by Graham Smith
Taylor sits opposite me and lets her expression and body language do the talking for her. They speak of disappointment and exasperation.
She glances at her watch and I remember we’re supposed to be having dinner with her parents before they fly back to Casperton.
‘I’m sorry. Halvard wanted to toast Ms Rosenberg and I kinda got the taste for it.’
Her nose wrinkles and she pulls away when I reach for her hand.
‘I trust you are aware that I’ll have to lie to my parents about your absence from the dinner table.’ Her top lip curls into a breaking wave. ‘I hate lying to my parents.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Her face tells me that words aren’t going to be enough to sort this; I’ll have to prove myself to her all over again.
The strange thing is, I want to prove myself. Letting her down doesn’t make me feel good.
I stand up and wobble for a moment until my muscles hold me more or less upright.
‘Hey, sugar. Don’t you be after wasting none of your time on that bum. You come over and talk to Old Fred here and he’ll make sure you’re looked after real good.’
I refocus a bloodshot eye on Old Fred. He’s about my age, a couple of inches taller than me, and a damn sight nearer sober. Because Taylor is with me, I choose to ignore the urge to see what he looks like with a broken nose.
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m quite happy with Young Jake.’
Taylor’s words are a joy to behold as they show loyalty and commitment. They’re also the type of putdown that generally sees egos deflated.
Old Fred’s ego doesn’t like being punctured. It compels him to cross the room and square up against me. ‘Let’s see how much you like Young Jake once Old Fred has kicked his ass.’
Taylor goes to step between him and me but he shoves her aside.
So far as I’m concerned that’s all the provocation I need, so I thrust my forehead towards his nose.
He’s ready for me and recoils, causing me to miss. I haven’t just missed, I’m off balance.
The punch he throws collides with my ribs. This is a good thing. Had he landed the blow to my stomach, there’s every chance I’d be splashing his boots with beer and whisky.
I grab his shirt with both hands and throw another head-butt at him.
This one lands on target and busts his nose. I follow it up with a hard uppercut that drops him to his knees.
The kick I deliver to his balls leaves him lying on the ground in the foetal position; a mixture of moans and curses spill from his lips. Old Fred may talk in the third person, but he’s less than half the man he thinks he is.
I don’t have time to celebrate my win as I’m grabbed from behind by what I assume is one of Old Fred’s buddies. A man wearing anger like an overcoat steps in front of me.
He’s a big guy and I’m guessing the bulging muscles he has on display are forged through hard work rather than gym training and steroid abuse.
His first punch splits my lip and loosens a tooth or two.
I don’t intend him to land a second.
To free myself from the guy holding me, I bend at the knees and throw my head back as I straighten them.
I wriggle my left arm from his grasp, whirl to the side, and use his right arm to throw him towards his buddy.
Lady Luck has decided to favour me, as Mr Angry’s next punch lands square on his buddy’s chin, knocking him out.
That just leaves Mr Angry to deal with.
The problem he’s got is, I’m angrier than him. It’s one thing some bozo chancing his arm with my girl; when said bozo gets his ass kicked for pushing her, his buddies should have the decency to recognise he had it coming.
My retaliation is neither pretty, nor filled with technique. I launch myself forward, intent on throwing punches until Mr Angry joins his buddies on the floor.
I catch a few punches as I move forward, but Mr Angry is too busy defending himself against my onslaught to mount a decent counterattack.
A pair of right crosses, and a straight left followed by a gut punch, see him double over and sink to the ground.
I’m about to follow him to the floor so I can deliver a memorable life lesson, when I feel a hand on my arm and hear Taylor’s voice.
‘Jake. That’s enough!’
20
I wake to discover someone is using the inside of my head as a squash court. At least, that’s what it feels like.
The dryness of my mouth is Saharan in its intensity, and I think my stomach may have been replaced by a decrepit cement mixer.
I try and recall what happened last night until I’m brave enough to open my eyes. Vague recollections of a fight explain the tenderness of my face and I have no trouble remembering Taylor railing on me.
As I run my hands down my body, I find that I’m still wearing my jeans although my shirt has been removed. There’s what feels like a decent sheet covering me, so I surmise that I made it back to the hotel.
I open an eye to confirm my whereabouts but there’s nothing but dark shadows. For a moment I fear the fight has caused damage to my eyes.
The fear is dispelled when I see the luminous hands on my watch. It’s just after three, which I’m guessing is a.m., therefore it’ll be dark outside.
I slide a hand slowly across the bed and touch silky hair. A sniff gives me the familiar aroma of Taylor’s perfume.
So far, so good. I’m in the right bed with the right girl. Yeah, she might be pissed at me, but I’m confident I can change that state of affairs.
Truth be told, I’m pissed at myself. There was no need for me to continue drinking once Ms Rosenberg had been toasted. It was an indulgence that I’m going to spend the rest of the day paying for.
What’s more, it was stupid of me to go on one of my benders when there are so many things that need my full attention. I’ve completed one of two tasks for Ms Rosenberg and I still have to face my father. If he’s anything like the man I think he is, he may need to be persuaded to help John.
