by K. T. Tomb
“OK, thanks Thyri. I’ll check it out this morning,” Travis said to the laptop screen, and Savannah entered the hotel room’s sitting area in time to see Travis close the Skype call, Thyri’s face remaining for a moment as the laptop responded to the command. Travis heard her footsteps, even though she was barefoot, dressed in a T-shirt and boy shorts.
“Morning Sav,” he said. “If you’re making coffee, I’ll take one.”
Savannah yawned. “I have a better idea, you make the coffee. You’re not off the hook with me yet. What did Thyri want?”
Travis laughed. “Alright, I’ll make it up to you. Two sugars, yeah?” He fairly bounced over the back of the couch and slid over to the small kitchen area, sliding an arm round Savannah’s waist and spinning her out of the way as if they had just finished a particularly dressed down rumba. Travis was in shorts and a T-Shirt bearing the logo of the University of Atlanta. He filled the kettle and put it on to boil, whistling what sounded like an off key version of Bob Dylan’s Hurricane.
Savannah folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. Travis didn’t look up as he took a cup from the head height cupboards. They were cheap white china with no markings. One cup sat on the counter holding the last few sips of what was, from appearances, Travis’ twelfth cup of the morning. “Well?” she said.
“Hmmm?” responded Travis. “Well, what? Sorry, did I miss something?”
“What did Thyri want?” Savannah said, raising the other eyebrow.
“Oh, right. Nothing,” Travis said. “I had a revelation in the night. I figured that if Hatchet-Face and Barnes are doing business in Sri Lanka, whatever that may entail, they must have a base of operations, right? Well, I figured if anyone can get me some information about where they are it would be our well-resourced leader, the oil magnate.” Travis turned back to the kettle which had started to steam.
Savannah bit down on her frustration. Did this man find it impossible to just come out with things in a simple, concise sentence? She briefly fantasized about beating him to death with her coffee cup before speaking again, which gave Travis the time to finish the heating of the water, the addition of some packets of sugar to the cups and a teaspoon each of some poor quality freeze dried caffeinated drink masquerading as actual coffee.
“And?” she said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, yes, right. Sorry,” Travis said sheepishly, passing her a cup of black liquid. “Well, she didn’t know anything like that. She said she was a businesswoman, not head of the CIA.”
“So why all the excitement this morning?” Savannah said, getting increasingly tired of the game.
“Well, what she did say, based on my description of these two guys, is that if they’re anything like the ex-military contractors she knew, they liked essentially four things in life. One,” he raised one finger, “getting paid for shooting people. Two,” up went another, “whores. Three is drinking, and four is gambling,” Travis waved his outstretched hand at Savannah with his thumb still tucked in, like a child who hadn’t quite mastered the gesture. Savannah considered.
“I guess that’s kind of a lead,” she said, with more charity than she felt. It sounded like a wild goose chase—no; it was a wild goose chase. How was she to dissuade Travis from loitering around bars, which was dangerous given his most recent episode in the hotel bar in which he fell most precisely off the wagon or visiting brothels which was… huh! An uncomfortable muddy of emotions broiled within Savannah, somewhere beneath her ribcage. Travis was speaking, which blessedly took her attention away from that churning before it could ferment into something she didn’t want to deal with, not in Sri Lanka, at least.
“So, there’re a lot of bars in Colombo, so that’s out. We’re not in a war-zone, and I don’t even know if these guys are mercenaries, so it’s a no-go on trying to find them that way. We’re left with casinos which, following a quick Google search, I’ve found that there are only ten in the city. Even so, it’ll still take a fair while to canvass them all, so we’re going to have to work fast, and probably bribe a lot of people,” Travis said, pausing for breath.
