by Paul Slatter
Rann waited for a moment and cut into his peppercorn steak, which was a little overdone, and looked up at the TV to the ice hockey—the Canadian guys at the bar staring at it as though it was Rann’s Sikh god Guru Nanak himself. Then he heard Patrick say, "You know how much that is? Does she know she could go to prison? Besides I know you think I’m rich, but I really can’t afford that kind of money!"
Cool as a cucumber, Rann quoted straight off one of Patrick’s ads he’d seen on the way in, saying, "You can’t afford not to,” and sat there listening to the silence on the end of the phone. Then Rann continued saying, “I don't think she's thought it through Patrick, you know, about her getting prison time. But you should consider if things were to go too far and she starts handing out the photos, then everything comes out in the wash. And even if we can keep a lid on it and no one ever sees the photos, then rumours can start and rumours as you know tend to be worse than the real thing—but anyway, if you’re not interested, I'll tell her. Like I said, I'm just doing you a favor because you helped Michael out."
He looked around the skinny white chick coming now from the toilet looking good, the guys at the bar giving her the stare, her hair preened, the layered black roots all gone.
Then he said, "Don't worry then, I'll let her know you’re not interested—I'll pass your message on. Thanks."
And for once in his life, before Patrick could get the last word in, Rann hung up.
******
It wasn't until the next day that he called again—the girl with the bleached hair gone now from his bed. She had bathed in his long thick locks as he let his hair drop down onto her face and breasts whilst he fucked her hard, and she'd screamed noisily and held onto the sheets with her right hand, not letting go as he'd thrown her around the bed. And when he'd finished, all she wanted to know was which type of shampoo and conditioner he was using, and as she opened the door to leave, he said, "Come back again when you’re ready and I'll tell you."
He gave it until four in the afternoon and with his feet up on a stool, he called Patrick again. "Patrick, it's me, you got me in trouble—I told the girl I’d been talking to you and you wanted to make a deal and she flipped. She’s really upset."
Patrick stayed silent on the other end of the phone and then, trying to sound cool, he said, "Is this supposed to make me feel bad for her? After all, she is trying to blackmail me, let's be honest here—how do I know if there is even 'a girl'? You’re probably the only one involved and you haven't even told me your name. All I know is that you’re from London, so that narrows it down a bit if I decided to go to the police."
"I think you've got it wrong with me, Patrick my old mate, you see. The only thing I want out of this whole thing is the name and phone number of the girl doing that stuff to you in the photos."
It wasn't that he personally wanted to be sodomised by her, as pretty as she was, but he'd definitely like to fuck her, that was for certain, get her sweet lips wrapped around his dick and see if she could take it all the way down. The thing was, the girl was a true pro. He could see that, the way she was working this realtor’s ass and staring into the camera at the same time, and the question was how many other people did she have photos of, others who also had their little secrets, others who’s lives he could turn around and save. That was the key.
"I don't know who she is," lied Patrick, as he thought about how, in fact, he knew who she was and where she was right now, laid up in a hospital with a spinal injury. He heard Rann say straight back to him, "You telling me you let a stranger do that to you?"
Patrick stayed silent now on the other end of the phone. He’d done worse. He said, "What I do in my private life has nothing to do with you."
"You’re right,” Rann answered straight back down the phone, “I don’t care, you could have a camel in the room with you. The thing is, you need to start caring, caring about the photos being out there and getting into the hands of the people who do care and also love and trust you."
Then having enough of it all and without taking into consideration any of the advice he’d paid Charles Chuck Chendrill for, Patrick said it again, "Why don't you just tell this girl—person, I'll make it worth their while to give me all the photos, but I think $250,000 is a little steep.”
Chapter Five
They settled at $100,000 for the photos and Rann was happy with that.
Well worth it, he thought, as he took the sky train the next day, riding it for a while until he knew everyone on board with him as it completed its circuit over and over, then just as it was getting busy, he placed his white headphones under his black turban and made the call.
His instructions for Patrick had been simple, all the realtor had to do was wait at the bottom of the Main Street station with the money in a black sports bag and not get mugged, then Rann would let him know what the girl wanted him to do.
And now all Patrick had to do was get on a train.
"Well which train?" Patrick had asked in a fluster, “and what about my car?"
"Leave the car, let it get towed,” Rann had replied, his voice not giving any chance of an alternative. Then he said carrying on, "Go up to platform two and get onto the next train heading east right now."
And as the train pulled into the station, Rann saw him standing there looking like a million dollars groomed and manicured in his Italian loafers.
******
Patrick stepped onto the train and took a seat. Where the fuck was this idiot? Wasting his day with all the cloak and dagger shit when they could have just as easily met in a coffee shop, he thought. He looked around the carriage which was full, Chinese students, two punks, old, young, a guy in a black turban at the other end probably listening to some Bollywood music like they liked to, and that guy in his underpants again, staring back at him like he wanted to fight. BlueBoy condoms, Patrick thought, it had been a while since he'd used one. His old girlfriend, the Russian, the one he was in love with still, used to let him ride bareback; said she liked the feel of him inside her, said she liked to feel him come then feel it seep out throughout the day, letting her know a part of him was still with her, because she loved him.
