by J. Calamy
“Hey,” Nick said. “I’m not a stray dog! And this is my friend Tony’s shirt. I think it’s nice.”
“It is very nice,” Jeanne said. “But you cannot come to one of my events in Antoine Zidane’s shirt.”
“You’d better take him to Colette,” Roger said. “It will save time.”
“I was going to do that after lunch,” Jeanne said. “Join us?”
In another setting Nick would have resented being steamrolled this way, but their goodwill was obvious, and anyway, he didn’t think they would pay him any mind if he protested.
Nick’s stomach was already reminding him of the time, so he was glad they had said lunch first. He, like everyone in Singapore, including oil company executives and Asian Peace Prize winners, ate street food in a hawker pavilion.
Hawker pavilions were Nick’s favorite thing about Singapore. A series of stalls of varying kinds of street food, most specializing in only one or two dishes. You could fill a tray and sit under a canopy at plastic tables and eat a variety of incredible foods made by chefs that had perfected their recipes. There were hawker center chefs with Michelin stars, and some who had been cooking the same dish for decades. Big places like this one, with more than a dozen vendors, were busy at any time of day, with lines for the more famous chefs. But even small ones with only one or two stalls had devoted followings.
They sat in a shaded arcade at a plastic table that was almost sagging with the amount of food they had ordered. Or rather, Roger had ordered.
“Are we really gonna eat all this?” Nick asked. He had ordered his favorite, sesame paneer, deep-fried over coconut rice. It had to be eaten on the spot, the crunchy coating protecting the melting curd inside. It reminded him of the state fair, despite the lack of cold beer. Drinking on his first day of the job didn’t seem like a good idea.
“We will taste everything,” Roger announced. “They change the menus seasonally. I need to keep up.”
“Roger is planning the food for all our events, Nick,” Jeanne said. “He is as much of a patron of chefs as I am of artists.”
Nick missed what was said next in the haze of hearing Jeanne say “our” events.
“And so, now, she has a Michelin Star, and it’s about bloody time,” Roger said. “Nick, you are not afraid to try new foods, are you?”
“No, sir,” Nick said. “I eat everything.”
“Sir. I like that,” Roger laughed. “Even spicy foods?”
“Yes, sir,” Nick laughed. “There’s a little Louisiana in my family.”
“I have no idea what that means, but it sounds good,” Roger said. “Try these.” He indicated a stack of tiny shrimp, fried whole and tossed in a dusting of spices.
“Gross,” Nick said, “too much salt.”
Roger’s eyes narrowed.
“Philistine!”
“I have no idea what that means,” Nick quipped. “Taste them!”
“Oh! You’re right,” Roger said. “What has he done?”
Their tasting lunch ended up being the best part of an otherwise overwhelming day. Roger pulled a tablet from his bag, and he and Nick talked about food for the event. This was the first real excitement Nick felt in a long time. Roger asked Nick’s opinion about everything and took his answers seriously, jotting notes as he went. Jeanne left them to it, spotting a friend and going to talk to them at another table. Nick could see she was pleased though, giving him a discrete wink.
“Thanks for answering all these questions,” Nick said, hastily typing names of dishes into his phone. Roger leaned over and kissed his cheek. Nick blinked in surprise.
“This was the nicest conversation I have had in a long time,” Roger said. “People are always asking me about business and work and what Energen is planning for this quarter’s derivative, blah-blah… I never get to talk about my passions except with Jeanne and my chefs.”
Nick nodded, embarrassed and pleased all at once.
“Ah, here she comes,” Roger said. “Now let’s get you out of those horrible clothes so we can admit we know you. Some Yves, some Oscar, some Ralph…”
Nick had no idea what any of that meant. But it didn’t matter. Shopping was completely one-sided. Jeanne and Roger hooked Nick’s arms and brought him straight into a store with strange white minimalist art. The woman behind the counter took one look at them and closed the store so they would have it to themselves.
All of Nick’s protests fell on deaf ears. In fact, Nick’s opinion wasn’t required for anything.
