It was a little after two a.m., about eight p.m. New York time. I desperately needed to speak to the Duchess. I needed to hear some kind words from her, for her to tell me that she lovedme and that everything would be okay. She could always make me feel better, even in my darkest hour. But I'd tried her a half dozen times and kept getting the same fucking recording, saying the overseas lines were busy.
Just then the phone rang. Ahhh, the luscious Duchess! She always knows!I reached for the phone and picked it up. Alas, it was Danny. “I can't sleep,” he snarled. “We need to drop Ludes and go get hookers; there's no other way.”
I sat upright. “You're kidding!” I said. “We're getting picked up in a few hours, Dan! That's insane.” I took a moment to think it through, coming to the quick conclusion that his plan was, indeed, insane. “Anyway, where we gonna find hookers this time of night? It's too complicated.”
“I already got it worked out with Lara,” he said proudly. “There's a place less than ten minutes from here, on the outskirts of Prague. Lara assured me we can find some smelly Czech hookers there, which are the best kind, she said.” He paused briefly. “Anyway, we mustdo this, JB. It would be bad karma to let things proceed along their current course. We need to take drastic action. I fear for you if you can't see that.”
“No way,” I replied. “I gotta take a pass. You're on your own.”
Somehow—and I'm still notsure how—one hour later I was three Ludes deep, with an enormous Czech hooker with bleached-blond hair and the face of a sheepdog riding me like Seattle Slew. Hardly a word was exchanged, only two hundred U.S. dollars and something that sounded like “Ta-hank yew!”right after I came inside her enormous Czech pussy. Whatever. Pussy was pussy, I thought, and despite this one being wide enough to parallel park a Czech taxi-cab in, I had still felt it my patriotic duty to deposit a red, white, and blue load inside her, if for nothing more than to remind her who won the Cold War.
An hour later I was back in my hotel room, sweating again, plotting my own death, and missing the Duchess terribly. But, above all things, I was wondering why I'd just done that. I loved the Duchess more than anything, yet I couldn't seem to control myself. I was weak, and I was decadent. The Wild Wolf was lurking inside me—just beneath the surface—ready to rise up at the slightest provocation and bare his drug-addicted fangs. Just where all this would end up I hadn't the slightest idea, but the word on Wall Street was that I'd be dead within a few years. Whatever. In more ways than one, I was dead already.
At four in the morning, I broke down and raided the Louis Vuitton bag again. Finally, thirty minutes later, I was fast asleep, with enough Xanax bubbling through my central nervous system to knock out half of Prague.
At 7:30 a.m.—only three hours later—came my wake-up call.
I blinked, then vomited, and then rose out of bed and took an ice-cold shower. Then I snorted a half gram of coke, swallowed a Xanax to quell any future paranoia, and headed downstairs to the lobby. I felt a twinge of guilt about being coked out for my first business meeting in this fine country, but after last night's escapade into the seedy cesspool of Prague's red-light district, there was no other way I could possibly start my day.
Downstairs in the lobby, thirty-year-old Marty Sumichrest, Jr., greeted us warmly. He was tall, thin, pasty-faced, and wore steel-rimmed glasses with very thick lenses. He was living somewhere near Washington, D.C., but was in Prague today because he wanted us to raise $10 million for his company, Czech Industries. At this point, the company was nothing more than a worthless shell, but he assured us that he could use his father's status as a Czech War Heroto insinuate himself into the highest echelons of the Czech power structure.
We exchanged morning pleasantries and then crammed ourselves into a horrendous limousine called a Skoda. It was black, boxy, beaten up, and, of course, it had no air-conditioning. The foul stench of body odor was so powerful that it could have incapacitated a platoon full of marines. I looked at my watch: It was 8:15 a.m. Only five minutes had passed, but it felt like an hour. I looked around the limo and all ties were at half-mast; Danny was white as a ghost; the Chef's lips were twisted subversively; and Wigwam's toupee looked like a dead animal.
Sitting in the front seat, Marty turned around to face us. “Prague is one of the only cities in Europe that wasn't destroyed by the Nazis,” he said proudly. “Most of the original architecture still remains.” He raised his palm toward the window and swept it from left to right in a gentle arc, as if to say, “Behold the wonder and beauty!” Then he said, “Many consider it the most beautiful city in all of Europe, the Paris of the East, so to speak. It's been home to many an artist, and many a poet too. They come here to get inspired, they come here to…”
Holy Christ!I was being bored to death, sweated to death, and smelled to death all at the same time! How could it be? I felt desperately homesick all of a sudden, like a little boy whose parents had sent him off to sleepaway camp and was dying to come home.
“… and the Czechs have always been entrepreneurs. It's the Slavs who gave this country a bad reputation.” He shook his head in disgust. “They're morons, lazy drunks with IQs just above the level of an idiot. They were thrust upon us by the Soviet Union, but now they're back where they belong: in Slovakia. And just watch—in ten years from now they'll have the lowest GNP in Eastern Europe and we'll have the highest.” He nodded proudly. “You just watch!”
“That's interesting,” I said casually, “but if the Czechs are so smart, how come they haven't discovered deodorant yet?”
“What do you mean?” asked Marty, narrowing his eyes.
“Never mind,” I answered. “I was just making a joke, Marty. It smells like fucking lilacs in here.”
He nodded, seeming to understand. “By the way,” he added, “the first company we're seeing this morning is Motokov. They have sole distribution rights to the Skoda”—he slapped his hand on the top of his headrest two times—”so they can flood the world with these bad boys!”
“Hmmm,” muttered the Chef. “I bet people all across Western Europe are gonna line up for the Skoda. In fact, the boys at Mercedes better watch their asses or they're gonna find themselves knee-deep in red ink!”
The War Hero's son nodded in agreement. “Like I said, the Czech Republic is brimming with opportunity. Motokov is just one example.”
The corporate headquarters of Motokov was a gray concrete office building that rose up twenty-three stories above the streets of Prague. Alas, the company needed only two floors for its operations. But the commies had been strong believers in “bigger is better,” viewing concepts like profits and losses as minor trivialities—or at least secondary to the creation of meaningless, low-paying jobs to placate a drunken Czechoslovakian workforce.
We took a linoleum-paneled elevator up to the twentieth floor and walked down a long, silent hallway that seemed low on oxygen. I was about to pass out when we reached a large conference room, where we were offered seats around a cheap wooden conference table large enough for thirty people. But only three representatives of Motokov were in the room, so after we'd taken seats, we were so far apart that you had to raise your voice if you wanted to make yourself heard. Leave it to the commies, I thought.
I was sitting at one head of the table, facing a plate-glass wall that looked out over the city of Prague. At this hour of the morning at this time of June, the sun was shining directly through the plate glass, heating the room to the temperature of the planet Mercury. On the floor were three geraniums in white plastic planters. They were dead.