by J. Calamy
“I like you, Graves,” Nick said, shaking his head in disbelief. “But you are kind of a bastard.”
Graves shrugged, smiling like a shark. He didn’t say anything else so Nick went inside.
The game ended with a victory for the others, but no one seemed sore about it. They decided out of nowhere to go down to the marina park to play a match. Nick, beyond delighted, if not quite clear on the rules, was lightning quick and perfectly willing to stiff-arm his best friend Tony right in the sternum.
“Damn boy,” Bishop said, “you can be on my side any day.” Nick’s face lit up and Graves caught his gaze, cocking a brow as if to say: see?
Nick mouthed “You’re an asshole” at Graves and went back to the lineup. He was drinking in the compliments and shoves and jokes and hugs like a man dying of thirst. The sheer visceral thrill of the game more than made up for the ribbing about American football he endured.
Until Graves came out of nowhere and tackled him flat, taking a few extra seconds to rub grass in his hair. Nick burst out laughing, yelling breathless curses, struggling to get free. Graves’s booming laugh made his whole torso shake.
“Goddamn it, Graves,” Nick said, popping up like a cork. “You’re too fucking big to be sneaky. Where did you come from, you no-leg motherfucker?”
“Your blind side—and I will again, you little shit,” Graves barked before they all lined up again.
It ended with a scuffle and singing and more drinking. Nick stood in front of the mirror after his shower, admiring his bruises. He hugged himself; he could hear the party continuing out on the main deck. He was wobbling with physical exhaustion, happier than he had been in longer than he could even remember.
*
N2T
Nick looked at his phone, puzzling what the text meant. Not To Think? Never Too something? He didn’t recognize the number and decided to ignore it. He had woken around ten, sore and happy, ready to start a new day. Charlotte asked for his help with some books and he settled on a chair by the rail to work. Until this text came. N2T Nothing To Take? What does that mean?
“Nick! Oi, Nick!”
It was Bishop— He was naked, shining with sweat, red-faced and breathing hard. He pointed at Nick with his radio.
“Don’t make him wait!”
“What the fuck? Put on pants you—”
“Why should I? I’m fucking my Tony! Now get to kaihe upstairs!”
“What?” He assumed to kaihe meant your ass, but he didn’t follow what Bishop was saying, averting his eyes. Bishop’s body was all hard planes and bad tattoos, the hair on his chest as grey as it was brown.
“N2T!”
“What?”
“Nick To Tops! Get up to the tops you muppet—he’s calling you!”
“I don’t work for him,” Nick snapped, affronted. I’m here to help Charlotte with—”
“Boy…”
“I ain’t no man’s boy,” Nick warned.
The Boss’s voice came over the radio.
“Where the hell is the American? Send him at once!”
“Told you.” Bishop looked smug.
“Gimme that,” Nick snatched the radio out of Bishop’s hand. “Hey, asshole!” He shouted into it.
“Erickson, is that you?”
“Yeah, and you don’t get to summon me like some flunky who—”
Bishop grabbed the radio back.
“Sorry, Boss! He’ll be along sharpish—”
“No! You ask me nice!” Nick shouted in the general direction of the radio and sat back down to his lists.
Next thing he knew, he was being snatched up. Bishop and Tony, thankfully in shorts, hauled him bodily up the stairs, despite his curses, kicks and twisting arms. They lost him twice, once right at the end. Nick, incensed, landed a jab across Bishop’s cheek that knocked the old man flat on his back.
“What in the blazes!” Came a bellowing roar, and they all froze, their fists raised, limbs tangled. It was Graves, bulling toward them, shirtless and brick red with anger.
Nick had a moment of perfect clarity, seeing Major Nelson Graves of the New Zealand Special Air Service as the big man drew himself up, face a thunderhead. Bishop and Tony scrambled to their feet.
“Master Sergeant! Get this mayhem under control! Are you in command of this crew or are you—” He went on at length, switching languages at least twice. Graves had a big voice. It echoed off the marina’s walls, scattering the seagulls, and sending the other two men scrambling down the stairs. Even though the tirade had not been directed at him, Nick caught himself standing straighter and tugging his shirt when Graves turned his way.
