All that’s left to do is to shift his body beside the dumpster, into the pile of trash bags. I can’t rush, even though at this point every moment puts me at risk of being caught a murderer. I hold his mouth shut until he’s completely limp, then dump him among the garbage.
Just another piece of trash.
The knife’s no use to me now. I can never use it again, because it’d tie me to this killing, so I leave it in him. I look down and see that the blood spurt stained my grey overcoat, and that’s what I’d expected.
Two grand down the drain.
I slip the coat off me, casually, as if it was just getting too warm for it, and I carry on down the alleyway. I wrap the coat up with my gloves and dispose of both a few blocks down the road in a Salvation Army donation bin.
They’ll probably wash the evidence clean and sell it to someone in no time.
But I’m done now. Another cold kill finished.
I need a drink and a woman.
1
Katy
I can't bring myself to listen to another word the guy sitting next to me is saying, and I have to restrain every muscle to hold back the impulse to throw my drink in his face.
We're sitting in the VIP lounge of my own club, and not even the lavish orange tapestries my father decorated the round room with can distract me from the yuppies seated around me. They're a bunch of businessmen, and they rented the suite for the evening, so it's my duty as the Amber Room's owner to stop in for a chat.
Of course, that was before I realized these sleazebags are trying to buy the place out.
I know I don't look like the most intimidating person in the world.
My one-piece dress hugs my frame, sleek and black in the lounge's pale light, and my rich brown hair spills down over my shoulder in curls. The pearls wrapped around my wrist slide down my arm as I twirl my hair around my fingers.
At this point, that's all I can do to contain my agitation.
My dress feels hot, and the small room feels even smaller than it is with these creeps crowding it.
"So," the guy leaning uncomfortably close to me drones on, "if you consider the property values' change over the past few years, Ms. Foss — can I call you Katy? — there's a clear downward trend for establishments like this one, possibly thanks to mob activity."
"Uh-huh," I mutter dismissively, standing up and attempting to excuse myself silently.
"So there really isn't a better time to sell while you still can, and if you would just take a look at our offer—”
I'm already halfway to the door.
"Of course, gentlemen," I wave my hand, resisting the urge to refer to them as 'stooges,' "leave the paperwork on the table. I'll have a few drinks brought your way, hm? Do enjoy the evening, and don't be a stranger to the dance floor, won't you?"
I hear a couple of them trying to get a word in edgewise, but I'm already out the door and heading down the short hallway to the club floor, to my relief.
The nerve of them.
Ever since I inherited this night club from my father, it's been more and more trouble. I'd had to learn the ropes of managing the place to keep it from going under in the first few months.
Between staffing and accounting, it's a wonder I even have the time to entertain patrons like the suits in the VIP room behind me.
I certainly haven't had the time to redecorate the place.
The Amber Room. Dad had been going for a nod to all the local Russians, I guess. He once showed me a picture of some Tsar’s famous palace in St. Petersburg that had an amber look about it. I push the door to the crowded dance floor open and get a reminder of his artistic vision yet again.
The place looks like a furnace.
Marigold-colored tapestries hang from the walls of the rectangular room, and the floodlights along the walls cast an amber light across the dance floor. Tawny booths line the side walls, and two couches stand on the elevated platform I step out onto.
The bar is at the far end of the room, near the exit. Between me and the stiff drink I desperately need, there's a sea of patrons dancing to the thrumming music the DJ is playing.
I plunge into the crowd without a seconds thought and navigate the floor with ease.
There are eyes on me as I make my way to the bar, I can feel them. They don't last long, though. I have an air of authority to the way I walk. I made sure to learn that walk early on.
It was the only way to not get swept up in the noise of the crowd. I don't get lost in it, I keep above it.
But the baggage of this place gets heavy.
I reach the bar and get the bartender's attention, holding up two fingers. She nods and promptly starts to pour my Jameson. It's a little quieter here, thanks to the room's acoustics.
Natalie, the bartender, knows what the look on my face means: a drink, right now.
"Everything alright, boss?" she chimes, sliding the drink over to me, happy for the break from the regular patrons.