Business

by J. P. Meyboom

  Distracted, I started down the street in search of the subway entrance I thought was at hand. Keep moving, I told myself, a moving target is harder to hit. So, I was startled when Marla charged out of the lingerie shop and crashed into me. On impact, she toppled to the ground. A bag of lacy red panties exploded over the sidewalk.

  “Hey, fuck you!” she said, wild hair in her face. “Watch where you’re going.”

  Marla was riled. Marla had her street face on. Marla was ready to slug somebody.

  “Marla,” I said. I stopped my flight to collect her silks.

  She blinked. Stunned. When she recognized me, she said, “Didn’t I just dump you?”

  I said, “I guess so.”

  We both laughed a little. Awkward.

  “I didn’t expect to bump into you so soon,” she said.

  “Weird,” I said, “running into you like this.”

  We laughed some more at our dim wit.

  I said, “You all right?”

  She straightened her clothes. “No harm done,” she said.

  I scrunched her girlie underthings into the bag and handed it back. For a moment, a terrible yearning to feel her skin on mine again eclipsed all my fears.

  “Sorry about this,” I said.

  Her face sparkled in the late sun. A long black shawl swept over her shoulders like a slow wave on the open sea. She gave me a once-over.

  “You’re looking dapper,” she said. “Bruises healing. New threads. Handsome, indeed.”

  “I needed some clothes. Lost everything in the fire the night you left.”

  “I heard the news,” she said. “I didn’t set fire to your building.”

  “No,” I said, “but your Russians could’ve done it. I have a bad feeling about those guys.”

  “Those two Russians? From that night?”

  “They didn’t want you. It’s me they’re after. Hornsmith has us in a fix, and these guys are involved. He’s going to die of cancer any day now. Which leaves me their only target.” I glanced up and down the street. A sitting duck. “It’s a complicated story. For now, I need to get out of sight. Lie low. I wish I could get out of town.”

  She took my arm. Her eyes batted like some serious little bird.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. “Me and the band are going to Los Angeles next week. You could come along.”

  “Didn’t you dump me? How would that work?” Desperation drove me to consider any scheme that promised escape.

  “I did,” she said, “but if you’re in trouble, you can count on me. You’re my lover. I won’t turn my back on you because I dumped you. That’s how this works.”

  It seemed Lover Man had made good on his promise of a shot at a record deal. He had something set up in LA. The whole band was going for a few months. There were gigs to play and a studio to record in. Unbelievable to me that they’d sound any better in a controlled space.

  “He’s already there,” she said. “The thing is he’s got this car that he’d like down there. You could deliver it.”

  There had to be a hitch. Lover Man was a criminal. A drug-dealing smuggler. A killer and a punk. The car would likely be loaded with dope. Marla could be in on it. Setting me up. The idiot greeting card writer/dope courier. Saying she wasn’t mad to fool me but really so pissed that she’d send me on a death ride dope run for Lover Man. Still, it could be better than Courtney’s Russian mob rejects.

  “Drive his car to LA? And what would I do once I got there?”

  “Stay with us till you’re bored or it’s safe to come back. What do you say?”

  An insane plan. To hole up with Marla, Lover Man, and the band hundreds of miles from home. What good could ever come of that?

  “Where’s the car?” I said.

  “Here, in town. I’ll get the address and call you,” she said. “That is, if the Russians don’t get you first.” She laughed and touched my cheek.

  Sure, she was teasing me. And it could’ve been a trick. It didn’t matter. I wanted to believe what I wanted to believe. I told myself she still cared. Imagined we still had a shot. So what if that idiotic notion was wrong? Even if we didn’t have a chance, it made no difference. If Marla was offering a way out based on some lovers’ code she felt bound to, I’d take it. It wasn’t like there was a better plan afoot.

  “My phone burned up in the fire. I’m in a motel called the Havanap, in Scarborough.”

  Across the street, the entrance to the subway opened up. It’d been there all along. With no sign of bad guys around, I kissed her and made my move.

  “I’ll find you,” she said.

