by Mike Nappa
“Like sugar cookies and hummingbirds,” I mumble.
“Anyway, his instructors said Pavlo showed natural talent in surgical testing. Steady hands, ability to concentrate for extended periods of time. He was actually one of the better students over there, which can be surprising when you watch him work over here. But, again, the language thing is a big deal. He speaks it well enough, I guess, but he still can’t read much in English. And the tools we use here are somewhat different than what they use over there.” Scholarship shrugs. “Plus, he never did actually finish school.”
“What are you telling me?” I say. My head feels heavy, like a thundercloud has bloomed in there, soaking my thoughts in rain. Am I drunk from chamomile tea? How is that possible?
“Mr. Roman wants payment. Ten thousand dollars. He said if you don’t have the money, he’ll take it in trade. He’ll credit you one thousand dollars for a finger. At that rate, ten thousand dollars requires ten fingers, and then your debt is paid. That’s what I’m telling you.”
I lurch away from the kitchen sink and feel my arms flailing until Scholarship wraps his tree-trunk biceps around me in a bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides.
“No, no, no.” I can’t say anything else. No, no, no.
They’re going to cut off my fingers. They’re going to leave me helpless and savaged and broken. What’s a deception specialist with no fingers? How will I work? How will I live?
How will I eat?
“No, please, no.”
I hear myself sobbing.
“You won’t remember a thing, kid,” Scholarship says kindly, still holding me in his impenetrable grasp. “I put Rohypnol in your tea. That’s why you feel like passing out right now. Roofies will make it easier for you. And the ice bath will help to limit the bleeding. You won’t feel a thing. Pavlo is an artist, I promise.”
“No, please. I’llgetthe money. I cangetthe money. WhatcanI do toget the money?”
My legs are limp beneath me. The football player is holding me up now, bearing my entire weight, making it seem like it’s no big deal to carry a full-grown man in your arms. Pavlo looks up from his collection of pretty knives and makes eye contact with my captor. Slowly the Ukrainian closes the leather cover.
“Well, now,” Scholarship is saying, “Mr. Roman often hires men of unique talent to assist in his business dealings. Freelancers, mostly. As luck would have it, I heard of a freelance job opening up recently, and you are definitely a young man of unique talent. I think you could do the job. How much did they say it pays, Pav?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Well, that’s perfect, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’ll do it. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
“I see.”
Scholarship carries me into the living room. My couch has been cleaned off, and a pillow from my bed is situated at the far end. The coffee table is shiny, like it’s been wiped down with alcohol or some other disinfectant. All the garbage and detritus of my sloppy living style has been shoved into a corner, just to the side of the balcony door. The football player leans over the couch and lets me fall. I can’t seem to move my head, let alone the rest of my body. He lifts my legs onto the couch and arranges me so I’m not hanging off the edge.
“All right, kid, the job is yours. But you’ve only got one week to finish it. We’ll be back a week from today. Five o’clock sound okay?”
“Whastha job?” I say through a stiffening tongue.
“I’ll leave details for you in the kitchen. Right now, you just get some rest. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”
“Okayokayokay.” Okay. Okay. Okay. I think I might have just wet myself.
“One more thing, though. We can’t leave today without a down payment on your debt. Mr. Roman would never allow that.”
“Whatdoyou mean?”
“One thousand dollars for a down payment. That’s all. Just ten percent to show Mr. Roman that you’re serious about paying off your debt in the next seven days. You have that somewhere in the apartment?”
“No. AllIhave is $238. Inmywallet.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. He pats my cheek affectionately, like we’re family and he’s taking care of me while I’m sick.
The room spins so suddenly I have to close my eyes. I see blackening stars creeping in from the edges of my vision. And then there’s my dad, looking at me over the top of his reading glasses. Why are you so sad, Daddy? And my mom. She won’t speak to me. She doesn’t speak to me at all. She just stares past me, looking at nothing, seeing everything.
