Roskov book 17, p.24
Roskov, Book 17, page 24
‘For what?’
‘For not disappointing me, and for making me happy in my final choice.’
‘Did you … know I would be here?’
‘Your visit to New York was advertised far and wide, and Jenny Patrick’s uncle is an old friend, so I may have played him for some information. And I know the manager here very well.’
‘That’s OK, but I often wish my movements were more secure; people shoot at me.’
‘When people shoot at you … you know you’re doing good work.’
I smiled. ‘An odd skew on it.’
Off he walked, and I stared after him with a sad expression on my face.
‘Cut!’
They had a look as I had a coffee with the crew, and we had nailed it in one.
Upstairs, and I sat behind the big screen to watch the final scene first, the death scene. Kudulov is in a robe, he downs a fine wine after reading the label and nodding, eats a chocolate from an ornate box, and he sits on the bed.
Small vial opened, he stares at it then downs it all in one, a large sip of wine afterwards, and he gets into bed, a hand run over the white sheets.
Laying back, he seems to be having a mild heart attack. Turning his head, his mother is laying there in her blue and white striped death camp clothing, her face gaunt and dirty.
He reaches for her, they hold hands, he smiles, and then he dies. I was not sure about what the audience might think, but I was close to tears and in need of a beer.
Up in my room, and after that beer, Jenny arrived. ‘You OK?’ she puzzled.
‘I … just watched the Kudulov death scene, and … it’s a bit close to home. I … just wish I could have done something for him.’
‘You rescued his grandson and his granddaughter, and gave him hope that his money would be well spent. That was what he wanted, and you’ve been doing what he wanted.’
‘Do you know a restaurant high up, a good view?’
‘There is one, but we’d have to just turn up and see if they have a table.’
I grabbed my jacket. ‘Come on then, let’s go see if my credit is any good.’
With the two security men in tow, a van called for, we drove a short distance to a hotel, and we took the lift up, the other guests in the lift shocked to see us.
At the maître d’, I asked, ‘Can you squeeze us in? Table for my security men as well if you can.’
‘For you, sir, yes.’ He beckoned a waiter, and that man led us to a table for two at the window, the other guests clocking us but leaving us alone; this was a select group.
Sat, I had a view of the twinkling lights from thirty floors up, a view of Central Park and then the Twin Towers in the distance. ‘Nice view.’
‘I came here once, I had a date.’
‘And…’
‘Well, he was a rich Jewish financier, good father material for our kids, which he even discussed at dinner.’
‘Ah, the nest builder type. And how is your mother?’
‘She’s a bit loopy, more so since you healed me, and Dad is back into religion. When you found The Ark they were glued to the TV screen and traumatised for a week.’
‘I kind of knew where it was.’
‘I figured that.’
They handed us posh menus. Lifting my face to the waiter without checking the menu, I told him, ‘Steak, well done, potatoes and some greens, the steak cut into strips, and a cold beer delivered in less than a minute.’
He nodded.
‘Chicken salad,’ Jenny told him, the menus handed back. ‘House white wine, not too chilled.’
The waiter smiled politely, bowed his head and withdrew, and the beer was quick.
I sipped it, and stared out at the lights. ‘It must have been hard for him, to have so much money and to know that he would die anyway.’
She noted, ‘There are plenty of rich men here that want to extend their lives, but you can’t cheat death.’
‘I did, ten times over, so they need to adjust that saying. You can’t cheat death … unless reincarnated a few times. But it comes at a high price, you remember your past lives and … those that you cared about and lost.
‘I think … that being immortal would be hard to deal with, emotionally, to see all the people you know grow old and die but you go on.
‘And you, you’d be fed up after dating a hundred Jewish financiers…’
She shot me a look. ‘That would be my idea of hell.’
‘So you plan on dating a few bad boys then,’ I posed before I sipped my beer.
‘That sounds way better than the alternative, trust me.’
‘For me … the idea of a stable family life sounds good, but I’ll never have that. If I start a family with the twins I’ll be killed and then come back later, my kids all grown up, and … that’s hard to deal with. It makes me angry sometimes.’
‘So it should, yes, you don’t get to raise your own kids. Will you … have kids with the twins?’
‘That’s the plan, if I live that long. The plan is … a house full of screaming girls running around as I try and find some peace to do some work.’
‘My friend has two daughters, five and six, and I would not wish them on my worst enemy.’
I smiled. ‘It’s a loud house, eh.’