  In my view, Courtney became unhappy because of our attempts to blackmail him. The way Hornsmith called it, Courtney was a victim of his own greed; he had a soft spot, which we mined. It was a matter of perspective. The only undeniable fact was that our business with Courtney had run aground. For him and for us. The whole matter needed re-evaluation before Hornsmith died, leaving me holding the bag. A meeting would settle it.

  We met at a restaurant on King East. White linen tablecloths. Black-bow-tied penguins. Courtney waited for us at a corner table. He looked like he’d come from a tennis match: a yellow sweater over his shoulder to complement his yellow polo shirt. He played with a black opal embedded in a band of gold around his middle finger. A benign smile creased his face.

  Our entrance caused a stir with the staff because Hornsmith arrived in a navy-blue suit with golden epaulets braided over his right shoulder. He was on a cane. That bit was not part of his theatre. Also new since his escape from St. Mike’s was his hair. He’d shaved it right to the scalp and combed out his beard to puff it out like a hairy nest. No doubt he believed it made him look like a distinguished admiral. From my days at art school, Van Gogh’s crazy postmaster came to mind.

  In his haste to show his deference to Admiral Hornsmith, the maître d’ stumbled over his own feet and dropped the wine list on the marble floor. The clatter stirred Courtney from his trance.

  “Gentlemen.” He rose and waved the opal-ringed hand over the table like a magician at the outset of some complicated trick. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

  Hornsmith stood by the table. He offered a slight bow from the waist.

  “Dr. Courtney, always a pleasure.”

  Courtney paused to digest the vision of Hornsmith in this new incarnation while the maître d’ pulled out a chair. Courtney resumed his own place. The opal-ringed hand checked the back of his head for a misplaced hair before it swooped over to the bottle of rosé that lay on ice in a silver bucket next to the table.

  “Wine?” He pointed the neck at us like a weapon. “It’s from Niagara. Palatable.”

  I extended a glass. Hornsmith declined with a faint wave of his finger. Courtney poured us each a glass and drank. He rolled his tongue over his lips, which returned to their blissful smile.

  “Let me get right to the point,” he said. “I’m going to be forthright with you, because I’m no longer comfortable with the direction we are going.” He shifted in his seat, leaned over the table, and looked us each in the eye. “People from all walks of life come through my clinic. Some of them unpleasant sorts. I keep my contacts up because sometimes you need an unpleasant person for an unpleasant job. You understand. Recently, I hired some people who were supposed to deliver a message to you. A warning. I’d hoped to teach you fellows a lesson for meddling in my business and thinking you could so easily take my money. Regrettably, these characters have overreached their assignment. On their own initiative, they intend to harm you.”

  It sounded like a long-winded preamble to peace terms. The idea inspired a kink in my neck that I tried to massage out while I listened.

  “The fact is, these people I hired to deal with you have approached me with more dangerous and, dare I say, more imaginative plans for your discomfort.” He dabbed a glint of sweat from his upper lip with a white napkin. “In time, I fear they’ll propose ways to kill you. Of course, I don’t entertain these notions my
self, nor do I condone them. We’re colleagues, for God’s sake. Admittedly in difficult times. I’ve already told them I shall withhold their final payment if they continue in this manner. In the end, I fear I’ll be paying them to leave me alone. I’m sure of it. Meanwhile, there’s little I can do to discourage their campaign of terror. For whatever reason, they’ve taken a genuine disliking toward you. I’m sorry.”

  He’d unleashed the hounds. Now he absolved himself from the whole mess. Claimed this wasn’t his fault. Called us colleagues. Said he was sorry.

  “I’ll have the soup,” said Hornsmith after some silence. “Excuse me, I need to wash my hands.”

  He stood up, offered us another brief bow, and disappeared toward the back of the restaurant.

  Courtney eyed me over his glass. He slurped his wine and grunted to suggest it was to his taste. I finished the last of the bottle and said nothing. My indifference prompted him to wave over a waiter. He smiled and ordered another bottle of wine and the lamb. I asked for the steak frites and the carrot ginger soup for Hornsmith.

