Predator--the Lolita Affair

By DERK CHILD and RICHARD D WEBER

• If you liked the film; THE SOUND OF FREEDOM-- and the twists and turns of  The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, You'll love this book.

• NELSON DEMILLE'S Hard-Nosed Politically Incorrect John Cory, meets Sex, Lies, and Video Tape meets KEANU REEVES' CONSTANTINE.
• Plot is based on two true crime cases: Jeffery Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell and a Filipino con man who impersonated a Saudi Royal Prince and almost got away with it.

Richard Chance: former Special Agent in Charge DOS Diplomatic Security--DSS, now head of ENIGMA an international security/intelligence firm, faces three life-threatening challenges. A deadly game of betrayal. From Las Vegas, to New York, to a private Caribbean island. SIN ISLAND.

 

 During a high-stakes poker game he meets an alluring high-priced call girl/grifter who enlists his help in finding her lost 15-year-old little sister who's runaway to New York. And is promised a modeling career with SABRINA'S TREASURES by a mysterious rich  woman.

 

On assignment at a Beverly Hills afterhours Oscar Party, he meets four people who will plunge him into  a nightmare world of jeopardy and intrigue.

 

Gillian St James: British socialite, charming, refined and treacherous. Lover and accomplice. Procurer of Young Girls. Madame.

 

Julian Karswell: Psychic and astrologer to the stars, who is secretly a free-lance MI-6 operative charged with retrieving a sex tape involving a member of the Royal Family. A Prince. He is also a master hypnotist and stage magician and esoteric authority. He puts Gillian St. James in a deep trance state to learn where the videos are. He joins forces with Richard Chance to find the tapes.

 

Danny Steinberg: Billionaire financier and close confidant to presidents, British Royalty, bankers, and celebrities. And the secret mastermind of an international child sex ring, black mail operation. Who uses his trappings of wealth and success to ensnare and victimize young girls. Gillian introduces Chance to a fashion mogul during the line's fashion show, Saul Goldman, CEO of Sabrina's Treasures a popular lingerie line, who is also Danny's main client.Chance is hired by the fashion mogul of SABRINA'S TREASURES, a huge lingerie consortium, and Steinberg's main client. 

 

Dasha: Alluring Russian vixen who is a deep cover operative who seduces Chance. Chance finds out too late that she has her own hidden agenda.

 

Chance Finds himself drawn into a shadowy world of spies, lies, and extortion.

He and Karswell are kidnapped by MOSSAD, he is hunted by a NEO-NAZI hitman who feels no pain, and then is brutalized by massive Samoan ex-wrestler, Danny's head of security on the island.

Finally in a last-ditch effort to rescue the missing teenager and her fellow captives from Danny's clutches, he and Karswell are forced to come face to face with pure evil on SIN ISLAND. A Satanic cult of elites who promise Danny power and protection.

 

The final climax is action packed. Chance's team of agents raid SIN ISLAND. Karswell battles the demonic cult during a Black Mass in a hidden underground old pirate cave converted into a hellish chapel. He uses his powers of esoteric Ceremonial Magick and stage craft. .The closing climax is action packed. Chance's team of agents raid SIN ISLAND. Karswell battles the demonic cult during a Black Mass in a hidden underground old pirate cave converted into a hellish chapel. He uses his powers of esoteric Ceremonial Magick and stage craft Chance pursues Steinberg and the REX MAGUS, the leader of the Satanic Cult, in a death defying high-speed race in speed boats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Main Stream Charter House UK
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223589952

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SEPTEMBER 2005

MYLES ST. JAMES HAD no clue that when he boarded his yacht, the Mademoiselle Gillian, named after his favorite daughter, that it would be the beginning of the end, his death sentence.

He needed to get away, to think things through.

He’d come so far from his early life as a Hungarian refugee from the Nazi occupation, fleeing to Marseille where he had joined the Czechoslovakian army who was in exile there. Later he was transferred to the British Staffordshire Regiment, fought in Normandy and was promoted to the rank of Captain.

He moved to the UK and changed his name from Jan Solomon to Myles St. James. No one knew for sure, except MI-5 and MI-6, that Myles was working for the Israeli’s MOSSAD. He would always have a home in Israel if need be, and right now it looked as if he might have to flee to his Jewish home state.

