by Kyra Davis
Besides, he seems preoccupied tonight. He’s looking out the window, but I don’t think he’s seeing anything. I can almost hear him thinking.
“May I ask where we’re going?” I eventually say as we turn onto FDR Drive.
“To my meeting.”
I give him a sidelong glance, wondering if he’s being obtuse or purposely vague. I settle on the latter.
“Where is this potential client from?”
Travis shoots me a disapproving look.
“I only ask because people speak Spanish differently depending on where they’re from. People from Spain pronounce some of their consonants completely differently from people from Latin America, while Caribbean Spanish is a whole nother beast entirely.”
“You’ll understand his Spanish and he’ll understand yours. That’s all that’s important.”
I smile sweetly and stretch my legs out in front of me. Destroying Travis’s life is going to be such a pleasure.
Eventually our limo arrives in the South Bronx, which is not even close to being the worst area of the Bronx, though it’s not exactly trendy either. We park in front of a little bar not far from Yankee Stadium under the watchful eyes of the locals. Travis walks two steps ahead, opening the door for himself without bothering to hold it for me.
Inside we find a seat at the bar and Travis orders us two scotch and sodas.
“Mr. Gable, is everything all right?” I ask tentatively.
“We have cameras,” he says as our drinks arrive.
“I . . . I don’t think I understand,” I say as I sip delicately at my cocktail.
“At HGVB, in the conference rooms, we have cameras. I just checked the tape this afternoon.”
I feel my cheeks heat up as I stare into my drink. “Oh.”
“I know my brother is—”
“Please, let’s not do this.”
“I just need to make sure you don’t fall for him . . . I mean really fall for him.”
I look up, surprised. “But you know that will never happen. The only reason I’m still with him is because you talked me into it.”
“Yes, but . . . I saw how you were with him.” For the first time tonight he lets his eyes roam over me and I instinctively shrink back, crossing my arms over my chest. “That didn’t look like just sex.”
“No?”
“No. It looked like lovemaking. You made love to my brother.”
I take a deep breath, knowing what tack I’m going to need to take but really wishing there was another option. “I have certain tastes,” I say quietly. “I like it to feel tender . . . even when there’s no real connection there at all.”
Travis studies me as I continue to stare into my drink. I try not to flinch as he brushes my hair back over my shoulder and then smirks with amusement.
“Please, Mr. Gable. I’m so embarrassed. It didn’t mean anything. He just . . . He kept questioning me about you and it seemed like the best way to get him to shut up.”
At that Travis barks in laughter. The patrons at the tables look up from their menus and conversations to see what’s going on before turning away from us again.
“I need to trust you. There is nothing more important in an employee than trustworthiness.”
“I bought cocaine for you,” I spit out. “I think you can trust me.”
“But it wasn’t cocaine.”
“I didn’t know that. Really, what more do you want?”
“Well,” Travis says with a cruel smile, “I wouldn’t mind seeing a live performance someday. The tape was grainy. I don’t think it’ll fetch much on the open market.”
My cheeks go from pink to red. “You wouldn’t.”
Again he laughs. “Trust, Bell. As long as I can trust you, you can trust me.”
I don’t answer. It’s like a football game, I tell myself. The other team tries to provoke you into a penalty. They taunt you and so you reply with a little shove, a slap to the helmet. Just one stupid mistake, one little penalty, is all it takes to lose the entire game.
So I press my lips together, keep my eyes down, and keep playing.
“I don’t know what Lander’s up to,” Travis says thoughtfully. “But I’d like his phone records. I’ll need you to get those for me.”
“I don’t know where he keeps his phone records.”
“You’re a resourceful girl. Find out.”
I straighten my posture as I consider this. My mind runs back to our last conversation about what I would and wouldn’t do for Travis.
“You told me that you would not be my whore,” he says, as if reading my mind. He leans forward and puts his hand over mine before continuing. “But you see, I saw the tape. I have the tape. You had sex in what amounts to a public place. There isn’t a privacy law in this entire country that will protect you, and the internet has a strong appetite for this kind of thing. If you don’t want the world to see you as a whore, you’ll do as you’re told.”
I meet his eyes. I see the way he’s looking at me. He’s looking at me like the guards looked at my mother. He’s looking at me as if he has complete control.
What an idiot.
Does this guy actually think that I would allow myself to be blackmailed with a sex tape? Yes, it would be humiliating, but we don’t live in Saudi Arabia. We don’t stone women who appear in sex tapes in America. We give them reality TV shows.
And it’s not like I have any parents to shame.
But I play my part and give him the shaky smile he expects. “I’ll try to get the phone records,” I say softly. “Please, just don’t show anyone that video.”
“Trust, Bell,” he says again, his smile broadening. “I trust that you’ll do what you need to do and you can trust that I’ll reward you with my discretion.”
I take another sip of my scotch. “Shouldn’t the man we’re meeting be here by—”
“Travis Gable.” The name is spoken with a heavy Mexican accent and I turn around to see a tall man with a military-style haircut, thick dark eyebrows, and a closely clipped goatee. His eyes only brush over me as they return to Travis.
