Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” said Alex. “Those stalls are Wolfe’s main source of income, so why…” but he didn’t finish the sentence.

  “What makes it even more strange,” said Elena, “is that he’s agreed to extend the license on Mario’s pizza house with a reasonable rent increase.”

  “That’s the first clue,” said Alex.

  “I don’t understand,” said Elena.

  “Mario’s isn’t in Market Square.”

  * * *

  Once Alex had discarded his uniform, taken a bath, and put on his only suit, he left the house and headed straight for the Goodwill store. Addie couldn’t hide her excitement when he walked in, although she was shocked by his crew cut.

  “Your news first or mine?” said Alex, as he threw his arms around her.

  “Mine. Your mother has kept me well informed of what you’ve been up to. I’m just relieved you made it back alive.”

  “I shouldn’t have,” said Alex without explanation.

  “Come with me,” she said, taking his hand. “I have a surprise for you.” She led him through to the storeroom at the back of the shop. Alex wasn’t sure what to say when his eyes fell on a rack of suits, jackets, and a blazer as well as a smart black topcoat. “I’ve already had the trousers altered, so they should fit perfectly. Mind you,” she added, taking a closer look at him, “you’ve lost some weight.”

  “How can I begin to thank you?” he said. He hoped he also had a surprise for her, although it would have to wait until his mother agreed.

  “That’s only the beginning,” said Addie, as she pointed to a shelf behind the clothes rack, piled high with a dozen shirts that hadn’t been taken out of their boxes, a dark green cashmere sweater, three pairs of leather shoes, and half a dozen ties that looked as if they’d never been worn.

  “What more could a man ask for?” said Alex.

  “Wait, it’s not over yet,” said Addie, picking up a brand-new leather attaché case. “Just what an up-and-coming businessman needs when attending important meetings.”

  “Where’s all this come from?”

  “Everything came from the same source, a man who, frankly, has more than enough.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Not a penny. It’s no more than a conquering hero deserves. We’re all so proud of you being awarded the Silver Star.”

  “Well, the least I can do is take you to dinner tonight,” said Alex, leaning down to kiss her. But just as their lips were about to touch, Addie turned away, and he ended up brushing her cheek.

  “I’m afraid I’m not free tonight,” she said.

  “Tomorrow night then?”

  “Tonight or any other night.” She began to fold up the clothes and pack them into bags.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going to marry the man who has too many suits,” said Addie, holding up her left hand.

  * * *

  Alex was coming out of a lecture at NYU when he saw them standing in the corridor, conspicuously failing to blend in. They would have been hard to miss, dressed in their dark, well-cut suits and polished shoes among a group of students wearing faded jeans, scruffy T-shirts, and well-worn sneakers.

  Alex recognized one of them straightaway. Not a man he could easily forget.

  “Good morning, Mr. Karpenko,” said Agent Hammond. “You’ll remember my partner, Agent Travis. Could we have a word with you in private?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Hammond.

  Alex placed his hands behind his back and whispered, “Arrest me. Handcuff me, and read me my rights.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Travis.

  “It will at least give me some credibility with this lot,” dissed Alex, as several students stopped to stare at them.

  “If you’re not going to cooperate, Karpenko, you’ll have to come with us,” said Travis at the top of his voice. He then grabbed Alex by the arm and marched him down the corridor to accompanying jeers and cheers. They stopped at a door with the word DEAN stenciled in black on its pebbled-glass window. Travis opened the door and pushed Alex inside.

  There was no sign of the dean or his secretary. The CIA did seem to have a gift for making people disappear, thought Alex. Travis released him the moment the door had closed behind them, and they sat down at a small square table in the center of the room.

  “Thank you,” Alex said. “Now at least one or two of them might still talk to me.”

  “What’s their problem?” asked Hammond.

  “If you’ve served in Vietnam, don’t take drugs, never get drunk, and actually hope to come out of this place with a degree, not many of them want to know you. So what can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “First,” said Hammond, extracting the inevitable files from his briefcase, “we’d like to bring you up to date on what happened to your former chess partner, Ivan Donokov, while you were away in Vietnam.”

  At the mention of Donokov’s name, Alex felt sick, and tried to stop himself trembling.

  “Thanks to you, we were able to arrest him, along with several of his associates. They’re now all safely behind bars.”

  “For how long?”

  “Ninety-nine years, in Donokov’s case,” said Travis, “without parole.”

  “Let’s hope his cell mate’s a Grand Master, otherwise he’s going to get very bored,” said Alex. The three men laughed for the first time. “That can’t be the only reason you wanted to see me.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Hammond. “We felt we owe you one. We know you’re now down to your last market stall, and its license comes up for renewal next month. We also know that the landlord, Mr. Wolfe, will try to extract a price you can’t afford.”

  “But more important,” said Alex, “do you know why?”

  “Yes,” said Hammond. “Our colleagues in the FBI have a cabinet full of files dedicated to Mr. Wolfe, but they’ve never been able to lay a finger on him. However, they’ve passed on some information that might be of interest to you.” He nodded toward his colleague, who proceeded to explain exactly why Wolfe needed to be in possession of the licenses for every stall in Market Square by midday on June 17. “And yours is now the only one left.”