‘They scream in my ear and then wonder what’s wrong; why is Aunty Jenny covering her ears in pain and reaching for the wine.’
‘How’s that nurse?’
‘She comes around once a week and she brings take-away, and we pig-out and chat, mostly about you and what you’re up to. And you’re never out the damn news.
‘But I know a few friends-of-friends that are worried, they link to Tigenheart, so I guess that they have some offshore money tucked away. Already a few suicides here, and a few investment bankers have fled to non-extradition countries.’
I glanced out at the city’s twinkling lights. ‘I hope it does some good, a light to shine on the corruption and scandal, the hidden money and the murders.’ I sighed out and forced a quick weak smile. ‘It may do some good.’
‘It will,’ she assured me. ‘Tigenheart knew all the dirty secrets, he could put a hundred men in prison.’
The food was served, faster than I would have believed, and the steak was great.
The manager walked over as we finished. ‘Everything OK, sir?’
‘Great steak, and yes – you can photograph us and release it, copyright free.’
‘I would not have imposed, sir.’
‘Impose away.’
He fetched a good digital camera and took several snaps with flash.
I stood, the guests now looking my way. I loudly began, ‘I know it’s not the done thing, but I’m British and don’t care, so those that want to join the group photo … please come join us.’
Most everyone in the restaurant lined up and smiled for the photos, Jenny and myself at the front, and copies would be available from the restaurant.
Leading Jenny to the bar, we stood chatting with guests to a backdrop of the city lights, a few of the rich guests in here having friends that were now “worried”.
Jenny had to be up early, so we informed people that she was filming in the morning and we said our goodbyes, and the bill had been cancelled by the manager.
Jenny got a cab with one of my security men, I got a second, and I headed back to the hotel.
Out the taxi, I felt the tingle, and I peered through the glass into the reception area. ‘Those four men look odd,’ I hissed at my security guy. ‘Get ready.’
He checked the street as we walked inside, a hand inside his jacket already, and we walked towards the elevators, but we only made it a few steps.
I side-kicked swiftly, the man’s chest crunched before he flew backwards, my left punch impacting a second man’s chin as a pistol was seen. Two loud shots behind me, another two, screams rising up, and two men had been shot dead – but not the two men I had hit or kicked.
Spinning around, I checked the reception area, myself and my security guy the only ones standing, everyone else down on the floor.
Beckoning my security guy, I led him to reception, heads popping up. ‘Call the police, and the FBI. Do that now! I’m going up to my room for safety.’
In the elevator, the doors closed on the melee, my security man re-loaded his pistol. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.
‘Trust me, I do this every fucking week - I check the eyes and the body language, and I can now tell the difference between autograph hunters and a deadly assassin.’
At my room my security guy diligently checked it, even under the bed, and he finally stood at the door, the door open, pistol held down. I called my own hotel in Corsica, getting the night staff.
‘It’s Roskov, and some men tried to shoot me in New York. Tell everyone that I’m OK.’
Next call was David Hutton, waking him. ‘It’s me, and I’m alive, but there was an attempt on me here at the hotel in New York. Let everyone in the office know that I’m not dead yet.’
‘Can you just have a quiet week for a change!’
‘I try, I really do.’ I cut the call and called Ross Daniels. ‘It’s me, shootout at my hotel, get me some extra security men.’
‘The two men were hit?’
‘No, one shot the bad guys and is with me, one I sent to look after Jenny Patrick, but get a few more. And turn on the local TV news.’
‘Can you just have a quiet week!’
‘You’d be surprised how many people suggest that.’
Five minutes later and two police officers came up, a chat to my security man, and they positioned themselves outside the door. I called room service and asked for a large pot of coffee and several cups.
When that coffee arrived I now had four police officers, two in the room and two outside, coffee handed over before two detectives turned up. They got coffee as well as they asked questions and took notes, but it had all happened quickly.
My second security man was escorted up, I vouched for him, and he needed a coffee as well.
‘Jenny OK?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah, home safe.’
‘She can sleep, she has early filming, and I don’t want to stress her.’
A detective took a call, and then faced me. ‘We can link those men to a banker here that took his own life, so this is about Tigenheart. And one of the men links to Antigua.’
The FBI arrived ten minutes later, more coffee handed over, and they reported that the lights were on in the White House, voices being raised since I should have had an FBI detail with me. Someone in the FBI was going to get his arse kicked.
