Venom Business

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Venom Business Page 27

by Michael Crichton


  “No? I thought everybody had a black wish, somewhere inside them.”

  “Not me.”

  Richard was steering her out the door, clutching her arm tightly. Charles was following behind; she glanced back and saw a rather sad look on his face, as if he was forced into something unpleasant. She wondered why he acted like Richard’s servant.

  “I am sorry to report,” Richard said, “that my auto is out of whack. It is at the Maserati repair shops now. But we shall manage.”

  At first she thought he was kidding about the Maserati, and then she decided he wasn’t. A warning bell in her mind: she did not like people who identified themselves by their possessions. It was no points to her that he owned a Maserati. She had had three of them, at various times, and considered them bad cars. A Lotus was far superior.

  “Taxi! Taxi!” Richard was shouting. He grinned at her. “They usually stop right away, if the girl is pretty.”

  “Oh, dear, what will you think if one doesn’t come?”

  “I will think that they are fag taxi drivers,” Richard said sternly. “And I will dismiss them from my mind.”

  As it turned out, a cab stopped for them almost immediately. They climbed into the back seat, Richard first, then her. As Charles started to get in, Richard said, “If you’d rather stay at the party, old buddy…”

  “No, no,” Charles said. “It was boring.”

  Charles got in and shut the door. The taxi driver looked back through the open glass partition. “Sir?”

  “The Grouse,” Richard said. The driver nodded. Richard reached forward and closed the partition.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “you found the London taxi ungainly. However, you will notice the room inside, the partition which makes conversation private, and the fact that the driver is forbidden—by law, mind you—to have an inside rear-view mirror. Thus he cannot see back into this compartment without boorishly turning and looking. So you see, the London taxi is actually the most civilized thing in the city.”

  She found herself laughing. “What’s the Grouse?” she said.

  “A club. It is owned by several London film people and backed by Brighton gangsters who keep it very clean. No riffraff, and every wheel weighted, every dice loaded.”

  “Die,” Charles said, speaking for the first time. His voice sounded distant, mechanical.

  “Quite right. You know, my friend Charles is far better educated than I. Far better. Aren’t you, old buddy?”

  “Yes.”

  Jane looked at him curiously. “You’re American?”

  “Indeed he is,” Richard said. “An American living in Mexico, where he makes money doing queer things he won’t explain to me. A mysterious figure, is Charles.”

  “You live in Mexico?”

  “He does, he does,” Richard said. “And you, my dear? What do you do?”

  She shrugged. “Model,” she said. “Act, sometimes.”

  “Marvelous,” Richard said. “I can see why.”

  “Can you?” She disliked bald compliments.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Pierce—”

  “Richard. Please.”

  “All right, Richard. What do you do?”

  “Alas, I am a member of the vast ranks of the unemployed.”

  “He’s a millionaire,” Charles said, with a slight grin. A funny grin, sly, foxy.

  “Really? A real millionaire?”

  Richard looked at his shoes. “Well, actually—”

  “You really are a millionaire?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s very exciting. I’ve never met a millionaire before.”

  “Then this is your first opportunity. Gaze your fill.”

  She paused, then said, “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be,” Richard said, with a grin. “We millionaires are no different from other people.”

  “I’d heard that, but I never believed it.”

  Indeed, she found it hard to believe he was a millionaire. He seemed so childish, so aimlessly gay and frivolously amusing. Perhaps, like her, his fortune was managed by old men.

  “And how did you make your money?” she asked.

  “My father did.”

  “Stepfather,” Charles said.

  She saw Richard give him a quick glance; he hadn’t appreciated that comment. “Yes, stepfather.”

  They arrived at the Grouse Club, which occupied the second floor of a mansion in Mayfair, looking out on a verdant park.

  “Watch out for that park,” Richard said, as they climbed out of the cab. “It’s filled with buggers at night.”

  They went inside, into a lobby of ornate Victorian splendor, up broad marble stairs to cool green gaming rooms. Most of the clientele was young, but obviously wealthy. By and large, dress was conservative—men in dark suits or dinner jackets, the women in floor-length gowns.

  “My dress,” she said, in mild dismay, aware of the seven inches of bare leg above the knee.

  “Marvelous,” Richard said calmly. “Come along,” He steered her toward the cashier. “What will you play? Blackjack? Chemin? Roulette?”

  “Anything,” she said. “Whatever you like.”

  “I like you,” he said.

  “Roulette,” she said.

  “Red twelve,” Richard said, and put a ten-pound chip on the marker. He had his arm around her waist, and was holding her quite close as he watched the ball slide down the curve of the spinning, polished wood wheel. When he had first put his arm around her, she hadn’t liked it; he was too quick, assuming her interest in a matter-of-fact, almost bored way. Later, charmed by his humor and madcap manner, she no longer cared.

  Richard was losing heavily. She guessed that he had dropped two hundred pounds already, with no end in sight. Although she knew it was intended to impress her, she did her best not to be impressed. This caused Richard to bet more heavily, and lose more consistently. She felt bad about that, but not very. It was his money, and he could throw it away if he liked.

