the gate up and lifted the case again.
The first thing the Brit noticed was that it smelled like fire inside—rich, fragrant wood smoke. He thought of rituals again as he looked up at the cracked, blistered black walls and ceiling in the beam of his flashlight. Marble steps appeared in the light, an iron balustrade heading up.
Everything was set up on the third floor in a large room broom-swept of rubble. The grill was top-of-the-line and massive, its stainless steel gleaming from the moonlight that fell in through a ragged basketball-size hole in the ceiling. Beside the grill was a large sheet of thick plastic, rattling in the cold wind that came in with the moonlight.
The Brit thought it looked like a dinner setup at one of the high-end safaris his wife had dragged him to in Botswana. Nothing but the best , he thought, accepting a warmed brandy glass from Alberto as he took his seat.
“That’s not what I think it is, is it?” the Brit said as Alberto brought over a dark, heart-shaped bottle and poured a careful measure.
“I remembered how much you liked the Courvoisier last month in Tokyo, so I thought I’d blow the dust off some of the Jenssen Arcana I received for my fortieth,” the financier said as he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar.
“That was incredibly thoughtful of you. I mean that,” the Brit said, touched. He took a sip of the fifty-five-hundred-dollar-a-bottle hundred-year-old brandy.
“I have incredible respect for you, Martin. The others don’t seem to fully appreciate what I’ve set up here as much as you. You get it. I can’t explain how important that is to me,” the financier said as Alberto tied on a simple white chef’s apron and fired the grill to preheat.
The financier passed over some Ecstasy and then a large bag of coke. As the excellent drugs started to work their glittery magic, there was a squeak, and Alberto was rolling over an empty gurney he’d produced from the shadowed corner of the room.
When Alberto brought over the suitcase, the Brit’s stomach churned again deliciously. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as a heady cocktail of narcotic- and alcohol-enhanced emotions swirled through him. Anticipation, joy, fear.
He swallowed as Alberto slowly zipped open the suitcase and took out what was in it. Though he knew what was coming, the Brit watched as the brandy in his hand wavered, and his eyes almost bugged out of his head. The dust between his feet darkened in coinlike shapes where the expensive liquor splattered upon the floor.
This was far better than the Marquis de Sade he had slavered over after lights-out at Beau Soleil, he thought, gazing on the stunning scene before him. Better even than the parties he had attended in Libya that time with the sultan. For so many years, he had wrestled with what he was. Now, with the help of his comrades, he could finally accept it, relish it, worship it, as the thing that made him truly superior to other men.
This is real , the Brit thought, making eye contact with the bound, wide-awake, nude young woman Alberto easily lifted above his head.
Dear me, this is so very, very real .
CHAPTER 3
IT WAS LIKE SLIPPING into a favorite old pair of shoes that first Monday morning back in New York.
As I woke in our West End Avenue apartment, I smiled at everything, the ceiling that needed painting, the traffic sounds out the window, the tick of Mary Catherine’s teakettle from the kitchen. Even the sound of the kids fighting and teasing and slamming bathroom doors and clomping around on our big old apartment’s worn oak floors was like music to my ears.
Mary Catherine had the troops lined up and ready for inspection as I came into the dining room. I scanned all the happy, scrubbed, bright-eyed faces. I’d never seen my guys so happy to be geared up with backpacks and lunch bags in their plaid Holy Name uniforms.
“Hey, everybody. Did Mary Catherine tell you the good news?” I said to them.
The first thing the Brit noticed was that it smelled like fire inside—rich, fragrant wood smoke. He thought of rituals again as he looked up at the cracked, blistered black walls and ceiling in the beam of his flashlight. Marble steps appeared in the light, an iron balustrade heading up.
Everything was set up on the third floor in a large room broom-swept of rubble. The grill was top-of-the-line and massive, its stainless steel gleaming from the moonlight that fell in through a ragged basketball-size hole in the ceiling. Beside the grill was a large sheet of thick plastic, rattling in the cold wind that came in with the moonlight.
The Brit thought it looked like a dinner setup at one of the high-end safaris his wife had dragged him to in Botswana. Nothing but the best , he thought, accepting a warmed brandy glass from Alberto as he took his seat.
“That’s not what I think it is, is it?” the Brit said as Alberto brought over a dark, heart-shaped bottle and poured a careful measure.
“I remembered how much you liked the Courvoisier last month in Tokyo, so I thought I’d blow the dust off some of the Jenssen Arcana I received for my fortieth,” the financier said as he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar.
“That was incredibly thoughtful of you. I mean that,” the Brit said, touched. He took a sip of the fifty-five-hundred-dollar-a-bottle hundred-year-old brandy.
“I have incredible respect for you, Martin. The others don’t seem to fully appreciate what I’ve set up here as much as you. You get it. I can’t explain how important that is to me,” the financier said as Alberto tied on a simple white chef’s apron and fired the grill to preheat.
The financier passed over some Ecstasy and then a large bag of coke. As the excellent drugs started to work their glittery magic, there was a squeak, and Alberto was rolling over an empty gurney he’d produced from the shadowed corner of the room.
When Alberto brought over the suitcase, the Brit’s stomach churned again deliciously. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as a heady cocktail of narcotic- and alcohol-enhanced emotions swirled through him. Anticipation, joy, fear.
He swallowed as Alberto slowly zipped open the suitcase and took out what was in it. Though he knew what was coming, the Brit watched as the brandy in his hand wavered, and his eyes almost bugged out of his head. The dust between his feet darkened in coinlike shapes where the expensive liquor splattered upon the floor.
This was far better than the Marquis de Sade he had slavered over after lights-out at Beau Soleil, he thought, gazing on the stunning scene before him. Better even than the parties he had attended in Libya that time with the sultan. For so many years, he had wrestled with what he was. Now, with the help of his comrades, he could finally accept it, relish it, worship it, as the thing that made him truly superior to other men.
This is real , the Brit thought, making eye contact with the bound, wide-awake, nude young woman Alberto easily lifted above his head.
Dear me, this is so very, very real .
CHAPTER 3
IT WAS LIKE SLIPPING into a favorite old pair of shoes that first Monday morning back in New York.
As I woke in our West End Avenue apartment, I smiled at everything, the ceiling that needed painting, the traffic sounds out the window, the tick of Mary Catherine’s teakettle from the kitchen. Even the sound of the kids fighting and teasing and slamming bathroom doors and clomping around on our big old apartment’s worn oak floors was like music to my ears.
Mary Catherine had the troops lined up and ready for inspection as I came into the dining room. I scanned all the happy, scrubbed, bright-eyed faces. I’d never seen my guys so happy to be geared up with backpacks and lunch bags in their plaid Holy Name uniforms.
“Hey, everybody. Did Mary Catherine tell you the good news?” I said to them.
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