This afternoon I sold twenty grams of grass to that guy who plays with the Iena, I think his name is Alan, then ten tablets of ecstasy to those cabbaged clubbers that Leo introduced me to the other day during happy hour and another twenty grams of coke to the posh kids from the Frigidarium, sons of local businessmen and restaurant owners who called me urgently when they realised the weekend was looming. The LSD trips I gave away yesterday evening at Maffia, except for one I kept for myself and that I'll take soon, when the effect of the popper has worn off, and I've still got a few tablets of ecstasy left.
In the meantime Greta, Tony's girl arrives, with Manuela, Melissa and Mina. Greta is wearing a tiny top that leaves her stomach bare – piercing in her navel – denim Max Mara miniskirt, fishnet tights and thigh boots. She's stratospherically cool. The other girls are all blonde, slim and toned and they are wearing little cashmere jumpers and super-clingy leggings that show of their aerodynamic silhouettes. They sit with us and immediately order drinks, while we listen to Fatboy Slim singing Praise you.
Greta asks if I know where Tony is and I say I have no idea. The barman prepares the drinks and the waiter brings them over and Claudio shows off, paying with his Visa. The girls are posing. Greta is nervous and taps on the table. I wink at the DJ who smiles at me from his podium, the lights suddenly go off and everyone applauds.
"Another round?" says Claudio, seeing that there is only ice left in our glasses.
The four girls nod like Siamese twins and I propose a collective Piňa Colada. I get up and go to the bar. The barman puts the pineapple juice, coconut milk and rum into the blender adds crushed ice, turns on the blender holding the lid down with one hand and pours the result into glasses, decorating them with half slices of pineapple.
I take three tablets of ecstasy from the inside pocket of my sheepskin jacket and crumble them into the glasses for Greta's friends, then I carry them personally to the table.
The three carbon copies start sucking their drinks through straws. Claudio gets up and comes over and he asks if I have any coke and I say 'yes' and we go to the toilets.
YOU ARE READING
LAST CUBA LIBRE
General FictionIf you're looking for a gripping read, look no further than "Last Cuba Libre". Meet Jessica, who's a bit of a slag. Claudio, who rocks designer threads and snorts lots of cocaine. Then there's Tony, cruising in his Porsche, leaving a trail of broken...