“Hello Mr. Erickson,” Graves said smoothly, fighting a smile. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“Oh, my absolute pleasure,” Nick snapped, but Graves’s grin was contagious, eyes full of mischief. He gestured for Nick to follow him.
“My tailor arrived this morning with my new suit. I invited you up to see if you needed a proper one. He could measure you here and now.”
Graves wore loose linen pants, hanging low on his hips, very low. The wide band of a jockstrap was clearly visible. Walking behind, Nick’s gaze trailed down the wide planes of his back. And to the tangle of hideous scars over his left hip.
Nick tried not to look at the scars and failed. Repeatedly. They were bad, very bad in some places, but Graves had a strong ass. Paler than the rest of him, with a deep divot at the top of—
“It’s rude to stare,” Graves said coldly, and Nick snapped his head up.
“I wasn’t—”
Graves cut him off, indicating the man who came bustling toward them.
“Nicholas, this is René Toussaint, my tailor. René, this is Nicholas Erickson, from America.”
“Very good, Monsieur le Comte, I have arranged everything for your valet.”
“I’m afraid my valet is rather more than a thousand nautical miles from here,” Graves laughed. “I shall have to manage on my own.”
Nick shook his head.
“You sound like that guy from Downton Abbey. The earl?”
“Well, sorry to disappoint you,” Graves said, pulling on an undershirt. “I’m afraid I’m only a baron.”
“Whatever,” Nick waved him off. “I’m American and I don’t care.”
“Pity,” Graves said. “I could make you a prince if you asked me nicely.” Before Nick could answer, Graves went into the adjoining room—presumably to get his clothes on.
René gestured to a low wooden stand positioned under the curved skylights. It was directly before the wood monstrosity of Graves’s desk. A mirrored screen had been arranged on each side. The sunlight would have been brutal but it was diffused by some polarization in the glass. The room was bathed in soft golden light, which complimented the art on the walls, a display of bronzes, shelves of old books. Nick looked around, openly curious. Other than the obvious opulence, there was nothing to indicate it was Graves’s space. Not one photo? Not one personal detail? Look at that fucking lamp— That isn’t his.
René was a tall, wiry man, with a shock of gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He was in a white shirt with a trim vest patterned in vivid blues. He gestured again, but Nick had no idea what he wanted.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what to do here.”
“Ah, pardon,” René said. “One moment.” He snapped his fingers.
“Patrick?”
“Coming!” A young man appeared, carrying a box. He also wore a vest and a bow tie in matching blue silk, both embroidered with flowers.
“I will help Lord Graves,” René said. “Patrick will explain.”
“Please remove all your clothes and stand here.” Patrick said, gesturing to the stand.
“What?” Nick said, panicking. “Naked?”
“No, no, down to your undergarments, please.”
“Oh, okay.” Nick was glad he had the fancy new ones Jeanne had paid for. But this was a very different experience. Why would Graves do
this for me? I hate feeling like their pet charity case. He glanced at the door, at the stand, then back at the door. Did he really need—
“Well, well, glad I’m not missing this.”
Graves was back, straightening his tie. It was ink-black over a cream shirt with a crisp high collar and a black vest. His pants and the jacket held up by René were a deep, dark blue.
Graves had changed into black-rimmed glasses and his cuff links were black chips of rough stone. He looked—Nick swallowed, realizing he had frozen like a rabbit. The grass-stained and joking friend from the day before now felt like a dream.
“You all right there, Mr. Erickson?”
“Yeah, no, for sure, but maybe this isn’t a good…” Graves didn’t seem to be listening, shrugging into the jacket René held.
The tailor smoothed the lapels with brisk strokes, muttering to himself in French.
“Magnifique,” he said finally, standing back.
“It is rather good,” Graves said, adjusting his cuff links. “I didn’t think the blue would answer, but it is rather good.”
“Wot, wot, old chap,” Nick laughed, “I say.”
Graves shot him a dirty look.
