American Savage

by Matt Whyman

  ‘If you need to work on Zolotov then perhaps you should arrange to spend some time with him,’ she suggested, and reached for her napkin. ‘But if he still refuses to back off then promise me you’ll do the right thing. Even if there isn’t much meat on his bones, we could always use him for a broth.’

  Titus collected his fork from the side of his plate. He glanced up at Angelica, this guiding force throughout his life, and then targeted his last meatball.

  ‘These are good,’ he said, and waved it in the air. ‘Your best yet.’

  As Titus popped the meatball into his mouth, Angelica noted a drop of tomato sauce fall upon his shirt. It was only a slight mark, well hidden by the garish colours of his tropical shirt. Even so, she knew it was there. No doubt it would be a stubborn stain to remove, but he could rely on her to deal with it.

  Angelica just hoped that Titus would take care of the other matter with the same conviction.

  33

  Joaquín Mendez blamed Angelica for the fact that his eating habits had gone haywire. Essentially, she had now killed his appetite. As passion swelled in his heart, so his belly had just shut down. Every time he found himself feeling just a little hungry, he’d run into her once more and supper would be written off. It had reached the point where his colleagues at the gym were beginning to ask if everything was OK. Joaquín insisted that he was fine.

  He also hated himself for it.

  This was no state for a young man like him to be in. He hadn’t come to this country to be eaten up by a woman who was completely out of bounds to him. In his role as a personal trainer, it was vital that he took on board enough carbohydrates and protein to power him through each day. Joaquín understood this. Love was no substitute for food, and yet it had become his driving force.

  In a bid to keep starvation at bay, once or twice a week, when sleep evaded him, the young man took to calling up Round Da Clock Pizzas on the waterfront and ordered the eighteen-inch deep crust Feastzilla with extra anchovies. He never had any intention of eating such a giant delivery, and yet, somehow, as the hours ticked away in front of the cable talk-show repeats, Joaquín would wind up with an empty box. It never left him feeling good. Sometimes, the bloating and indigestion was worse than the guilt and self-loathing, neither of which helped when tasked with taking his clients through their paces.

  When that client was Titus Savage, Joaquín considered it to be close to torture.

  ‘You look as if you’ve lost a few pounds,’ Titus told the troubled Argentinian later that week. ‘If there’s an alternative to working out, I’ll do whatever it takes. Go on. Tell me your secret, Joaquín.’

  Titus was lying on a bench press at the time. It was the final machine on the circuit, where he was preparing to pump weights the size of dinner plates. Joaquín avoided his eye, desperate not to give away the fact that his client’s wife was responsible for him looking so hunted.

  ‘You’re shaping up nicely,’ he said instead, and tentatively patted Titus on the belly. ‘That looks like the beginning of a six-pack.’

  Titus looked down the length of his torso, quietly pleased with himself.

  ‘I haven’t seen that for some time,’ he said. ‘Feels good.’

  Relieved to have moved on from the subject of his own appearance, Joaquín circled the bench press and encouraged Titus to grip the bar above him.

  ‘Nice and easy,’ he told him. ‘If it feels too much, just let it drop back on the support stand. You don’t want to bite off more than you can chew.’

  Titus glanced at the young trainer.

  ‘Tell that to my wife,’ he muttered, which caused a chill to wash through Joaquín’s veins. Every time Titus arrived for a workout he felt tense in his company. It wasn’t quite so bad when they were jogging. Joaquín could stretch ahead to avoid eye contact and conversation. Here in the gym, it just felt suffocating, especially when Angelica came into the conversation.

  ‘Problems at home?’ he dared to venture.

  ‘The café.’ Titus grasped the bar. ‘Our backer is in town. He’s a little determined with his plans for the business. Angelica and I disagree about how to deal with him. She feels a meeting would be fruitless, but I’ll figure something out.’

  Joaquín watched carefully as Titus took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the bar. Then, as his face turned red and began to quiver, he inched the weights upwards.