He’d served Israel well, but he’d also served Russia. During the 1948 Arab-Israeli war, he’d used his contacts with the communist leaders in Czechoslovakia to help supply Israel with badly needed aircraft parts, which gave his new nation state air superiority. MI-6 always suspected his Russian ties, but they determined they were not current.

Israel couldn’t refuse to help him. When they were beginning their nuclear weapons program, a nuclear physicist fled to London to spill the beans on what Israel was up to. His fatal mistake was going to Myles St. James’ major tabloid with the story. Myles took great satisfaction in tipping off MOSSAD, who snatched up the physicist and dragged him back to Israel where he was prosecuted.

Yes, if need be, he could seek safe haven in Israel.

His business empire was ripping apart at the seams.

His newspapers, his cable networks, his publishing house, everything. To keep the company afloat, he had stolen fifty million dollars from his employees’ pension fund, and now the banks wanted to know where the hell the money went.

He needed this escape to weigh his options. He set sail, as it were, for Spain’s Grand Canary Islands. He docked in Los Cristianos and went ashore for dinner. Later he returned to the yacht, and they moved on.

He was tired, exhausted from the pressures of his failures, his deceit. He drank a bottle of bourbon and paced about his room. He always wanted his privacy onboard, instructing the crew to leave him alone unless he called for them.

The yacht was about five miles offshore from the Grand Canary Island.

In the cover of darkness, the ship’s crew could not see the black swift boat a half mile off their stern. About 230 a.m. a diver, wearing a black wet suit and scuba gear, plunged off the swift boat and made for the yacht. The Assassin boarded the yacht from the stern, under the cover of a pitch-black night.

The Assassin knew of Myles St. James’ habit, because of his age, of arising multiple times during the night to relieve himself.

The Assassin had stored the dive tank on deck with a bunch of the ship’s gear. The ship’s crew were all on the bridge, which was sealed in thick glass walls and almost soundproof.

The Assassin crouched in the shadows, waiting, legs cramping, nerves tense.

Myles suddenly appeared on deck, stumbling in the darkness, obviously drunk, making his way toward the ship’s side railing.

His three-hundred-pound, six-foot, frame made him look like a pale white wildebeest as he moved across the deck.

The Assassin slowly crept up on him from behind, as Myles stood stark naked, urinating over the railing which consisted of stretched cables.

The Assassin rose, tapped Myles on the shoulder and said, "I have a message for you.  A lanyodtol szeretettel papa." Spoken in his native Hungarian tongue.

When St. James turned, his face confounded with bewilderment, the Assassin sprayed Prussic Acid directly into his face from an atomizer gun.

In a second, Myles’ face contorted into a grimace of sheer pain. His hand flew to his chest.

The Prussic Acid induced a severe heart attack in an instant.

Myles staggered. The Assassin crouched down behind him, grabbed him by both ankles, and heaved him over the railing into the briny depths of blackness.

Afterwards, the Assassin scurried to the waiting dive gear, donned it, and climbed off the stern’s lower ramp and disappeared into the night.

There is nothing more deceptive.

than an obvious fact.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

PEOPLE MAY SPEND THEIR whole lives climbing the ladder of success

Only to find, once they reach the top, that the ladder is leaning

Against the wrong wall.

Thomas Merton

LAS VEGAS: ALL IN

PRESENT DAY

CHAPTER 1

THE CASINO WAS CROWDED, filled with the usual looky-loos and wannabes, and the foreign tourists dressed in loud shirts and Bermuda shorts with black knee socks and sandals. And those unfortunate souls were betting against the house for a fleeting sense of danger and risk that their mundane lives back home didn’t provide.

I was a pro. Not a gambler in the strict sense of the word, just in a general sense. Whenever it looked like What Happens in Vegas wasn’t gonna stay in Vegas, that’s where I came in. I was a fixer: I made those sticky little potentially embarrassing problems and messy situations vanish into the night’s cold desert air. Let’s just say I had the contacts, knew the ins and outs, and leave it at that.

My main office was in LA, Beverly Hills to be exact. I catered to the rich and famous, celebrities, politicians and big shots in general. They paid well and through networking, I got lots of big money referrals.

I’d done some work for the major casinos in the past whose managers wanted things to remain discreet. Discrete was my middle name. So, when I got the call and we finished haggling over the price, I was on the next plane to Sin City.

