The Binding

by E. Z. Rinsky

  I survey the revolving doors of the hotel from behind the safety of a parked car across the street. Watch people walking in and out for five minutes before accepting that if this is a setup, there’s really no way I’m going to be able to detect it beforehand. Muscle memory has me reaching for my Magnum in the back of my jeans, feeling naked at its absence. Not that it would be particularly helpful against an Interpol sting anyways.

  I close my eyes and massage my temples. Try to think this through reasonably.

  If it is a sting, I’ll be extradited to the States and sit in jail for a year while they get the trial arranged. From there I’ll have little more than a puncher’s chance of proving who Greta Kanter really was, thanks to the lack of witnesses, and the fact that it went down five years ago. So, likely looking at something like twenty years in the slammer.

  But if I just walk away I’m going to run out of money in a few months and more importantly, Sadie’s boarding school is only paid for another year and a half. And the options for ameliorating that situation are pretty stark. I can’t work here legally for obvious reasons, which leaves some unsavory prospects like armed robbery or running drugs.

  And if I get myself killed in the process of either of those ventures I’ll leave Sadie even more screwed.

  I grab a handful of beard and tug on it urgently. It’s strangely reassuring to think that no matter what I do here, I’ll probably be filled with remorse and guilt in a few months.

  Zugzwang.

  Ultimately, it’s curiosity that pushes me across the street, through the revolving door, and into the softly lit lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Budapest. Everything is white and gold, including the chandeliers, plush carpet and concierge uniforms. Someone is tickling a creamy grand piano behind a row of Roman columns. Groups of business travelers, European tourists, people on laptops sit on broad white couches and around Parisian-style café tables. I feel horribly conspicuous. I’m underdressed, undergroomed, underarmed . . . equipped only with what little buzz remains from that double espresso.

  I proceed warily across the ballroom-sized space. The light bouncing off every spotless polished surface makes me feel dizzy. I can’t tell if I’m just imagining that every person I pass breaks away from their conversation for a moment to steal a glance at me. Are they all cops? Half expecting to be tackled and cuffed, read my rights in barked Hungarian, maybe kicked in the gut a few times . . . I’m breathing very hard.

  Then I spot Courtney. He’s sitting toward the far corner of the room, to the side of the reception desk, enveloped in a white armchair, reading a paperback. As soon as I see him something melts in my chest. I immediately feel guilty for even suspecting that he’s here to turn me in. This is the guy who apologizes profusely when he accidentally grabs your water glass. He once chastised me for failing to tip a hotel maid. These people live off of tips, Frank . . . He cares about fruit being organic for philosophical reasons. He explained to me once that he doesn’t drink coffee because he doesn’t like to “lose control.”

  He’d never be able to live with the guilt of betraying me.

  I can’t help myself from grinning as I walk toward him. I wind around the lobby to approach him from behind, clamp a firm hand on his boney shoulder and grunt in his ear:

  “You have the drugs?”

  Instead of spazzing, flailing out of his seat, as I’d hoped, Courtney Lavagnino takes a half second to finish whatever he’s reading, calmly lowers his paperback to his lap and looks up at me. Immediately his long face contorts in shock.

  “Oh geez, Frank,” he says in a low voice. “You look awful.”

  I snort and plop down into the chair across from him, trying desperately to stop myself from smiling; don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how glad I am to see him.

  That’s the first time anybody’s used my real name in years.

  But he’s not smiling at me. His thin eyebrows are furrowed in concern, giving me the look you give a terminally ill kid who tells you he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up.

  “Good to see you too.”

  “Have you been sleeping and exercising? You look exhausted.”

  “Yeah. I sleep plenty, and I’ve been jogging like twice a day. But actually you don’t look so hot yourself,” I lie. Or rather, he doesn’t look any less hot than usual. He’s always borne an uncanny resemblance to Morticia Addams, but five years have barely changed him: long, cruel chin; hollow cheeks; broad pale forehead. His hair is shorter, that’s the big change. He used to have a ponytail—now he has a buzz cut; a sad dusting of grey and black pinpricks.

