by Graham Smith
The dealer’s hands rise in a surrender gesture. ‘Please, Cameron, I don’t mean any disrespect. I guess I’ve been a salesman for so long, upselling has become a habit.’
Cameron waits before answering. All the power is with him and he’s drawing out his response to make sure the dealer will do what he wants. He may have trained as an accountant, but his real skill is in negotiating purchases.
Cameron is the official buyer for his employer’s many legitimate businesses. He is also tasked with getting the best deal when it comes to vehicles, properties, and any fripperies he decides he wants. In the last month he’s closed deals for a work of art, two bars, one vintage sports car, and a whole range of smaller items.
‘I think if you were to agree to waive the extra half mil, I could find a way to forget the disrespect you’ve shown me.’ Cameron smiles. ‘Subject to a viewing, and my approval of course.’
Cameron can tell from the look in his eyes that the dealer will lose money on the sale, but he doesn’t care about that. His concern is with himself and the purchase he’s making. This is his way of laundering the money he’s planning to appropriate from his employer. Once the money trail becomes evident, the dealer will have other issues to think about.
The dealer’s hand trembles as he offers it to Cameron. ‘Subject to your approval after viewing, I can let you have it for your budgeted amount.’
Cameron has the grace to keep his smile the right side of smug. He’d always expected to get a good deal, just not this good.
As for the dealer, Cameron expects him to fold and tell everything at the first sign of trouble. His employer’s men won’t ask polite questions, they’ll threaten, intimidate and use violence as a matter of course. He knows that the dealer’s betrayal won’t be personal, and that the man’s instincts will concern his own survival.
18
I don’t like the way the bartender is looking at me. It’s a look I’m more than familiar with. Hell, I’ve used it myself on many occasions when door-minding at the Tree. It’s telling me I’ve had as much drink as he’s going to give me.
His judgemental attitude can take a hike. I don’t need some snooty bartender in a fancy hotel deciding when I’ve had enough. If he won’t get me another whisky, I’ll get it someplace else.
From the corner of my eye I can see a pair of managerial types. Their heads are close together but, from the glances they’re flicking my way, I can tell it’s me they’re discussing.
This little tableau is typical of a high-class hotel. The staff aren’t used to tossing drunks, and as such, they’re nervous about how I’ll react when they try to manage me. Were this to take place in a less genteel establishment, there would be either security at the door or a weapon under the bar.
I pick up my glass and wobble my way to a cream leather sofa, where I collapse in a heap of whisky fumes and troubled thoughts.
The last thing Halvard told me was that, when Ms Rosenberg’s murder had made the news, he’d received a visitor who’d requested that he pass on information about anyone who came to see him regarding her.
That means the mafia are still fearful of the story she wrote all those years ago.
Halvard assured me that he wouldn’t tell them about my turning up, but their contact with him highlights the seriousness of the task that Alfonse and I have been given by Ms Rosenberg.
Never once have I considered that I would be going up against the mafia; that the secret I have been tasked to find would damage them. I can think of other ways of putting my head in a noose, but none of them seem as foolhardy.
Yet, I’m a believer in justice. My moral code tells me that the good guys should defeat the bad guys; that heinous crimes should never go unpunished.
In my drunken state, I’ve decided to carry on searching, and make a judgement call when I uncover whatever Ms Rosenberg has stashed in the safety deposit box.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ It’s the female managerial type. She’s holding a tray bearing a large coffee pot and a cup, along with a plate of cookies. The tray is placed on the table I’m slouched beside. ‘Compliments of the hotel, sir.’
Her smile is bright, although I can tell she’s nervous. She has no need to be.
The coffee is what the hotel will class as a masterstroke. It will give me something other than alcohol to drink, and the cookies will be intended to soak up some of the whisky swilling around inside me.
It’s a shame she doesn’t know much about alcohol and its effects on the human body. Coffee is a stimulant, which will make me more active. The cookies are a nice touch, but the alcohol they’re intended to soak up will be absorbed into my bloodstream by now. Sure, they’ll help with any future intake, but neither they nor the coffee will do anything to sober me up.
All the same, the hotel management have managed me with dignity, so I decide that my next whisky should be drunk in a place that will serve me as many as I care to order.
Even though I’m three parts drunk, my brain hasn’t stopped chewing over the puzzle left by Ms Rosenberg. An idea comes to me, so I lurch my way to the bar and ask for a pen and some paper.
I slide a ten across the bar and ask the bartender to list all the New York banks he can think of.
Ten minutes later I have his list and I’m scribbling away. My thought patterns aren’t brilliant, but there’s no way I’m going to stop what I’m doing.
Except I do stop, or rather, pause. The papers and pen are stuffed in a pocket and I’m on my feet heading for the exit as fast as my unsteady legs will carry me.
There’s neither a crisis nor an emergency – other than the empty whisky glass that I’m sure won’t be refilled here.
The street is packed but I don’t care that I’m unsteady on my feet or bumping into random pedestrians as I go looking for my next drink.
