Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught

by Drew Brown

  “Thanks a bunch,” Budd muttered, turning away and heading over to the counter. “Double Scotch, please. Forget the ice.”

  “Certainly, sir,” the barman answered.

  Having tasted his drink and paid for it via his room’s tab, Budd took a seat on one of the sofas. Around the edge of the raised area was a wooden railing that had glass panels between its uprights. Budd looked around the restaurant, focusing on the different guests, soaking up the atmosphere and passing the time as he sipped his Scotch.

  Most of the people were as dull as drying paint; rich, slightly fat, bald men with their chubby, well-dressed wives—the Skyline was too expensive and public to take a mistress—or they were bankers and city workers who were trying too hard to entertain clients. Did I say they were bankers? I guess that pretty much sums ’em all up nicely…

  On one of the two-seater tables closest to the bar, right next to the exterior glass wall, sat a woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. Her dark hair was shoulder-length and curved inwards at the bottom, almost touching the delicate straps of the red dress she wore. Her skin was sun-kissed with an even tan. She was alone, although in the center of her table there was a bottle of champagne in an ornate bucket of ice. Candles with wax-lined stems burned on either side of it. Her eyes looked along the Thames River to the west, watching the dark waters flowing far below.

  Budd glanced at his watch. It was shortly after 9:30pm.

  By 10:00pm, he realized that he was no closer to being seated. Most of the people who had been sat around the bar had been taken into the restaurant, while many others timed their entrance through the main doors perfectly and arrived the moment the waiters finished preparing their table. Either way, none of the seats were empty for long.

  Budd was on his third Scotch, and the woman in the red dress was still alone, her bottle of champagne unopened. The menu lay untouched on the table.

  After his fifth double Scotch, at 10:30pm, Budd left his sofa chair and walked down the steps into the restaurant. He headed to the table occupied by the woman in the red dress. Even when he stopped and was standing opposite her, she did not seem to notice him. “Excuse me, Miss, but I’m waiting to use a table. And, without wanting to appear unkind, it appears you are as well. Did you get stood up?”

  From a distance, she looked beautiful.

  You know, in the sultry, mysterious way that lone women can across bars and restaurants. Normally, though—and heck, I’m sure you’ve had this happen to you—when you get up close, things don’t seem quite as appealing. Like looking over the edge of the Grand Canyon, admiring the great view, but then finding it’s full of rubbish at the bottom.

  She, however, couldn’t have been less like that. She had a smile that could light up a room, and dark eyes that managed to hold my attention, even though there was plenty else to admire. Hold on, am I really saying this stuff?

  She was hot, smokin’ hot, and that’s all you need to know.

  The rest can come later…

  “Stood up?” the young woman repeated. Her voice was thick with a French accent. “No, no, Monsieur, my boyfriend is only late.”

  “Late, yeah? Listen, lady, I’ve been watching you for over an hour, so he’s pretty late,” Budd said, raising his left eyebrow as he spoke. He leaned forward and folded his arms across the back of the empty wooden chair. “How ’bout you let me buy you dinner? I’ve got no table and you’ve got no company. It’ll be doing us both a favor.”

  The woman in the red dress shook her head, making her curved hair bounce around at the sides of her face. She smiled nervously. “No, no, Monsieur. My boyfriend will be here soon.”

  “Well, I asked, and this place stops taking orders at 11:00pm. So I’m gonna go sit back over there,” Budd pointed to his sofa at the bar, “but at 10:45pm, if your boyfriend hasn’t shown up, I’m gonna come back over here and buy you dinner. Speak to you soon, sweetheart.”

  With a smile, Budd went back to the bar and ordered another double Scotch. As soon as he was sitting down on the sofa, he looked over to the woman in the red dress and made a show of tapping the face of his wristwatch.

  She looked away quickly.

  8

  Having initially ignored Budd and instead gazed out across the Thames, the woman in the red dress did glance over to the bar more than once as the minutes ticked by. Every time she did, Budd met her eyes with a smile. At 10:45pm, he drained the last of his tumbler and walked back to her table. He offered his hand.

