A pediment on columns at the front, a well-manicured garden—it was clear that the colonial-style house was in caring hands. Stanley saw through his binoculars that the walls were freshly painted, the roof redone, the window frames were new, and the glass within was clean.
There were two vintage cars in perfect condition parked in front, a 1930s BMW and a 1960s Ford pickup, both carefully washed, wheel rims shining.
The light curtains at the open living room window were blowing in the breeze, and slow music drifted out toward him. From the fullness of the sound, the clarity of the high notes, and the depth of the low notes, Stanley could tell that the owner appreciated expensive sound equipment, and that he was playing a collector’s vinyl record on a high-quality player.
It was completely dark now, and Stanley changed position to get a better view through the open window.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes and saw a beautiful, and completely naked, Cuban girl pouring rum into glasses. She added ice and juice and danced in place, laughing, as she sipped one of the drinks she’d prepared. Another beauty soon entered the room, her skin nearly black, in bright-pink underwear.
Stanley hid the binoculars and, slowly, trying not to make a sound, crawled through the high grass to the house. He reached the garden and stood next to a tall eucalyptus plant, considering the best way to make it to the window unnoticed.
Suddenly, the door to the patio banged open, and someone came out. Stanley hit the ground and rolled toward the tree. Over the music, he heard a voice. A painfully familiar voice. Trying not to make a sound, Stanley lifted himself up on his elbows and peered out of his hiding place.
Lagrange, thinner, tan, wearing only white shorts and a straw hat, swayed on his bare feet and looked up at the night sky.
The girls came out behind him, carrying the bottle of rum, glasses, and ice bucket. They all settled into wicker chairs in the garden.
Lagrange poured half a glass of rum down his throat and began the slow process of lighting a long cigar. The naked girl perched on his knees and kissed him passionately on the mouth.
Lagrange irritably raised the cigar over his head, grabbed a fistful of the girl’s hair, and pulled her back from his face, arching her head back so that her chin pointed up to the sky. He held her in place like that for a few moments, then jerked harder on her hair, and she tumbled onto the grass.
Lagrange laughed, gulped down the rest of the rum and ice, and pushed the girl further away with his foot. Then he gave an order in Spanish, and both girls got on their hands and knees, and crawled toward him, like dogs.
Laughing, the girls reached Lagrange’s feet and pulled his shorts down to his ankles. He continued telling the girls something funny, the cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Then he put it out and wrapped each girl’s hair around one fist, then pulled their heads between his legs.
A few minutes later, Lagrange shuddered, finished, then slapped his hat on the head of one of the girls who’d just given him a blowjob, and pulled up his shorts.
“Oh, c’etait très bien!” he shouted, his voice loud over the music.
“You motherfucking bastard,” whispered Stanley. He was ready to attack now, knife in hand, ready to cut his throat or gouge out his eyes. But that would be too easy, and besides, he didn’t want unnecessary witnesses.
Stanley waited a few minutes, then crept cautiously back through the bushes the way he had come.
He had intended to sleep for the rest of the night, but it wasn’t to be. First, the owner of the café turned out to be a night owl, and was sitting alone when Stanley returned, a half-empty bottle of rum and a full ashtray on the table in front of her.
She offered Stanley a drink, and he didn’t have the strength to refuse. They slowly drank that bottle, then made their way just as slowly through a second.
Next, he found out that the owner lived in the room across from his, and when they both went upstairs, they went to the wrong rooms by mistake. Then they both ended up in Stanley’s room, then her room, then in Stanley’s bed, which was too narrow to fit them both, then in her bed, which was less stable than expected—when the owner tried to kick Stanley out of her bed, one of the posts broke and the next thing he knew she was on top of him and could not seem to get off.
Finally, she told Stanley not to be an idiot, and unbuttoned his pants while she pulled off her underwear, but Stanley was already asleep.
In the morning, she brought him coffee and asked how much longer he was planning to stay. As he sipped the hot, rich drink Stanley inquired why she wanted to know—was he bothering anyone? He was prepared to pay. He slid fifty dollars over to her.