My bladder reminds me why I woke up so, taking care not to wake Taylor, or distress any of my aches, I slip from the bed and pad my way to the bathroom.
The face I see in the mirror doesn’t look good, but I’ve seen it look worse.
As I’m finishing in the bathroom, I remember that I’d been trying to crack Ms Rosenberg’s code, and recall stuffing the notes I’d made into my jacket pocket.
I don’t feel like sleep, so I retrieve my shirt, jacket and boots, and return to the bathroom to dress before going downstairs in search of coffee.
The doe-eyed receptionist greets me with suspicion, but arranges to get me the coffee I request.
I take a seat in the empty bar and unfold the crumpled pages of notes. Each has the names and numbers listed along with the words they spell out. In my drunken state, I’d rotated the numbers against the names looking for a solution.
It’s the sixth page that holds my interest.
In a scrawl I hardly recognise as my own, I have written:
Watson – 6 N
Marshall – 2A
Evans – 2V
Devereaux – 4E
Clapperton – 1C
Devereaux – 7A
Boulder – 7R
Devereaux – 3V
Boulder – 6E
Clapperton – 7R
It might not look like much, but the list of banks someone has written down for me includes one called Carver. This must mean N A V E is an address for the specific branch of the bank to go to.
I work on the assumption that A V E is short for avenue, which means I need to find a street beginning with the letter N and ending in avenue.
Google gives me the answer in thirty seconds. There is a branch of the Carver bank located on Nostrand Avenue.
I’m tempted to go and check it out, but it’s not the best idea for me to go wandering around Brooklyn in the middle of the night with a bad hangover and very few city smarts. The fact I’m battered and bruised from a ba
r fight will attract trouble like flies to dung.
Instead of action, I opt for coffee and thoughts.
The coffee is good and the thoughts are bitter.
21
The Carver Federal Savings Bank is nothing like I was expecting. I had pictured a grand, old building which would dominate the space around it, with an imposing frontage and an air of respectability.
Instead I’m faced with a wall of glass and a single-storey building. It doesn’t match any of my pre-conceived ideas, but then nothing about Ms Rosenberg has. I spent several hours this morning thinking about her life, as well as the secret she has charged me and Alfonse with not just finding, but sharing too.
My best guess is that she had uncovered a crime and was hounded out of town because of it.
The anonymity Ms Rosenberg enjoyed in life, wasn’t afforded to her in death. As the final victim of a bunch of twisted racists and bigots, her death had hit the headlines at a national level alongside the other victims.
That Halvard was visited so soon after Ms Rosenberg’s murder, shows that the person implicated in the story is still very much alive.
I also chewed on the fact that blowing her secret open, may present a level of danger should the implicated person or persons find out who is behind the unveiling. I have to trust that Alfonse will find a way to inform the necessary people without leaving a trail to us.
‘Do you want to stop standing there, looking at the bank, and go in?’
It’s not like Taylor to be so caustic, but considering how she was when she woke up, she’s come a long way. She’s decent enough to have accepted my heartfelt apologies, but she’s not beyond putting me through the mill a little to make sure I’m reminded of her displeasure.
I give her a nod and stride into the bank. It’s just like any other: there are a number of tellers dealing with business people, depositing the weekend’s takings; a young mother with a kid in a stroller is speaking loud enough for everyone to hear her displeasure at the bank’s refusal to raise her credit limit; and there are a dozen or so people waiting their turn with bored expressions.
Taylor and I join the queue and wait. I should probably try and make small talk to show contrition, but I’m not sure she’s ready for it yet. Besides, my focus is on what we might discover in Ms Rosenberg’s safety deposit box.
It takes fifteen minutes for us to get to speak to a teller. The one we get is a guy in his early twenties, and I can tell by the lack of emotion in his greeting that he’s less than ecstatic to be here. Teller Boy wears enough hair product to pollute the Pacific Ocean and his beard may well thicken out in a decade. Or two.
‘I’d like access to my safety deposit box please.’ I hold up the key in case he’s too dumb or disinterested to understand my words.
The lie that the box is mine isn’t the worst one I’ve ever told and I’m not sorry for it. The last thing I want to do is draw the bank staff’s attention to me, and whatever Ms Rosenberg may have left.
‘Take a seat. I’ll have to get Mr Nolan.’
He levers himself off his padded stool and approaches a door. He knocks, opens it, and walks through it, without waiting for an answer.
Taylor and I take seats as instructed. Now that we’re this close to finding out what’s in the box, I start to doubt myself. It’s not that I think I’m wrong; more that I begin to wonder if I’m going to be left looking stupid when the key doesn’t open the box.
Another part of my brain imagines a different scenario. One that has me and Taylor bundled into the back of a panel van by a bunch of gun-wielding hoods. Ms Rosenberg’s secret will be taken from us, and Taylor and I will be sent to sleep with the fishes.
I know I’m jumping at clichéd shadows but, after hearing Halvard’s story, I can’t stop thinking that every person looking our way is a mafia spy watching us.
I’m aware of how ridiculous it sounds. If the mafia were watching this bank they’d know more than just the branch details.