  “I cut my own hair now,” he says, noting my gaze. “I finally decided, why should I pay someone to do it? It’s not sensible. I don’t pay someone to cut my fingernails or brush my teeth.”

  “Cool,” I say. “This is exactly how I always imagined an Interpol sting going down.”

  Courtney’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, as the rest of his face crumples.

  “Frank, I would never—”

  “I know. I’m kidding. I’m here right?”

  Courtney’s skeletal shoulders relax beneath a wrinkly white polo shirt that’s way too big for him. A montage of him at some outlet mall flashes through my head, an upbeat pop song playing over his carefully calculated attempt to assemble a touristy, seasonally-appropriate wardrobe for his Eurotrip.

  “So you’re too cheap for a haircut, but you’re shelling out for one of the nicest hotels in the city?”

  “I’m not staying here, Frank.” Courtney seems insulted by the suggestion of decadence. “Just costs me one tea to sit here in the evenings.”

  “And wait for me.”

  Courtney nods.

  “You couldn’t find me? Really?”

  Courtney shrugs. Marks his page in his book and closes it, as if finally resigning himself to a long conversation.

  “I probably could have, but thought it was better this way. Didn’t want to see you if you didn’t want to see me.”

  “How did you know I was in Budapest?”

  He shakes his head at me, almost disapprovingly.

  “You’ve been traveling on the same fake passport for years. You should change at least biannually.”

  “If I’m so incompetent, why am I still a free man, hotshot?”

  Courtney claws his unshaved cheek.

  “You’re not a high priority obviously. Because, I stress, you’ve been very sloppy. You didn’t change your appearance at all. If your picture had made it onto the news for five seconds it would have been over.”

  “I grew a beard.”

  “Right, the beard.” Courtney nods to himself. “Brilliant. The beard has been confounding facial recognition software and law enforcement officials for decades. Perhaps someday technology will be able to simulate—”

  “Alright, alright,” I snap. “Fine. I look awful and I’m a terrible fugitive. Why did you want to talk?”

  “Mmm.” Courtney sits back in his chair and folds one boney leg over the other. “First, tell me about Sadie. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” I sigh. “In a fancy shmancy boarding school that’s more like a country club. Called ‘The Farm’ or something, but they’re not fooling anybody. Used a good chunk of the Greta money to set her up with phony papers, tuition and room and board.”

  Courtney frowns seriously—which usually means he’s either happy or deep in thought. He only smiles when he’s being a wiseass; when he’s figured out something before I have.

  “Good to hear, Frank.”

  “So?”

  Courtney clears his throat. Glances quickly around the hotel, presumably to make sure nobody’s eavesdropping. As if any of these put-together, purpose-driven-life, let’s-meet-up-for-cocktails-and-catch-up people give a shit about us.

  Satisfied, Courtney makes a steeple with his fingers and says:

  “Somebody would like to hire us.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “Hire us? Don’t they know that I’m wanted
?”

  Courtney nods slowly. He takes a sip of iced teas and stares at me seriously.

  “He does. In fact, one part of our compensation package is fixing that for you. He had to, so you could come back to the States.”

  From the pocket of his faded blue jeans, Courtney removes an American passport and hands it to me. I bite my lip as I open it. It’s my picture with a new name, new birthday, new everything. I leaf through, inspecting the watermarks, the edges . . .

  I look back up at Courtney, heart fluttering.

  “This is a hell of a forgery,” I say.

  “It’s not a forgery,” Courtney says. “It was printed in the American passport office. But the details belong to someone else. You have to burn it once we get through security, too risky to use it more than once. However, should we complete the job, the Senator has promised to get you a real one. New details in the database. A new identity. New Social Security number, new credit rating . . .”

  I put the passport on the table between us, shaking my head.

  “This is already too good to be true.”

  His eyes twinkle in amusement as he takes another long sip of tea, slurping up the bottom of it.

