by Graham Smith
Now it’s me who nods at him. I understand where he’s coming from. His very presence indicates the existence of a Mrs Weil, which is why I’ve not used Ms Rosenberg’s name. The last thing I want to achieve is disharmony. I’m here to deliver a message of newfound wealth, that’s all. Causing trouble isn’t part of my agenda.
‘In that case, can you arrange for me to meet him?’ I spread my hands wide. ‘I can meet him at any time over the next three days.’ Taylor’s elbow connects with my ribs. ‘With the exception of tomorrow afternoon and evening.’
I write my cell on the reverse of Halvard’s picture and tell him there are several hundred thousand reasons why he should get his father to call me.
Other than a slight widening of his eyes, he doesn’t react to the hint I’ve dropped about the size of his father’s windfall. Either the sum isn’t that significant to him, or he doesn’t believe me.
13
I shift from foot to foot and try not to look as uncomfortable as I feel. The suit I bought off-the-peg after visiting the pawn shop yesterday had seemed a better fit at the time. Now it is bunching where it shouldn’t and hanging loose in all the wrong places. To compound matters, every other guy in the room is attired in expensive, fitted tuxedos.
The wedding dinner is a meal comprised of several courses of foods I couldn’t easily identify. My tastes are simple when it comes to food. Give me a hunk of red meat and a heap of fries and I’m more than content. I’m not yet at the point where I need to eat again, but I’m not far off. With luck there will be a decent buffet that will allow a spot of light gorging before my stomach starts to protest its emptiness.
Taylor is never far from my side but I’ve long given up trying to remember the names of all the people she’s introduced me to. There have been lots of polite handshakes, some hearty backslaps and enough air kisses to make a Hollywood actor feel at home.
It’s the backslaps that bother me the most. Every one of them seems to land on the same part of my back that East’s baseball bat has left bruised and tender.
There’s a hum of conversation in the air and, as befits the occasion and plush venue, it’s polite and reverent. The people are nice enough, but there’s so many of them I know nothing about. They are all talking about past experiences I haven’t shared and people I don’t know.
For Taylor’s sake I keep my smile fixed and my tone polite. This is her family occasion and I’ve come along as a last-minute addition. It’s also her Fifth Avenue hotel room I’m sharing, so the whole trip to New York does have its upsides.
While I may have been raised in a city, Glasgow never had the same metropolitan feel that New York exudes. This is a busy city, peopled by people who are important. Or at least to themselves they are. Glaswegian streets were busy, but not so busy that you couldn’t make progress round a slow walker. The Glasgow I grew up in was one where I knew, and was known by, every neighbour within two streets. It was a community within a city.
New York is different. It’s all hustle and bustle as its inhabitants strive to get from one important place to another. The importance of their journey is set on their faces but, to an outsider like me, the relative merit of any individual’s perspective is subjective.
I didn’t help myself when I was walking the streets – I’m sure my constant stopping, to look up at one landmark or another, was a nuisance to other sidewalk users. Sometimes I would just stand by a crosswalk and gaze along the streets, or look up at the towering skyscrapers that dominate the skyline.
The subway has been the worst part of my time in New York.
I’ve never been properly underground before, and my first experience being one that included huge crowds, a lost sense of direction and the impersonality of city life, didn’t endear me to subterranean travel.
Had Taylor not been with me, I would no doubt have gotten myself thoroughly lost. It’s not that I can’t find my way about; I’m spending so much time working out where I am, and where I need to get to, my progress is that of a geriatric sloth compared to the rest of the thronging crowd. This in turn made me feel rushed, which led to me making snap decisions about which direction to take.
Along with the sights, come the sounds and the smells of the city. In one block you can catch a whiff of coffee, burritos, hotdogs and a dozen other foodstuffs from around the globe. There is a constant pick-pocking of heels on concrete, car horns, and the murmur of a crowd as they grumble, cajole or shout into their cell phones.
