Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  “Yes, of course. Here you are.” Alfred pulled a micro cell phone and charger out of his briefcase. “Let’s get you checked in, shall we?” He stood up, confidently approached the reception desk and shook hands with the woman on duty, who picked up a telephone and made a quick call. A tall man wearing a hotel uniform emerged from the back area and greeted Alfred like his long lost brother. They conversed while the man fiddled behind a computer terminal, and then they both walked over to Steven.

  “Steven, this is Jenkins, my cousin and the manager of the hotel. He’ll attend to your every need. The room will be billed to my business and you’ll only have to sign your first name for any requirements that you have. He understands your stay here has to be discreet. Jenkins?”

  “Nice to meet you, Steven. Here is your room key, bungalow fourteen, a one bedroom suite. Very private, only one other guest staying in that villa building. You can just sign a D for any hotel charges. What last name should we enter into the register?” Jenkins asked.

  Steven almost said ‘Griffen’. He bit his impulsive tongue. “Malone. Steve Malone.”

  Jenkins was inscrutable, not even the hint of a blink in his eyes.

  “Very good then, Mr. Malone. And how long can we expect to enjoy your stay with us?”

  Alfred answered: “At least a week I should think, maybe two. Do you have sufficient room?”

  “For you, of course. The rate is $660 per day, plus tax. I trust that’s acceptable?”

  “Sounds great,” Steven said brightly.

  “Very good, sir. I’ll be charged with ensuring your stay is a pleasant one, Mr. Malone,” Jenkins said. “Give us a few more minutes. Simon, our bell captain, will show you to your accommodation.”

  So, he was done. Painless. Simon collected the duffel and laptop bag, carefully placing them on a luggage cart. He discreetly disappeared.

  Alfred shook his hand and bid his farewell. “I’ll call you on the mobile phone when I have a project price calculated, together with an estimated timeline. In the meantime, enjoy the hotel and the hospitality of the island. There are worse places to spend one’s time.” And with that he was gone.

  Simon returned just as Steven finished his rum punch. He escorted him out to a golf cart, his bags already sitting on the back, and they were off down a narrow path.

  The room was magnificent, as large as a medium-sized apartment. The terrace overlooked the ocean, St. Martin in the near distance. Small tent gazebos dotted the private pink coral beach, and he could see very few guests. The quiet season – literally.

  Steven unpacked, hung his shirts and pants, and locked his watches and cash away in the room safe. He hooked up his laptop to the DSL port provided for anyone foolish enough to spend their time in cyberspace while in paradise, and was pleased to see the browser pop up. He checked on Allied, up a dime. Briefly scanning the boards turned up nothing new, although he noted Pogo was stirring up shit with the website by uploading yet more unflattering information about Griffen’s fifteen percent decline in net asset value since the beginning of the year. He supposed Pogo had somehow gotten his hands on one of Griffen’s semi-annual reports. Nice. That would piss him off.

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door. The maid. He opened it and was greeted by a huge bouquet of fresh flowers and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. A gift from the hotel.

  She placed the flowers and the bucket on the living room table, and another five dollar tip was dispatched. This was already getting expensive.

  Lifestyle choices of the dead fugitive...

  Whatever.

  He pulled himself away from the web and contemplated his next move. Alfred seemed ultra-competent, so that was taken care of – he’d get the information and the bill, all in Alfred’s good time. Steven really couldn’t do anything without more info.

  Focal Point: Chapter 17

  It was still gorgeous out, so Steven figured he’d languish in one of the tents and read the book he’d picked up in the St. Martin airport when he’d bought the baseball cap. He quickly shaved (goatee coming along nicely) pulled on his new shorts and re-donned his shirt. On the way out he grabbed the book and room key, hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ card on his doorknob, turned, and almost collided with a young woman walking from an adjacent room.

  He held up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry. Excuse me. I almost ran you down.”

