by Allen Wyler
Boom. Where’s that coming from? The question is startling, and immediately triggers several answers in his mind, but the overriding one is the urge to protect his real identity. He sees no upside to giving her one iota of accurate personal information, no matter how general it might be. “Why do you ask?”
“You just look Jewish, is all.” The corners of her mouth hint an apologetic smile. “I don’t mean any ill will by that.”
“What makes you think I look Jewish?” he asks a bit too sharply, although he’s pretty damn sure he knows the answer: his nose. So what if he’s being offensive, she started it.
She adjusts her chair so as to not have to crane her neck as much to converse, and settles back in. “You have an Eastern European look is all, one I commonly associate with Jewish people.”
“In other words, a big nose?” Again, too sharply, but he can’t resist taking the shot.
“It’s more than just your nose,” she answers without the slightest embarrassment.
“My great grandfather and his family fled Germany just before World War II broke into full swing, when the handwriting was on the wall and Hitler’s ovens were gearing up to full-tilt. Our family isn’t religious, but because of someone’s birth certificate they were all singled out for extermination.” One-hundred percent fabrication, but he welcomes the opportunity to provide any bit of disinformation he can. Plus it makes for an interesting story. His ancestors immigrated from eastern Germany about the time the potato famine raged through Ireland.
“What’s your heritage?” he asks.
“I’m Persian,” she says with an obvious tinge of pride.
He has a vague idea of what Persia is, or was, but now, come to think of it, isn’t quite sure. “What does that mean?”
“My family came from what is now called Iran, but we consider ourselves Persian.”
He decides to drop the subject and turns toward the television, wondering how Howie would handle this conversation.
She leans closer to him, catching his attention again. “How do you see the Palestinian issue?” she asks.
Where the hell are these questions coming from? “You serious?”
“Long as we’re waiting for the race to start we might as well discuss something. Or is there another topic you’d rather talk about? You said you want my help learning how to converse with women, well, here’s a perfect opportunity. Talk to me.”
“But politics? I don’t usually discuss politics with people.”
The waitress sets down their Bloody Marys and asks if there’s anything else they’d like to order. Arnold says no.
Breeze takes his hand in hers and squeezes it a few moments. “Women like to feel their intellect is valued. So if not the Palestinian issue, what then? The latest fall fashions? Which movie star is cheating on his wife? Figure skating competition for the Olympics? I’m not sure you have strong opinions on any of those issues. I also have a sneaking suspicion you’re not up on international soccer standings. Am I right?”
Valid point.
“What are you asking? Am I pro-Israel simply on the basis that you think I look Jewish?”
Grinning, she settles back in her chair and swirls the celery stick in her drink. “No. The question isn’t that simple. I’m not asking should Israel exist. It does and will, we can move on from that position. No, what I’m asking is how do you think Israel and Palestine might be able to co-exist in peace? As it is, both countries live in constant fear of each other while Israel continues to expand housing in forbidden territory.”
Arnold runs his hand over his head, formulating his answer. He’s never really given the topic much thought, mostly because the problem seems to have no viable solution, so why bother? “Boy, I don’t know… That’s difficult. Otherwise it would’ve been solved years ago.”
She cocks her head slightly. “And?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the horses for the first race being jockeyed into the starting gates. Relieved to have a good excuse to dodge an answer, he points toward the TV. “Race is about to start. Let’s watch.”
Breeze stares at the ticket in his hand, then back to his eyes, and back to the ticket. “Win, Place, and Show. Nailed all of them. That’s amazing. How’d you do that?”
Conflicting emotions struggle for dominance: pleasurable pride warms his chest while anxiety chills his gut. But the bottom line is she seems genuinely impressed, which stokes his ego. Never before has a woman looked at him with such glowing respect. Then again, he realizes the downside to all this is drawing too much attention to him, and this makes him extremely edgy.
“Tell you what, let’s call it a day and go window shopping. I’ll turn in these tickets,” he says, holding up the ones for the next two races.
“You kidding? Now I’m really hooked. We’re not going anywhere until the races are over. You get the next one right and I’ll fuck your brains out. I’m telling you, this is a hundred percent turn-on.”
They sit back down to await the next race as Arnold considers her offer.
Breeze pulls the celery stalk out of the Bloody Mary, starts nibbling it. “This system of yours, tell me again what you plan to do with it.”
He squirms in the chair and pretends to concentrate on the television off to his right, senses her waiting for an answer, decides on being as vague as possible, “Haven’t given it much thought.”
She coughs out a sarcastic laugh. “Doubt that. Not you. You’re thinking all the time.”
“Seriously,” he lies. “I wanted to see if I could do it. I reached the level you see now and I’m happy with it, but it’s time to move on to other challenges, perhaps think about a graduate degree.” As if he had a bachelor’s degree. He’s never applied to the University of Washington, much less attended a course.
She isn’t buying it, he can tell, but too bad, he’s not discussing this any further.
He misses the winner of the third race, but considering the number of correct picks he’s done extraordinarily well—too well, really—winning enough money to splurge on an expensive dinner. Breeze is clearly impressed, which is doing great things for his self-confidence.
