by J Jordan
“Do you know Samuel Draimorn? Saber Sam to his friends.”
Jacob Duffy’s reaction was too subdued to be natural. This was a trained response. Kinsey caught the flexing jaw and the wandering eyes. Jacob always seemed to look away when there was something he wanted to lie about.
“No,” lied Jacob, looking at the table. “You said Sam Draimond?”
“Draimorn,” said agent Salinger. “He owned a Mr. Fixer off of Grendel, midtown Lanvale. There was always something funny about it too. People would drive their cars in for oil changes and the like, but they never came by to pick them up.”
“It was a chop shop,” said Kinsey.
Jacob Duffy nodded. Kinsey could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He looked at the table again.
“We shut down Sam’s operations last month,” said Salinger. “He wasn’t sharp in the least. But he was thorough. He kept records of everything.”
Kinsey took Draimorn’s records from the file and placed each in front of Jacob. There were five in total.
“According to this, you dropped off a sedan, March of last year,” she said. “Routine oil change. And you never picked it up.”
“Your name was not on the title. Apparently, it belonged to Jennifer Redwall. She was selling the car. It could be she just never got around to changing the title.”
“She reported it stolen,” added Kinsey. “You dropped off two more in June, a week apart.”
“Again, no Jacob Duffy on the titles,” said Salinger. “One of them belonged to Ellen Kleingrove. A retired school teacher. That’s low, mate.”
“You waited out July, dropped another off in August, then another in September.”
“The last one was Regina Sonna’s first car. Imagine that. Having your car stolen at sixteen. What would you tell your parents? Hello, Mum. I need a lift. My car’s been stolen. A scummy ponce, most likely.”
“What does this have to do with Romney Balvance?”
Kinsey watched Jacob Duffy for a moment. He held her gaze for an entire second, before moving down to her hands on the table, then the small area of table in front of him.
“Nothing,” she said. “We just thought you should know.”
“These interrogations are less about learning new things,” added Salinger, “and more about confirming what we already know.”
This is what they knew, courtesy of recently declassified documents from the Ontaran Intelligence Bureau. They knew Saber Sam had a contact in the Smoak family named John Avernon, alias “Dear John.” Dear John had lost a quarter of his network when Sam was busted. He still had things that needed doing, things best described as burglary, but he had no more wheelmen. Luckily, Jacob Duffy had dodged the heat.
Duffy was good. He knew all the back roads around Lanvale. And he had job experience. In these new gigs, the car was already stolen for him. All he had to do was drive. He enjoyed a successful career under Dear John’s protection. Successful, but brief.
“This is where you start telling us about Balvance,” said Kinsey.
Kinsey watched Jacob Duffy unravel. His shoulders slouched and his head stooped. Just one more hit.
“We can protect you, Jacob. But only if you tell us everything.”
Jacob leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.
“Balvance is new. Nobody’s heard of him,” said Jacob. “Dear John calls me up and says this guy has a gig ready. He just needs a driver.”
“And you say yes.”
“It’s the details that really hooked me,” said Jacob. “Apparently, this guy found a bank no one’s heard of, caters to wealthy types, right smack dab in the middle of Lanvale. After a week, Dear John tells me a date and a time. And he says Balvance is really specific about the attire. Suit and tie. He provided the mask.”
“That branch has been there for twenty years,” said Salinger. “How could you overlook it?”
“No one knows,” said Jacob. “There are banks all over Lanvale. Bigger banks, better targets. But Balvance wanted to hit that one.”
“No one else knew him,” said Kinsey.
“Only Dear John knew Romney Balvance. I’ve met a lot of people through Sammy, small and big. But I’ve never heard of him. He’s a new player. That’s all I know about him.”
Kinsey rose from the table and moved to the door. This was what she feared. No one knew Romney Balvance, so no one knew where to look. Jacob Duffy was their only lead, the only one with ties to the Smoaks. And now she had to send him off too. The Balvance case would prove difficult. She had no idea.
Agent Kinsey turned for the door. Agent Salinger was close behind her.
“Where’s my protection?”
“It’s the maximum security wing of Lanvale Penitentiary,” said Kinsey. “You’re welcome.”
Romney Balvance and his New Associates
A plan can be a difficult thing to keep. It sometimes involves a lifetime of preparation. On occasion, it can take several lifetimes, like the Pyramids of northern Andar, which took over 300 years to erect. That is nine Andaran pharaohs, roughly 175,000 workers, and enough bound scrolls to fill an antechamber. A good plan takes time, dedication, and luck. Romney had exactly one and a half of these when he came up with his plan.
A plan can take a long time to prepare, but it only takes one thing to mess it up. In Romney’s case, it was two things.
The escape phase of Romney’s plan was an abject failure. There was no chance he would get away clean. Worse, he had just revealed the final profit phase to his new associates and they were interested. Romney’s plan was to sell the Katarin stone to someone he knew only as “the buyer” for a fantastic amount of money. He would contact the buyer the moment he had the stone and arrange a meeting for later in the week, to exchange the stone for the money. It was a one-time gig worth a beautiful 150,000 ON and possibly another gig in the distant future.