He was pushed in and out of changing rooms until he had a nice suit that fit, a couple of pairs of slacks, and a pile of shirts. Other than telling him to turn around a few times, no one even asked him what he thought. They even bought him underwear and shoes. It would have been embarrassing if they had even given him a moment to think about it.
“That is an excellent beginning. Nick, go put on the gray trousers and the green shirt, and we will go back and see if the movers are done with the space.”
“Jeanne, this is too generous,” Nick said after they said goodbye to Roger and were back in the car.
“Nonsense,” Jeanne said. “Consider it a business expense. You simply cannot be seen with me in anything less. It isn’t possible. And I want you with me. I like you. Roger likes you and even Graves likes you—and he doesn’t like anyone. So you must look the part. You simply must.”
“Yes ma’am,” Nick said. “A business expense. That makes it a little easier to think about.”
“Good,” she laughed. “I promise you will earn it by the time I am done with you.”
*
Fucking Luzon. Broiling hot and looming clouds. Graves moved from helicopter to car without stopping. He had left all four horsemen in Singapore but the Luzon team was one of David’s best. They moved him from jet to helo to car smoothly, as if Bishop were there.
The armored Range Rover barreled down the roads like a military convoy. Graves didn’t even look up from his phone as they blew through traffic, wailing sirens blocking roads for them. They reached the ministry in record time.
Joe Stinton didn’t look like a mobster. This was one of the secrets of his success and one of the reasons Graves liked him. He looked like someone’s father-in-law. The nice one who helped out when there were repairs needed on the house. Of middle height with a round, smiling face, he had just enough Southeast Asia in him, from a Pakistani grandmother, that he didn’t stick out too badly in his usual areas of operation. He was the guy who helped the neighborhood kids with their kites and fixed the shaking ceiling fans for the granny down the hall. Graves could send him anywhere, and no one ever batted an eyelash.
But Joe Stinton was a mobster. A high-ranking mobster. He ran Red Sky in Hong Kong and Macau. Which meant he handled the largest share of their black-market shipping contracts, moving drugs and arms all over the world from his immaculate little office atop one of the port’s gantry cranes.
He had turned Hong Kong into an operation that rivaled Yangon. But most importantly, he had saved Nelson Graves’s life in 2012 by picking up an attacker and tossing them out a window before David Bishop even drew his gun. One minute they were being charged, the next they were all standing there with their mouths open, staring at Joe Stinton, who simply shrugged, his round face wreathed in smiles. Killing someone was no different from fixing granny’s fan, or repairing the local kids’ kites.
Joe was waiting outside the banking office where they were meeting, looking uncomfortable in his suit. Graves smiled and shook his head. He could practically see the hard hat on Joe’s head. By any measure, he is a wealthy man. But he still looks like a longshoreman in his Sunday best.
“Joseph Stinton!” Graves said, shaking his hand. “How are you, old boy?”
“Well, m’lord,” Joe said, his honest face shining with sweat. The poor man hated coming to Luzon. “The wife sends her regards.”
“Lovely Sophie,” Graves said. “Be sure and return the courtesy. Now let’s go in before we melt.”
<
br /> “Thanks, Boss. I’m like a bowl of ice cream out here.”
In the lift, Joe caught Graves up on their other plans.
“Alex Benitez is loyal, I think. But I am going to keep an eye on him anyway.”
“I am sure he is,” Graves said. “If he wasn’t, we’d be in a bad spot. Seeing as he manages the money. After the ship, I’ll move him to Sri Lanka.”
“Ah, here we are,” Joe straightened his jacket as they made their way to the gleaming glass-walled room.
Graves spent most of the meeting silent, listening closely as Joe managed their buyers and laid out the plans for bringing in the ship. He let the words flow over him, trusting his memory to pick it all up. He was more interested in the tone of the meeting, the way the various people present spoke, moved—all the little signals they didn’t know they were giving.
Generally, Graves never thought of his foster father with anything but loathing, but moments like this he was grateful for his education in ruthlessness. He could almost hear the old man’s voice: Joe is nervous about this ship. The Filipinos are frustrated. They are losing patience with the pace. But they have no choice.