That evening they sit in the Bellagio’s Prime Steakhouse, into their second drink when Breeze broaches the subject again. The restaurant’s interior decorating strikes Arnold as atrocious, what with the heavy velvet burgundy upholstery, thick carpet, dark paint on the walls, and thick blue curtains. Someone with more money than taste must’ve received the decorating job, he thinks, but then again, what does he know? Obviously someone high enough in the organization liked the plans enough to sign off on the project. Their small table for two is positioned next to the back wall at a diagonal so they may sit at right angles to each other conversing while also being able to watch the action in the rest of the restaurant. The place has only a smattering of business at the moment.
She slides into the topic by saying, “I can’t help but think about all the great things you could do with this ability you have to predict political events. That’s pretty amazing stuff. What initially got you interested in that area of computing?”
He rearranges his silverware, lining up the salad fork tines directly over the dinner fork, then rearranges the tines into one straight line and decides it’s a benign enough question to answer without disclosing anything truly personal. There’s a point of being too cautious, especially if it raises more curiosity.
“Computers interest me.”
“Yeah, but I get the impression you’re really into it as more than just a passing interest.”
Now he sets the salad fork on top of the dinner fork, aligning the tines as congruently as is possible. Breeze is slouched in her chair, one arm to her side, the other rocking her margarita back and forth, stirring up the crushed ice.
“I have this friend, Howard, got me interested.” And decides to not mention they are best friends.
She gives a nod to continue. “And?”
He stops what he’s doing to glance at
her. “Why all this interest?”
“Hey, look, cut me some slack, okay? I live in Vegas, gambling capitol of the world. Someone comes in, makes the bets you did today, hits one out of the park, I’d say that’s pretty damn impressive. More than impressive. Phenomenal. You don’t think I might be a little curious?”
She has a point. “I just don’t like to talk about it, is all.”
She leans forward. “Why’s that?”
He’s beginning to be irritated at the constant probing. “Probably for the same reason you don’t use your real name with clients.”
That seems to sting. Or at least that’s the impression he gets. She straightens in the chair, folds her arms across her chest, glares at him. “I have my reasons for using a false name. Main one is for dealing with people like you.”
Return zing. The “like you” hurts more than he might have anticipated, because in spite of her warnings and his own trepidations, he’s grown very attached to her and doesn’t want her to be mad at him. Strange as that seems.
She continues with, “There are things about me that would surprise you, things you would never ever imagine or believe.”
His turn for a personal question. “Such as?”
She mutters a sarcastic, “Ha!” pauses a beat. “Why should I tell you my secrets when you don’t tell me yours?”
This strikes him as a bit juvenile, a playground comeback. The martinis are making his head spin a little and he blinks, wondering when their steaks will arrive—they both ordered filets, medium rare—because he needs food in his stomach to slow down the effect of the alcohol.
He says, “Look, maybe this isn’t working out and maybe I should just fly home in the morning and we call it good. I’ll give you your money for the day and you can line up another customer,” emphasizing the last word.
Without missing a beat, she slides closer to him, slips her right hand under the table to his crotch, the gentle pressure of her finger evoking an erection. “You sure about that?”
He gently tries to move her hand but she holds it there, kneading the growing tension under the fabric. “There are still so many things I haven’t taught you about pleasing girls. Sure you don’t want just one more night of instruction, cowboy?”
Her hand is achieving the intended effect, an effect his rational mind can’t ignore or suppress. He suspects the decision to leave town was the correct one, but now…
“See?” she giggles. “At least part of you wants me to stay.”
Still gazing out toward the restaurant, he picks up the cocktail glass. Only a few drops of martini remain, but at least he can focus on those while trying to decide. Another night in the sack with Breeze wouldn’t be all that bad. Would it? Especially if he just kept his damn mouth shut about gambling. Yeah, that’s the key thing, because the only real reason to leave is to extricate himself from her constant probing into his finances and system. He screwed up once. Unless he leaves there’s a chance she’ll weasel more out of him. Right?
Right.
So really the decision comes down to whether he wants to get laid tonight. Then in the morning…
He briefly debates the finality of the decision, a niggling suspicion warning against staying, that to leave town is the best choice. But Breeze massages away caution as the rationalizations in favor of staying begin to pile up: she doesn’t even know your real identity. You’ll be okay for one more night….
He sets down the cocktail glass and removes her hand from his groin before something embarrassing happens. “Okay, but I’m still leaving in the morning.”
She smiles, stretches toward him, plants a kiss on his cheek. “I guarantee you won’t be disappointed. I’ll do anything you want, just name it.” Then she slides out of the chair, purring, “Be right back. Need to visit the powder room. I’m getting too wet just thinking about it.”
His erection is about to rip through his pants by the time they cross the threshold to his suite. The idea occurred to him to take her right there in the elevator on the trip up to his room, just hike her dress up, pull down her panties…. But he’s eager to learn the sexual secrets she so enticingly alluded to.
She plants one palm on his cheek and the other over his bulging crotch. “Why don’t you take a quick shower while I wait for you in bed?”
