“What do you need?” she asked through clenched teeth.
The man had scrambled in his pocket for something, pulling out a small, clear, plastic baggie and passing it to Julianne who shoved it quickly in her pocket.
“That’s Rohypnol. Put two tablets in his drink. It’ll knock him out completely in a little less than half an hour, which means you’ll have twenty minutes to take him somewhere quiet.”
“I’m not going to—”
“No. You don’t have to do anything with him. In fact, you don’t even have to get your face in the pictures. Just take some compromising shots, you know? His hand on your leg, a couple bottles of booze surrounding him. Loosen up his tie and mess up his hair. Lipstick on his collar. He’s rich, you know? And good-looking. He’s been able to present himself as this paragon of virtue, but he’s not. He’s not a good man. Just make him look…you know—”
“Bad.”
“Bad,” confirmed the man with a satisfied smirk.
“Expose him,” she whispered passionately. “Ruin him.”
Black-hat nodded. “Exactly.”
She nodded, the idea of playing some small part in ruining this terrible man felt like a responsibility, suddenly—like her duty. Her mind skittered back to the wad of bill in the man’s wallet and she wished she could do it for free, but the $500 would help cover her rent for the next two months.
“Yeah. I’ll do it.”
The man passed the phone to Julianne with a brief nod. “I’ll be here—right here by the dumpster—at ten o’clock. I’ll wait ten minutes. If you’re not here, I’ll assume the deal’s off and I’ll leave.”
She’d placed the phone in her uniform pocket, next to the tablets. Looking up, she’d searched Black-hat’s eyes, looking for reassurance. She didn’t find it. She didn’t find anything. His eyes were dark and cool and closed, which gave her misgivings.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know he’s bad?”
The man smirked at her as he started backing away.
“Show me your friends and I’ll show you who you are,” he said. “You’re about to meet some really choice, elitest assholes, sweetheart.”
Brooks Brothers’ mean smirk flashed through her mind. Well, he’d certainly been right about that.
“Jules?” said Joe, snapping her thoughts back to the present. “You need anything else?”
She looked down at the now-full tray, her eyes alighting on the double shot of Dewar’s that she was going to take to Christopher Winslow.
“No,” she said, pulling the tray to the edge of the bar and slipping the tablets discreetly into the scotch as soon as Joe turned around to start on another order of drinks. She swirled the alcohol with her finger, watching the tablets start to dissolve. “I’ve got this covered.”