Odds On: A Novel

by Michael Crichton

  Bryan frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Any clue about what’s going on?”

  “No. I certainly didn’t do anything unusual, except for that one night. I shook the tail, but I did it naturally—nothing obvious.”

  “Law?”

  “I doubt it. I don’t know why, but he just didn’t strike me that way.”

  “Have to watch our step in any case,” Bryan said. “I’ll keep it in mind. Should I tell Miguel?”

  “No,” Jencks said. “I’d rather not.”

  Bryan shrugged. “Okay.” He got up to go, then said, “By the way, I’ve made contact with a member of the staff, as you suggested.”

  “Good.” That wasn’t in the program, but Jencks had mentioned it to Bryan in London. It would help if they had a clear idea of the staff routine. “Who is it?”

  “Assistant manager.”

  “What kind of fellow is he?”

  “It’s a she,” Bryan said, grinning. “The girl at the desk.”

  “Reddish hair?” Jencks’ eyebrows went up.

  “That’s right. She’s very nice, actually.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Jencks said.

  Bryan left, and Jencks was at last alone. He picked the charts and photographs from the bed, and carefully replaced them in his briefcase. Then he called down for room service and ordered his drink.

  The next few days would be busy. They would have to eliminate 20% of the rooms, hopefully more, and that added up to a great many casual acquaintances. But perhaps Bryan would get useful information from the girl—shortcuts would be invaluable. She might be able to save them all a great deal of work, eliminating the bad prospects among the guests.

  He got up, and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was black and moonless over the dark ocean. The stars were clear and very bright.

  They were on their way.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE EIGHTEENTH

  VALENCIA, SPAIN: THEY PASSED endless orchards of orange and lemon trees under a hot, cloudless sky. The Continental was running smoothly, its air-conditioning system maintaining the inside temperature at a cool 68.

  Jean-Paul felt good. He was making money again, easy money, and his hip flask was filled with Cutty Sark. Though he was smoking a cigarette, he allowed himself to whistle through his teeth.

  From the back seat, Miss Shaw looked up from her book, a second-hand copy of On The Beach which she had purchased in Rabat. She liked books in which everybody was killed off, she had confided in Jean-Paul. For that reason Fail-Safe had been unsatisfactory—only two cities had been destroyed in that one.

  “Jean-Paul,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Must you?”

  “If you wish, I will whistle ‘Waltzing Matilda,’ for the background.” As was his custom, Jean-Paul had not read the book, but he had seen the movie. He thought Ava Gardner was a piece of ass.

  “That will not be necessary,” Miss Shaw announced, readjusting her position on the back seat like a pillow fluffing itself out. “Just see that we don’t run over any chickens. And do take that dangling cigarette out of your mouth. It makes you look like a Frenchman.”

  “But I am a Frenchman.”

  “There,” she said. “You see?” And with that, she returned to her reading.

  The scenery glided by, monotonous in its uniformity. The land was hot and pale gray, bleached by the sun. It reminded him of parts of Greece around Nauplia. Greece was a good country, one of Jean-Paul’s favorites; he particularly liked one little house in Piraeus, where Madame Pappas dressed the girls in the most incredible costumes. And she selected her stock well—they were all fine girls, with good bodies and expert, if somewhat exotic, techniques.

  Actually, he thought, Miss Shaw looked something like Madame Pappas. Both of them were short, heavy, dumpy little toads of women. Both had bright eyes set in wrinkled faces, and both had acidly sharp tongues. Some people weren’t softened by age.

  He remembered the last time he had seen Madame Pappas. It was ’63 or ’64, in the spring, just after he had escaped from that dreadful business with the Countess Morelli and her lunatic husband. He had met the countess on Hydra, and she had taken a liking to him. She was a young girl, barely twenty-five, and strikingly beautiful. It was not his fault the count had come bursting in on them; she should have known he was coming back from Rome.

