The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [52]
“No, it isn’t,” she sniffles quietly. “It’s never going to be all right.” Then she straightens up. “I need to blow my nose.”
I can take a hint: I let go and take a step back. “Do you want to talk?”
She pulls a hand-sized pack of tissues out of her bag and dabs at her eyes carefully.
“Do I want to talk?” She sniffs, then chuckles. Evidently something I said amused her. “No, Bob, I don’t want to talk.” She blows her nose. “You’re far too nice for this. Go to bed.”
“Too nice for what?” These dark hints of hers are getting really annoying, but I’m upset and concerned now that she’s pulling herself together; I feel like I’ve just sat some kind of exam and failed it, without even knowing what subject I’m being tested on.
“Go to bed,” she repeats, a trifle more forcefully. “I haven’t eaten yet. Don’t tempt me.”
I beat a hasty retreat back through the casino. On my way out, I go through the side room where they keep the slot machines. I pass Pinky—at least, I’m half-sure it’s Pinky—creating a near riot among the blue-rinse set by playing an entire row of one-armed bandits in sequence and winning big on each one. I don’t think he notices me. Just as well: I’m not in the mood for small talk right now.
Damn it, I know it’s just the effects of a class three glamour, but I can’t stop thinking about Ramona—and Mo’s flying in tomorrow.
6.
CHARLIE VICTOR
I MAKE IT BACK TO MY HOTEL ROOM WITHOUT getting lost, falling asleep on my feet, or accidentally looking at the screen saver. I slump in the chair for a while, but there’s nothing on TV except an adventure movie starring George Lazenby, and it’ll take more than that to keep me awake. So I hang out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, undress, and go to bed.
I fall asleep almost instantly, but it’s not very restful because I’m in someone else’s head, and I really don’t want to be there. Last time this happened, the fifty-something engineering salesman from Düsseldorf trapping off with the blonde call girl was just sad, and a bit pathetic on the side; this time it feels dirty. I (no, he: I struggle to hold myself aside from his sense of self) work out daily in a gym round the corner from the casino before I go in to work, and it’s not just pumping iron and running on a track—there’s stuff I don’t recognize, practice routines with odd twisting and punching and kicking motions, somatic memories of beating people up and the warm sensual excitement that floods me when I stomp some fucking idiot for getting in my face. I’ve had a call from the customer, and I’m about ready to go off work and go looking for the merchandise he wants, when this blonde American princess comes out of the salle and what do you know, but she’s giving me a come-on? She’s lost the rich nerd she showed up with, and good riddance; guess I’ll have to take her home and that means . . . yeah, she’ll do. Two birds, one stone, so to speak. Or two stones, in my case. Mind you, she’s a customer—I’ll just have to be discreet. So I smile at her and make nicey-nice while she giggles, then I offer to buy her a drink and she says, “Yes,” and I tell her to meet me over the road at the Sunset Beach Bar so I can show her the town. She heads off, shaking her booty, and I go and get squared away. Time to do another line of Charlie in the john.
Checking out, walking over the road, I get that thrill of arousal. I’m on top of the world again with cold fire coursing through my veins, like the time in the village near