Part 22 (2/2)

”Uh,” she hadn't thought about giving a strange man her room number. In for a penny, in for a pound. ”2813,” she said. ”Thanks.”

”Geoff,” he said. ”It's Geoff. New York -- upper West Side. Work in health products.”

”Suzanne,” she said. ”Florida, lately. I'm a writer.”

”Good night, Suzanne. Pills are en route.”

”Good night, Geoff. Thanks.”

”Tip the porter a euro, or a couple bucks. Don't bother with rubles.”

”Oh,” she said. It had been a long time since her last visit overseas. She'd forgotten how much minutiae was involved.

He hung up. She put on a robe and waited. The porter took about fifteen minutes, and handed her a little envelope with two pills in it. He was about fifteen, with a bad mustache and bad skin, and bad teeth that he displayed when she handed him a couple of dollar bills.

A minute later, she was back on the phone.

”Which one is which?”

”Little white one is melatonin. That's for now. My bad.”

She saw him again in the breakfast room, loading a plate with hard-boiled eggs, potato pancakes, the ubiquitous caviar, salami, and cheeses. In his other hand he balanced a vat of porridge with strawberry jam and enough dried fruit to keep a parrot zoo happy for a month.

”How do you keep your girlish figure if you eat like that?” she said, settling down at his table.

”Ah, that's a professional matter,” he said. ”And I make it a point never to discuss bizniz before I've had two cups of coffee.” He poured himself a cup of decaf. ”This is number two.”

She picked her way through her cornflakes and fruit salad. ”I always feel like I don't get my money's worth out of buffet breakfasts,” she said.

”Don't worry,” he said. ”I'll make up for you.” He pounded his coffee and poured another cup. ”Humanity returns,” he said, rubbing his thighs. ”Marthter, the creature waketh!” he said in high Igor.

She laughed.

”You are really into, uh, *substances*, aren't you?” she said.

”I am a firm believer in better living through chemistry,” he said. He pounded another coffee. ”Ahhh. Coffee and modafinil are an amazing combo.”

She'd taken hers that morning when the alarm got her up. She'd been so tired that it actually made her feel nauseated to climb out of bed, but the modafinil was getting her going. She knew a little about the drug, and figured that if the TSA approved it for use by commercial pilots, it couldn't be that bad for you.

”So, my girlish figure. I work for a firm that has partners here in Petersburg who work on cutting-edge pharma products, including some stuff the FDA is dragging its heels on, despite widespread acceptance in many nations, this one included. One of these is a pill that overclocks your metabolism. I've been on it for a year now, and even though I am a stone calorie freak and pack away five or six thousand calories a day, I don't gain an ounce. I actually have to remember to eat enough so that my ribs don't start showing.”

Suzanne watched him gobble another thousand calories. ”Is it healthy?”

”Compared to what? Being fat? Yes. Running ten miles a day and eating a balanced diet of organic fruit and nuts? No. But when the average American gets the majority of her calories from soda-pop, 'healthy' is a pretty loaded term.”

It reminded her of that talk with Lester, a lifetime ago in the IHOP. Slowly, she found herself telling him about Lester's story.

<script>