  And what an aftermath! Jean-Paul had spent three weeks running for his life with two ugly thugs hot after him. Brutal fellows, they had nearly caught him when he was hiding on Mykonos. And then in Corinth, one had actually grabbed hold of him, but Jean-Paul had kicked him rather hard where it mattered. Finally, tired and desperate, he had slipped into the Athens Hilton and caught the count by surprise. For half an hour he had explained the situation while holding a knife at the man’s throat.

  The count had listened to reason; his jealousy disappeared. People were so agreeable when they had a knife at their throats, Jean-Paul thought.

  He sighed.

  Traffic was light, and he was making good time. The speedometer needle stayed steady at 85 miles an hour. How fast was that? He tried converting it in his head—about 130 kilometers an hour, something like that. Well, that was one thing you had to say about Miss Shaw; she kept the car in fine condition and didn’t mind having it driven fast. Some of the older ones squealed like pigs if he went over 80 kilometers. That was terrible. Jean-Paul hated to move slowly.

  “Lunch in Barcelona,” he said. “A late lunch.”

  Miss Shaw gave an unlady-like grunt. “It is the custom of the local barbarians,” she said. “How late?”

  “Three.”

  “We will be very fashionable and very hungry. Do you want a banana?” She waved one at him. “No? As you will. I adore bananas. A natural food, if ever there was one. And of great historical importance. Look how many of our apish brethren enjoy them.” She munched on one with unconcealed relish.

  “Sometimes I think I’m atavistic,” she said. “Sure you won’t try one? I’m about to have another.”

  Jean-Paul smiled. She could eat as many as she wanted and still not make a dent in their supply. For piled up next to Miss Shaw, forming a heap almost as large as she was, was a vast load of bananas.

  But Jean-Paul’s smile was indulgent and understanding, not mocking. He was a man who believed that everyone ought to be allowed their idiosyncrasies and little vices.

  “By the by,” Miss Shaw said, “where is the stuff?”

  He nodded toward the glove compartment. “In there.”

  “Locked?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Are you quite certain you won’t have a banana?”

  “Please. I would like one very much.”

  “Good, good.” She peeled one rapidly and handed it to him. “Actually, I have great plans for that little package. I think it will be highly amusing, don’t you?”

  He had no idea what she was talking about. “Yes.”

  “Some of it is for my niece,” Miss Shaw explained. “You’ll like her.”

  Jean-Paul nodded politely.

  “Believe me,” Miss Shaw said. “You will.”

  HOTEL REINA, SPAIN: Peter watched Jenny with distaste. He was sitting on a deck chair, and she was several yards away by the side of the pool. She was quite obviously posing. It was working, that was the trouble—the other men were staring. Peter hated them. They could find women of their own. Didn’t they realize this one was taken?

  Taken. The word stuck in his mind, irritating him.

  Jenny stood and languidly walked over to him. She was rolling her hips, conscious of every movement and its effect. She dropped into a chair next to him.

  “Why don’t you cut it out?”

  “Cut what out?” Her voice was tired, lazy; her eyes closed to the sun.

  “You’ve been strutting like a beauty queen.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Peter.”

  “I’m not being ridiculous. And I’m not a fool. I saw you looking at that
man.”

  “What man? What are you talking about?”

  “The one in the corner, with the gray hair and the book he was reading until you showed up. The handsome one.”

  “I didn’t notice him,” Jenny said, sitting up. She squinted in the sun. “Where is he? Point him out.”

  “Oh, never mind.” He lit a cigarette angrily. “Just cut it out, will you?”

  She looked over at him, her face suddenly serious, no longer teasing him. “Peter,” she said, “I’ll do anything I want, any time I want.”

  He felt a pain in the pit of his stomach at her words. Her body was so magnificent: she was deeply tanned now, and had a tawny, athletic, lush look.

  “And you can do anything you want,” she added.

  Jenny watched the uncertainty form in his face, the half-conceived resolution. It quickly disappeared. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. Hopeless, she thought.

