Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [15]
The girlfriend got up from the couch and went into the gleaming stainless steel galley kitchen to help serve up. There was the sound of her reading the printout on each box to identify the pizzas inside, then a quizzical tone. She’d spotted that the pizza people had made a mistake in the order.
Then there was the sound of Russell apologizing for a mistake that wasn’t even his fault. And then of the girlfriend, not previously bothered, getting angry, spurred on by Russell’s humble apology.
Listening to the voices, echoing oddly and distantly, Creed suddenly felt vertiginously stoned. The taste of the cava was strong in his mouth, as though the wine had been the final chemical trigger for this strange state of mind.
The voices were rising and falling, ringing off the hard surfaces of the small galley kitchen. Creed couldn’t actually make out any of the words. He was purely following the tone of voice and he was surprised at how accurately he could chart what was going on.
There was the low angry buzz of the girlfriend reprimanding, followed by the whining sound of Russell abasing himself some more. Creed grinned. Antics in the human zoo.
Now Creed could hear the tinkling sounds of cutlery and plates. The younger Mayan brother had taken the girlfriend’s place on the leather couch. He leaned forward, the couch creaking under him, and jerked his thumb towards the kitchen.
‘Give them a hand,’ he said to the hooker.
‘If you want me to perform catering it’s extra,’ she said. She crossed her legs and remained sitting on the glass slab of the coffee table.
Creed liked the girl’s attitude. She made some tiny adjustment of her position and her knee bobbed into contact with his. The momentary touch lit Creed’s brain up like a neon sign and he felt an involuntary surge of desire. He was mildly astonished that he could feel any such thing surfacing through the confusion of drugs in his system.
Creed wondered if the contact had been an accident or carefully contrived.
The hooker was quite deliberately looking away from him now, giving him her profile, clean curve of nose and full bloom of red lips. Either way, Creed decided, she knew exactly the effect she was having on him. She was Cuban or some kind of Latino, a gutter beauty, her skin a warm shade of café au lait. More or less Anna’s colour.
Creed felt desire, pain and memory twist in his viscera in a strange tangle of emotion.
The Mayan brother sitting beside him seemed unaware of the chemistry between Creed and the girl, or maybe he just didn’t care. Creed wondered which of the brothers was renting her services. Maybe it was the older Mayan, who remained standing by one of the tall windows, seemingly relaxed and in full command of the situation.
Russell and the girlfriend came back from the kitchen with bright triangular slices of pizza steaming on expensive white plates. Russell darted around the room dispensing the food, a cheerful, servile waiter. He was like a puppy, so eager to please that it was painful to watch.
Creed had been surprised that the Mayan brothers had hired someone like Russell, until he realized the kid was their runner rather than their muscle. He would do all the deliveries – delighted to take the risks – and would be painfully, apologetically meticulous. He was so ostentatiously honest that everyone was beginning to suspect him of ripping them off.
Creed saw the kid as an eager gofer doing his job meticulously and simultaneously digging his own grave. He was probably puzzled because he wasn’t getting promoted more quickly, scratching his head and wondering what he was doing wrong. Creed doubted if the kid even carried a gun. The Mayan brothers no doubt had their own, and it made good sense to keep the number of weapons in the situation down to a minimum. It gave them control.
‘I wish we’d ordered Szechwan,’ said Larner, inspecting his plate with disgust. ‘This Italian shit is full of yeast, which breeds in your