Tonight, I was hired to bird dog a high roller who was known to overindulge in the darker, edgier side of the Strip’s offerings of the flesh. His escorts came out embarrassingly brutalized by his sadistic tastes. The guy had a bad rep and left a trail of damaged goods in his wake all across Europe. He was bad news.

I was met by the casino’s escort, a leggy raven-haired beauty with a plastic smile as phony as her silicon enhanced cleavage. She took my arm and whisked me through a doorway where we ducked into an elevator and emerged into another world: the high-stakes poker room, lushly appointed with crystal chandeliers and thick hunter-green carpet with Dom Pérignon and single malt Scotch flowing generously. Through the haze of Cuban cigar smoke that hung in the air, I could see the high roller’s exclusive by-invitation-only poker table.

I took my seat and scanned the competition. What competition? On my left perched a thin-haired pear-shaped accountant type who feverously fingered his chips and whose eyes darted away when our eyes met. To my right the fat man, a corpulent middle-aged guy whose custom-tailored tux looked like it had been fitted back when he’d tipped the scales at a slimmer tonnage.

The third man was my problem; he met my gaze with dark searching eyes peering over a hawkish nose, an oil-rich Arab and nephew of a high-ranking Saudi. God knows there is a couple thousand of them in total.

From my previous career as a Special Agent with DSS, the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Branch, I had protected the Saudi Ambassador, Prince Nazir. So, to a great extent, I was more than familiar with the Saudi’s cultural and political structure.

The Prince managed a thin smile as he scratched at his chin covered in a dark beard. The thick growth of beard didn’t hide his boyish face, his false bravado. I took a second closer look at those eyes, trying to glimpse behind the mask. They were soulless, void of humanity. In a word—cruel and unforgiving. He was the mark I was babysitting tonight.

I took in the rest of the room. A weasel-like thin, tall and gaunt man sat perched on the sofa, seemingly oblivious to what was going on, but watching the Prince attentively.

Being a Saudi Prince, Abdul bin Khalid, as I had been told by Dick Gavin, the casino’s head of security, ordered an orange juice from a curvaceous waitress, doing her best to imitate the cliché Playboy Bunny Dip, bending at the knees in order to show off her ample cleavage.

When she returned with the Prince’s drink, the thin man shot off the couch to the Prince’s side, serving him the drink himself, then bowing away and back to his perch.

Must be his valet, I reasoned.

My gaze shifted to the entrance.  A tall man built like a professional wrestler, the seams of his custom-tailored suit bulging, stood, keen eyed, surveying the whole room. He looked mixed-race to me, part Scandinavian and maybe European. His skin was darkish, but from the long blond locks, I guessed, German. I made a mental note to check with Dick Gavin later to get some background on this chiseled bodyguard.

Despite the opulence of the surroundings, the vibe was dead air. The room, in gambler’s parlance, was cold. 

Until she walked in. Slinked in was more like it, causing men’s heads to turn and women to glare.

Dressed in a backless black velvet dress that revealed a glorious peek at the firm mounds of the sides of her breasts and stilettos with rhinestone studding, she was a panther incarnate, feline and cunning. And when she moved towards me, her long legs scissoring, the almost thigh-high slit revealed a fleeting glimpse of that supple firm thigh and shapely calf.

Her movements were liquid and raw and sensuous is the best I can put it. Stunning was an understatement.

Some women are nice-looking.

Some are beautiful. Some are gorgeous.

And some are like her. For a second you think someone's gut punched you hard in the gut then your breath comes back in a rush, and you pray she doesn’t move an inch. Your mouth goes dry, and you stare.

An overhead light beamed down on her where she stood now, still, an image frozen in time. It flamed her golden hair which she wore with a long bang on one side, a 40’s movie starlet look that tantalized with its subtle defiance. When she turned toward me, her eyes, Bambi-wide and beautiful, mesmerized me. That one emerald eye peeking from behind a fall of blond gossamer bangs concealed her face, adding to her Veronica Lake-like aura of mystery, intrigue.

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Her hazel sea-green eyes went from warm to icy in a split second. Then suddenly, as if I had blacked out momentarily, there she was seated across from me at our table. A flute of champagne appeared at her side almost instantly, her delicate hand reached out and she took a sip, her haunting eyes locking on mine as she drank. Then they quickly slid away and took in the boyish Prince, my charge for the night. He swallowed visibly, succumbing immediately to her charms.

