by PAUL BENNETT
They walked back down the jetty, the women still wiggling their hips, the men in that bouncy gait and nodding-head style that is supposed to signal street cred, but looks, to an impartial observer like myself, more like a bad impression of a myopic wading bird checking the shallows for the next meal. They headed in my direction, intending to get a few drinks inside them while Bull was making the necessary preparations. Just as long as they didn’t mind waiting.
As they approached I could see the men sizing up the bar – wooden shack, tall black-plastic stools at the counter, a few cane tables and chairs under an off-white canopy, the hand-painted sign saying ‘Johnny Silver: Proprietor’ in faded red letters – and wondering how many days’, even hours’, salary it would take to buy the lot.
Their leader, a man of around twenty-five years with a footballer’s severely cropped hair and the beginnings of a beer belly, leaned over the bar.
‘Six beers and six daiquiris,’ he said in an East London accent.
Please would have been nice. And I could have done without the accompanying ‘make it snappy, buster’ click of the fingers, too.
‘We open in just five minutes, gentlemen and ladies,’ I said, pointing at the clock on the wall and smiling at him. I turned back to the screen of the laptop. ‘Take a seat, please. Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll bring your drinks over.’
He looked at me in exactly the same way he had sized up the bar. Took in my advanced age (over the hill at thirty-five), my long black hair, three days’ growth of beard, bronzed skin, tattered, grey cotton T-shirt and sun-bleached denim jeans cut off above the knees. Couldn’t hide the expression that told me he thought I was some kind of alien creature with no right to be on the same planet as him.
‘Let’s get this straight, mister,’ he said. ‘Just so as there’s no misunderstanding, you know? We want six beers and six daiquiris, and we want them now.’
‘You’re on holiday, friend – be mellow, chill out for a while, take in the view, breathe in the cool fresh air, listen to the sound of the waves rippling over the sand and the beating wings of the humming birds as they sip nectar. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
I turned away from him and started on the last few paragraphs, hoping that he would cool down.
Maybe he would have done, if it hadn’t been for the presence of the women. And if one of the blondes hadn’t whimpered, ‘I want my daiquiri, Wayne.’
Wayne leaned further over the bar.
‘Rippling bloody waves! Humming bloody birds! Sod ’em. Who are you to tell me what to do?’ he shouted.
‘The name’s on the sign, friend,’ I said.
‘Johnny Silver?’ he said.
I thought I saw his lips move in time with the syllables.
‘I suppose,’ he grinned at his friends, ‘he’s one of the Silver family. He don’t need our money, lads, because he’s an eccentric millionaire.’ He gave a mocking laugh. ‘Is that right, Johnny Silver? Are you a merchant banker.’
The laughter spread among the group. One of the men made a gesture with his thumb and index finger, just in case someone had missed the joke. Two of the women blushed, three tittered and the daiquiri-thirsting blonde just stood there stone-faced, tapping one foot impatiently.
‘Hardly seems likely,’ I said, almost finished now despite the distractions. ‘Just take a look around you. Are these the trappings of a banker?’
He walked across to one of the tables. Picked up a chair. Smashed it down on the table, breaking both to pieces and bringing forth gasps of surprise from the women and grunts of approval from the men.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t think so. Not a banker. You’re just a jerk.’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ I said, logging off with a sense of self-satisfaction. I rubbed my left shoulder to increase the blood circulation, stood up slowly, gave an exaggerated sigh and shook my head reprovingly. ‘That will be fifty bucks for the furniture.’
From the pocket of his shorts he took out a wad of money the thickness of Webster’s Dictionary, peeled off a fifty-dollar bill, crumpled it up into a ball and tossed it down on the sand.
‘If you want it, come and get it,’ he challenged.
The men formed a horseshoe around the money, the intentional gap an invitation to step inside so that they could close ranks and surround me. The women retreated to one of the unbroken tables to take up ringside seats for the spectacle: the blonde gave Wayne’s arm an encouraging squeeze as she drifted languidly past.
I came out from the shade of the bar and stood on the edge of the beach letting my eyes grow accustomed to the brightness of the sun. I saw Bull climb off his boat. So did Wayne.
‘It ain’t your fight,’ he shouted. ‘You keep out of this, gimpy.’
How to win friends and influence people!
I nodded at Bull. He sat down on the jetty, leaned back against a bollard, lit a cigarette and settled himself down to watch.
‘Let me give you some advice,’ I said. ‘Pick up the money, give it to me, apologize nicely and shake my hand. I’ll get you your beers and daiquiris and we can all have a relaxing drink together. That way no one gets hurt.’
The men made clucking noises and waggled their elbows up and down.
‘There’s six of us and only one of you,’ Wayne said. ‘We’re relaxed already, Johnny Silver.’
‘You got it wrong, my friend. There’s one of me and only six of you. I’ll ask you one last time. Pick up the money.’