“Gentlemen,” Joe shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s Hong Kong or nothing.”
“Louis Tang is breathing down our necks! Why should we trust your pilot to bring the ship in safe?”
“The window to bring this ship in is narrow,” Joe said. “But the profit from this venture will be considerable. For everyone. We’ll handle the ship. You worry about Quezon.”
They seemed mollified, but Graves was left with an uneasy feeling. They were shooting him suspicious looks. Theroux’s words came back to him: You abandoned us. He trusted his instincts. Something was wrong. He let it go for now, waiting for the solitude he needed to think about it.
*
The solitude came in the form of a villa overlooking the sea. As much as Nelson Graves was ever alone—which meant there were armed men in the garden, on the roof, down on the road. The sun slipped below the horizon, and Graves wandered back indoors.
“What in the blazes do they want now?” he asked, seeing a dozen or so texts from David. He finished his drink and loosened his tie. He opened their secure app as he made his way through the dark house.
His surprised shout of laughter startled the guard in the hall.
“Christ, he’s really done it this time.” Graves laughed as he scrolled through the videos of some kind of exploding foam filling Russ’s suite, Tony running away, the camera bouncing and Russ’s enraged bellows chasing him across the lower deck.
The last video stopped Graves in his tracks. It was Russ and Nicholas Erickson, flinging a shouting Tony into the harbor. Nick was laughing so hard he could barely stand but was still strong enough to hold Bishop back with one arm while swinging Tony by one skinny ankle. Graves took a screen shot. Then another. Nick was in nothing but very small swim trunks. That was the body hiding under Erickson’s ill-fitting suit?
“Christ,” Graves said, surprised at his own reaction. He made himself toss the phone onto the bed. “No. Absolutely not.”
Showered, out of his legs and caps, he watched the video again, took another screen shot.
Chapter Seven
Nick lived on the ship for a week. It was a fun interlude. He got up early every morning and drove to Jeanne’s house in time to arrive for breakfast. They planned their day, then worked until the early afternoon. Usually they ate lunch out. Nick made notes about everywhere they went, especially if the food was good.
He met a whole series of her friends and colleagues. He expected a much more serious crew, given the whole Mandalay Peace Accords bit. But no, they were artists and bloggers and other rich patrons. They seemed superficial on the surface, but Nick quickly picked up how passionate they were, how devoted to their respective arts. It was eye-opening. In addition to Roger Yeung, with his movie-star looks and opinions about food, there was Margo and Mina and Kai and Colette and Delphine and Xiaoyi and… There was simply no way for Nick to track people except to write down what he could and hope for the best.
Nick stuck to his general policy of keeping his mouth shut and ears open. They spoke English for his benefit, though the conversation often slipped into Singlish before circling back. They took up Jeanne’s habit of giving him things for his list—reaching out to tap his phone and spelling words he didn’t know. He had an endless list of names, media, and styles to look up.
Tony set Nick up with a computer so he could learn about art and study his list from the day. They quickly bonded over being the only twentysomethings in their circle. They shared a sense of humor and sent each other memes all day. Tony was endlessly cheerful and easy to love.
The exploding foam…bomb?…he had used to punk Russ had been genius. Tony’s work consoles were like something out of a movie, all wires and cords and half a dozen monitors, half of which just seemed to be covered in code, the other half of which were broadcasting soccer matches. He stayed up late in the night working, and Nick joined him, sorting his lists and trying to cram as best he could. He hadn’t studied this much since college.
He missed the horsemen after he moved into a guest suite across the garden from Jeanne’s main house. Tony made sure his computer and tech was up to the task, but Nick still visited the yacht a couple nights a week. Bishop and Russ had been in Special Forces with Graves; they were full of ridiculous stories Nick didn’t quite believe. Charlotte Rook helped Nick with his research, organizing his lists and even finding books for him from who knew where.
