Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

A man stopped beside her with a silver tray. “Champagne?”

She looked at the shallow bowls with their bubbling stems and couldn’t deny that she wanted one. She looked at him and also couldn’t deny that with his dark wavy hair, broad shoulders and classic Greek looks, that she wouldn’t mind having him either. “I’m more of a martini girl.”

“I’d be happy to get one for you.”

“You’re kind,” she said, sweeping the bar and finding no trace of Yates. “But I think I’ll just sit at the bar, if I can find a seat.”

“You won’t find one here,” he said. “But there is room on the other side.”

Other side?

Carmen followed him through the crowd and to the rear of the bar, where there was a wide arched doorway that led to another room. Here, it was somewhat quieter. The decor was the same and there was an identical bar, at which sat Yates, alone-just as they were told he would be.

The seats to his right were occupied, but to his left there were two open chairs. Carmen went to the one farthest away from him. The young man pulled out the chair, she smiled over her shoulder at him as she sat down, and then she heard him say to the bartender. “Martini here.” He looked at her as Yates turned to do the same. “Straight up?”

“And with three olives.”

“Belvedere?”

“I prefer the Goose.”

Yates lifted his own martini in an amused toast to her comment and Carmen knew why. This was his drink, and Grey Goose was his choice of vodka.

She looked at him. “I suppose that is an odd way to put it.”

“The French would love you for it.”

“The French would be happy I was buying their vodka.”

“The French know how it’s done.”

“The French almost made me an ex-pat.”

She crossed her legs and put her purse on the bar. Yates, who was indeed fat and hovering somewhere near 80, glanced down at her tanned legs before taking another sip of his drink. “I haven’t seen you here before,” he said. “I’m Ted Yates.”

“Sophia Bianchi.”

“An Italian drinking French vodka?”

“Consider me a non-conformist.”

“Non-conformist. Ex-pat. What do you believe in?”

“Freedom.”

He laughed at that. “I would have thought Uvix for you.”

Carmen waved her hand. “Vodka never should be made from grapes.”

“It’s actually rather good.”

“As good as the Goose?”

“Probably not that good.”

She smiled. “I didn’t think so.”

The bartender came with her drink and she watched Yates look around the room. It was starting to fill up, the din was rising and soon the chair between them would be occupied. “Are you meeting someone tonight?” he asked.

She shook her head and ate an olive. “It’s just me. I’m in town for the week and a good friend who’s a member thought I might enjoy stopping by for a cocktail.”

“What do you think so far?”

“It’s lovely,” she said. “And obviously popular.”

“How’s the olive?”

She chose another and held it to her mouth. “Perfectly soaked in French vodka.”

At that moment, a middle-aged gentleman pulled out the seat between them and started to sit down. Carmen saw the disappointment that crossed Yates’ face and shrugged her shoulders at him, as if she wasn’t sure what to do. The man caught the shrug and asked if anyone was sitting here. And Carmen took the opportunity.

“Actually,” she said. “We were just starting to talk. Would you mind if I slid over and you took my chair?”

“Not at all.”

She sat in the chair next to Yates and lowered her purse so it rested in her lap. She released the latch. The bartender, missing nothing, moved her martini in front of her. She touched glasses with Yates, who once again dropped his gaze to her legs. “This is a nice surprise,” he said. “Nobody ever talks to me here.”

“That’s a curious thing to say. Did you throw a drink in someone’s face?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “But sometimes I’d like to. I’m just old and worn out and not very popular anymore.”

“Sometimes, being unpopular with the wrong crowd isn’t such a bad thing. But if it bothers you, why come?”

“Lot’s of reasons,” he said. “I live nearby. I once had terrific times here, especially when my wife was alive. And I still enjoy myself even if the mood has changed against me.”

“Now you’re creating a mystery.”

He motioned for the bartender to bring two new drinks. “Allow me to deepen it. What I am is a man at the end of his life who’s made his share of mistakes.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“They were public mistakes.”

“I think you’re probably more than that,” she said. “Look at this place.” Her words gave her an excuse to look around the room. People were talking closely and loudly in an effort to be heard. The room was near capacity, which was to her benefit. At the far right of the bar, vodka and vermouth were shaking with ice. Carmen noted that on this side of the bar, he was the only bartender on duty.

With distraction on her side, she reached her hand into her purse and grabbed the syringe. And then, as always when she was about perform a kill, she felt the rush of anticipation shoot through her body. “They don’t just let anyone in.”

He held out his hands as if in defeat.

She stuck out her bottom lip and took one of his hands in her own. She came up behind him, the syringe at her side. She looked down at his face and into his liquid blue eyes, and felt nothing when she saw hope, lust and embarrassment reflected back at her.

“And besides,” she said, leaning in close so only she, he and the microphones could hear. “You’re Teddy Yates. You could buy and sell all of these people. We both know that just as we both know that Maximilian Wolfhagen would one day make you pay for sending him to prison. Now, it’s time to collect.”

Yates’ brow furrowed and then, just as quickly, his eyes widened with recognition as he saw what was about to happen.

But Carmen was quick. She leaned forward as if to kiss him on the neck, but instead, with her hair tumbling over and concealing her hand, she slipped the syringe into his carotid artery and pressed down hard so the contents mainlined into his heart.

It was over in seconds. His eyes growing wider, Yates placed his hand over his neck and tried to speak. But he couldn’t. His heart was seizing up.

Carmen backed away from him and positioned her body so his last few breaths were caught on camera. She dropped the syringe into her purse, blew him a kiss and lowered her head slightly as she left him behind and moved through the enthusiastic crowd.

It didn’t take long.

Behind her, she heard the crash of a chair hitting the ground, women screaming, men shouting for someone to call 911, and then she was on the stairs, hurrying past the singer who now was belting out something jazzy on the second level, and then she entered the first floor, where the crowd was tighter than before.

She slipped through it. As she neared the door and the doorman she’d encountered earlier, she was completely composed.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked.

“Afraid so,” she said. “One drink limit. My flight leaves first thing. But it was nice to see Teddy even if he wasn’t feeling well.” She moved past him and took the stairs. “Good night.”

He nodded at her and with that, she walked down the street toward Vincent, who was waiting for her in the van she could see at the end of the street. She stepped into it and he pressed the gas. “How long was I?” she asked.

“Just over twenty.”

She couldn’t still the disappointment that washed over her. She had promised him fifteen and she’d blown it.