  “Thank you,” said Alex. “Although I should have worked it out for myself.”

  “And, by the way,” said Travis, “there’s something else you’ve probably worked out by now.”

  “Dimitri is one of the good guys,” said Alex.

  * * *

  Alex put on one of the suits Addie had given him, along with a white shirt and a blue silk tie he would never have been able to afford. He opened the attaché case and checked that everything was in place, before glancing at his watch. This was one meeting he wasn’t going to be late for.

  He couldn’t resist whistling as he walked slowly along Brighton Beach Avenue. He reached 3049 Ocean Parkway a few minutes before nine, opened the door, and walked into the reception area to be greeted by Molly, the long-suffering receptionist, known among the market traders as the devil’s gatekeeper.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Karpenko. I’ll let Mr. Wolfe know you’ve arrived.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Alex, not breaking his stride or stopping to knock before he marched into Wolfe’s office.

  Wolfe looked up from his desk. He didn’t attempt to hide his annoyance at being taken by surprise. “I’ll have to call you back,” he said, slamming down the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Karpenko,” he said, pointing to the seat opposite him. Alex remained standing. Wolfe shrugged. “I’ve drawn up the new license for your stall.”

  “How much?”

  “A thousand dollars a week for the next three years,” said Wolfe matter-of-factly. “And of course, I’ll expect a month’s payment in advance. Should you fail at any time to pay the full amount, the license will automatically revert to me.” He smiled, confident that he knew exactly what Alex’s response would be.

  “That�
��s grand larceny,” said Alex. “I don’t need to remind you of the clause in our contract that says any rise in rent must reflect current market conditions.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned that particular clause,” said Wolfe, allowing himself a wry smile, “because another stallholder recently took me to court claiming I was overcharging and cited that clause as proof. I’m happy to say the judge came down in my favor. So precedent has been set, Mr. Karpenko.”

  “How much did that cost you?”

  Wolfe ignored the comment as he pushed a familiar document across the table and, pointing to a dotted line, said, “Sign there, and the stall will be yours for another three years.”

  Once again he looked as if he knew what Alex’s response would be. But to his surprise Alex sat down and began to read slowly through the contract clause by clause. Wolfe leaned back, selected a cigar from the box in front of him, lit it, and had taken several puffs before Alex picked up the pen on his desk and signed the agreement.

  The cigar fell out of Wolfe’s mouth and landed on the floor. He quickly picked it up and brushed some ash off his trousers before saying, “Don’t forget that will be four thousand dollars in advance.”

  “How could I forget,” said Alex. He opened his attaché case and extracted forty hundred-dollar bills. Every cent he, his mother, and Dimitri possessed. He placed the cash on the blotting pad in front of Mr. Wolfe, then put the contract in his attaché case, stood up, and turned to leave. He was just about to open the door when Wolfe spluttered, “Don’t be in such a rush, Alex. Let’s talk this over like reasonable people.”

  “There’s nothing to talk over, Mr. Wolfe,” said Alex. “I’m looking forward to operating my stall for the next three years, and whatever the rent is when this license expires, I’ll pay it.” He touched the door handle.

  “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement, Alex. What if I were to offer you fifty thousand dollars to tear up the contract? That’s far more than you could hope to make even if you were running a dozen stalls.”

  “But nowhere near as much as the million dollars a year rent you’d be raking in if I were to tear the contract up.” Alex opened the door.

  “How did you find out?” said Wolfe, glaring at his back.

  “It’s not important how I learned that the council will be granting you planning permission for a new shopping mall on June the seventeenth, only that I did. In the nick of time, I might add.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “I won’t settle for anything less than a million,” said Alex. “Otherwise the bulldozers won’t be making their way onto your site for at least another three years.”

  “Half a million,” said Wolfe.

  “Seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Six hundred.”

  “Seven hundred.”

  “Six fifty,” blurted Wolfe.

  “Agreed.”

  Wolfe managed a half smile, feeling he’d still got the better of the bargain.

  “But only if you throw in the freehold for Mario’s Pizza Parlor on the corner of Players’ Square,” added Alex.

  “But that’s daylight robbery,” Wolfe protested.

  “I agree,” said Alex. He sat down, opened his attaché case, and took out two contracts. “If you sign here, and here,” he said, pointing to a dotted line, “the builders can start work on the super-mall next month. If not…”

  24

  ALEX

  Brooklyn

  “Do you think I’m capable of that?” said Elena.

  “Of course you are, Mama. Your problem is that you’ve spent your whole life underestimating yourself.”

  “That’s certainly never been one of your problems.”

  “Frankly, you’re too good to be working in a pizza parlor,” said Alex, ignoring her reprimand. “But with my help we could build the brand, turn it around, sell it on, and then set you up in your own restaurant.”

  “Great restaurants aren’t run by chefs, Alex, but by first-class managers, so before you risk one cent of your money on me, you must find an experienced manager.”

  “Good managers are two a penny, Mama. Great chefs are a far rarer commodity.”