19
The call from Alfonse has given me more to think about. It was a brief call; his tone had changed as soon as he heard the slur in my voice.
I know I should go back to the hotel and sleep off the drink I’ve already had so I can deal with everything with a clear head. Had Alfonse not suggested I do so, there’s a good chance it’s what I would have done.
He did suggest it though. This means the contrary asshole in me must to do the opposite.
I order another bottle of beer and a whisky. I’m not sure how many I’ve had, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It never does.
Alfonse has managed to locate my father. I have a vague understanding that he tracked the calls that Father had made to Granny and Grandad and worked back from there.
That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that Father lives in a place called Clifton, which is one of the towns surrounding New York.
This means I could be knocking on his door in a couple of hours. Introducing myself to the man who walked out of my life without so much as a goodbye.
I realise that a selfish part of me had been hoping Alfonse wouldn’t be able to find Father. That way I wouldn’t have to confront the man I least want to meet.
A slug of whisky doesn’t wash the sour taste of self-loathing from my mouth. My brother needs me to find my father. It couldn’t be simpler. It’s a matter of life or death, yet I don’t want to do it.
Of course, I will do it. But every moment I spend with him, I’ll be expecting to once again feel the pain of his rejection.
The door of the bar opens and a vision of beauty walks in. At least, she’s beautiful when she first walks in. As soon as she sees the shape of me, some of her beauty is tarnished by the scowl that covers her gorgeous face.
Taylor sits opposite me and lets her expression and body language do the talking for her. They speak of disappointment and exasperation.
She glances at her watch and I remember we’re supposed to be having dinner with her parents before they fly back to Casperton.
‘I’m sorry. Halvard wanted to toast Ms Rosenberg and I kinda got the taste for it.’
Her nose wrinkles and she pulls awa
y when I reach for her hand.
‘I trust you are aware that I’ll have to lie to my parents about your absence from the dinner table.’ Her top lip curls into a breaking wave. ‘I hate lying to my parents.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Her face tells me that words aren’t going to be enough to sort this; I’ll have to prove myself to her all over again.
The strange thing is, I want to prove myself. Letting her down doesn’t make me feel good.
I stand up and wobble for a moment until my muscles hold me more or less upright.
‘Hey, sugar. Don’t you be after wasting none of your time on that bum. You come over and talk to Old Fred here and he’ll make sure you’re looked after real good.’
I refocus a bloodshot eye on Old Fred. He’s about my age, a couple of inches taller than me, and a damn sight nearer sober. Because Taylor is with me, I choose to ignore the urge to see what he looks like with a broken nose.
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m quite happy with Young Jake.’
Taylor’s words are a joy to behold as they show loyalty and commitment. They’re also the type of putdown that generally sees egos deflated.
Old Fred’s ego doesn’t like being punctured. It compels him to cross the room and square up against me. ‘Let’s see how much you like Young Jake once Old Fred has kicked his ass.’
Taylor goes to step between him and me but he shoves her aside.
So far as I’m concerned that’s all the provocation I need, so I thrust my forehead towards his nose.
He’s ready for me and recoils, causing me to miss. I haven’t just missed, I’m off balance.
The punch he throws collides with my ribs. This is a good thing. Had he landed the blow to my stomach, there’s every chance I’d be splashing his boots with beer and whisky.
I grab his shirt with both hands and throw another head-butt at him.
This one lands on target and busts his nose. I follow it up with a hard uppercut that drops him to his knees.
The kick I deliver to his balls leaves him lying on the ground in the foetal position; a mixture of moans and curses spill from his lips. Old Fred may talk in the third person, but he’s less than half the man he thinks he is.
I don’t have time to celebrate my win as I’m grabbed from behind by what I assume is one of Old Fred’s buddies. A man wearing anger like an overcoat steps in front of me.
He’s a big guy and I’m guessing the bulging muscles he has on display are forged through hard work rather than gym training and steroid abuse.
His first punch splits my lip and loosens a tooth or two.
I don’t intend him to land a second.
To free myself from the guy holding me, I bend at the knees and throw my head back as I straighten them.
I wriggle my left arm from his grasp, whirl to the side, and use his right arm to throw him towards his buddy.
Lady Luck has decided to favour me, as Mr Angry’s next punch lands square on his buddy’s chin, knocking him out.
That just leaves Mr Angry to deal with.
The problem he’s got is, I’m angrier than him. It’s one thing some bozo chancing his arm with my girl; when said bozo gets his ass kicked for pushing her, his buddies should have the decency to recognise he had it coming.
My retaliation is neither pretty, nor filled with technique. I launch myself forward, intent on throwing punches until Mr Angry joins his buddies on the floor.
I catch a few punches as I move forward, but Mr Angry is too busy defending himself against my onslaught to mount a decent counterattack.
A pair of right crosses, and a straight left followed by a gut punch, see him double over and sink to the ground.
I’m about to follow him to the floor so I can deliver a memorable life lesson, when I feel a hand on my arm and hear Taylor’s voice.
‘Jake. That’s enough!’
20
I wake to discover someone is using the inside of my head as a squash court. At least, that’s what it feels like.