  “I’m William Ashby, but my friends call me Budd.”

  The French woman stood up and shook his hand. Her touch was gentle. She was about five feet and five inches tall, with a slim build and a perfectly flat stomach. Her dress ended a little above her knees, and her lower legs looked strong and athletic. “My name is Juliette, and it is a pleasure to meet you. But really, it is not necessary for you to buy me dinner. My boyfriend will arrive at any moment. He is often late.”

  “Then he’s a schmuck. And I’m sorry, sweet cheeks, but it is necessary for me to buy you dinner, because if I don’t get something ordered soon, I won’t get fed. And I’m starving.” Budd released her soft hand and nudged the empty seat out from under the table. He sat down.

  Juliette remained upright, her eyes bearing down on him as he took up the menu. She folded her arms across her chest.

  Budd kept his eyes on the menu. “Listen, sugar, I’ll do you a deal. Your boyfriend isn’t one of those opinionated, vegetarian types, is he?”

  “No, Monsieur Ashby.”

  “Great. Then I’ll just order a big, juicy steak, and if he turns up before I eat it, I’ll walk away. Everyone likes steak. So, what do you want?”

  Juliette sat down and a mischievous smile spread from the corners of her mouth. Budd noticed how impossibly white and straight her teeth were. It was not a natural sight, more of a dentist’s showcase. “I will have the mushroom escalope as my appetizer, and the cheese and bean risotto for my entrée. I am one of those opinionated, vegetarian types, Monsieur Ashby.”

  “To each their own, lady. But answer me one question. Does it really give you more gas?”

  “Gas, Monsieur?”

  “You know, does it make you fart more?”

  Juliette giggled. “Perhaps, Monsieur.”

  Budd examined the section of steaks and selected the biggest one on the page. It was still nowhere near the size he would eat in his hometown of Detroit, but large enough to take the edge off his hunger. For a starter, he chose the tomato soup. When he went to lay down the menu, he found a waiter stood at the side of the table.

  “My name is Joseph and I will be your Table Manager tonight. Can I take your orders, sir?”

  “You certainly can,” Budd answered happily. He motioned for Juliette to say hers before reeling off his own requests. The waiter noted them down on a small pad and then tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “Thank you, sir, madam; your appetizers will be served shortly. If there is anything else I can help you with, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  “Would you open the champagne for us, please, Joseph?”

  With a smile, the waiter scooped up the bottle from the bucket of ice and eased the cork out until it popped into the palm of his hand. He poured a small amount into one of the glasses, ready for tasting, but Budd waved him on. “I’m sure it’s fine, Joey. Pour away. And leave the bottle.”

  When the two tall glasses were full, the waiter placed the bottle back on the table. He picked up the ice bucket and then stood with it at his side. “Is there anything else, sir, madam?”

  “No. That will be all, thank you, Joseph,” Juliette said.

  With a slight bow, the waiter hurried away.

  Juliette took hold of the champagne flute and wet her lips. “It is my favorite, Monsieur Ashby. Please, try some.”

  Budd did. “That’s not bad stuff. But, hey, you can drop this ‘Monsieur Ashby’ crap. You even called the table guy by his first name. My friends call me Budd.”

 
“Then, I shall call you ‘Monsieur Ashby’. After all, I am simply a woman whose evening you have interrupted. Humoring you until my boyfriend arrives seems like it will cause fewer problems than insisting you leave now. Do you not agree?”

  “I guess, when you look at it like that, ‘Monsieur Ashby’ is good enough for me, too. So, sweetie, what is it you do? Sparkly drinks like this can’t be cheap.”

  “You do not recognize me?”

  “Should I?”

  “I am a singer. I have had number-one hits all over Europe, and last week I was number three here on the U.K. chart.”

  Budd took a gulp of his champagne. “As far as I’m concerned, pop music died after the Eighties. I haven’t listened since.”

