First Drop Read Online Free PDF Page A

sneezing dragon. The surface of my skin went from shiver to sweat almost instantly. Then we were climbing into Gerri’s illegally parked Mercedes and she cranked the air conditioning on full almost before she even started the engine. So that was how she stopped her make-up sliding.
     
    “So, Charlie,” she said as she pulled out fast into traffic. “I take it you’ve worked in the States some before?”
     
    “No,” I said, wondering what exactly Sean had told her about me. Less, it would seem, than he’d told me about her. “Actually, this is my first time.”
     
    She frowned, then said with the faintest touch of bite, “Well, I guess you’ll find we like to do things a little differently over here.”
     
    Uh-oh , I thought. Where did that come from ? But I said nothing, just smiled and nodded as though she’d spoken without the undercurrents. Nevertheless, it made it more difficult to phrase a question that didn’t show my ignorance still further. Like what the hell was I supposed to be doing?
     
    In fact, it wasn’t until we’d navigated our way out of the airport complex and were onto the highway that I plucked up the courage to do so. But my tentative opening gambit of “Excuse me, but can you tell me wh—?” was cut short by the shrill ring of her mobile phone, amplified by the in-car kit it was slotted into.
     
    She peered down at the tiny display, then leaned across and pressed a button to receive the call on hands-free.
     
    “Hi, it’s Gerri,” she said, slightly singsong, speaking loudly enough to combat the muted background noise. “And how are you today?” She sounded like someone out of every American film I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.
     
    “I’m good, Gerri,” a man’s deep voice rumbled. “But you’re not gonna like what I have to tell you. Are you alone or do you wanna pick up?”
     
    She shifted her eyes sideways and decided in an instant that I was slightly above invisible servant level. She grabbed the big pearl clip-on on her right ear and yanked it off before snatching the phone out of its dash-mounted cradle.
     
    “OK,” she said, and the singsong tone had turned to steel. “Shoot.”
     
    There followed a fairly lengthy, mainly one-sided conversation, only punctuated by the occasional “uh-huh” on Gerri’s part. Her voice may have stayed neutral, but after the first couple of minutes her left hand started to flex around the Merc’s leather-rimmed steering wheel. High-carat stone rings glinted on most of her fingers like an ornamental knuckle-duster.
     
    I tried not to look like I was eavesdropping, staring out of the window at the odd mixture of low squat concrete discount warehouses and tinted glass skyscrapers that we passed. All the really plush buildings seemed to be banks. I recognised maybe one in four of the makes of car around us.
     
    Eventually Gerri ended the call, almost slamming the phone down. For several minutes afterwards she drove in simmering silence, then her only words were a muttered, “Son of a bitch.”
     
    I didn’t think now was the right time to strike up a friendly conversation. I kept my lip buttoned until we left the freeway twenty minutes later and turned east towards the coast.
     
    The closer to the water we got, the more expensive the housing became. This year’s fashion accessory seemed to be a very large motor yacht parked at the bottom of your lawn, and when your garden backed onto an inland waterway, all things were possible. It was only when Gerri finally turned into a quiet side road that I realised perhaps I should have paid more attention to the route.
     
    She was still spitting feathers when we drove up to a set of motorised gates at the end of the road, tapping her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel until they’d swung wide enough for the Merc to get through.
     
    The house itself, set back in the trees, was so massive that for a moment I wondered if it was split into apartments. Gerri