That someone called me via his local men, a mobile phone handed over. ‘Roskov?’
‘Yes.’
‘Deputy Director, FBI, and … we apologise for the incident, you should have had better security considering the Tigenheart fall-out.’
‘Not your fault, and I don’t blame anyone. And trust me, I’m getting used to it.’
‘You’ll have an FBI escort from now on. How long are you here?’
‘A few days filming here, then Los Angeles and a chat show.’
‘You’ll have that escort.’
‘Two of the men that came after me tonight are still alive, so grill them.’
‘They’re in hospital, handcuffed, so yeah – they’ll get the grilling, and the offer of an electric chair.’
‘My security guy is not in any trouble?’
‘No, the men pulled weapons first, we have plenty of witnesses, and there’ll be CCTV footage.’
‘So tell me, did the President really get a copy of my new massage video?’ I could hear the laughter before the call was cut.
And in the room the detectives had heard me and were laughing as well. My security guy handed over his pistol to the police, and he was soon heading “down town” to make a statement.
Two additional private security men turned up half an hour later, but the police would have men outside as well. With one of my original security men inside, and on the sofa with a cup of coffee, I closed and locked the door.
TV turned on, and I found the local news, police cars seen outside this hotel, about fifty of them, FBI agents seen in blue and yellow jackets.
Bonza called, he had been alerted by the night staff at the hotel, a quick chat just to check that I was alive. He would go back to bed. But before he ended the call I heard a girl’s voice.
‘Dirty bugger, he has a girl in with him,’ I muttered.
I finally eased into bed after my security man stepped outside, and I locked the door behind him, wondering if I would get any sleep.
But as I lay there, in crisp white sheets, it was Kudulov that occupied my thoughts, my morbid thoughts. ‘What would I do on my last day alive?’
Laying there, the idea of a nice hotel room appealed to me; it would not be a bad way to spend my last day. But my first choice would be a suite in Barbados with Claudia and Olesya in the next room, the twins in with me, Miss Penthouse in a third room.
New York in the rain
I woke to find that I was still alive, and that I needed a pee. After that pee, and a hot shower, I sat and enjoyed a hot cup of tea, the time now 7.30am, but it was grey and raining outside.
When my phone went it was Jenny. ‘Can you stay out of trouble! I have to film today, arsehole!’ She cut the call.
Phone down, I sipped my tea. ‘I get shot at, and she’s mad at me?’ I shook my head. ‘Women!’
TV turned on, and I was all over the mainstream news. ‘Well we should sell a few more videos at least.’ But then they ran a story about Congressman Terry Wilderman, shot and wounded by his wife, the daughter taken into care by the police, the daughter now admitting the abuse.
Rolf called. ‘You are still alive?’
‘Of course. You still in Antigua?’
‘We fly tomorrow.’
‘Have the twins seen the news?’
‘Not yet, I will explain it later.’
‘I knew the men were waiting for me, no big deal, and we shot them.’
‘Only to you it is no big deal.’
‘Anyhow, we’ll sell more videos in America now. Relax, get some sun.’
‘I have too much sun, I am sunburnt. Last night I was shivering in bed.’
‘A sure sign of sunburn, yes. Oh, Jenny says hello, she’s well, and we had a meal in a nice restaurant last night, thirty floors up, a view of the city.’
‘That sounds nice, I like a restaurant up a tall tower.’
‘What did you do yesterday?’ I asked.
‘We took more photos, around the hotel and on the beach, then we just sat around the pool.’
‘I shot my scenes for the Kudulov movie, might be done here, but they need to check the footage and the sound. I’ll fly to Los Angeles soon.’
‘Global video sales are fantastic, now selling well in Asia as well.’
The next person to call me was Tony Blair. ‘Why are people telling me that I should be annoyed at your massage video, and that I’m in it?’
‘There’s a Vote Labour flag with your face on it featured in the video, a plug for you, no need to thank me.’
‘So why are people telling me that I should be annoyed?’
‘Because … maybe … I put the flag in the model’s arse and then unfurl it.’
‘You put a Vote Labour flag … in a model’s arse, and people all over the world will see it?’
‘Sounds good to me, free publicity. And it’s only in the outtakes at the end, which most people don’t watch, we took it out of the main video. Watch the video and then see.’
‘I won’t be watching the damn video, I’m married with kids!’
‘It’s nothing to worry about, trust me, some free publicity for you.’
