The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  “You have my promise. Goodbye, Mr. Rossi. And please take care of yourself.”

  Anthony’s second call was to his financial consultant, Darby Pecheur. He had handled Anthony’s personal account for years; there wasn’t anything that he didn’t know about his finances.

  Darby was the consummate professional: timely, accurate, thorough, and, most importantly, trustworthy. To top it off, he dressed impeccably, always giving Anthony the impression that he went to bed in a dark navy suit.

  Anthony did not disclose what had happened over the last four months. As far as Darby knew, his client was taking a long overdue vacation in Spain.

  Anthony wanted an accounting of draws made from his credit card since September eighth, the day he was attacked. Darby took a moment to bring up the screen.

  “It looks like you have been a busy man,” Darby said.

  “Why, what do you see?”

  “All your withdrawals are from ATM machines. As of today you’ve drawn out a little over $25,000. You’ve been hitting the machine about three times a week and always at about $500 a whack, depending on the exchange rate.”

  Damn. Suddenly Anthony remembered Savannah snuggling up behind him, when he withdrew cash from the ATM in Granada. Sure. She had read his code. She was playing it smart. She could withdraw $500 every day, but that would draw suspicion from the bank.

  “Can you tell where the debits were made?”

  “Sure. Let’s see. Beginning in September, I see draws in—forgive my Spanish—Granada, Jaén, Andújar. For the last week and a half, it’s been the same machine: the ATM at the Hotel Glorioso in Córdoba.”

  Incredible! Savannah was in Córdoba—just thirty minutes away from Espejo! Anthony knew the hotel. It was a magnificent hundred-year-old palace in the heart of the city—an upper-end room costing around $250 a night. Anthony had been paying for Savannah’s hotel bill.

  “Got it. Thanks, Darby. That’s about what I figured. I need one other thing from you. I need you to overnight a new debit card with a new number. But I also want you to keep the old card active. Can you do that for me?”

  “Sure. Just give me the address.”

  Anthony did so.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine. Having a great time; wish you were here.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  Anthony hung up. Normally, he would call the credit card company and put a stop on the card, but he didn’t want to alert Savannah—not just yet.

  ANTONIO WAS AT A SMALL desk in his bedroom, bent over a notebook.

  Diego leaned around the portal and lightly tapped on the open door.

  Antonio looked up from his work and hooked his arm on the back of his chair. “Come in, Diego.”

  “Dinner will be ready in about a half hour.”

  “Great. Is there something I can do to help?”

  “No, everything is simmering,” Diego said, stepping into the room. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, I was just trying to get some thoughts down on paper, but it is not easy.”

  “What are you struggling with?”

  “All the basic questions: Where have I been? Where am I going?

  Diego sat down on the bed facing Antonio. “Hmm. Antonio, I would like to tell you a story.”

  Antonio turned his chair around to face Diego directly. These were the moments he cherished the most with his friend. He understood Diego’s language: “Telling a story” was code for “imparting wisdom.”

  “I want to tell you about the death of my friend, Juanito.”

  Diego slowly revealed the story.

  “I have never forgotten his four sacred words: Silence, love, charity, peace. They are the words that I live by. Silence begets love, love begets charity, charity begets peace. It is that simple.”

  Antonio repeated the words in his head.

  “I told you that story for a reason, Antonio.”

  “Yes, Diego.”

  “If you choose, you can serve here in Espejo. I believe in you. I believe you would be good for Lupita and good for our village. And I think you would be at peace.” Then, after a long breath: “I will not be here forever.”

  “You are as strong as an ox,” Antonio protested.

  “Maybe so. Still, no one is immortal. And I would be very happy, if you were to take my place one day.”

  Suddenly, hearing those words, Antonio could not swallow. “I have never been so honored, Diego.”

  “Will you think about it?”

  “Of course I will.”

  The next day, Anthony borrowed Diego’s van and drove north to Córdoba. During the short drive, he thought about Lupita, of course, but also about Diego’s wisdom. He hoped that his words would serve him now.

