At the same moment something hard was stuck into my back and the vibrant, manly voice sent a chill down my spine as it said, ‘Just open the door of your room and go in without causing trouble. We do not want blood on this highly expensive corridor carpet, do we?’
I said, ‘Nor on the one in my room, I hope.’
He chuckled. It’s a verb which is used loosely. Not many people can really chuckle after the age of four. He could—a fat, babyish sound of pure, uninhibited pleasure.
I fished out my key to open the door and decided against a quick swing round to catch him off guard.
We went through the tiny hall into my bedroom. He shut the door behind us and said, ‘Go and sit in the chair by the window.’
His English was good, but the Italian accent was strong in it.
I went and sat in the chair. He put his briefcase on the bed and, holding the gun in his right hand, he opened up the case left-handed. He took out two bottles of whisky. Vat 69. For a moment hope flowered in me. He took the glass from the water carafe by my bed, poured a liberal helping of whisky and then came and handed it to me from a safe distance.
‘Drink.’
I did. Not all, but a fair portion. I felt I needed it.
‘Hold this.’ He handed me the bottle.
‘Why?’
‘Because it will keep both your hands in sight.’ Then as I took the bottle, thinking it might be used as a counter weapon, he added, ‘Also it is a good thing to have your prints on it.’
He went and fetched the other bottle and, for the first time, I noticed that he was wearing gloves. Holding gun and bottle in one hand, he opened it and then splashed some of the contents on the bedside table and the floor around it. A nice aroma filled the room.
I flung my bottle at him. He ducked and it hit the wall on the far side of the room, smashed, and whisky trickled down the striped wallpaper.
He said, holding the gun on me, ‘I was hoping you would do that. It will make it more authentic.’ He tossed the other half-empty bottle at me and instinctively I caught it to save my suit being drenched.
‘Grazie,’ he said. I knew why. My prints were now on this bottle. I said, ‘Care to tell me how this scene ends?’
‘Accidental death of a drunk,’ he said. ‘The window behind you opens on to one of the inner hotel wells. A very long drop. Nasty. However, I’m in no hurry. Some men, knowing they were going out of the window for good, might, given the time, ask for a woman, or a good meal; some, I suppose, a priest. All I can offer you is ten minutes and the whisky from the bottle in your hand.’
He sat down on a chair by the door and kept the gun on me. From above it I had the benefit of his high-glazed smile.
I finished the glass of whisky and half filled it from the bottle. He nodded approvingly.
I said, ‘I had you figured for an actor.’
He said, ‘I am. People pay me and I act for them.’
‘Steady work?’ How did I get out of this? I was wondering. Or if I couldn’t, should I finish the bottle? Why not? Where I was going, anyway, a reek of whisky on the breath wouldn’t be held against me.
‘Too much,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, I have to be selective nowadays.’
‘Lucky you. Most of us scratch around for jobs.’
‘I make plenty and pay no taxes. Also I meet interesting people. Like you, for instance. I shall be disappointed if the moment I move to hit you with this—’ he indicated the gun —‘you start to sob or plead. Some do.’
‘I’ll try not to disappoint you.’
‘Good.’ He shifted in his seat to make himself more comfortable, made a flappy motion with his free hand for me to go on drinking, and said, ‘It is interesting that, about last requests. I consider it often. For instance—if you had wanted a woman and I could have provided any one you wanted, which would you have chosen?’
‘You’re a curious bastard, aren’t you?’
‘Well, fundamentally my work is without much variety. I try to give it some status, intellectual or philosophical. I find it helps both me and my client. Which woman would you choose? Some glamorous film star? Or society woman? Or maybe some nothing-to-look-at number of a secretary or typist who was more a bomb in bed than any of the big names ever could hope to be. Big names, you know, are like that. They have the habit of thinking all the time only of themselves, and that is no good in bed. The ego must be swamped, the body, the senses must dominate all thought, all personality.’
‘You should write a book about it. That kind of thing sells well these days.’
‘Maybe I will. I have had many experiences. Once, you know, I did a job for the Mafia. It was a man, a neurotic type, but good, sincere, a sort of religious man, in a way like Billy Graham—but much smaller. It was in the south of this country, Calabria, where he was giving the contadini ideas. He was a peasant himself. You know what he would have liked?’
‘Go ahead. Astonish me.’
‘A hot bath.’ He chuckled. ‘Unbelievable, no? A hot bath he wants, with expensive soap, bath essence and thick towels —because never in his life has he had such a bath. So now, which woman would you choose?’
I said, ‘If you’re serious about last requests, you ought