‘Just that people tell me I should be worried about it…’
‘Only that you may be the butt … of a few jokes, oh great leader, but there’s no need to be an arse about it, or to pooh-pooh the idea.’
‘You practised that, didn’t you, three bum jokes in one sentence.’
I smiled widely. ‘Made it up on the spot. If I had practised it there would have been more bum jokes in there. Relax, I have to go, people shooting at me.’ I cut the call.
I called Trish, and she would try and get me on a local New York chat show, the one with the ladies testing my video and my massage technique.
My two security men came in, they had slept in the hotel last night but still appeared tired, so I made them coffee, and we discussed the incident.
Burt arrived half an hour later, shocked at the incident, but at least we had no re-shoots to do. He would check the footage again and let me know; I was not released yet. And since I would get getting a cool million dollars for my minor role I could tolerate waiting around.
Trish called back, and I could shoot at 2pm here in New York, but it would be live. The rate was a hundred thousand dollars only, but that was better than a kick in the teeth, and we were not in breach with the other chat show’s rules and stipulations.
At 1.20pm I arrived at the studios in my trademark suit, and with a large FBI escort, make-up done after a cup of coffee and a chat to the staff and the lady hosts, all overweight and middle-aged. And close-up, their faces before make-up made them look like they were all sixty years old.
Finally ready, the show started as I stood off-camera, the five-panel ladies did their topical chat, then I was welcomed on to a loud applause from the all-lady audience.
I sat, smiled politely, and they welcomed me but also salivated over me, a little off-putting.
‘First off, Ricky, you were involved a shooting last night…’
‘I had dinner in a nice restaurant with Jenny Patrick, and I had one of my security men see that she got home safe. That left one security guy with me, and when we arrived back at the hotel the four men were stood waiting just inside the lobby, and looking suspicious.
‘They only had eyes for me, hands seen going into jackets, and I alerted my security guy as we stepped inside. The first attacker, the closest one, I got with a Kung-Fu kick to the chest that sent him backwards, and the second man I got with a punch to the chin as my security guy drew his pistol.
‘The final two attackers had already drawn their guns as my guy shot them dead. The two men that I hit are now in police custody, and will stand trial, and they link somehow to a Wall Street banker that took a dive off a tall tower last week.’
‘For not disappointing me, and for making me happy in my final choice.’
‘Did you … know I would be here?’
‘Your visit to New York was advertised far and wide, and Jenny Patrick’s uncle is an old friend, so I may have played him for some information. And I know the manager here very well.’
‘That’s OK, but I often wish my movements were more secure; people shoot at me.’
‘When people shoot at you … you know you’re doing good work.’
I smiled. ‘An odd skew on it.’
Off he walked, and I stared after him with a sad expression on my face.
‘Cut!’
They had a look as I had a coffee with the crew, and we had nailed it in one.
Upstairs, and I sat behind the big screen to watch the final scene first, the death scene. Kudulov is in a robe, he downs a fine wine after reading the label and nodding, eats a chocolate from an ornate box, and he sits on the bed.
Small vial opened, he stares at it then downs it all in one, a large sip of wine afterwards, and he gets into bed, a hand run over the white sheets.
Laying back, he seems to be having a mild heart attack. Turning his head, his mother is laying there in her blue and white striped death camp clothing, her face gaunt and dirty.
He reaches for her, they hold hands, he smiles, and then he dies. I was not sure about what the audience might think, but I was close to tears and in need of a beer.
Up in my room, and after that beer, Jenny arrived. ‘You OK?’ she puzzled.
‘I … just watched the Kudulov death scene, and … it’s a bit close to home. I … just wish I could have done something for him.’
‘You rescued his grandson and his granddaughter, and gave him hope that his money would be well spent. That was what he wanted, and you’ve been doing what he wanted.’
‘Do you know a restaurant high up, a good view?’
‘There is one, but we’d have to just turn up and see if they have a table.’
I grabbed my jacket. ‘Come on then, let’s go see if my credit is any good.’
With the two security men in tow, a van called for, we drove a short distance to a hotel, and we took the lift up, the other guests in the lift shocked to see us.
At the maître d’, I asked, ‘Can you squeeze us in? Table for my security men as well if you can.’
‘For you, sir, yes.’ He beckoned a waiter, and that man led us to a table for two at the window, the other guests clocking us but leaving us alone; this was a select group.
