Don't Order Dog: 1 (Jeri Halston Series)

by C. T. Wente

  The red-orange light of sunset slipped through the rustic cottage windows of Augustine’s restaurant and etched the wall like a shimmering, fire-drawn blade. Beneath it, the old panels of mahogany glowed brightly, casting a warm radiance through the dark, densely packed dining room. From her seat in the corner, Jeri quietly admired its fading brilliance, marking its movement as dusk dragged it slowly into nothingness.

  “But anyway, even if they offer, I don’t know that I’d accept it,” the smooth baritone voice continued.

  “Right,” Jeri responded as she slowly spun a pasta noodle onto her fork.

  “Right what?” the voice rebuffed with frustration. “Are you even listening to me?”

  Jeri blinked quickly and looked up as she broke free of her thoughts. “What? Oh… I’m sorry, Rob. I faded out there for a minute.” She smiled apologetically at the handsome man sitting across from her at the small table.

  Rob stared back at her, narrowing his dark brown eyes.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Jeri looked down at her plate. The linguini she’d been molesting was now tightly wrapped around the tines of her fork, but she had no desire to eat it. She glanced back at the long smudge of sunlight on the far wall and shook her head.

  “No, just tired. It’s been a long day,” she said quietly.

  “Everything okay at the bar?” Rob said as he leaned back and returned to eating. Even in her distracted state, the derision in his voice wasn’t lost on Jeri. In the few short months they’d been dating, Rob had taken every opportunity to drop not-so-subtle hints regarding his feelings about her choice of profession. As a gifted researcher and associate professor of microbiology on the fast track to full tenure at the university, Jeri knew Rob considered her job a bit “pedestrian” by comparison. His tone was now reminding her of it again.

  “Yes. Fine,” she snapped.

  “Well, as I was saying,” Rob continued, his eyes flashing her a dark look. “It looks like Biotin may actually underwrite the grant, but I’m beginning to have serious concerns about how this could affect ownership of the intellectual property.”

  “Really?” Jeri asked with mock curiosity. “What do you think Biotin’s going to ask for?” Of course, she had no interest in the answer, but asking the question would at least buy her several blissful minutes of not needing to speak. She took a healthy sip of her red wine, some expensive new organic blend from California. It wasn’t the best wine she’d tasted, but Rob insisted it was excellent.

  Rob’s angular, handsome face immediately turned to a brooding expression as the flickering glow of candlelight danced across his pale skin. “Well, I don’t have specific details, but it looks like…”

  Jeri watched him with an enthusiastic smile for a few moments before realizing it didn’t matter. Rob’s stare would remain fixed on his plate as he talked at length about the latest snag in his research grant saga. His hands moved constantly while he spoke, meticulously cutting and organizing the items on his plate as if he were laying out samples in his laboratory.

  At least she admired his passion. It was the first thing, besides his looks, that had attracted her to him when they’d met months earlier at the university’s alumni summer fundraiser she’d attended with Allie. In her black dress and styled hair, she had caught his eye within minutes of entering the ballroom. She’d even blushed when he’d walked up to her, an arresting James Bond aura surrounding him as he flashed his perfect white teeth and bowed to her in his ink-black tuxedo. Allie had quickly made herself scarce, winking like a teenager at Jeri from across the room and conspicuously mouthing the words “He’s hot!” It had been an intoxicating, nearly cinematic night as they talked, laughed and danced together for almost the entire evening.

  It wasn’t until a week later, on their first official date, that Rob had asked Jeri about her profession. Being in no way embarrassed of the fact she was a bartender, she had told him without hesitation. The cloud of surprise and disappointment that swept across his face had lasted only a second, but Jeri saw it as clearly as a cell under a microscope. From that moment on, she sensed that was exactly how Rob now saw her– small and miniscule, like some lesser form of life.

  In the few months since, they had continued to date casually, but Jeri felt the hope of that first great night slowly drain with every subsequent dinner and conversation. As much as she wanted to believe that the handsome, brilliant young man across from her was her soul-mate, she knew his heart and love were inseparably tied to a structured, predictable life of academia, and hers was somewhere else.

