by Tyler Flynn
A tall bellhop held out a large envelope. The man wore a black suit, gray vest, and black top hat, complete with a silver Savoy Hotel name tag that read “David.”
“Package for you, Mr. Hart. Dropped off several minutes after you arrived back.”
“Cheers,” Hart said, immediately regretting trying to use the British phrase.
Hart dug into his pocket and pulled out a pound, and with a tip of the cap the bellhop left.
Hart closed the door. The realization set in that he was disappointed. Who had he expected? Did he believe Clara would come running to him like a damsel in distress? Grow up, Paul, he told himself.
He returned to the desk, opened the envelope, and found a smaller one inside with his name written on the front and a Post-it note attached that read “Please enjoy.” The envelope contained two tickets for the football match at Wembley on Thursday afternoon. The tickets were box seats under the name of Hart’s firm, Calhoun Capital. He tossed the tickets on the desk. Utterly confused, he felt betrayed by Renard. Had he misled him on purpose, or was this some misunderstanding? Igor had said the tickets were from Hart, but it made no sense. He didn’t buy them, nor did Hutchens. Something wasn’t right, and while he had played along with everyone’s requests, the fact that Igor was involved soured his willingness to consent to everything. In fact, Hart decided that something must be done. He fired off an email to his associate Charles Roberts asking for background on Igor’s firm and, in addition, if any of Roberts’ contacts in European banking could share any intelligence on the man. It might be foolish, but Hart wanted to justify his dislike for the man.
The phone in his room rang, one loud shrill that caused Hart to flinch. He sat still in silence and darkness as he stared at it, wondering if maybe the front desk was trying to reach him. The phone didn’t ring again, and he gave it no further thought.
He buried his head in his hands and tried to control the building resentment he had for Igor. It didn’t help, he realized, that his feelings for Clara were clouding his harsh judgment of the man, but there seemed more to it. He knew something wasn’t right.
There were two firm knocks on the door. Hart figured the phone ringing must have foreshadowed another delivery. He headed towards the door and swung it open, his eyes down, hoping the second delivery wouldn’t cost him another tip.
He saw bare feet and looked up. Clara stood with her hands on her hips, the same emerald-green dress pooling on the carpet in the absence of her high heels. Her eyes glistened, soft and wet, as if she had been on the verge of tears but none had fallen. She lifted her chin, which had been resting on her chest.
She started to speak, a small sound, barely audible. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other before starting again.
“Invite me in?”
Hart stood in the doorway, bewildered, before he managed, “Please,” and moved aside.
She walked in apprehensively, as if wading into a cool sea. He softly closed the door, as if her visit was a secret. Clara looked at the bed on her left, appeared to change her mind, and headed to the window and the padded bench under it. She took a seat and tucked her knees to the side.
Hart flipped on the small entryway light, allowing a sliver of light into the bedroom. He walked to the desk and closed his laptop.
Clara smiled and spoke, in contrast to her mood earlier in the evening. “How about a drink?”
“What sounds good?”
“Champagne.”
“What are we celebrating?” Hart inquired with curiosity.
“Then a vodka, but mix it with something sweet.”
Hart rummaged through the well-stocked and expensive minibar, finding a half bottle of Grey Goose and Schweppes orange soda. He grabbed two glasses, placed a few ice cubes in each, and mixed the drinks.
They sat and talked, Clara fiddling with her hair, pulling strands that had become loose and curling them around her finger. She unceremoniously asked him why he hadn’t told her about the tickets for Igor. He shrugged and said he truly didn’t know. She nodded, which appeared to end her line of questioning.
They began chatting about London, the conversation naturally veering towards how easy it was to travel about Europe—you could simply hop on a quick flight or a train to get nearly anywhere—which led to discussing which other places they’d each like to visit. They seemed to share wanderlust.
Hart didn’t know why she’d come to see him but thought maybe she wanted to take her mind off something—and that was fine by him. He was living on borrowed time, not knowing how many more conversations they’d have. As their conversation carried on, every word to him was a bonus, a chance to steal another memory. They swapped stories of their younger days, what she was like, and where they thought they’d be.
“I always wanted to be a schoolteacher, teaching children new things every day. Children can be good at whatever they’d like almost, and that fascinates me. But not older children; only age twelve or younger. They seem less worn from the ways of the world.” Clara focused on the ceiling, as if stuck in a daydream, living the life she thought she’d have. Her arm rested on the bench as she propped her head up, absentmindedly shaking her now-empty glass, the ice clinking softly.
“I think you’d make a fabulous teacher. You seem to do very well with children. See how well you’ve taken care of me.” Hart grinned, and Clara laughed, the first time she had since dinner.
“And what about you, Monsieur Hart? Do you really enjoy what you do? You always wanted to be a banker? Traveling the globe, making money, impressing vain men, and convincing them you can make them even more money.” She held out her glass.
He laughed. “You make it sound quite mischievous.” He poured her another drink, unscientifically mixing the vodka and soda. “There are moments when I enjoy my job, but not for the reasons you’ve said. I like the traveling much more than any deals, but this really is my first business trip.” He took a sip from the vodka, its bite cut by the sweetness of the orange soda, which was too sweet for him, but he drank it anyway. “My parents were tax attorneys. A fine profession, but I think they always wanted more. They could never break out from their own path; just year after year of the same.”
