The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas

eyes seemed furious, but when she spoke her voice was very low and quite controlled. “You owe us five hundred fucking quid, Jack.”
    Dunjee nodded agreeably. “Or a thousand dollars. Whichever.”
    â€œWhen?” she demanded.
    Dunjee wrinkled his forehead into thought. “When?” he repeated. “Yes, when? Well, noon, say. What about then? I’ll have it by noon. Not to worry.”
    She stood up, shaking her head slowly as she gathered up her clothes and slipped into them. “I’m not worried,” she said while dressing. “You’re the one who’d better be worried. Where’s your passport?”
    â€œGet his fucking passport,” Sunday Smith said.
    Dunjee pretended that he couldn’t remember where he had put it. All three searched the room until Dunjee finally looked under the mattress where he had slipped the passport earlier. “This what you want?”
    Vicki Sloan snatched it away from him, examined it quickly, and then tucked it away in her purse. “If you want this back, you’d better be here at noon with the money. All of it.”
    â€œYou’ll be back at noon, huh?” Dunjee asked, knowing she wouldn’t.
    â€œNot me, love. Somebody else.”
    Dunjee decided it was time to get rid of them. He went around the two women to the door, turned back the bolts, and unfastened the chain. “Well, I’ll pay whoever shows up. Even offer him a drink—if he’s a drinking man.”
    Vicki Sloan put her hand on the doorknob and stared up at him, still furious. “I wouldn’t disappoint him, if I was you. He gets nasty vicious, he does, when he’s disappointed.”
    She opened the door and went through it followed by Sunday Smith, who paused just long enough to say, “You don’t have the money, Rollo, he’ll cut your fucking heart out.”
    When they had gone, Dunjee closed the door and turned to survey his wrecked room. He thought about calling down for maid service, even for some breakfast, but decided against it, sat down on the bed, and lit a rare cigarette. A minute later he put the cigarette out and lay down. Three minutes later he was asleep.
    He was still asleep when the determined knocking began on his door shortly before noon. It took several long moments before Dunjee became fully awake. He concluded that he felt somewhere between awful and terrible. He let the knocking go on for another few seconds, then rose and went into the bathroom to inspect himself in the mirror. He looked even worse than he felt—which was the way he expected to look. After splashing some cold water on his face and half drying it with a towel, Dunjee went to the door and opened it.
    The man who stood there wore a gray tweed jacket and a ferocious scowl, but at the sight of Dunjee the scowl dissolved into a sad, lopsided grin. “God save us, lad, will you be dying on me this morning?”
    â€œI might,” Dunjee said. “Come on in.”
    The man followed Dunjee into the room and glanced around at the bottles and the smeared glasses and the twisted sheets. “Had a night of it, did we?”
    â€œYou her pimp?”
    â€œI’m just a lost soul, brother, with the sad misfortune of being in love with a whore, and I’m fair dying for a drink.” He took out Dunjee’s passport and tossed it onto the writing desk. “My compliments.”
    Dunjee climbed onto the bed, reached up, and removed the air conditioning grille. He took out his wallet, put the grille back, and stepped back down to the floor. He opened the wallet as though to check its contents and let the man catch a glimpse of all the hundred-dollar bills it contained. “Let’s have that drink,” Dunjee said and started counting out ten of the bills.
    The man turned toward the bottles. He was not quite as tall as Dunjee, but wider and at least seven or eight years younger. He had thinning blond hair and too