But as if his mask were peeled away, his eyes grew feral and calculating and narrowed to tiny pinpoints.

Her hand rose to her neckline where she fingered a diamond necklace that hung from her swan-like neck. Her fingertip, her long red fingernail, trailed slowly down and nestled in her cleavage, lingering just long enough to raise the temperature in the room and the Arab’s blood pressure a few degrees. She gave a furtive smile and a slight wink, then her face went hard as she tossed her head and gave a bored sigh.

She was in way over her head with this guy, playing with fire. And if I didn’t douse her plans with a cold bucket of reality, she’d get burned bad, real bad.

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CHAPTER 2

AS WE PLAYED A FEW hands, her demeanor remained cool and aloof, but the air around her pulsed with the intensity of her sexuality.

The stakes grew higher and higher. Eventually, the fat man asked that the house limit be raised. Everyone nodded in agreement.  As the betting became more fevered, something about her changed. I looked hard now. She had no Tells, was giving nothing away to the other players around her. She would seductively run the tip of her tongue around those moist full lips.

She was a contradiction. Her mouth was hungry, giving the impression she was sex starved and willing, but her eyes were predatory, cold as a shark.

So, was she smooth and soft as black velvet in the sack—or as vicious as a black widow?  I just knew one thing. Whatever she was, she was as genuine as those real blonde locks, no dye job here. And before the night was through, I had to find out for myself whether the carpet matched the drapes.

The accountant played poorly, and his holdings were eaten away by the vixen and me. We’d been playing about an hour now when the mood became dramatically tense. The final betting came around to the blonde. She scanned the table, meeting each one’s gaze coolly.

She went ALL IN.

There was, by my count, about 200K, already lying there in the kitty, and I had upped the stakes by another 25K on my last raise. Dick Gavin had bankrolled my play with ample credit, cautioning me not to lose it all. 

So even at ALL IN, we all knew she was short by about ten grand. Before anyone could react, she trumped her bet by pulling her room key from her evening purse and tossing it onto the pile of markers.

The fat man hiccupped and managed, Does that mean what I think it means?

She stared him down with indifference and said, It means exactly what you gentlemen think it means.

All heads turned to the dealer who had a brief whispered conversation with the dime-store elegant pit bull of a pit boss who stiffened and announced that the lady’s credit was good.

Beads of sweat dotted the fat man’s brow, and with shaky hands he threw down his cards and folded saying, Too rich for my blood, and I’m afraid too demanding a reward for a man my age, my dear. But he remained glued to his seat.

The Arab was next. He gave a greasy smile and undressed her hungrily with his eyes. He followed suit, shoving all his remaining markers into the center of the table.

It was my turn.

Without taking a last look at my hand, I met her gaze squarely. For a moment she didn’t blink, didn’t flinch as I added my markers to the pile.

Her face was as frozen as an ice sculpture until I reached into my coat pocket and tossed my room key into the pot along with hers. When my key hit the pile, two things happened simultaneously.

The Prince let out a string of what I can only figure was a curse upon my manhood and a comment on my mother’s virtue in a spittle of Arabic and disgust.

Next, the lovely woman’s face beamed, and she broke character and let out a sarcastic laugh aimed directly at the boyish red-faced Prince as she threw down her cards.

She was bluffing all the time.

Two pair taunted back from the table.

The Prince had three queens and a pair of jacks: a full house. His eyes sparked as he drank her in.

But I had a full house too, aces over queens.

The Arab, not knowing the fate that awaited him if he had won the pot, and the lady’s virtuoso talents, pushed back from the table, shot out of his chair, glaring and shouting more cutting comments on my alleged trickery, and words to the effect that the lady was no lady, in English this time. He stormed out of the room and made a hurried exit into the waiting elevator.

As I turned to look, I was met by an arctic stare from the bodyguard.

After I withdrew a few hands full of five-thousand-dollar markers from the pot and tucked them into the jacket pockets of my tux, I asked the dealer to collect my winnings and credit them to my account at the casino. Dick Gavin would be pleased that I hadn’t blown the pouch and assured me I could keep a percentage of my winnings.