Wayne looked at me hesitatingly. OK, I was taller, leaner and fitter than he had expected from my appearance seated at the chair in the shadows, hunched over the laptop. But he didn’t want to back down in front of his friends, particularly the women and especially the Miss Daiquiri contestant. And, he was probably thinking, the odds were still heavily stacked in his favour.
Me, I don’t gamble – it’s one rule I haven’t broken for years.
He shook his head at me and pointed at the fifty-dollar bill.
I closed my eyes and, while giving an exaggerated sigh, concentrated on producing a mental picture of the scene and its players. When focused, I opened my eyes and walked towards them.
They prepared themselves, legs apart and hands waving in the air. In their minds they were high and mighty samurai warriors about to teach a revolting peasant a lesson he would never forget. In reality….
I singled out one of them, hoping that having dealt with him the others would quickly become disheartened. Took three steps so that I was inside the circle and a fourth that turned into a rapid sweeping movement with my left leg. The heel of my bare foot connected with the kneecap of the chosen victim. He went down on the sand, clutching his knee and whimpering loudly.
An arm flashed towards me, fingers rigid for a karate chop. I spun around, caught hold of the wrist with both my hands, made a fulcrum of my right shoulder, turned and simultaneously knocked the legs of my assailant from under him. He landed on top of his friend, who whimpered some more.
Someone grabbed my T-shirt from behind. I sent my elbow forcefully backwards, felt flabby flesh offer little resistance and heard an expletive uttered in an escape of breath. Another body sank to the sand, its hand still clamped on my T-shirt and ripping it off as he fell.
I turned around to face the remaining three. There was a collective catching of breath. They were staring wide-eyed at my left shoulder. Or, more accurately, at the collection of old star-shaped scars where the bullets had entered for split seconds before their momentum had carried them out the other side. If Russians could shoot straight, they wouldn’t need Kalashnikovs. And I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale, of course.
The ringleader gave a sheepish grin and nodded submissively at me. He bent down towards the money. Stretched out his fingers. And flung a handful of sand in my face.
It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. I should never have fallen for it. Being out of practice hadn’t helped, but the big mistake had been in underestimating the oppositio
n.
Eyes closed, I recalled the scene and backed away from where I pictured the danger might come. Nothing happened. Then I heard the sound of a bottle breaking. Forcing my stinging eyes into slits, I got a blurred watery glimpse of two men holding chair legs and Wayne wielding a broken bottle. A chair leg came down towards my neck. I caught the descending arm, whipped it down and then up again in a 360º sweep, and flipped the man over into a forward somersault.
The bottle was stabbed towards my face. I ducked, sent a straight left into Wayne’s stomach. His body arched, but not as much as I had hoped. I clasped my fingers together and followed swiftly with a double-handed blow up into his groin. He went flying backwards, landed flat on the sand and let out a long painful wail. The last man dropped his chair leg, backed away and held his hands in the air.
It was over.
Or should have been. But I hadn’t allowed for the stone-faced blonde. How many mistakes can you make in one day?
She was on me in a flash, a tigress leaping at her prey. Her lips were curled into a snarl, her teeth bared, her long fingernails stretching out to rake at my face.
I grabbed her hands and forced them back. She bit my arm, tearing out a strip of flesh. I spun her around, pinning her arms across her chest and against my body, picked her up and carried her to the jetty, her legs kicking helplessly in the air. At the end of the jetty I threw her in the water.
Bull gave a deep resonating laugh.
‘Thanks for your help,’ I said, turning back towards him.
‘One of me and only six of you!’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘You really must stop watching those John Wayne films. Anyway, I knew you could do it, man. And you only had to ask. I would have taken care of the blonde, no problem.’ He walked across to where the women were tending to the untidy pile of men spread-eagled on the sand. ‘Well, who’s for some marlin then?’
They didn’t reply. Not in words as such. Plenty of moans and groans, though.
Bull took these as a negative response.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he said.
‘It’s the wedding tomorrow,’ the dark-haired girl said.
‘Which one is the lucky bridegroom?’ I asked.
A fickle finger of fate pointed to Wayne. He was coiled up in the foetal position, holding his testicles tenderly.
‘Wouldn’t you just know it?’ I said to Bull.
‘Life can be a bitch,’ he said philosophically.
‘And the even luckier bride?’ I asked the dark-haired girl.
The finger pointed to the blonde, her hair hanging in rats’ tails as she emerged from the water.
‘Gets bitchier by the minute,’ said Bull.
The men started to drag themselves up from the sand. Three of the women took hold of the bridegroom and dragged him as near upright as was possible. Bull walked up and stuffed the wad of money for the fishing trip back into Wayne’s shirt pocket. Slowly, the group moved off in the direction of the hotel. Funny, but there was no wiggling of hips or bounce in their walk now.
