Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  I slink away, hoping those who matter notice how unimpressed I am by him.

  14

  Halvard Weil’s son opens the door of the Brooklyn coffee shop a few seconds after I knock. He’d told me the coffee shop was one that closed due to a lack of business. It doesn’t surprise me that it failed. It’s down at heel, and a bright new Starbucks sits gleaming across the street.

  Consumers are fickle beasts who’ll decry corporate monsters while shovelling money into their coffers, while mom-and-pop businesses are closing their doors on a daily basis.

  The coffee shop is empty, save for a couple of tables laden with upturned chairs and a thick layer of dust.

  ‘Is your father here?’

  ‘Not yet, Mr …?’

  ‘Boulder. But most people call me Jake.’ I hold out a hand. ‘And you are?’

  He hesitates for a moment until his manners get the better of him. ‘Gavriel.’

  I turn as I hear footsteps. Two men emerge from a back room and they’re both so large they need to duck as they pass through the doorway.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Boulder … Jake, but for reasons that will become apparent when you meet my father, I’m going to have to ask you to allow my cousins here to search you for weapons.’

  This is a surprise I wasn’t expecting, but it doesn’t bother me. I hang my jacket on a skyward-pointing chair leg, and lift my hands to my head. ‘Feel free. I have no weapons on me. My jacket has my wallet and cell in the inside pocket, and I have my car keys in the front right pocket of my jeans.’

  As Gavriel’s two hulking cousins pat me down, I assess their actions from a different point of view. The need to assume this level of security tells me a few things.

  First off is the fact that Halvard, his family, or both, do not trust me. Second, they are not going through these measures because they’re jumping at shadows. There must be some kind of clear threat to Halvard. Third, the level of threat is a significant one – the presence of guys as large as Gavriel’s cousins is a serious deterrent.

  I can handle myself, yet I don’t fancy my chances against guys this big. To compound matters, they move with economy and grace rather than the lumbering bovine movements usually associated with huge men. It’s quite probable that they are trained in a martial art. Krav Maga, as developed by Israeli Special Forces and Mossad, would be my guess.

  Two shaken heads receive a short nod from Gavriel. If his cousins are the brawn, he must be the brain, or the son of the brain, as the power in the room lies with him despite him being the smallest of the four of us.

  My jacket is checked for hidden weapons and handed back to me.

  ‘Now you’ve established I’m unarmed, do you trust me?’

  Gavriel’s smile is the wrong side of patronising. ‘Jake, I’m a New York pawnbroker. I’ve learned not to trust anyone.’

  I return his smile and wait for him to tell me what’s next. This situation is one I don’t care for, but I’m here to deliver a message of good news. Once it’s delivered, I’ll say my goodbyes and walk away leaving their distrust behind.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Gavriel leads me through the back of the coffee shop and into a narrow alleyway. I’m flanked by the cousins as I follow him, through a mesh of dirty stinking alleys with overflowing garbage bins and high brick walls, until he comes to a door.

  Should I decide I don’t want to be here, my only hope of extricating myself from this situation is to be fleet of foot. It’s not a theory I want to try out. The cousins are close enough to assume the role of jailers as well as bodyguards.

  Gavriel gives a complicated knock, and the door is opened by someone who looks as if he’s the cousins’ big brother.

  I’m crowded through the door and led up a stairwell, which has a threadbare carpet, peeling wallpaper and the strong ammonia stench of cat urine.

  Gavriel leads me along a corridor and into what was once someone’s lounge. He gestures for me to sit on the sofa and, when I do, I find myself wedged between the cousins. Gavriel leaves and Big Brother takes up station in front of the door.

  I could try and make conversation but not one of the three has spoken to me since I met them. Besides, I don’t want them to hear any catch of fear that may feature in my voice.

