Business

  “No,” I said, “because we don’t know what’s needed. It’s in case you’re away when the time comes.”

  “Planning, then?”

  “Exactly.”

  He stared at them a while before he took out his fountain pen. Poised to sign, he said, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said, “this is going to help.”

  He nodded. Okay.

  “I can’t say what the balance is,” he said. He passed the signed cheques back. “There’s less than a hundred grand. Pretty sure. I suggest you get them starched before passing them on.”

  “Thanks. And that guy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’ll figure it out.”

  “He will?”

  “Yes, he told me so.”

  “Good.”

  He pointed at the chessboard.

  “That’s set up for shuffle chess,” he said.

  “You told me that when I came in.”

  “I did?”

  “Play on talent, not on memory. Bobby Fischer said.”

  “Lost his mind.”

  “Indeed.”

  THIRTEEN

  Trouble in the Night

  AFTER OUR LAST mistimed experience, waiting for Marla in a bar until she was ready to leave appealed less to me than waiting outside the dentist’s while someone screamed behind a closed door. Besides, the possibility of running into Courtney’s thugs cramped my enthusiasm for being out more than necessary. Marla could wait till another day. By ten at night, the Ellington was the only place I wanted to be.

  The lights stayed off to make it look like no one was home. In the dark, a glass of J&B and a victory joint by the window celebrated Hornsmith’s signatures on the blank cheques. An inspired play. A plan had started to shape up. Fortune seemed in my favour for a change.

  He’d said there was under a hundred grand. This meant possibly eighty or ninety. Even with only thirty, things would be better than they were now. It was exciting to catch a glimpse of hope. The only thing to do now was to get the cash and elude Courtney’s thugs long enough to escape town. Soon there’d be a higher grade of Scotch to pour and a more secure sanctuary to hide in. That was the new order of business.

  The phone rang while I scanned the parking lot through the night-vision binoculars for enemy movement. At the same time, someone knocked at the door. I ignored the phone. Grabbed the bat. In the hall, Rachel called out my name.

  “Who’s with you?” I said through the closed door.

  “Nobody. I’m alone.”

  One of those security peepholes would’ve been useful.

  “I’m returning something to you,” she said.

  Odd. She didn’t have anything of mine.

  “I’m not missing anything.”

  “You dropped something the other night.”

  When the locks popped open, she stuck her hand in under the chain. Akinwole’s voodoo amulet. The menacing bent nails glowed blue.

  “I found it after you left.”

  I took the amulet through the chained door. It felt rough and heavy in my hand.

  “Seeing you this afternoon reminded me of this thing,” she said after I removed the chain to let her in. A lemony breeze followed her. “I don’t want it in my apartment.”

  I checked the empty hall behind her and secured all three locks once more.

  “You have all the lights out,” she said.

  “Lights are out, somebody’s home.” I flipped the kitchen light on and off like it was a joke. “Would you like some Scotch or some tea?”

  “Tea’s nice. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Go nuts.”

  She lit a cigarette and said, “A lot of people are freaked out by the fact I still smoke.”

  “I’m not.” The kettle rattled over the gas flame. “Lots of people still smoke. French girls smoke. It’s part of their allure.”

  “It is?”

  “There’s something that turns me on about kissing a girl with smoke on her breath. Something defiant about her.”

  “Huh.” Smoke swirled about the kitchen. “That’s kinky, Paul.” She sat up on the counter. “Ashtray?”

  I passed her a chipped coffee cup. “Use this.”

  She dabbed her cigarette on the lip of the cup. The kettle whistled.

  “Kissing a guy with smoke on his breath is disgusting,” she said. “It’s like kissing a guy who hasn’t shaved.”

  I poured boiling water over the tea bag while she smoked and talked in her singsong voice.

  “Sugar?” I said.

  “Three, please.” She shifted her weight. “That two-day-growth look looks dirty. Sometimes I see guys and get the urge to shave them.”

  “And that’s not kinky?” I said.

  “What? No. It’s basic hygiene.” She blew into the cup to cool the tea.

