by C. F. Waller
“Sort of waiting?”
“But you were planning on doing the ambush over there,” he suggests pointing up and then over the stacks of containers to indicate the other side of the ship where they lay stacked like a maze.
“That’s the plan.”
“We are, at present, somewhat out in the open,” he asserts. “If they come at us on the ship, it’s unlikely Shelly could operate in the shadows here. I have not seen any preschool classes wandering about.”
“They won’t come here, too crowded,” I sigh, thinking I have to tell him something. “I’m expecting a phone call from Rahnee. We stand a better chance with her here.”
“Right, I thought we would have seen Arron by now as well.”
“Tonight or tomorrow,” I assure him. “Then we get on with it. Try and enjoy the night.”
“Agreed,” he announces, tipping up his glass and draining the last bit. “I seem to need another.”
He saunters down the deck to Bee and they have a brief exchange. As he talks to her, his back to me, she peeks around him and watches me. Soon after, he slips inside the ship, presumably on his way to the bar. Bee glances down the deck at me then turns away quickly, returning her gaze to the sea.
That night at dinner, Bee remains in the room. Dorian and I share an excellent meal. A true five star affair complete with crystal glasses and waiters in tuxedo shirts. Dorian has been to one of the clothing shops and is now adorned in a brand new suit jacket and slacks. They are a dark blue color and almost certainly some sort of Italian silk. A white shirt and skinny light blue tie complete his ensemble right down to a new pair of dress shoes.
He drinks his expensive scotch during the entire afternoon and dinner. A bit tipsy by the time dinner ends, he joins me in a luxurious sitting room. Also in attendance are about a half dozen others, smoking cigars and drinking wine or brandy. He returns from the rest room with a fresh drink in hand and drops into the chair next to mine. Tall back Victorian style chairs covered in expensive feeling satin. A table between us gives him a place to set his drink down, although he rarely does.
“Are you going to wear those red tinted glasses all night?” I ask.
“Almost certainly.”
He looks at me over the tops of the frames with a self-satisfied look.
“This is like a scene out of Titanic,” I offer, getting off the subject of fashion.
“Titanic was a 140 feet shorter than this majestic beast,” he says reverently.
“Don’t tell me you were on the Titanic?”
“Of course not,” he winks. “I’m not a strong swimmer.”
“You don’t choose a boat based on your ability to tread water.”
“More than likely you’re right,” he admits. “But in that specific case it might have been prudent.”
“Point taken,” I nod. “So you’re a boat historian?”
“Not at all. There’s an information sheet in the desk drawer next to the Bible. Unlike swimming, I do read fairly well.”
Talking to him is one huge circle. No matter what the topic, I wind up feeling confused.
“Been on this ship before?”
“The Queen Mary, no,” he shrugs. “I made plenty of crossings on the Elizabeth. Roughly the same ship, but I always preferred the name Elizabeth to Mary.”
“Where is she now,” I ponder aloud, gazing around at the museum ship we sit on.
“The bottom of Hong Kong Harbor,” he replies grimly.
“Sunk in wartime?”
“Sadly for her, no,” he explains. “The Elizabeth changed hands several times after Cunard sold her. At some point in the seventies, during a refurbishment, she caught fire.”
“Burned then?”
“No, sank,” he shakes his head, rolling his eyes at the things I do not know. “The water they used to put out the fire filled her up and she capsized. The very definition of irony, however sad it all was.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Suspected insurance fraud,” he mutters. “But that was the seventies. Not my favorite time.”
“Or mine,” I agree and turn the conversation to more important issues. “What’s the deal with your girl?”
“Wee bit,” he says, holding out his hand and indicating a small amount using his thumb and forefinger. “Of a nervous breakdown.”
“Why? Is she afraid of the monsters chasing us?”
“Not particularly,” he shakes his head in an inebriated way. “Has more to do with you.”
“Me?” I reply in shock. “What did I do?”
“Threatened to burn her alive,” he says pointing a finger at me. “Bad form on your part. You’re lucky I am talking to you at all.”
I stare at a loss for a reply.
“It’s a sore spot with her as well.”
“What is?” I groan.
“Burning alive,” he whispers, seemingly offended. “Are you paying attention?”
“She had her blade through the backseat into a guy and was twisting it,” I grumble. “And she suggested that I hop in so she that could the same to me.”
“I agree it was a situation fraught with peril. Words were spoken in haste,” he tells me, tipping up his drink and finishing it. “But you see, she has been burned alive before.”
I’m speechless hearing this and watch as he licks the rim of his empty glass, oblivious to me. When he notices me staring, he stops licking and sets the glass down.
“Right, you had no way to know about that little incident,” he admits reluctantly.
“Want to catch me up?”
“On one condition,” he leans across the tiny table and beckons me closer with a finger. “This is just between you and me,” he whispers. “Any mention of it in front of her will result in the immediate disillusion of our budding friendship.”
“I wouldn’t want that,” I answer, trying not to laugh. “When did this human bonfire happen?”
