by Graham Smith
This isn’t the reaction I was expecting, but I have to admire him for his principles. ‘You should know that Ms Rosenberg was insistent that her money be handed to you. Should you not have been alive, it was to be passed to your descendants.’
‘Tell me, Mr Boulder. If you had let a good woman go, and had regretted it every day for forty years, would you take her money when she died? Would you take her money when you had been too selfish to accompany her when she’d fled town in fear of her life? Would you take her money knowing you’d broken her heart?’
‘No, I guess not.’ The admission is out of me before I realise it’s damaging my side of the argument. I pick my next words with greater care. ‘But I’d also want to respect her last wishes. She chose you as her sole beneficiary for a reason.’
His chin saws against his chest as his head shakes from side to side. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Don’t think of it as profiting from her death.’ I recognise that he’s starting to waver, so I press home my slight advantage. ‘Think of it as enduring proof of her love for you. If not for yourself, accept her gift for your family. Use it to give them a better life.’
I know better than to mention numbers at this point. It’s principle we’re discussing, not dollar signs.
‘I didn’t give my Fifi a better life. I made hers worse by not having the courage to go with her.’
‘Do you think she saw it that way? Do you think she blamed you? That she hated you for not going with her? She loved you. From the day she left New York, until the day she died.’ I make sure I have eye contact with him. ‘I talked to her editor at the Casperton Gazette. She never dated anyone since you and she said goodbye. She didn’t sleep around or join the dating pool. Your Fifi didn’t want anyone but you, and if you ask me, the reason she left you her money is because she had forgiven you. To refuse her last request would be to refuse her forgiveness. You’ve lived with the thought of failing her for forty years. Can you live the rest of your life knowing you’d spurned her forgiveness?’
‘You, Mr Boulder, are a very persuasive gentleman who knows how to press the buttons of an emotional old man.’ He pauses to lick his lips and wipe a tear from his cheek. ‘If I took the money and put it into a trust for my grandchildren, do you think she would consider that I had accepted her forgiveness?’
It’s a compromise for all concerned, but I’m sure Ms Rosenberg – she’ll never be Fifi to me – would agree to his terms were she here to speak for herself.
Halvard calls out, something I don’t catch, and Gavriel walks in with a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses.
‘Now then, Mr Boulder. Will you join an old man in toasting a remarkable lady? I have a lot of questions to ask you about my Fifi.’
16
Halvard pours me a generous slug of whisky for the third time, and raises his glass in a silent toast.
I’ve told him everything I can about Ms Rosenberg, and he listened with teary eyes as I praised her determination to get to the heart of the stories she’d covered.
When I told him of her secret life as an author, and the pen name she’d adopted, he twisted his lips into a tight grin and told me she’d loved the novel Lorna Doone.
Now that I’ve answered all his questions, I have a few of my own I want to put forward.
‘Ms Rosenberg left New York in what I gather was rather a hurry.’ I pull the paper that has the list of names and numbers on it from my pocket. ‘She left me this and told me to raise hell with what I find. I can’t crack her puzzle, nor can I begin to guess what I’ll find that will raise hell. Can you help me at all?’
He falls silent as he looks at the sheet of paper.
I nurse my whisky and wait him out. The whisky is a good one, but I’m doing my best not to drink too much of it. One more glass will tip me past the point where I can stop. After that it’ll be a race to the bottom of this, and any other bottles I can find. No doubt I’ll wake up somewhere I shouldn’t and there may or may not be a fight involved.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you with this.’ He pauses, looks out of the window and then at his shoes. ‘But I can tell you a little of why my Fifi left New York.’
The whisky I’ve consumed makes me want to giggle at his insistence on referring to Ms Rosenberg as Fifi, but I manage to control myself as I gesture for him to continue.
‘You told me she was determined to get to the heart of a story; she was the same all those years ago. Dogged and persistent. The problem was, she’d uncovered the wrong story. She had it all written up and, when it went to her editor, it got deep-sixed.’ He takes a gulp of his whisky. ‘Naturally she had demanded to know why, but he’d told her to leave it and said no more on the matter. The next day I got a visit. The person who visited me was what they called a “made man”. If you know what that means, I don’t have to spell things out to you.’
I nod to show that I know what a made man is. The term is a mafia one for those who’ve been formally accepted as a member. This puts a whole different slant on things, but my thought processes will have to wait until I’ve finished speaking with Halvard.
