by Carl Henegan
He made his way across the suite to the large window. He looked down at the colossal Karl Marx granite monument as the locals passed by it braving the cold. Looking down on creation, he smiled.
The delicate knock on his door barely exceeded the sound level of the Beethoven music that played lightly throughout the suite. Garcia moved away from his elevated window view to the door. When the door opened, the tall slender but shapely Nadia stood before him.
He opened the door wide and extended an arm for her to enter. “Welcome, come in, relax,” he smiled. “I just ordered dinner, are you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine,” Nadia said.
“Indeed you are,” Garcia said as she walked in front of him.
Nadia timidly continued inside with cautious short unsure steps. Her eyes moved all around scanning the enormous presidential suite, taking in the visual splendor of it all.
“Just realized,” she spoke softly. “I have worked at the Metropol for some time now and never had a chance to actually enter inside of this suite.” Her head swiveled from one item to the next as her mouth remained slightly open.
Garcia trailed at a short distance watching her with his hands tucked into the deep pockets of the hotel robe. The pure white cotton monogrammed robe hung just above his knees. The Metropol’s gold logo glistened from the top left side of his chest. Along with the rest of the room, Nadia’s eyes also admired the thick white robe.
“I bet you expected that I would make advances as soon as soon as you entered right?” he said walking behind her.
Nadia didn’t answer.
“You can relax here. I just wanted some company to talk to and relax before my long day tomorrow,” he said.
Garcia walked to the far side of the room. He had his back to her as he casually flipped through the hotel’s order menu. He made sure that she never saw him staring at her and avoided eye contact as if he was not interested.
If she would have shown any interest when they first met things would have been different, a lot different. Any immediate show of interest on her part would have been dismissed. He needed to play the power game and giving in to her advanced would have transferred the power to her. Although tall fit women in Russia were in abundance there she still stood out but he would never let her know it. Besides she did not want to be there, her body language dictated it.
He could see the distrust and distain in her eyes. The look bordered on hate and her attitude intrigued him because the challenge got his juices flowing. Like the animal that will chase you only if you run, for Garcia the pursuit was on.
“So Miss Nadia, I never got your last name,” he said.
“Micallef, it’s, Mrs. Micallef.”
Garcia twisted his mouth into a smile. “Ok, Mrs. Micallef,” he said after pouring a drink. “Would you please taste this for me? I think it may be a bit bitter, but of course I’m no authority on champagne,” he lied.
Unknown to Nadia, Garcia already received a comprehensive list of inside information about her. He knew her favorite music, food, and drink long before she even arrived to his suite. Nadia walked directly into a pre-spun web.
Garcia imagined that her first inclination would be to refuse anything he offered to her. He also guessed that she waited for him to try anything inappropriate so she could tell him to go to hell and thus gaining the power edge. With that in mind he remained set on being everything that she didn’t expect.
The drink offer broke the ice. Her hard expression relaxed just enough to let him know that he had eased the tension between them. Her guard may have still been up but he was certain that it was lowered just a little.
Like any sale, it all wound down to the presentation. This one needed to be executed carefully enough to somehow slip under her defenses. She accepted the glass placing it gently to her lips. Once the succulent liquor touched her pallet she closed her eyes. A soft moan escaped from her as she delighted in the flavor.
After more light conversation and a few more drinks, Nadia shoes were off and tossed on the floor. Soon after that, her feet rested on the marble coffee table. Garcia took note.
They talked about the different areas around Russia, as well as the historic facts about the hotel. He made her laugh with a story about how he mistakenly walked into a church thinking that it was a museum. She laughed even harder at the story of how he unknowingly washed his face in the bidet on his first trip to Europe thinking that it was a very low sink.
The conversation went smooth with few if any awkward quite moments. To his delight, he didn’t have to dominate the conversation. Nadia had a few stories of her own that he actually enjoyed. One entailed how she spilled several drinks on Elton John after tripping over her own shoes. Although he was certain that her Elton John story was true, Garcia’s stories were made up for time filling banter. Out of habit he manipulated conversations like a seasoned master.
Garcia sat on the chair away from her but played the role of the gracious host. He refilled her glass when needed, offered her an extra pillow for her back, then even slid one of the throw pillow under her feet for comfort.
By the time they were a little half way finished with the bottle, Nadia’s guard had fallen completely away with her long legs comfortably stretched across the antique sofa. A half filled champagne glass balanced in one hand while the other hand dangled to the floor.
Garcia grinned to himself as she swayed to the playing music. As she hummed along to the Beethoven compositions he knew that he hit a homerun with the music selection. Occasionally her hands flew into the air to orchestrate the musicians. Her blond hair swung wildly with the music when she really got into act of air conducting.
When she stood, she stumbled falling to the side. Garcia reached out to grab her before she fell against the antique marble table.
“Heeey, you smell reeeally good,” she said with slurred words. She drunk far more then most females could but was no match for the effects of the champagne.
“Thank you,” Garcia said holding her up. “It’s Dolce and Gabbana, one of my favorites.”