But it wasn’t all work. There was some kind of rugby tournament happening, and Graves declared a mandatory holiday for the final. Jeanne agreed, and after Nick helped her move some frames into her warehouse, he was free to go. He grabbed a bag so he could stay late with the horsemen, being sure to remember his surprise for Bishop and Graves.
The steward led him up the ramp to the main stateroom where he found Graves and his security team and crew watching rugby on the huge flat-screen TV. The tables were covered in beer and food and half the people seemed roaring drunk. Most of the people were in red and yellow, a few blue and white jerseys lost in the mix. Graves, the only one in red and black, was laughing at Bishop whose head hung between his knees. Bishop was one of the few in blue and white. They spotted Nick and waved him over, raising their glasses.
Nick stood frozen with a wide grin. Finally, something he could relate to! Nick was a red-blooded Midwestern boy and so football had made up every Sunday of his upbringing, as regular as Lutheran services at Our Lady of the Mills. Groups of men in team colors drinking beer and hurling insults at the television made him feel right at home. I guess some things are universal. Oh, man, wait until he sees…
He held a finger up to Graves a moment and reached into his backpack before handing the bag to the steward. When he turned back, he held up a rugby jersey with a flourish before pulling it over his shirt. It was blue and white. The room exploded into a mix of cheers and insults. Bishop jumped up and dragged Nick into a hug, shouting “Good lad! Good lad! Auckland forever!” He pressed their foreheads and noses together in the way Nick had just started getting used to.
Rook and a few others threw chips at him, but he dodged and vaulted over the couch to sit by a grim-faced Graves.
“What do you think?” Nick said, grinning as the boss rolled his eyes.
“I see Jeanne’s hand all over this,” he grumbled.
“Not at all!” Nick said. “She told me you owned a team. That you bought it just so you could hire a coach?”
“So I could fire the coach!” Graves said, jabbing Nick’s chest with a blunt finger. He was drunk enough that his accent was less pronounced, closer to his Kiwi roots. “And what I do with my bloody riches is my business, pākehā boy.”
“So, I then asked who their rival was and bought the jersey myself!” Nick slapped the big man’s hand away with a tilt of his chin. Their knees were tangled together, and they were nose to nose. Graves smelled like cof
fee and dope and cologne, a smell Nick was rapidly associating with laughter and confused feelings.
“You cocky little shit!” Graves laughed, pressing his forehead against Nick’s in greeting and settling back with his arm over Nick’s shoulders. “I’ll buy you a proper Caledonia jersey as soon as possible.”
It felt good to be jostled about. Graves’s crew were so physical with one another it made Nick dizzy. His body didn’t know what to do with the stimulus. Having Graves’s heavy arm over his shoulders was only natural in that crowd, where everyone seemed to be leaning on someone else. But to Nick it was like finding water in the desert. His nerves soaked it in.
Something happened on the field and the red-and-yellow side of the room groaned while Bishop and the other Auckland fans jumped up and cheered, giving everyone else the finger. Graves shook his head.
“His club beat mine in the quarter final—so I don’t have a dog in this fight except wanting to see Auckland lose, the bastards,” he said. Nick caught himself peeking at Graves’s legs, wondering what was real and what wasn’t. It was impossible to tell under his sweats. His right thigh, jammed up against Nick was certainly a warm, living weight.
Nick got up to grab a beer and make himself a sandwich. Sitting that close to Graves was too distracting. He went and sat by Bishop so the man could explain who he was supposed to be rooting for. But Graves’s reaction had been just as he’d hoped. He settled on Bishop’s other side and ate, grateful rugby wasn’t as complicated as cricket.
When he stood up to get more beer, Graves was out by the cooler, having a smoke.
“You’re a clever boy,” he said, his eyes hidden behind shades. “I am very pleasantly surprised.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Nick asked. “Why surprised?”
“My crew likes you,” Graves breathed out a blue cloud, pointed with his pipe. “But buying the Auckland jersey was a brilliant maneuver.” He coughed hard, his voice scratchy and a little slurred. “It showed you aren’t going to kiss my ass for anything—and it won Bishop at the same time. The more I think about it, the more impressed I am. A power move.”