Savannah wondered if there was a breathalyzer test for caffeine intoxication, but was thankful at least that he hadn’t decided that the best way to follow this lead was for her to impersonate a prostitute. There was something that she intuitively knew Travis was avoiding. Something that needed to be addressed; and then she knew also where this burst of productivity had come from. It wasn’t that Travis had simply got his head together at all. This whole performance was the effect of Monica Chen, every last drop of it. Travis was simply diverting all his anger and fear into hunting down the Americans to avoid having to deal with Chen again. This latest revelation into the perplexing mind of Travis Monahan she kept to herself. However, Savannah could not in good conscience let Travis off the leash without at least attempting to keep him on message. He was looking at her expectantly, like his dog Angelo often did when he suspected she might have a treat for him hidden in her back pocket.
“Travis,” she began with hesitancy, “I’m not trying to burst your bubble here, but this is not what we are here for.” She raised her hand in the universally recognized semaphore that meant she would brook no interruptions, as Travis looked ready to counter. “Here’s what we know. Diamonds are arriving in Colombo from Africa. Somewhere along the line, a lot of them are going missing, but no one knows where, or how or by whom. You might notice that there’s not much space in that chain of events for American nationals to interfere; come on, they could be tea merchants for all we know.”
“Alright, fine. But what about Chen?” Travis said, glaring. “Chen knows Hatchet-Face, Sav. She knows them, and let us be honest, the only people she knows are bad dudes. And I’ll tell you this, dime a dozen she’s here for these diamonds, I just feel it in my bones, you know? Why else would she be here?”
That, admittedly, was pretty hard to argue against. She could think of a thousand reasons as to why the Americans were in Sri Lanka, from tourism to tea and beyond; but there wasn’t one thing that Monica Chen liked more than liberating property from the unsuspecting people who owned it, and if anyone could hoodwink everyone from customs officials to accountants and diamond merchants, it would be Chen. She wasn’t quite ready to concede the point, so she rallied. “Fair enough, that’s a good guess—so what do we do? Ignore Chen to chase these Americans down? If all you have as a plan is to trawl around casinos spending Thyri’s money, you’re on your own. That’s a plan I’ll reject all...” She trailed off, struck dumb by the insight she had just had. Travis looked at her as if it was she that was losing his mind, and not him.
“Sav?” he said, but she shushed him to silence with a dismissive hand wave.
Rejects. Was that it?
Diamonds came into the port en route to the merchants who would check the rough quality of the stones, rejecting the ones that were too low in carat, or misshapen. What if that was where the fraud came into play—perfectly good consignments marked as rejected, but never returned? It was simple, convenient, and audacious enough that only someone of Chen’s prodigious affinity for grand larceny would have the moxie to consider it, let alone put such a plan in action.
“Travis,” she said, finally pulling her eyes back from staring into space and moving a stray bang of blonde hair from where it had fallen in her eyes, “you check out the casinos if you must. I’m not going to stop you, but I think it’s a long shot. I think I’ve figured something out about where these diamonds are really going. No, not where they are going, but where they are not.”
Travis looked bemused; amazed that he had won his argument so easily. “Well,” he said, “great. That’s great! I’ll get started right away then. Are you going to let me in on what you think you’re on to?”
“Not yet. I’m going to see if I’m right, before I start making conjectures. You might want to try that sometime. Oh, and keep your bloody phone on you. If you end up in jail again, you’re staying there for the rest of the month.”
>
Travis said nothing, stunned by the rapidity of Savannah’s return to the ice queen persona. On the upside, he was pretty sure that over a decade as a lecturer put him in good stead for making some dough. There had always been a fresh supply of freshmen eager to learn varieties of poker for as long as he could remember. No doubt the skills Travis taught them were mostly employed to gamble co-eds out of their clothes rather than their money, but nonetheless; Travis could play cards.
Chapter Six
And so the week passed. Savannah and Travis moved as ships in the night, alternating sleeping patterns. By day, Savannah wrung every ounce of her ingenuity and guile out at the unforgiving coalface of the Colombo dockside administration. Their obdurate manner in responding to her requests had lead, so far, to nothing more than a throbbing sensation in her temples and had produced no clear answers as to whether her hunch was right or not. If she could just gain access to the accounts of just one of the main brokers in town, she could establish whether, as she suspected, there was a higher than expected rejection rate for diamonds arriving from Africa. She needed an influential friend, and she needed that friend yesterday.
