Ian Slater: Warshot

In the opulent, dimly lit cocktail bar of the Il Trovatore on the fiftieth floor of La Roche Tower, Jay La Roche, who owned the tower and everything in it, looked out at the gilded blackness that was Manhattan — and part his. La Roche’s empire, begun in perfume and pharmaceuticals, had expanded in a dozen different directions; and before the cease-fire, the war had catapulted him to the top ten of Fortune’s 500.

The waitress, who delivered his third Manhattan in the fifteen-karat-gold-lipped glass with gold-filigree leaf design, bent lower as she placed the silk coaster before him, lingering to wipe the table. The table was as clean “as a choirboy,” as La Roche was fond of saying, but Francine, a long, lithe blonde with a starlet’s body to match, knew that if she was to keep her job and the big tips that came with working at the Il Trovatore, she’d better linger as long and as frequently as possible. And as Jimmy, working bar, told her, low-cut dresses with “no visible panty line” were “de rigueur.” Jimmy also informed Francine there was a “bonus” for “noninventoried services.” She asked him what he meant. Jimmy told her she’d find out.

Jay was alone this evening, but Jimmy could read the signs and knew it wouldn’t be long before La Roche wanted company. Dressed smartly in a tuxedo, La Roche had what Jimmy called “the look”—enigmatic, cold — like one of those long, deep-feeding fish Jimmy had heard about. Creatures who lived their entire lives in the dark, covered in poisonous antennae, who would lie in wait for hours, then suddenly dart, stun their prey, swallow their victim and move on, their only satisfaction the kill.

Jimmy knew the ritual by heart. After the third Manhattan, which La Roche was now sipping, he’d ring room service for a fourth drink to be taken up to his penthouse.

Soon La Roche was down to the cherry. Jimmy pulled over the next order chit and scooped ice into the daiquiri shaker. “Think you’re about to be drafted, Francine. You been a good girl?” The question wasn’t idle chatter — if she hadn’t been, they’d all get it in the neck.

“ ‘Course,” she said.

“Don’t shit me, Francine. You been having it off with the fleet or what?”

“Screw you,” she said. “When are those daiquiris going to be ready?”

He gave the flask a few extra shakes, the condensation catching the rosy glow of the bar, his voice using the chipped ice as cover. “Nothing personal, Francine, but Mr. La Roche wants the best. Have to understand that. You had a blood test?”

“You had yours?”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy, unabashed. “But I’m careful, Francine. I don’t go screwing about with anyone — after hours — know what I mean?”

“I haven’t—”

“Hey — don’t dance with me, honey. One of the juice-heads said she saw you down at Melville’s with a fly-boy. If you two tore one off, sweetie, I hope you used a letter.”

“I’m clean,” she said. He topped up the daiquiris. “Listen, Francine, you’ve got it all wrong. It’s for your own good, too, babe.” He lowered his voice, careful that a group of American and Japanese businessmen two tables closer in than La Roche couldn’t overhear — the Japanese being told through the booze and haze of blue smoke that with the Mideast wells aflame again, this time by Muslim fundamentalists in support of Siberia against America, North Slope oil was going to cost them a lot more than yen. “If you’re dirty,” Jimmy explained to Francine, “he’ll get mad. He likes S and M, anyway. And that’d just give him an excuse — if you’re dirty.” Jimmy lifted his eyes. “Know what I mean?” He could tell she wasn’t quite sure, though she was getting the drift — sort of. “You hear about his wife?”

Francine shrugged. “I heard a lot of yap.”

“In Shanghai.” said the barman. “Beat the crap out of her. She’s lucky she got out in one piece. Just warnin’ you, babe.”

“I can handle it, Jack,” she said, picking up the tray. “I think you’re jealous. Maybe you didn’t perform well enough for him.”

“I’m still here, bitch. And don’t call me Jack.”

“My my, I think he is jealous,” said Francine, balancing the tray. “Just a teensy-weensy bit.”

La Roche snapped his fingers. She went over and came back without having delivered the daiquiris. “Mr. La Roche would like another drink, Jack,” she said. “In his room.”

“You’re on, babe. You clean?”

She snatched up several coasters. “I suppose all your boyfriends are virgins, Jack?”

“Yes,” he said, unequivocally. “How about yours?”

Francine didn’t give a damn about Jimmy. Did he think that because she was just seventeen she hadn’t been round the block or something, that she didn’t know La Roche had you followed, that if you had made it with anyone else and hadn’t passed the company medical, you were out on your ass?

She knew she was clean. The only thing she couldn’t figure out was that if La Roche was so fussy — he probably knew she’d been to Melville’s — if he was so damned uptight about prick poisons, why didn’t he just keep a stable of girls on tap? How come he had to come down to the bar— his bar, for Chrissakes — and pretend that he’d somehow managed to pick you up? As if somehow he’d seduced you. Well, she didn’t care — had a guy once who had to do it with a parrot in the room. He was rich, too, and anyway, Jay La Roche was one helluva lot richer than him. Made it kind of exciting, though, she thought, like in the movies.

When she entered the penthouse, the first thing Francine was aware of was its smell: strangely antiseptic, creating an ambience of cold detachment — an empty feeling. So much so that she half expected to see cover sheets on the furniture.

The apartment was spacious, yet not as big as she’d supposed. Everything in it seemed extraordinarily organized— nothing spontaneous about it. Even the paintings — mod art— seemed chosen to match the angular Scandinavian chaise longue. For all the art deco colors, and a stunning view of Central Park and beyond, it had an inhospitable air, and she felt a chill, despite the fact that the gold-braced thermostat was registering over seventy degrees. When he came out from the kitchenette to meet her, he was in a rich oxblood robe with yellow dragons, rampant, front and back, embroidered in gold thread. It clashed violently with the decor.

He pressed a button somewhere and the air began pulsating with a heavy rock bet.

“You like the Razors?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. La Roche, but how did you know—”

“I know what music you like — if you call that shit music.” He paused, but she knew it wasn’t for want of anything to say, his eyes sweeping over her, taking in every detail, as if he could see right through her, knew all about her past and her future.

“I know what you eat,” he said. “Come here.” As she walked toward him, he reached over to the window wall and, without taking his eyes off her, pressed another button, and she saw the drapes moving toward one another, wiping out the view.

“My wife’s boyfriend is back with her,” he said. “Up in Alaska.”

She was nonplussed, but quickly something told her, perhaps the obsessive neatness of the apartment, that if she showed any puzzlement, it would be dangerous. She said nothing.

“You know why?” La Roche went on, one hand extracting a small gold snuff box from the robe’s right-hand pocket, his other hand holding the gold leaf which gave the cocaine a light saffron color. “You know why?” he repeated.