The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [87]
I wrap myself in a bath sheet and go back out into the bedroom. It’s about one in the afternoon and I’ve got a few hours to kill before Ramona is due back. Lunch shows up and is as blandly tasteless as usual—I swear that there’s a force field in the hotel dimensions that sucks the flavor out of food. I badly want something that’ll distract me from pursuing this morbid introspection. Pinky left the PlayStation behind, so I plop myself down in front of the TV, pick up the controller, and poke at it in a desultory sort of way. Candy-bright graphics and a splash screen flicker by as the machine clunks and whirs, loading; then it launches a road race game, in which I’m driving a variety of cars along winding roads around a jungle-covered island while zombies shoot at me. “Arse,” I mutter, and switch off in disgust. I check that my tablet PC is plugged into all the wards correctly, then draw the curtains and lie down on the bed for a short nap.
I’m awakened what feels like a split second later by a banging on the door. “Hey, monkey-boy! Rise and shine!”
Jesus. I’ve been asleep for hours. “Ramona?” I stand up and stagger towards the vestibule. My upper thighs and forearms ache as if I’ve been beaten—must be the swimming. I draw the chain and open the door.
“Had a good nap?” She raises an eyebrow at me.
“Got to get—” I pause. “Dressed.” Damn, I haven’t phoned Mo, I realize. Ramona is looking like about a million dollars, in a blue evening dress that clings to her improbably well—it seems to be held on with double-sided sticky tape. There’s several meters of pearl rope wound into her hair: she must have found a handy time warp for the make-up crew to have had time to get her ready for the fashion photo shoot. Meanwhile, I’m wearing yesterday’s underpants and I feel like I’ve been run over by a train.
“You’re running late,” she says, pushing past me; one nostril wrinkles aristocratically as she surveys the wreckage. She bends over a large carrier bag with the logo of that god-damned tailor on it: “Here, catch.”
I find myself clutching a pair of boxer shorts. “Okay, I get the message. Give me a minute?”
“Take ten,” she says, “I’ll go powder my nose.” Then she disappears into the bathroom.
I groan and retrieve my tuxedo from the leg-well of the desk. There’s a fresh shirt in the bag, and I manage to install myself in it without too much trouble. I leave the goddamn squeaky shoes for last. Then I have a mild anxiety attack when I realize I’ve forgotten the shoulder holster. Should I or shouldn’t I? I’ll probably end up shooting myself in the foot. In the end I compromise—I’ve still got Ramona’s phonegun, so I’ll carry that in one pocket. “I’m ready,” I call.
“I’ll bet.” She comes out of the bathroom, adjusting her evening bag, and smiles brilliantly. Her smile fades. “Where’s your gun?”
I pat my jacket pocket.
“No, no, not that one.” She reaches in and removes the phone-gun, then gestures at the shoulder holster: “That one.”
“Must I?” I try not to whine.
“Yes, you must.” I shrug out of my jacket and Ramona helps me into the shoulder rig. Then she straightens my bow tie. “That’s more like it. We’ll have you attending diplomatic cocktail parties in no time!”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I grumble. “Okay, where now?”
“Back to the casino. Eileen’s throwing a little party in the petit salle, and I’ve got us tickets. Seafood canapés and crappy lounge music with a little gambling thrown in. Plus the usual sex and drugs rich people indulge in when they get bored with throwing their money away. She’s using the party to reward some of her best sales agents and do a little quiet negotiating on the side. I gather she’s got a new supplier to talk to. Ellis won’t be there at first, but I figure if we can get you an invitation onto the ship . . . ?”
“Okay,” I agree. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” Ramona pauses in the doorway. Her eyes seem