  ‘You could take him for a trip on your boat,’ the young trainer suggested. ‘That nice one with the cover down by your jetty.’

  Joaquín hadn’t intended to distract his client. Nor had he expected to see him practically drop the weights back onto the rack.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Immediately, Joaquín realised that the only way he could know that Titus had a small vessel under tarpaulin was if he’d been scoping out the family villa from the other side of the inlet. He drew breath to make some excuses, but by then Titus was sitting upright on the bench.

  ‘Joaquín,’ he said finally, seemingly unaware that the young man now stood before him like an infant bunny in the headlights of a big rig truck. ‘That’s a terrific idea!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What better way to bond with someone here than by taking to the water?’ Titus focused on some imaginary spot just above the young trainer. ‘I could head upriver with him for some creek fishing,’ he continued, and began nodding to himself. ‘That would give us plenty of time to talk and nobody would even know we were there.’

  Joaquín couldn’t be sure what Titus had in mind at that moment. He just knew that he was crumbling under the pressure of being this close to someone whose wife had come to possess him.

  ‘Do you want to try a couple less kilos?’ he asked his client, desperate to move on.

  Joaquín Mendez took a step back when Titus rose from the bench, and then another when his client faced him looking ponderous and brooding.

  ‘I don’t think I ever mentioned that I owned an outboard, did I?’

  This time, Joaquín retreated by a further step and banged his head on a power rack. The blow caused him to gasp and wince. Titus didn’t even blink. If his question was one asked out of curiosity, Joaquín’s response now summoned an air of suspicion from the man.

  ‘Just a guess,’ he offered weakly. ‘Jupiter is a popular place for boat owners.’

  As his voice trailed away, the thumping beats playing over the sound system also seemed to fade, along with the rhythmic slide and creak of the gym equipment surrounding them. Even the floor seemed to tip to one side as Titus intensified his gaze. For a moment, Joaquín thought he might cry. He was still reeling from the blow to the back of his skull, but this was all too much.

  ‘Well, you guessed right,’ said Titus eventually, who blinked and shrugged. ‘And it would be good to get the outboard engine running. I just never find the time.’

  Joaquín should’ve felt only relief that this moment had passed. Instead, he found he just couldn’t hold out any longer. Half-starved and overwhelmed by the force of his conflicting feelings, he placed one hand on the crown of his head and stumbled into a confession.

  ‘I’ve seen your boat many times,’ he said, his resolve all but crushed. ‘From the opposite shore, when I stop to look across at your villa in the hope of seeing … her.’

  Titus tipped his head to one side. He looked perplexed, as if this was the last thing he had expected to hear, and yet also the most likely. Joaquín swallowed uncomfortably. Opening up like that hadn’t come as a release, he acknowledged to himself with a start. If anything, it just invited the possibility that his emotional pain was about to become physical.

  ‘Well, frankly I’m not surprised,’ growled Titus after a moment. ‘Amanda is a good-looking young woman.’

  It took a second for Joaquín to process the name, and another to realise that this was his one chance to slide out of the most stupid thing he had ever done.

  ‘She is,’ he said, and tried hard not to sound reli
eved. ‘She really is.’

  ‘Want me to make an introduction?’ asked Titus. ‘Miss Dias can be a little intense, but if you take all the preaching with a pinch of salt, you’ll find a soft centre on the inside.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Joaquín, who didn’t mean to sound so hesitant. If he had to spend an evening out with the man’s lodger, it was better than being flayed alive for confessing he was in love with his wife. ‘That would be good, Titus. Thank you.’

  ‘No, thank you!’ he countered, and reached for the towel he had slung over the machine to mop his brow. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have plans to make for a little boat trip.’