“The police might be interested in you,” she said, slipping the money into a pocket of her dress. “The commissioner came around already. If you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll have to bring your passport to the station.”
“I’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“Too bad, honey!” she said and slipped her hand under the sheet covering him.
Stanley slept most of the day. It was evening by the time he went downstairs. He had lobster for dinner and a couple of bottles of beer. Then he paid, got in his car, and drove to Lagrange’s house. He parked a couple of miles away from the house and walked the rest of the way along the already familiar path.
There were no cars parked in front, so Stanley guessed that neither the girls nor Lagrange was at home. He walked around the house, chose a window facing the forest, broke it with a rock, then climbed inside.
Lagrange’s sanctuary was luxuriously and tastefully furnished. The first floor housed the kitchen, several guest rooms, and an enormous living room, over four hundred square feet, with high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling-windows, and brand-new mahogany furniture. A large bar occupied one corner, stocked with what looked like a hundred bottles of rum, vodka, and whiskey.
Stanley strolled around the kitchen, which was spotless and perfectly organized. The master bedroom was probably on the second floor, but Stanley decided not to go up.
He returned to the living room, and was surprised to find Zvenigorod whiskey at the bar. That fucking crook even managed to get Russian whiskey shipped to Cuba. Stanley shook his head and filled a wide crystal tumbler half full of ice, then poured whiskey up to the top. Glass in hand, he went out to the garden to wait.
As he sat there, shooting pains pierced his left knee, which had taken the most damage during his torture; his agitation was having an effect, it seemed. Stanley winced and put his leg up on another chair, taking a big gulp of whiskey. The pain gradually subsided, and Stanley relaxed. He took out a cigar, but then thought better of it—Lagrange might smell the smoke when he got out of his car. He put the cigar back in his pocket.
He mulled over the best place to meet Lagrange. Should he wait by the front door or just inside? He finally decided to wait in the utility room in the short hallway between kitchen and living room. If Lagrange returned with guests, he’d have to wait till they left.
Lagrange pulled up in his BMW at twilight, when the bottle of whiskey was almost empty. At the sound of the engine, Stanley’s heart began to pound. He quickly poured the rest of the whiskey onto the grass and hurried silently into the house, empty bottle in hand.
From his hiding place, he heard a rustling at the lock, and Lagrange came in, humming quietly to himself. Through a crack in the door, Stanley saw the light go on in the living room. Judging by the sounds, Lagrange was alone.
Stanley waited a few more minutes, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. He tried to calm his breathing, but then his knee began to ache with pain again.
Gripping the empty bottle firmly in his right hand, Stanley headed out to the living room. As he opened the door and went into the hallway, he looked around slowly, trying to accustom his eyes to the light. Lagrange stood, facing the other direction, about thirty feet away. He was mixing a drink at the ba
r, and singing in French to himself.
“Salut, Pierre!”
Lagrange turned, shock on his face, and Stanley rushed toward him and swung the bottle into his left temple. Lagrange shuddered, reaching forward as he tipped backward, knocking a tower of bottles off the bar. Stanley hit him again, and this time the glass broke over his head. Lagrange slid down the side of the bar and lost consciousness.
Stanley bound Lagrange’s hands and feet with duct tape. When he was done, he stood and looked down at the motionless body.
His heartbeat had slowed, and Stanley exhaled, looked around for an unbroken glass on the bar, and poured himself a rum on the rocks.
“How’re things, Lagrange?”
Stanley kicked Lagrange’s torso lightly.
“Wake up!”
The prone man showed no signs of life.
“Stop pretending! Can you hear me, Pierre? Wakey, wakey.”
Stanley gave him several light slaps across the face.
“Open your eyes! Okay, you’re a tricky one, aren’t you?” Stanley stood and examined the room. “Maybe a little music to get you going? How about some music, mon ami?”
Stanley flipped through the vinyl albums by the record player.