  “You really do not recognize me?”

  “Nope.”

  “That is good. So, what do you do, Monsieur Ashby?”

  “Me? Nothing fancy. I’m a pilot.”

  As Budd spoke, two waiters arrived, one carrying his bowl of tomato soup, the other carrying Juliette’s mushroom escalope. With graceful movements, the plates were laid and the waiters left. Budd took up his spoon, lowered his head towards the bowl and then started to shovel the burning liquid into his mouth, slurping loudly in an effort to cool it. He was halfway down the bowl when a voice made him look up.

  “Jules, what the hell is going on? Who is this tramp?”

  Beside the table was the young man from the elevator. Of his two female companions, there was no sign. Although his question had been addressed to Juliette, his head was positioned in such a way that his sunglasses appeared to be looking right down at Budd.

  “He was keeping me company while you were away, Jack. There is no need to get angry. He agreed to leave when you arrived. Why are you so late?”

  Budd kept quiet and concentrated on finishing the soup, although he studied the young man from the corner of his eye. He was still wearing the same clothes as before, but more buttons from his shirt were now undone and one of them was actually missing, which meant that a larger area of his waxed, hair-free chest was visible.

  He smelled kinda funny. Maybe the perfume had been his…

  “Recording ran on later than I thought,” the man answered with a voice full of gentle persuasion. “Didn’t Henry call to let you know?”

  Budd dropped his spoon noisily into his empty soup bowl and then rose from his seat. “Well, sweetheart, it’s been great to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

  Juliette pushed back her chair and stood up. She flashed Budd a warm smile. “Thank you, Monsieur Ashby.”

  “As for you, buddy, I’m gonna let your ‘tramp’ comment slide, but only if you do me one small favor. You gotta tell me something so I can settle a wager with my pal Stephen.” Budd paused to pick up his champagne flute and then stepped away, indicating for the young man to occupy the empty seat. “Were the two blondes you were with in the elevator a couple of hours ago actually sisters? Or did they just have the same plastic surgeon and hairstylist?”

  Settling into his chair, the young man’s jaw dropped open. He turned his head quickly from Juliette to Budd, apparently speechless.

  Budd gave him a wink and then walked away, still holding the champagne.

  Should I have kept my mouth shut?

  Maybe.

  I felt sorry for Juliette, she was a nice girl, and I didn’t want to upset her. But she had the right to know. As for that smarmy, spiky-haired Lothario, I couldn’t give a monkey’s ass ’bout choppin’ him; if you live by the sword, you die by the sword. And that applies to whatever sword you choose to swing…

  Budd walked through the attendant-opened wooden doors to find that the maître d’ was standing at his podium, busily writing in his leather notebook. “Could you fetch my stuff, please?”

  “Certainly, sir. Please accept my sincerest apologies that you were unable to savor our cuisine tonight. We had no cancellations,” the maître d’ said. His finger pressed a button on the side of the podium. “Bring through the Stetson and backpack.”

  “What floor is the bar?”

  “The most popular is on the first floor, sir.”

  “And what time does it close?”

  “It doesn’t, sir.”

  “Do they sell peanuts?”

  The maître d’ paused. “I believe so, sir.”

  “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  From the restaurant, above the sound of the overlapping conversations, came the crash of a table toppling over. Plate ware and glass smashed on the floor. Budd looked back over his shoulder but the double doors were already closed. Nevertheless, he smiled. “Good for you, girl,” he said to himself.

  When he faced forward again, he found that a mauve-suited attendant had entered through a wooden door opposite the bank of elevators and was holding out his rucksack. The Stetson was resting on top. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Thanks very much,” Budd replied, sweeping back his hair and pulling on the hat. He hung his pack from his left shoulder.

  An elevator chimed and its doors opened to reveal Stephen Doring. Budd stepped inside and gave him a friendly smile. “Are you following me around, or is this the only elevator that works?”

  “They all work, sir. You’re just lucky. To which floor can I take you? Your suite?”