The dryness of my mouth is Saharan in its intensity, and I think my stomach may have been replaced by a decrepit cement mixer.
I try and recall what happened last night until I’m brave enough to open my eyes. Vague recollections of a fight explain the tenderness of my face and I have no trouble remembering Taylor railing on me.
As I run my hands down my body, I find that I’m still wearing my jeans although my shirt has been removed. There’s what feels like a decent sheet covering me, so I surmise that I made it back to the hotel.
I open an eye to confirm my whereabouts but there’s nothing but dark shadows. For a moment I fear the fight has caused damage to my eyes.
The fear is dispelled when I see the luminous hands on my watch. It’s just after three, which I’m guessing is a.m., therefore it’ll be dark outside.
I slide a hand slowly across the bed and touch silky hair. A sniff gives me the familiar aroma of Taylor’s perfume.
So far, so good. I’m in the right bed with the right girl. Yeah, she might be pissed at me, but I’m confident I can change that state of affairs.
Truth be told, I’m pissed at myself. There was no need for me to continue drinking once Ms Rosenberg had been toasted. It was an indulgence that I’m going to spend the rest of the day paying for.
What’s more, it was stupid of me to go on one of my benders when there are so many things that need my full attention. I’ve completed one of two tasks for Ms Rosenberg and I still have to face my father. If he’s anything like the man I think he is, he may need to be persuaded to help John.
My bladder reminds me why I woke up so, taking care not to wake Taylor, or distress any of my aches, I slip from the bed and pad my way to the bathroom.
The face I see in the mirror doesn’t look good, but I’ve seen it look worse.
As I’m finishing in the bathroom, I remember that I’d been trying to crack Ms Rosenberg’s code, and recall stuffing the notes I’d made into my jacket pocket.
I don’t feel like sleep, so I retrieve my shirt, jacket and boots, and return to the bathroom to dress before going downstairs in search of coffee.
The doe-eyed receptionist greets me with suspicion, but arranges to get me the coffee I request.
I take a seat in the empty bar and unfold the crumpled pages of notes. Each has the names and numbers listed along with the words they spell out. In my drunken state, I’d rotated the numbers against the names looking for a solution.
It’s the sixth page that holds my interest.
In a scrawl I hardly recognise as my own, I have written:
* * *
Watson – 6 N
Marshall – 2A
Evans – 2V
Devereaux – 4E
Clapperton – 1C
Devereaux – 7A
Boulder – 7R
Devereaux – 3V
Boulder – 6E
Clapperton – 7R
* * *
It might not look like much, but the list of banks someone has written down for me includes one called Carver. This must mean N A V E is an address for the specific branch of the bank to go to.
I work on the assumption that A V E is short for avenue, which means I need to find a street beginning with the letter N and ending in avenue.
Google gives me the answer in thirty seconds. There is a branch of the Carver bank located on Nostrand Avenue.
I’m tempted to go and check it out, but it’s not the best idea for me to go wandering around Brooklyn in the middle of the night with a bad hangover and very few city smarts. The fact I’m battered and bruised from a bar fight will attract trouble like flies to dung.
Instead of action, I opt for coffee and thoughts.
The coffee is good and the thoughts are bitter.
21
The Carver Federal Savings Bank is nothing like I was expecting. I had pictured a grand, old building which would dominate the space around it, with an imposing frontage and an air of respecta
bility.
Instead I’m faced with a wall of glass and a single-storey building. It doesn’t match any of my pre-conceived ideas, but then nothing about Ms Rosenberg has. I spent several hours this morning thinking about her life, as well as the secret she has charged me and Alfonse with not just finding, but sharing too.
My best guess is that she had uncovered a crime and was hounded out of town because of it.
The anonymity Ms Rosenberg enjoyed in life, wasn’t afforded to her in death. As the final victim of a bunch of twisted racists and bigots, her death had hit the headlines at a national level alongside the other victims.
That Halvard was visited so soon after Ms Rosenberg’s murder, shows that the person implicated in the story is still very much alive.
I also chewed on the fact that blowing her secret open, may present a level of danger should the implicated person or persons find out who is behind the unveiling. I have to trust that Alfonse will find a way to inform the necessary people without leaving a trail to us.
‘Do you want to stop standing there, looking at the bank, and go in?’
It’s not like Taylor to be so caustic, but considering how she was when she woke up, she’s come a long way. She’s decent enough to have accepted my heartfelt apologies, but she’s not beyond putting me through the mill a little to make sure I’m reminded of her displeasure.
I give her a nod and stride into the bank. It’s just like any other: there are a number of tellers dealing with business people, depositing the weekend’s takings; a young mother with a kid in a stroller is speaking loud enough for everyone to hear her displeasure at the bank’s refusal to raise her credit limit; and there are a dozen or so people waiting their turn with bored expressions.
Taylor and I join the queue and wait. I should probably try and make small talk to show contrition, but I’m not sure she’s ready for it yet. Besides, my focus is on what we might discover in Ms Rosenberg’s safety deposit box.