From a faraway distance, I hear Scholarship’s voice, reassuring me. Comforting me.
“You won’t remember a thing.”
19
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
Buckhead Neighborhood
Friday, March 24, 7:22 p.m.
21 days to Nevermore
Eclipse di Luna was busy on this Friday night.
The sweet smell of pollo a la plancha and calamares fritos hung like perfume in the air, intoxicating people in the restaurant lobby with a strange kind of hungry desire. Trudi breathed in the aroma of freshly grilled Spanish tapas and couldn’t help licking her lips.
The Raven has good taste in food. She had to give him that.
Trudi searched the little crowd packing the lobby but saw no sign of the magician. She hoped he’d had enough foresight to get a reservation for tonight. She scanned the tables in her view, but again, no Raven.
“Just one tonight, or will you be meeting someone?”
The blonde hostess was blandly sweet and welcoming. Trudi glanced around her and saw that just about everyone else waiting here was in an even-numbered group—two college kids on a date over there, a middle-aged double date next to them, even what looked like an after-work party that divided easily into four men and four women. So this is one of Atlanta’s most popular places to take a date, Trudi thought.
“Meeting someone,” she said. “I think he might have made a reservation.” She hesitated. What name would Marv use when booking a table at a restaurant? The girl looked both expectant and bored, waiting. This clearly wasn’t her first night on duty at the front of Eclipse di Luna. “The Raven,” Trudi said at last. “Or The Amazing Raven?”
The hostess ran a polished fingernail down a clipboard, stopped partway, looked up at Trudi, and gave a plastic smile. “Of course,” she said. “Table for two. Would you like to be seated now or wait until Mr. Raven arrives?”
Trudi felt the crush of bodies tightening around her. “Now would be fine. Thank you.”
It was a nice little table, situated just far enough from the performance stage to make talking manageable, but still close enough to allow lulls in conversation to be covered by “Isn’t this band great?” type of comments. Trudi was also pleased to discover that the perspective from her side of the table gave a clear view of the crowded lobby entrance. When The Raven showed up, she’d see him fairly easily.
A waitress in stylish Spanish attire flitted by with a tall glass of ice water, said her name was Arianna, offered a drink menu, and then disappeared. Trudi checked her watch. It wasn’t quite seven-thirty yet, but she hated being late to anything. Always better to be an hour early than a minute late, she said to herself for probably the ten thousandth time. But she still expected The Raven to be late anyway. He just seemed like that kind of guy, like someone who was never too worried about the rigors of punctuality.
At 7:35, the waitress returned. Would Trudi like to order a drink while she waited? A few moments later, a tall glass of cherry lemonade decorated the table. Trudi sipped and waited.
At 7:45, Trudi tried not to feel annoyed. Her personal rule was that she’d wait fifteen minutes for anyone, and sixteen minutes for no one. But she’d wait a little longer for this guy. He rides a bicycle everywhere, she reasoned. So maybe tonight he had to take the bus, or maybe he missed a MARTA train. She sipped the cherry lemonade and watched happy couples falling in love all around
her. She tried not to roll her eyes.
When 7:50 came, Trudi declined Arianna’s invitation to “order a little something for the wait.” She checked her cell for text or voice messages, found none, and decided to pass a few minutes deleting outdated emails.
At eight o’clock, Trudi put down her phone. Why had the magician pulled a disappearing act?
She looked down at her dark denim jeans and the cream-colored, crochet, scoop-neck top with red camisole. She clicked the heels of her tan, ankle-length booties under the table and couldn’t keep from muttering, “There’s no place like home.” She could almost feel the comfy pajamas and warm couch waiting for her.
All men are pigs, she told herself cheerfully, and even though she didn’t really believe it, just thinking it made her feel a little better. She checked her watch. 8:07. She’d waited long enough.
She reached for her purse and dropped a five-dollar bill on the table to cover the lemonade. She slid back her wooden chair, but before she could stand, a familiar face caught her eye, looking out through the entryway to the lobby.