Meanwhile, Travis had been ejected from Bally’s Casino after accusations—entirely unfounded, of course—that he had been counting cards. The suspicion arose after a thorough and humiliating beat down he’d delivered across the poker table to a local junior minister. Apparently minor government officials disliked being shown up in front of their giggling, hired for the night ‘girlfriends’ as much in Sri Lanka as back in the good old U-S-of-A. The man had been drunk, and completely oblivious to the bluffs and traps Travis set for him; allowing a few small hands to pass over, folding on a couple of reasonable hands when the pot was low, biding his time before both the pot and his hand were right, or right enough. Three hours in, and Travis was up over four hundred thousand Sri Lankan rupees, around three thousand dollars, by Travis’ estimate. The accusation came after an audacious hand in which Travis took the pot on a pair of fours that were bumped to three of a kind on the turn of the ‘river’ card. Cards were tossed, fingers pointed, the hired lady barely restraining her giggles.
That was the final straw for the young minister, whose tie hung loose like the sweat on his brow and patchily mustached top lip. It was one thing to beat a man at cards. It’s another to embarrass an arrogant young man who believed the world owed him a favor, and yet another to humiliate a man in front of a woman. Even a woman, who, in Travis’ opinion, was a done deal due to the size of the minister’s wallet, if not as a result of his physical traits. The bouncers, polite enough and in excellent English, allowed Travis to keep his winnings, but firmly informed him that he was no longer welcome. They were sure he understood, and Travis was sure that the Americans were not likely to make an appearance.
The newly acquired rupees disappeared in the most part to the MGM Casino’s coffers. Travis had taken a break to play roulette—a better game for keeping an eye on the clientele—but the odds were further in favor of the house, and Travis did not have any luck with it. With less than a hundred thousand rupees left, and having been at various tables for what was approaching on four hours, Travis made his way to the Bellagio. Overlooking the Laccadive Sea to the west of Colombo, the casino conformed to the usual gambling den trick of completely ignoring the natural beauty of the location in favor of well lit, windowless rooms which encouraged time to be lost. At five in the morning, there were only hardened gamblers and hardened drinkers there, the drinkers occasionally blinking at the nauseating acid-trip carpets and Technicolor glares of screens, wallpapers in crimson, white teethed croupiers and sparkling ice cubes with diminishing whiskey in tumblers of crystal cut glass. Travis had kept off the booze, and was never more thankful. The carpets would have certainly induced a terrible vomiting fit, he was sure, with their cross weaved grid pattern in orange on black and golden blossom detail. The orange leather chairs were set five to a table in the poker lounge, with ten tables stretching five per side, for a total capacity of fifty card-sharps. Travis’ caffeinated mind craved another coke as he momentarily began working the synchronicity of being at a table set for five at five in the morning in a row of five. The numbers were burning him out, even if he had the physical stamina to keep playing. Suddenly, he realized perhaps he had been in the casinos for too long. When he looked toward the tables however, he immediately changed his mind and a small smile stretched across his lips. Success!
Hatchet-Face sat alone at the far end table on the right, evidently between games. A red waistcoat clad waiter brought him a whiskey. Hatchet-Face barely looked up, didn’t even raise his eyes as he gave a cursory nod of acknowledgment. He was dressed in a white button up shirt that had the top two buttons undone, underneath a light linen jacket that had seen better days. His face bore such deep ravines and crevasses that it looked extremely worn in the harsh lighting; like the cares of the world had taken a rest on his brow and decided to remain far beyond their given stay. There was no sign of Barnes, the man mountain that had tossed Travis against the alley wall the week before. Perhaps Hatchet-Face might be more amenable without his young Rottweiler with him, Travis thought, with only the smallest flicker of hope as he put his feet in motion.