  “So, you’d shave me now? For hygiene?” I said while I rolled another joint.

  “Yeah.” She cocked her head sideways to examine my face from a new angle. “You need a shave.”

  We shared the joint in silence. From time to time Akinwole’s amulet glowed on the counter. It reeked of bad luck and ancient curses. That thing was going back into his hands first thing in the morning. No need for that juju majick here.

  She jumped off the kitchen counter after we finished smoking the joint.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure,” she said, “the night’s shot anyway.”

  The phone rang again while we headed into the bathroom.

  “Don’t touch the lights until we’ve closed the door,” I said. “Russians are looking for me, and they’ll see I’m home if the lights go on.”

  “What an exciting life for a guy who lives in a roach-infested dump.” She didn’t buy it, I was sure. Still, she left the lights out until we were both in the windowless bathroom with the door closed behind us.

  Outside in the apartment, the phone rang again.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” she said.

  “No,” I said and sat down on the toilet. “It’s only bad. These bastards are serious people.”

  She giggled. “You’re insane.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, “they’re still going to hurt me. The gear’s above the sink, if you’re keen to give this a try.”

  She opened the mirrored medicine cabinet. “A straight razor. How quaint.”

  “I like a close shave.”

  “Towels?”

  “The one on the rack’s almost clean.”

  She held one finger under the tap to check the water temperature.

  “Better take your shirt off. Otherwise you’ll get soap splashed all over it.”

  She lit another cigarette. I disrobed.

  “You’re going to smoke while you shave me?”

  “It relaxes me,” she said. “When I put a razor to a man’s throat I need to be relaxed.”

  She fumbled with the shaving cream. Not the confident moves of a barber ready to lather up another customer.

  I said, “It’s best to use the brush to get some hot water on the beard first. Then lather the cream over the face with the hot brush. Start like that.”

  “You’re not the first man I’ve shaved,” she said with the cigarette between her lips.

  She ran the razor through the lather over my right cheek. Cautious. She frowned. She was tentative. My jugular was in no danger of being slashed. She lacked the pressure and the authoritative swipe a razor requires to get it done.

  She squinted through the smoke at my whiskers. When she leaned toward the sink to rinse the blade, her breasts grazed my nose. Lather from my cheek streaked her black T-shirt.

  “Take your time,” I said. “Get the feel of it.”

  “Sure. I shouldn’t hurt you,” she said. “It would be bad for business.”

  She held up the razor with one hand, pulling the cigarette from her mouth with the other. She eyed her handiwork. With the
razor she tapped my Adam’s apple and looked me in the eyes. She said, “You do this hard bit in here.”

  I put my hands on her hips to draw her in closer. She didn’t resist.

  “You do it.”

  Neither of us moved. Outside someone hammered at the front door. I slid off the toilet and turned the lights off.

  “Stay here.”

  In the dark, at the entrance, I pressed an ear to the door. Nothing. With luck, they were already gone. Then a force crashed against the door outside like a steel I-beam jolting through my temple.

  “Open up, Paul. You got to be home!”

  Marla. Hysterical.

  “They’re coming for me.”

  She pounded again like she meant to hammer right through the wood. Trouble. And me shirtless, all lathered up with Rachel in the bathroom.

  “Marla, stop it. I’m opening up.”

  She sobbed when the door swung open. “Why didn’t you come tonight? Why didn’t you answer when I called?” Her hands clutched a purse across her chest. “You were supposed to come. Nothing would have happened.”

  I wrapped my arms around her and drew her in from the hall. She heaved and sobbed, unresponsive to my touch.

  “I told you, I had to see a sick friend. Come. Whatever it is, Marla, you’re okay now,” I said. “Nothing will happen to you here.”

  That earned a faint hug.

  “I was afraid to go home,” she said. “I called you to come get me. There were two guys hanging around after the show.”

  “What kind of guys?” I said.

  “Dickheads.” It seemed to me Marla always attracted dickheads.

  “So, what happened?”

  “They kept trying to make me go with them for drinks. The more I said no, the more they pawed me. I tried going out the back of the theatre. They had that covered. One guy grabbed me outside.”

