Max, exhilarated at his sheer cojones, said, “I’m thinking I might bring that pie to my main guy, Rufus.”
And with that, he stood up, took both pies, winked at Sino, said, “Y’all keep it in your pants now, hear, pilgrim.”
Sino was too stunned to move. Meanwhile, Max went on his way, clueless that he’d just fanned the flames of an inferno that would rage with biblical ferocity.
Max placed the pies on Rufus’s bunk and the huge black man, who’d never seen two desserts in one place, was seriously impressed, asked, “How the fuck you get two?”
Max, adopting his lotus position, grabbing some of that inner peace, said, “Took ’em off that little punk, Sino.”
Rufus, adopting the lotus position now, though his bulk made it somewhat difficult, wonderingly asked, “We talkin’ the same Sino? Leader of the Crips?”
Max, closing his eyes, said, in total indifference, “That who he is? I bitch slapped him for giving me mouth.”
Max had already scared Rufus shitless with the dick-cutting rumor, but now Rufus stared at Max like he was looking at a mini-Manson, obvious admiration leaking from every inch of his massive frame.
Yeah, he was a believer.
Seven
“Lord Byron once said of Polidori that he was the sort of man to whom, if he fell overboard, one would offer a straw, to see if the adage was true that drowning men clutch at straws.”
Sebastian was at Athens airport. He’d been in a bit of a panic until he arrived in Athens, all his rat instincts shouting, Get to the bloody airport.
Finally did and, oh lordy, British Airways, God bless them, took his dodgy Platinum card without a murmur.
The woman at the counter asked, “Business class?”
He gave his best old-school smile, asked, “Is there any other way to fly?”
They had a good Brit chuckle about this.
He was whistling Rule, Britannia as he headed for the First Class Lounge, throwing a look of contempt to the, well, sorry, but let’s call them what they were, peasants, as they scuttled along for their economy seats.
He sat in the plush armchair, thought, C’est la vie.
This was the extent of his French and he tended to ration it. Though, come to think of it, perhaps Paris might be worth a gander. They still loved the Brits, though it was a shame the buggers had banned British beef, as if there was a better meat in the whole world.
He ordered a Campari and soda, didn’t say please. A true gent never said please to the help. He was just about to have a large sip when a very attractive blond girl in her twenties approached, asked, “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr. Child?”
Child? The bloody hell was this? Then he spotted the paperback book in her hand. A thriller of some sort, written by that Lee Child fellow whom Sebastian had been mistaken for on several occasions. He was about to tell the woman to bugger off when she held out the book and said, “I’d be so honored to have your autograph, Mr. Child.
He gave her his most radiant smile, said, “Call me Lee. And the honor is mine, I assure you.”
She handed over the book and a pen. It was a Mont Blanc and he thought, Money. Then he thought, Mile-High Club.
Seeing as how the blushing woman was obviously convinced he was this writer fellow and just as obviously idolized him, he didn’t think a little joint trip to the loo would be hard to pull off at all. He scribbled an illegible scrawl on the book’s title page like a real pro, and added a little heart. Touch of class. You couldn’t teach that, either it came naturally or it didn’t come at all.
He handed her back the book, holding the pen as if he’d forgotten it, asked, “Dare I be so bold as to offer you a refreshment?”
She blushed an even deeper shade of crimson and he thought, Gotcha.
She was so flustered, flattered, she never even saw him slip the pen into his jacket. He had one tricky moment after she’d had her second vodka tonic when she asked, “What’s next for Reacher?” But he rallied, gave the enigmatic smile that had lured more quail than he could count into the sack, and said, “Now my dear, that would be telling.”
They had champagne cocktails after takeoff and he looked out at the cloud of pollution over Athens and thought about the American psycho bitch back on the island. She was probably still wondering where her cigs were.
He had to stifle a laugh, turned to the girl, asked, “What say you, my sweet, to another champers before dinner?”
Her glassy eyes as she nodded yes told him he was about to join the Club.
Later, after he’d rogered her, they crept back to their seats and he got a knowing look from the stewardess. Or was she giving him the come on? Sorry, gell, but he was shagged out. A chap had only so much to go round.
The girl snuggled up in her seat and was out in minutes. He waited till they dimmed the lights then went through her handbag. Ah, let’s have a look, shall we? Lots of crisp 50 sterling notes and a batch of credit cards. He took only two, a chap wasn’t greedy. He ordered a brandy, and some snacks, sat back to watch the movie, something starring Will Ferrell. This chap was in every movie, it seemed.
He started to nod off and had the familiar dream, the one about the student he’d killed. Sweat was rolling down his face as he relived the awful events.
Richard had been one of those upper-class pillow biters, the real deal, descended from one of the families related to the Royals. Well, who wasn’t? But he was about 1,000 in line to the throne, meaning only 999 buggers had to croak before Richard got a shot at it.
And, lordy, the chap was loaded, had buckets of dosh. And generous with it, too, spent it like it was water. Sebastian hated him, damn scoundrel had it all. But Richard fell in love with Sebastian, who encouraged him in the belief that buggery was definitely in the cards. Meanwhile, pay the freight you bloody homo.
Richard, like all blue bloods, had access to the best drugs, clubs, people; all of which was damn hunky fucking dory with Sebby. Yeah, what Richard called him. He’d pick out a suit from his closet, a beautiful Jermyn Street made-to-measure beauty and say, “I’m tired of this, Sebby, you have it,” and throw it across the room to him.
Time came to pay the freight, Sebastian was almost ready to let it happen. It was a Brit tradition, how else could you explain the whole Public School system?
They’d been partying hard, lots of the old champers, a little nose candy to chill out. They ended up back in Richard’s lovely flat.
First false note, Richard had ordered, not asked, “Pour me a Gordon’s.”
It was the imperious tone that irritated Sebastian to no end.
Sebastian, a little the worse for wear, snapped, “What am I? Your servant?”
And Richard, in that totally dismissive accent, said, “You’re the help, darling, a leech. So once you get the drinkie-poos, hop over here, Sebby, and service my Lancelot.”
He had a name for his dick? Well, all right, who didn’t. But he also had a name for Sebastian, and it was the more demeaning of the two.
Sebastian lost it, strangled the upper class twit with his Eton tie, screaming,
“Don’t you dare call me Sebby!”
And then horrified, strung him up from the light fixture, took all the available cash and yes, a few suits and
