by Greg Arritt
Alongside the dark-red welts were several bruises that were purplish in color and bordered by a tinge of yellow. Side by side, the hue of the welts and bruises produced an almost sickening contrast. Yet, the strange meshing of discolored tissue wasn’t nearly as unsettling as one particular welt. Not because it was any more painful than the others. They were all painful to some degree and they would all heal without causing permanent scarring, including the welt across his midsection. It wasn’t the welt that was the problem, but its location. The distorted image of Redding as a cello had reemerged in the mirror and the welt across his midsection magnified an unsettling aspect of the image. It served as a bow being pulled and pushed across the cello, almost as if receiving this welt had been preordained. As disturbing as the image was, he couldn’t seem to look away. He just kept staring until steam rising from the shower clouded over the mirror and the image faded.
The shower did little to revitalize his spirits or dampen his exhaustion. He cautiously dried himself, careful not to damage the surfaces of the welts. Between drying off and dabbing ointment on the abrasions, he called room service. By the time he had finished with the abrasions, chicken soup and a grilled cheese sandwich had been delivered.
His stomach was slow to accept each bite, but the nutriments were vital to the healing process. The soup was acceptable but the cheese sandwich was tasteless. Although he had only eaten a small amount, what he had ingested brought on a heavy sleepiness. He surrendered to the bed and soon fell into the depths of sleep.
* * *
Once again with the shrill ring of the phone, Redding was instantly jarred awake. He sat up, slightly disoriented. It took him a moment to acclimate to his surroundings. Again he looked at his watch and it was already a quarter past four. Then he lay back down, rolled onto his side, and reached for the receiver.
“Red, this is Yves.” Yves waited for a response, but none came. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, but we have to talk about this buyout.”
For the most part Yves was predictable. Normally, Redding liked that about him, but not right now.
“I thought this was going to wait until I got back,” Redding said, decidedly irritated. He tried to reassemble their previous conversation in his head, but nothing unusual stood out. He couldn’t fathom why Yves all of a sudden was in such a hurry.
“Well, it’s like this,” Yves said. “I’m moving the company to Arizona.”
“Arizona? Goddammit, Yves! What the hell is going on?”
The whole purpose of traveling to China was to find the painting and circumvent the buyout, but apparently Yves thought that the buyout was a foregone conclusion.
“Well, here’s the thing. I have three clients in Arizona. These are grade “A” clients, but they will only do business with us if we are accessible. That means only if we are in Arizona, but the move is going to be expensive.”
Redding felt the weight of Yves’ words as they landed on him. As far as he was concerned, any trust between them no longer existed. He certainly couldn’t cover his share of the expenses needed to move the company, which meant Yves would have to come up with all the necessary funds. That wasn’t a problem for Yves. He had plenty of money.
Redding’s whole body tensed as if he had been backed into a corner, but now he knew what Yves had been working on for the past eight weeks.
“You’re not moving anything anywhere until I get back,” Redding said. “Goddammit, Yves! You’re supposed to be my fucking partner!”
“Listen, Red. I know I should have told you earlier, but if we don’t do something soon we’re going to lose it all. We’re going to be holding hands with K’Myles in bankruptcy court. Any chance we could resolve this right now?”
“I don’t think so. I’m kind of pressed for time.” Without saying so much as goodbye, Redding slammed down the phone.
He bailed out of the conversation only because he couldn’t stand to hear Yves say another word. While he had been busting his butt to save the company, Yves had been busy setting himself up in Arizona. If he could have reached through the phone he would have knocked Yves’ teeth down his throat. As pissed as he was at Yves, the whole conversation literally served as an awakening. He had a more pressing issue to deal with and that matter centered on Joran.
Still sitting next to the phone was the Meridian Plaza Hotel business card with Joran’s name and room number written on the back. With the receiver positioned between his head and shoulder, he dialed Joran’s hotel and requested room number sixteen-thirty.
“Hello?” Joran answered with uncertainty.
“Meet me in the bar, your hotel, in thirty minutes!”
“Who is this?”
“You know goddamn well who this is!”
* * *
Redding arrived fifteen minutes ahead of their scheduled meeting. His early arrival wasn’t without purpose. He selected the same cluster of chairs that they had occupied two days before. He settled into one of the high-back chairs and ordered a scotch and water. He may have been on Joran’s turf, but he needed to convey the impression that he was in charge. With a panoramic view of the lobby and elevator foyer, he wanted to see Joran coming. The idea of being blindsided twice in one day didn’t sit well.
He watched as Joran crossed the lobby, entered the bar, and slipped into an opposing chair. No pleasantries were exchanged. The divide between them held an uncomfortable silence punctuated only by the sporadic rattle of ice in Redding’s glass. He posted a hardened stare set directly on Joran, as if to advertise the darkening purplish contusion that semi-circled the lower portion of his left eye.
Joran shifted his body uneasily, as if he might bolt from his chair at any moment. The waitress approached, expecting to take drink orders, but Joran rudely dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
“What time is it?” Redding asked.