‘The visitor told me to tell Fifi that she had twelve hours to forget everything she knew about her story and leave New York.’ He grimaces. ‘It took me three frantic hours to find her, and another two for me to persuade her that her life was in danger. Two hours after that, I was at Grand Central Station waving at a train.’ His voice falls to a whisper. ‘Don’t say anything to Gavriel, but I’ve spent the last forty years of my life regretting not being on that train with her.’
I’m desperate to ask what the story was about, but recognise he needs a moment to salve painful memories. I go to take a sip of my whisky, only to find my glass has become empty.
Halvard notices and splashes another three fingers of amber liquid into the glass.
I take the tiniest of sips and put the glass on the floor. If that glass gets emptied a fourth time, there’s no guessing the trouble I’m likely to find myself in.
‘You probably want to know what the story was?’
‘Hell yeah.’ As soon as the words are out, I regret the flippancy the whisky has brought to me.
Halvard doesn’t pay my rudeness any attention. ‘So would I.’ His head gives a sad shake. ‘She refused to tell me. Said it would be safer for me not to know.’
I fall silent and think of the old man in front of me. He’s spent forty years regretting actions he didn’t take. To make matters worse, he never knew the reason why his girlfriend had to leave town, and him.
Whichever way up you stand it, their situation is nothing less than heartrendingly tragic.
17
Cameron exits his car and takes a look at his surroundings. Around him are the trappings of wealth. Not the comfortable lifestyle, kind of wealth: more the serious kind of wealth where a top-of-the-range Ferrari will be one of several cars in the garage.
The man he’s here to see has dealt with him before. Granted, Cameron was acting as an intermediary for his employer, but the relationship was established all the same.
More important than any other part of Cameron’s plans, is the fact that a protocol has been established. He isn’t some chump walking in off the street with a bag full of empty promises. He is a recognised employee of a customer you don’t say no to.
As is befitting of his employer’s status, Cameron deals with the owner of the dealership, rather than one of his sales team.
‘I trust you can accommodate me with something suitable?’
‘Of course.’ The salesman’s smile is far wider than it is sincere. ‘What will your budget be?’
Cameron sees the dealer’s head bob when he tells him how much he is willing to pay. The guy is probably working out how best to flannel him with a line of sales bull. He needs to make sure he gets the right end of the bargain.
‘We’ve traded before. There’s every likelihood we’ll trade again. I’m trusting you to discount one of your better ones to fit our budget rather than m
ark up a lesser priced one. Do I have to remind you whose trust I represent?’
‘No, no, of course you don’t.’ The dealer makes a dismissive gesture, as if the idea he would cheat Cameron is ridiculous. ‘I have several options available that would suit your needs. If you’ll give me a moment I’ll get some brochures and, if you like any of them, we can go and take a look.’
Cameron looks at his watch and takes a moment to admire the view from the dealer’s window. The sun is glinting off the water and there is a beauty to the scenery that reminds him of another country. He still pines for the land he left all those years ago. Not the weather or the grimness of life in Glasgow, more the people. Glaswegians are a garrulous bunch who are welcoming, loud and, when the occasion calls for it, hard. They’ll feed and water you with a smile on their face, but should you step out of line they’ll think nothing of dressing you down.
As well as the people, he misses other staples of Glasgow life as well. The greasy mutton pies, the roar from Hampden when Scotland score, the banter between Celtic and Rangers fans and the walk home from the pub with a bag of chips and a deep-fried haggis in crispy batter.
He knows he should miss his family and feels bad that he doesn’t. Not bad for them, bad for himself, as he recognises he must have something missing in his psychological DNA.
Life in America has been good to him and, as far as he’s concerned, it’s about to get a hell of a lot better.
The dealer returns with the brochures.
As he leafs through the various options, Cameron is recalling the research he did online before making this visit. He dismisses three of the seven options as being marked up to match his budget, and concentrates his attention on one he’s seen advertised elsewhere for a million dollars above his proposed expenditure.
‘This one looks very nice. I trust you’d still make a profit if you sold it to me for the agreed figure?’
Cameron is pleased to see the dealer squirm a little. He’s caught him trying one of the oldest tricks in sales: learn your customer’s budget and persuade them to exceed it.
‘I’ll be honest, Cameron, I’d need another five hundred thousand for this one.’
‘That’s such a shame. It’s by far the nicest option, but you’re not exactly showing me, or the man I represent, much respect by trying to upsell, are you?’
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 refille
d 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.