“Javier, this is my translator,” Travis explains as he shakes the man’s hand. “She goes by Bell.”
Javier looks at me again and this time he chuckles. “A translator,” he says in Spanish. “I can guess why he picked you. It’s not so different from those female bodyguards that Gadhafi used to surround himself with.”
“Gadhafi was a dictator and a tyrant,” I answer, also in Spanish. “Mr. Gable is just my employer.”
Travis’s eyes jump back and forth between us. “What are you saying?” he asks irritably.
“He says I’m far prettier than Gadhafi’s female bodyguards,” I tell him. “And I replied that those women had no choice but to serve Gadhafi, whereas I decided to work for you.”
It’s a test of sorts. I want to see if Travis will recognize that I’ve bastardized the translation or if Javier understands enough English to correct me. But Travis accepts what I say and Javier remains silent.
“Shall we get a table?” Travis says amiably, which I translate. Javier is dressed in head-to-toe Gucci. His watch is a Rolex. He’s waving his wealth around like a flag. In so many ways he could fit into Travis’s world . . .
. . . except there’s something about the way he walks . . . and the way he keeps glancing toward the door and windows, and the way he insists on taking the seat where his back is to the wall.
It all reminds me too much of Micah.
We’re seated and I give a weak smile to Javier, who smiles back with a little more enthusiasm. He smells of expensive cigars mixed with dabs of cologne. In minutes we’ve given our order and are drinking our margaritas on the rocks. Travis immediately launches into an explanation of what kind of account he’d like to open for Javier and the virtues of HGVB, and for his part Javier asks about the security of the bank and exchange rates. It’s an odd conversation, not just because it would be more at home conducted in a bank’s office than in a bar, but
also because of what’s not being said. Travis’s words are being carefully chosen. He tells Javier about the bank’s privacy policies and security more than he goes over growth rates or investment opportunities. Interest rate information is glossed over. Loan options aren’t even mentioned. Instead he talks about recommended currency exchange houses and remote deposit capture.
Javier listens attentively, if unenthusiastically. The men continue to talk in numbers and policies as I work as a go-between, conveying information without gaining much insight myself.
But there’s something here. For one thing, between Travis’s over-the-top loyalty test and his eagerness to blackmail me, I just know he’s bringing me close to secrets, secrets he wouldn’t let me anywhere near unless he had strong assurance that I could be a trusted witness to his duplicity.
But it’s not until I drop my fork and have to bend under the table to get it that I realize that Javier is armed. A gun is tucked neatly against his waist, only exposed now because of the way his jacket has been allowed to hang open as he sits.
The only people authorized to carry concealed weapons in New York are law enforcement. And this guy isn’t law enforcement.
I get back up slowly and Javier smiles at me again, this time the glint of menace strong in his eyes. He is like Micah . . . except this gangster has no loyalty toward me. There is no one here I can rely on to be concerned with my safety or even my life . . .
I’m not even sure I can count on myself for that.
I swallow hard and continue to translate. Accounts, figures, policies, privacy—the words interweave from English to Spanish and back again. The message ranges from boring to incomprehensible, but the energy at the table feels different to me now. It’s . . . viperous.
As Micah would say, this is some nefarious shit.
Eventually, about an hour into the night, well after our dinners are consumed and our glasses drained, Javier hands Travis a folded piece of paper.
“Do you want me to translate?” I ask Travis, trying to sound more helpful than eager.
“No, Bell. I think this note will be easy enough to understand.”
My eyes shift quickly between the two men who have been completely unable to directly communicate for the entire night. Now all of a sudden Javier can write a note to Travis that Travis can understand?
I don’t think so.
I fold up my napkin on the table. “Will you excuse me for a moment, gentlemen?” I ask in English and then don’t wait for a response as I go to the ladies’ room. There are a few women in front of the mirror when I get there so I stand in a stall until I’m sure I’m alone. Glancing through my purse I can see that I left my phone at the table, but after doing some quick calculations I realize that pen and paper will serve me better anyway.
When I step out of the stall, I pull out a pen and a frozen-yogurt punch card. I write my name and phone number on the back of the card, then fold it up as small as I can and hold it in my fist, which I press against my purse.
I open the door to the ladies’ room a crack. I can see that Javier is sitting back down at the table as if he’s just returning to it. Perhaps he stepped out a moment for a smoke. Or perhaps he stepped out to call in a hit on an adversary. With this guy, neither possibility would shock me.
I close the bathroom door and take a deep breath. Yes, Javier is a dangerous guy. But as Micah pointed out, I’m not afraid of death. I’m just afraid of losing.
Within fifteen minutes we’re all walking out together and I am again translating a few words here and there. But once outside it’s time for good-byes.
“Tell him I look forward to doing business with him and that he may contact me anytime, day or night.”
“Mr. Gable says he looks forward to working with you,” I say to Javier in Spanish. “And I hope that perhaps I might see you again sometime soon. If you have free time, call me.” I extend my hand for him to shake, secretly pressing my number into his hand.
Javier pauses a moment, my hand still in his. “You don’t want him to know?” he asks, also in Spanish, his eyes briefly shooting toward Travis.