“Huh?”
“The time?”
“It’s five o’clock,” Joran said, leery of the question and unsure of his answer.
“Well, that means it’s ten o’clock in the morning in Avignon, France. So, if I call Le Musee Angladon, they’ll be answering the phone,” Redding said as he swirled the ice cubes in his drink. “As you can see, I met your friends and they delivered your message. That is, if I understand it correctly, that you’re no longer interested in the painting. So there’s really no reason not to make the call and be done with this whole mess.”
“Take it easy, all right? There’s no need to get so upset! So what, you got smacked around, but you can’t exactly blame me. It was you who ripped me off.”
“That’s the way you see it? Well, here it is, straight up! If you think I’m going to put up with your bullshit, you’re wrong. You do anything stupid like that setup this morning and I will make the call. There won’t be any more chances. Any screw-up on your part and the painting is gone.”
“That’s it?” Joran asked. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. He was being let off with only a warning.
“Nope! There’s more! That beating I took today, it doesn’t come cheap. It’s going to cost you another hundred thousand.” Redding dropped his stare and sipped his drink.
“Are you kidding me?” Joran blurted out.
“Do I look like I’m kidding? You have about a day and a half left to wire two hundred and fifty thousand into each account and there won’t be any grace period. I’ve already had enough of you and your goddamn games!”
“You can get that money from Le Musee Angladon, so why are you offering it to me?”
“This way I don’t have to worry about taxes.” Redding said as he downed the last of his drink. “And if I see you or your friends again, all bets are off! The only way you’ll ever see that painting again is in a museum.”
“So what happens when I wire the money?”
“When I receive the money, you’ll receive the painting. It will be delivered to the reception desk in your name.” Redding abruptly stood up and left the bar, not saying another wor
d.
He knew he had him. He may have lied about the taxes, but lying was well within the boundaries. After all, Joran was no Boy Scout himself. He was so hungry for the painting he would have believed anything, or more succinctly, he was hungry for the money the painting would bring.
* * *
As an extra measure of protection for the painting, Redding had been precluded from frequenting the Tae House. It was part of their original arrangement and it had been at Sam’s insistence, but apparently that was no longer necessary. Redding could only wonder if the exclusion had been put in place for an alternative reason. Protecting the painting was a valid concern; still, he wondered if the exclusion had anything to do with Lin Ming.
He had no idea where Sam had stashed the painting. That had also been part of the original arrangement, and it was also the part that made him a little uneasy. He wanted to know but, sporting a black eye, he thought it was probably best not to ask. Still, he couldn’t help but worry about it, knowing that Joran would have done almost anything to have it back.
* * *
The afternoon crowd had overwhelmed the teahouse, effectively leaving Ting swamped behind the counter. As Redding passed through the door he waved to her. Sam was seated at his usual table preoccupied with correcting students’ papers. He hadn’t bothered to look up but must have noticed Redding through his peripheral vision. He raised his hand, motioned for Redding to sit, and then signaled that he was almost finished by holding up his index finger. He was setting one paper aside and reaching for the next when he glanced up. He stared for a moment almost in disbelief and then leaned in to get a closer look at Redding’s shiner.
“Holy Christ! What happened to your eye?” Sam asked.
He had to know that the black eye was no accident, and for Redding that represented a potential minefield. If he wanted to keep his plan from unraveling, he had to take care in what he said. He couldn’t afford to have Sam do anything stupid, like surrendering the painting. So he lied from start to finish.
He passed the whole incident off as a minor scrape between himself and Joran. He never said a word about the Chinese boys, the severity of the beating, or the threats. He didn’t like lying to Sam, but Sam didn’t exactly have the stomach for that kind of thing.
“He came up behind me and threw a solid one,” Redding said. “Don’t worry. He’s not going to try that again.”
“How can you be so sure?” Sam asked.
“Well, he’s not about to risk deportation, not while the painting is still in China. Besides, I told him I might be open to a partnership arrangement if he’s got a buyer. He’ll eventually figure out that I’m not serious, but by then it will be too late.”
“So you’re thinking maybe another couple of days?” Sam asked.
Redding nodded and Sam seemed a little more at ease, but he continued to pick away at some of the lesser details surrounding the fight. Redding continued to supply answers, but the longer the discussion lasted the more likely he would be caught lying. So he tried to shift the conversation away from the beating.
“So, how’s Lin Ming?”
“Just forget about her! For Christ’s sake, it’s over.”
That was pretty much the response that Redding had expected, but asking the question did provide an effective shift. It put Sam off his concerns, but only until Ting arrived at the table. Then she made a big fuss about his eye. She wasn’t so concerned about how he had received the black eye, but how it should be concealed. She disappeared behind the counter only to return a minute later with a small jar of base makeup. She handed the jar to Redding.
“Just dab a little there and there,” she said while pointing to the darkened area under his eye. “Then, lightly smooth it out with your finger.”