  I’m not so much scared as unnerved. The dramatic way of bringing me to this room, when I would have happily met Halvard Weil in a public place, is nothing more than a display of power and control. They want me to feel intimidated and at their mercy. The three giants add to the menace with their indifferent silence. The only thing I’m pleased about, is that Taylor isn’t here with me.

  To pass the time I try to spot some doorframe behind Big Brother. I fail.

  In their own way they’re testing me: seeing what I’m made of and how far I’ll go to speak with Halvard Weil.

  Their test isn’t one I plan to flunk, so I sit quietly and look out of the grimy window at the bricks of the neighbouring building.

  The door opens and Gavriel enters with a man who can only be his father.

  Halvard Weil has aged, compared to Ms Rosenberg’s picture of him, but there is no mistaking that he’s the same man. He sits in the single chair opposite me and looks me over, from head to toe.

  ‘You say you’re here because I am the beneficiary of a will. None of my friends or family have died, so I’m sure you must understand my caution at meeting you.’

  The look he gives me is part suspicious and part apprehensive. I get why he’s cautious, but I don’t say that I think he’s overcompensating. Instead, I ask myself why he’s so cautious, and what he has to be fearful of. Once I have an answer to my question, I’ll be able to understand his point of view.

  ‘Your benefactor is someone I believe you haven’t seen for nigh on forty years.’

  His eyes close and his head droops forward. When he speaks, his voice is little more than a pained whisper. ‘Boys. Leave us please. I need to talk alone with Mr Boulder.’

  15

  When his son and nephews have padded their way out of the lounge, Halvard lifts his chin from his chest and looks at me with tear-filled eyes.

  ‘Are you talking about who I think you are?’

  ‘If you’re thinking Fifine Rosenberg, then yes, I am.’

  His face somehow manages to convey pain and love at the same time. ‘My Fifi still thought of me?’

  I’m reeling at the thought of the formidable Ms Rosenberg being called Fifi, so I give him a shrug and a nod. The unspoken truth is that she must have thought of him every day. That she’d left him her fortune was a red flag regarding her feelings.

  Another sure indicator were the books she’d written. I looked them up online and saw they all dealt with lost love. The reviews they’d garnered were positive, but many of them mentioned a melancholy feel. Lots of the reviewers said the books “perfectly encapsulated their feelings about a love that had never blossomed into fullness”.

  His chin returns to his chest and rises again so he can look me in the eye. ‘I can’t take her money. I can’t accept it. Not after the way I failed her.’

  Pauline had hinted that Ms Rosenberg had anticipated this reaction, and that I was not to take no for an answer.

  I like to think I have principles, but I’m not sure I’d be able to turn down the kind of money he’s been left.

  ‘I think you’d be failing her again if you refuse to accept her last request.’ I let my words have a moment to register, and point out that he hasn’t asked how much the inheritance is.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s one dollar or a billion. My feelings on the matter are the same either way.’

  This isn’t the reaction I was expecting, but I have to admire him for his principles. ‘You should know that Ms Rosenberg was insistent that her money be handed to you. Should you not have been alive, it was to be passed to your descendants.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Boulder. If you had let a good woman go, and had regretted it every day for forty years, would you take her mon
ey when she died? Would you take her money when you had been too selfish to accompany her when she’d fled town in fear of her life? Would you take her money knowing you’d broken her heart?’

  ‘No, I guess not.’ The admission is out of me before I realise it’s damaging my side of the argument. I pick my next words with greater care. ‘But I’d also want to respect her last wishes. She chose you as her sole beneficiary for a reason.’

  His chin saws against his chest as his head shakes from side to side. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Don’t think of it as profiting from her death.’ I recognise that he’s starting to waver, so I press home my slight advantage. ‘Think of it as enduring proof of her love for you. If not for yourself, accept her gift for your family. Use it to give them a better life.’

  I know better than to mention numbers at this point. It’s principle we’re discussing, not dollar signs.

  ‘I didn’t give my Fifi a better life. I made hers worse by not having the courage to go with her.’

