Greg Rucka - Walking dead

"I hope that's not a problem," I said.

He released her, and I could see the color on Kekela's skin from where he'd held her arm tighter than he'd needed to. I moved out of her way, letting her into the room.

"We need to make a photocopy of her passport," the man said. "It's hotel policy."

"Sure," I said. "Just a second."

I left him holding the door open, stepped around into the bedroom, where Kekela had left her clothes from the night before. She'd already opened her purse, had her passport in hand. I took it from her.

"It's not a problem," Kekela said, in Georgian. "It happens, it's happened to me before."

"Did he hurt you?" I asked.

She looked surprised, needed half a moment to recover. Then she shook her head. "No. No, I'm fine."

From my wallet, I took out three five-hundred-dirham bills, folding them together once and then once again. I tucked the money inside the front flap of her passport. The document looked legit, dog-eared and well thumbed, and according to the vitals, Kekela's name was Kekela Alkhazovi, and she was twenty-seven years old.

"Get dressed," I told Kekela, then went back to the door, where the man from hotel security was waiting patiently, just as I'd left him. I handed him her passport.

"I trust you'll bring it back promptly," I said.

The man ran a stubby thumb along the edge of the document, feeling the bulge made by my bribe. "Right away."

"And I trust this won't happen again."

He frowned slightly. "Will you be bringing any other female guests to the hotel, Mr. Joshi?"

"Not planning on it."

"Then this will certainly be the last of the matter. You have my apologies for any inconvenience."

I thought about saying that I wasn't the one he should be apologizing to, then thought it would be an absurd thing to say. Prostitution was clearly such an open secret the hotel felt obliged to keep their own records of the transactions, the same way they kept records of their guests. Everyone, it seemed, knew the part they were to play, except for me.

He departed, and I shut and locked the door. The shower had started in the bathroom. I returned to the desk where I'd been working, pulling out Bakhar's little black book once more, again checking it against the files I'd pulled off the BlackBerry. Neither had any numbers for Dubai, and I wasn't finding anything new.

Eight minutes after hotel security departed, there was another knock on the door, this time a bellboy returning the passport. He'd brought a complimentary bottle of champagne up, as well. I sent him away with a tip, thinking that it bordered on farce, that I was giving money in return for a gift that had come from a bribe as a result of the prostitute in my room.

I locked the door yet again, turned back to see Kekela emerging from the suite's bedroom. She was naked. She also, it turned out, shaved her pubic hair.

"You're not looking in my eyes," she remarked.

I corrected myself. "Put on some clothes."

"We're not going to be able to start looking for your girl until tonight." She started coming toward me, grinning. "Ten at the earliest. That gives us seven hours."

"Plenty of time," I said. "Get dressed, I'll take you to the Deira Souq, we can go shopping."

"It's too hot to go out."

She stopped in front of me, took the champagne and the passport out of my hands, then dropped them on the floor. The champagne hit the carpet with a solid thump.

"Kekela," I said. "Put on some clothes. Now."

"If you're afraid that you'll catch something, Danil, please, don't be. I get checked every two weeks, and I have an AIDS test every month."

"Yes, you're very clean, I can see that."

I stepped around her, heading toward the bedroom. She followed me quickly, rushing past at the last minute and throwing herself across the bed. Then she rolled onto her side, flipping wet hair back over one shoulder. She held open her arms for me. I didn't break stride. There were two complimentary terrycloth robes in the closet, and I yanked one free from its hanger and tossed it onto her on the bed.

She sat up, and from her expression I could see she still didn't get it, that she was trying to puzzle my behavior into something that made sense to her. She pulled the robe onto her lap, but didn't open it, made no further move toward covering herself up.

"Is it a kink? Do you need me to play with myself first? Do you want to watch?"

"No," I said, and the exasperation started to creep into my voice. "I want you to get dressed, Kekela."

"You don't like my body? I don't turn you on?"

"Don't be stupid."

"Then why not? What are you so worried about? You have a wife? A girlfriend? She'll never know."

"I'll know," I said.

She stared at me, and I couldn't tell if it was simple incomprehension or pure disbelief I was seeing. Then she snorted, began pulling on the bathrobe as she slid off the bed. When she had tied it closed, she spun around once, in place, then threw up her hands.

"Happy now?"

"No," I said. "But I can work with what I've got."

"You are fucked up. Are you gay, is that it? I mean, seriously, it's fucking sex, that's all it is."

"I know what it is."

"Everyone cheats. Every single one cheats. Your girl, she cheats, too. Right now, I'll bet she's cheating on you. But you won't touch me."

"Not everyone."

"Yes. Everyone."

"No wonder I feel so lonely," I said.

Twelve At ten minutes past eleven on my third night in Dubai, with Kekela on my arm, I came off the stairs into the UV lights of a nightclub called Rattlesnake, full of cigarette smoke, bad music, and working girls. Given the state of Dubai above-ground, the nature of the off-season, I'd expected the place to be nearly empty. I could hardly have been more mistaken. Kekela kept a hand on me, just above the elbow, much the same way that hotel security had escorted her to my door, and with much the same grip, I imagined. It wasn't because she was afraid I'd run off.

I counted twenty-eight women looking to do business before I gave up trying to keep track. They were as Kekela had described. Perhaps a third of the women hailed from China. The rest looked either CIS or African, with a smattering of Southeast Asia thrown in to round them out. Ages ran from late twenties to early fifties, the different ethnic groups self-segregating into discrete pockets.

"The Chinese girls wait for you to come to them," Kekela shouted in my ear as we edged our way to the bar. "The others, they'll look for a cue, maybe you meet their eyes, maybe they think you look like a good prospect. Be prepared."

I nodded, sparing my voice, trying to take in the room without inadvertently soliciting a come-on. I was having a hard time finding alternate exits, mostly due to the lighting, but also in part to the crowd. In addition to the night butterflies, as they were called in Russia, there were easily another fifty or sixty men, most of them appearing my age or older. Most wore the wearied, desperate energy of business travelers, and these comprised as international a group as the women. Unlike with the women, however, I was seeing a Middle Eastern clientele, as well, though how many were local, I had no idea.

"Are they all like this?" I asked Kekela, shouting in Georgian.

"You mean the clubs? The bars?"

I nodded.

"There was this place, Cyclone, the government had to shut it down a couple years back, just after I'd come here. The mongers called it the United Nations of Whores."

"Mongers?"

"Whoremongers," Kekela said. "Punters, the British call them."

"What are we doing here?"

Her smile was sly. "Buy me a drink, vodka and tonic. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

The last sounded as much like a warning as a request. She detached from my side, waded into the darkness. The black light made her glow like a ghost, the cigarette smoke as if she was disappearing into a mist. I got the attention of the nearest bartender, bought a drink for Kekela and a club soda for myself. Before they came, the space she had vacated on my right was filled by a blonde. At my left appeared a companion brunette.