“Strip, peasant,” he said, with a jerk of his chin. Nick didn’t take it seriously. He could tell when Graves was joking. The lines in the corners of his eyes gave him away. Maybe the rugby guy isn’t all that far after all. He is just doing his Lord Graves bit.
“I was well overdue for a new suit,” Graves said, turning to see himself in a side view.
“What for?”
“Mr. Erickson,” Graves said, catching Nick’s eye in the mirror. “Who are you spending Saturday with?”
“I dunno, maybe my friend Roger Yeung, go to that new hawker pavilion. Why?”
“This Saturday I am having lunch with the Sultan of Brunei, his son the crown prince, and the president of Malaysia.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, rather. So you see, I need a new suit, while you are fine with that hideous thing Jeanne bought you at Colette’s.”
“It’s not hideous! It’s um…some kind of boss something. Howard Boss? It’s nice.”
Graves, René, and Patrick all laughed.
“René,” Graves said, turning side to side. “How soon can you put this boy into something decent?”
“Two months.”
“Make it one. He is to be at an event of Jeanne Kyaw’s for New Year’s.”
“Oh dear, you should have said. A month and two fittings.”
“See my quartermaster if you want to fly in Jules and what was that girl’s name?”
“Monsieur le Comte knows her name perfectly well,” René said dryly. “Since he was gasping it behind the screen last time she was here.”
“Traitor,” Graves said. He took off the jacket and held it out to Patrick, or presumably to where he thought Patrick should be since he dropped it without looking, making the boy scramble.
“Monique,” Graves said dreamily. “Vicious thing. She handles the accounts. I had to make sure all my bills were paid.”
“Pfft, espece de pute.”
“Hey I know that word!” Nick said, snapping his fingers. “He just called you a—”
“I speak seven languages, Mr. Erickson. I assure you I know exactly what le vieux pédé said.”
“Why am I here?” Nick asked. “Aside from witnessing what an absolute tool and enemy of the people you are?”
“Have you been talking to Anatoly?” Graves asked, rolling his eyes.
“Who?”
“Never mind. He’s a filthy oligarch who talks like a communist. He frequently says I am the enemy of the people.”
“You are. I come from a proud union family. Both my parents are lifers in the IAM Local77.”
“How dreadful,” Graves said, his eyes vanishing in his smile. He threw himself into the leather chair and pulled out his cigarette case. “I’ll have you all enslaved in my mines—teach you a lesson.” He lit a joint, rolling it between his fingers. Nick thought of their time at the awards ceremony.
“Ignore him,” René said. He paused, considering. “Tu sait? ‘Please ignore le Comte de Diarmuit et Cuylon’ is a phrase I must say depressingly often.”
Graves didn’t seem too upset by this. He held the joint out to René who took a drag before passing it to Nick.
“Might as well,” Nick said, taking a long drag. “This can’t get any weirder.” He stripped quickly, trying to do as René said and ignore Monsieur le Comte sprawled in his chair. Graves didn’t say anything as Nick undressed, but the air got thin, and Nick caught himself wiping his palms on his hips.
“Turn around! You aren’t even going to pretend to be polite?” he said. Graves blew a stream of fragrant smoke up to the ceiling.
“Not for all the jade in Burma”
“Dick,” Nick said, cross and embarrassed. René’s touches were brisk, professional, and entirely platonic. But Graves’s gaze felt like a hand. A memory surfaced, vivid. He was nineteen, on his college swim team. The locker room came to him, with its mix of homophobia and juvenile bullshit.
“I had a guy look at me like that once,” he blurted. He closed his eyes. “Never mind. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Tell me,” Graves said, his deep voice quiet, chin on his hand.
“I was a swimmer, pretty good too. Guys were being stupid, like in the showers you know?”
“I boxed at university. I remember.”
“Well there was one guy. He ignored everyone else. But he looked at me like…” Nick gestured vaguely at Graves. “That.”
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing. I guess I let him. Look, I mean. Gave him a show? I dunno.”
“Did that bother you?” A crease appeared in Graves’s brow, shifting his tattoos.