Eulalie? Here?
Trudi ducked her head and slid back toward the table.
Eula was a popular girl, and she enjoyed a steady stream of attention from the men in her church and at her night-school classes. And from guys lucky enough to wait in line near her at Trader Joe’s. And from guys who happened to be shopping at Macy’s when she was out looking through the end-of-season clearance sales. And from men in general.
If I didn’t like her so much, I’d hate Eulalie Jefferson, Trudi thought absently. She waited for her assistant to disappear back into the lobby, then tried to plot a clean exit.
She slid back in her wooden chair and grabbed her purse—then froze. Eulalie was in the doorway again. Standing next to her, with his hand resting lightly on her elbow, was Samuel Eric Douglas Hill.
Trudi felt color draining from her face, was vaguely aware that her mind was emptying itself of coherent thought.
Her assistant and her ex-husband were looking away from the direction where she was sitting, a small grace for which she was grateful. Then the blonde hostess stepped in front and led them away to a table on the other side of the restaurant. Nothing was ever certain in a situation like this, but Trudi felt reasonably sure they hadn’t seen her. At least not yet.
Coast is clear now, she thought. So why aren’t I gone?
Arianna breezed by without stopping. It had taken only a few recitations of “No, I’ll just wait until my friend gets here” before the waitress had realized it was a waste of time to stop at Trudi’s table. She parked instead at the double-date table a few feet past where Trudi sat.
The menu lay open on the table before her, and Trudi let her eyes drop to the Spanish lettering that proudly announced the delectable gastronomies of Eclipse di Luna. She suddenly realized that she was very, very hungry. She waved Arianna over.
“Ready to order?” the waitress asked.
“Yes. I’ll have the cumin-crusted Ahi tuna.” Arianna started to leave, but Trudi caught her. “And a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll get that started for you.”
So, she thought to herself, Eulalie is having dinner with Samuel. What am I supposed to do with that?
When it came to Samuel, things were complicated. He and Trudi had been married for seven years before she’d finally pieced together the evidence of his infidelity. It was worse than she’d imagined. Not only had her husband had an affair while on assignment in the Middle East somewhere, that adultery had led to the birth of a child.
Samuel refused to tell her whether it was a boy or a girl, or even where the child lived. He would only say that, in that culture, the mother would be imprisoned, and likely executed, for her sin—unless she were married. So, even though he was already married to Trudi back home, Samuel had wed his Arabic lover, as well. He said it was just a formality, a way of protecting her from his mistake. But Trudi had never gotten over the fact that her husband had another wife, another family, somewhere in the great wide world.
“Eulalie knows this about Samuel,” she muttered to herself. “So why is she out with him?”
Samuel was handsome, she knew. And charming. Why should she be surprised that her assistant would be attracted to a man like him? And of course Samuel would be drawn to Eulalie—she was just his type. Young and pretty. Trudi was surprised to feel pressure welling up behind her eyes. She clenched her fists in her lap and blinked her lashes several times.
I will not cry over you anymore, Samuel Hill. I will not. I w—
A cloth appeared in front of her. Arianna, delivering a cup of coffee and a makeshift handkerchief. She leaned over and patted Trudi on the shoulder. “He’s not worth it, honey,” she said kindly. “No man is.”
Trudi sniffed and laughed at the same time, taking the cloth napkin and dabbing it on her face. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
Arianna smiled. “Dinner is on the house tonight. Enjoy.”
Now Trudi really felt like crying as she watched the thoughtful waitress walk away, but she also knew Arianna was right.
Okay, she told herself, time to be a grown-up. Samuel is free to do whatever he wants in his romantic pursuits. Our divorce finalized that. And it’s really none of my business who my assistant spends her time with outside the office. Probably even against some kind of human resources law for me to meddle in that part of her life. So grow up. It’s their business. Deal with it.