Nadia rubbed the tip of her finger across the gold monogram on the white robe. She stopped for a second then lifted her delicate hand to gently stroke the logo again enjoying the texture of the raised lettering.
“The robes are sooooo eautiful,” she slurred then burped lightly before giggling. Garcia helped her back to the sofa.
“Excuse me for one moment please,” he said.
He made his way down the hall then entered into one of the back rooms in the suite. When he returned he had on his own personal robe then handed Nadia the monogrammed one from the hotel.
“This is for you,” he said.
“Nooo really!” she said snatching it with excitement. “I can’t believe it, thank you. Thank you so very much, I’ve always wanted one of these!”
Nadia placed the robe against her face. She cuddled it as she closed her eyes and cooed. “So soft,” she moaned.
Another knock rapped against the door to the suite.
“Come on in,” Garcia said.
The waiter entered with a cart full of the most exquisite meal selections offered by the hotel. On the cart were all of Nadia’s favorites including lobster and shrimp. Even caviar adorned the tray and was something that she had never tried. In addition to the seafood another tray with an array of fruit, and the most mouthwatering deserts in Russia sat next to the first one.
Nadia placed a hand to her chest. “I’m overwhelmed,” she whispered. She managed to sober up enough to express her feeling with words that were not slurred this time. “I feel like a queen,” she said.
“By the way, Mrs. Nadia please pardon me for forgetting to ask. But are you seeing anyone now?” Garcia took a sip of the champagne watching her carefully over the top of his glass. He already knew the truth and was well aware that she was married. He adored the chase far more then the capture.
Nadia’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re asking me if I’
m married? I wasn’t expecting that,” she said.
“Oh, I am sorry. Am I being too personal?”
“No, it’s not, umm, not that. I just didn’t think that it would even matter to you,” she said.
Garcia loved this point of the evening. The flowing of champagne, shared stories, and relaxed atmosphere created a truth serum.
“God, I shouldn’t have even come here,” she whispered.
He watched as she sat the glass on the table and sighed. He could almost see the internal wheels of morality spinning inside of her head. Guilt settled in for something she had not even done, yet.
Her eyes moved to the silver trays filled with seafood, fruit, and desserts. According Yuri, Nadia’s salary barely allowed her to afford anything more then Kokoschka soup for months on end. She picked the glass back up and downed the remaining contents. Jackpot.
Nadia stood and seductively unbutton her blouse. Her black skirt slid off dropping to the floor in a small heap next to her shoes. She slid her skirt across her hips then down her legs to the carpet before stepping out of it and closer to Garcia.
Her attire now consisted of only a bronzed colored laced matching panty and bra set. She placed on the robe that was just given to her while her eyes locked with Garcia’s desired filled observation.
“You ask if I’m married?”
Garcia gave her a slow nod.
“The answer is no for tonight. Tonight Mr. Garcia, I am Miss Nadia and all yours,” she said.
Nadia smiled then made her way back to the meal tray.
“Nadia, excuse me for a moment. I need to make a very quick call.”
“Sure. I’ll be here,” she winked.
Garcia moved to the next room. He called a cell number written on the card that he always kept in his wallet. When the call was answered just like always, silence remained on the opposite end.
“It’s Martin,” he started.
She never responds, just listen. “Hello my dear I am in town. When you get a chance give me a call in my suite. I’m in need of a favor.”
Once Garcia finished speaking she simply disconnected the call. No words were needed from her. After the call Garcia picked up a list of the men who he would be competing against in the poker tournament. As he looked at the list he sipped from his glass thoughtfully. One name stuck out.
The plan he already devised would have to fix that problem. He smiled at the developing plan. He knew that most would view his ideas as borderline psychotic. He liked to view his way of thinking as intellectually edgy and merely a way to tilt the playing field. All is fair, and all is war.
A soft hand slipped around his waist then gently pulled the belt to his robe. Garcia tilted the glass up allowing the rest of the champagne to slide down his throat.
The room filled with the strong composition sounds of Symphony number nine. Much like the composer when the piece was written, the world around them fell silent.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The next morning the Moscow sky peppered with light snow. The colorful view of St Basil’s cathedral towered over the foggy skyline. Garcia marveled at the cathedral just had he had done when he first saw it on his very first trip to Russia.
The sheer design exceeded everything that he had ever seen in his extensive travels. The architecture filled just a small part of his fascination with the structure. Garcia imagined the odd shaped building as the lifeless heads of his competitors impelled on the towering sticks. From what he read, one of his most admired historical figures shared the same perspective. To this vision he displayed a warm smile.
This exceptional form of meditation suited him well. He needed the focus. Nadia remained passed out beneath the thick hand woven comforter and in less then an hour the poker tournament would begin. He came to defend his three year reign and this time it was not going to be simple. He welcomed the peaceful time to reflect since it had always been a therapeutic time for him.
As fulfilling as it was it paled in comparison to the sensation of ripping his opponents into tiny segments.
