The suite was messy and smelled of dead cigarettes and Scotch. Nube came in at nine forty-five. He had slept the night in the Turkish bath and finished up, as usual, with a massage. It gave his dark skin a pinkish glow, a pinkish, waxy look. He was wearing a white silk mock turtleneck sweater under a brown corduroy jacket with his highly polished brown tassled moccasins matching his shiny brown eyes. Seeing him, Millie gasped and turned to her sister, silently begging her to ask him, ask him. Coral nodded that she would. “Nube, have you got the fifty thousand pounds?” “I said I would, didn’t I?” Nube looked around, speculatively wrinkled then pulled his nose straight. “And you know that they took Kitten—that it wasn’t Cornie? Yes? Good. See, it’s all right, Millie.” “You should try to relax, Mrs. Uh … Why don’t you lie down? She should have a sedative, Coral, and lie down.” “She won’t take anything.” “She should. Well, would you go lie down in the bedroom, anyhow?”