“Hey there, hoss,” Travis said, “you mind if I sit in for a few rounds?”
Hatchet-Face looked up, surprise momentarily jerking his eyebrows upwards to his graying hairline. He laughed, once, a sound of a rock thrown against a garage door. He gestured to the empty chair across the table from him, and a croupier scurried over to take his seat, seeing a game was in the offering. The croupier liberated a fresh deck of cards from its wrapper and began to shuffle.
“I’m surprised to see you again, Mr. Monahan,” drawled Hatchet-Face. “Most folk who cross paths with Barnes tend to make certain they choose different roads in the future.”
The croupier dealt, indicating the game was the standard fixed limit, five-card Texas Hold‘em. Nice and easy, thought Travis. Good, he could play cards without concentrating too much.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Travis replied. “I’m not in Sri Lanka to make enemies.”
“Enemies are bad for business, that’s for sure,” Hatchet-Face said, sipping his whiskey. “Enemies of friends, or enemies of enemies, that’s more profitable, Mr. Monahan.” He laughed again, dryly. Good God, the man was drunk. Travis had wanted to meet this man all week, but meeting him when he was well into his cups was dangerous—he had already shown his steel. What did he mean about enemies of enemies, enemies of friends? Travis merely nodded as he paid his opening bet from his stack of chips and checked his cards. Not great, but playable.
“Please, call me Travis. You make me sound like a customer at a bank, calling me Mr. Monahan. I didn’t catch your name, Mr…?”
“Mayer. Just Mayer,” he replied.
Christ! I could get blood from a stone easier than straight talk from this guy, Travis thought.
“Ok, Mayer. Like I say, we got off on the wrong foot, and I apologize for interrupting your day. I meant no harm by it.”
Mayer looked at Travis over the top of his cards, his eyes were laser-focused now, as if he hadn’t had a drink at all, and had been enjoying his second cup of morning coffee after a restful night’s sleep in a fine bed. Was he being played, or was it just that he had caught Mayer off guard? “Forgotten history, Travis!” Mayer said, bon viveur congeniality returned with gusto. “I’m a private man. My business is dependent on privacy, so you understand my… concern when you followed us the other day. No hard feelings?” He thrust out a gnarled hand with the flattened knuckles of a boxer, palm open, fingers extended.
Jesus Christ, what is his game?
Travis shook the hand, feeling skin that had been weathered from extended exposure to high temperatures. Travis nodded his appreciation for the gesture. They played their first hand, which Mayer won. Travis shrugged, and further conversation was curtailed by the arrival of two inebriated Chinese men in suits, who s
at down and were dealt in by the croupier.
The subsequent two hours disappeared in a haze of flying cards, slugs of whiskey and jokes in Mandarin that Travis wished Savannah was there to translate. Not that the jokes would have been translatable, he was sure of that, but he was sure that he had heard a slurred word that sounded an awful lot like gweilo. It was impossible for him to try and glean any more nuggets of information from Mayer with the two businessmen sat between them, so Travis concentrated on his cards. With his undivided attention on the game he found a curious alliance forming with Mayer. With no overt signal, they teamed up on the interlopers, driving their bids high on bad cards, keeping the terms of engagement fluid and their opponents confused. Under any other circumstances, Travis would have taken pride in the manner of the fleecing. He hadn’t seen a game so brutal since a night in his own senior year at university when the faculty head got hammered on Guinness and lost his shirt.
Eight in the morning, and the Chinese left, grumbling at their non-existent stacks of chips which had served only to feed the wolves. Mayer flashed a predatory grin; the ruinous ax wound of a smile, and waved his hand over the table, where two large piles of blue, white and black chips lay.
“Play on, or call it quits? If we keep looking for an outright winner between the two of us, we could be here a very long time,” he said. “Personally, I’m dead drunk, sick of the sound of goddamn Chinese and fucking exhausted. I’m good calling it a draw.”
