Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [143]
“So,” she said to her boss, “back to square one?”
“No fucking way. That old friend across the pond you mentioned … Give him a call, have an informal chat.”
Mary Pat smiled but shook her head. “This is what they call a job killer, Ben.”
He shrugged. “You only live once.”
Melinda was pleasantly surprised to see him again. He’d taken her out for a drive to see “John” a week before. He had paid nicely and done nothing overtly kinky, and all that was fine with her, especially the money part.
This guy—well, he was properly turned out, or what passed for it here. It was unusual for her to appear in public this way. She was a call girl, not a streetwalker, but this hotel had a particularly fine dining room, and the maître d’ knew and liked her. A freebie took a girl a long way in her business, and truth be told, he was a decent chap, married, like so many of her clients, and therefore dependably nice. Well, almost dependably. You could never be sure, but men in his position, the ones who lived around here, generally knew what the rules were. And if that failed, she still had Little Mr. Colt in her purse.
Eye contact. A knowing smile. He was cute, this procurer. A very short beard, like something Errol Flynn might have worn in a pirate movie. But she wasn’t Olivia de Havilland. She was prettier, Melinda thought, not the least bit self-consciously. She worked hard to stay slim. Men liked women whose waists they could encompass with their hands. Especially the ones with nice tits overtop of them.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly. A smile that was merely friendly on its face, but the recipient knew that there was much more that came behind the smile.
“Good evening, Melinda. How are you this warm evening?”
“Just fine, thank you.” A little teeth with the smile.
“Are you busy this evening?”
“No, not at the moment.” More teeth. “I never did get your name.”
“Ernest,” he replied with a gentle smile. The man had a certain charm, but of the foreign sort, Melinda thought. Not European. Somewhere else. His English was okay, some accent … He’d learned English in a different place. That was it. Learned it well, and … and what? What was different about him? she wondered. She started cataloging him more fully. Slim, taller than she, lovely dark eyes, rather soulful. Soft hands. Not a construction worker. More a money type, this Ernest, which was surely not the name he’d been born with. His eyes were evaluating her. She was used to that. The How good is she in the sack? look. Well, he had reason to know she was pretty good. His boss had not complained, had even overpaid her. She was used to that. Yeah, she was that good. Melinda had lots of repeat customers, some of whom were known to her by their real names—or what they said were their real names. She had her own names for her regulars, frequently related to their dick size. Or color, in this case, she thought with a suppressed chuckle and a not-suppressed smile that Ernest might take for himself. That was something she did almost on instinct. In any case, she was already counting the money.
“Would you like to come with me?” he asked, almost shyly. Men knew by instinct—the smart ones anyway—that shyness is a major turn-on for all women.
“I’d like that.” And being demure worked just as well in the other direction. “To see your friend?”
“Perhaps.” His first mistake. Ernest would not be displeased to sample these goods himself. Filthy whore though she might be, she was a good lover, with much practice in her trade, and his drives were the same as those of most men. “Would you please come with me?”
“Surely.”
It was only a short drive, rather to Melinda’s surprise. A place right in town, an upscale condo with its own underground parking garage. “Ernest” got out of the car and gallantly opened the door for her. They walked to the elevator bank, and Ernest hit the button. She didn’t know the building, but the outside was distinctive enough to remember