I turn back to Travis. “He wants to be sure that you don’t mind his calling late at night,” I say, pretending to translate.
“I wouldn’t have offered if it was a problem,” Travis replies impatiently.
I turn back to Javier. “No vamos a decir nada,” I confirm. We will not say anything.
Javier grins, discreetly takes my number, and leaves.
Travis zips up his jacket as I rub the backs of my arms for warmth. “You were very friendly with our client, just now,” he notes.
“He clearly tried to make my job easier,” I say casually. “Using short sentences that were simple to translate, avoiding slang and colloquialisms. I just wanted to let him know I was grateful for that.”
“And you thought he was attractive,” Travis says irritably.
“For better or worse, I’m dating your brother,” I retort. “I can only handle one man at a time.”
“That sounds like a theory worth testing,” he says with a smile. “If I take you home will you treat your employer to a nightcap?”
It’s a struggle not to roll my eyes. Travis, the master of cold lechery, is incapable of pulling off even an inappropriate flirtation.
“I’m going to get those phone records for you, Mr. Gable,” I say gently. “But I hope you understand . . . I’d like to be alone tonight. I just want to go home and go to sleep.”
“Of course, Bell.” Travis’s cool smile is back as his limo pulls up. “I assume you’ll find a cab.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer as he gets into his limo and rides away.
Standing alone in the Bronx, I decide that loitering probably isn’t a good plan. Walking toward the subway, I think about the train transfers and various stations I’ll have to go through to get home from here. It’s offensive, but not surprising, that Travis would leave me in this situation. Then again, I’d rather put up with the inconvenience of transferring trains and even the risk of wandering around the Bronx at night than spend more one-on-one time with Travis. Plus I wouldn’t have been able to let him drop me off anywhere near my real home anyway.
Being a mystery can be an enormous amount of work.
I wonder if Travis thinks the same. I run over the conversation in the restaurant. So the guy wants to open an account. So what? Travis had gone over all the tedious details involved in that. What information they were required to share, what deposit amounts have to be reported to the IRS—so much talk about Mexican currency exchange houses. As far as I could tell there’s a currency exchange house that Javier works with and he wants HGVB to work with them too . . . I think.
I frown as I follow the steps down into the subway station. I’ve spent a lot of time studying the things I thought might be helpful when taking on the Gables, but clearly not enough. Spanish and English are my two languages, but it’s like reading about Chaos theory from a textbook. I can read the words but that still doesn’t mean I get it.
The financial world will always be foreign to me.
But Javier? There’s something about him that seems more dangerous than the average gangbanger. And danger is something I am familiar with.
I wait on the platform for my train, ignoring the woman who is retching by one of the pillars.
If Javier does call me . . . well then perhaps I’ll give Micah a call. I’ll want him or someone who works for him nearby. I’m not going to let anyone end my life before I make sure the Gables are wishing someone would end theirs.
chapter nine
It’s almost one a.m. when Lander’s text comes through.
I need to see you.
I’m lying awake in my bed, staring at the cracks in my ceiling, trying to play through the night’s events in my head in hopes of making some sense of them.
But the truth is I can’t focus. As soon as I slipped out of the armor I wear for Travis and into the soft cotton of my nightshirt, it’s Lander
who occupied my mind. I smile as I read his message. He doesn’t really think I’m going to rush over to him in the middle of the night, does he?
I haven’t seen him since that incident in the alley, just over twenty-four hours ago now. Part of me wants to hold on to that memory a little bit longer before we meet again. I want to imagine what it would be like if Lander wasn’t Lander and I wasn’t me. I want to imagine what it would feel like to be touched like that by a nameless man with a nebulous past. I want to imagine what it would be like to be with Lander if we both had the opportunity to send our demons to hell where they belong.
But that’s not how life works.
I pick up the phone. I’m sleeping, I write.
I press send and wait. A minute passes, then two . . . and then the text comes: Obviously you’re not.
I giggle to myself as I consider my response.
Fantasize about me tonight, I write, and then tomorrow I can make your fantasies come true.
I send the message. I turn on my bedside light in time to see a spider gracefully drop from my ceiling fan as he spins a web almost as complicated as the one I’ve woven for my own prey, though perhaps not as delicate.
Another text comes in.
The man you met with . . . his name isn’t Javier.
I stare at the message a long time. The spider rises again, flying on his invisible string.
Again my phone vibrates in my hand.
Please come to me now, Bell. You’re in danger.
I sit up in bed, my heart beating in time with the thoughts that are racing through my brain.
How do you know who I was with tonight?
I wait one minute, two . . . but there is no answer.
Lander?
Enough of this, I have to call him—but then I get the next text.
He may have followed you, Bell. He may know where you are and where you live. Come to me now. Before things get bad.
I jump to my feet, take the gun out of my desk. With shaky hands I load it, nestling each bullet in a separate cold metal cocoon.
How much does Lander know? Was he following me? But if so he’d have to have done something like go into the bar after we left and start asking questions of the other patrons until he found one who overheard me or Travis refer to our companion as Javier.
