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Katia shushed Micky and guided him to the bed.
Parker looked at the bottle and frowned, turned it upside down. “Damn!”
“I’ll get you something.” Katia left Micky sitting up on the bed, his head back on a mountain of pillows. He was gazing at Parker warily. A few moments later, she was walking back from the drinks cabinet with a bottle in one hand, a tumbler almost full to the brim with amber liquid. She handed the tumbler to Parker. He made a grab for the bottle. “Ah ah!” she tutted and took it over to Micky.
Parker pulled himself into an armchair, took a liberal gulp.
“I’ve got a story,” Katia announced. Parker looked at her blearily.
“Oh, I like stories,” Micky said, swigging from the bottle.
“There was a pope. I can’t remember which one. It was a long time ago, maybe in the tenth century, sometime like that. Anyway, he wasn’t a very popular pope and so he decided to go on a tour of all the Papal Dominions to try to buy the favor of his flock with indulgences. He reached Verona on Mid-Summer Day and was dispensing his promises and his money to the people of the city when a woman who was known to be a witch stood up and yelled to the crowd that the pope would die on October 2 that year, just over two months later.”
Micky was looking at her rapt as a child being read a bedtime story. Parker had his eyes closed, chin on chest.
“They arrested the woman of course, burned her at the stake in front of the pope. But even though the witch was dead, the pope was terrified by her curse. He returned to Rome immediately and tried to put the memory of what had happened in Verona out of his mind. But it was no good. As October 2 approached the pope became more and more agitated. On October 1 he gave strict instructions to his staff and to the cardinals and locked himself in his private chambers. He would see no one and he would not eat or drink anything until 12.01 the morning of the third.
“The pope’s servants followed his every wish and as the clock struck midnight and the second of the month passed into the third the room was unlocked. The elated pope sprung from his bed, walked to the servant, tripped, smashed his head against the leg of a table and died instantly.”
Micky looked horrified and was just about to ask something when Parker tumbled to the floor.
“Shit!” the rock star exclaimed. “Another one!” He turned to see that Katia had taken off her pink silk ribbon necklace and had the sharp tip of the tiny sword at his jugular.
Chapter 129
THE STAIRS STOOD at the far side of the dance floor packed with heaving, sweating bodies.
“Must be a back way,” Johnny yelled into Darlene’s ear.
She glanced at her watch. It was 11.55 pm. “No time.” She made for the edge of the crowd, forcing her way between the revelers and the wall of the dance floor. It was almost impossible to move.
Johnny took out his Private ID and squeezed past her. Under the pulsating light show he looked like a plainclothes cop holding up his badge. The sea of humanity parted before him.
He reached the stairs and Darlene almost fell over him. “Neat trick,” she said.
The first floor was dimly lit, the noise from below still incredibly loud. A red carpet led along a corridor between a dozen rooms. They ran for the second flight of stairs.
It was quieter, no one around. Then they heard a sound – laughter, a girl squealing. Darlene glanced at her watch: 11.58.
On the far wall a sign: “Suites 208–215”, an arrow left. Darlene turned on her heel, headed off, Johnny close behind.
The door to 212 stood ajar. They slowed, turned in and almost fell over a couple of girls rolling around on the floor kissing passionately.
Johnny and Darlene saw Hemi lying on the floor, arms and legs akimbo.
“That’s not good,” Darlene said
, pointing at the massive Maori. Johnny went up to the first person who’d listen to him and could string two words together, and asked where Micky was. Darlene ran through the bedroom into the lounge and on to the second bedroom. The bed was a tangle of limbs, groans and moans audible above the music coming from a beat-box in the corner.
After checking Micky wasn’t one of the bodies on the bed she did a one-eighty, charged back into the main bedroom.
“Anything?” she asked Johnny.
“Nope. That lot down the corridor … the druggies in the washroom, the bar tender mentioned. Maybe they know something.”
“Or Micky’s with them.”
They tore along the plush carpet, careered around a corner, pulling up just short of an elderly Asian maid pushing a cart filled with toiletries. She was wearing earplugs.