  “It’s not a hard job,” he says softly. “And it pays quite well. But if your schedule is too full . . .”

  I lower my head into my palms. Grind my eyelids until I see stars.

  “Of course it’s a hard job. They’re all hard jobs.”

  “I did my due diligence. Followed up on all the odds and ends I could, didn’t want to waste your time, and everything seems quite legitimate. Plus he’s very impressed by us. He was initially referred by a woman I did an excellent, discreet job for some time ago who really talked me up. And of course I pulled some strings to arrange a stellar lineup of references for both of us—”

  “Real ones?”

  Courtney winces.

  “I mean, we really did crack the Beulah Twelve case, succeeded where thousands failed. By all rights we should have amazing references. But of course I couldn’t exactly mention anything related to the Greta case. Let’s say, the references were real in spirit.”

  “Who is he?”

  Courtney taps the rim of his glass with a spidery index finger.

  “James Henry Sampson. Ring a bell?”

  “Nope.”

  “He’s a two-term Senator. Independently wealthy. Owns Sampson Dairy. It’s huge in the Southwest. Or, used to. He sold it when he went into politics.”

  “So the passport—”

  “He’s a Senator. Connections out the wazoo. He got this thing printed and shipped to me in one afternoon.”

  “Wait,” I say. “That name does sound familiar. Is that the guy with that crazy sex scandal? He was cheating on his wife with super young girls or something?”

  Courtney clears his throat.

  “They were all of age, but yes. That’s him.”

  “And he’s still a Senator?”

  “Actually, he won his first election a few years after that story. But since being in office, his record has been astonishingly clean. Not a single blemish. I’m fairly certain that having this fake passport printed is the shadiest thing he’s done in years.”

  I can’t stop staring at the blue passport on the table between us. Once I’m in the States I could go see Sadie face-to-face. Hell, with a new identity maybe I could get a place close to her school in North Carolina so we could see each other regularly.

  “What’s the job, Court?” I grit my teeth. “What’s this easy job?”

  “I don’t have all the details yet—”

  “Oh great.” I throw up my hands. “Everything’s easy when you don’t have all the details.”

  “Patience, Frank,” says Courtney calmly. “I understand his thinking. He can’t fill us in on all the details until we commit. But the bottom line is this: One of Sampson’s ex-employees—a guy named Rico Suarez—stole some very valuable books from him four years ago. He’s been patiently demanding ransom. And now, Sampson has finally agreed to pay.”

  “Why doesn’t he call the cops, Court? He’s a Senator and knows who the guy is—”

  Courtney sighs. “Can you please let me explain, Frank?”

  “Sorry.”

  “So the job is this: Rico wants an outrageous amount of money. Sampson has finally managed to gather the exorbitant sum. I think he’s had to sell property and liquidate tons of assets. But he has the cash, and is ready to pay. Our job is to get in touch with Rico, tell him we have the money, and put an end to this. Swap the money for the books and put the fear of God into him to make sure he stays away from our client.” Courtney coughs. “The only leverage Rico has over Sampson is the books. If it wasn’t for the books, you’re right, Sampson would have called the cops straightaway. But Sampson stressed to me: Nobody can find out that he has these books in his possession. Says it would ruin his reputation and political career. But that he needs these books back . . .”

  I exhale through pursed lips.

  “So let me get this straight: Sampson has the money and is ready to pay the ransom. All we have to do is call Rico and convince him we’re serious about swapping and then maybe putting a tough face on while we do it?”

  Courtney nods.

  “Yes. The job itself might only take a few days. Arrange location and date, meet up, swap, collect three hundred grand.”

  My pulse jumps at the thought of my half of that money.

  “Sounds like he’s overpaying.”

  “Maybe. But you should read this guy’s emails Frank. He’s been destroyed by this ordeal. And he’s wealthy. He’ll pay what it takes to make it end. Also, as I mentioned, he holds the arguably misguided belief that we’re highly competent private investigators.”

