He found Parkhall up against the stage, grinning wildly at a pair of blondes gyrating across one another like Greek wrestlers, sharing a bottle of baby oil. To Milo, he said, “Fantastic, isn’t she?”
“Which one?”
“Zsuzsa, you idiot. My God. How a loser like Henry Gray got on with her… it’s a mystery for the ages.”
“I’m heading out,” Milo said, but he didn’t leave. Parkhall convinced him to buy a ludicrously priced bottle of Torley champagne, which they shared with a girl named Agi, who turned out to have an in-depth knowledge of European economics. Parkhall went into interview mode, as if she were a government finance minister, and Milo had a suspicion that Agi was going to show up in one of his Times pieces as a “parliament member speaking under condition of anonymity.”
The champagne went down weakly, so Milo ordered a gimlet. A gaggle of loud English hooligans in the front got on his nerves, and the sight of so much flesh left him with a vague but lasting impression of skin covered in fingerprints, like overused shot glasses.
The American-run 4Play Club, he learned from Parkhall, marketed itself to non-Hungarians for the simple reason that Hungarians wouldn’t pay as much for what they had to offer. There were other clubs in town, but most were dark and potentially dangerous fleshpots run by the Russian mafia, where you would receive an outrageous bill, and then big men would walk you all the way to the cash machine. The majority of the customers were young Englishmen, part of the weekend vacationer boom made possible by cut-rate European airlines. Since it was often cheaper to fly to and get loaded in Eastern Europe than to spend a weekend drinking at London pubs, some cities had become flooded with these kids bursting with beer and itching for fights. They had done so much damage to Prague that laws had been passed to keep them out. Now the hooligans had discovered Budapest.
James Einner, he thought. Of course they’d sent James to get rid of Henry Gray. He was the only living Tourist, besides Milo, who knew anything about the Sudanese operation.
James had only been following orders, just as Milo had only been following orders when he mailed a package to Theodor Wartmuller that resulted in the death of Adriana Stanescu. When James returned in December to finish the job, he’d remembered the letter-only trust Milo Weaver-and used that name. Knowing all this did nothing to curb Milo’s anger. He drank and watched the endless parade of flesh and, though he would soon leave it, hated everything to do with his lousy business.
At twelve thirty, Zsuzsa appeared onstage to the unbridled joy of the MC, who referred to her as a “shining example of Hungary’s national product” before mixing in Bow Wow Wow’s “I Want Candy.” The English boys seemed to agree.
He watched the entire performance, about halfway through realizing he was hypnotized by it. She moved to the off-beats rather than the drums, and it created the illusion of a movie that’s gone slightly out of sync. By the time she was down to her heels and thong, his eyes were red and tired, and he closed them. As he faded, an unexpected memory came to him: his and Tina’s first visit with Dr. Bipasha Ray, back in September.
It had been during a downpour, and he’d had to run from the train, coat over his head, to make it on time. Tina’s car was parked outside the therapist’s Long Island residence, and when the doctor opened her door Milo saw Tina sitting dry and composed on the couch, watching him closely. Examining him. He wasn’t sure why until he looked into Dr. Ray’s face.
He didn’t know what he had expected. Some elderly Indian specialist, perhaps, or some awkward social outcast. Bipasha Ray, who was actually Bengali, looked like a Bollywood film star, breathtakingly gorgeous. Rounded chin, blue eyes between her impossibly dark lashes, a summer dress. Her toenails-later, they would refer to her as “the barefoot therapist”-were painted bright red. He shook her hand and came inside, apologizing for dripping on the hardwood floor, and for the rest of the visit felt as if Tina were inspecting his every interaction with her.
The next day when they met for lunch, Tina seemed almost outraged by Dr. Ray’s beauty. “I wonder how many marriages she’s ended. I mean, couples come in, their relationship fragile, and I’ll lay odds half the men fall in love with her by the third session.”
“Erotic transference?” he’d asked and wondered if he might have a problem with that. He never did. How could he? The therapist’s beauty, and Tina’s close, continual watch, kept him guarded at all times. He didn’t have the time or energy to fall in love with Dr. Ray.
A change in music woke him, and he drowsily paid his tab, realizing that Parkhall had put all his drinks on it. He reached the door before Parkhall caught up with him. “Hey, man. Where you going?”
“Hotel. I’m beat.”
“Well, you did something right. Zsuzsa wants a word with you.”
Milo didn’t feel up to that mix of seduction and scorn. “She can find me at the Ibis.”
Parkhall looped an arm over his shoulder. “You don’t get it, do you? She wants a word with you in the private booth. You lucky cunt.”
It took another fifty euros-he was nearly broke now-but soon he was in the same place where they’d talked before, and Zsuzsa was already waiting. She was dressed for home, the makeup cleaned off, her hair up, and a fur- lined coat hanging from the back of the chair, where she sat. “All right, Mr. Weaver,” she said, her arms crossed tightly. “Now you.”
“Now me what?”
“The clothes. Off with them.”
“For this I pay fifty euros?”
He did as she asked, thinking of mothers who tell their children to always leave the house wearing clean underwear. He paused when he was down to his T-shirt and underwear, but she flicked a long, painted nail and waited until he was completely naked. He felt cold, and wondered how the girls took to the iffy heating here, if they complained, or if the exertion of dancing made it bearable. He thought of a lot of things to avoid speculating on how he looked.
“Why is your arm bandaged?”
“I burned myself cooking.”
“Okay,” she said. “Put them back on.”
“What was that?” he asked as he stepped into his underwear.
“Checking for a gun. Or a wire.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I don’t know who you are, Mr. Weaver. I do remember your name from that letter, and I remember a man who used your name. But you? Maybe you’re James Einner.”
Milo had gotten one leg into his pants. “If you don’t trust me, then why are we here?”
“One thing I’ve learned is that I’ll never find Henry on my own.”
Milo buttoned his shirt.
“When I was dancing, it occurred to me that I’m going to have to trust someone. Why not you? I like your face.”
“Thanks.”
“Your body’s a joke, but your face is almost believable.”
“Oh,” he said.
“This is hard for me,” she said philosophically. “I’m shaking. See?”
She showed a slender hand, but in the dim light it looked perfectly still.
“And I lied.”
“You lied?”
“Yes,” she said. “I don’t trust you at all.”
“Then why-”
She raised her hand in a silencing motion. “He said to trust you. He called me. Just now, just after I danced.”
“Who’s he?”
“Who do you think, Mr. Weaver? Henry.”
He stared at her. “You’ve been in contact with him all this time?”
She shook her head but didn’t say anything. Briefly, she focused on some point between them, thinking. She said, “I was starting to believe he was dead-and then he calls.”
“Now? Why now?”
