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“Okay.”
The car pulled away as the door closed and Johnny landed on a seat facing Micky and the girl. There was an ice bucket in the middle of the floor, two uncorked bottles of champagne inside. Next to that, a mirror with half a dozen lines of coke. Johnny noticed white powder on Micky’s upper lip.
“Johnny … meet Katia, my girlfriend. Katia, this is Johnny, a good friend of mine.”
The girl looked at him seriously, didn’t move a muscle. She had jet black hair cut in a severe bob with a high, straight fringe, huge dark eyes and amazing cheekbones. She was dressed entirely in black except for what looked like a miniature sword about an inch long on a pink ribbon at her incredibly pale throat.
“I know you don’t drink, Johnny, but do you …?” He nodded toward the cocaine.
“Er … no, thanks, Micky.”
“How dull,” Katia said. Her English was almost perfect with only the merest hint of an accent Johnny couldn’t quite place.
“Each to his own,” Micky said matter-of-factly. “Katia is a brilliant guitarist, Johnny. She’s Russian and was in a band in Moscow. They were called Khuy.”
“Which translates as penis,” the girl said blankly.
“Isn’t that fuckin’ great, man? I fell in love with her when I learned that. Six months ago … Longest relationship I’ve ever had!” He turned to the girl. “And I love her.”
Katia smiled for the first time and leaned in to kiss Micky. They stayed glued together for five minutes while Johnny looked out the window at the buildings flashing past.
Finally Micky pulled away, wiped his mouth and refilled his and Katia’s glasses.
“So man, you like the show?”
“I was knocked out,” Johnny replied earnestly.
“Excellent. Excellent.” Micky downed the champagne. “Well, I think you’ll enjoy the party even more.” And he gave one of his huge smiles.
Chapter 81
MICKY’S SYDNEY PAD was a penthouse in Woolloomooloo. Spartan, clean lines, massive windows looking out toward the harbor, a ten-mill price tag.
By the time the limo got there the place was packed. Micky and Katia vanished and Johnny was left to wander around clutching another glass of orange juice. The place was filled with the sound of ridiculously loud rock music.
Part of him was still in a state of shock just knowing Micky. He was, after all, just a poor boy from the Western Suburbs. At least that’s what so many people wanted him to believe. He never had accepted the label and that was partly how he’d clawed his way up the food chain. Now he had real friends, people who appreciated him, a great job, prospects. But meeting Micky and finding him so easy to be with … that had been totally unexpected.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Katia.
“Can I speak with you?” she said seriously.
“Sure.”
She led the way across the main room, a vast space filled with men in suits, a couple of recognizable faces from TV and YouTube, a lot of beautiful young women. Johnny noticed Graham Parker talking to Micky on the far side of the room. Katia motioned toward the balcony just as Johnny saw Parker hand Micky a small package.
Outside, a mellow breeze ruffled the water.
“I’m sorry I was so rude earlier.”
Johnny shrugged and thought how refined her voice was. She was clearly educated. “You weren’t …”
“I didn’t realize you were the guy from Private. Micky’s been singing your praises.”
Johnny looked stunned.
“I’m very concerned for him,” Katia went on.
“Because of this Club 27 business?”