  “… not that we didn’t consider the possibility of this happening, but the grant itself was expressly written to guarantee the university ownership of the first viable molecule…” Rob continued, his fork excitedly tracing circles above his plate between bites.

  Jeri glanced again at the fading blade of sunlight. In just minutes it had morphed into a thin, needle-sharp shaft, its color cooling from ember-hot orange to soft, languid amber. In minutes it would be gone – a final, gentle stroke of warmth in a room of growing darkness. She took another sip of overpriced organic wine and nodded half-heartedly as Rob looked over at her, his hands and mouth in constant motion. His eyes fell back to his plate and Jeri suddenly crossed her eyes and flicked her tongue at him like a child. She inwardly wanted him to look up at her at that moment, to stare in embarrassment or react in some unexpected way that might dislodge the dull ache of boredom that was creeping up inside her. But Rob simply droned on, oblivious of her actions.

  There was nothing Jeri hated more than boredom. She would gladly take pain, fear, or exhaustion over the time-freezing, quicksand-sinking agony of being somewhere she did not want to be. Staring at Rob now, she quietly grabbed the edge of her chair and suppressed a rising urge to abruptly jump up from the table and kick her legs in the air. A vivid image of shattering plates, airborne wine glasses, and the wide-eyed gaze of horrified diners instantly filled her mind. The ridiculousness of the image and the moment suddenly overwhelmed her, and to Jeri’s own surprise, a loud, high-pitched laugh erupted from her mouth.

  “What the hell is so funny?” Rob exclaimed, nearly dropping his fork. His look was piercing in the dim light. Feeling like an ill-mannered adolescent, Jeri froze in place, trying to contain the laughter that continued to bubble out from behind her smiling lips as the tables around her turned quiet. She stared back at Rob with wide, watery eyes, terrified to speak for fear of another outburst.

  Rob wiped his napkin across his mouth and then tossed it into his lap.

  “Well I’m glad to see that the possible failure of this research grant and the financial impact it would have on my departmental budgets is so amusing to you,” he said, his voice laced with ice.

  Jeri squeezed the edge of the chair tightly as she sat up, suppressing the frustrated laughter that was still beating against her chest. “I’m sorry. I’m just in a weird mood tonight.” She could feel his eyes burning into her as she picked up her fork and feigned interest in her food.

  Rob sat back into his chair and sighed. “Is there a subject you would like to talk about?” he asked, his voice condescendingly sweet as if talking to a child. “I’m sensing my stories aren’t really that interesting to you right now.”

  Jeri shrugged dismissively. She took a long sip of wine as she considered the question. What did she want to talk about? She found herself feeling strangely vacant of curiosity, as if every interest had simply and suddenly drained away. Politics? God knows where that topic would go right now. Religion? Even worse than politics. World news seemed too forced, national news too depressing, local news too trivial. And she certainly wasn’t going to discuss work.

  Then, unexpectedly, the image of a crowded, chaotic street in Africa suddenly filled her mind. “Do you like to travel?” she asked, masking the feeling of excitement the image had produced.

  Rob seemed to stare through her as he considered the question. “Depends,” he said as he gently brushed away his sty
lish bangs of wavy brown hair. “I travel a lot for work, but I usually don’t have much time to really see the places I go. I like New York City, and I think Chicago is nice, though only in the summer. Winter there is absolute hell. The last conference I was slated to attend in Chicago was in January.”

  He chuckled as he took a quick sip of wine. “Luckily I was able to get Professor Olson to go instead.”

  “Well where have you been outside of the U.S.? Have you seen any of Europe or Asia?”

  Rob nodded as he focused his attention back on his plate. “I’ve been to London and Paris for conferences. London was gloomy, and the food was just awful. Paris? Forget it… a week of pure torture. I’d been warned by colleagues about the rudeness of Parisians, but it was even worse than I expected.” He paused to carefully carve a piece of gristle from his well-cooked meat and move it safely to the side of his plate. “I haven’t been anywhere in Asia. There’s a conference in Hong Kong in a few months that I’ve been asked to attend, but there’s no chance of me stepping foot there until that new flu has been contained.”