He paused and studied the light dancing on the walls from the streetlamps while he took several pulls on his drink, and he felt Clara’s eyes heavy on him. He shook his head. “I don’t really know, honestly. Some days I just don’t know what happened. I kind of fell into this job, never asked for it, and it was given to me, so I feel obligated to prove my worth. It’s fine, but I don’t have what it takes to be successful. I guess it’s the vodka talking, but I always wanted freedom, something bigger than myself. I don’t know what career that would ever be, but I love the feeling of waking up in a new city with the smell of espresso in the morning. That feeling I get in my chest when I know deep down I need quiet time in my life. The kind of quiet you can only get from a shady terrace with a great view, or a cool wind on a hot day at a lonely beach. Those things to me are truly living. That’s what I’d love to do every day.” He smiled and shrugged.
Clara made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Oh, là là, a capitalist with a conscience.” She raised herself up so she was sitting on the bench. “Entre chien et loup.” Her voice grew soft.
Hart heard the French but couldn’t place the translation. “What was that?”
Clara brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a French idiom. We love using them. It means between dog and wolf. It’s used for the time before the sun is fully set, when it isn’t day or night. But what it really means is something that can’t be described. That is kind of how I think about you.”
He finished his drink and set it on the desk. “Maybe that’s a fair assessment.”
Her eyes were soft and sympathetic. “But we shouldn’t let the regret of not being who we thought we would be stop us from becoming who we are.” She finished her drink and rose. “I should be going.”
Hart stood as she passed
by him close enough that he could smell her perfume. She stopped and turned, her eyes searching the room as if her words were written on the walls. She was just within reach, and their eyes met. She gave him a knowing look and then closed her eyes. He reached for her waist and pulled her close, her arms around his waist. Her body was smooth, warm underneath the silk dress.
Hart gently lifted her chin. They kissed, her lips fuller and softer than he imagined. His hands worked from her sides up her back as he pulled her tighter, and she responded in kind. Their pace was cautious at first, hands gently exploring. Hers found their way up his chest and around his back. She paused as Hart placed his hand lightly on her cheek, their foreheads resting together. Their breathing was shallow and fast. Hart gasped for air as he felt her heart pound against his chest. He held her still for a moment.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I met you. You are everything.” It was as much an admission to himself as it was a thought to be shared with her.
“Don’t say that,” she whispered.
“I only tell the truth.”
She moved her mouth up to meet his once more, at a more fevered pace. He could feel her pulling him as they shuffled towards the bed. His hands found the zipper on the back of her dress. They fell onto the bed, her dress slipping upwards as he lay on top of her. Their kissing didn’t cease as he worked his hand gently from her back, across her full breasts and tight stomach, past her thigh. His hand slid down to the bottom of her silk dress until he felt her warm and smooth skin. He felt her shudder as he worked his way up underneath her dress and back the way it came. She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him in closer.
25
London
Early-morning fog hung in the air and blanketed the small wharf. It encompassed everything, the cold air fighting the moist ground, old enemies sworn to battles since the dawn of time. The morning fog held a grayish light, fitting for the mundane work that lay ahead.
Igor pulled his jacket collar tighter to combat the damp cold. The ground was frosted, and the grass crunched under his boots as he made his way towards the river. The docks were quiet early in the morning, mostly because fishermen didn’t use this small bay, but rather a small number of boating aficionados—and on this particular morning, like some mornings past, Igor.
The sun was an hour from fully rising, but a soft orange glow came from the east over the river, lighting up the thick clouds that hung in the sky. In the distance to his left, much further down and across the river, Igor could see the high-rises and bustle of Canary Wharf.
He made his way from the flat parking lot where his car sat, separated from the water by only some thirty yards of grass. The wharf was surrounded by weathered brick apartment buildings, battered by time and the spray of the water, a certain yellow tinge clinging to them.
When Igor reached the river, he noticed it ran smooth. Only small splashes could be heard when a ripple hit the cement sidewalls of the yacht basin. Igor surveyed the river and at first could hardly see the yellow running lights of the boat as it silently idled towards Igor. The boat cut its motor, swung around in a wide, lazy about-to, and pulled up next to the cement wall where Igor stood watching.
“Morning,” said the man Igor had come to know only as Charlie.
He slid the silent, twenty-three-foot Century Center Console boat closer to the wall. He tossed a rope, and Igor secured it to a light post, strong enough, with its steel welding and stubborn age, to stop the boat from drifting away. This was their third time working together. The first two times were tests to see how far the courier would go and for what price.
“Easy sailing?” Igor feigned interest, blankly staring at his expensive courier.
“Water was smooth all the way from Corringham. Got these three boxes today from the port, eh? The usual one just isn’t cutting it anymore. Needed three this time?” Charlie asked, and grinned, revealing crooked teeth that were dark and yellow with age and too much booze. His skin was a weathered brown thanks to years spent on the river—over sixty, he’d once told Igor. The sun peeked from behind the horizon, shining off the water onto Charlie’s gray beard.