  “What makes you think I’m a great chef?”

  “When you first got the job at Mario’s, I could always get a table, at any time of day. Now there are queues outside from eleven o’clock in the morning. And I can assure you, Mama, they are not queuing to meet the manager.”

  “But it would be such a risk,” said Elena. “Perhaps you’d be wiser to put your money on deposit in a bank.”

  “If I did that, Mama, the only one making a profit would be the bank. No, I think I’ll risk a little of my newfound wealth on you.”

  “But not before you find a manager.”

  “Actually, I’ve already got someone in mind.”

  “Who?” demanded Elena.

  “Me.”

  * * *

  Elena stared at the gold-embossed invitation card that Alex had put on the mantelpiece for all to see.

  “Who’s Lawrence Lowell?” she asked as he sat down for breakfast.

  “You remember Lieutenant Lowell. He was the officer in command of my unit in Vietnam. Frankly I’m surprised he even remembered my name, let alone found out where I lived.”

  “Aren’t we coming up in the world?” Elena teased, as she poured him a cup of coffee. “I don’t suppose there’ll be that many pizza parlor managers among his guests. Will you accept?”

  “Of course I will. I’m the manager of Elena’s, the most exclusive pizza house in New York.”

  “Exclusive in this case means there’s only one.”

  Alex laughed. “Not for much longer. I’ve already got my eye on a second site a few blocks away.”

  “But we’re not making a profit at the first one yet,” Elena reminded him as she put two eggs on to boil.

  “We’re breaking even, so it’s time to expand.”

  “But—”

  “But,” said Alex, “my only problem is what to buy a man who has everything for his thirtieth birthday—a Rolls-Royce, a private jet?”

  “A pair of cuff links,” said Elena. “Your father always wanted a pair of cuff links.”

  “I have a feeling Lieutenant Lowell just might have several pairs of cuff links.”

  “Then make them personal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have a pair made with his family crest, or his club’s emblem, or even your old regiment.”

  “Good idea, Mama. I’ll have a pair engraved with a donkey.”

  “Why a donkey?” asked Elena, as the egg timer buzzed to indicate four minutes.

  * * *

  “Are you sure?” said Alex as he looked at himself in the full-length mirror.

  “Couldn’t be more sure,” said Addie. “It’s all the rage. By this time next year, everyone will be wearing wide lapels and bell bottoms. You’ll be the toast of Broadway.”

  “It’s not Broadway I’m worried about, but Boston, where I suspect it still won’t be the fashion even the year after next.”

  “In which case you’ll be a trend setter, and all the other guests will envy you.”

  Alex wasn’t convinced, but he still bought the suit, and a frilly sky-blue shirt that Addie insisted went with it.

  * * *

  The following morning Alex rose early, but instead of heading straight for the market to select the day’s toppings, he went to Penn Station, where he bought a return ticket to Boston. Once he’d found a seat on the train, he placed his small suitcase in the overhead rack and settled down to read The New York Times. The stark headline shouted: NIXON RESIGNS.

  By the time the train pulled into South station four hours later, Alex was wondering if President Ford would pardon the former president. He grabbed a cab and asked the driver to take him to a sensibly priced hotel. Despite his newfound wealth, Alex still considered it a waste of money to pay for a suite when you could sleep just as well in a single room.


  Once he’d checked into the Langham, he took a shower before trying on the two suits he’d brought with him. In one, he felt like Jack Kennedy; in the other, he looked like Elvis Presley. But on the cover of Vogue on his bedside table was a photo of Joan Kennedy wearing a sky-blue ballgown, which Vogue was predicting would be this year’s color. Alex changed his mind yet again. One last check of the time on the invitation, 7:30 for 8:00 p.m. He left the hotel just after seven, hailed a cab, and told the driver the address.

  After driving around the Common, Alex noticed that as they climbed higher toward Beacon Hill, the houses became grander. They came to a halt at the entrance of a magnificent town house, where he was met by two security guards, who gave him a long hard look before demanding to see his invitation.

  “Maybe he’s part of the cabaret,” one of them said, loud enough for Alex to hear as the cab turned into the long driveway and continued on its journey up to the front of the house.

  Alex knew he’d made a mistake the moment he stepped into the oak-paneled hall and joined a long queue of guests waiting to be greeted by their host. He wanted to turn around, go back to his hotel, and change into the more conservative suit, but then he would have been late. He wasn’t sure which would cause more offense. He couldn’t help noticing that several of the guests were turning to take a second look at him.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, Alex,” said Lowell, when he finally reached the front of the queue. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “It was kind of you to invite me, sir.”

  “Lawrence, Lawrence,” his host whispered, before turning to greet his next guest. “Good evening, senator.”

  Alex made his way through to a large drawing room packed with guests, almost all of the men wearing dinner jackets. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter before disappearing behind a large marble pillar in one corner of the room, from where he stared at a painting by someone called Pollock. He didn’t move or attempt to speak to anyone, until a gong sounded, when he made sure he was among the last to enter the dining room. He was surprised to find he’d been placed on the top table, between an Evelyn on his left and a Todd on his right.