Sat, I had a view of the twinkling lights from thirty floors up, a view of Central Park and then the Twin Towers in the distance. ‘Nice view.’
‘I came here once, I had a date.’
‘And…’
‘Well, he was a rich Jewish financier, good father material for our kids, which he even discussed at dinner.’
‘Ah, the nest builder type. And how is your mother?’
‘She’s a bit loopy, more so since you healed me, and Dad is back into religion. When you found The Ark they were glued to the TV screen and traumatised for a week.’
‘I kind of knew where it was.’
‘I figured that.’
They handed us posh menus. Lifting my face to the waiter without checking the menu, I told him, ‘Steak, well done, potatoes and some greens, the steak cut into strips, and a cold beer delivered in less than a minute.’
He nodded.
‘Chicken salad,’ Jenny told him, the menus handed back. ‘House white wine, not too chilled.’
The waiter smiled politely, bowed his head and withdrew, and the beer was quick.
I sipped it, and stared out at the lights. ‘It must have been hard for him, to have so much money and to know that he would die anyway.’
She noted, ‘There are plenty of rich men here that want to extend their lives, but you can’t cheat death.’
‘I did, ten times over, so they need to adjust that saying. You can’t cheat death … unless reincarnated a few times. But it comes at a high price, you remember your past lives and … those that you cared about and lost.
‘I think … that being immortal would be hard to deal with, emotionally, to see all the people you know grow old and die but you go on.
‘And you, you’d be fed up after dating a hundred Jewish financiers…’
She shot me a look. ‘That would be my idea of hell.’
‘So you plan on dating a few bad boys then,’ I posed before I sipped my beer.
‘That sounds way better than the alternative, trust me.’
‘For me … the idea of a stable family life sounds good, but I’ll never have that. If I start a family with the twins I’ll be killed and then come back later, my kids all grown up, and … that’s hard to deal with. It makes me angry sometimes.’
‘So it should, yes, you don’t get to raise your own kids. Will you … have kids with the twins?’
‘That’s the plan, if I live that long. The plan is … a house full of screaming girls running around as I try and find some peace to do some work.’
‘My friend has two daughters, five and six, and I would not wish them on my worst enemy.’
I smiled. ‘It’s a loud house, eh.’
‘They scream in my ear and then wonder what’s wrong; why is Aunty Jenny covering her ears in pain and reaching for the wine.’
‘How’s that nurse?’
‘She comes around once a week and she brings take-away, and we pig-out and chat, mostly about you and what you’re up to. And you’re never out the damn news.
‘But I know a few friends-of-friends that are worried, they link to Tigenheart, so I guess that they have some offshore money tucked away. Already a few suicides here, and a few investment bankers have fled to non-extradition countries.’
I glanced out at the city’s twinkling lights. ‘I hope it does some good, a light to shine on the corruption and scandal, the hidden money and the murders.’ I sighed out and forced a quick weak smile. ‘It may do some good.’
‘It will,’ she assured me. ‘Tigenheart knew all the dirty secrets, he could put a hundred men in prison.’
The food was served, faster than I would have believed, and the steak was great.
The manager walked over as we finished. ‘Everything OK, sir?’
‘Great steak, and yes – you can photograph us and release it, copyright free.’
‘I would not have imposed, sir.’
‘Impose away.’
He fetched a good digital camera and took several snaps with flash.
I stood, the guests now looking my way. I loudly began, ‘I know it’s not the done thing, but I’m British and don’t care, so those that want to join the group photo … please come join us.’
Most everyone in the restaurant lined up and smiled for the photos, Jenny and myself at the front, and copies would be available from the restaurant.
Leading Jenny to the bar, we stood chatting with guests to a backdrop of the city lights, a few of the rich guests in here having friends that were now “worried”.
Jenny had to be up early, so we informed people that she was filming in the morning and we said our goodbyes, and the bill had been cancelled by the manager.
Jenny got a cab with one of my security men, I got a second, and I headed back to the hotel.
Out the taxi, I felt the tingle, and I peered through the glass into the reception area. ‘Those four men look odd,’ I hissed at my security guy. ‘Get ready.’
He checked the street as we walked inside, a hand inside his jacket already, and we walked towards the elevators, but we only made it a few steps.
I side-kicked swiftly, the man’s chest crunched before he flew backwards, my left punch impacting a second man’s chin as a pistol was seen. Two loud shots behind me, another two, screams rising up, and two men had been shot dead – but not the two men I had hit or kicked.