The train carried on, heading out to Surrey into the suburbs, people coming, people going. Fuck me, Patrick thought, staring at his watch, he could have sold a condo in the time this was taking up, not that he would have, but he could.
He stared out the window, the place now getting industrial, suburban, passing town houses and gardens and people who weren't rich like him and could never afford to pay this kind of cash to keep some loser’s mouth shut.
Then his phone rang and heard the guy from London say, "Go stand by the end door. At the next stop, step off the train, place the bag on the bench that has your picture on it, and then step back onto the train and go home."
Patrick was startled. What was this guy going on about? He didn't know he had an advert running out this far on the sky train. No wonder this idiot knew who he was—fuck me, he was going to get it taken down first thing tomorrow.
The blackmailer was on here with him in amongst the rest, ready to get off in a mass exodus, the only station on the line where you could switch trains. This guy was good, Patrick thought, he’d give him that, choosing this station when he could have used any one of them along the way to make the switch.
He made his way to the end door and stood there waiting, the Indian in the turban there with him along the way staring at the guy in the poster along with a group of students.
Then as the train came into the station, he saw himself in the distance, smiling back on the bench, looking like a fool with his teeth all shiny, and wearing a sweater shaped with triangles that had absolutely zero attitude or sex appeal—not like the kid in the poster had in his shiny underpants, selling condoms.
On cue, the train stopped right opposite the bench as the guy from London said it would, and the doors opened, the Indian stepping off first and walking away towards the exit, the girls still giggling, staying on the tra
in, pointing and laughing now at Patrick’s picture. Patrick stepped off, took a deep breath, and placed the bag calmly next to the photo of himself and walked back, stepping onto the train just as the doors closed.
******
Rann Singh kept walking and did not stop until the train was safely out of sight and around the corner heading east.
Stopping, he turned, heading back towards the bag, cutting his way through the other passengers like a knife. Reaching it, he picked it up and headed quickly along the platform and down the stairs. He walked under the tracks and, following a big guy in a black camo-like Hawaiian shirt and jeans, climbed up the stairs to the platform on the other side.
The train heading west would be there soon; having studied the system he knew it was impossible for Patrick to switch trains at the next stop and come back. He reached the middle of the platform and waited, the bag heavy on his shoulder, the money in used tens and twenties like he always asked for. He looked to the rails below him as they began to sing as the metal shifted with the weight of the approaching train. Then he looked up, Patrick’s photo there on the bench across the tracks, smiling back at him with his slogan right below saying, ‘You can’t afford not to.’
And then the train pulled into the station, cutting the connection. The doors slammed open, Rann stepped onto the train and sat down, placing the bag on his knees and looking discreetly to the train’s occupants around him, just as they did with him and his big turban.
Slowly, he looked back to the bag, opened it, and snuck a look inside—the bills all wrapped in cloth as he had asked, bound with string and a note sitting on top. Reaching in, he pulled it out, opened it, and read 'Now I know who you are and you’ve got problems—Charles Chuck Chendrill.'
Chapter Six
Charles Chuck Chendrill watched from the corner of his eye as the guy with the turban looked about the train to see who was watching him. He'd not been easy to spot the first time around as Chendrill had kept an eye on Patrick through the center doorway that linked the train’s carriages. It was a good job the East Indian had put together. The drop could have been anywhere and having Patrick drop it off to himself on the station’s bench had been an especially nice touch.
The guy was shitting himself now as he dug further into the bag, finding the money was just photocopied cut paper. Lifting his head again, the East Indian in the turban looked around as though he didn't care, Chendrill wanting to go over and sit next to him and say, 'Looks like you’re the one taking it from behind now,' then arrest him. But he was no longer a cop, so he just watched and waited until the guy in the turban got off still carrying the bag slung across his shoulder, standing there outside the train looking back and forth along the empty platform as the doors shut behind him, and watching as the train pulled away. Chendrill sitting there lost in his own world, staring out the other window as the carriage moved past the Sikh in his turban carrying $100,000 dollars worth of nothing and a note that told him he was in trouble. And he was.
******
Patrick was pissed. As soon as he could, he was off the train and sitting in the rear of a taxi heading back into Vancouver.
He'd seen Chendrill disappearing down the steps only at the last second as the train pulled out of the station and wondered how he'd managed to hide himself so well in the first place. The guy from London who had a bag full of nothing was Chendrill’s problem now, that was his job, that's what he did. He sorted stuff like this out and Patrick was paying him enough to trust Chuck when he said, ‘don't worry!' So, he wasn't going to. He sold property and Chendrill sorted out parasitic idiots like this guy who had just entered his life.