  “How’d you get away?”

  “I bit the fucker’s ear off.”

  “Clean off?”

  “I didn’t stay to see. There was blood.”

  I flicked on the kitchen light to check if she showed any signs of a struggle. It was hard to tell. She was in a silky black tank top and skirt, her hair the usual mess. If there was blood, it didn’t show. She could’ve wiped it off.

  “I ran for a cab,” she said, “and tried calling you again. The fuckers followed me in an Escalade. I couldn’t go home.”

  My pulse picked up speed.

  “Were they Russian?”

  “Maybe. Yeah. They were assholes. Tattoos. Bling. Shaved heads. Baggy pants. Mouth-breathers. Knuckle-draggers. Cave dwellers. A big guy and a little guy.”

  Her sobs subsided.

  “You’re okay now,” I said, my arms still around her.

  “Except,” she sniffed, “they’re outside.”

  A sharp current lit up my spine. My breath grew shallow. She broke from our embrace to look at me.

  “You were shaving?”

  She touched my soap-smudged cheeks.

  “What’s going on? Have the Russians landed?” Rachel came into the kitchen with the razor in her hand and a smoke in her mouth. The two eyed each other for a moment. Marla took a stance and crossed her arms. It would’ve been good to vanish in the ensuing silence. Marla wouldn’t see this right. Rachel smiled.

  I said, “Rachel, this is Marla. Marla, Rachel.”

  “Is this your sick friend?” Marla said.

  “No, Rachel lives upstairs.”

  “I was returning something,” Rachel said.

  Marla looked at me for an explanation that didn’t come. She had me off balance. I couldn’t manage a sensible word. Instead, I went to the window for a look outside.

  There were a few cars in the lot, including a white Escalade with shiny silver rims. Through the night-vision glasses, I saw two guys beside the truck. Like Marla said: silver chains and shaved heads. Jeans fashionably lowered by heavy pistols, or else they’d shat their pants. The truck pumped hip hop. Silver and white disco ball lights flashed inside like a nightclub. The guys smoked. They shuffled their feet. I fiddled with the focus and brought them in. Heavy Guy and Underbite shared a bottle from a brown bag. I called Marla over to the window and passed her the binoculars.

  “These your boyfriends?”

  She peered through the lenses.

  “Yes,” she said, “those assholes.”

  She handed back the binoculars. I took another look. I guessed they’d figured out my relationship to Marla. Followed her here. Now they had to figure out which building she was in. If they’d known that, they’d have been up already. The Ellington was still safe, for now.

  The night they’d almost kicked me to death, there hadn’t been a chance to get a real look at them. Now I could study my tormentors at leisure. Heavy Guy had the shape of a large animal, like a hairless yeti that had recently learned to walk erect. He turned his coconut-shaped head with jerky moves, his nose to the wind for a scent of his prey. His left ear bloodied.

  Underbite didn’t look so dangerous. A short, wiry monkey. Past midnight and still in sunglasses. Wanker. They seemed to loiter with purpose. Like they planned to camp here.

  My back muscles twitched in memory of my beating. These assholes made me tingle and tense. They made me grind my teeth. They inspired loathing with a purity of heart that seemed impossible. I went back to the kitchen, where both women loomed like a pair of owls. They eyed me. They eyed each other. No one said anything. My hand clasped the castiron handle of my eight-pound skillet on the stovetop. That felt good. A weapon.

  “Paul?” one of them said.

  The time to talk had passed for me. I floated out the door. Shirtless. Barefoot. Stoned. Shaving lather still on my face. A simple plan had formed. I’d become the instrument of justice for Marla. Happy to settle the score with my tormentors. I was off to wreak havoc on my enemies.

  Outside on the street, I channelled Hornsmith’s words. Conflict was a tactical choice, he’d said. The best strategy was to crush their plans, he said. Conflict. Tactical choice. Crush. I’d slept on the church steps soaked in piss and blood and lived. These animals had no idea who they’d stirred up. These punks were out of their league. Emboldened, I felt bona fide dangerous.