“Oh ho! What a collection! You’ve got everything—Rolling Stones, Rod Steward, ELO—one of my favorites, by the way—T. Rex, Eric Clapton. What’s this shit, now? Mylène Farmer, seriously? Don’t tell me you listen to that French garbage. What about the classics, Pierre? Ah? Nothing to say? Maybe we’ll listen to a little Dylan, I’ve always liked Dylan. You don’t mind, do you, Pierre?”
Stanley flipped the record around and put the needle down. The sounds of “Knockin on Heaven’s Door” filled the house.
“A little too on the nose, I agree. But since it’s your last day on earth, it’ll get you in the right frame of mind. My gift to you.”
Stanley lit a cigarette, danced a bit to the song, sipping on his rom, slowly moving toward Lagrange.
“Come the fuck on, Pierre. Just look at yourself.”
Stanley crouched down beside the body and shook his head, looking over his former boss’s body. Blood was streaming from the wound on Lagrange’s forehead.
“Knock, knock!” Stanley said, tapping his glass on Lagrange’s forehead in time with the rhythm. The other man didn’t move.
“Jesus Christ, you’re all bloody. That wound needs to be disinfected. Don’t worry. I’ll help you out.”
Stanley poured the remainder of his rum on Lagrange’s forehead, and Lagrange groaned quietly, then opened his eyes and focused on Stanley.
“It’s you!” Lagrange said with a weak smile. “I expected you sooner.”
“Oh, really!” Stanley laughed. “Is that so? I think you never expected to see me again. You thought either the police or Gagarin would take care of me, you bastard. But I’ve given you a bit of a surprise, haven’t I?” Stanley tapped his cigarette ash onto Lagrange’s face and stood. He went out into the hallway and came back with his bag full of tools.
“You hit me pretty hard. I think the cut is going to need stitches. I’m going to need the hospital,” said Lagrange.
“You’re a funny guy,” said Stanley. “About to die and still making jokes.”
“What’s funny? What are you doing?”
Stanley began to lay his tools out neatly on the floor without a word.
“What is this, Stan? Stanley! What the fuck are you doing?”
Stanley pressed his finger onto one of the knives to test its sharpness, then set it back down.
“What do you know about pain? Absolute, all-encompassing pain? Were you aware, for example, that the desire for vengeance and pain activate the same region in the human brain? Interesting, right?”
Lagrange watched Stanley in silent horror.
“But I discovered an interesting paradox. When the pain grows too intense, when it fills you completely, you start to adapt to it, accept it as the new baseline of normal. Can you imagine? When they were torturing me, there were moments when I reached a truly calm, meditative state.”
“Jesus, Stanley…”
“Desire is the foundation of all suffering. When I stopped desiring anything—salvation, death, whatever, my pain went away, and the torture seemed like child’s play.” Stanley fell silent. “Then they killed Christine.”
“Who?”
“Christine. My wife. And I rediscovered desire. My new desire was to find you and kill you. And so my pain returned.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know, Stanley.”
“And now I’m here to send your straight to hell.”
“Wait, Stan, wait! I’m not to blame for that. What do I have to do with that? Put the knife away. I’m begging you. Get the knife out of my face, Jesus Christ, McKnight! I had to run because I lost…I got careless investing those fucking Russians’ money. You understand?”
“No.”
“At first, they didn’t care where their 30 percent annual profits were coming from, but when the markets took a nosedive, I had to start taking risks, doing little tricks. Move money from one account to another, so the account statements wouldn’t arouse any suspicion. I was distributing the losses, evening it out. I even placed bets in the casino, but I lost. They would have killed me if Gagarin found out about the missing money!”
“And so they killed my wife instead of you.” Stanley ground out his cigarette and blew the smoke into Lagrange’s face.
“They’re fucking animals. There are rules! Wives and children are untouchable. Those Russian bastards don’t follow any rules!”
“You’re behind the times, Pierre! The rules were broken long ago. Starting with you. You broke the rule not to steal from men like Gagarin. Nobody robs the Russians.”