Bull and I stood there watching the retreat.
‘Shoulder held up, then?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘And you finished checking the Cyclops column?’
I nodded again.
‘Two good things in one day,’ he said. ‘Beers must be on the house.’
From a distance there came the sound of whirring rotor blades. A helicopter approached and circled above us. It moved a little along the beach and descended in a storm cloud of whirling sand.
‘Shit,’ said Bull, sprinting back to his boat as fast as his legs would carry him.
I ran to the bar. Felt around under the top of the counter. Found the two strips of sticking plaster. Tore them away and grabbed hold of the Browning High Power pistol.
Bull emerged from the depths of his cabin with a pump action shotgun in his hand.
It was the moment we had dreaded for five long years.
They had finally found us.
Running isn’t always the answer to a problem.
2
The Netherlands. Ten years ago.
If you are dying, then this was as good a place as any. Better than some anonymous battlefield in a country few have heard of and even fewer care about.
The hospital was set in a large secluded wooded area ten miles south of Amsterdam, equidistant between the A4 and A2 motorways and, thus, conveniently placed for the city and Schipol Airport. It was modern, bright and clean, and equipped with all the facilities that private patients either need or simply demand. The staff were friendly, concerned and professional, and not only spoke more correct English than the English or Americans, but delivered it with a slight lisp that was soft and charming.
It was the days before I was Johnny. I was Gianni Gordini then. Middle son of three: one born out of love, one out of wedlock and one out of retribution. Guess which one was me.
I sat on a black leather sofa in a clinically white waiting-room, sipping espresso coffee and killing time while the three other members of my family sat pointlessly at the great Alfredo Gordini’s bedside like the Magi worshipping around the crib. Alfredo had been in a coma for three days now and I could only imagine the scene inside the private room – drips going into the body, tubes coming out and feeding into plastic bags, monitors emitting regular loud beeps that belied the faintness of the beating heart. My role was peripheral, superfluous even: one more shoulder to cry on, one more arm to wrap around my mother and support her. I took it philosophically, which wasn’t difficult since I had lived on the absolute fringes of this family for much of the last twenty-six years.
I placed the empty cup on top of the copies of The Wall Street Journal and The Times (read from cover to cover and back again) so as not to mark the highly polished surface of the black ash coffee table. I leaned back, put my hands behind my head and stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Why? That was the question. It made no sense.
Alfredo Gordini had been travelling in a grey Mercedes taxi from the recently opened Amsterdam branch of Silvers en route to the airport and back to New York. While waiting at a set of traffic lights on a quiet road on the outskirts of the city, a motor bike had pulled alongside. The pillion passenger slid up his visor, peered closely into the back of the cab and then stretched out his right arm. His hand held a gun. His finger pulled the trigger. The gun, set on automatic, began to pump bullets through the window of the Mercedes.
Maybe it was the taxi driver so typically pulling away sharply at the first twinkle of green from the lights. Maybe it was the thickness of the glass and the distortion it caused, bending the light rays between victim and assassin and the bullets likewise. Or maybe he was just a lousy shot. The bullets, intended for Alfredo’s heart, hit him in the side, spread out on impact and sent fragments of shrapnel into lungs, kidney, spleen and spine. With anybody else, it would still have been enough to kill. But Alfredo had always been a stubborn man, and especially so, it seemed, when it came to dying.
Sure, Alfredo had made enemies: loans refused or called in, causing businesses to fold, shares to plummet, people to lose their jobs. But who could have hated him so much that they would take out a contract on his life?
The door to the waiting-room opened, cutting off my fruitless speculation. My mother walked in, her eldest and youngest sons, Roberto and Carlo respectively, following close behind. She was dressed in black, as if prepared for the worst, her long black hair scraped back and wound into a bun, the usual sparkle in her dark eyes replaced by a look of determination.
I stood up and went to my mother. Put my arm around her and led her to the sofa. Sitting down beside her, I held her close and looked up at Roberto and Carlo.
‘What’s the prognosis?’ I asked.
Roberto leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, Carlo crossed the small room to sit in a chair opposite me. Roberto shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘They don’t know is the short answer. The doctor said that they’ve done all they can to repair the inte
rnal injuries. It’s the shock to the system and the resulting coma that concerns them most now. It could last days; it could last months. All we can do is wait.’
‘No,’ said their mother. ‘That may be all I can do, but while Alfredo lies in that room and the rest of you are here there’s no one minding the shop. And neither Wall Street nor the City like that very much. Your father had become the personification of Silvers – he was the outward face, the captain of the ship. Silvers is left with a void, and we must fill it quickly before confidence is eroded.’
Carlo’s brows furrowed. He felt in the pockets of his expensive silk suit for his cigarettes and flashy gold lighter and then remembered the no smoking rule in the hospital. He clasped his hands, as if to prevent them wandering of their own accord. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Fill the void?’