Spinning around, I checked the reception area, myself and my security guy the only ones standing, everyone else down on the floor.
Beckoning my security guy, I led him to reception, heads popping up. ‘Call the police, and the FBI. Do that now! I’m going up to my room for safety.’
In the elevator, the doors closed on the melee, my security man re-loaded his pistol. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.
‘Trust me, I do this every fucking week - I check the eyes and the body language, and I can now tell the difference between autograph hunters and a deadly assassin.’
At my room my security guy diligently checked it, even under the bed, and he finally stood at the door, the door open, pistol held down. I called my own hotel in Corsica, getting the night staff.
‘It’s Roskov, and some men tried to shoot me in New York. Tell everyone that I’m OK.’
Next call was David Hutton, waking him. ‘It’s me, and I’m alive, but there was an attempt on me here at the hotel in New York. Let everyone in the office know that I’m not dead yet.’
‘Can you just have a quiet week for a change!’
‘I try, I really do.’ I cut the call and called Ross Daniels. ‘It’s me, shootout at my hotel, get me some extra security men.’
‘The two men were hit?’
‘No, one shot the bad guys and is with me, one I sent to look after Jenny Patrick, but get a few more. And turn on the local TV news.’
‘Can you just have a quiet week!’
‘You’d be surprised how many people suggest that.’
Five minutes later and two police officers came up, a chat to my security man, and they positioned themselves outside the door. I called room service and asked for a large pot of coffee and several cups.
When that coffee arrived I now had four police officers, two in the room and two outside, coffee handed over before two detectives turned up. They got coffee as well as they asked questions and took notes, but it had all happened quickly.
My second security man was escorted up, I vouched for him, and he needed a coffee as well.
‘Jenny OK?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah, home safe.’
‘She can sleep, she has early filming, and I don’t want to stress her.’
A detective took a call, and then faced me. ‘We can link those men to a banker here that took his own life, so this is about Tigenheart. And one of the men links to Antigua.’
The FBI arrived ten minutes later, more coffee handed over, and they reported that the lights were on in the White House, voices being raised since I should have had an FBI detail with me. Someone in the FBI was going to get his arse kicked.
That someone called me via his local men, a mobile phone handed over. ‘Roskov?’
‘Yes.’
‘Deputy Director, FBI, and … we apologise for the incident, you should have had better security considering the Tigenheart fall-out.’
‘Not your fault, and I don’t blame anyone. And trust me, I’m getting used to it.’
‘You’ll have an FBI escort from now on. How long are you here?’
‘A few days filming here, then Los Angeles and a chat show.’
‘You’ll have that escort.’
‘Two of the men that came after me tonight are still alive, so grill them.’
‘They’re in hospital, handcuffed, so yeah – they’ll get the grilling, and the offer of an electric chair.’
‘My security guy is not in any trouble?’
‘No, the men pulled weapons first, we have plenty of witnesses, and there’ll be CCTV footage.’
‘So tell me, did the President really get a copy of my new massage video?’ I could hear the laughter before the call was cut.
And in the room the detectives had heard me and were laughing as well. My security guy handed over his pistol to the police, and he was soon heading “down town” to make a statement.
Two additional private security men turned up half an hour later, but the police would have men outside as well. With one of my original security men inside, and on the sofa with a cup of coffee, I closed and locked the door.
TV turned on, and I found the local news, police cars seen outside this hotel, about fifty of them, FBI agents seen in blue and yellow jackets.
Bonza called, he had been alerted by the night staff at the hotel, a quick chat just to check that I was alive. He would go back to bed. But before he ended the call I heard a girl’s voice.
‘Dirty bugger, he has a girl in with him,’ I muttered.
I finally eased into bed after my security man stepped outside, and I locked the door behind him, wondering if I would get any sleep.
But as I lay there, in crisp white sheets, it was Kudulov that occupied my thoughts, my morbid thoughts. ‘What would I do on my last day alive?’
Laying there, the idea of a nice hotel room appealed to me; it would not be a bad way to spend my last day. But my first choice would be a suite in Barbados with Claudia and Olesya in the next room, the twins in with me, Miss Penthouse in a third room.
New York in the rain
I woke to find that I was still alive, and that I needed a pee. After that pee, and a hot shower, I sat and enjoyed a hot cup of tea, the time now 7.30am, but it was grey and raining outside.
