Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [52]
I knew most of the players by reputation, and I decided that the best possible buyer in the country was Diederik de Smet. I had two reasons. One, he had the money to handle the kind of volume I was selling. And two, he hated the Russians. A year ago, de Smet had been running a cell-phone hacking operation that was so profitable, the Russian mob couldn’t resist trying to move in on it.
The Dutch pushed back, and it escalated into a blood feud with a nasty body count on both sides, so I knew I didn’t have to worry about de Smet ratting me out to the Diamond Syndicate. I did have to worry about him, though. His street name was de slang—“the Snake”—and word had it he was as treacherous as a king cobra.
I had a meeting scheduled with him for tomorrow afternoon. But first I needed some sleep.
I locked my door, pulled down the window shade, got down on the floor, sliced open the underside of the box spring, and shoved my bag of diamonds in between the coils. Then I stretched out on the bed, not even bothering to undress first. The mattress was lumpy, and I felt good knowing that one of those lumps was going to bring me millions.
I woke up at 9 p.m., showered, got dressed, and felt almost human. I went downstairs and asked the guy at the front desk where to eat.
“The Grasshopper around the corner on Oudebrugsteeg,” he said. “They’re a steak restaurant, a sports bar, and a cannabis café. They’ve got a little something for everyone.”
I strolled over and opted for a rib eye and a baked potato at Evita, the Grasshopper’s Argentinean steak house on the third floor. The food was good, but it triggered the memory of the night Katherine and I shared a porterhouse at Peter Luger to celebrate my getting into Parsons.
Dinner was a lonely affair, and by the time I finished, I was feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. I knew I should get back to my room and keep one eye on the diamonds and the other peeled for Marta Krall, but sometimes, no matter how hard trouble is beating down on you, you just don’t give a shit. So despite my better judgment, I went downstairs for coffee and some weed.
Technically, selling marijuana is illegal in Amsterdam, but it’s not punishable, so the law isn’t enforced. Most of the coffeehouses that sell it follow some basic rules, like no hard drugs and no selling to kids. The espresso was mediocre, but the weed was primo. After my first few hits, I wanted Katherine to be with me something fierce.
I figured she was back in New York now, and I wondered if she missed me as much as I missed her.
And then I started wondering if my father was right. Would she give me another chance? And what did I have to do to earn it?
I hadn’t smoked grass since I got out of the Marines, and this stuff was powerful. It sneaked up on me, and before I knew it, I was half-baked.
I desperately wanted to call Katherine, but I knew I’d regret it in the morning. So I did what any lovesick, stoned-out artist would do.
I took a pen out of my pocket and began sketching her face on a place mat.
Chapter 63
I HAD ROUGHED out the portrait of Katherine when a group of about a dozen college kids piled in. They were loud, American, and drunk. A few of them pushed tables together while one guy with a wispy blond beard and a Duke University Blue Devils T-shirt leaned over my shoulder.
“Whatcha drawing, dude?” he said.
“Looks like I’m drawing a crowd,” I said.
My cannabis-infused wit escaped him. “How much to do a picture of me?” he said.
“No charge if you’ll pose nude,” I said.
He gave me the finger and joined his friends.
The waitress brought me another double espresso and a bottle of beer.
“I didn’t order these,” I said.
“They’re my treat,” she said. “Would you like to drink them outside, where you don’t have to put up with these dickheads?”
“Thanks,” I said and took a swig of the beer.