Triangle of Broken Souls

CHAPTER 5

Katarina walked out of Grand d'e la Ville beaming with satisfaction, yet her smile wore a mischievous undertone.

Just outside the Bar, a Violinist serenaded a young lady with John Legend's rendition of “All of Me.”

A few friends and admirers were gathered, camera lights flashing and cheers from the onlookers as a young man was seen bent on one knee in front of the now-awed lady, as he held a ring box.

.

A small crowd had now formed, egging them on.

Katarina walked past, sighed and shook her head as she went.

The drive back home was quiet and uneventful. There was a looming air about it, a sense of an impending occurrence.

“It was now or never!” Katarina thought to herself. “This is my moment, and I must seize it.”

She picked up her phone and Olivia's number was already on speed dial.

After a few rings, Olivia picked up.

“Hey Kat, wassup?”

“Yeah, Ollie darling, how're you doing?”

“Other than Arnold's troubles, I think I'm fine.”

“You should be, you should be,” Katarina responded.

“What you doing? Where you at?” Olivia asked.

“Uhmm.. nothing much, just stepped out to check on a friend who fell ill, and errm, probably get groceries.” She stuttered, then quickly added “Is Arnold still going for this get-together of his tomorrow?”

“Yeah, nothing I said could change his mind.” Olivia responded, her tone taking on a tinge of sadness.

Katarina pumped a fist in the air.

“Not to worry, I'd keep you company, okay? It's just a few hours hanging out with the boys, and he'll be back.”

“Oh, that's so thoughtful, Kat. I know I can always count on you.”

“Yeah, sure, you can,” Katarina said, and then let out a smirk.

* * *

A long procession of luxurious cars trooped into the expansive car park, with each successive one seemingly flashier than the former.

The crème de la crème of society from all walks of life in America had converged in the heart of Los Angeles for their annual get-together, and where else could it be other than the stately 5-star Grand d'e la Ville.

Arnold had picked the venue. He was the Host this time.

On occasions like this, there was usually an unspoken tussle of wealth, power and affluence, as each seemed to want to outdo the other. What was supposed to be a leisurely hangout often became an avenue to measure status.

But the subtle catch for these Capitalists — Men of great wealth and influence was that tonight afforded them the liberty to go out with their Mistresses, hire Escorts and get lewd for a night before returning to their respective families as Dads, Husbands and CEOs.

For this reason, there were usually no Paparazzi allowed.

A pitch-black Lamborghini Urus wheeled to a stop and Arnold alighted. He placed a cowboy hat on his head and straightened his trench coat, taking a good view of the surroundings.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I should say gentlemen, as this was originally meant to be an Ol’ boys hangout as you know it to be, but you naughty boys, most of whom I know to be happily married, have sneaked in these stunning damsels, whom I know too well are not your missuses.”

Arnold stood, wine glass in hand, as he addressed his colleagues and guests.

He continued his speech: “But ain't no snitch here, yeah? So officially, I say welcome and have a great time, you wankers.”

Echoes of laughter broke across the room.

Among their peers, “The Ol’ Boys Hangout” was a safe space for these men ‘to be boys’ again for one night, without fear of judgment.

To everyone else, it was just a meeting of old friends and associates. They only knew as much as they were told.

“What's a party without the girls?” A man shouted from the back.

Another bout of laughter rang through the place.

These men, assembled, were on top of the world. From the rooftop of Grand d'e la Ville, much of the famed Hollywood city of Los Angeles—in which they exercised so much socioeconomic power and control—could be seen with its high-rise buildings, flashy lights and bustling nightlife.

A young lady in a skimpy dress sat on the legs of a beer-bellied man, directly in front of Arnold, swaying her hips and wriggling her waist in slow sensual turns.

“Where's your shawty at?” The beer-bellied man with a hoarse voice bellowed at Arnold.

“That's the least of my problems right now, Tom. I've got a loving wife at home and bigger fish to fry.”

“I thought we all left our problems at home?” Tom, the beer-bellied man, queried.

Cackling halfheartedly, “Nice joke,” Arnold said. “I left mine in the office by the way.”

“Loosen up, my friend, have fun.”

“Yeah, I sure am.” Arnold quipped, raising his glass in the air in a jestful toast, then downing its contents.

“Refill my cup,” he beckoned to the bottle girl.

Annabelle gasped the moment she spotted him. She blinked rapidly as if questioning her vision.

Not much had changed, except that he looked even more dashing than ever, his shoulders were broader and even in a room full of wealthy and powerful men, he moved with his trademark aura that commanded respect and attention, and seemed to hold everyone spellbound.

“Well, today was not a day to be spellbound,” Annabelle muttered, pinching herself. “I've got a job to do and do it, I must.”

Annabelle was cocksure that Arnold would not recognize her. They had a fling six years ago when she was ‘hustling’ as a call-girl in Las Vegas.

“He had cut off ties or so he thought”, she said silently, and then let out a wicked grin, “so he thought,” as she bit the corner of her lip.

Annabelle braced herself, resolute to not look rattled. From the moment Arnold walked in, she made sure to stay within his eyesight, while keeping a close eye on him the whole while, like a predator on its prey.

Looking sizzling in all-black fishnet stockings, knee-high boots, a micro-mini skirt with a pink crop top and short Afro curly maroon wig, Annabelle had made herself difficult not to notice.

She looked around furtively as she poured wine into the glasses and, in one lightning-quick motion, slipped an aphrodisiac laced with hallucinogen into Arnold's cup. The powdery substance dissolved almost immediately.

“Here's your drink, Sir.” She said, handing out a glass to one of the men who was conversing loudly.

“Here's yours,” she gestured towards another.

“And yours, Sir,” as she held the tray to Arnold, who picked the only cup left on it.

Arnold took a sip, then another, and in a few minutes, his vision became a blur; the chitty-chatter across the room and music playing in the background began to drown out in his head like a distant echo. He felt a floating sensation and became unusually excited.

“Come dance with me,” he commanded, holding out his hand to Annabelle.

This was the invitation she was waiting for. Annabelle edged closer, turning around and grinding her behind on him. He put both arms around her waist, and they rocked back and forth in rhythmic motion.

“Click-click”

Annabelle turned to face Arnold. She took off his hat, half unbuttoned his shirt, placed a hand on his hairy chest and slowly led him to sit, then straddled him, jerking back and forth on his hips teasingly.

“Click-click,” the spy took another shot.