Free The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas

acknowledged his guess with a slight nod and an even slighter smile. “You left out one.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œArabic.”
    â€œArabic makes seven, not six.”
    â€œI don’t count English.”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œEnglish?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI couldn’t tell.”
    She didn’t seem to care. She finished her drink, rattled the ice in her glass and said, “I have a car if you could use a lift.”
    â€œThanks. I could.”
    â€œWhere’re you staying, the Connaught?”
    â€œDo I look like the Connaught?”
    She again examined him briefly. “Almost.”
    Dunjee canceled his seat on the Rome flight while Delft Csider went to get her car, which turned out to be an elderly Morgan 2 + 2 with a patched top. Dunjee put his suitcase in the rear seat and climbed in beside her.
    â€œOld, but reliable,” she said. “The car, I mean.”
    They made most of the fast bumpy drive along the M4 in silence. The hard rain fell in sheets that leaked through the top and coated the windshield with what seemed to be thick layers of gray gelatin. The Morgan’s worn blades scrubbed away earnestly but with little effect. After fifteen minutes, Dunjee said, “You should get some new blades.”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œAnd some new shocks.”
    â€œThey are new.”
    Five minutes later she said, “I was just wondering.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat kind of name is Dunjee?”
    â€œI don’t know. Scotch, maybe.”
    â€œAnd Chubb?”
    â€œMy father was a locksmith. I had an older brother called Yale, but he died.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t be. He was three and I was one.”
    Dunjee’s hotel was the Hilton. After thanking Delft Csider for the lift, he allowed the doorman to fetch his bag from the rear and shield him from the rain with a large black umbrella. Inside, the reservation clerk ran a practiced eye over Dunjee and assigned him to a hundred-and-twenty-two-dollar-a-night room on the sixth floor with a view of Hyde Park. Up in the room, the middle-aged porter, perhaps the last native-born English yeoman still in hotel service, deposited Dunjee’s bag on the stand and put the room key on top of the television set. Dunjee took out a twenty-dollar bill, folded it lengthwise, and held it out. The porter pocketed the bill smoothly with thanks and then waited to see what Dunjee expected for his money.
    â€œI might like to do some gambling, but I don’t want to wait forty-eight hours. That’s the law, isn’t it?”
    The porter smiled. It was the smile of the practiced conspirator. “These things can be arranged, sir. No trouble at all. If you’ll check your box downstairs a bit later this afternoon, you’ll find a membership card all made out. And a very nice club it is, too.”
    â€œPoker?”
    â€œSeven-card stud, I believe it is, sir.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œAnd the best of luck to you, sir.”
    After the porter had gone, Dunjee unpacked quickly. He then sat down on the bed, took out his address book, looked up a number, and called it. The phone rang nineteen times before Dunjee gave up and looked at his watch. It was sixteen minutes before noon. He rose and settled into a chair by the window with that day’s copy of the Herald Tribune. He again looked at his watch. His record for the Tribune puzzle was fourteen minutes. It was a three-month-old record that Dunjee sometimes despaired of ever breaking. Sixteen minutes later, with three words still to go, the phone rang.
    Dunjee answered on the second ring. it was Paul Grimes. “Let’s have lunch.”
    â€œAll right. Where?”
    â€œMy place.” He gave Dunjee a Kensington address not far from Harrods.
    â€œYou’re not having fish, are you?”
    â€œNo. Why?”
    â€œI’m sick of fish,” Dunjee