Now, it was worth a less attractive 50,000 ON.
Romney assured Cora that he knew the buyer was a renowned collector, someone who knew how to take care of precious things like a Katarin stone. He didn’t actually know this for certain, but he was convincing at the time. Cora named a few names off the top of her head, all of them wanted relic hunters, but Romney shook his head at these. This guy was better than those people, Romney reassured her. They were amateur hour compared to the buyer. This did little to ease her suspicions. At this point in the conversation, the three bank robbers were standing in the parking lot of the Lanvale Museum and arguing the specifics of how to split the money.
“You guys aren’t getting proportionate shares on this one,” said Romney, “It isn’t going to happen. This is my gig.”
Cora and Tykeso didn’t agree. This was plainly written on their scowls.
“But I found the stone’s location,” said Cora. “After hours of research. That should entitle me to a finder’s fee, at the very least.”
“And I saved you from bank ninjas,” said Tykeso.
“A savior’s fee for Tykeso. He has been a valuable member of our team.”
“You’re killing me here,” said Romney. “There won’t be any money left when you’re done.”
“You’re still alive,” said Tykeso. “You still haven’t thanked us for that.”
“I’ve spent weeks lining this up. I haven’t had a single gig for months, except for this one. This is my job. Today is my payday.”
“You aren’t the only one hurting financially,” said Cora.
This was true for Ms. Queldin. Doctorates in Camerran history don’t come cheap. Cora was diligent enough to pay for her undergraduate courses, but then she stepped up to the big leagues. Graduate school. This text won’t delve into the exact numbers of Cora’s student loan debt, but it can present the following numbers:
1) One semester at Lanvale Prime’s College of History, master’s level: 18,397 ON
2) One set of books for a master’s-level history class: 1,653 ON to 1,936 ON
3) One week-long seminar on a
ncient Camerran tribal hierarchy: 1,241 ON per day, meals not included.
4) One yearly subscription to the academic journal “Camerra, Then and Now”: 399 ON, or 1,199 ON for the Gold Tier Edition.
This text will not provide calculations for inflation and will not provide interest rates on certain student loans taken in the years 2010 and 2011. We leave these tasks to the reader. Cora’s share of the new payday would deal a mighty blow to the massive destroyer of student debt—assuming she didn’t eat, shower, or pay rent until her next job.
Romney was loaded by comparison, though he was considerably less loaded than a few months ago. At this point in his life, Romney was living off his savings. He never gave exact numbers for his finances, but one could do the necessary math if one were so inclined. This led many to believe Romney Balvance was a total cheapskate.
Cora and Tykeso would support this conclusion as a reflex.
“No. You’re not cleaning me out this time,” said Romney. “If we’re splitting it all, then we’re splitting it even. I get the same share you guys do this time.”
“Proportional to your participation,” said Cora. “Does that sound fair, Tykeso?”
“Very.”
“But this was my job!”
Romney was shouting now. He looked around briefly, then politely nodded to an elderly couple as they retreated to their car. Cora was unimpressed by the outburst.
“All in favor of proportional shares.”
Cora and Tykeso raised their hands. Romney’s hands were in his pockets.
“I can’t believe this. You’re really going to clean me out.”
“We want the money owed to us, for our hard work.”
Cora offered him the keys. They dangled ominously. These would be the terms of the deal. One set of car keys for all the money. There was no negotiating with these types.
Romney snatched them up.
“Fine,” he said, “but I keep the stone until we talk to the buyer. And I do all the talking. When the deal is finished, you guys get your shares. Not a moment sooner. And when this deal is done, you guys are out. For good.”
He pointed to Tykeso, though he wished he hadn’t. The elf’s glare was made larger by the strong jaw underneath it.
“We go with you,” said Tykeso, “and we collect our shares.”
Romney clenched his fist. Though, in retrospect, he realized it wouldn’t have the desired effect.
“I don’t steal from partners.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Tykeso.
“The point being we should stick together until the deal is complete,” said Cora. “That should alleviate any issues with trust.”
Romney’s plan was now completely shot through. He had two new associates who had forced themselves into his company, to take part in a payday they had no business in. Romney had several things in his original plan that he could no longer do, like heading out for a brisk jog around the neighborhood, grabbing coffee at his favorite café, collecting six figures for an honest day’s work, and then maybe catching a movie on his new TV. This plan had been the original plan, the one diving nose-first into the asphalt.
But Romney had a saying for this situation: “A plan can change, but it’s only ruined when you let it fall apart.” Believe it or not, this had been Romney’s motto for much of his life. It was a creed he had lived by for a long time. There was always something you could salvage from a bad day. Romney looked to his two new associates. The crashing sounds of his old plan were already fading from his mind. He would salvage something from this mess.
“Do you guys want coffee?”
There was no argument.