  He was rather a strange person, actually. At first she had thought him stupid, but he was not stupid. He was perceptive and accurate when he wanted to be, when he stopped his little patter of jokes and sly comments. She wondered why he was so intent on playing the clown.

  Charles, to her annoyance, had drifted away and played twenty-one. He was not giving her a chance to talk to him, and she was immensely curious to know what was going on.

  She watched Richard play, and said, “Your friend is quiet.”

  “Who? Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has women trouble,” Richard said. “Black nine.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. Charles is making it with my stepmother, you see. Frightful bitch. Rots the masculine soul.”

  His stepmother? Very strange, she thought. She could not imagine Charles making love with anybody’s stepmother.

  “She collects men, you see,” Richard said. “All shapes and sizes. Now she has Charles.”

  “He doesn’t seem very happy.”

  “No, he never does.”

  After an hour, Charles came back with an armful of chips. He had obviously done well for himself. He walked up to Jane and said, “You picked the wrong game,” and dropped the chips into her lap.

  Richard said, “How much did you make, old buddy?”

  “Not much. Fifty pounds or so. How much did you lose?”

  “I never keep track,” Richard said.

  Charles said to her, “I’ll buy you a drink. Richard had better stay here and try to win back his stake.”

  Before she could answer, Richard had said, “No, no, I’m finished.”

  Charles said, “But you still have some chips left.”

  “No, I’m bored. A drink sounds wonderful.” He grinned. “Now that you’ve won all this money, you can buy us all drinks.”

  The bar was on the third floor, dark, lit softly by pink lights. There were oil paintings of demure n
udes on the wall, chubby women reclining amid cherubs and little fat angels.

  Charles bought three rounds of drinks, and she began to get tight. Richard became talkative, and Charles, seated alongside him, became very quiet.

  By two in the morning, they were all quite drunk. At least she was, and so was Richard; it was impossible to say with Charles. He said nothing at all, but stared morosely around the room.

  Richard said, “Aren’t you tired, Charles? It’s been a long night.”

  “No, I’m not tired.”

  “Jane, doesn’t he look tired? Look at his eyes. Bloodshot. Drooping. Tired.”

  Jane shrugged. She wished Richard would go away.

  “You look tired to me,” Richard said.

  “I don’t feel tired.”

  “Yes, but you look tired.”

  “I don’t care how I look.”

  “Well, you should. You look like hell.”

  Jane thought Charles would be angry, but he was not. He gave a slight smile, and said, “You can’t see anything right now. Old buddy.”

  “Don’t call me old buddy.”

  “I’ll call you anything I like,” Charles said.

  “No, you won’t,” Richard said. He turned to Jane. “You know why not? Because he’s my servant. My hired employee. My servant. Specifically, Charles is—”

  Something happened. She didn’t see exactly how it happened, because she was too drunk to pay attention, but Charles somehow managed to spill his drink all over Richard.

  “Damn,” Richard said. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “Do what?” Charles said.

  “Spill my drink, you sod.”

  “I didn’t spill your drink. Your drink is on the bar.”

  “I don’t care whose drink you spilled, you sod.”

  Charles looked at him evenly and said, “Shut up and go clean yourself. You’ve mussed your trousers.”

  Richard looked shocked, almost as if he had been struck. Then, without a word, he got off the bar stool and walked off to the washroom.

  Watching him go, she said, “That was mean.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Listen,” she said, “what’s going on with you two? The last I saw you, you were sneaking out of your house at six in the morning with snakes under your arm—”

  He shook his head. “Long story. I can’t explain now. You're here in London on business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Selling stock?”

  She frowned. How did he know that?

  “Yes.”

  “Then you may be in some danger.”

  “Danger? But that’s absurd—”

  “It’s not. Just be careful, will you?”

  “But, Charles—”

  At that moment, Richard came back. He had found paper towels and was drying his trousers. She expected him to say something to Charles, but he did not. Instead he sat down, ordered another drink, and said, “I’m tired of this place. Let’s do something unusual tonight.”

  “Yes,” Jane said. She glanced at Charles.

  “Let’s do something special,” Richard said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Something a bit risky.”

  “By all means,” she said, “but what?”

  “Hunting,” Richard said.

  “Hunting?”

  “Yes. Duck hunting.”

  “But where?”

  “Hyde Park, of course. It’s the only place to go duck hunting, you know.”

  5. DUCK HUNTING

  SHE WAS DRUNK, SO damned drunk she could hardly see this Charles-person in front of her. He was talking to her while what’s-his-face was inside getting the gun. God, what a wild pair they were. And Charles so damned handsome. She felt like grabbing him and kissing him, she felt like devouring him. She should have done it before. In Mexico. Devoured him.

  Drunk? Jesus.

  He was talking to her but she couldn’t pay attention to the words. Except that he was being earnest, in a funny way. He didn’t seem like the earnest type.

  Moments later, what’s-his-face, Richard, came back. He had a .22. For Christ’s sake, a .22. For duck hunting.

  “You can’t hit anything with a twenty-two,” she said.

  “Oh, yes,” Richard said. “Dead easy.”