  “You’ve only communicated with him by email?” I ask.

  “Well, yes. You know . . .”

  Courtney has never owned a telephone. If pressed, he’ll explain that he doesn’t like being traceable—the more he figures out how easily a person can be tracked through technology, the more frightened he becomes of being tracked himself. I tend to suspect his reasons have more to do with either shyness, or paranoia that the person on the other end is an impostor. Whatever the case, as long as I’ve known him, he’s only been reachable through one of several heavily encrypted email accounts he maintains, and checks a few times a week at Internet cafés or the library. It’s a neat system, because he can generally figure out where his referrals are coming from, based on which email address he’s contacted at. It also gives him an air of mystery, a sort of initial upper hand with clients. But—most importantly—he avoids turning off clients with that unsavory personality of his, that demeanor that’s somehow intertwined with the bitter sprigs of root vegetables and flavorless vegan fig bars he’s always eating. Those foul foods that we generously refer to as “acquired tastes.”

  I think for a second.

  “Well . . . Sounds like Rico’s been pretty patient, eh? Stuck to his guns for what, four years? Impressive.”

  “Oh yes.” Courtney nods and waves his hand at the bar to signal that he’d like another tea. “Very professional. Gave his price and never budged. I admire his patience.”

  I rub my neck.

  “This guy Rico is obviously pretty serious. This already sounds like it could get ugly.”

  “Alright.” Courtney reaches to take back the passport. “Sorry for wasting your time. You obviously have a lot on your plate.”

  I slam my hand down on top of his, pinning the passport to the tabletop. I glare at him, rage tickling some spot behind my eyes.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” I growl, suddenly feeling stone cold sober. “I’ll snap these little fingers off and make you swallow them.”

  To my increasing fury, he just cocks his head at me, like he’s disappointed with the banality of my threat.

  “So you’d like to hear more then?” he asks, as nonplussed as a waiter listing the evening’s specials. His refusal to even acknowledge my thr
eat badly makes me want to follow through on it.

  He just smiles smugly at me until I have no choice but to withdraw my shaking hand, and take a few deep breaths.

  “So.” Courtney clears his throat. “What you’re wondering, surely, is what are these books? Why does Sampson think it would ruin his reputation if this got out? We’re obviously not talking about first edition Melville manuscripts or something.”

  “And,” I add, “why is he willing to pay . . . How much is he giving Rico to return them?”

  Courtney scratches a stubbly cheek.

  “Forty million.”

  “What?” I jump in my seat. “How rich is this guy?”

  “Rich,” Courtney says. “But by my estimation, this is well over half of his total worth.”

  “I see.”

  A waiter with a towel draped over a cuffed wrist brings Courtney his tea on a tray.

  “Van egy barátom ma este.” He smiles.

  “Igen,” replies Courtney. “Beszélnem helyett olvasni.”

  They both laugh.

  “What the hell?” I ask as the waiter delicately accepts Courtney’s payment and returns to the bar. “You speak Hungarian?”

  “A bit,” says Courtney. “I mean, I have been here over a month. Couldn’t help picking up a few words.”

  I decide not to admit that I’ve been here nearly a year and have no idea what they just said. “So I guess the three hundred grand makes sense now. It’s a big deal, handling that much money.”

  “Yes.” Courtney nods. “As a percentage of the total transaction, it’s obviously negligible.”

  “Paid up front?”

  “Upon completion. Didn’t push him on that yet. Maybe we can negotiate.”

  Before drinking, he takes the glass of tea and holds it up the light, swirling and squinting like it’s a fine wine. Finally satisfied, he lowers his glass to his lips and takes a tentative sip.

  “I got one two weeks ago that tasted a little funny. Noticed a little layer of film on the top. Means either it had been sitting for a while or—more likely—somebody sneezed into it.”

  “You can’t taste sneeze,” I snort, as he continues to drink warily, like the speed of germ intake will mitigate chances of infection. “But Court. What are these books? Are they coated in platinum?”