  Steven appraised her. Long raven hair, deep suntan, late twenties perhaps, hazel eyes, five-foot-four or so – strikingly beautiful. And wearing a sarong around her waist as a cover-up for her bikini, which was fashioned from a black shiny material; and not much of it either, he noted. She certainly gave the ties a run for their money, filling the little triangles out nicely.

  Wedding ring. Oh well.

  “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Accent? Not French, maybe Spanish or Italian? “Scusi.” Italian, definitely Italian. She smiled as she noticed the book in Steven’s hand. “He was a genius, no?”

  Steven was speechless. Indeed, most had never even heard of him. David Foster Wallace. He appraised her.

  “I’m surprised. Not many people know about him.” He’d been equally surprised when he spotted the book in the airport store. Perhaps Wallace was better appreciated in Europe. “He’s my favorite author, bar none.”

  Her gaze lingered, as if assessing him frankly – then she offered her hand. “I’m Antonia. Are you on your way to the beach?”

  Steven felt a distinct tingle as he made contact with Antonia’s soft, warm hand. “Yeah, I was just getting ready to read a bit. I’m Steven. Pleased to meet you. Are you headed that way?” No harm in asking. There were worse things than spending an afternoon on the beach with an Italian goddess, even if she was married. Innocent relaxation. Purely platonic interest, Steven reminded the little devil that had taken residence on his shoulder…

  Antonia nodded. “Yes. I was inside taking a catnap. It’s easy to get into the habit in the islands. I thought I’d get a little more sun before the day is over.” She hesitated. “Would you like to share a cabana?”

  Her English was very good, and incorporated such charming choices of terms.

  “Sounds perfect. Lead the way.” Wow, were the natives ever friendly around here. Still, harmless adventure in paradise, the ring reminded him. Quite a rock on it as well. Maybe the husband was a ninety-four-year-old who was waiting in the room for his respirator to get fixed. Who knew?

  They set a steady gait towards the nearby beach, a light breeze cooling them from the worst of the sun’s heat, the trade winds blowing favorably. There was only one ‘cabana’ near their villa, so there wasn’t a lot of struggle over choices. Inside were two sun lounges, padded, with folded white and blue striped towels placed lovingly upon them, and a little table.

  “I’m going to stay out of the sun for now,” Steven said. “Where would you like to be?” Ever the chivalrous one. Whatever you need. Just ask.

  “Eh, right here is good.”

  He adjusted his lounger until it behaved the way he wanted it to, then kicked off his sandals. She removed her cover-up, and he noted with purely scientific interest she was wearing a G-string. Looked like she worked out, too…

  A lot. Like movie star a lot.

  They both started speaking at once. Laughed. Tried again simultaneously. Laughed again. He motioned with his hand for her to proceed.

  “So what brings you here to Anguilla, Steven? How long is your visit?” Such a delectable accent.

  “I’m here for some business, some pleasure,” he replied, keeping it vague. “Maybe a week or ten days. And you?”

  “Maybe a week. My plans are open-ended for now.” She also seemed a little vague.

  “Why Anguilla for you?” he asked.

  “Eh, my friends and I were in St. Martin at a private home and I got tired of the crowds. I didn’t feel like being around a lot of people. You know what I mean? I heard Anguilla was quiet, so I came over yesterday.” So she was also a recent arrival
. But what about the husband? Probably too soon to ask about that.

  “I just got in myself. From St. Martin. I know what you mean about the crowds.”

  “I saw you get off the boat down the beach. I was sitting on my terrace.” She studied him again.

  He deflected. “How do you know it was me?”

  “Red baseball hat and black shirt? Oh, I don’t know, crazy guess, no?” She was sharp, charming accent notwithstanding. He silently prayed she wouldn’t ask the question.

  It wasn’t his lucky day.

  “Why a private boat on the beach and not the ferry or a plane?” she asked.

  “I wanted to get dropped off close to the hotel, and the boat guy said he could get me almost right up on it. Doesn’t everyone do it that way?” Keep it light and fun; nothing suspicious.

  “You’re a very interesting man, Steven, with David Foster Wallace and clandestine boat trips. A man of mystery.” She was teasing, toying with him.