Igor wanted their transaction over with quickly and ignored the inquiry.
“You can just unload the three here and I’ll take care of them.” He paused and studied the two-by-three-foot-high wooden crates that bobbed on the bow of the boat.
“Aye, they’re quite heavy, mate.”
Charlie lifted a box, the strain visible on his face.
Igor grabbed the box from him and set it down on land. The boat rocked back and forth, its load lightened.
“You know,” Charlie started while he scratched his silver beard, “I’ve been having a think. I might just open one of these boxes and have me a bottle. You know, giving myself a lil’ bonus.” A broad, crooked smile spread across his face as he looked at Igor and chuckled.
Igor ignored the man once again and waved his hand for the next box. He didn’t have time for small talk. He needed to bring the boxes all the way to Borough Market by car and drop them off.
“You know, I was asking myself, why do you have the wine brought here? I could bring the boat closer to the market. You maybe live over here? That’d account for the early mornings we have, eh?” Charlie took off his dirty cap and used his jacket sleeve to clear the sweat from his face.
“Well, don’t ask yourself,” Igor growled. “Off-load the crates, and if you’re out of here in another five minutes, I’ll toss you twenty quid.” Igor turned around and glanced towards the vacant parking lot.
“Nah, I got to find me a corner shop. Need some food and a shitter. I’ll be on the water all day, ya know, and this’ll probably be the only time I’m tied up.” Charlie pointed absentmindedly to the rope that hung slack from the short light post. “So, if ya don’t mind—and hell if you do—but I’ll just be running into town quick.”
Igor did mind. No matter how small or trivial the situation, he hated to be told what to do.
“Sure, old man. Let’s go with the last crate. You can be off, and I’ll load these up.”
Igor grabbed the wooden wine crate on the ground; it was much heavier than the previous deliveries, because they didn’t have the same contents. He made towards the car, careful not to drop the awkwardly heavy crate. The grass, still slightly frosted, crunched under his feet as he trudged along, leaning backward to counterbalance the weight. He eyed the black Citroën he had called his own for several days now, bought for cash in the East End, and for which he’d overpaid too.
The trunk popped open with a metallic clink, and the newly added weight caused the rear suspension to let out a painful squeak. Igor pushed the crate far enough against the side of the trunk so that the two others could fit in. The crates had taken a beating thanks to their various ports of call—three to be exact—starting in Bordeaux, on the Gironde River, then up the Atlantic coast of France to La Rochelle, then Jersey before they passed through the English Channel and slipped past the white cliffs of Dover before eventually reaching the Thames and Igor.
Igor pushed with his full body weight to ensure the crate was wedged deep in the trunk as the car pitched to and fro. He turned around to see Charlie struggling mightily with a crate, laboring across the frozen grass. He could hear the clinking of the contents inside.
“Put that down! I’ll get it,” he said tersely, his face red with anger. Igor tried not to raise his voice so early in the morning; he did not want to attract unwanted attention.
Charlie’s slender old frame strained with the weight. He leaned further backward as the crate and gravity took hold. Igor hurried towards him and closed the distance between them in seconds.
“Give me that.”
Igor grabbed the top and bottom of the crate, while Charlie clung to the sides as if it were a life raft in the middle of the sea.
Both men were determined to get their way. Charlie finally relented and gave a push of frustration that sent all the weight o
f the crate to Igor, who wasn’t expecting it. Spinning with the momentum, Igor was taken to his right and downward, and the corner of the box met the hard ground. There was a thud and a crack as the wooden box splintered.
Igor had caught himself with his hand, and he steadied himself on the ground. He stood and scowled at Charlie, who’d been too helpful for his own good.
Charlie’s face was still, his mouth agape, as he stared past Igor towards the cracked crate. Igor turned slowly and saw that it had split diagonally from the corner, revealing its contents. There were several bottles of red wine, with white labels and red foil covering the cork, packed tightly with brown paper. Amongst the wine, several broken bottles revealed wads of cash, neatly rolled and held in place by rubber bands. Between the bottles was a black metallic object that caught a glint of sunlight. A gun, recognizable by the trigger and hammer protruding from the box, had commanded Charlie’s attention.
Igor spun, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Charlie. He could see the color drain from the old man’s face. A realization appeared to hit Charlie like a tidal wave, sending him hurtling towards the harsh reality that he was most certainly in danger. He blinked in disbelief. He’d transported not only wine but also money and weapons for a man who paid in cash and insisted on discretion. He never had reason to mistrust him, but by the look on Charlie’s face, Igor realized how foolish his courier felt. The arrangement was simple enough: transport crates of wine up the Thames for a shop so they could sell a few bottles and promote the incoming shipment before the rest of the product arrived. He’d run worse things up the river before. During over fifty years spent on the water, he’d seen a good deal and carried God knows what.
Charlie made eye contact with Igor, who appeared calmer.
“Listen, I-I-I didn’t see nothing, I’m-I’m...” Charlie began, stammering.
Igor held his hand up and shook his head. “Let’s just get this in the trunk, eh?”