Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

“Sure, why shouldn’t he?”

“It’s not just for the money I make.”

“Yeah? What’s your share. of this job? What is he cutting you in for? Five thousand? Three? Two? We’re running out of numbers here, Alice.”

She blushed. “Colin handles all the money. He takes care of me.”

Neal laughed at her. “He takes care of you?”

“He says I won’t have to do that anymore after tonight. He promised… no more dates.”

“Until he needs money again… then he’ll turn you back out, and he will need money. You’ll shoot it all up your arm.”

He saw her wince and watched her think.

“Which park?”

“There’s another option right there.”

She signaled a cab. “St. James’s Park,” she said. “By Horse Guards Road.”

He let her lead him to the tea kiosk there, where she bought two huge sweet rolls.

“After that lunch?” he asked.

“Not for us, idiot. Come on.” She walked him over to the lake, where the ducks drifted off the shore, waiting for silly people with huge sweet rolls to feed them. She handed Neal one of the rolls and said, quite seriously, “Now, you break it up into little bits and toss it to the ducks. And try to spread the wealth around, so they all get a little.”

He watched her feed the ducks. She gave it all her attention, as if she was the only person there and that was all she had to do in the world. Her smile lost its angry edge for the ten minutes or so that the roll lasted.

“You do this a lot?” he asked her.

“No.”

She trembled a little. “We better get going,” she said.

“Why?”

“Big night tonight.”

“Are you cold? It’s a hundred and ten out.”

“I need to go home.”

“Because the smack is there.”

“I need to get ready, Neal.”

“Just breathe deep.”

“Fuck you.”

“It’ll get worse, Alice.”

She sat down on a bench. He sat beside her. “So, tonight’s my last date, huh?”

“If you want.”

She nodded her head a few times. The color was starting to leave her face. “Yeah, sounds good to me.”

“Then it’s your last date.”

She chortled. “Oh, you’ll protect me, right? Get me off the smack? Keep me off the street?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, white knight,” she said, standing up. “Get me into a cab. I have to get home.”

He dropped her at her flat, kept the cab, and went back to the hotel He didn’t feel like watching her shoot up, and he had stuff to do. As the lady said, big night tonight.

Neal sat in one of the overstuffed wing chairs in the lobby of the hotel. He had chosen a seat where he could see both the elevators and the revolving door that led to the street. He tried hard to look composed and relaxed, but his stomach was jumping and his heart beating about eight trillion times a minute.

Please, Mrs. Goldman, get going. You don’t want to be late for the concert. Please come out of the next elevator. She didn’t.

He glanced out into the street, where he knew Colin and Crisp were waiting. Patience was not Colin’s long suit. Come on, Mrs. Goldman. Another elevator. Two well-dressed American ladies, neither of them Mrs. G. Who’s that? Another woman, not Mrs. Goldman.

He wondered about Allie, waiting in the hotel bar. At least he hoped she was waiting in the hotel bar, not shooting up in the ladies’ loo, or worse yet, out on the street looking for a connection. Time was not on his side in this thing, so, Mrs. Goldman, any haste would be appreciated. The elevator bell rang again. He had followed her to her room a bare two hours ago and held the surveillance, so he knew she was in there performing the complicated ablutions and ritual that go with a big night out. Let’s slip the frock on now, Mrs. G., and haul it down here. She wasn’t in the elevator.

Colin shifted his weight from one foot to the other again and gave Crisp a dirty look. Not that it was Crisp’s fault, he knew, but because Crisp was the only one there, and didn’t mind, anyway. That was what he was there for.

“Tardy, tardy,” Crisp said through a mouthful.

“Something’s wrong.”

“She’s late, that’s all. Maybe she’s giving the old man a quick one.”

Colin shot him an especially filthy look. “That would be just lovely, now, wouldn’t it?”

Allie was trying to hold it together. Her hand shook a little as she reached into her, bag for a handkerchief. Goddamn Colin, anyway, she thought, and double goddamn that bastard Neal Carey. If they had let her have one little shot, just one little shot, she’d be all right. She’d be perfect. She’d be fan-fucking-tastic. Colin had even subjected her-no doubt at that prick Neal’s urging-to a search. The fact that’d turned up a little envelope of powder didn’t make it all right. She’d get even with him later.

Now she just wanted to get this over with. Do this john, pick up that triple motherfucker Neal, and get home for the promised fix. She didn’t even care that this was her last trick, ever; that Colin had told her this was her farewell performance, her retirement party, her swan song. Fine and dandy, Collie baby, but I need a little taste. And if Neal doesn’t hurry up and get in here, I’m going to go out and find one. One thing she’d learned in her short career as a lady of the evening: Every place has a back door.

Mrs. goldman looked good. Almost worth the wait, Neal thought as he watched her stride through the lobby and out the revolving door. He gave her a few paces and then picked her up. She asked the doorman to get her a cab, and as he stood blowing his whistle, Colin and Crisp walked to the corner, where they had a cab waiting. Neal watched Mrs. G. climb into her taxi, and watched the car carrying Colin pull into traffic behind her. Colin looked out the window, saw Neal, and gave him a quick thumbs-up sign. Let’s hope so, Colin, let’s hope so.

He found allie in the bar working on her third gin. He walked up in back of her and leaned over her shoulder. She jumped when he whispered, “Give it five minutes, then come up.”

She whipped her head around and glared at him. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Easy. Steady. You look great.”

“Fuck you.”

“Five minutes.”

Neal went up to his room and fixed a tall gin and tonic and a scotch. He dropped four muscle relaxers into the G amp;T, sat down on the bed, and waited. A few minutes later, a soft knock came on the door.

“Come in. It’s not locked.”

She made an entrance. Slinky black dress, bright smile, her long strand of pearls held in one hand. Sexy, young, willing. It was a great act.

Her smile dropped as she saw Neal and her eyebrows arched in question.

“He just called. He’s on his way. Nervous, I guess. Sit down. I made you a drink. Your favorite.”

She plopped down on the bed. “Just how nervous is he?” she asked, raising the ugly specter of potential impotence.

“Pretty nervous.”

“Great.”

“Cheers.”

She took a gulp of the drink and then they sat there looking at each other. A good two minutes passed while she sipped on her gin before she said, “Is this supposed to be a long concert?”

“Aren’t they all?”

Another couple of minutes, and then: “Look, why don’t I just go to his room, whip my clothes off, and-”

“That would kind of defeat the purpose.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Three minutes passed before she spoke again. “Maybe he’s killed himself, couldn’t stand the precoital guilt.” Two minutes later, she passed out cold.

Neal picked up the phone, rang the front desk, and asked for Hatcher. Five minutes later, the detective called him back.

“I have a problem,” Neal said.