CHAPTER 3

AS SHE AND I ROSE FROM the table, I nodded toward the secluded bar area on the other side of the room.

With her at my side at the rich mahogany bar, I ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

When we toasted, I said, To the victor the spoils.

As she lowered her glass, her pearl-white teeth chewed nervously at her lower lip for a moment before she spoke.

So, Mr. Hotshot.

It’s Richard Chance, I corrected. But you could call me Dick, I added, laughing.

Ok, Mr. Dick then. You expect me to fulfill my bet then? Is that why you have that shit-eating grin on your face?

I took another sip and set down the goblet. I gave her the sternest look I could muster. A bet’s a bet, angel. After all you could have won, and I might have been at your disposal...

She cut me off laughing. Or that horny little bastard could have won, and we would have had to toss coins to see whose room key he got tonight. Yours or mine.

As the bartender topped off our drinks, I said, I don’t speak Arabic, but to the best of my untrained ear it sounded like the Prince said something like, hmm, ZOOP FATIASICK, to me as he left the table.

The bartender, overhearing me, let out loud chuckle and stood sheepishly grinning. When I met his gaze, he plastered on a fake sober look, then another laugh burst through.

Ok, Mac, I said, what’s so damn funny?

The bartender shrugged and added, I was stationed in Saudi with the service during Desert Storm, so I picked up some of the lingo. You know, you always learn the bad words and expressions first, right?

My vixen companion chimed in, Ok, handsome, what’s it mean?

The bartender gulped hard.  Awh, not in front of a lady, ma’am, please.

She answered, Well whether I’m a lady, trust me, is open to debate. So, give, soldier boy.

Ok, his gaze shot back and forth from her to me.  It literally translates as.... MY DICK’S IN YOUR ASS AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW IT!

After a moment’s silence, we all burst out laughing.

She said, Wow Richard, just imagine what could have been your fate if the Prince drew your room key?  You’d be walking funny for a few days, sweetheart. The bartender moved away and began polishing glasses.

Oh, aren’t you the clever little minx, I toasted again. Touché, my luv. But I was never in danger of losing my virtue ... let’s just say I had a little help from my friends.

A frown creased her face. Then she let out a small girlish giggle. You mean the casino dealer was in your pocket the whole time?

Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, angel.

You’re too much, she added, shaking her head. But hey! What about me, Mr. Dick? I came up empty handed tonight.

She had no clue as to how close she’d come to being savagely beaten by that little prick and it was better left unsaid. I was hired to keep dark secrets in the dark, so I told her, I think that certain members of Vegas PD’s finest would love to know about your little ... blackmail schemes and how ...

Her face turned from a girlish grin into a scowl in an instant.

She glanced around furtively, making sure no one heard my remarks. Hey what are you implying?

I’m not implying anything ... just that casino security asks me to sometimes  head off a delicate situation without making waves, shall we say.

She stared a moment, nodded knowingly. No waves ... is good.

I added, It seems that certain high rollers wake up in the morning with a drug-fogged head and missing their Rolexes, or being taken on the rollercoaster of shopping sprees by a certain charming blonde who frequents the high-stakes room. Some may even say a certain lovely blonde is a true pro grifter, a commensurate con artist, sometimes black mailer.

Her full wet lips pouted, then broke into a taunting smile. Blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer hypnotic persuasion and feminine charms.

I fished her room key out of my pocket and waved it teasingly in front of that beautiful pouting face of hers. She sighed and shrugged. Like you said, a bet’s a bet.

I took her gently by the elbow, and as I steered her into the elevator, I told her, Hey, this could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship, my lovely.

It’s Lola, lover boy.

I nodded and smiled; it suited her well, but I knew it wasn’t her real name. I had viewed her rap sheet—it was Alexandria Popov, or Alex for short, of course.

When the elevator doors closed and we were alone, I fished the casino markers from my pockets and told her to open her purse.

Roughly about twenty grand in gold 5K markers spilled into her bag.

She smiled and hit the stop button on the elevator panel.

What gives? I asked as her hand ran down my pants and yanked at my fly.

I do, she answered as her fingers explored the protruding bulge in my pants. "I just wanted to see how big a dick you actually are..."

Oh, well generally I get taken to dinner first. It’s customary, ya know. Which floor is yours, my lady?

