looked into the bottom of his empty cup. ‘I knew it couldn’t last.’
The eggs and bacon arrived. Jay took one look at it, and pushed the plate to one side.
‘I lost it after that. Did some drugs, went a little crazy, got in touch with a couple of old contacts. I’ve done a few odd jobs. Nothing big, I’m getting too old for the really heavy stuff. Just small heists. Clean. Easy. In, out. It pays the rent.’
Jay bit into a slice of toast as Luther looked at the discarded plate
‘You not eating?’
‘I just lost my appetite.’
‘I ain’t lost mine, you mind?’
Jay pushed the plate in front of him. ‘Be my guest.’
Luther sawed into a strip of bacon before speaking again. ‘So whaddya need, buddy?’
‘I need a wire job on Senator Todd Prescott’s house. I don’t want to hear what the senator has to say, I’m more interested in what his wife is up to.’
As Jay slid a photograph of Kelly across the table, Luther let out a low whistle. ‘Ouch! I sure know what I’d like to say to this babe.’
Jay nodded but made no comment. He was afraid his voice would betray him. ‘I need a neat job, and I need it done now. I know from the press that the senator’s away campaigning from next week.’
Egg yolk trickled from the corner of Luther’s mouth as he looked at the photograph again, then pointed at Jay with his fork. ‘It’s a hot gig, heavy security; high risk, I’m not sure.’
Jay’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s why I want you. You’re the best.’
Luther’s grin confirmed to Jay that the big man’s ego had kicked in.
‘How much?’
‘I’ll pay you three grand,’ Jay said, knowing Luther would ask for five at least.
‘Come on, man, this is a senator’s pad; they can be mean bastards, as mean as the mob when they get upset.’
‘OK, five,’ said Jay, knowing Luther would have asked for ten if he’d offered five thousand bucks in the first place.
‘Five, plus expenses,’ urged Luther.
Jay nodded and held out his hand, aware as he did so that Luther was wondering if he’d asked too little. ‘OK, five plus expenses it is. We got a deal?’
Luther wiped his right hand on the table top, before holding up a meaty paw in front of Jay. ‘Am I allowed to ask why?’
Jay trusted him. ‘I was in love with this woman.’ He pointed to the photograph. ‘So was the man I’m supposed to have murdered. She was very close friends with two other women; she still is. At the time of my trial I had a hunch they were hiding something. It’s only a hunch, but I’ve got to start somewhere. Kelly seems as good a place as any.’
Jay’s eyes had not left the picture of Kelly and Luther had noticed. ‘You sure that’s all it is, man?’
Jay seemed dazed. ‘It’ll do for starters. You on or not, Luther?’
‘What do you think? Gimme five for five, man.’
Jay slapped palms as he was told, ‘We should be on line this time next week.’
Both men smiled.
Weston woke up at six-thirty a.m. with a hangover. She rarely had headaches, in fact she’d been ill on only half a dozen occasions in her entire life. ‘Weston’s as strong as an ox,’ her father had been fond of saying. ‘Kane genes! Gets it from me.’ Sinclair Kane was still bragging about his own consistent good health when he dropped dead of a coronary thrombosis at sixty-five. Weston missed him more than she would have believed possible. She had lost count of the times she’d longed to speak to him again. Her father was the only man she’d ever loved and long before realizing she was a lesbian, she’d known with a certainty that scared her that he would remain so.
The phone rang and she staggered to the bathroom, allowing the answer machine to intercept the call. As she threw up she vowed never to drink champagne again; well, at least not two bottles on an empty stomach. She spoke to her reflection, ‘Oh God, you look about a hundred.’
Not a pretty sight, she thought as red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes stared back at her out of a face the same colour as the white marble of her vanity basin. Her stomach made an odd gurgling sound, and she braced herself as a wave of nausea swept through her body. I wouldn’t care if the bitch had been worth it, she thought, her mind returning to last night – spent with a girl she’d met the previous weekend. A very young girl, nineteen, twenty at most, she’d forgotten to ask; far more interested in her full lips and soft body – so smooth it was childlike. A beautiful yet unresponsive body.
Weston breathed deeply, uttering through clenched teeth, ‘Shit, why am I such a sucker for the young ones? And why do I always want heterosexual women; what am I trying to prove?’
Scraping her hair back, she moved closer to the mirror. Time for a face lift, she thought, then instantly rejected the idea. Her mother had recently had her third: a seventy-one going on fifty-something femme fatale, who reminded Weston of a lamp she’d had in her hall – tall and wooden with a parchment shade that looked best at night when lit. The last time she’d visited Annette Sinclair, Weston had been shocked to discover a pack of tampons in the bathroom. When questioned, Annette had given one of her prim, ‘Nothing to do with you, dear,’ looks and giggled girlishly without making any comment. The thought had made Weston feel physically sick; her seventy-one-year-old mother still menstruating, presumably with the aid of hormones. Grabbing a couple of extra-strength painkillers, and a 1000 gram Vitamin C tablet, she washed them down with a slug of Evian, then went back to bed.
Three hours later Weston woke feeling infinitely better, and ready to face lunch with Rob Steiner who ran the LA office of Avesta. She had met him only a couple of times since the recent merger of her own Summit television with Avesta, but each time she’d renewed her first impression of Rob. Extremely bright, enthusiastic and intuitive, with the sort of incisive brain that could cut through the crap and stay on track. She liked him, and intended to offer him a fat pay rise to head up her proposed Pacific Rim operation. She showered and dressed in a long-sleeved simple brown wool dress, draping a camel cashmere sweater over her shoulders in preparation for lunch at Le Cirque, where the super-efficient air conditioning almost required fur coats in summer and sleeveless shifts in winter. Armed with her bulging briefcase, she left her bedroom and walked briskly down a wide hallway, heels clicking on the polished ash floor. The first thing she saw as she entered her vast living room was her maid Carmita who was coming out of the kitchen, her head obscured by a large floral arrangement covered in crisp cellophane wrapping.
‘Morning, Miss Weston, these just arrived.’
‘Morning, Carmita. Or afternoon, almost …’
‘I careful not to vacuum, I think that you ’ave