  His first stop was at a fashionable men’s clothing store. He was at home in his everyday field clothes; in fact, they gave him a sense of integrity and nobility. So, the idea of exchanging his simple work shirt for a pinstriped business suit was repellent to him. It reeked of his old life. Yet, for what he had in mind, he knew he had to look like a Wall Street banker.

  He stepped into the store and selected a classic navy suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie. The salesman called for the tailor: a short man wearing suit pants, suspenders, herringbone shirt, and tie. He was all business. Both sleeves would have to be lengthened, the back pulled in at the waist, and the pants cuffed.

  “Could you have that done within the next hour?” Anthony asked.

  “Not possible,” the tailor said curtly.

  Anthony surveyed the suits on display about the store. “If I may ask, señor, where did you learn your craft?”

  The tailor thought the question strange—a ruse to entrap him perhaps—and he glared at Anthony. “Milan, Paris, London,” he said curtly.

  “Ah, you must have studied at the Instituto Bianchi.”

  The tailor’s face brightened. “How did you know?”

  “Bianchi is the best fashion institute in the world. I see the Bianchi touch in this shop; it could have been nothing else. Besides, my Paris tailor is also a graduate; the give away was your mentioning Milan, Paris, and London: the three Bianchi fashion centers.”

  “You have a very good eye, señor,” he said smiling. “Please, let me make your alterations.”

  “Not without paying for your services; your craftsmanship is too valuable. Would 10,000 pesetas be satisfactory?”

  The tailor smiled broadly. “It is too generous, señor. Five thousand pesetas will do handsomely, and your suit will be ready in one hour.”

  “Thank you. You are most kind.”

  The transaction sealed, Anthony walked a few doors down the street and stepped into a barbershop, where he sat for a shave and a haircut.

  When he returned to the men’s store, the tailor was brushing down the suit.

  “It is a beautiful suit,” he said, smiling.

  “Yes, it is,” Anthony agreed, patting the tailor on the shoulder. “And thank you for being such a master at your craft.”

  The tailor grinned. “It is a pleasure.”

  Anthony immediately slipped into the suit. When he looked at himself in the full-length mirror, he could not complain; the suit was impeccably tailored. What he did not like was the fact that he was wearing the suit. Despite its fine texture and drape, it felt like a cloak of disgrace, and he would wear it only long enough to complete the job.

  On his way to the car, Anthony passed a tobacco shop and froze, spotting something that attracted his attention in the display window. He went into the shop and made his purchase.

  His next stop was the Hotel Glorioso.

  Anthony was an actor now—playing an uneasy role to accomplish the task. He walked into the hotel like he owned the place and strolled to the gift shop where he purchased a copy of El Mundo. Then he went to the lobby and found a comfortable easy chair that had a perfect view of the elevators and the front entrance. He started to read the paper. An hour later, he was still reading. One o
f the desk clerks stepped out from behind the counter and, approaching Anthony, asked if he could be of service.

  “Thank you. A cup of hot coffee would be very nice,” Anthony said.

  “Of course. Right away, sir.”

  Another hour passed, and then it happened. The elevator door opened, and Savannah stepped out. She looked like a million dollars—most of them Anthony’s dollars. With the exception of a stunning set of pearls, she was dressed entirely in black: high-waisted wool trousers, a revealing cashmere sweater, a stylish full-length polished rain slicker, and a beaded handbag. She was dressed to kill.

  Anthony folded the newspaper and laid it tent-like over his right hand. He cut off Savannah at the center of the lobby, grasping her arm firmly with his left hand. Savannah whipped around and flashed her eyes, outraged by the intrusion. But when she finally looked into Anthony’s eyes, the recognition sank in, and all her indignation slowly dissolved into fear. She was paralyzed. Then, like a slow-motion film, Anthony could see an idea dawn in her eyes; her expression turned from terror to defiance, and she opened her mouth, ready to scream.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Anthony said quickly, thrusting his right hand forward.

  Savannah’s entire body jerked; what she felt pressed against her ribs could only be the barrel of a pistol.