  “Of course,” Jeri responded flatly. “Where else?” she asked, prodding him. “Any exotic locations – say, Africa for example?”

  “Africa?” Rob’s face suddenly twisted in disgust. “You couldn’t pay me to go to Africa, or most any other third-world country for that matter.”

  “And why is that?”

  “C’mon Jeri, are you kidding me? It’s not safe.”

  Even though she could have predicted his answer, Jeri still inwardly shuddered as a heavy weight of disappointment dropped into her stomach. She nodded slowly as Rob took a sip of his wine, her face drawn taut to contain any trace of emotion. But of course, she thought to herself. What were you expecting? Did you really think that James Bond lived in Flagstaff? Did you really think you’d find your soul mate here? She looked across the table at Rob as he continued to cut, organize and chew his food with clinical precision. He glanced up and gave her a curious smile, oblivious to the cord that had just snapped inside her. Jeri smiled back at the striking face that flickered in the candlelight – handsome, brilliant, predictable… utterly safe Rob.

  “And you,” he asked, staring at his plate as his knife cut away neatly. “Do you like to travel?”

  “I do,” she said quietly.

  “And how does Africa sound to you?” His voice was edged with indifference.

  Jeri leaned forward and settled her head in her hands. Her hair glowed copper-red in the candlelight. “I would say it sounds dirty, dangerous… real. Like anything new I think it would be incredibly visceral. And if it’s anything like what I’ve read, I’m sure it would be unbelievably intense.”

  Rob paused in mid-cut and looked at her, trying to read Jeri’s steady, intense glare. “Right. Well, I suppose I’d agree with that assessment – which is exactly why I have no interest in going.”

  Jeri glanced across the room. The last dying ray of sunlight clung weakly to the wall, its former fire now just a whisper of dull light. She watched as it faded into the dark mahogany, evaporating submissively into the void with a final, anti-climactic flicker from existence.

  “That’s okay,” she said slowly, her voice cool and crisp.

  “You’re not invited anyway.”

  9.

  The locals called it harmattan.

  The dry, immense trade wind erupted from the great desert and blew downward into the moist tropical interior of Africa with the beginning of the late autumn dry season. As it traveled south, the hot, restless wall of air sucked massive amounts of Saharan sand into its grip, turning the sky into a dull smudge of cinnamon that could veil the sun for days. It normally started blowing in late November – the desert-fired air and thick, dusty haze providing a mixed blessing of low humidity and pulmonary irritation – but this year the great wind, often called “the doctor” had come weeks ahead of schedule.

  He knew this because he woke to a ruddy-orange African sky that refused to yield blue as the sunrise drew upward into morning. His throat was dry and scratched and his mouth held the gritty, mineral taste of sand and earth that was only slightly less pleasant than the morning-after taste of Jack Daniels. He glanced at his watch, checked his cell phone, then slowly rose from the bed to wash in the tiny, green-tiled bathroom of the hotel room. A cockroach darted fearlessly across his path as he scratched at the short dark curls on his head, reminding him to ask the concierge for a room upgrade. If only there was a concierge. Or a room upgrade.

  The torrent of Port Harcourt’s morning traffic was already rolling and churning as he descended onto the street. Cars and buses jostled along the dilapidated road of potholes and pavement, a collective symphony of honking horns and screeching brakes as the smoke-farting motorcycle taxis called achabas and their daredevil pilots darted around them at fatal speeds. He fell in step with the vibrant current of locals that shuffled along the narrow line between merchant stands and vehicles, ducking his head beneath the noxious cloud of motor oil and gasohol vapor that hung suspended in the air.

  Within minutes he knew he was being followed. He’d been taught how to sense it– a subconscious awareness he’d slowly learned to trust. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted them. Three small, painfully thin boys gazed back at him with large, yellow-stained eyes. He stared at them coldly before slowly easing his face into a smile. The boys instantly smiled back at him just as they had the previous morning. The largest of the three bolted towards him, his tiny chest swelling arrogantly under a dirty, threadbare shirt.

  “How now, how ya body?” The boy’s thin, shrill voice asked in Pidgin English as he walked beside him.

