The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [140]
‘Forever.’ Stevie was sitting in an old armchair by the window in her bathrobe and sunglasses. She lit a cigarette and watched the snow for a moment.
‘We seem to be somehow stuck in the heart of winter.’
Two of the florid Germans, dressed in heavy corduroy and walking boots, sat drinking tea in a corner by a massive floral arrangement. A giant poodle gnawed a rawhide bone. Apart from them the place was deserted.
One of Heini’s men walked by, holding the three pugs on leashes as they scurried and snuffled at various objects of interest—the umbrella stand, a power point, the porter’s polished shoe.
Stevie sat forward, her eyes on the henchman’s vanishing back. ‘It’s a matter of grabbing Dragoman’s attention, casually. We can hardly go up to him at the juice bar and just mention, oh by the way, we’ve heard a man named “killer” from Moscow is looking for you.’
‘No,’ Henning agreed. ‘But it can’t be too subtle. We haven’t got the time for that. Dragoman won’t be staying long.’
Through the triple-height windows, Stevie and Henning had a good view of the road, winding down through a pine forest to the distant village. The postmaster drove up in his little yellow truck, a huge mail sack just visible in the back. A horse and rider clip-clopped down the road, the horse’s rump steaming in the cold. Everything else was still and quiet.
Something moved unexpectedly amongst the tree trunks—a dark shape flitting—and was gone. Stevie scanned the hillside. The white blanket of snow turned every tree and rock that stood against it black. An animal? Surely it had been much too big . . .
It was ten to twelve and Stevie and Henning, in bathrobes and slippers, trundled down to the Sonnenbad. They were each given a purple pair of goggles as they entered the sunbathing room.
It was large, with a smooth granite floor, floor-to-ceiling windows that jutted out over the gorge and faced down the valley. The room was flooded with UV light and patients lay scattered about in green-and-white striped deck chairs.
Stevie spotted Dragoman sitting alone. His shadow was standing at the back wall, also in a robe and still carrying the bottle of rubbing alcohol. Heini had not yet arrived.
She took a deck chair directly in front of him and shed her robe, revealing only tiny bikini bottoms and no top. Stevie wasn’t quite sure what she would do once she had Dragoman’s attention but she figured it would be a start. She stretched luxuriously.
A quick glance sideways revealed that Dragoman wasn’t taking the slightest bit of notice.
Henning, however—
Stevie blushed furiously and lay down quickly.
Henning settled himself next to her and pulled out a copy of a Hollywood trade rag.
‘Can you believe they sell Variety at the concierge desk?’ He waved the publication at Stevie. ‘We can read what they’re telling everyone about Monkeys in Paradise.’
‘It’s all just a conspiracy against my talent, Henning. Anyone with half a brain can see that.’
Henning kept his attention fixed on the newspaper. He sounded bored. ‘Darling, you passed out in a pool of your own vomit.’
Stevie frowned under her goggles. ‘So?’
‘On set.’
‘So?’ she repeated, louder.
‘Twice in one week. You can see their point.’
‘Fascists,’ Stevie declared, examining her nails. ‘Studios are all the same—it’s all just money, money, money. What about art?!’
Stevie was glad she had Sandy and Douglas to draw inspiration from.
Henning became placatory. ‘No one will insure you, darling. A stint here ought to fix that. You’ll go home with your body—and your reputation—cleansed. Quite virginal.’
‘I don’t give a hoot for my reputation. I want a martini and a pink pill—and a tattoo,’ added Stevie in a flash of inspiration.
Henning ignored her.
‘You have one.’ Stevie pointed to Henning’s bare arm, her tone petulant.
She had never seen Henning with his shirt off. He was finely muscled, no more than an ounce of fat on him, strong but not big. On the underside of his forearm he had a tattoo of an owl in full flight. It was quite stunning.
‘What does the owl mean?’ She touched