“You can never be overdressed,” said Inga, “you might need a bathroom.”
“I’m sure there will be enough bathrooms at Pebble Beach.”
“There are never enough bathrooms, especially where there is money. The sinks get better and the towels are cloth, but there are half as many stalls, and such people take twice as long. I think just to prove they can.”
I was counting on it.
“And your plan,” she said, “will depend on it.”
Inga was a survivor. Gorgeous, vain, judgmental and condescending, she had German-accented fluency in five languages. She was Audrey Hepburn with a bleached crewcut and two switchblades, one in her purse, the other for a tongue. The first was for cutting cheese. She carried a pocket ashtray in her pocket. She’d never earned a dishonest dollar, what dollars she’d earned. She’d also never passed up a guest house in St. Tropez, or Buenos Aires, or Gstaad, even if she had to drive nine hours in her 2005 Boxster S. Whenever she disappeared for too long, there was a truer story than what was told, or a man whose real name wasn’t Laszlo Kiss, and often both.
She would be the perfect accomplice for what I had planned:
The Oceans 11 of car theft.