  “Nah, screw it. First floor, the bar. Reckon I’m gonna get loaded tonight.”

  “Very well, sir,” Stephen said as he reached to push the corresponding button.

  Budd reached across and stopped him. He’d heard the wooden doors from the restaurant open. For a few moments, he listened to the sound of approaching footsteps, high-heeled shoes tapping on the marble floor tiles. There was a flash of red in the elevator doorway, tanned skin and dark hair.

  “Monsieur Ashby, would you like to have a drink?” Juliette asked.

  Budd smiled. “Sure thing, princess.”

  9

  The bar was as Budd had expected.

  It was finished in the same style as countless other plush hotels all around the world. At least, it was the way they always looked in the brochures. In the center of the large room was a circular counter, manned by countless mauve-suited bar staff. Like planets around a large star, numerous tables expanded out until they neared the edges of the room; around the perimeter, shielded from onlookers by paneled wood partitions, private sections ran along the walls.

  Inside these private areas, Budd had spied by peeking around a corner, were comfortable seats and long tables, as well as a mauve-suited attendant to fetch and carry the desired beverages. Around the entire bar, the lighting was even and strong. The ambience was enhanced by a tuxedo-wearing pianist who played his black grand piano, making his way through a medley of pop and light classical pieces.

  Juliette sputtered as she spoke. “He is such an, an-”

  Budd quickly tried to finish her sentence. “Jerk?”

  “No. Worse.”

  “Asshole?”

  “Yes, he is such an asshole,” Juliette said vehemently. She downed the last of her whiskey and her face contorted into a grimace of discomfort. Budd could tell it was not her drink of choice, but as long as she was happy to knock them back, he was happy to keep them coming. He gave a nod to the barman, who served up another, almost instantly.

  “He told me not to be upset, that he is a star, and that it was expected of him to do that kind of thing. He said he has a reputation to keep. I am such a fool, I thought he was the one.”

  Budd smiled wistfully. “I thought that about my wife, Julia. I thought that right up ‘til she left me for the local shoe-shiner. He only had one leg, and a glass eye. I guess he must’ve been ‘The One.’”

  Budd felt Juliette looking at him and so he closed his eyes, savoring the taste of his Scotch; he knew she was examining him, staring at the faint lines and greyish stubble on his face. When he opened them, he found that she was still looking at him, although the intensity had faded and her face was lit up with a smile. “Did your wife really leave yo
u for a one-eyed, one-legged shoe-shiner?”

  “He was a midget, too.”

  “You lie,” Juliette said with a laugh.

  “Gospel truth.”

  “So, you are single, Monsieur Ashby?”

  “Hard to believe, ain’t it?” Budd answered with a wink.

  “Do you ever know what love is?”

  “What do I look like to you, a little, old, wise Chinese oracle?”

  Juliette laughed again, blushing a little. “I mean, how does anyone really know for sure? How do you know if it is real?”

  “You don’t,” Budd said, finishing his whiskey and placing the tumbler back on the counter. “At least, I don’t think you can. How can you ever know for sure what someone else thinks and feels? It all comes down to trust.”

  “I trusted Jack.”

  “You’ll trust other jerks down the line, too. Everyone does. It ain’t easy, sugar.”

  “See,” Juliette said as a playful look spread across her face. “You are a little, old, wise Chinese oracle.”

  Budd lowered his head and raised his hands across his chest, palms together, like in a prayer. “At your service, ma’am,” he said, trying to imitate a Chinese voice.

  It was not a good impression, but Juliette laughed out loud nonetheless. She then finished off her whiskey, nearly downing the entire amount in one gulp. She rocked in her chair and her eyes glazed over.

  As if on cue, the barman appeared across the counter. “Another round, sir?” he asked, addressing Budd.

  “No,” Juliette interrupted. “I have had enough. Monsieur Ashby, would you walk me to my room? I am frightened I might see Jack on my way.”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart,” Budd said. He turned to the barman and palmed a twenty-pound note across the counter. “And I’ll see you later.”