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We head toward the bathrooms, which are near enough to the kitchen that we have to head into the shadowy, windowless area behind the bar. I look over and see Zacharov and a beautiful woman with long honey-colored hair hanging on his arm. The pale red gem on his tie is overmatched by the rubies hanging from her ears. People are declaring their support and shaking his hand, leather glove against leather glove.
There in the crowd I think I see her. Lila. Her hair white under the lights. Her mouth painted blood bright.
She’s not supposed to be here yet. She’s going to ruin everything.
I veer off toward the buffet. Toward her. By the time I get there, she’s gone.
“What now?” Grandad asks.
I pop a rose-flavored syrniki in my mouth.
“I’m trying to sneak food,” I say, “since you’re so crazy that you won’t let me eat.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he says. “I see you looking at the clock. No more bull, Cassel. Piss or don’t.”
“Okay,” I say, and walk into the bathroom. Ten forty. I don’t know how much longer I can drag my feet.
There are a few other guys in here, combing their hair in the mirrors. A skinny puffy-eyed blond is doing a line of coke off the counter. He doesn’t even look up when the door opens.
I go into the first stall and sit down on the lid of the toilet seat, trying to calm myself.
My watch reads ten forty-three.
I wonder if Lila wants everything ruined. I wonder if I really saw her in the crowd or if I just conjured her out of my fears.
I take off my suit jacket, unbutton my shirt, and tape the packet of fake blood directly onto my skin, resigning myself to the gluey hair removal I am going to get later when I rip it off. I tug the wire through the inside of my pants pocket, ripping the seam and adding more tape so the trigger’s easy to grab.
Ten forty-seven.
I check for the bottle of puke taped behind the toilet bowl. It’s there, but I have no idea which one of them finally gave in and threw up. I smile at the thought.
Ten forty-eight. I attach the wire to the trigger.
“You okay in there?” Grandad calls. Someone snickers.
“Just a second,” I say.
I make a choking noise and pour out half the contents of the puke bottle. The room fills with the vinegary three-day-old smell of sick. I gag again, this time for real.
I pour out the other half and carefully return the empty bottle to the tape. Leaning down is the worst. I gag again.
“You okay?” Grandad doesn’t sound impatient anymore. “Cassel?”
“Fine,” I say, and spit.
I flush the toilet and button up my shirt carefully, then pull on the suit jacket but don’t button that.
The door opens and I hear Anton’s voice. “Everyone out. We need the bathroom clear.”
My legs feel unsteady with relief. I open the door of the stall and lean against the frame. Almost everyone has already been chased out by my fake vomiting, but the stragglers and the cokehead are filing past Anton. Zacharov stands at the sinks.
“Desi Singer,” he says, rubbing the side of his mouth. “It’s been a long time.”
“This is a very nice party,” my grandfather says gravely, nodding toward Zacharov, his nod almost a bow. “I hadn’t figured you for politics.”
“We who break laws should care the most about them. We deal with them more than other people, after all.”
“They say that all really great crooks eventually go into politics,” Grandad says.