  Ivan had come a long way in recent years. That was his view on the eve of the football match. He had left the practical jokes behind, grudgingly conceding that people didn’t find them funny if it meant a trip to the emergency ward. Instead, the boy had turned his attention to the fine art of food poisoning, specialising in fatal strains, and soon his tormentors would know how it felt to taste payback. What’s more, it seemed Ivan’s father had finally acknowledged that he was ready to provide for the table. It was just a shame, he thought, that his offer to deal with Nikolai Zolotov hadn’t been welcomed. OK, so the man’s metal molars had taken Ivan aback when he first faced him, but now he’d had a chance to recover his composure, it was time to step up to the plate. Maybe not the dinner plate, if his dad was right about Zolotov carrying a little too much cartilage, but he’d make sure the man was no longer a problem. Well aware that his family would fear the worst outcome for Ivan, the boy shared his intentions with just one individual. A kindred spirit he considered to be his listening ear.

  ‘If only they knew what I could do,’ he muttered at Tinky Dinks on the walk home from the café. ‘Soon they’ll see that I can be trusted to get the job done.’

  Ivan was clutching his school bag to his chest. With the zipper open, his adopted gerbil was able to pop its head out from time to time to take in their surroundings. It had been a breezy day, but the turn of the tide saw the palms stop swaying. Now, as the sun settled over Jupiter, Ivan’s thoughts turned to his plan for the weekend. He glanced down at the bag, not to check on the gerbil, but to be sure the package in silver foil was still safe in the side pocket. Earlier, on completing his cleaning duties in the kitchen, Ivan had set about assembling his sandwiches. It was to be the final part of the preparation process, and he had carried it out with great reverence.

  First, he’d carved the bread slices from a loaf baked freshly that day. Next, he applied a coat of mayonnaise. He’d had to pick up a pot from the grocery store, because the vegan variety in the fridge was egg free and he couldn’t afford for Bryce, Ryan or Chad to grimace with their first mouthful. The boy had also considered chopping up some lettuce, but figured that kind of food was too feminine for his targets. Instead, he’d opted for gherkins. The next step had required him to don disposable gloves. Using a pair of tongs and a knife, Ivan had carefully lifted a slice of his precious ham into each sandwich. Having undertaken a deliberately amateur curing process on meat sourced with malice, and with no modern-day methods to make it fit for human consumption, he had every confidence in his product. It had to be riddled with larval cysts, the boy assured himself; each one primed to go off like a foodborne grenade. Finally, having snapped off the gloves, he closed the sandwiches and stood back to admire his hard work. They looked good, in his opinion. Generously filled for hungry young men after a match. The three jocks would not be able to resist. Despite the fact that it would condemn them to a progressively horrible death, Ivan wanted them to think of it as a post-game snack they would never forget.

  It was only disappointing, Ivan thought as he crossed the bridge, that he couldn’t ask them what they’d like to go with it. Some deep-fried chicken nuggets, perhaps? A giant strawberry shake, peach pie and thirty-seven chocolate bars? Wasn’t that the kind of thing prisoners on Death Row requested for their final meals? What the trio faced was pretty much the same thing, the boy decided. Then again, after the misery they had caused him, he didn’t think they deserved the privilege.

  Ivan was so lost in thought that at first he didn’t pay any attention to the sound of the car slowing behind him. With the late sun on his back, flaring against the windows of the riverside villas that lined the other side of the water, he continued to ponder the fate of his tormentors. Then the vehicle’s horn sounded, causing him to spin around.

  ‘Want a ride home?’

  Nikolai Zolotov drew up alongside the boy in an emerald-green Chevy Spark. The little two-door hatchback was a surprising choice of rental for a man with his reputation. He would’ve placed him in a muscle car, not a run-around. In fact, Ivan might not have recognised him at all, given the dark glasses he was wearing. It was only the smile he flashed him that left the boy in no doubt as to who had just pulled up here.

  ‘I’m good,’ he said, clutching his bag protectively.

