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. Except Marcus. The fee was rather steep, and his habit was increasing.
Marcus handed over the envelope with the cash. “Why the pressure?” he coolly asked.
“No pressure, mate. Just doin’ what I’m told.” Jerry shuffled his feet.
“I believe you have something for me?” Marcus was not in the mood for games.
“Oh yeah, that. Franny says no dice until you pay up.” The kid wiped his sniveling nose with his ragged sleeve.
Marcus thought his head was going to explode. “We had a deal, damn it.”
“Maybe you and Franny did, but it seems like one of you queered the deal. Like I says, doin’ my job.” Jerry was squirmy, and it made Marcus uncomfortable. One never knew what a drug addict would do. And of all people, Marcus should know.
Trying to think quickly, Marcus suggested, “What if I get something better than cash?”
“What? Are you daft? Nothin’ is better than cash.”
“Ask Franny if he’ll take the dosh in diamonds.” Marcus knew he could pinch one of his wife’s diamond earrings without her ever knowing. Her collection would make Harry Winston blush.
“Eh, I dunno ’bout that, mate.” Jerry continued to shuffle his feet. He wiggled as if he had ants-in-pants syndrome.
Marcus tossed his cell phone to Jerry. “Buzz him. Text him. Do whatever. And make it snappy. I don’t want those nosy biddies out there wondering what’s taking you so long to deliver a coffee.”
“All right . . . all right. But I’m using my phone. I don’t want him freakin’ out from some odd phone number showing up on his mobile. Private, ye know.”
“For cripes’ sake. Get on with it, damn you.” Marcus felt as if there were steam coming out of his ears.
Jerry punched in a few numbers. “Yeah, it’s me. So I’m with the doc, and he wants to trade with diamonds.” Jerry pulled the phone away from his ear because of the yelling on the other end.
“’At’s what he said. Diamonds.” Jerry shrugged at Marcus and handed him the phone.
“What’s this? Diamonds?” The voice from the other end was cold but intrigued.
“Yes. I can get you the equivalent of what I owe you later this afternoon.” Marcus puffed up his chest, feeling a win coming on. A moment later, he handed the phone back to Jerry.
“Franny? Yeah? Well, all right.” Looking at Marcus, Jerry repeated what he had heard. “Five o’clock?”
Marcus nodded in agreement.
“Right you are.” He hit END and turned to Marcus. “I’ll be back at five.” Then he slouched out the door.
Marcus checked his watch again. Norma would be at her club for at least another hour. Depending on when the ladies started drinking, it could be much longer. Pressing the intercom button, he said softly but firmly to Gloria, “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“But, sir, you have two patients waiting.” She rolled her eyes at the nurse.
“Tell them I have an emergency. They can either wait or reschedule.” He grabbed his Stetson, raincoat, and umbrella and moved quickly out the back entrance.
Gloria looked over at the two women sitting in the sparse waiting area. “I’m terribly sorry, but Dr. Marcus had an emergency. He’ll be back in an hour, or you can reschedule.”
The women looked at each other. One got up and left; the other stayed to wait. Both were supposed to be new patients. Patients for the Live-Life-Long trials. Even if Marcus knew he was possibly walking away from another pool of money, his fix was of the utmost importance. There would always be another dupe in search of a miracle rejuvenation.