After a light breakfast he reviewed his personal notes. All of the notations pertained to his opponents so he carefully studied and reviewed each one.
Soon the time to head to the casino had arrived. The time, as most knew, ment fashionably late for Garcia. He waited till the very last moment to make his stroll over to the adjoining building giving him the sensation of a gladiator entering the arena. Lines of well wishers greeted him along the path.
Although they displayed true excitement for the competition, they never truly cared who won. They just wanted to see a winner and Garcia always made sure that he ended up in that position. He tapped the pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand as he gave a final look at his all black attire in the wide mirror.
A rap on the door led him away from admiring his own view. Two of the hotel’s female staff met him at his suite then escorted him to the event. His opponents sat waiting for him at the casino with only minutes remaining for the contest to begin.
Garcia entered the poker room showered by endless camera flashes coming in from every direction. Reporters pushed and shoved their way through the crowd all in hopes for a pre-game interview. Garcia’s calculated late arrival allowed him the grand standing that he so skillfully orchestrated and adored. This intensified the intended impression that he was the star and all the attention and glory hinted at one thing. He was the one to beat.
Traditionally after taking his seat, he offered a statement to his competitors. After a couple of years, the highly anticipated proclamation took on a life of its own. It became a must hear for loyal tournament followers.
In his very first Moscow tournament a roar of laughter followed the impromptu comment. Now two years later, everyone eagerly waited to hear what Garcia would say to launch the competition. He never failed to please the audience while nauseating his opponents.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Garcia took his time before speaking. A quiet hush fell across the crowd as they waited to what he would say. All in the timing, he thought, all in the timing. He rarely rehearsed his traditional pre game words; he didn’t have to. He relied on his natural wit that came as natural as his dark stare.
This time one of the opponents attempted to pilfer his limelight by making a preemptive comment. The American born twenty five year old from Seattle, Washington named Ryan Quillen placed his own words into the sacred moment. At twenty five, his youth failed to comprehend the true danger that Garcia represented and was also too imprudent to respect things that he knew absolutely nothing about.
“So Garcia I see you have a dimple on your chin there. What tell sign is that?” Ryan laughed lightly at his observation. The rest of the players did not share the humor.
The crowd along with the players remained silent. The two players on each side of Ryan casually inch their chairs away from him. Garcia disregarded the comment as he lit his cigarette without looking up.
A minute later he spoke. “Well my friend, in the words of Pope Paul, a dimple on the chin, is the Garcia within.”
“I think the quote was actually, the devil within,” Ryan said. This time the words lacked the confidence he had before. His voiced cracked in the middle of the reply.
“Check your thesaurus, the words are interchangeable, my dear friend,” Garcia said.
After the reply he looked over at Ryan with distained observation. Garcia tightened his pupils as he blew the cigarette smoke slowly into the tensed atmosphere. Ryan sunk back into his seat recoiling deeper in his chair and tried to avoid the extended eye contact.
Garcia refused to break his stare. Ryan’s hands quivered as they rested on the table and his eyes diverted in any direction away from Garcia’s stare. The kid known for precise calculations made the worst miscalculation of his life. One down eight to go, Garcia smiled to himself.
A mere hour and a half into the game and the group of ten dwindled down to five. Garcia maintained
a simple strategy during the first half of the tournament. His uncharacteristically conservative manner of play consisted of frequent folding and little to no bluffing. A hard focus set on the other players’ methodically watching close for tell signs and playing habits.
Of course the observation didn’t end when play was stopped. During the breaks, instead of light chatting and stretching like the others, Garcia observed them. He took detailed notes on their habits and mannerisms studying each player with unwavering methodical detail.
The actual winning part of the contest never worried him; that was the easy part. The game was actually won before he sat down at the table. The more difficult process involved the accurate recall of the separate habits of the other players. Every hand, movement, and expression analyzed had to be remembered and used. They, whether they were aware of it of not, were the enemies. By the end of the day he would know them better then they knew themselves.
The day came to a close with the few remaining players set to finish the tournament the following day. Just as Garcia anticipated one of the remaining three was Adam Barrie, the twenty eight year old math genius from Overland Park, Kansas. One of the other players also managed to hang on but not because of his talent. Garcia considered European born Tony Swinton as one of the weakest players. Garcia allowed him to remain in the game by letting him win just enough hands to stick around, all just another part of the strategy.
With Tony Swinton seated to his left, Garcia continued to drag him along in the game. This strategy of keeping one bad player in the game along with another exceptional one game him better control with a decoy. Now the total focus could now be directed to the perfect playing skills of Adam Barrie.
This project or rather destruction of an opponent would require more work then Garcia anticipated. The young player was nothing less the brilliant and unfazed by the worldly distractions of the European limelight.
He remained a very hard read for Garcia. If there were ever a poster child for an introvert, Adam Barrie would surely lead the pack. Garcia watched Adam’s eyes as they either locked on the cards or drifted into the air pondering intricate odds and calculations.
