Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [72]
Meadows heard the sound of a man urinating and relaxed. Quickly he lifted the mirror to his nose, lined up the straw and inhaled again. The performance was still something less than convincing. Guy snatched the mirror and sucked down a few errant crystals until the surface was clean. They waited until the other man left, and then Guy said: “Let’s go. I’ve got to give some of this to the girls or they’re going to be pissed. How do you feel?”
Meadows felt nothing. “Terrific,” he said anyway. They went back to the bar.
“It’s about time,” Cindy said with mock impatience. Guy handed her the cocaine in its snug currency purse. “Thank you,” she sang, swirling off to the ladies’ room with her friend.
Meadows ordered another whiskey. He noticed something sweet dripping from his sinuses into the back of his throat. Guy sat silently next to him, smiling and swaying slightly to the music. When the girls returned, they started chattering at once. Meadows didn’t think it was funny, but he found himself laughing at everything. He felt good. Very good. Cindy’s eyes glowed. She asked Meadows to tell another story.
He recounted the plight of a Colombian pickpocket, an unfortunate soul who had chosen as his victim one morning a very important gringo, the son of the United States ambassador. No sooner was the wallet out of the young man’s designer jeans than the bodyguards, his own countrymen, had seized the thief and by way of punishment amputated one of his hands for all to see on the streets of Bogotá.…
Cindy moved closer. “That… is amazing,” she said heavily. “When were you in South America?”
“Last year,” Meadows replied. “On a job.”
“You sell real estate in Colombia?”
“No, it was an architectural project.”
“But you said you were in real estate.”
Meadows was lost in her; he couldn’t stop himself now. “That was a lie. I’m an architect.”
Cindy laughed guardedly and tugged on Meadows’s sleeve. “Come on. Why would you lie about that?”
“Because people are trying to kill me.”
“Right.”
Guy and the other girl were off on the dance floor somewhere. Meadows put his arm around Cindy and pulled her close. “Where do you live?”
“I’m staying at the Deauville,” she said.
“Let’s go.”
“I can’t. What about Guy?”
“He’s too short for me,” Meadows said, kissing Cindy on the cheek. Her perfume was wonderful; he could not remember ever wanting to screw somebody so much. “Let’s go back to your place and make love,” he said. “I’ve got some better stories. You won’t believe what’s happened to me.”
“That’s very sweet,” Cindy said, patting Meadows’s hand like an aunt, “but I can’t, really.”
Suddenly Guy and the other girl were back at the bar.
“Big day tomorrow, girls. Time to hit the road,” he announced. “Christopher, it was a pleasure.” Guy stuck out his hand. “We’ve got an early flight back to Washington tomorrow, so I’ve got to get these dolls home.”
Then Meadows was alone, left with a powerful hunger and puzzlement. It had to be the dope. He drove back to the motel and spent the next two hours pacing and sketching. Finally he fell into a solid, dreamless sleep. He spent the next day fighting off depression and trying to sort out what had happened. He was worried about his reaction to the drug; for a few moments in that loud dark lounge, his emotions laced with high-grade coke, Meadows actually had been in love with that crazy model. Fascinating stuff, he told himself later. Dangerous stuff.
It did not take him long to realize that, without an introduction, all he was ever going to get for his efforts were a runny nose and, occasionally, a willing woman. He needed more, and he needed it fast. It was difficult making the phone call, but Meadows was washed with relief that