11. CARSON

Normally, the Boom Boom Room is enough of a distraction to make it worth my time. On any given night, you’ll see billionaires – or at least their heirs, like Maksim here – and a handful of A-list celebrities wandering around in the red neon glow. At the very least, you’ll see a Kardashian or two.

But tonight, I’m not paying attention. All I can think about is the Chase.

Maks is dressed in his usual club outfit: black slacks and a charcoal satin shirt, open practically to his solar plexus, three gold chains dangling against the curly pelt of his chest. I love the guy, but if you looked up “Eurotrash” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him.

I’m a little more subtle: light gray seersucker suit for the summer heat. Tailored, naturally, for my physique. Even top-of-the-line suits off the rack invariably fit too tightly in the chest, shoulders and arms.

Our companions, as usual, are friends of Maks. As I said, people tend to flock to him. Especially when I’m paying, which is always.

Tonight, it’s a buxom brunette with stunning blue eyes, and a willowy blonde who looks a little like Taylor Swift after a boob job. They do have two things in common: they’re both lawyers, and I’ve barely said a word to either all night.

I’m not trying to be a dick, but right now, if they’re not former intelligence operatives, then I’m simply not interested. My mind is consumed by the Chase, alive with excitement and possibility.

Maksim leaves the girls talking with each other and slides down the bench to greet me with an arm around the shoulder.

“Tovarishch,” he says with a grin. “Your mind is not here this evening. I think I know where it is being, though. Yes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper. “And you better hope your uncle doesn’t know, either. He may have eyes on us right now.”

His eyes go wide and the blood drains from his face. Just as quickly, the old Maks is back and he’s laughing theatrically.

“Oh, my friend!” he hoots. “You are making the best jokes! ‘Santa only comes once a year!’ I get it!”

I can’t help but admire the guy – he’s nothing if not adaptable. He goes back to the girls, who send disapproving looks in my direction. I’d like to tell them the old Seinfeld line – it’s not you, it’s me – but how would I follow that up? “Sorry, I just paid twenty million bucks to chase an anonymous woman and take her virginity”?

I’m guessing that would be a conversation stopper.

I glance at my Rolex. It’s been almost forty-eight hours since my meeting with Red Dress at the Regent. She said I’d be contacted with information on how to make my payment. I scan the Boom Boom Room for potential underworld types, wondering if one of them will approach me.

Most of the people in the club are in their twenties, probably spending a month’s pay for a single night of dancing and rubbing elbows with the beautiful people. I see an aging Real Housewives “star” in the middle of a group of young people, acting like she’s their age instead of her actual forty-seven years.

All of it combines to make me suddenly tired of the whole thing. I pull my billfold from my jacket and drop a stack of hundreds on the table.

Maksim frowns. “You are not leaving already?” he says. “The party is just yet beginning!”

Another disappointed look from his companions, so I amble to their side of the booth and lean in close. I take one hand from each in my own and place a kiss on both.

“Ladies,” I say with a smile. “Please don’t take this as having anything to do with you. You’re both absolutely charming, but I’m afraid I have a pressing… business matter that needs my immediate attention. I hope we can do this again soon, when I have more time to get to know you.”

They both sigh as I let go of their hands. Behind them, Maks is shaking his head and applauding silently. Slick, that look says. Or, in Maks-speak, Sliding.

I make my way through the crowd as the lights strobe and the bass thumps, taking in more of tonight’s clientele. As I approach the VIP section, I recognize a handful of gentlemen from the upper rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. Some of them are close to my spot, if Forbes’ rankings are to be believed.

But are any of them my competitors?

The thought sparks a little pang of cockiness in me. So what if they are? They may have my kind of money, but none of them have my kind of brain. All of them inherited their standing; I earned every penny in my bank account, just like I earned the muscles under this suit.

As I emerge from the club, the night air on Washington Street is filled with the smells of street vendors and exhaust, the sounds of sirens and laughter and music. I wave at the street in an attempt to get one of the yellow cabs to pull over and take me back to my penthouse.

One of them slows down and pulls alongside a Porsche parked at the curb. As I move to take a step toward it, I see a huge shadow out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head to catch one of the largest humans I’ve ever seen – easily a head taller than me and a hundred pounds heavier – stride past me on the sidewalk. The material of his suit could upholster a small sofa.

As he passes, he leans down slightly and places something on the concrete before moving on. I look down and see it’s a black leather valise.

Stenciled into the opening flap at the top are the words Chase & Regent.

My heart skips a beat. This is it.

The cabbie toots at me to remind me how valuable his time is. I look up to see the giant has somehow blended into the crowd already. What level of skill must it take to hide that kind of bulk in a matter of seconds?

I recall what Red Dress said about us being monitored and I wonder if I even want to know.

I snatch up the case and hurry to the cab. As I slide into the back seat, I have to resist the urge to just yank it open and go through its contents right here and now.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

I give him the address of my Park Avenue penthouse. “There’s a $1,000 tip in it if you get me there in under thirty minutes.”

I have to grab the case to keep it from toppling off the seat as the cab screeches off into the night.