  “I liked you better as the stuttering writer,” Courtney said after the waiter departed.

  “Fuck you, Courtney,” I said. “See how you feel when they kick the crap out of you and burn down your house.”

  His lips twitched like he had a mouth full of vinegar.

  I ached to stick a fork in his shiny forehead. Gouge out his eyes with a soup spoon. Clobber him senseless with his armchair. Only the refined atmosphere of the place curbed my blood lust. Instead, I stared ahead in silence with my best simpleton face.

  I reflected on Marla’s offer to leave town. What with Courtney’s confession that he was no longer in control of his thugs, and Hornsmith’s descent into dementia and death, it was time to leave. A gloomy notion, since I had nowhere to go except into murkier waters. The car deal could be a trap. Maybe the only difference between Marla’s criminal pals and Courtney’s thugs was that Lover Man and Eagle Creek weren’t out to kill me. Yet. Frustrated, I felt I needed to hang out with a better class of criminal.

  Hornsmith stayed away for ages. By the time he returned from his visit to the toilet, the food had arrived. I detected a trace of white powder in his beard under his reddened nostrils.

  “Soup.” He pulled at his pearl cufflinks and giggled.

  “Good.” Courtney bit into the lamb. Blood trickled down his hairless chin. “There is one other thing.” His mouth rolled, full of red meat. “I’ve been approached by the man named Trang. You know each other. He says his family has money in Vietnam. He wants to make a substantial investment in the Washington project.”

  Hornsmith puffed up. “Trang’s our client. We brought him to you.”

  Courtney swallowed and cleared his throat with a gulp of wine. “You’re a dating service. Trang is looking for a long-term business relationship. That’s me. You’re out.”

  The steak was pan-grilled in butter and garlic. A perfect medium rare. Coarse salt and black peppercorns ground over top. Freshly made mayo with the fries. The food was the only good thing about the afternoon so far. If Courtney had it right, Trang had changed sides. Cut us out of our own deal. With Hornsmith on the outs, Trang proved pragmatic in the face of facts.

  “He’s police,” I said.

  Hornsmith tapped the table for emphasis. He said, “Police with dubious intentions. Probably corrupt and certainly dangerous.”

  “Who cares?” Courtney said. “I have a financing partner now. The project that stalled due to your inactivity is back on track because I seized an opportunity. I’ve closed a deal you almost let slip by.”

  To me, Trang was indeed a dangerous cat who’d probably lured Courtney into a Faustian pact. Trang’s motives were unclear. So was the real source of his money. He’d allowed us to know only part of the picture. He had an agenda. The Trang Agenda. Courtney swallowed it. Good riddance to them both.

  “You need us,” said Hornsmith, “because part of our service is to determine the suitability of the people who come to you. We’re your filters. We protect you. If you’re determined to move ahead with this, we’ll take the high road. Go with God. And if it should come to an undesirable outcome, we warned you.”

  “Thank you,” Courtney said. “Lunch is on me today.”

  Afterward, we said our goodbyes in the rain on King Street. My new suit was sodden. A crystal raindrop dangled from Hornsmith’s nose.

  “I told you everything would be all right.” He scanned the afternoon rush hour for a westbound cab. “We have the upper hand.”

  “I’m not sure how,” I said. “Courtney’s hijacked our only other client, and he’s unleashed a pair of criminals he can no longer control. How’s that a win?”

  “Where you see the leaves, I see the sky in between,” Hornsmith said. “You need to take another perspective, Latour, set new priorities. We’re free to chart a new course.”

  The way I understood it, we’d lost everything. I shivered in the rain. For once, I couldn’t share Hornsmith’s enthusiasm. To me, the future looked bleak.

  There was no sky between the leaves. There was no way that was clear. There was only trouble ahead.