He undresses quickly, making sure to hang his prized suit carefully on the right hangers to keep the deliciously light wool from wrinkling, although he’s convinced a fabric of this quality wouldn’t show a crease if run over by a steam-roller. Still, he wants it to be in nice shape when he packs in the morning.
Then he’s in the shower, lathering down as quickly as possible while his mind fantasizes about what possible treats Breeze has in store. He flashes on her kneeling astride his hips, his head on a pillow, watching her slide up and down on him. Jesus, his groin is aching for release. But in addition to the raw sexual craving, there’s an amorphous dark element lurking in the fringe: a tinge of fear. He pauses to wonder what it might be or what it means. What’s the worry? Yet he knows it’s there, but, like an irretrievable word on the tip of his tongue, can’t quite grasp it. Has to do with Breeze. This much he knows. It started when he suggested terminating their arrangement. What is it?
With the stream of hot water full on against his face, eyes shut, he struggles to identify the meaning. There! He catches a glimmer of recognition. She started to radiate an aura. Yeah, that’s it. Okay, but of what?
Danger?
Yeah, danger.
But in a way, that made tonight’s sex even more exciting, more real, more… and maybe that is one of the mysteries she intends to teach him, maybe this is a sexual trick.
Who cares, he’ll be flying out of here tomorrow, heading back to Seattle.
He towels off, debates walking into the bedroom nude, his erection thrust out like a sword, and remembers his overwhelming embarrassment that first night. She’s taught him things, that’s for sure. Howie was right to suggest the visit. Totally worth it. He wraps himself in the white Bellagio robe, winks at himself in the mirror, opens the door to step into the bedroom.
Breeze sits against the elaborate headboard, sheet over her belly, breasts exposed. She pats the bed beside her. “See? You’ve already learned a few things. Wow, looks like you’re ready for some action.”
Firouz recoiled from the news. Unbelievable. Arnold Gold is a dead man! If it’s the last thing he does, he’ll kill that infidel.
Outside the stuffy, overheated apartment the lights of downtown Seattle glowed. It was now four hours since they had taken the Jew’s computer. What had the killing of the Jew’s friend accomplished other than make them a potential subject of a police investigation? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He’d kill the incompetent technician if it would solve the problem, but it wouldn’t. Leaving him what? He needed to think.
Calm down, he told himself. Never, never trust your first reaction. Only fools react. Truly superior warriors analyze and think. Always turn adversity into advantage. God willing.
14.
The next morning is a repeat of the previous two: room-service breakfast while Arnold scans the news on his computer and answers an email from Howie. Breeze does likewise on her smartphone. He’s changed his mind about leaving early. The drapes are wide open, spewing squint-producing desert sun into the room. Arnold now understands why retired Seattleites who can afford to migrate to winter harbors in sun-belt cities such as Palm Desert. Although Seattle is beautiful in summer, the endless gray winter days of drizzle and fog really suck. The brilliant sun energizes him, makes him want to do something. Not sure exactly what, but just something, something different. Hanging around casinos is good for maybe an hour, two at the very most, but anything more than that, well…
“Toby”
Oops, that’s him. “Yes?”
She sets down her phone. “Like you to meet someone today.”
Huh? Right out of the blue. “Who?”
“A friend. A close friend.”
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nbsp; Strange request. He’s not sure what to make of it, and on second thought, is not sure he wants to. Meeting friends implies an attachment that’s definitely not on his list of things to foster with her. Seeing Breeze for sex is one thing, getting embroiled in her social life is quite another. Then again, they’ll never see each other again after this trip, so why not?
“You up for that?” she asks.
“We can do that, but I have to ask you why.”
She pours them both more coffee from the silver thermos-pot. “They’re good people. You might find them interesting.”
“Them? Thought you said you want me to meet someone, implying one person.” And is relieved of his initial, confusing, pang of jealousy. But on second thought, meeting two friends doesn’t make any more sense than meeting one.
She smiles, replaces the coffee on the tray. “Yes. Brothers. They’re very close friends.”
Without thinking, he checks his watch. “When?”
“How about we finish breakfast then go for a walk? Such a beautiful day and we can be back before the sun gets too hot. We can meet them at Starbucks. I’ll text them now.”
“Okay.” He returns to his emails without another thought.
They are on the sidewalk heading for Starbucks, the heat of the sun already radiating from concrete sidewalks at only 10:30 in the morning. He hasn’t checked the weather report but suspects today will be another scorcher. He wears a faded blue short-sleeve shirt and tan Dockers and high-top sneaks while Breeze is packaged into tight blue jeans and a white, form-fitting tank-top under a thin coat and floppy sunhat. He’s thankful for whoever invented Transitions lenses, because his are now in full tint, blocking the glares from all things shiny. The sun, glare, and heat serve as just one more reminder of Honolulu. One of these days, when the time is right, he’ll live there. Wouldn’t that be the life! Especially if Rachael… Soon as I have the money, he thinks.
As they enter Starbucks, Arnold’s notices two Arabic-looking men at a café table near the window, signature white paper cups in front of them. They stand when Breeze and Arnold start through the door. Arnold estimates they’re in their mid-twenties.