She looked puzzled and pouted. Seven, lover boy. Do I take it you want a rain check on the bet?

I’m afraid so, honey. Sorry, but I have to work keeping an eye on our Arab friend.

As the elevator hit her floor and the doors opened, she pushed against me, grabbed my chin and kissed me hard.

Well, Richard, you know where to find me, but don’t wait too long to collect on that rain check.

The doors closed, and I could still smell her perfume fogging my senses. 

[]

CHAPTER 4

BACK IN MY ROOM, I loosened my bow tie, ripped off my tux jacket and draped it over a chair. I moved to the bar and poured myself a single malt Scotch neat.

I grabbed the bedside phone and rang up hotel security. Dick Gavin, head of security, was patched through. Hey, it’s me, Chance, I said.

Dick whistled, Yeah, pal. Nice play at the poker game. I watched the whole thing on CCTV. Also, thanks for not busting my payola budget. You can keep a portion of your winnings as agreed upon.

Does that include the girl? I offered.

You’re a lucky bastard, you know. Anyway, his Royal asshole Highness is tucked away in his suite. He ordered a couple of high-class escorts sent up to his room, but I had my boys grab them at the elevator.

Ouch, did they put up much of a fuss when you curtailed their little evening?

No, I have a picture file of all the girls and a list of which escort service they work for. The minute they entered the lobby, I got on the horn and rang up their madame. Told her this client was hard on the merchandise and if she wants her girls to work this casino ever again, she’d have to send them packing.

Nice work evading more trouble.

That’s what they pay me the big bucks for, bro. I’ve got one of my guys posing as the Prince’s floor’s concierge so he can eyeball if the Prince leaves his suite. So far, no movement.

I looked at the alarm clock, and then there was a knock at my door. Hey Dick, let me know if he moves, Ok? then hung up.

Yes, I said when I got to the door.

A faint muffled voice answered, Room service, Mr. Chance, compliments of the management.

Good old Dick I thought and opened the door.

Alex stood slightly to her side, a champagne bucket in one hand, and a bottle of bubbly in the other.  She was wearing a long sable fur coat, one long, luscious leg extended and peeking out from under the coat exposed all the way up to her thong ... Omg she was half naked under that outfit.

Alex licked her upper lip as she purred, Thought maybe you’d like to collect on the bet after all. 

Alex, or Lola as she called herself, slinked into the room and handed me the bucket and bottle. She stood in front of me, then let the fur coat pool to the floor. I swallowed hard. She was wearing black stilettos, thigh high black hose, a lacy black bra, a coquettish smile and nothing else. She then threw herself across my bed. Lying on her stomach, her legs bent upward, crossed at the ankles, she looked up, her eyes drinking me in, and held my gaze.

Well, just don’t stand there, lover boy. Close the door and offer the lady a drink, damn it, then let out a deep sexy laugh.

Oh, of course we had made love. It was out of this world. She now lay naked, sideways on the bed, the soft moonlight highlighting the convexities and concavities of her beautiful form.

Once I shook off the image, I said, Honey, I want to make a life-changing proposition for you.

Chance, you mean we’re tying the knot? Getting that little house with the picket fence? She laughed with her eyes and gave me a shit-eating grin.

Very funny, babe. No, I’m gonna bankroll you. There is some twenty thousand worth of chips I put in your purse. I want you to get the hell out of Vegas and start a new, well, honest life.

She sat up, startled.

Pulled back a bit, and just stared.

I took her hand. You’re a knockout, honey, and you know it. You mentioned that your wish was to become a famous actress, right?

She nodded weakly. But Chance...

No buts, babe. I know a legit talent agent in LA with whom I’m going to fix you up with. It may be small things at first, like say commercials, but it’s better than this trade you are plying.

She threw her arms around me, climbed on top of me and...

Round 2, I guessed.

. . .

CHAPTER 5

THAT NEXT MORNING, I awoke feeling almost giddy. I’d had a wonderful experience with Alex and playing a sincere Santa Claus to help her in life made me feel good.

I got dressed and was chowing down on room service when the phone rang.

Yeah?

Hey buddy. Trust you had a good night, Dick the hotel security manager teased.

It dawned on me that he probably had surveillance cameras on my floor too, and saw Alex enter my room and logged what time she left.

"Ok, you got