The little pep talk didn’t really make her feel better, but at least it stopped her from feeling worse.
“This really is a nice restaurant,” she said to herself softly. “I’m just going to try and enjoy it.” She tilted her chair toward the stage and let the live Latin salsa band capture her attention. They were energetic and joyful and fun to watch. If Trudi hadn’t been thinking about Samuel, she might have felt like dancing.
She frowned.
Something didn’t fit here. The Raven had seemed so sincere this morning. Although Trudi wasn’t a human lie detector, she did have a pretty good idea of when someone was being less than truthful with her. She’d watched The Raven fairly closely in her office. He’d given none of the signs of a liar when he was asking her out.
He is a performer, she thought. Maybe that date invitation was just a performance?
But why? What would he gain by getting her to come to Buckhead tonight? It didn’t make sense.
Arianna delivered a beautifully plated Ahi steak that tasted even better than it looked. Trudi took a bite, then another, and let her mind begin to work through possibilities.
One thing was for sure, she decided, it was time to get those Perrier-bottle fingerprints run through the system. Of course, she’d have to call Samuel about that, but why not? He didn’t know she’d seen him tonight, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell him. She wasn’t going to say anything to Eulalie, either. It would just be business-as-usual on Monday morning, and that would include asking Samuel to check the databases to see if they could find out who The Raven really was—and find out if it mattered.
Lost in thought and delicious tuna, Trudi didn’t notice that a man had stopped beside her table. When he cleared his throat, she saw two hands holding two glasses of red wine. Then she saw dark hair, pale skin, and a medium build, taut and wiry. From her seated perspective, she could also make out the butt of a gun peeking out from a shoulder holster inside his suit coat.
Then she registered the face.
The Ukrainian’s gray eyes were flat, but attentive. He was attempting a small smile.
“I couldn’t help noticing you’re eating alone tonight,” he said, extending a glass as a peace offering. “Would you mind if I joined you?”
20
Raven
Atlanta, GA
Old Fourth Ward
Friday, March 24, 9:03 p.m.
21 days to Nevermore
I wake up thinking of Natalie.
Had I been dreaming of her? I can’t remember, but I do feel th
e rush of air that comes from just picturing her in my mind. I don’t want to open my eyes, not yet. I don’t even want to breathe in, to risk losing her face because of the jostling that comes with inhaling. I just want to remember, to see her again, to experience the warmth, the safety I used to feel when she was near me.
We’d decided to meet on a Friday in October, at the Penn Square Mall food court in Oklahoma City. It was going to be just a quick lunch. She had to get to a one o’clock class on campus at Oklahoma City University, and I’d promised to take my mom to a doctor’s appointment soon after.
She came up the escalator wearing a yellow sundress that showed off bronze shoulders and accented her thick, red hair that danced like fire above it all. Drove me crazy, she was so pretty, with eyes like emeralds and a smile that made men stand in line just to see it. I wanted to stop and stare every time I saw her.
“You brought your mother to our date?” she said when we met.
Mom was already seated at a table behind us, waiting for us to join her. I shrugged at Natalie and grinned.
“She wanted to meet you. Said that after six weeks, she’d had enough with cell phone pictures. Wanted to see the real thing.”
Natalie nodded, frowned, then smiled, then nodded again.
She took my hand and led me over to the table to meet my mother, finally, for the first time. We had gyros for lunch, the three of us, and those two hit it off right away. Mom peppered her with questions about her voice studies at OCU and was appropriately impressed with Natalie’s musical knowledge and performance accomplishments at such a young age. For her part, Natalie was the perfect daughter-in-law-in-waiting. She complimented my boyfriend skills, thanking my mother for “raising him right.” She laughed at Mom’s silly jokes and made her tell stories of me growing up.
It felt good. My two best girls, getting along like best friends. I think, for a few minutes, I was truly happy. And, for a few moments, I could see that kind of happy becoming a lifetime habit.
