. Coming out of the bathroom, she looked down the hallway. Three more doors, one closed. One…… closed?
Her heart fluttered in her
“Oooh, well, it’ll be my pleasure, won’t it,” he said. He counted out the twenty thousand pounds and put it in two piles on the glass table.
“They want to know if you can help them another time,” she said.
“My pleasure again.” He picked up his glass once more and took a mouthful of rum. “When?”
She laughed. “Well, they don’t want you to rush into anything. You should relax a little first.” She turned slightly on the sofa and her dress fell open, revealing a good length of her thigh.
“Relax?” he asked. “I could do some relaxing … How about you?”
“Oh, yes. I could relax.” It was incredible how little body language was required to set an imagination like his going.
He reached over and put a hand on her bare leg. She let it stay there.
“I have something that could help us relax,” she said. She reached into her purse again and tossed the two packets of cocaine casually onto the table. She smiled. “One for you, and one for me.” She shifted her legs and let him have a glimpse of what he wanted.
“I’m all for this,” he said. “I’m bloody well all for this.”
In her briefing she had been told that he was reckless and that he would not turn it down. There was a fifty-fifty chance he would pick up the right packet. She had to do it this way so he wouldn’t be suspicious; she had to let him pick his own packet. If he got the red one, she would have to devise an opportunity to switch. He picked up the green.
Within moments they were on their knees laying lines on the glass top of the coffee table. She went first, taking one of the British notes from the pile on the table, rolling it deftly into a cylinder. But first she tested one of her lines, licking her finger, putting it in the powder, and rubbing it on her gums with a relishing smile. Just to make sure. Then she leaned over and sucked up a line of baking powder, throwing back her head and sniffing. Then a second line. He was rolling his own bill from the pile. Quickly inhaling and snorting like a bull, he sucked up one, two, three lines in rapid succession.
She had no idea what they had mixed for him or if the drug was simply uncut, but it didn’t happen immediately. He sat up straight, smiling. He wiped his nose, he closed his eyes. His smile turned to a grin, a big broad grin that grew wider and wider, grotesquely wider, until she realized it had become a grimace. His eyes squeezed shut as his body began to tense, stiffen, and then jitter. Saliva began seeping through his gritted teeth, drooling down his expensive silk shirt. Then it began flowing, his locked teeth slowly becoming obscured as the saliva turned to froth. His eyes opened slightly; the irises had rolled upward, exposing slivers of white. He began convulsing as the saliva gushing from his mouth commingled with something lumpy and fatty yellow. She watched as he slowly slid over onto the floor, choking, groaning, shuddering.
It would take a few minutes.
Ignoring his mewling and worming at her feet, she opened her purse and pulled on the surgical gloves. Picking up her glass, she took it into the kitchen and washed it and returnedit to the cabinet. She dampened a paper towel and went into the living room and wiped up the baking powder and dried the place where her glass had been sitting. She picked up the money, leaving the one bill he had used still loosely rolled next to his remaining lines of cocaine—or whatever the hell it was—and put it back into her purse.
One of his feet was rhythmically kicking a chrome leg of the coffee table, but she didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to look again until she had to feel his pulse.
She took the damp paper towel and went into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet along with the red-lined bag. Coming out of the bathroom, she looked down the hallway. Three more doors, one closed. One…… closed?
Her heart fluttered in her
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