Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

For a while, she thought she might have dreamed the long ride to London, when she had clung to Colin’s back and hung on for life as he relentlessly sped back to the city. They had stopped only three or four times-she couldn’t remember-for gas and for Colin to haul her behind some loo and shoot her up. She knew she was a prisoner, but after a while she couldn’t remember why. She could remember only the sight of the shotgun blast ripping open Neal’s chest, and the blood, so much blood. She could remember fighting Colin during the first fix or two, but the next time she didn’t fight, and after that, she rolled her sleeve up and held her arm out. And after that, she became impatient when Nessa was late with her shot.

She was in a tiny back bedroom of a small third-story flat. Either Crisp or Vanessa was always with her, and sometimes a young Oriental guy would come and check her out. She could sometimes hear Colin talking in the other room-a one-sided conversation that she realized must be over the phone. She didn’t care. She wanted her shot. It let her sleep and gave her pretty dreams: dreams where the blood blossomed from Neal’s heart and floated in the air and became a shiny bouquet of wet roses; in which she dove to the bottom of a deep, cold lake and found him there, smiling, pretending to be asleep; dreams of endless naps on warm, fluffy clouds that glided slowly over the city, and she could see everything and everybody.

Soon there was little difference between being asleep and being awake, and that was fine with Allie. She had tried real life and it had let her down badly.

Crisp and vanessa were prisoners, too. Prisoners of the stupid deal Colin had made with Dickie Huan.

“Not to worry,” he told them. “One more small transaction and we’ll be ass-deep in filthy lucre.”

One more small transaction, Colin thought. He was nervous, and hated admitting it to himself. The idea of striking a deal with an upper-class doctor scared him, and it was a blow to his pride. The son of a whore had sounded so bloody cool, so reserved. He had spoken to Colin with that same condescending tone he had heard from those bastards his whole life, and his dad before him. Well, never mind, taking the old fart’s money was revenge enough.

And he’d need the money now, he thought-first to pay off Dickie and then to lay low someplace for a bit. Christ on the cross, he hadn’t wanted to kill Neal, had he? Had he? Maybe he had. But he probably wouldn’t have shot if Neal hadn’t gone for him. Silly bastard, as if any tart was worth it, even a sweet piece like Alice. He had spewed up after shooting Neal. He’d given a few blokes the blade before, but never for the sweet by-and-by. It was sickening, it was. But then he remembered Dickie Huan’s lads. Better Neal then me, he thought. And he did rip me off… all that nicker… and Alice.

Alice. What to do with Alice? She wouldn’t keep her trap shut, would she? Mind you, no one would likely believe a junked-up mess like Alice, but still. Maybe Dickie would take her up. Sort of a bonus. No, no good. If she blabbed it to Dickie, that would be the end. Dickie would own him, charge him whatever price he wanted.

No, Amsterdam was the better answer. Go with Uncle Colin for a holiday. Let her peddle herself in the Damestrasse behind a window. She wouldn’t last.

And it wasn’t as if she didn’t deserve it. Amsterdam’s the spot. Take Dickie’s bloody heroin and flog it on a higher market, anyway.

Right. But first to get rid of this fucking book. It was still only 10:30. Three bloody hours. Christ.

Such a balls-up could happen in three hours. He glanced over at Crisp, who was sitting on the floor munching on a bag of that obnoxious shit. He’d have to lose this one and no mistake. Little bloody good it would do to set himself up on the Continent with his new wealth, only to have this idiot and his ugly gash trailing along.

“I’ll ring you up when it’s all done, and you can get out of here. Bring Alice to the Dilly and I’ll haul her up to her boyfriend.”

“Neal seems to be taking this pretty easily,” Crisp said. Colin noted that suspicion tainted his usual subservient whine.

“I took care of old Neal.” Too true, he thought. “He just wants the trouble and strife in there back again. Sweet, isn’t it?”

“I thought you were in love with her.”

It’s a good job he was shaking Crisp when he was. Bugger was beginning to get cheeky. “I was. Take a lesson from it.”

Colin took a few extra minutes with the mirror to knot his tie, a maroon knit he fancied with the muslin jacket, pink shirt, and gray slacks he had chosen for the occasion. Then he slipped into the cordovan tasseled loafers and checked the shine on the toes. He’d show this Oxbridge shit what class was. He looked ridiculous.

“Well, kiss me, darling,” he said. “I’m off to make our fortune.”

“Have a nice day at the office, dearie,” Crisp answered. He hoped like hell Colin didn’t fuck this up.

Colin gave Huan’s thug a playful slap on the shoulder. “Want to share a taxi, sports fan?”

Rich lombardi was in a big hurry. The convention was about to start, and the Senator was in his suite waiting for the big meeting about what to do without little Allie.

It was a problem, all right, because little Allie wasn’t going to show. Title her story Little Girl Lost Oh well, he could figure out something to tell the press. He always had.

He tucked his shirt in, zipped up his fly, and smiled at the girl on the bed. She smiled back. She was young, blond, had incredible blue eyes, and wanted to be an intern in the Senator’s office next summer when she graduated from high school. Well, that could probably be arranged.

Rich Lombardi loved his job.

“Gotta go,” he said. “Meeting with the Senator. Gotta hurry.”

He rushed out the door, past the little alcove with the Coke machine, past the little man with one arm who was crouched behind it.

Graham had no trouble letting himself into the room.

Colin took a long, deep breath and rang the bell.

Dr. Ferguson bugger took his own good time coming to the door. Colin tried to steady his heartbeat. This was it, mate: the breakout. Don’t take any crap from the bloke, now, he thought. You have what he wants.

Ferguson was a smallish fellow, early fifties maybe, and dressed Savile Row.

“Mr. Smythe, is it?”

“Dr. Ferguson, I presume?” A little cheek to show the bastard I’m not afraid of him.

“Do come in.”

Nice. Nice place. Antique furniture. Hunting prints on the walls. Books, of course.

“You brought the item with you, I hope.”

Colin pointed at the attache case clutched in his hand.

“May I see it?”

“May I see the money?”

Ferguson sat down and pointed Colin to a chair. “You are new at this, Mr. Smythe. The merchandise first, and if it’s genuine, then we discuss the money.”

Colin put the case on his lap and opened it. He handed the books to Ferguson.

The doctor opened up the first volume, checked out the cover, the spine, and the first few pages. Then he examined the other three volumes.

“These are from Simon Keyes’s collection. I’m surprised he let it go.”

“So is he.”

“Ah, yes-”

Colin leaned over. “Let’s cut the genteel bullshit. You had an arrangement with Neal Carey. I’m acting as, shall we say, his agent. Same terms.”

“And how did you get this from Mr. Carey?”

“Do you care?”

“No.”

Come on, come on, Colin thought. So close. Don’t blow it now.

“Ten thousand, was it?” Ferguson was asking him.

Colin smiled. “Twenty, actually.” Up yours, mate.

“Ah, yes.”

Ah, yes, indeed. Twenty thousand sweet quid and Colin is set. I’ll turn that twenty to fifty quick as your sister drops her knickers.