First Thrills - Lee Child [119]
They didn’t get it. They thought Victor watched so much TV because of the stroke. They didn’t get it when he said he wanted a happy ending, either. They thought he was talking about the TV show. Like he gave shit whether or not Crystal got back together with Jack.
Marina got it, though. She was the third or fourth girl the service had sent over. He waited until she was giving him his sponge bath. Then he said he’d like a happy ending. She smiled, slack-jawed and lupine, and she put a towel over him down there and worked her fist up and down until he was very happy.
“You are bad boy, Victor,” she said in that crazy Russian accent. The accent made it better. He liked to pretend he was James Bond and she was a KGB operative trying to seduce government secrets out of him.
Sometimes he wished that had actually happened. If an operative had approached him when he was at TRW, he would have sold everything he could have copied onto a floppy disk. But no spies ever came forward. No windfall. No house in the Balearic Islands, no bank account in the Caymans.
Instead, Victor had to slog it out, stacking up commissions, one contract at a time. Ballistic-missile systems. Smart bombs. Nerve gas. You work like an asshole. Lots of overtime. Taking clients out for lunch, drinks, dinner, drinks.
And now, for what? So he could sit in front of the TV, goofed up on meds, with nothing to look forward to but his daily hand job.
Marina wasn’t supposed to come over every day. But she said it was obvious to her that Victor needed her there. The people at the agency didn’t understand. She said she’d work for him freelance. Off the books. Cash. She brought groceries, and meds, and she’d turn on the soft- porn station when he was ready for his happy ending. That made it go faster. And she started doing more things for him, extra things. Running his errands. Picking up around the house. Selling his car. Putting his golf clubs and stereo and the furniture he didn’t need onto eBay.
“You’re so alone, Victor,” she’d say.
He’d point the remote at the TV and change the channel.
One day he looked down at his watch.
“Hey, Marina,” he said. “What the fuck. This isn’t my Rolex. This is some Mickey Mouse watch.”
“Is yours, Vic,” she said.
“Look at the second hand,” Victor yelled. “The second hand of a Rolex sweeps. This is not a sweeping motion. This is ticking. It ticks. Like a fucking Timex! That’s not sweeping. This is some cheap shit from Bangkok.”
“Time for your meds, Vic.”
“Some piece of shit knockoff,” Victor said.
She popped a couple of Valiums in his mouth and tipped the Dixie Cup to his lips. Didn’t I just take my pills, Victor wondered.
“Drink your Ensure,” Marina said.
“It tastes funny,” Victor protested.
Marina stuck the bendy straw in Victor’s mouth and rubbed the crotch of his tracksuit until all the Ensure was gone.
“God damn it!” Victor said. “That shit tastes so bitter.”
“Your detective show is on, Victor,” she said, handling the remote control.
Victor loved that show. It was about a renegade cop who uses psychic powers to find murder victims. The cop’s powers led him to a 7-Eleven. He was convinced there was a corpse in the back of the standup freezer. Vic felt a touch of indigestion. They exhumed the body from behind the frozen Salisbury steaks. Vic felt prickling up and down his legs. It spread up his torso.
He heard a man’s voice. A Mexican accent. Where’s the Mexican? There’s no Mexican on this show.
Then he recognized the voice. It was Pedro, the pool guy. He was talking to Marina. They were in the room, behind him. Victor heard the glass patio door sliding shut. Giggling. Marina and Pedro. He was whispering. She shushed him.
Next, they were standing in front of him. Marina was biting a hangnail on her thumb. Pedro bent down and peered into Victor’s face.
“Why are his eyes open like that?” Pedro asked. He waved his hand in front of Victor’s face. “I think he’s dead.”
“Get the laptop,” Marina said. “And take those gold chains off of him. They could be worth something.”
Pedro went