“The spring of 1307,” he tells me as he is waving frantically to the bartender and pointing at his glass. “I only remember because the bloody Pope died right after, causing me to miss an important engagement. Very inconvenient. I cannot impress upon you how detrimental his demise was to my social calendar.”
“You were alive in 1307,” I muse, having thought he was younger given what Blake said.
“The statement does age me a bit, but sadly, yes,” he admits and then burps into his hand.
“You have probably had enough booze,” I warn, thinking he’s slipping from happy-go-lucky into passed out right before my eyes.
“No matter how long a person lives, he can never have enough good scotch,” he informs me, still waving at the bar. “And I have never been a drunkard.”
“You act like it.”
“Oh thank god,” he sighs as the bartender notices him.
“You were going to tell me about the bonfire?”
“Right, sorry. You’re familiar with the Templar Knights perhaps? They were a big deal at one time.”
“Yeah, Da Vinci Code,” I assert, trying to recall the movie.
“You’re embarrassing yourself Dominick,” he complains. “Do people of today learn only from the cinema? That was the Illuminati.”
“My mistake.”
“Oh, I have to give you partial credit,” he admits. “They are mentioned in that blasphemous lie of a picture. There mere inference that anyone could have kept such a secret baffles me. The implication being that the rest of us were oblivious to what they were doing. It makes me furious that . . .”
“The bonfire,” I say slowly, interrupting his rant.
“Right, sorry, the Rogue Knights Templar were basically the world’s first international bankers. They had the endorsement of the Church which didn’t hurt. You could give them your money in one location and then travel to another and receive cash from a similar Templar location.”
A waiter brings him a fresh drink and takes his empty glass. He smiles and scoops up the new one before going on with his story.
“Given the danger of travel in that era, this was a great leap forward,” he lectures and pauses to take a sip. “The cliff notes version is that in 1307 the Vatican instigated a hostile takeover.”
“They what?”
“The Pope ordered them killed. They burned quite a few of them at the stake.”
“Ouch.”
“Indeed,” he rolls his eyes at the thought. “At that time, burning people alive was a rather popular form of entertainment.”
“As opposed to boiling them in oil?” I add, trying to make a joke.
“That was quite popular as well,” he agrees. “But coming up with enough oil was an issue. Only the wealthy could boil people.”
“The rest had to settle for human bonfires,” I frown, thinking about how this line of thought somehow became about class distinction.
“Frown all you want,” he sighs. “But you can’t really appreciate a good boiling until you see one. It’s quite the spectacle.”
“Red or white wine with a boiling?”
“Very funny,” he scoffs. “You can’t choose a wine based on oil or firewood. Wine choice is dependent on the time of day.”
There’s a pause as he waits for me to comment, but I can’t come up with a snappy reply. There are simply no words to describe Dorian Faust. Can this guy be for real? I try and steer the conversation back to Bee.
“Forgive me, but being a Templar Knight sounds like a predominantly male profession?”
“Yes, well our sweet little Beatrix was romantically intertwined with a top ranking official within the Knights,” he tells me and takes a long drink, then pointing at me with the glass as he emphasizes his points. “Contrary to the demure facade you see today, Beatrix was quite a girl about town at one time. Unlike the plethora of pretty girls wandering about Europe, she was well educated. A rare gift to those bright enough to notice.”
“So that’s how she got to be the Knight’s lady?”
“Not the only reason. You see, my kind tends to be collectors. At some point, her boyfriend saw that she had an eye for religious relics, golden knick-knacks and the like. He had her on the inside keeping inventory and cataloging all their conquests.”
“So she got burned at the stake with her man?”
“In a way,” he sips and nods.
“But if that were true, then she wouldn’t be here now?” he poses. “She’s long lived, but not immortal and almost certainly not fireproof.”
“Right you are. Apparently, as blood thirsty as the people of Paris have been throughout history, they had no stomach for burning women alive on that day,” he shrugs. “It wasn’t unprecedented, but on this occasion there was a small uprising and Bee was removed from the flames.”
“Does she have one of these episodes any time fire is mentioned?” I ask, thinking of Frankenstein running from fire.
“No, she’s not the least bit afraid of the flames,” he says pointing his glass at me in a wobbly hand. “At least, no more than you or I. She’s embarrassed because she had to switch clothes. A careful eye will notice the burn scars. She’s upstairs now covering them with enough makeup to plaster a wall.”
“I saw something on her neck. How bad is it?”
“Neck to waist, then a mess around her knees,” he sighs, drinking. “The scar tissue is thick and painful. Honestly I don’t know how she gets on at all.”
My stomach turns over making me set my brandy down. Beatrix has walked the Earth for nearly seven hundred years covering up those scars. Initially I feel bad about the threat to burn her, but as Dorian just told me, it’s really about embarrassment and less about traumatic shock.
“Do we need to get her new clothes?” I stammer.
“No, let’s see how it goes. Just be nice to her,” he orders, raising an eyebrow. “I can tell her how nice she looks all day and it’s ignored on general principle. I’m a friend and a notorious over-complimentor. A kind word from you will go a long way.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I assure him, finishing my brandy. “You mentioned your kind were collectors? Is that where the money comes from?”
