‘Oh, you know, import — export. That kind of thing.’
She picked up on his evasive tone. ‘Sounds interesting. Where are you from?’
‘Romania — Bucharest. Have you been there?’
Locking eyes with his again she said, provocatively, ‘Not yet.’
Their drinks slipped down easily and quickly and he ordered a second round.
‘So do you work for a Romanian company?’ she asked.
‘International,’ he said. ‘International company. I travel constantly. I like to travel.’
‘Me too.’
He lifted one cherry out of his glass by the stalk, held it up in the air and moved it towards her mouth with a quizzical look.
She closed her lips around it, pulled it clear of the stalk and chewed it, tasting the sweetness of the marinated fruit and the tang of the bourbon and Martini Rosso.
Twenty minutes later, as he drained his third Manhattan — and Jodie hers, too — he said, suddenly, ‘Do you do coke?’
She nodded, feeling reckless from the drink now. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’ve got the best stuff ever — like — I mean — the best, you know? Up in my room.’ He nodded at the ceiling. ‘That is — if you’re brave enough to come to a stranger’s room?’
‘Fortune favours the brave, right?’
‘Does that come from Shakespeare, too?’
She smiled. ‘Fortune and men’s eyes.’
‘Uh?’
‘Sonnet Twenty-Nine. When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state.’
He looked at her, bemused, for some moments. ‘Not only are you very beautiful, you are a font of knowledge. What else do you know?’
She stared back into his eyes. ‘I know how to drive a man I fancy wild in bed.’
‘Indeed? And I believe I know how to satisfy a woman.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, it is so.’
‘So show me!’
12
Wednesday 18 February
Ten minutes later, entwined in each other, Romeo and Juliet kissed passionately throughout the entire short journey of the elevator up to the fifty-second floor. Still partially entwined, they stumbled along the corridor to the door of his suite.
Inside, he led her to a sofa, then picked up the phone and ordered a bottle of vintage champagne from room service to be sent up urgently. He hung up and disappeared for several minutes through double doors into another room, then returned with a plastic bag full of white powder, a drinking straw and a knife.
He made several lines of cocaine on the glass surface of the coffee table, lifted the straw to his nose, ducked his head down and sniffed up one entire line. ‘Whoohaaaaa!’ he whooped. ‘Whooohaaaaa! I tell you, this is the best! The best in this whole city!’ He handed her the straw.
Just as she took a tentative sniff, the doorbell pinged.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone in!’
As Romeo went to get the door, she heard the rustle of paper, then a voice saying, ‘Thank you, sir, have a great evening!’ Moments later Romeo reappeared holding a silver tray with the bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, two flutes, a bowl of nuts and another of olives. He set them down on the table, next to the cocaine, kissed the back of her neck and sat down beside her.
Then, without warning, he grabbed the straw from her and sucked up another line, followed by another. Shouting out ‘Whooohaaaaa!’ he hauled her to her feet and began kissing her wildly. So wildly it alarmed her.
She tried to back off. ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘Hey! Gentle, OK?’
‘Don’t gentle me. I know what bitches like you want!’ His voice was slurred. ‘You like it rough, yes?’
‘No.’
He pushed up her skirt and fumbled for her underwear.
‘Hey!’
He shoved her back, violently. She stumbled and crashed into the wall. He was pressing himself against her, pulling her knickers down.
‘Stop!’ she said, increasingly frightened by his sudden mood switch.
He was grinning demonically now, his eyes glazed with alcohol and the drug. ‘You want it, bitch. You want me to fuck you hard, don’t you? You like it rough.’
With one hand he held her against the wall. With the other, he was unbuckling his belt. His eyes were crazed, he was scaring her.
She headbutted him, on the bridge of his nose. He staggered backwards and sank down onto his knees, blood spurting from his nostrils, his face a mask of confusion. Instantly, she lashed out as hard as she could with her right foot, the pointed toe of her Louboutin catching him beneath his chin, snapping his head sharply up and shooting a loud grunt from deep inside his throat.
His eyes stared, unfocused for an instant, then closed. He fell backwards and lay still.
Shaking, aware she had drunk far too much, she staggered forward and looked down at him. He was out of it, but still breathing. Blood streamed down his cheeks from his busted nose and onto the carpet. She grabbed her clutch bag from the sofa, rubbed her head which hurt and, glancing at him again, walked quickly over to the door.
Then she stopped, realizing the opportunity she now had. She turned and went through the double doors he had gone through some minutes earlier, into a large bedroom with a walk-in closet leading off it. She peered around in search of his wallet. There was an open, partially unpacked suitcase on a metal and leather stand close to the bed. She rummaged through it and at the bottom found another plastic bag full of white powder. It was sealed shut.
Her nerves jangling, she looked over her shoulder. Might as well take it, she decided, and put it into her clutch bag. Then — and she had no idea what made her do it — she dropped to her knees, lifted the vallance of the bed and peered under it.
And saw a large Louis Vuitton suitcase.
She ran back to the doorway. Romeo was still totally out of it. She returned to the bed, pulled out the case, popped the two catches and lifted the lid.
Despite her drunken state, she began to shake with excitement.
It was packed with bundles of new $100 bills wrapped with paper bands.
Shit!
She looked over her shoulder again, closed the lid, snapped the catches shut, then picked up the case and went back cautiously to the doorway.
The Romanian hadn’t moved.
She glanced at the opened bag of cocaine on the table, tempted to take that too. But he had slit it open messily and some of the powder had spilled onto the table and floor. She let herself out of the door as silently as possible and closed it behind her, then gripping the case tightly, sprinted along the deserted corridor towards the fire exit sign. She hurried, stumbling, down the bare concrete steps for ten floors until she saw the number on the door of her own floor.
42.
She pushed the fire door open. The corridor was empty. Stepping out, she strode along it as nonchalantly as she could.
Moments later, safely back in her suite, she switched on the lights, closed the door and slipped on the safety chain.
Her heart was hammering, her brain racing.
Music was playing on the television and the curtains were drawn. She looked around warily, her nerves all over the place. The turn-down service had been, she realized.
Hurriedly, she put the suitcase on the bed, then began to check the money. It was in bundles, each wrapped with a paper band marked $10,000. She counted twenty. Jesus! $200,000. A very nice surprise and sweet compensation after the shit she had been through in Muscutt’s office today.
She removed the bundles of bills and stashed them, spreading them between her own three large suitcases, interweaving them with her clothes, as well as putting some in her hand luggage. She was wondering whether to take his case with her, to avoid it being found here, then stopped and decided to check it for any tracking device that might be in it.