Nick sighed, closing his eyes—this time not because he was embarrassed—but remembering. He turned as René pushed him.
“No. I didn’t mind somehow. It’s hard to remember those years now.”
“Indeed,” Graves said.
“Well, we have everything we need,” René said. He and Patrick handed Nick his folded clothes and began packing their things, pointedly ignoring the two men. Nick was still remembering. I pretended I didn’t notice. Just took slower showers, maybe posed a little. It was flattering.
He studied Graves, still relaxed, temple resting against his curled fist.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Nick pulled his shorts back on.
“I’m beginning to wonder,” Graves answered. A frown line appeared again, and he drummed his fingers on the desk. “Not about being nice, but about how easily you’ve slipped into my crew.”
“I like them.” Nick jerked his shirt on, defensive. “It ain’t just about buying a jersey.”
“That’s true,” Graves said. “But I’m not sure. No matter what René says, I am very selective about who I spend my time with. I have very little to myself. My children, their mothers, my family in New Zealand—they have priority of course. My business dealings—”
“The Sultan of Brunei,” Nick said.
“Yes, even him,” Graves said. “But despite that, and our inauspicious first meeting, I think I like having you about the place.”
“Well, that’s flattering,” Nick said, rolling his eyes.
“I don’t flatter.” His voice took on an edge and he stood. “Now run along. I have a nasty week ahead of me. I’ll make sure René has your number. He’ll bring everything to Jeanne’s.” He went over to the desk, back to Nick, clearly a dismissal.
*
A nasty week was right. Graves had barely slept, the pain in his hip and his worry blending into nightmares that woke him up sweating. Now he could barely follow what Bishop was saying.
“The Americans are crossing the border, not many—a few small teams, with Thai Army,” Bishop said, tapping the screen to reveal the next image. It was grainy, stolen from an Indian satellite. But it showed the road above Chian
g Rai clearly enough, and the high pass into Burma. A couple of trucks, some SUVs, and a Jeep, all driving hard enough to make a trail of dust that swept off over the trees in the image in a series of gray triangles.
“This is Mac’s doing,” Graves said. “He is up to something.”
“I think it’s bullshit,” Bishop said. He went to the next image, showing the same vehicles going the other way. “He knows we are in Singapore. He is waiting for us to do something. Make some move.”
“It will be Hong Kong,” Graves said. “Chow got the schedule changed. He will be bringing that ship in himself. Let’s see how Louie Tang reacts when we’ve slipped his net. Send Mac back to Texas.” Graves leaned back in his seat, loosening his tie.
Bishop was watching him, tapping his pen against his cheek.
“Sonny,” he said, his voice softer than anyone outside their circle would believe. “When are you going to let us kill that son of a bitch for you?”
“Please don’t ask me that.” Graves said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I have enough to think about. There is something wrong. Something I am not seeing. I can’t… I can’t see it.”
“Theroux was hard, Sonny,” Bishop continued. “I see you hurting, eh. And you been stuttering.”
Graves waved that off. The stuttering was just part of his aphasia. He was lucky it wasn’t more severe. It was almost helpful, in a way. He knew when he stuttered that he was going to lose words and had better stop talking. Half his reputation as the strong silent type came from being forced not to talk. No one but the horsemen knew, luckily.
“I am still trying to understand it,” Graves said, stabbing his finger onto his desk. “Theroux has been in the game with us since the aughts. Why did he even do it?”
“Joe Stinton was pissed as,” Bishop said. “I never seen him so mad, eh.”
“I’m worried about him,” Graves said. “Louie Tang and Mac are obviously up to something. It’s risky having someone so close to me in Hong Kong right now.”
“Bah, Joe’s an old hand,” Bishop said. “Remember when he and Colin did for that bank? Cool as a cucumber our boy was.”
There was a moment’s silence. Colin. Who you showing off for, Major? That was the other thing wasn’t it? The thing that was keeping Graves from enjoying himself. Theroux’s betrayal was hard enough. But it was almost Colin’s day, and it was an anniversary that hit them all hard.