  The next few days were spent holed up in the Havanap Motel with the blinds closed, living like a fugitive. The TV on. A stack of greasy takeout boxes grew on the floor. I felt brittle and blue. Abandoned by luck. Kicked to the curb. Unwanted. I couldn’t go far into the world in case the Russian thugs found me. Besides, there was nowhere to go. Hornsmith hadn’t been to the office since the night the ambulance took him away. There was nothing to do there. My only hope was for Marla’s call while I dreamt of the warm Pacific surf. Those days, that’s how it was.

  When the phone finally rang, it wasn’t Marla. Instead, it was Katherine, Hornsmith’s wife, who’d tracked me down to the Havanap Motel. She said the number was scribbled in his notebook. Turned out I was easily found.

  She sounded calm.

  “He’s tripped,” she said. “He’s fallen down the stairs. You should come, if you can.”

  From her tone, I sensed no urgency. I should’ve splurged for a cab. I didn’t. So, by the time I’d dressed, travelled the bus, ridden the subway, and strolled the last bit to his house, Hornsmith was no longer there.

  “I’m sorry you missed him,” Katherine said at the door. “For a while it looked like he’d stay.”

  She led the way into the living room, gaunt and pale in her tartan housecoat. I glanced around the familiar room, unsure what she meant. His books were all lined straight on their shelves, the coffee table was oiled and polished. In the corner, his unfinished chess game waited on an end table. I sat down next to her on the sofa. She wrapped her arms around herself and spoke like there was someone in the next room she couldn’t disturb.

  “He was walking around upstairs in his smoking jacket when he stubbed his toe on the railing and came down the stairs,” she said. “I was sitting right here when it happened.”

  “Came down? Like how?”

  “He fell. It sounded like a big watermelon rolling down the stairs.” She choked back a sob and pointed to the landing near the front door. “When he landed there at the bottom, he gave a little laugh and said, ‘Oh shit.’”

  She shook her head in disbelief. I looked to where she pointed. A bit of worn oak floor with a Persian runner. I couldn’t picture it. The calm house was silent, except for a cheery little radio playing pop tunes somewhere on another floor. She sat motionless, her arms still wrapped around her torso.

  “What shape was he in?” I said.

  “He couldn’t move. I called 911 before I called you. When they came, they strapped him to a board. He died before they could lift him.”

  “He died?” This was a misunderstanding. The notion that Hornsmith would exit on an accidental fall down the stairs was inconceivable. I’d expected something more elegant. More theatrical. More in line with the way he’d lived. Not a mishap on the stairs. She must have had it wrong.

  She said, “He broke
his back in three places.”

  “Shit. That’s terrible.”

  “Not so bad,” she said, “because it’s unlikely he felt it.”

  “Why? Did he go that fast?”

  Her eyes teared up. She held her hand to her mouth.

  “He was so drugged that it’s likely he had no idea where he was.”

  “Drugged?”

  “Yes,” she said, “the paramedics said he was high. They said his pupils were dilated and he had some type of crack pipe in his pocket. They showed it to me.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him,” I managed without much conviction. “Did they say what he took?”

  “They couldn’t tell by looking at him. Later, after they left, I found a package of white powder in his dresser,” she said. “I don’t suppose you know about that?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Her voice wavered. “My husband was no angel, in so many ways. And that speaks volumes about your own character. You might fool other people. You don’t fool me. I’ve been around this business for a long time. You’re all cut from the same cloth. You’re liars.”

  I hadn’t killed him, even if my hand was in it somewhere. I kept it cool. Lying didn’t make sense anymore. Not that the full story had to be told, either. Still, the situation called for a little clarity. A shred of truth to help her get the right picture and to contribute to my own absolution.

  “It came from a business connection,” I said, “a new client. He’s in the restaurant business. He wants to get into the hospital project with us.” From the look on her face, I saw she had no idea what that meant. “Anyway, he seems connected. He offered up the dope for when the pain became unbearable.”

  She stood up and looked down at me.

  “I don’t care about your schemes,” she said. “I have my own problems. I’d like you to close down the business. Take whatever you need to carry on with your life and sell off the rest. I’m done with all of it.”