Like many others before me, I’ve found New York to be an exciting and vibrant living beast that can turn intimidating at a moment’s notice.
The high point of my morning was a text I received from Halvard’s son. He suggested a meeting place from where he could take me to meet his father. I agreed to his terms at once to hopefully show integrity, but looking back I maybe should have been a little less eager.
Yet another member of the waiting staff offers me a flute of champagne, which I refuse. I’m quite happy with soda, and when I’m unhappy with a soft drink I’ll make damn sure I’m nowhere near Taylor or any member of her family.
Alcohol and I have an understanding. I don’t consume it and it doesn’t make me do stupid things like start fights, or wake up in a motel room, hundreds of miles from home, with no memory, wallet or clothes. Once in a while I’ll take a drink, but only after making sure I’m not in a place where I could hurt those I care about.
‘Hey there, gorgeous. You’re looking as good as you always have.’
The speaker is someone I don’t know. His whole demeanour is that of Ivy League entitlement. He’s got an arm draped over Taylor’s shoulders and his eyes halfway down her dress. I fight every one of my instincts that are telling me to punch him as hard as the garlic on his breath is hitting me.
I toss my gaze at Taylor’s face. Her expression is one of infuriated tolerance.
Behind Ivy League, trails a young woman who’s pulling at his sleeve. Her face bears a pleasant smile, but her white knuckles on Ivy League’s sleeve tell me she’s every bit as angry as Taylor is. When she speaks, her voice has the whiny tone of the long-sufferer.
‘C’mon, Jason. I want you to meet someone.’
‘Goodbye, beautiful.’
Jason goes to plant a kiss on Taylor, but she turns her head at the last minute so he connects with her ear.
‘Who the hell does that guy think he is?’
‘The groom’s brother. He’s got a trust fund big enough to give him a life of luxury, even if he lives to be a thousand.’ She shakes her head. ‘Sadly though, he can’t buy class.’
I chink my soda against her champagne flute. ‘Very true. You, on the other hand, don’t need to. Me? I can’t afford it. Just say the word and I’ll follow him to the bathroom and recalibrate his sensibilities.’
Taylor’s melodic giggle draws a few smiling glances. ‘Every woman in this room under the age of forty would love to say the word. It’s not going to happen though.’
One of the things I appreciate most about Taylor is that she recognises me for what I am and doesn’t try to change me. My being in a lower social class than her isn’t an issue, but then again, class distinction is much more a British thing than a US one. Nor has she shown much concern about my tendency to use violence as a first option.
The only fear I have about our relationship, is that one day she’ll tire of her “bit of rough”. It’s not a scenario I enjoy thinking about, so I only give it brain space in my darker moments.
I see Jason coming back so I suggest Taylor makes herself scarce.
‘Hi, buddy. Great place this, isn’t it?’ Jason goes to walk past me, after Taylor, but it’s what I’m expecting and I sidestep so I’m in his way. Sometimes you have to take one for the team. ‘That meal was delicious, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, very good.’
His eyes focus on me, which gives me hope that Taylor has escaped his gaze. His head turns and he locates a member of the waiting staff. His fingers click and he waves her over.
&n
bsp; ‘About time, girl. Damn near died of thirst.’ His tone is full of entitlement as he grabs two glasses from the girl’s tray.
I have to give the server credit. She doesn’t rise to his rudeness and gives a polite smile as she turns away.
He thrusts a glass towards me. ‘Here, it’s a wedding. You should be drinking champagne, not soda.’
‘Not for me thanks.’ I keep both of my hands on my soda glass, and try not to picture what he’d look like after a few well aimed punches. The temptation to find out if my imaginings are accurate may just get too much for my self-control.
‘You’re Scottish right? Thought you Scots were big drinkers?’
‘We can be.’
The glass is pushed forward a second time. ‘Then have a drink and don’t be such a pussy.’
There is nothing but challenge in him. He’s used to being the Alpha, and someone refusing him isn’t something he’s familiar with.