◆◆◆
The Underbrew Café was a nice coffeehouse. It was small and quiet, located in a nice part of downtown Lanvale, with only a few patrons minding their newspapers and a study group of five sleep-starved teenagers in the back. The Underbrew scene was a different story a half hour ago. Only moments ago, the throng of business people had flooded the small and quiet space in search of that aqua vitae, coffee. Like a tide, the morning rush had come crashing into the front counter, leaving the baristas for themselves. But the wave had just passed as Romney and his associates entered, leaving behind the bewildered survivors of the carnage. The barista who took Romney’s order still had the wild-eyed, thousand-yard stare of a woman who had seen true carnage. Her apron was riddled with coffee grounds and milk stains, the scars of the morning war. Romney ordered his coffee with room for cream.
“Do you have the Brewer’s card?” asked the barista, automatically.
“No.”
She reached instinctively for a stack of plastic cards on the counter, her gaze never leaving a point just beyond Romney’s left shoulder. Her expression said that these motions were part of her autopilot. The rest of her was still taking inventory of her sanity and would likely be there the rest of the day.
“Would you like to sign up and receive every eighth coffee on the house?”
“Of course.”
This produced a temporary glitch in the barista’s routine. After a moment of confused searching, she handed Romney a pamphlet. He noticed the coffee grounds in her fingernails, and in the grooves of her knuckles, and the flecks of coffee ground in her palms. He filled out the information, under an alias, and handed it over. After some pecking on her computer, the barista produced a new Brewer’s card. Romney smiled as he took the new card with his receipt.
“How do you like it here? Good hours? Big tips?”
The barista leaned in, and her brow twitched.
“The smell.”
Romney nodded. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk to her.
“It never leaves,” she hissed.
Romney nodded politely and moved away. There was nothing he could do or say to help her. He joined Cora and Tykeso at their table, where they nursed their own large paper cups. No one spoke.
The café had a hushed rhythm. The espresso machines burbled. A tall barista swished his broom behind the counter, his pointed ears pushed through his hairnet. He had the same frightened look as his partner. In the corner booth, the study group murmured among open laptops, then passed quietly into the soft clicking of keyboards. These were probably term papers, Romney decided.
One man in a dashing gray suit sat at a table and ruffled his newspaper. He caught Romney’s glance, ruffled his newspaper again, and then returned his attention to the print. The title on the front page read, in bold lettering, “Smoak Smitten! Guilty of Fraud!” Romney couldn’t make out the picture from where he sat. He would probably hear about it on the news later that night, anyway. These weren’t things that concerned him at the moment. He turned back to his new associates. They were still sipping their coffees and staring at the table. Romney decided to start a conversation.
“What do you guys do for fun?”
They looked at him. This had caught them off guard.
“Why do you ask?” managed Cora.
“If I’m going to negotiate this deal for us, then I want to know something about you. What’s wrong with that?”
“You said you wanted nothing to do with us,” said Tykeso.
“When it’s done, yes. Until then, we gotta break this ice. We have to look like we’re friends going in.”
“But we aren’t friends,” said Cora. “I mean, not with you. You said you hate us, in so many words.”
“You never said thank you,” added Tykeso. “Friends say that all the time.”
“You are one of the most unfriendly people I have ever known. And I worked in academia. That is quite a feat.”
“It doesn’t matter why, all right? I need something. Anything. We should have little tidbits to work with. Just enough to give the impression of a tight-knit group.”
Romney leaned over the table.
“When we walk into this deal, we gotta look like best buddies. Best buddies don’t fight over shares and they don’t get singled out in arguments. They work together for the best price. We gotta
look bigger than them. That gives us an advantage.”
Cora and Tykeso nodded.
“We should pretend to be your real friends,” Cora reiterated. “So we can negotiate better.”
“Sounds fair,” said Tykeso. “I’ll start. I love military history, specifically Azerran. I prefer mountain hikes over walks on the beach. I have mastered two fighting techniques and am working on a third. I am a sucker for Epoch Channel marathons.”
Cora brightened on this last detail.
“They have a series on Queen Ingrid going right now. And it’s historically accurate, for the most part.”
“Okay. You two like history,” said Romney. “That’s great.”
Romney was not a history buff. Period. Romney’s knowledge of any given historical era, foreign or domestic, could be safely defined as below average. He was the kind of Ontaran seen on the television, who ponders a question like, Who was the first president of the Ontaran Provinces? for too long, then gives the wrong answer. Although, it should be noted that Romney’s answer would have all the confidence of a prolific historian.
The answer, as the reader knows all too well, is President Martin Wright.
“I am a doctor of Camerran history,” said Cora. “I have written several papers on the subject, three of them published in major journals. I am also a big fan of the Epoch Channel. I am known to do yoga, when I find the time.”
“Good for mind and body,” added Tykeso.
“I am still a beginner,” added Cora.
“Maybe we could work together. It’s better to have a partner for support.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense. Come to my dojo in Cresdale. You can be my new student.”
“That’s great. You guys are gonna be workout buddies. We’re practically family now.”
They looked at Romney as though he had just ruined a good moment.
“And what about you?” asked Cora. “Who is Romney Balvance?”
Romney straightened in his chair.
“Me? Well, okay. I don’t do yoga. I don’t know any fighting techniques. I jog for exercise. I drink coffee. I can do my own taxes.”