beginning to stir as Myra peeked into her room, with two of the dogs trailing behind and wagging their tails in anticipation of pats on the head, hugs, and ear rubs.
The shades had been drawn, and the room was cool, with the slightest bit of light filtering through. Charlotte raised her head and stretched, which signaled the pups to vault onto the bed. “Well, good morning!” she gushed. “So nice to see you, too!” She reached for Lady and rubbed her on the head. “Myra, I need to get a dog.”
Myra chuckled. “Excellent idea. But for now—if you’re ready—Charles will have breakfast on the table in about thirty minutes.”
Charlotte peeked across the room and looked in the large mirror on the opposite wall. “Oh dear Lord! I’m a mess! I can’t leave the room like this!” She was half serious.
“Nonsense. I’ll get you a headband while you put on some clothes. I made an appointment for you to get a massage, hair, manicure, and facial. I know how grueling those transatlantic flights are.”
Charlotte checked the dial on the clock. “That’s wonderful. But it’s only seven fifteen. How did you manage it at this early hour?”
Myra made a tsk-tsk sound. “Darling, must you ask? Your appointment isn’t until eleven. They will serve you a light lunch between the facial and the hair appointment.”
Charlotte rubbed her eyes. “Seriously?”
“Would I kid you?” Myra said solemnly.
“You are too good to me!” Charlotte launched herself out of bed and gave Myra a big hug.
“My pleasure, my dear. You get yourself tidied up, and I’ll bring you a headband. What color are you wearing?”
Charlotte looked around the room. “Gee, I have no idea.”
“Did you bring a tracksuit? Something comfortable?”
“That’s pretty much what I live in when I’m home.” Charlotte’s face brightened.
“Well, you should feel right at home here. So, what color are you wearing?” Myra asked again.
“Navy.”
“Righto. I’ll be back in a few.” Myra turned and was surprised that neither of the dogs moved. “They hardly ever cheat on me.” She laughed and snapped her fingers, and the dogs hoisted themselves off the bed and followed Myra to her suite to retrieve a headband for Charlotte.
Good, she thought to herself. That will give us several hours for our meeting and any other business we need to conduct today.
Chapter 9
London
Dr. Julian Marcus paced the floor of his office, perspiration streaming down his cheek. “Where the hell is that damn boy!” He was close to bellowing but caught himself. No need to alarm the nurse and receptionist. He checked his Rolex again. Damn. It had been an hour. Where the hell is he? The sound of the phone intercom made him jump so high, he almost wet his pants. More sweat ran down his face. He pulled out a crisp linen handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead.
With shaking hands, he took in a deep breath to steady his voice and pressed the intercom button. “Yes, Gloria?” he politely asked the receptionist.
“It’s your coffee, sir.” Gloria made a face at Dr. Marcus’s nurse, who was standing next to her. She could never understand why the doctor did not drink the coffee in the office. It was a Nespresso, for heaven’s sake. But he insisted on a special blend that one of the Turkish cafés served.
“Send him in,” Marcus barked.
“Yes, sir.” Gloria pushed the quiet buzzer that opened the plate-glass door that led to the private office and patient rooms. She pointed to the skinny twentysomething and jerked her thumb in the direction of the doctor’s private office. “You know where to go.”
Without any acknowledgment, the pimply-faced, grubby excuse of a youth whizzed past her.
“That guy gives me the creeps,” Gloria snarled. “I wouldn’t drink a cup of coffee that bloke brought me if you gave me a hundred quid.”
The nurse nodded in agreement and shrugged, and the two of them went back to work.
Marcus tried to keep himself calm. He did not want to ruin the arrangement he had with Jerry’s employer, Francis (Franny) O’Rourke. Franny didn’t consider himself a drug dealer. He thought of himself more as a concierge. He “procured” special orders for the very rich and upwardly mobile pseudosocial elite: famous and not-so-famous musicians, artists, fashion designers, and models. He maintained a network of drug dealers. Whether it was weed, hashish, cocaine, heroin, fentanyl, opioids, or acid, Franny O’Rourke was your one-stop-shopping provider of mind-altering enhancements. He charged a “finder’s fee” of 25 percent, but it was worth it to most of his clientele.