  “A little kiss, my lovely,” Anthony said, pecking Savannah on both cheeks.

  Savannah stood rigid, staring down at the business section of El Mundo.

  “Now, we are going to turn, go back to the elevator, and go to your room,” Anthony said, as if speaking to a child about the dangers of crossing the street. “I want you to smile for the nice man at the desk.”

  She complied.

  Anthony stood behind Savannah in the elevator. She pushed the button for the fourth floor. As the door was closing, an older American couple, looking like they were dressed for Hawaii, hobbled forward in what for them must have been a dead-out sprint. “Hold that elevator!” the woman shouted, her words snapping like a cookie sheet.

  “Sorry, all full up,” Anthony said, pressing the “close door” button.

  As the doors sealed, the American woman could be heard snarling at her husband. “Why didn’t you stop the elevator, Arnold? It wasn’t full; it wasn’t full at all. You could have stopped it if you wanted to, but, oh no, not you, not Mr. Mamby-Pamby.”

  The elevator ascended.

  Savannah was silent, and Anthony knew her brain was churning.

  The elevator stopped at the fourth floor, and the two stepped out, Anthony still standing behind Savannah. “Just march straight to your room. No funny business, please.”

  Savannah stopped at room 434. A do-not-disturb sign was suspended from the door handle. When she inserted the card into the electronic lock, Anthony slipped his arm around her waist and swung the door open, using Savannah as a shield. The two crabbed along together from the sitting room to the bedroom to the bathroom. The suite was empty.

  Anthony released his grip on Savannah, being careful to stand between her and the front door. He canvassed the room. It was richly decorated, but it looked like it had not received maid service for a month. The bed was unmade, and the floor was cluttered with newspapers and a rat’s nest of dirty dishes. But most prominent were two plastic bags of white powder in clear view on a small desk.

  Anthony poked at one of the bags with two fingers. “What is this? Cocaine?”

  Cold silence, Savannah inspecting the polish on her fingernails.

  “Where do you get the nerve to set this stuff out in the open?”

  “The hotel owner is . . . a customer.”

  They were the first words Savannah had spoken, and Anthony hardly recognized her voice. There was none of the sweetness that he knew in Granada, but rather a raw abrasiveness: a challenging tone, ready to pick a fight.

  “Oh, Savannah, you’re hanging out with bad company.”

  “My name is not Savannah.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned that. What is your name anyway?”

  The ice treatment again.

  “I understand; you don’t feel like talking. Meanwhile, would you please sit over there?” Anthony said, pointing at two parlor chairs in front of the small balcony.

  Savannah sat.

  “Maybe I’d be more chatty,” she said with a slur, “if you put that gun away.”

  Anthony looked at the newspaper that was still draped over his right hand. “Oh, you mean this?” he asked. “This is nothing.” Anthony drew the newspaper from his hand, revealing a straight-neck briar pipe.

  Savannah’s shoulders visibly dropped.

  Anthony slowly walked about the room, opening drawers and closet doors. Then he moved to the bed. He slipped his hand under one of the pillows and stopped cold, while Savannah suddenly looked like she was one number short of the lotto jackpot. He turned the pillow over, revealing a nickel-plated 32-caliber revolver. “I think I’d better take this,” he said, stuffing the gun into his suit side pocket.

  His tour finished, he sat down across from Savannah in the second parlor chair.

  “May I?” he said, reaching over and snatching the beaded handbag from Savannah’s clutches. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Anthony pulled out an American passport and opened it. A picture of Savannah smiled back at him; she could have been anybody’s college sweetheart. “Kelly Sullivan. Place of birth: Las Vegas, Nevada.” He looked at Savannah. “Is that who you are: Kelly Sullivan?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “And you’re not from Savannah?”

  “No.”

  “So tell me, Savannah . . . Kelly . . . I don’t know what to call you.”

  Suddenly, her voice softened, becoming more seductive. “Call me Kelly. That’s my real name.”

  “Okay, Kelly. Tell me, what are you about?” he asked, slipping her passport into his suit pocket.