‘Thank you, but no.’ I keep my tone polite but I can hear anger at the edge of it.
‘I said … take a drink.’ He holds the glass in front of my face. His voice is cool enough to freeze the drink solid. ‘It’s my brother’s wedding and I think you should be celebrating it with a glass of champagne.’
‘Thanks, but alcohol doesn’t sit well with me.’
‘What are you? A man or a mouse?’
I toss a devil-may-care grin at him. Perhaps it’s the fact I’ve gone from picturing him bruised and bloody, to imagining what he’d look like on fire, but I’m calm and relaxed enough to let my smile be natural, as I lean forward and whisper into his ear. ‘I’m man enough to turn down a drink I don’t want. I’m man enough to refuse to conform to another person’s wishes when I know doing so is a bad idea. I’m man enough to stand up to bullies.’ I know I shouldn’t say what comes next but I’ve held temptation in check long enough. ‘I’m also man enough to kick your ass up and down Broadway, if the notion takes me.’
For a moment I think he’s about to do something stupid like curse me out, or even throw a punch. If he hits me, I’ll have to let him land a few before I subdue him. Any other course of action will see me labelled as the bad guy. That’s not what I want at an occasion where I am trying to put my best foot forward with Taylor’s family.
He throws his head back and guffaws loud enough for heads to turn. He’s the centre of attention again, which is just how he likes it.
I slink away, hoping those who matter notice how unimpressed I am by him.
14
Halvard Weil’s son opens the door of the Brooklyn coffee shop a few seconds after I knock. He’d told me the coffee shop was one that closed due to a lack of business. It doesn’t surprise me that it failed. It’s down at heel, and a bright new Starbucks sits gleaming across the street.
Consumers are fickle beasts who’ll decry corporate monsters while shovelling money into their coffers, while mom-and-pop businesses are closing their doors on a daily basis.
The coffee shop is empty, save for a couple of tables laden with upturned chairs and a thick layer of dust.
‘Is your father here?’
‘Not yet, Mr …?’
‘Boulder. But most people call me Jake.’ I hold out a hand. ‘And you are?’
He hesitates for a moment until his manners get the better of him. ‘Gavriel.’
I turn as I hear footsteps. Two men emerge from a back room and they’re both so large they need to duck as they pass through the doorway.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Boulder … Jake, but for reasons that will become apparent when you meet my father, I’m going to have to ask you to allow my cousins here to search you for weapons.’
This is a surprise I wasn’t expecting, but it doesn’t bother me. I hang my jacket on a skyward-pointing chair leg, and lift my hands to my head. ‘Feel free. I have no weapons on me. My jacket has my wallet and cell in the inside pocket, and I have my car keys in the front right pocket of my jeans.’
As Gavriel’s two hulking cousins pat me down, I assess their actions from a different point of view. The need to assume this level of security tells me a few things.
First off is the fact that Halvard, his family, or both, do not trust me. Second, they are not going through these measures because they’re jumping at shadows. There must be some kind of clear threat to Halvard. Third, the level of threat is a significant one – the presence of guys as large as Gavriel’s cousins is a serious deterrent.
I can handle myself, yet I don’t fancy my chances against guys this big. To compound matters, they move with economy and grace rather than the lumbering bovine movements usually associated with huge men. It’s quite probable that they are trained in a martial art. Krav Maga, as developed by Israeli Special Forces and Mossad, would be my guess.
Two shaken heads receive a short nod from Gavriel. If his cousins are the brawn, he must be the brain, or the son of the brain, as the power in the room lies with him despite him being the smallest of the four of us.
My jacket is checked for hidden weapons and handed back to me.
‘Now you’ve established I’m unarmed, do you trust me?’
Gavriel’s smile is the wrong side of patronising. ‘Jake, I’m a New York pawnbroker. I’ve learned not to trust anyone.’
I return his smile and wait for him to tell me what’s next. This situation is one I don’t care for, but I’m here to deliver a message of good news. Once it’s delivered, I’ll say my goodbyes and walk away leaving their distrust behind.