“I thought you would figure it out, Stanley, while you were still in St. Petersburg. I didn’t think you’d go back to Zurich. You’re so smart, Stanley! You could have guessed, goddamned it!”
“No, I didn’t figure it out. You left a real surprise for me.”
“Stanley, forgive me,” Lagrange said, trying to smile. “But life is one big surprise, is it not?”
“Is that so…” Stanley’s hand trembled as he cut shallowly into the skin of Lagrange’s neck. “Then maybe death will be just another big surprise for you, motherfucker.”
“Wait, Stanley! Don’t go crazy: I’m begging you! What are you doing!”
“It’s a drill bit. Just an ordinary drill bit that I’m going to entertain you with. Our mutual Russian friends are quite skilled with them, you know; I do believe I’m going to have a limp for the rest of my life. But enough about me—it’s your turn now.”
“No, oh God, Stanley, don’t! I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t torture me, please!”
Lagrange wept, the tears running down his face.
Stanley fixed the bit into place in the drill. As he set it up, he realized that he didn’t want to torture Lagrange anymore, let alone kill him. He simply couldn’t turn that drill on and make a hole in the knee of a living person. It wouldn’t change a thing. It wouldn’t bring Christine back. Or his old life. If he tortured and killed someone, he’d become just like Gagarin, a Russian maniac.
“Please don’t torture me.” Lagrange wept. “I’ve got lots of money here. You need money? Right? You can have it all. I have a safe, over there by that painting on the wall. There’s a flash drive in there along with the cash. With it, you can access about $500 million in cryptocurrency. You want it? You can have it all. Take it! I don’t mind.”
Stanley set the drill aside.
“Fine, okay. Live if you must.”
Lagrange sobbed even louder.
“Thank you!”
“Enough, enough, calm down.”
“Thank you, McKnight, thank you!”
“Calm down. How do you open
the safe?”
Lagrange was briefly silent.
“There’s a sensor. My fingerprint opens it. You probably wanted to cut my fingers off, one by one. But I need them. I need them. Untie me and I’ll open the safe.”
Stanley sighed. He really couldn’t do anything with Lagrange now. He didn’t pity him. He despised and hated him, but torturing and killing a defenseless person went against his nature.
Stanley cut the tape binding Lagrange’s wrists, then freed his legs. Lagrange got to his feet with a groan.
“Shit, I need a doctor,” he said, limping and rubbing his wrists. He went over to the mirror, looking anxiously at the cut on his forehead.
“Where’s the safe?”
“Safe?”
“Yes, the fucking safe with the 500 million in cryptocurrency. Give me the flash drive and I’m out of here. “
“It’s over there,” Lagrange said, waving toward a print of “The Yellow House” hanging on the wall.
Stanley walked over to the painting, examining it.
“Good quality…so open it.”
Lagrange didn’t answer, and Stanley was about to turn just as the other man’s hands locked around his throat from behind.
“I’m not giving you anything!” Lagrange hissed. “Go fuck yourself. I earned that money. It’s mine. Mine! And you’re going to die. You’ll die like your slut wife.”
Stanley tried to break free, but it was too late. His throat was in a vice, and he was moments away from losing consciousness. He thrust his elbow backward and hit something soft; he repeated the blow, again and again, using his last bit reserves of strength. Lagrange shuddered and his grip loosened slightly. Using the momentum, Stanley drew in as much air as he could, then slammed his elbow back as hard as he could. He hit Lagrange in the solar plexus, and the other man flew back into the wall. Stanley turned, caught his breath for a moment, then rushed at Lagrange. But Pierre turned out to be a surprisingly skilled fighter, and was bigger and stronger than Stanley, despite the age difference. His blows rained down on Stanley’s torso and head, but Stanley seemed to pay them no mind, focused on going for the throat. He managed to knock Lagrange down, but he was dragged down after him. Pierre got on top, pressing down on Stanley’s rib cage. Lagrange got both hands around his opponent’s throat and started to choke him.
The Banker Who Died Page 51