None of this does anything for my jitters though. I can fight, I’m good at it, and on primal levels, I enjoy it, but there is a world of difference between tossing drunks and fitting people with concrete overcoats. Sometimes in life, you have to recognise your limits.
I see a man emerge from behind the counter. He’s dressed the way a bank manager is expected to dress. His shoes are buffed to a glossy finish and his suit is sharper than anything that’s ever been in my cutlery drawer, let alone my wardrobe.
It’s his head that lets the side down. He probably imagines that the stubble makes him look cool; instead it makes him look uncouth. Coupled with the horseshoe of hair that hangs to his shoulders, it destroys everything his clothes set out to create.
‘I’m Nolan, the manager.’ He proffers his hand for a shake. ‘If you’d like to follow me, sir, ma’am.’
Nolan’s hand is rough and his grip strong. I now have a mental image of him dressed in denim and leather, sitting astride a Harley. In the pillion seat is a wrinkled woman with more tattoos than teeth.
Nolan leads us through a side door, taking care to make sure we don’t see the number he keys in. We’re in a short corridor with four closed doors. He takes us to the door at the end of the corridor and repeats his secretive number pressing.
When Nolan opens the next door he reveals a staircase. The cloying smell of decay and age wafts up at us, making me think that the door hasn’t been opened in a long time.
He sets off down the stairs and I gesture for Taylor to go after him. When we get to the bottom, we are confronted by the kind of huge door I’ve seen in a thousand heist movies.
Nolan spins the dial on the front of the door through a series of clockwise and counter-clockwise turns, until there’s a faint clunk. Next he grips what looks like a ship’s wheel and spins it. The whine that accompanies his exertions makes me think this door is rarely opened.
The door doesn’t creak when he hauls it open, but I can see beads of sweat covering his forehead as he battles against unoiled hinges.
‘Which box number is it, sir?’
I read the number on the key and watch as his eyebrows rise.
‘Interesting.’
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t make anything of his comment. Instead, I wait for him to take me to the actual box.
His interest is intriguing to me though. I’m guessing he and his staff have wondered about this box many times. The fact it’s lain untouched for forty years will probably have puzzled them and led to wild speculation. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he, or a previous manager, has had a peek at the box’s contents out of curiosity. I know it’s unfair of me to malign bank managers this way, but they are a section of society I’ve never felt able to fully trust. To my mind they are money-grubbers, whose main aim in life is the collection of other people’s assets.
Nolan leads us into the vault and I see a range of different sized safety deposit boxes. Some are like drawers in a dressing table and others are large enough to be used as football lockers. If Ms Rosenberg has one of the larger boxes and it’s full, there’s no way the backpack I’m carrying will suffice.
Nolan stops before a column of the smaller boxes, points at the third from the bottom, and steps aside. ‘This is the one.’
I could blame the dusty air and the confined space for my dry mouth and shortness of breath, but it would be a lie. This is the moment of truth. I’m about to find out what’s in the box.
I look at Taylor and get a nod as confirmation that I should open the box. Nolan, to his credit, has retreated to the door and turned his back.
The key doesn’t slide into the lock with ease; I push it a little. Not hard enough to jam it, but with sufficient power to force it through decades worth of dried oil.
It’s the same when I try to turn it. The key goes a fraction clockwise then stops dead.
I press a little harder, fearful that the key will snap in the lock.
It doesn’t budge, so I turn it counter-clockwise until
it is back to its locked position. I draw the key out and use my fingers to remove the fragments of dried oil.
The key slides in easier the second time, but it still won’t turn past that first fraction.
A touch on my arm alerts me to Taylor. She’s holding the miniature bottle of perfume that she keeps in her purse.
I get her meaning at once and remove the key, clean it with my fingers again, and give it a liberal spray of perfume. I scoosh a few squirts in the lock and try inserting the key again.
This time, after a few gentle twists in either direction, it rotates through ninety degrees.
I pull on the box’s handle and the drawer slides open with a tortured screech.
The lid lifts with ease. All I can see is a large brown envelope and, while it doesn’t look full, there are enough papers inside to give it a bulge.
I lift the envelope from the box and slide it in my backpack. Whatever it contains has waited forty years for discovery. Rather than open it in front of Nolan, I decide that its secrets can wait another few minutes until we’re somewhere private.
When the safety deposit box clangs shut, I realise I’ve been holding my breath. I draw in some air and leave the dusty vault, which now has a hint of summer flowers from Taylor’s perfume.
As we leave, I hand the key to Nolan and tell him that we have no further need for the safety deposit box.
22
Taylor sends me to the bathroom while she orders coffee. I don’t need the bathroom; we both agree I should open the envelope somewhere private. The coffee shop was her idea.
I also think she’s making sure I have plenty of fluids, although I’m already energised by coffee after spending half the night either drinking or thinking. I still haven’t told her that Alfonse has given me an address for my father.
I tried to assess my feelings about meeting him, as an adult, but didn’t get very far. The whisky that was still in my system had me oscillating between wanting to punch his lights out, and hoping he would break down in tears, proclaiming that leaving Mother, Sharon and me was the biggest mistake of his life.