  She thought of the gray-haired man at the far end of the pool. He was handsome, all right, and well-built for his age—there was no flabbiness, no deterioration. He had the kind of clean, cruel good looks that appealed to her. His face was sharp, rather aristocratic, and she guessed he would be marvelous in bed. Perhaps she would meet him in the bar that night. If she did, events could damned well follow whatever course was natural. It was time Peter got the shock that was coming to him.

  She sighed again. There were messy scenes ahead, in the next few days. Their semi-official engagement would have to be broken; he would whimper endlessly.

  “Aren’t you going to talk to me?” Peter asked.

  She did not open her eyes. “I’m enjoying the sun. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Oh, the hell with it,” he said. She heard his chair scrape against the concrete; he was standing up. His shadow fell across her. She still did not open her eyes.

  “I’m going to get a drink,” he said.

  “It’s early.”

  “I need it.” He hesitated. “Are you coming?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “All right, then.”

  Bryan Stack, at the opposite end of the pool, watched the pimply-faced boy stomp off, leaving the girl alone. Almost immediately, she sat up and looked around, looked at him. Stack looked down at his book and lit a cigarette; he was not going to get involved in this.

  He knew, without even hearing the conversation, what was going on between them.

  The girl lay back on her deck chair and closed her eyes. He got up and went into the hotel. Time to go back to work.

  She was behind the desk, wearing a black, sleeveless jersey and a navy-blue skirt. Her head was bent as she filled out forms; her hair fell over her face.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She looked up. “Good morning. I’ve been thinking about your offer last night.”

  She hesitated, looking directly at him. He thought for a minute she was going to call it off, but she said, “How is four o’clock?”

  “I’ll have to consult my calendar,” he grinned, “but it sounds good. Where?”

  “That’s a bit of a problem. It’s bad form to be seen socially with the guests, so I’m afraid the bar or the pool is out.”

  “My room,” he suggested.

  She considered that, then nodded. “But do me one favor, would you? Order the drinks from room service before I arrive. The staff of this hotel is small, and gossip can be unpleasant.”

  “Of course,” he said, smiling inwardly at her Swiss discretion. “What are you having?”

  “Do you drink weak or strong?”

  “Strong, usually.”

  “Stronger than a vodka gimlet?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  “Good. Four o’clock, then.” She smiled, a gentle and slightly hopeful smile. He didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Four o’clock.”

  He returned to the pool. As he went out, he passed Jencks. The two men did not even glance at each other.

  Miguel awoke, and surveyed the morning sunlight benignly. It was too early for the light to reach into his room, but it splashed over the balcony. He looked up at the sky, confirmed his feeling that it would be a good day, and went to the bathroom to shave.

  It was 11:45 when he began to dress. In less than an hour, he would meet Cynthia, and they would consider possible activities for the rest of the day. He had a few suggestions, he thought, as he slipped into a pair of slacks, a sport shirt, and loafers. He was hungry, but it was too late for breakfast unless he had it sent up to the room. It didn’t matter; he would have an early lunch with Cynthia. Lunch before or after? He’d wait and see. He smiled at the prospect and lit a cigarette. His eyes no longer saw the women at the poolside below. His mind was elsewhere.

  Cynthia was on the balcony, sunbathing. She lay on her stomach on the bearskin rug which she always carried with her wherever she went. She enjoyed the feeling of the fur as she stretched on it, nude.

  Λ soft, warm breeze blew in from the sea, caressing her bare buttocks. She yawned and reached over for her watch to check the time. It was twelve. Soon that Miguel fellow would arrive. She considered dressing before he came, but decided not to.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” she called. She could not see the door, but she heard it click open. “Who is it?”

  “Miguel.”

  “You’re early.”

  “Couldn’t stay away. Where are you?”

  “Out on the terrace.”

  “Nice day, isn’t it?” Miguel said lightly, coming through the room.

  She heard him suck in his breath as he saw her. She glanced forward and saw his feet, then raised her head to look up at his face.