When my phone went it was Jenny. ‘Can you stay out of trouble! I have to film today, arsehole!’ She cut the call.
Phone down, I sipped my tea. ‘I get shot at, and she’s mad at me?’ I shook my head. ‘Women!’
TV turned on, and I was all over the mainstream news. ‘Well we should sell a few more videos at least.’ But then they ran a story about Congressman Terry Wilderman, shot and wounded by his wife, the daughter taken into care by the police, the daughter now admitting the abuse.
Rolf called. ‘You are still alive?’
‘Of course. You still in Antigua?’
‘We fly tomorrow.’
‘Have the twins seen the news?’
‘Not yet, I will explain it later.’
‘I knew the men were waiting for me, no big deal, and we shot them.’
‘Only to you it is no big deal.’
‘Anyhow, we’ll sell more videos in America now. Relax, get some sun.’
‘I have too much sun, I am sunburnt. Last night I was shivering in bed.’
‘A sure sign of sunburn, yes. Oh, Jenny says hello, she’s well, and we had a meal in a nice restaurant last night, thirty floors up, a view of the city.’
‘That sounds nice, I like a restaurant up a tall tower.’
‘What did you do yesterday?’ I asked.
‘We took more photos, around the hotel and on the beach, then we just sat around the pool.’
‘I shot my scenes for the Kudulov movie, might be done here, but they need to check the footage and the sound. I’ll fly to Los Angeles soon.’
‘Global video sales are fantastic, now selling well in Asia as well.’
The next person to call me was Tony Blair. ‘Why are people telling me that I should be annoyed at your massage video, and that I’m in it?’
‘There’s a Vote Labour flag with your face on it featured in the video, a plug for you, no need to thank me.’
‘So why are people telling me that I should be annoyed?’
‘Because … maybe … I put the flag in the model’s arse and then unfurl it.’
‘You put a Vote Labour flag … in a model’s arse, and people all over the world will see it?’
‘Sounds good to me, free publicity. And it’s only in the outtakes at the end, which most people don’t watch, we took it out of the main video. Watch the video and then see.’
‘I won’t be watching the damn video, I’m married with kids!’
‘It’s nothing to worry about, trust me, some free publicity for you.’
‘Just that people tell me I should be worried about it…’
‘Only that you may be the butt … of a few jokes, oh great leader, but there’s no need to be an arse about it, or to pooh-pooh the idea.’
‘You practised that, didn’t you, three bum jokes in one sentence.’
I smiled widely. ‘Made it up on the spot. If I had practised it there would have been more bum jokes in there. Relax, I have to go, people shooting at me.’ I cut the call.
I called Trish, and she would try and get me on a local New York chat show, the one with the ladies testing my video and my massage technique.
My two security men came in, they had slept in the hotel last night but still appeared tired, so I made them coffee, and we discussed the incident.
Burt arrived half an hour later, shocked at the incident, but at least we had no re-shoots to do. He would check the footage again and let me know; I was not released yet. And since I would get getting a cool million dollars for my minor role I could tolerate waiting around.
Trish called back, and I could shoot at 2pm here in New York, but it would be live. The rate was a hundred thousand dollars only, but that was better than a kick in the teeth, and we were not in breach with the other chat show’s rules and stipulations.
At 1.20pm I arrived at the studios in my trademark suit, and with a large FBI escort, make-up done after a cup of coffee and a chat to the staff and the lady hosts, all overweight and middle-aged. And close-up, their faces before make-up made them look like they were all sixty years old.
Finally ready, the show started as I stood off-camera, the five-panel ladies did their topical chat, then I was welcomed on to a loud applause from the all-lady audience.
I sat, smiled politely, and they welcomed me but also salivated over me, a little off-putting.
‘First off, Ricky, you were involved a shooting last night…’
‘I had dinner in a nice restaurant with Jenny Patrick, and I had one of my security men see that she got home safe. That left one security guy with me, and when we arrived back at the hotel the four men were stood waiting just inside the lobby, and looking suspicious.
‘They only had eyes for me, hands seen going into jackets, and I alerted my security guy as we stepped inside. The first attacker, the closest one, I got with a Kung-Fu kick to the chest that sent him backwards, and the second man I got with a punch to the chin as my security guy drew his pistol.
‘The final two attackers had already drawn their guns as my guy shot them dead. The two men that I hit are now in police custody, and will stand trial, and they link somehow to a Wall Street banker that took a dive off a tall tower last week.’