  “You mean…”

  “Of course.” Richard laughed. “You shoot them on the ground. Preferably while they’re sleeping.”

  “Not sportsmanlike,” Jane said.

  “Yeah, but it makes them easier to clean.”

  Charles was driving. She was in the back seat. Richard was sitting next to Charles with the gun between his legs, sticking up toward the ceiling like a giant thing. God, drunk, to be thinking this way. About giant things.

  “What we are about to do,” Richard said, laughing slightly, “is terribly illegal. In fact, we are breaking the law on five counts. At least.”

  “Oh.” She was so drunk, she did not really care.

  “Yes. We are in possession of an unregistered firearm. We are transporting it by automobile without a license. We are within a city of more than twenty thousand. We are using it for an illegal purpose. We are shooting ducks out of season. And finally, we are damning the Queen’s property.”

  “We are?”

  “Yes. Ducks in parks are the property of the Queen. Also geese and swans. They are her most loyal subjects.”

  “What about the Queen? Can she shoot them?” Jane asked.

  “Yes. But Her Majesty is a notoriously poor shot.”

  They drove around Hyde Park and pulled off the road into a glade of trees. The park was dark and silent. They looked at each other.

  “Now what?” Jane said.

  “Now,” Richard said, “we hunt.”

  “But won’t somebody hear the shots?”

  “Yes. But we will run like hell.”

  Charles said, “Isn’t the park patrolled at night?”

  “Yes. But we will run like hell.”

  “Oh,” Jane said.

  “Oh,” Charles said

  They got out of the car. Richard put on a raincoat and carried the rifle tucked up under his armpit, the barrel protruding down below the coat

  “Careful you don’t shoot yourself in the leg,” Charles said.

  “Never fear, old buddy.”

  They walked in silence, breathing the night air. They passed several couples necking in the grass. One or two couples in evening clothes strolled by, laughing gaily. No one noticed the gun under Pierce’s coat.

  Jane said, “Have you ever done this before?”

  “Many times.”

  “Do other people do it?”

  “Half of London,” Richard said. “You forget that poaching is a venerable English art.”

  “But in Hyde Park?”

  “We must make no concessions to urban living.”

  Up ahead, they saw a single figure approaching.

  “Oops,” Richard said. “Close one.” He put his arm around her, holding her against him. She felt the gun in her ribs. They walked on, and she saw it was a bobby.

  “Evening,” Richard said.

  “Evening,” the bobby said.

  They walked on.

  Richard began to laugh.

  “I don’t like it,” Charles said.

  “If you don’t like it, go home.”

  “We could be thrown in jail for this.”

  “What? A rough and tumble fellow like you, afraid of police?”

  Jane, feeling drunk, said to Charles, “Are you rough and tumble?”

  “He’s very rough and tumble.”

  “He looks pretty rough and tumble.”

  “He is,” Richard said. “Aren’t you, old buddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “See? He’s the roughest and nimblest there is.”

  They left the paved pathway and set off across the grass. It was damp underfoot; she dim
ly realized that her shoes would be ruined.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a nice little pond.”

  “And then what?”

  “We’re going to get dinner for tomorrow.”

  Charles said, “What about the car?”

  “That’s why we have to move quickly. They’ll tow it away soon. And we need it for the getaway. All right: steady now.”

  They crept forward, through a low mist that hung over the grass near the water. Bullfrogs croaked in the night. Ahead, they saw a dozen ducks sleeping in the water and on the grass near the shore, their heads tucked under their wings.

  “This is it,” Richard whispered. “Everybody ready?”

  They nodded. He brought the gun out from under his coat, and prepared to take aim.

  “No, wait,” he whispered. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a flask. “A final drink.”

  He drank. They all drank. Jane hardly tasted the liquor. It could have been scotch, or vodka, or anything. The park was silent around them, except for the frogs. Very faintly, they could hear the far-off sound of traffic.

  Charles said, “I don’t think we should shoot them on the ground.”

  “Shit, it’s the only way,” Richard said.

  “Not sportsmanlike,” Jane said. Looking at the poor ducks, peacefully sleeping, she felt sorry for them. They deserved a fighting chance.

  “All right, then,” Richard said. He turned to Charles, “You go forward and scare them. When they fly up, I’ll shoot.”

  “No. You go forward, and I’ll shoot.”

  “Bloody hell. You might miss and hit me.”

  The two men stared at each other for a long time.

  “I might,” Charles said. “But I won’t.”

  “Bloody hell. I’m not risking it.”

  Jane said, “I’ll go forward.”

  “No, you won’t,” Charles said. “He’s too drunk.”

  “I’m too drunk. Look at you, old buddy, you can hardly stand.”

  “I can, too.”

  “Look at you.”

  Charles said, “Don’t you trust me, Richard?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Richard became excited. He waved the gun in the air. “You expect me to trust you? You think that I will—”

  The gun went off, the report echoing.

  “That tears it.”

  Whistles began to blow.

  “Jesus. Fuzz.”

  Pierce stood frozen. Charles said, “Let’s get out of here.”

 

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