  “You’re amazing,” he said.

  She laughed. “Just in time. I need more suntan lotion. Would you take care of it?”

  He picked up the tube and sat down alongside her. His hands began to rub the lotion over her shoulders.

  “How was your dinner date?” she asked.

  “What? Fine, just fine.”

  “Good.” She rested her head on a forearm and looked out at the ocean, feeling his hands work down her back. His touch was firm, yet impersonal. He was trying hard. When he reached the base of her spine, he stopped, shifted his position, and began to rub her ankles, working up toward her knees. Her legs tensed as his hands reached her thighs. He paused once again.

  “All over?”

  “Ummmm,” she replied dreamily. His hands went to her bare buttocks, rubbing gently at first and then with increasing strength, until he was kneading them fiercely. She felt her loins grow warm.

  “That’s very nice,” she said. She wanted to savor this feeling, to make it last. “Why don’t you sunbathe, too?”

  “I didn’t bring a suit,” Miguel replied automatically, and then caught himself. He stood, and she heard him slipping out of his clothes. In a few moments, he was lying alongside her, his face looking into hers. His features were strained with desire.

  “In a little while,” she said. “Rub me again.”

  He reached over and ran his hand down her spine, from her neck to her hips. His fingers lingered there, caressing slowly. The warmth became heat.

  “I haven’t ordered lunch yet,” she said. “Should I do it now?”

  “No,” he whispered, “not now.”

  She rolled over on her back and silently handed him the tube of lotion. He raised himself and bent over her. His hands ran over her high cheekbones, her forehead, her chin. Down to her neck. Her heat was building fast now.

  Miguel looked into her face beneath him. The eyes were languid and her mouth was half open, showing her white teeth. Her long, glossy black hair streamed out, framing her face. Her breath came quickly, and he saw the muscles in her neck tense.

  He moved his hands down to her shoulders, running his fingers over her collarbone and down to her breasts.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said. The nipples grew firm against his palms. The lotion coa
ting her body glistened in the sun. He continued down to her stomach, massaging it gently, and slipped his hands inside her thighs. The skin was smooth as satin. He went to her pubis, cleanly shaven, smooth and soft. The touch excited him immensely.

  Cynthia groaned as his hand reached her very essence. It seemed to her that she was burning, that her fire had to be quenched. She pressed herself up against him.

  “I want you. I want you now.…”

  Exhausted, Miguel lay next to Cynthia. She was a wonder, he thought to himself, a genuine wonder. He also suspected that she was a nympho, but that didn’t matter to him. Nymphos had their place in this world, and Miguel always enjoyed them when he found them.

  They had made love three times in as many hours—and they had managed to have lunch sometime during that period. At lunch, he had questioned her obliquely but thoroughly, and had decided that her room was worth a check. But he had been a little disturbed by the fact that she had questioned him as well. Questions always made him uncomfortable; they required lies on his part, and lies were tricky. You could never tell when you would be confronted with a lie which you had forgotten. Miguel preferred to lie as seldom as possible, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.

  She was a funny girl, he thought, looking around the room. It was bare, uncluttered by the usual lotions, curlers, and bottles of female paraphernalia. And there was that Polaroid. It lay on the dresser, next to the developed photograph of the interior of her room. He had asked about it, and she had said she always took pictures of rooms she stayed in. She said she traveled a great deal. Actually, he didn’t buy that—but he could imagine the sort of pictures she did take with the Polaroid. That was the nice thing about it; you didn’t have to send the pictures out to be developed.

  Funny girl.

  She was sleeping soundly, her breasts rising and falling gently. Her legs, just a short time before so strong and grasping, now lay relaxed on the bed. He was tired too, he realized. He rolled over on his stomach and in a few moments was fast asleep.

  Jencks turned to face the man with the thinning white hair and the neatly clipped moustache. He wore a white linen suit and a Balliol tie. He was an old man, sitting straight as a ramrod next to a wrinkled old wife.