‘Follow me.’
Gavriel leads me through the back of the coffee shop and into a narrow alleyway. I’m flanked by the cousins as I follow him, through a mesh of dirty stinking alleys with overflowing garbage bins and high brick walls, until he comes to a door.
Should I decide I don’t want to be here, my only hope of extricating myself from this situation is to be fleet of foot. It’s not a theory I want to try out. The cousins are close enough to assume the role of jailers as well as bodyguards.
Gavriel gives a complicated knock, and the door is opened by someone who looks as if he’s the cousins’ big brother.
I’m crowded through the door and led up a stairwell, which has a threadbare carpet, peeling wallpaper and the strong ammonia stench of cat urine.
Gavriel leads me along a corridor and into what was once someone’s lounge. He gestures for me to sit on the sofa and, when I do, I find myself wedged between the cousins. Gavriel leaves and Big Brother takes up station in front of the door.
I could try and make conversation but not one of the three has spoken to me since I met them. Besides, I don’t want them to hear any catch of fear that may feature in my voice.
I’m not so much scared as unnerved. The dramatic way of bringing me to this room, when I would have happily met Halvard Weil in a public place, is nothing more than a display of power and control. They want me to feel intimidated and at their mercy. The three giants add to the menace with their indifferent silence. The only thing I’m pleased about, is that Taylor isn’t here with me.
To pass the time I try to spot some doorframe behind Big Brother. I fail.
In their own way they’re testing me: seeing what I’m made of and how far I’ll go to speak with Halvard Weil.
Their test isn’t one I plan to flunk, so I sit quietly and look out of the grimy window at the bricks of the neighbouring building.
The door opens and Gavriel enters with a man who can only be his father.
Halvard Weil has aged, compared to Ms Rosenberg’s picture of him, but there is no mistaking that he’s the same man. He sits in the single chair opposite me and looks me over, from head to toe.
‘You say you’re here because I am the beneficiary of a will. None of my friends or family have died, so I’m sure you must understand my caution at meeting you.’
The look he gives me is part suspicious and part apprehensive. I get why he’s cautious, but I don’t say that I think he’s overcompensating. Instead, I ask myself why he’s so cautious
, and what he has to be fearful of. Once I have an answer to my question, I’ll be able to understand his point of view.
‘Your benefactor is someone I believe you haven’t seen for nigh on forty years.’
His eyes close and his head droops forward. When he speaks, his voice is little more than a pained whisper. ‘Boys. Leave us please. I need to talk alone with Mr Boulder.’
15
When his son and nephews have padded their way out of the lounge, Halvard lifts his chin from his chest and looks at me with tear-filled eyes.
‘Are you talking about who I think you are?’
‘If you’re thinking Fifine Rosenberg, then yes, I am.’
His face somehow manages to convey pain and love at the same time. ‘My Fifi still thought of me?’
I’m reeling at the thought of the formidable Ms Rosenberg being called Fifi, so I give him a shrug and a nod. The unspoken truth is that she must have thought of him every day. That she’d left him her fortune was a red flag regarding her feelings.
Another sure indicator were the books she’d written. I looked them up online and saw they all dealt with lost love. The reviews they’d garnered were positive, but many of them mentioned a melancholy feel. Lots of the reviewers said the books “perfectly encapsulated their feelings about a love that had never blossomed into fullness”.
His chin returns to his chest and rises again so he can look me in the eye. ‘I can’t take her money. I can’t accept it. Not after the way I failed her.’
Pauline had hinted that Ms Rosenberg had anticipated this reaction, and that I was not to take no for an answer.
I like to think I have principles, but I’m not sure I’d be able to turn down the kind of money he’s been left.
‘I think you’d be failing her again if you refuse to accept her last request.’ I let my words have a moment to register, and point out that he hasn’t asked how much the inheritance is.
‘It doesn’t matter if it’s one dollar or a billion. My feelings on the matter are the same either way.’