“I’m dying!” Her voice echoed into a stainless steel toilet bowl and Ginni vomited for a second time.

“You’re not dying. You just should have stopped after that last shot,” Brandy, an aspiring model-actress type, reassured. “Don’t mix. Me, I only ever drink champagne.” Brandy was filing lines of cocaine. She paused and took a snort. “Whatever the guy is buying is fine as long as it’s French, none of that Napa piss.”

Ginni emerged from the stall, her teased hair tousled and her fuchsia lipstick smeared. She stumbled over to the row of mirrors.

“You look like crap,” Brandy told her.

The restroom door opened and an obviously intoxicated couple entered. Not good! Brandy positioned her skinny body in front of the even skinnier lines of coke. She needn’t have. The couple had very little interest in narcing on anyone. They were up to their own share of risky business.

The woman looked like she’d just stepped out of a Duran Duran video—tall, golden-skinned with long shimmering black hair, and a supermodel’s body, a surgically-enhanced supermodel, but still a supermodel.

The guy barely skimmed her shoulders and had more hair on his chest than his head. He wore a grey, very shiny suit with the sleeves rolled up and a sharp crease in the trouser. He’d accompanied the suit with a neon pink muscle shirt. Three slashes across the torso revealed even more chest hair.

Brandy would have had to be pretty much comatose to even let him sit next to her. So what did Rio-woman see? His hand was shoved far down into her red dress. When he saw Brandy and Ginni and the two rows of coke on the counter, he removed it and saluted. Okay, mystery solved. He wore a Rolex. The watch and his hand disappeared back down into the folds of the red silk.