  I picked up speed. I walked right at the pair by the white SUV. The skillet stayed close to my side, behind my leg. Their guard was down. My heart was up. The rocks in the parking lot cut into my bare feet. Grounded me for what was to come. The city sounds fell away. My breath stopped.

  They leered at me in recognition. The Heavy Guy lowered the booze bag and wiped his maw with the back of his hairy hand.

  “We looking to party with your girlfriend.” His voice sounded like he was under water. “Now we have you. Better.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Party.”

  I hit him with the skillet square on his forehead. He dropped the bag. The bottle inside the paper bag popped on impact with the pavement. He sagged to his knees. Another blow slightly higher up on his skull did it. His eyes closed. He arched his back. His arms spread out like he was ready to fly. Then he fell to the ground, face first.

  That’s how it works. Take down the big guy first. Excited, I swung around and crashed the skillet into one of the truck’s halogen headlights. More glass exploded. I pounded on the hood. The skillet was made for this. I walked toward the back of the truck. There was no turning back. This is how people murder one another. This is how it’s done. Underbite knew it. He could see the blood lust in my swings. He cowered on the other side of the truck. His face in the side mirror showed open-mouthed panic. Bloodied by the mayhem I’d created, every molecule in me screamed for me to kill him.

  “Holy shit,” Underbite said under his breath. He scrambled to get into the truck and lock the doors. When he had the engine started, there was a moment of uncertainty. To drive away, he’d have to run over his friend’s body.

  Blinded by a new set of headlights that swept the parking lot, I paused in my work. My free hand shielded my e
yes from the light. It was a taxi. A figure lumbered out of the back seat. Slow. Sure. Steady. The figure sprouted wings of light in the flare of the taxi’s headlights. Underbite and I stared at what approached. Intervention. Retribution. Salvation. They were all upon us.

  “Whatever is going on here, brothers, two wrongs will never make a right.” Backlit, Akinwole’s massive body emerged from the shadows.

  “Akinwole?”

  He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck like a bad dog.

  “You,” he said to Underbite, “pick up your friend. Put him in your car. Go. And never return.”

  Underbite wordlessly jumped out of the truck, went over to the Heavy Guy, and helped him off the ground and into the truck. Heavy Guy moaned across the back seat.

  “And you” — Akinwole shook me by the neck — “what has come over you?”

  The SUV tires crunched on the gravel. We watched the thugs roll away. They didn’t linger.

  Akinwole put me down.

  “Let’s go inside before the police show up,” he said. “Come. Can you walk?”

  I nodded. I trembled. He put his arm around my shoulder. I surrendered. Together we went into the Ellington, which embraced us with its customary cloak of security. Wordlessly, we mounted the stairs to the second floor. Outside our respective apartments, we paused.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You are sometimes an asshole,” he said. “Still, you are my friend.”

  “I am. You are,” I said.

  We both laughed a little.

  There were two notes on the kitchen counter. One was from Rachel: Hope you didn’t get hurt any more than you already are. R. The second was from Marla: I saw why you didn’t answer the phone. I’d be crazy to hope we had any sort of future. Take care. Goodbye. Fuck off. Marla. PS: Thanks for getting rid of those guys.

  I trashed the notes and turned off the kitchen light. In the dark, the amulet glowed on the counter.

  FOURTEEN

  Fire!

  SOMEONE RETCHED IN the parking lot below my window. I was sleepless in bed, with Marla on my mind. Since we’d first met on the last day of my old life, she’d made indifferent efforts to keep us together. It was mostly up to me to go down to the well. Call her. Miss her. Follow her around like a lovesick dog bearing tokens of my affection. Guitar strings. Poems by Pablo Neruda. Silver bracelets. Bottles of wine. She’d reciprocated only once with a miniature Spanish dictionary. Everyone could stand to learn another language, she said. The bedside bottle of J&B had a couple of fingers left. The amber toxin swished around my gums. It burned going down. It offered no relief. She was trouble. I was going to miss her.