Raw Deal

3. Hot Chocolate And Teddy Bears

3Hot Chocolate And Teddy BearsSoren looked from the huge shiny revolver to the face of the man who pointed it at him—the magnum was most probably overcompensating for something.

He wore dark Raybans and sported an evening jacket that strained across mountainous shoulders. His finger fondled the trigger in a way that promised a quick climax to proceedings if Soren gave him cause.

The Swede sighed and rubbed the blond stubble on his cheek with the flat of his fingers. They itched to grab the weapon and smash the guy’s face with it, but he needed to show restraint. This job was easy, and maybe there would be the chance for more of the same. So instead he said, “Here for Dr. Drayden.”

The man-mountain stepped back, dropped the revolver to chest height, and jerked the long barrel toward the left side of the corridor. Soren strode out of the elevator, and lifted his jacket to have his own, more modest, gun checked—he knew the drill. But the bodyguard made no move to remove the weapon. He just gave a smirk that said: Mine’s bigger than yours. Billy would have loved it.

Motioning with the gun toward the corridor again, the man moved further to one side to allow Soren to pass.

The hallway opened out into a large living space which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Warhol home movie: huge picture windows faced the Vegas city scape with low leather sofas, white shag-pile rugs, and huge swirls of purple paint on the wall.

Seeing the lurid patterns made Soren stop his assessment short. The Turin apartment he’d shared with Tazia had something similar, a smaller scale, but the same shade of bright purple mixed into weird images of distorted foliage. It had reminded him of some psychedelic album cover from the seventies. She’d loved it. He’d spent two years wanting to paint it over. Compared to this huge scale monstrosity, he’d been making a fuss about nothing.

The woman from the elevator sat on one of the sofas, her legs curled to one side with sharp heels dangerously dragging on the black leather, and the split in her long skirt revealing shapely legs. She seemed taller somehow and now wore dark shades with little gold wing tips at the corners, viciously sharp.

Beside her was a small man, maybe five-foot-four, an Italian with tanned skin, slick steel-gray hair, and black designer suit. He wore it over a white open-necked dress shirt with a folded collar that fitted high and snug against his neck, and pristine cuffs held together with large gold cufflinks. He dripped with jewelry from wrist to neck, more mob boss than rap star.

His right hand was nestled between the thighs of the woman, just above her knees, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the same spot, leaving a little trail of white in the tanned skin. They both looked at Soren and smiled.

All at once, Drayden became animated. Still smiling, he stood, raised his hands wide in a welcoming gesture, and then clapped them sharply together. He left them there in a prayer position before bowing slightly. “Mr. Huxford—you good man—thank you for coming! Thank you. Thank you.” He may have looked Italian, but his accent drilled New York, an odd match with the over-effusive greeting.

“You’re welcome.” Soren kept one eye on the man-mountain who was still fingering his gun with a little too much affection.

“The job went well?”

“You got the photographs I—”

“Yes, beautiful!” Drayden’s grin was wide.

“Then, sir, it went well.” Soren still hadn’t taken a further step into the room.

“Come sit with us for a moment, Mr. Huxford, while Deke prepares your payment.” He glanced at his bodyguard who bowed his head, though his lips pursed a little disapprovingly, then walked along the corridor and out of sight.

“You met Ms. Skye, I understand?” Drayden continued, and glanced at the woman on the sofa, looking for her confirmation, not his.

She nodded at him, uncurled her legs and slid her body to one side, then patted the seat beside her. “Come sit, Soren.” Strangely, her voice now had an Eastern European edge.

He glanced at Drayden, double-checking that he had the approval to sit next to his… What? Girlfriend. No, that wasn’t right.

Drayden stepped to one side and gesticulated for him to sit exactly where she had motioned.

Soren moved to the spot and sat, instantly hating the lowness of the sofa which left him with his knees higher than the seat. Trying to gain space, he pushed his butt back, but there was still no room for his long legs to stretch as a coffee table blocked them.

The woman curled her legs up again, momentarily rubbing her shoulder against his arm. Static shot up and down his limb, buzzing long after she’d moved away. Now her scent was sweet hot chocolate, and his mind flashed to a teddy bear he’d been given when he was five.

He jerked slightly at the oddly inappropriate image and turned to look at her feeling that she was responsible somehow. Her covered eyes gazed directly into his.

“Are you taller now?” he asked her.

“Possibly.” The word pushed from her mouth, her red painted lips holding onto the pucker of the “p” a little longer than was natural.

Soren stared at them, feeling a very real urge to lean forward and—

“Here’s your drink, Mr. Huxford.” Drayden sat down on his other side, putting a glass tumbler into his hand.

“Did I ask for one?”

“Yes, whiskey. Just now.” Ms. Skye replied.

Soren looked from one to the other, confused, he had no recollection of asking for a drink. Bookended by the couple, with the coffee table in front of him, he felt trapped. The gun under his jacket seemed to weigh heavier than usual. It was comforting.

He took a sip from the whiskey Drayden had handed him, and sucked a half-melted ice cube into his mouth, sticking it against a delicate side tooth. The freeze knifed into his jaw. He winced, but felt more grounded.

“Better?” Ms. Skye asked.

“Yes.” This time he was determined not to look at her. But he could still sense her eyes, lips, hair—dammit, all of her. He felt unsteady. Even vulnerable.

The sound of heavy footsteps announced the return of Deke, who placed an open holdall on the coffee table in front of Soren. He seemed to have left his attitude, as well as the large gun, in the bedroom and grimaced a smile. “Your payment, sir.”

“Count it, Mr. Huxford. It’s all there, but I’d rather you were sure.” Drayden shrugged, and circled his own whiskey, clinking the remaining ice against the edges of the glass. “This little demon issue we all have to suffer right now at least keeps us honest. Prevents the banks from taking their cuts on online transactions.”

Leaning forward, Soren cast a practiced eye over the mound of cash in the bag. He took in the denomination, and the number of bundles, before nodding. “It’s all here.”

“Good.” Drayden stood. “I believe our business is done, for now, Mr. Huxford, but I would like the option to call upon you again, if I may?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Yes, very good.” Drayden offered his hand.

Soren stood to shake it, towering over the small man.

“Sowilo, would you please see Mr. Huxford out?”

Without demur, the woman uncurled, stood and swept her way around the far side of the coffee table and over to the hallway. “This way please, Soren.”

Is her hair turning red? Soren knocked back the last of the whiskey and replaced the tumbler on the table. He picked up the holdall and walked toward her. Drayden had already disappeared down the corridor, and Deke was nowhere in sight.

They stood beside the elevator, her hand hovering over the call button, but she didn’t press it. Instead, she raked a red nail down his arm gently, puckering the fine gray fabric of his suit. “The demons aren’t done with you yet, Soren. And yet you must still trust them. Well, one anyway.”

“What?” He twisted his head to look at her.

“Things aren’t always what they seem,” she whispered, then shrugged. “But then you know that.” She gazed past him for a second, staring into a middle distance that appeared alive with meaning to her, before finishing her commentary with, “Compassion is the key to humanity. Let her see it.”

As soon as she’d said the last word, she pressed the button, and the lift opened. He stepped inside, but the doors didn’t close after him, she had shifted her feet to straddle the door and block them. She reached into the bodice of her dress for a business card and offered it to him.

Soren took it automatically, the cardboard warm in his fingers. She stepped away from the door without a backward glance as the doors closed.

Dragging his eyes to the card he read, “Sowilo Skye—Escort of Extraordinary Talent. Call 0666 from anywhere.”