“Very astute.”
“So, you do what?” I go on quickly before he can launch into some new area of annoyance. “Buy stocks you know will go up or buy land you know will be valuable later?”
“I must retract my awarding you the power of astuteness,” he grumbles and shakes his head. “I’m merely a collector, not a time traveler.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s cinema,” he rants. “Bloody moving pictures and television have turned an entire nation into Troglodytes.”
“No argument on that,” I grimace at the image. “But tell me about your collections.”
“As you may be to understand, living a long time is fun, but doing it dirt poor would be a serious drag,” he postulates, now standing and pacing the floor. “On the upside longevity allows for me to purchase an item that I think will be worth a great deal in the future, store it, and then sell it later for a profit.”
“Like a Honus Wagner Baseball card,” I blurt out. “They were printed in the nineteen twenties, a mint card sold for over four hundred grand a few years back.”
“That works, but how would I know that card was the one people would desire? Moreover, that baseball cards would be valuable at all?”
“You wouldn’t,” I admit, thinking of the time traveler reference.
“The key for me is stick to the basics and wait a long time,” he grins. “Lots more time than Honus.”
“Meaning?”
“Pick and choose carefully and toss a wide net,” he advises. “A recent example if I may?”
“By all means.”
“Your country’s first pathetic attempt at minting currency was this silly, uneven, and often not even round silver dollar.”
“My country?” I balk. “You live here too.”
“Technically, I hold Belize citizenship, but I tend to be a bit of a wanderer.”
“And you were living where when the currency was minted?” I demand.
“Virginia, lovely place, but we digress. I was enjoying some drink and conversation one night, when I ran into an interesting fellow. I think he name was Bernard, but it might have been Beauregard. It’s had to recall all these years later, but he was a large man, fairly tall.”
“The coin,” I interrupt, trying to avoid having to hear Bernard’s life story.
“Right, sorry. Anyway, he’s a construction worker who had just arrived from Philadelphia. He’s chatting up a storm about the brand spanking new U.S. Mint he was working on. I notice on the worn wooden table several pathetic coins laying there in front of the man. On a whim, I exchanged other currency for the coins.”
“Why?”
“New Mint, new money,” he advises me.
“How many did you manage to get?”
“Just three,” he explains. “I had no assurance they would be worth anything, but over my considerably long life I have developed a knack for this sort of venture.”
“What did you do with them?”
“I hid them away. In 2005 however, I needed to increase my holdings. I sold one singular coin for just under eight million dollars in a private sale.”
“You’re pulling my leg?” I groan in astonishment.
“Not in the slightest,” he grins. “As you recall, things got a bit dicey in 2007. That is, from a financial point of view.”
“Yeah, I owe 300 grand on a house worth 80,” I chuckle through gritted teeth.
“Well, I don’t own stocks or real estate, but one of my close confidants had substantial losses bordering on fiscal collapse. The short version is that I sold a second coin in 2013.”
“Immortal friend?”
“No, just a regular old guy like you,” he shrugs, “but a powerful, influential person who could not go public with this sort of scandal. He had barely escaped his own personal one a few years earlier. A bit of a skirt chaser,” he whispers with a hand to one s
ide of his mouth.
“Would I know who you’re talking about?”
“Possibly, do you follow golf?” he asks, stopping his pacing and eyeing me.
“Tiger?” I mouth silently, recalling his scandalous divorce.
To this, he brushes his index finger on the side of his nose and clears his throat.
“And the price?”
“Ten,” he nods and drinks down the last of his glass.
“Wow,” I utter, but then a thought comes to mind. “And you have one more?”
“Again your very astute,” he nods. “I do.”
This is an interesting development. Possibly I should be working for Dorian. More interesting would be getting rid of him, but somehow acquiring the coin and whatever else he has stashed away. I’m day dreaming about this and trying to come up with a plan, when I see him staring at me.
“Funny how just the mention of wealth gets your wheels spinning,” he grins. “Now you have to make two choices.”
“I do?”
He nods.
“And, they are?”
“First, do you think I am telling the truth?” he explains and pauses until he feels I am going to speak. “Second is between killing me or befriending me.”
“Are you looking for new friends?” I toss out, thinking he sounds suddenly less inebriated.
“Oddly,” he sighs, sitting back down. “I do have an opening at present for a very special friend.”
He’s playing with me here, but my mind is already sorting between the possibilities. The only thing he can want is to be set free. Both he and Bee of course. This isn’t a problem for me; however, a corpse can’t spend money. If I take off with them now, we are all liable to be killed sooner or later. I weigh the likelihood Dorian would reveal the location of the coin before being set free and think it’s unlikely. This will require serious thought, but for now it’s best to cover all my bases.
“Have anyone in mind?” I reply after a pause.
“Definitely, but I’m not sure I will live long enough to make it worth his while.”
“Perhaps your new friend could help you with that?” I toss out. “Provide you with a health insurance policy.”
“Such a contract would have to include Bee as well,” he explains. “She is so very dear to me.”