  “Yes, I use the book to decode hidden messages planted in the paper regarding the movements of beautiful Italian celebrities.”

  “And, a, how do you say, silver-tongued charmer as well. Is your name really James Bond?” She laughed. He liked her laugh. A lot. What was going on here? She continued. “A celebrity? Hardly. Just a girl trying to get away from it all and have a little peace and quiet.”

  “You came to the right place. I understand not a lot goes on here. It certainly seems quiet,” Steven observed.

  They lay for a while in silence, listening to the rhythmic roll of the surf as the breeze rippled soothingly over them. He took in Antonia. Amazing.

  “You’re getting pretty dark considering you’ve only been here for a day,” he noted.

  “I was in St. Martin for three before coming here, so that helped. And it’s my skin. I’m Italiano, I get dark quickly. Why don’t you come into the sun and get some color?” she asked.

  Good idea! urged the little devil on his shoulder. He pulled his ‘sofa’ next to hers and took off his shirt. Oops. That was why not. He’d forgotten. Careless. The knife wound. The stitches. Her eyes got suddenly bigger.

  “Ai, what happened? That looks terrible. Painful.” She ran her deep brown eyes over him in a casual yet methodical manner. Seemed to approve of what she saw.

  “Oh, a little accident. Looks way worse than it is. I should probably keep it out of the sun.” He put his shirt back on. What was he thinking? He wasn't. That was a problem. He didn't have the luxury of being able to turn off his brain right now. He'd have to be more careful.

  “What kind of accident?” She was back to staring him directly in his eyes. He felt dishonest when she looked at him, but what could he say? It was disconcerting. He’d never felt that sensation before, like she could just see through to his soul. Maybe she was an Italian witch of some sort. Did they have voodoo in Italy?

  “An accident. I fell against a fence. Very sharp edge…should have been more careful. It’s really not that bad. Stupid mistake, really.” He got the feeling that she wasn’t buying a word of it. Fence indeed. “So…you live in Italy? You’re a long way from home.”

  “Yes, in Firenze, Florence. I wanted to get away from the tourists in the summer. They invade the city, take it over like a swarm of ants. Cosi, my friends had proposed to come to St. Martin.” Her eyes fixed upon the island in the distance as she spoke. She looked back at him. “I have to find something to do with myself for the next two months, until the season is over. This is what I came up with so far.”

  “Not a bad place to hang out, Antonia.”

  “Or hide out.”

  Wham.

  What was that all about? Had she figured him out so quickly? This was getting way too weird, and potentially dangerous. Or was she talking about herself? Oh well, in for a dollar...

  “Everyone’s got something they’d like to hide from,” Steven ventured.

  “Or someone?” Antonia asked, or maybe stated. Again, too close for comfort. Where was this going?

  “Who or what are you hiding from, Antonia?” he asked.

  “It’s a long story, Steven. Maybe the same things everyone hides from, or wants to hide from.” That told him exactly nothing at all.

  They stayed silent after that for a good while. It was an easy quiet, a relaxed and mutual agreement to stay away from things that were uncomfortable or unpleasant.

  From behind their villa a woman in white floated gracefully down the beach, steadily approaching them with a tray supporting a container and two small bowls.

  “Sorbet?” she offered.

  You’ve got to be kidding, he thought to himself. It was the afternoon sorbet call.

  Antonia looked up. “Please.”

  He nodded, got up and pulled the little table over to them. The woman scooped out two perfect spheres of what appeared to be orange sorbet, placing them on the table with two miniature spoons.

  “Mango. Enjoy.” And then the sorbet fairy slipped away, her image wavering in the morning mirage now rising up from the heat of the sand – gone to bestow her gifts upon other good folks in need of frozen confections, her important work done here.

  “I like this place very much,” Antonia said. She picked up her spoon and sampled the sorbet, which had frosted the outside of the small metal bowls instantly.

  “What’s not to like?” he agreed. They ate their treats in silence. Another fifteen minutes went by without any conversation.