  “Fine-oh,” he responded with a low voice, not breaking his quick pace.

  The boy’s rail-thin arm lifted upward as he held out his tiny, mocha-colored palm.

  “Abeg,” he said confidently; his deep, mica-black eyes liquid and intense.

  He stared down at him with mock irritation as his hand worked into his pocket, slapping 300 naira into the boy’s palm before gripping it in the vice of his hand. “Coke, and some hot suya,” he mumbled.

  The boy nodded quickly as he pulled pleadingly at his arm.

  “Okay mista, okay!”

  He released his grip and the boy shot into the dense forest of people, his two tiny colleagues trailing closely behind him. “Do quick!” He yelled after them, a sly grin creasing his lips. Within minutes his breakfast would be served.

  He continued walking, weaving inconspicuously through the mob as it shuffled and flowed around him. It was market day, and the normally heavy throngs of locals clad in bright shirts and long, flowing bubas seemed to have multiplied two-fold as they converged under the smoldering, sand-blown sky. Everything was in constant, clamoring motion. Fluttering, leg-strapped chickens dangled from tall poles. Wheelbarrows loaded with exotic fruits teetered along the pock-marked streets. Baskets brimming with plantains and yams towered over him, balanced precariously on the pele-wrapped heads of local women.

  A perfect day, he knew, to go unnoticed.

  A shrill young voice called out from within the crowd.

  “Heavy men!”

  He smiled as he considered the pidgin meaning. Tough guy. A moment later the boy was walking next to him, a sweating bottle of coke in one hand and two skewers of blackened meat in the other. The boy held them up silently, his tiny face broken with a proud grin.

  “Thanks,” he said, grabbing his meal. “Now, make you carry youself go.”

  The boy flashed another toothy grin. “A dey see yu lata!” He shouted as he turned to his sidekicks and the three tiny bodies again vanished into the crowd.

  He continued towards the center of town, slipping efficiently through the crowd as he chewed on the suya– steaming, pepper-hot strips of beef that were a local delicacy. He ignored the weight of the backpack that clung heavily to his shoulder. Occasionally a merchant would step out from his stall and grab onto him, urging him to see a carving or hand-sewn shirt. He
dismissed them with a wave, never breaking his stride. He walked on for countless more blocks before finally, peeking through the smoky-blue haze of exhaust, his destination materialized above the market.

  ∞

  The ten-story, immaculately finished façade of the Garden Landmark hotel stood in stark contrast above the squat, dilapidated squalor of its surroundings. Built just a year before, the tall, graceful building was a towering sculpture of glass and steel; so anomalous to its surroundings that it appeared as if a piece of New York City or Paris had suddenly fallen from the sky. He’d read that it was built to mark the beginning of a “new” Port Harcourt, but as he walked towards it, he thought once again that it seemed to only underscore the immense poverty of the place. To the majority of people here, the hotel was just a painful reminder of what they did not have; a mocking beacon of radiant, unattainable opulence.

  He slipped easily from the stream of merchants and market-goers as he reached the entrance gate of the hotel, a large “GL” inscription elegantly emblazoned on the heavy steel gate. The massive concrete walls to both sides were intricately adorned with stylized reliefs of elephants, buffalo and lions; artfully masking their true intent of absolute security. A short, muscular security guard with a scar across his forehead eyed him with suspicion as he stepped up and wordlessly pulled his room key and ID card into view. The guard leaned against the gate and examined the card for a long moment before fixing his dark eyes on him intensely. He nodded calmly at the guard. Satisfied, the guard nodded back and opened the gate just enough for his thin frame to pass. He smiled casually as entered the courtyard, quickly appraising his surroundings as they transformed from the grimy, traffic-choked streets to a serene, open courtyard of rose trellises and flowering acacia trees.

  The nearly empty atrium lobby of the Garden Landmark stretched across a reflective sea of black polished granite. The modern, minimalist décor was an austere landscape of chrome and leather furnishings, appearing to be made more for aesthetics than comfort. Large, stunningly intricate batik textiles suspended over the check-in desk exploded with hues of ochre and phthalo blue, offering the only homage to the local Nigerian culture.