  ‘Jump in,’ insisted Zolotov, gesturing at the passenger seat. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

  Facing the man once again, Ivan felt his stomach shrink in fear. He had to be joking, judging by the grin on his face, but something told the boy to stay on the sidewalk. Yes, he’d had it drummed into him from an early age that there were strangers out there who might want to interfere with him. In this case, he just didn’t want to get eaten.

  ‘I’d really rather walk,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Get in the car, Ivan.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  34

  Sometimes Angelica Savage felt as if she spent more time at the supermarket than she did at home. Despite carefully planning the weekly shop, there was always something else to pick up each day. That afternoon, having discovered an empty bread bin, she bundled Katya into the car and set out to pick up a loaf.

  ‘Mommy,’ little Katya piped up on the way there, ‘are we getting ready for a feast?’

  Angelica glanced in the rear-view mirror, her lips pressed together disapprovingly.

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Your father’s had some issues sourcing the ingredients, but it won’t be long now. Are you hungry, honey?’

  Katya nodded at her in the mirror. She was wearing red bows in her hair that matched her dress, along with white tights and shoes with silver buckles. Despite her rosy cheeks, Angelica couldn’t help thinking she looked in need of some nourishment.

  ‘Mom?’

  Angelica reminded herself not to snap. Continually criticising the child for her accent couldn’t be good for her self-esteem. She just hoped that eventually the influence of her family would win out.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked her daughter.

  ‘When can we just buy someone to eat from the store?’

  Smiling to herself, Angelica made a note to share the observation with Titus.

  ‘Not in our lifetime,’ she told her daughter. ‘Once the human race wakes up to the benefits of eating its own kind, you can be sure to find the shelves filled with bodies on polystyrene trays, shrink-wrapped and stamped with a best-before date.’

  ‘Yum.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not so sure,’ said Angelica, and slowed for a scooter. ‘When food becomes big business it can leave a bad taste in the mouth. I dare say the meat would be cheap, but also somewhat tasteless. Plus we’d have no idea where that person came from. I’m not sure I want to eat someone if there’s a risk of horse content or contamination by veterinary drugs. In fact, when you think about it like that, Katya, let’s hope society doesn’t develop an appetite for itself any time soon.’

  ‘Daddy says that good things come to those who wait.’

  Angelica glanced in the mirror. She hadn’t expected her daughter to comprehend something so central to the family’s values at her age, and so Katya’s response earned her a smile.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Angelica told her. She slowed a little on seeing a cop car coming the other way. ‘Though if Daddy makes us hold out for much longer then your brother might do somethin
g about it.’

  It was the change in tone that persuaded Ivan Savage to hurry around to the passenger door of the Chevy Spark. Zolotov hadn’t sounded threatening, just insistent, but it was entirely reinforced by a glint of sunlight on all that metalwork in his mouth.

  ‘You can dump your bag on the back seat,’ he told the boy, before easing the vehicle away.

  Pretending not to hear, Ivan reached for his seat belt instead. He was too frightened to insist that the bag should remain on his lap. Even with the car’s air con set to maximum, he suddenly felt hot and claustrophobic.

  ‘So, how was your day?’ the boy asked while looking straight ahead.

  ‘It can only get better,’ replied the Russian. ‘Lev and Kiril took me for a round of golf. Man alive, that game is dull! No wonder it hasn’t taken off back home. Those pussies had to get home for their suppers, so I figured I’d take a drive. Hired a car that won’t attract me any attention and took to the road. Now, where is good to eat around here, my friend? I’m famished.’

  Ivan clutched his school bag tightly. To find himself hitching a ride with Nikolai Zolotov had come as a complete surprise. The fact that the man was being so nice just made it all the more unsettling.

  ‘It depends what you like.’

  Zolotov smiled to himself.

  ‘What do you know about me?’ he asked.

  Ivan glanced sideways at the man. Just then, he was equally worried about what Zolotov knew about him and his family.

  ‘I heard you like your meat raw,’ he said delicately.

  ‘You heard right,’ said Zolotov, and thumped his chest once. ‘You’re looking at the cannibal criminal.’