The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [48]
My nose prickles. Something they never mention in the brochures is that the night-blooming plants let rip during the tourist season. I try not to sneeze convulsively as Ramona sashays right up the red carpet, bypassing the gaggle of tourists being checked at the door by security. A uniformed flunky scrambles to grovel over her gloved hand. I follow her into the lobby and he gives me a cold-fish stare as if he can’t make up his mind whether to grope my wallet or punch me in the face. I smile patronizingly at him while Ramona speaks.
“You’ll have to excuse me but Bob and I are new here and I’m so excited! Would you mind showing me where the cashier’s office is? Bobby darling, do you think you could get me a drink? I’m so thirsty!”
She does an inspired airhead impersonation. I nod, then catch the doorman’s eye and let the smile slip. “If you’d show her to the office,” I murmur, then turn on my heel and walk indoors—hoping I’m not going in the wrong direction—to give Ramona space to turn her glamour loose on him. I feel a bit of a shit about leaving the doorman to her tender mercies, but console myself with the fact that as far as he’s concerned, I’m just another mark: what goes around comes around.
It’s darker and noisier inside than on the promenade and a lot of overdressed, middle-aged folks are milling around the gaming tables in the outer room. Mirror balls scatter rainbow refractions across the floor; at the far end of the room a four-piece is murdering famous jazz classics on stage. I spot the bar eventually and manage to catch one of the bartender’s eyes. She’s young and cute and I smile a bit more honestly. “Hi! What’s your order, sir?”
“A vodka martini on the rocks.” I pause for just a heartbeat, then add, “And a margarita.” She smiles ingratiatingly at me and turns away, and the ghostly sensation of a stiletto heel grinding against my instep fades as quickly as it arrived. ★★That was entirely unnecessary,★★ I tell Ramona stiffly.
★★Wanna bet? You’re falling into character too easily, monkey-boy. Try to stay focused.★★
When I find her she’s leaning up against a small, thick window set in one wall, scooping plastic chips into her purse. I wait alongside with the drinks, then hand her the margarita. “Thanks.” She closes the purse then leads me past a bunch of chattering one-armed-bandit fans towards an empty patch of floor near a table where a bunch of tense-looking coffin-dodgers are watching a young chav in a white shirt and dickey-bow deal cards with robotic efficiency.
“What was that about?” I murmur.
“What was what?” She turns to stare at me in the darkness, but I avoid making eye contact.
“The thing with the doorman.”
“It’s been a hard day, and American Airlines doesn’t cater for my special dietary requirements.”
“Really?” I stare at her. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”
“Marc over there—” she jerks her head almost imperceptibly, back towards the door “—likes to think of himself as a lone wolf. He’s twenty-five and he got the job here after a dishonorable discharge from the French paratroops. He served two years of a five-year sentence first. You wouldn’t believe the things that happen on UN peacekeeping missions . . .”
She pauses and takes a tiny sip of her drink before continuing. Her voice is over-controlled and just loud enough to hear above the