‘Beep beep beep beep – beep beep beep beep.’
The blonde in the bed moaned lightly and rolled over to her left exposing Mylo’s BlackBerry. Silly bitch had been lying on it.
He snatched it up.
‘Yeah.’ Mylo rubbed his gritty eyes with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Who is this, dude? It’s six o’clock in the frickin’ morning.’
The voice on the other end sounded distant and unfamiliar.
‘Can I speak with Mylo? I’m afraid I don’t have a surname.’
The accent was clipped. British, he thought.
‘Yeah, it’s Mylo. It’s just Mylo. No surname. You know, like Madonna and Prince and stuff. Anyway, who did you say this is?’
‘I apologise for calling you so early. I do hope I didn’t disturb you.’
‘Nah man, it’s no biggie. I was only just about to have a three-way with a trio of the hottest, most famous chicks in Hollywood.’
He could almost hear the caller smiling.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Mylo – may I call you Mylo?’
‘Whatever, man, it’s my name, right?’
‘Well, Mylo, correct me if I’m wrong but I’ve got you down as a Ferrari man, no?’
Mylo rubbed his throbbing temples. He needed hydration. Grabbing a used mug from the sink he ran it under the cold tap and gulped back the contents.
‘Ferrari? What the … listen, is this some kind of sales pitch? ’Cause if it is, I’m hanging up right about now.’
The caller interrupted.
‘Now don’t tell me, you’re an F430 man? A thrill-seeker, yes? You like a responsive machine with superior speed and lots of pizzazz. Or are you more of a connoisseur? In which case you’ll prefer the 612 Scaglietti; elegant and sophisticated, a thoroughbred race horse of a drive. But you know what I’m thinking, Mylo?’
‘Dude, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about … who is this?’
The voice ignored him.
‘I’m going out on a limb here, Mylo, but I’m thinking the Ferrari 599 is the car for you. A GTB Fiorano. Red. A classic 12 cyclinder configuration, iconic in its style. The ultimate performance car. Superlative, purposeful yet refined luxury. Just on the right side of flashy. Perfect for pulling the ladies and making that all important first impression. Am I right, Mylo, or am I right?’
Mylo scratched his head, bewildered. The Ferrari 599 was indeed his dream vehicle. Just thinking about what a pussy magnet a piece of machinery like that would be gave him a semi hard-on. Still, how did the dude know about his love for the big F? Mylo came back down to earth with a start.
‘Listen, er, whoever you are. I know you’re probably on commission or some shit, but the birds are frickin’ tweeting right about now and I got just about fifty bucks to my goddamn name …’
‘Look outside your window, Mylo,’ the caller said. His clipped British voice had taken on a slightly malevolent tone to it now which prevented Mylo from immediately hanging up.
‘Listen, dude, how’d you get my digits anyway?’ He could not recall handing his number out to anyone who didn’t own a pair of silicone breasts in months.
The caller’s voice softened.
‘Let’s just say I’m your Fairy Godfather, Mylo. So be a good boy and look outside your window. Tell me what you see.’
Intrigued by the strange, authoritative voice, Mylo walked towards the window, tentatively pulling back a little of the curtain fabric from the window so as not to expose too much of himself; what if there was some sick fuck waiting to blow a frickin’ great hole in his cranium? Perhaps it was the husband or boyfriend of some chick he’d screwed – after all, he never thought to ask any of them if they were single. Mylo was nervous. And then he looked down onto the pavement.
In place of his old 1991 Chevrolet Caprice, which he’d inherited from his mother upon leaving home some two years ago, parked on the kerb was a gleaming, glossy red Ferrari 599, sparkling like a ruby in the dust against the rest of the standard family saloons that belonged to the neighbourhood.
‘What the …?’ Mylo shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’m still frickin’ dreaming, right?’
‘You see it, Mylo? You see the car?’
The emotionless voice on the other end of the phone brought him spinning back to reality.
‘Yeah, dude. I see it. It’s the 599. It’s a fucking awesome ride, man, but what’s it doing parked outside my apartment?’
There was a slight pause before the caller casually announced, ‘It’s yours, Mylo.’
Mylo absentmindedly took another swig of water from the mug and glanced at the catatonic blonde, her peachy butt proudly on display. He still had to be dreaming, right?
‘I ain’t ordered no goddamn car, man. You got the wrong address or something.’
‘86th Street, Jackson Heights, New York, USA – that’s right isn’t it? That is your address, if I am correct.’
‘Yeah, dude. That’s right. But like I said, I didn’t order no Ferrari. Man, I can’t even afford to order pizza right about now.’
The caller laughed but it had a hollow, almost sinister ring to it that caused the hairs on Mylo’s arms to stand on end.
‘Now listen to me, Mylo,’ the voice said softly but sternly. ‘Listen very carefully. That car you see parked on the kerb right outside your apartment block indeed belongs to you. At least, it could if you do exactly as I tell you and don’t ask questions, do I make myself clear?’
Mylo nodded.
‘Yeah. I hear you.’
There was a pause on the line and for a second he thought the caller might’ve hung up.
‘I believe you’ve been hired to shoot the new L’Orelie commercial. Is that right?’
‘Yeah, dude, that’s right,’ Mylo replied, wondering what the hell it had to do with anything.
The L’Orelie shoot was the gig that was about to pull his sorry ass right from the doldrums and propel him into the big time. It was just pure luck that a couple of months ago he’d been at a W magazine party and ended up boning some older chick who turned out to be the CEO of L’Orelie no less. She’d taken quite a fancy to him; promised him she’d help him out with his career, get him on track with some of the big players. She’d been a bit of a goer in the sack too, even teaching him a few new moves, which was no mean feat.
‘You’re test shooting someone by the name of Imogen Forbes, yes?’
Mylo couldn’t think straight. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand.
‘The British chick? She was big, like, years ago, right?’
‘Yes, that’s her.’
‘Dark hair. Dark eyes. Pretty damn foxy. Lips like pillows. I’ve seen some old shots of her.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The voice was growing tetchy.
‘What about her?’
‘I want you to make sure that she is not successful on the shoot, Mylo. By that I mean she must not get the L’Orelie contract – not even a look in. Do you understand?’
There was a silence while Mylo digested this information. The line crackled.
‘I’m not interested in how you might