place was that he was having a hard time dealing with the way he felt about her. She did things to his head. And seeing her again brought all those complicated, contradictory feelings back to the surface.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, backtracking as best he could. “You’re right, I just… Is there somewhere we can talk?”
She looked back at him, eyes softening just a little. Something in his voice must have touched a nerve.
“I’m on the 6:45 to DC tomorrow morning, but I’ll be at the Lucky Star for the next—” she checked her watch—“eleven hours. You remember the Lucky Star, don’t you?”
He did.
“Thanks, Tess,” he said.
She didn’t reply, just walked away, pulling her little roller suitcase along behind her.
The bar in the lobby of the Lucky Star Hotel was a strange, schizophrenic knock-off of what a reclusive Asian entrepreneur had been convinced Americans would want.
In reality, it looked like something aliens might have come up with, based on a single blurry photo of an eighties-era franchise where the waitresses wore short shorts, and the menu was printed on a football.
Tess was sitting at the end of the bar, alone, drinking her usual Manhattan with two cherries. She had changed out of her frumpy flight attendant uniform and into a sheer, barely-there wisp of a white dress that floated around her lithe body like mist. All the other Americans and Europeans in the bar looked sweaty and rumpled, but Tess seemed perfectly at ease, despite the tropical swelter.
She had the knack. Supremely adaptable—a chameleon, able to pass as native wherever she went.
Seeing her dressed like that, he found himself hoping for… what?
“Hey,” he said, easing himself onto the stool beside her.
“You want something,” she said. “Other than my charming company, I mean.” She held up a finger to the bartender, who brought Peter a Tiger beer. “So why don’t you just get it over with. I don’t have all night.” There was a subtext to that, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
“It’s good to see you, too,” he said, clinking his bottle against her glass and taking a much-needed slug.
He told her a heavily edited version of the bad deal and the encounter with the strange Englishman, trying to paint himself as an innocent bystander who’d wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time. He played up the helping sick kids angle, and how he just wanted to do the right thing by returning the virus to its rightful owner in the States. Though he didn’t call it a virus.
He called it a “cure.”
She listened quietly until he was done, then burst out laughing.
“What?” he asked, trying to look hurt.
“Sick kids?” she asked. “You really expect me to believe that? Come on, Peter. Come clean. What’s the real angle? It’s Big Eddie, isn’t it?”
“Well…” He looked away.
“I thought so.” She shook the ice in her glass and then, polishing off the last sip of her drink, continued. “Remind me how this is my problem?”
“Look,” he said softly, taking her hand. She jerked slightly, but didn’t pull it away. “I know you’ve got no reason to help me, after the way things went between us.”
“The way things went.” She rolled her eyes. “You say that like it rained, or your soufflé fell. Things didn’t just go that way, Peter. You went that way.”
“You’re right, I know,” he said. “I admit it, I was a jerk. Probably still am, but I’d like to stay alive, and maybe to try and make it up to you, if I can. If you’ll help me.”
He could see in her dark eyes that she was wrestling with herself over this, and the fact that she was even considering it felt like a major victory. He didn’t want to push too hard, so he backed off and let her come around in her own time.
“What do you need me to do?”
He took the vial out of his pocket. He’d wrapped it in several layers of waxed paper and packing tape to hide the glaring red biohazard sticker.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, backtracking as best he could. “You’re right, I just… Is there somewhere we can talk?”
She looked back at him, eyes softening just a little. Something in his voice must have touched a nerve.
“I’m on the 6:45 to DC tomorrow morning, but I’ll be at the Lucky Star for the next—” she checked her watch—“eleven hours. You remember the Lucky Star, don’t you?”
He did.
“Thanks, Tess,” he said.
She didn’t reply, just walked away, pulling her little roller suitcase along behind her.
The bar in the lobby of the Lucky Star Hotel was a strange, schizophrenic knock-off of what a reclusive Asian entrepreneur had been convinced Americans would want.
In reality, it looked like something aliens might have come up with, based on a single blurry photo of an eighties-era franchise where the waitresses wore short shorts, and the menu was printed on a football.
Tess was sitting at the end of the bar, alone, drinking her usual Manhattan with two cherries. She had changed out of her frumpy flight attendant uniform and into a sheer, barely-there wisp of a white dress that floated around her lithe body like mist. All the other Americans and Europeans in the bar looked sweaty and rumpled, but Tess seemed perfectly at ease, despite the tropical swelter.
She had the knack. Supremely adaptable—a chameleon, able to pass as native wherever she went.
Seeing her dressed like that, he found himself hoping for… what?
“Hey,” he said, easing himself onto the stool beside her.
“You want something,” she said. “Other than my charming company, I mean.” She held up a finger to the bartender, who brought Peter a Tiger beer. “So why don’t you just get it over with. I don’t have all night.” There was a subtext to that, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
“It’s good to see you, too,” he said, clinking his bottle against her glass and taking a much-needed slug.
He told her a heavily edited version of the bad deal and the encounter with the strange Englishman, trying to paint himself as an innocent bystander who’d wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time. He played up the helping sick kids angle, and how he just wanted to do the right thing by returning the virus to its rightful owner in the States. Though he didn’t call it a virus.
He called it a “cure.”
She listened quietly until he was done, then burst out laughing.
“What?” he asked, trying to look hurt.
“Sick kids?” she asked. “You really expect me to believe that? Come on, Peter. Come clean. What’s the real angle? It’s Big Eddie, isn’t it?”
“Well…” He looked away.
“I thought so.” She shook the ice in her glass and then, polishing off the last sip of her drink, continued. “Remind me how this is my problem?”
“Look,” he said softly, taking her hand. She jerked slightly, but didn’t pull it away. “I know you’ve got no reason to help me, after the way things went between us.”
“The way things went.” She rolled her eyes. “You say that like it rained, or your soufflé fell. Things didn’t just go that way, Peter. You went that way.”
“You’re right, I know,” he said. “I admit it, I was a jerk. Probably still am, but I’d like to stay alive, and maybe to try and make it up to you, if I can. If you’ll help me.”
He could see in her dark eyes that she was wrestling with herself over this, and the fact that she was even considering it felt like a major victory. He didn’t want to push too hard, so he backed off and let her come around in her own time.
“What do you need me to do?”
He took the vial out of his pocket. He’d wrapped it in several layers of waxed paper and packing tape to hide the glaring red biohazard sticker.
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