  “May I?” she asked, peeling out of her rain slicker.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m about you,” she said, stepping forward and dropping to her knees at Anthony’s feet. She spread his legs apart and, looking into his eyes, started to unzip his fly. “I know you like this, baby.”

  Anthony slipped one hand in his suit pocket to protect the revolver. He was repulsed. He literally picked Kelly up off the ground and thumped her into her seat. “No, Kelly, not this time.”

  She shrugged. “Hey, it was worth a shot.”

  Anthony turned again to the handbag, this time pulling out a roll of bills. “You won’t mind if I keep these,” he said, pocketing the money. “I believe they are rightfully mine.”

  Kelly blinked impassively.

  “That’s about it. Lipstick, a little change, a subway ticket, but no credit card. Where’s my credit card, Kelly? And my passport?”

  She looked to one side with infinite boredom.

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” Anthony said.

  “If it doesn’t matter, why are you here?”

  That was the real question. Suddenly, he heard Diego’s voice: Without mercy there is no love. “I’m trying to learn the answer to that question,” he said slowly.

  “Did you want to get even?”

  “No, I don’t want blood.”

  “Then what?”

  Anthony took a moment, tugging on the lapels of his jacket. “I think I want to understand.”

  “What’s to understand, Sweetheart? You were a mark.”

  “Please don’t call me ‘Sweetheart.’”

  “Whatever.”

  “So that was it? I was just a sucker?”

  “One born every minute.”

  “But why me?”

  “Why not you? You were rich. I saw you flashing bills at the hotel in Águilas.”

  “You were at the hotel? I didn’t see you.”

  “No, but I saw you. I knew you were going to Granada; it didn’t take long to become a hitchhiker.” She smirked. “Damn, that road has a lot of traffic; I swear, I told a dozen horny old
men to screw off, before you finally showed up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You seemed to dig the ‘baby thing,’ so we had a good time.” She paused, then added, “But I never believed you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you’re a lying son-of-a-bitch. Your wife didn’t die on you. Ovarian cancer?” she sneered, rolling her eyes. “Give me a fucking break. And you didn’t want to be anybody’s father. Face it, Anthony, we used each other; I’m just better at it than you.”

  Kelly hit a raw nerve. She just summed up his life in a phase: He used people. She was right; she was absolutely right. He became sullen.

  Kelly could see his pretension dissolve. “What’s the matter, Sugar? Did I hurt your feelings?”

  “Yeah, you did. Because it is all true.”

  Kelly squinted at Anthony.

  “You know, Kelly, I am grateful to you.”

  “I bet you are,” her voice full of venom.

  “It’s true. You saved my life,” he said evenly. “When your partner was ready to plunge his knife into my heart, you fell over his arm. Even though I used you—and you knew it—still, you risked your life to save mine. Why did you do it?”

  “I don’t like blood,” she said, the surliness fading from her voice.

  “No, it’s more than that, Kelly. You’re not as tough as you pretend to be. I hate to be the one to tell you, Kid, but you have principles. Sure, they’re plenty rusty for lack of use, but they have not disappeared altogether; they’re just hidden away somewhere in the depth of your soul.”

  “You’re not going to start singing ‘Kum Ba Ya,’ I hope.”

  Anthony smiled. “You know, it might not hurt. The point is we both know better, don’t we? That’s why I came, Kelly: Not for revenge, but to thank you, to tell you I’m sorry for how I used you.” He searched for the right phrase. He started, stopped, and started again. “What if . . . ? Look, it’s like this. We can both do a helluva lot better.”

  Kelly didn’t answer, but her eyes did not look as mean.

  There was no time to say more. Someone was opening the front door. Anthony pulled the gun out of his pocket and tucked it under his armpit out of view.

  An angry voice called out: “Kelly, where the . . .”

  The man stopped dead. He was thirty, maybe thirty-five years old. He had a slender waist and firm, muscular build. He looked quick as a cat, but also strung out, like he was sampling his own drugs—the vacancy in his eyes giving him away. He looked to be Arab.