  ‘Do you think she saw it that way? Do you think she blamed you? That she hated you for not going with her? She loved you. From the day she left New York, until the day she died.’ I make sure I have eye contact with him. ‘I talked to her editor at the Casperton Gazette. She never dated anyone since you and she said goodbye. She didn’t sleep around or join the dating pool. Your Fifi didn’t want anyone but you, and if you ask me, the reason she left you her money is because she had forgiven you. To refuse her last request would be to refuse her forgiveness. You’ve lived with the thought of failing her for forty years. Can you live the rest of your life knowing you’d spurned her forgiveness?’

  ‘You, Mr Boulder, are a very persuasive gentleman who knows how to press the buttons of an emotional old man.’ He pauses to lick his lips and wipe a tear from his cheek. ‘If I took the money and put it into a trust for my grandchildren, do you think she would consider that I had accepted her forgiveness?’

  It’s a compromise for all concerned, but I’m sure Ms Rosenberg – she’ll never be Fifi to me – would agree to his terms were she here to speak for herself.

  Halvard calls out, something I don’t catch, and Gavriel walks in with a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses.

  ‘Now then, Mr Boulder. Will you join an old man in toasting a remarkable lady? I have a lot of questions to ask you about my Fifi.’

  16

  Halvard pours me a generous slug of whisky for the third time, and raises his glass in a silent toast.

  I’ve told him everything I can about Ms Rosenberg, and he listened with teary eyes as I praised her determination to get to the heart of the stories she’d covered.

  When I told him of her secret life as an author, and the pen name she’d adopted, he twisted his lips into a tight grin and told me she’d loved the novel Lorna Doone.

  Now that I’ve answered all his questions, I have a few of my own I want to put forward.

  ‘Ms Rosenberg left New York in what I gather was rather a hurry.’ I pull the paper that has the list of names and numbers on it from my pocket. ‘She left me this and told me to raise hell with what I find. I can’t crack her puzzle, nor can I begin to guess what I’ll find that will raise hell. Can you help me at all?’

  He falls silent as he looks at the sheet of paper.

  I nurse my whisky and wait him out. The whisky is a good one, but I’m doing my best not to drink too much of it. One more glass will tip me past the point where I can stop. After that it’ll be a race to the bottom of this, and any other bottles I can find. No doubt I’ll wake up somewhere I shouldn’t and there may or may not be a fight involved.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you with this.’ He pauses, looks out of the window and then at his shoes. ‘But I can tell you a little of why my Fifi left New York.’

  The whisky I’ve consumed makes me want to giggle at his insistence on referring to Ms Rosenberg as Fifi, but I manage to control myself as I gesture for him to continue.

  ‘You told me she was determined to get to the heart of a story; she was the same all those years ago. Dogged and persistent. The problem was, she’d uncovered the wrong story. She had it all written up and, when it went to her editor, it got deep-sixed.’ He takes a gulp of his whisky. ‘Naturally she had demanded to know why, but he’d told her to leave it and said no more on the matter. The next day I got a visit. The person who visited me was what they called a “made man”. If you know what that means, I don’t have to spell things out to you.’

  I nod to show that I know what a made man is. The term is a mafia one for those who’ve been formally accepted as a member. This puts a whole different slant on things, but my thought processes will have to wait until I’ve finished speaking with Halvard.

  ‘The visitor told me to tell Fifi that she had twelve hours to forget everything she knew about her story and leave New York.’ He grimaces. ‘It took me three frantic hours to find her, and another two for me to persuade her that her life was in danger. Two hours after that, I was at Grand Central Station waving at a train.’ His voice falls to a whisper. ‘Don’t say anything to Gavriel, but I’ve spent the last forty years of my life regretting not being on that train with her.’

  I’m desperate to ask what the story was about, but recognise he needs a moment to salve painful memories. I go to take a sip of my whisky, only to find my glass has become empty.

  Halvard notices and splashes another three fingers of amber liquid into the glass.