The problem now was that he'd just seen himself, Patrick De’Sendro, for who he really was, grinning back at himself like some kind of moron in a triangle patterned cashmere sweater and shiny teeth. For fuck’s sake, he'd just been sitting there for twenty minutes staring up at a guy in his underpants oozing more attitude and sex appeal in his little finger. No wonder the girls were going giddy, but then they'd seen him, and it was no wonder they were laughing—laughing like the guy Patrick had paid handsomely to put the campaign together in the first place, snapping shots off in his pathetic little studio, making Patrick feel like a king with all the sad little lighting strobes popping off, flattening out his wrinkles and making his teeth shine.
But that guy in his silver underpants covered in sweat, looking as though he wanted to move but couldn't—wow! It was another league. The girls weren't laughing at that guy; no, they were almost coming in their panties over the him. Fuck, I am getting old, Patrick thought, wearing a cashmere sweater like that with his white shirt sticking out the top, his hair all gelled, combed back in lines. Why didn't the guy tell him he looked like a prick, why? Because the man was a prick himself, that’s why, and he'd suckered him in and made him feel special.
It’s time for a change, he thought. He was a realtor, he looked like a realtor, everything about him screamed out that he'd sell your home and hit you with a fancy commission to pay for the 'Beama and big meals out at Caderos. A new advertising campaign was in order. He was pretty certain the city was sick to death of seeing his face on the back of buses and now benches at train stations. He needed to go big and needed to do it in style and he knew just the guy to take him there.
******
Sebastian had just taken a call from an old friend in London and had spent twenty minutes explaining that Dan, Slave’s new hot signing was, as far as he could tell, not gay, so he should give up any hope of popping on a jet from London on the off chance he could take him out and get him drunk, when his phone rang again.
This time, though, it was Patrick and he said, "Sebastian, make me look as good as that kid does and I'll sell your next place for free."
Sebastian stared at the phone, which was still on speaker, and smiled. He liked Patrick, having bought his penthouse from him when he'd decided to move from the outskirts of London and settle down in Vancouver some years back.
"But I'm not looking to sell, Patrick."
"But if you do?"
"I'm not wanting to move, Patrick, I've just organized all my books."
And he had, every one of them across the shelves in such an order that they looked good and were alphabetized—or kind of. Then he asked, "But if you want to come for dinner, Patrick, then you're welcome."
That was something Patrick could do without. He'd been before and sat the night away talking about curtains with a bunch of gay men, especially the Swedish guy who worked with Sebastian, who carried his ego around in a suitcase. So, he said, "Sebastian, I'd love to, but before I get there, just for old times’ sake, I would love you to give me a bit of your time and think about how you can make me look good.”
After all, how else was he going to get himself a new advertising campaign and not have to pay corporate?
******
Rann Singh took the bag into the handicap toilet at Starbucks, locked the door, placed it on the sink, and began pulling out the contents which Patrick had spent the evening before filling, laughing out loud as he worked off his new, expensive color laser printer. Chendrill had said just fill the bag with paper, but going a step further, Patrick hadn't and instead replaced the Queen’s face with his own and ran off $100,000 worth of 10's and 20's just like the guy from London had asked.
Fuck him.
Rann held one of the notes to the light above the sink and smiled, seeing Patrick's face looking back at him. The cheeky fucker, but he'd pay more now just for wasting his time, and Rann would start by leaving a copy of one of the photos in the elevator of Patrick’s apartment block, and stick one of these bills right underneath.
That'll teach him for being a clown.
But who was this Chendrill, he thought, maybe a hired thug, or a PI of some sort, but they could be bought. Sitting down on the toilet, he pulled out his phone and stuck Chendrill’s name into a search engine, smiling as the result came back—Chuck Chendrill, Private Investigations—phone number and add
ress included.
That'll do, Rann thought as he stood and adjusted his turban in the mirror. I'll go looking, find some dirt on you, and you can either fuck off or start paying some cash like Patrick's going to have to. But he didn't have to look very far because as soon as he opened the toilet door, Chendrill was waiting on the other side. And the first words Chendrill said were, "You'd better hand over those photos or I'm going to strangle you with a bit of that cloth you've got wrapped around your head."
"That's racist," Rann replied, "I thought you Canadians didn't go in for that sort of thing."
And as quick as lightning, Chendrill snapped his head forward, smashing Rann on the bridge of his nose and sending him flying back and hitting the floor of the handicapped toilets.
Chendrill stepped forward and closed the door, locking it behind him and picking up the bag, emptied it on top of Rann’s head.
"Give me the photos now and this'll end today. If you don't, it’ll get worse."
Rann looked up at the big guy in the camo Hawaiian shirt and remembered him nipping past him at the station. Fuck, his nose hurt. He hadn’t taken a hit like that since he was at school in Hounslow.
He reached down to his sock and began to pull the blade he kept there for such occasions and thought about burying it into Chendrill’s leg—but where would that leave them.