  “I think it’s maybe time to go in,” Antonia declared. He nodded agreement. “The sun makes me sleepy,” she explained.

  He looked at her. “Do you have plans for dinner, Antonia?”

  An angel popped up on his other shoulder, wagging a sanctimonious finger: Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? She’s married, dumbass, MARRIED. Husband possibly waiting in the room, exhausted after being up all night with her. Or maybe not, the little devil countered; given the unmistakable interest she’s been projecting, and what, with her being on vacation for months…

  Antonia took a long time to respond – seemed to be studying something far off in the distance. Finally she spoke, very quietly, so much so he almost couldn’t hear her.

  “No, Steven, no plans. I’d like to have dinner with you.” He felt ten feet tall. Strong like a bull. And the angel had slunk off somewhere to lick its wounds…

  “I’ll come knock on your door in a couple of hours, okay?” she asked.

  “Perfect,” he said. And it was.

  They gathered their belongings and traipsed over the hot sand back to the villa…in a comfortable enough silence. Both understood something significant had happened and neither wanted to spoil it with words. He stopped at his door, and she smiled at him before continuing to hers. Neither said anything. Didn’t have to.

  Focal Point: Chapter 18

  It had been forever since Antonia had been interested in a man, and that had worked well for her. Uncomplicated, undemanding, and easy to control, emotionally. Antonia felt her day in the sun, romantically, had come and gone, and she was fine with that. She still had an empty hole in her stomach only time could heal, and it had been there so long she’d resigned herself to the notion that it would remain her constant companion. Her friends were worried; thought she was depressed, needed counseling or medication. They were well-intentioned, but wrong.

  Her battle wasn’t winnable. It was more a matter of survival than victory.

  Or so she’d thought, until now.

  Meeting this stranger, in an exotic locale, and away from everything she knew, had caused a minor tremor in her defenses. She’d surprised herself when she’d accepted the dinner offer. Normally she would have smiled, thanked him, but firmly indicated she wasn’t interested; most men got it the first time around, and she’d become adept at avoiding any entanglements or strained encounters.

  For whatever reason, this Steven had struck her as different. And it wouldn’t hurt to spend another hour or two to get to the core of what had intrigued her. She was a big
girl now, and if Antonia excelled at anything, it was self-control and discipline.

  Stripping off her swimsuit, she wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower, marveling at the expansive size of the area. Her reflection caught her eye, and she leaned towards the oversized mirror, frowning at herself. Whatever are you thinking, Antonia?

  Her skin was dark, he’d been right about that, and the sun’s attention had been flattering. She wasn’t surprised by his interest. As her friend Sylvia had recently remarked, she had the body of a fit teenager and an unconventionally striking face – a quality that derived as much from attitude as bone structure. Ever since she’d hit puberty men had fawned over her, so she’d long grown accustomed to it, to the point where it hardly registered except as an amusing and sometimes tiresome ritual.

  She flexed a bicep, noted the definition approvingly; pinched the taut skin of her flat stomach, again, with satisfaction. Still in good shape, if a little sunburned. Her inventory of her physical attributes was dry, matter-of-fact. There was no inherent narcissism. She’d never had that quality, even as a little girl; had always been serious, completely engaged in her pursuits, her appearance an afterthought of little consequence to her.

  Her mother had been described by admirers as a classical beauty, and Antonia had been fortunate in her genetic makeup, taking after Mom as she did. She thought about their vacations together – to other beaches and remote islands in the Mediterranean, the Adriatic, off the coast of Africa, and recalled how in her teen years they’d been mistaken for sisters. Melancholy turned to sadness as she drifted deeper into the recesses of her memory…she abruptly realized she’d been standing there for minutes, steeped in inward reflection. It had been years since she’d lost track of time like that, her mind probing corridors long sealed off from the burdens of recollection. Corners best left alone. Why now, and why here?

  Troubled, she turned on the sink faucet and splashed some cool water on her face. Come on, Antonia, no point going down the bad road; no sense in creating misery when today’s been so delightful.