  I take the tiniest of sips and put the glass on the floor. If that glass gets emptied a fourth time, there’s no guessing the trouble I’m likely to find myself in.

  ‘You probably want to know what the story was?’

  ‘Hell yeah.’ As soon as the words are out, I regret the flippancy the whisky has brought to me.

  Halvard doesn’t pay my rudeness any attention. ‘So would I.’ His head gives a sad shake. ‘She refused to tell me. Said it would be safer for me not to know.’

  I fall silent and think of the old man in front of me. He’s spent forty years regretting actions he didn’t take. To make matters worse, he never knew the reason why his girlfriend had to leave town, and him.

  Whichever way up you stand it, their situation is nothing less than heartrendingly tragic.

  17

  Cameron exits his car and takes a look at his surroundings. Around him are the trappings of wealth. Not the comfortable lifestyle, kind of wealth: more the serious kind of wealth where a top-of-the-range Ferrari will be one of several cars in the garage.

  The man he’s here to see has dealt with him before. Granted, Cameron was acting as an intermediary for his employer, but the relationship was established all the same.

  More important than any other part of Cameron’s plans, is the fact that a protocol has been established. He isn’t some chump walking in off the street with a bag full of empty promises. He is a recognised employee of a customer you don’t say no to.

  As is befitting of his employer’s status, Cameron deals with the owner of the dealership, rather than one of his sales team.

  ‘I trust you can accommodate me with something suitable?’

  ‘Of course.’ The salesman’s smile is far wider than it is sincere. ‘What will your budget be?’

  Cameron sees the dealer’s head bob when he tells him how much he is willing to pay. The guy is probably working out how best to flannel him with a line of sales bull. He needs to make sure he gets the right end of the bargain.

  ‘We’ve traded before. There’s every likelihood we’ll trade again. I’m trusting you to discount one of your better ones to fit our budget rather than mark up a lesser priced one. Do I have to remind you whose trust I represent?’

  ‘No, no, of course you don’t.’ The dealer makes a dismissive gesture, as if the idea he would cheat Cameron is ridiculous. ‘I have several options available that would suit your needs. If you’ll give me a moment I’ll get some brochures and, if you like any of them, we can go and take a look.’
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br />   Cameron looks at his watch and takes a moment to admire the view from the dealer’s window. The sun is glinting off the water and there is a beauty to the scenery that reminds him of another country. He still pines for the land he left all those years ago. Not the weather or the grimness of life in Glasgow, more the people. Glaswegians are a garrulous bunch who are welcoming, loud and, when the occasion calls for it, hard. They’ll feed and water you with a smile on their face, but should you step out of line they’ll think nothing of dressing you down.

  As well as the people, he misses other staples of Glasgow life as well. The greasy mutton pies, the roar from Hampden when Scotland score, the banter between Celtic and Rangers fans and the walk home from the pub with a bag of chips and a deep-fried haggis in crispy batter.

  He knows he should miss his family and feels bad that he doesn’t. Not bad for them, bad for himself, as he recognises he must have something missing in his psychological DNA.

  Life in America has been good to him and, as far as he’s concerned, it’s about to get a hell of a lot better.

  The dealer returns with the brochures.

  As he leafs through the various options, Cameron is recalling the research he did online before making this visit. He dismisses three of the seven options as being marked up to match his budget, and concentrates his attention on one he’s seen advertised elsewhere for a million dollars above his proposed expenditure.

  ‘This one looks very nice. I trust you’d still make a profit if you sold it to me for the agreed figure?’

  Cameron is pleased to see the dealer squirm a little. He’s caught him trying one of the oldest tricks in sales: learn your customer’s budget and persuade them to exceed it.

  ‘I’ll be honest, Cameron, I’d need another five hundred thousand for this one.’

  ‘That’s such a shame. It’s by far the nicest option, but you’re not exactly showing me, or the man I represent, much respect by trying to upsell, are you?’