“If you still want me, I could teach English tomorrow?” Redding asked Sam, taking another stab at changing the subject.
As if the black eye had never happened, Sam instantly resumed his role as a teacher. He immediately launched into a class-by-class synopsis of lesson plans. Imposed over the lesson plans was a convoluted schedule that seemed to make little sense. Redding feigned interest as Sam expounded on educational theories, and only half listened to the longwinded dialog about the usage of proper English in the classroom. He quietly suffered the lecture, but at least Sam’s concerns about the beating had been sidetracked.
Three steaming bowls of soup with noodles were delivered to the table. Redding had made an offer to buy dinner, but apparently Ting couldn’t leave the teahouse. He lifted the spoon from the bowl and slowly slurped the soup while Sam continued with his never-ending monologue about teaching. Still feeling the effects of the pummeling to his midsection, his stomach accepted only small quantities of soup at a time.
He may not have completely waylaid Sam’s fears, but at least Sam was sufficiently distracted. Redding forced down a few more noodles. His issues with Sam were manageable, but that wasn’t what worried him. He still had a deep-seated uneasiness about running into the Chinese bikers again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Redding had gone to bed thinking he was none the worse for the thrashing, but it wasn’t until the next morning that he understood the severity of the beating. He dragged his aching body out of bed, slowly reawakening all of the muscles that had tightened during the night. The welts across the back of his legs were especially painful, making it nearly impossible just to hobble to the bathroom. It took an application of ointment and ten minutes of painful stretching before he was finally able to walk with a degree of normalcy.
He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and reassessed his injuries. He was pleased that there had been some overnight improvements. The welts had pretty much given up their swollen tissue for a lesser form. He pressed his fingers against the bruising on his chest and midsection, which produced a moderate level of pain. He closely inspected the engorged blackened tissue just below his eye. The swelling had mostly subsided, but the discoloration was even more pronounced. Then, as if right on cue, the image was in the mirror.
“Well, Mr. Cello. What surprises do you have for me today?”
Redding had fallen asleep dreaming of Lin Ming, but sometime during the night she had faded away and the cellos returned.
He showered using only lukewarm water so as not to irritate the welts. After drying off, he applied ointment only to the areas where the skin had been lacerated. When he finished with the welts he turned his attention to his black eye. He leaned in close to the mirror and spread a thin layer of the base makeup that Ting had given him across the discolored tissue. He dabbed an extra amount onto the darker areas, but on close examination it did little to hide the damage. He hated that he had been reduced to using cosmetics, but he understood the necessity. Redding stepped back from the mirror and took a second look. At a distance, the discoloration had all but vanished under the opaque concealment. If he wore a pair of reading glasses, few would ever notice the shiner.
* * *
The hotel’s circular drive was lined with taxis, but Redding held off his departure. Only a day into the healing process, he wasn’t about to take any unnecessary chances. He scanned his immediate surroundings and assessed the street traffic and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His intention was always to be cognizant of his surroundings, never letting down his guard. Adhering to that one precautionary measure could make all the difference in staving off another ambush.
Nothing unusual transpired between the hotel and the school. Thirty minutes later he was poised at the lectern of a fourth-grade class. A nervous agitation coursed its way through him, but it was his own fault. Out of desperation to obtain the painting, he had obligated himself to teach English. Originally it had seemed like an acceptable tradeoff, and it did solidify Sam’s participation in the luggage scheme, but Redding wasn’t without regret. He slowly began to work his way through the lesson plan. Nearly ten minutes passed before he could allow himself to relax. The students had either not noticed his black eye or they didn’t
care. With their young faces focused on him, they all seemed receptive to the material he was presenting. For the first time, and only for a brief moment, he actually thought of himself as a teacher.
Following the fourth-grade class, he moved to the third grade and then to a fifth-grade class before the lunch break. He ate with Sam and all the while received additional pointers on teaching English. After lunch his next assignment was the first-grade class.
As with the previous classes, his attention was drawn into the gaze of the students from the moment he entered the room. He approached the lectern, opened the lesson plan, and quickly glanced around the room. On one side of the classroom was a row of windows and on the other side was a bulletin board that displayed students’ work. At the front of the classroom, posted above the blackboard, was the obligatory picture of Mao Zedong and a Chinese flag and across the back of the classroom were shelves for the students’ belongings. That had been the standard for all of the classrooms with one exception. In the first-grade classroom, hanging high on the back wall above the shelves and wrapped in clear plastic, was the painting “A Man with a Cello.”
The sight of the painting hanging on the rear wall, although well out of reach, gave him the shivers. It had been a bold move on Sam’s part to hang the painting there. The classroom offered limited protection, but no one other than the first-grade teacher and her charges would ever see it. When Sam said the painting was hidden where no one would expect to find it, he wasn’t kidding. It was certainly the last thing Redding expected to see hanging in a classroom. He pulled his thoughts together and focused his attention on the lesson plan.
Chapter Twenty-Eight