Alpha Adventures: First Three Novels

by K. T. Tomb

  “I… I suppose. I am still opposed to this course of action, but as neither of you seem to be persuadable to a more reasonable plan, I must forfeit my reticence for the rest of the group, so that this may be resolved.”

  What a wordy, wordy man, Rodange thought.

  “Good. I’m glad that you will go along with it; if not quietly, then at least in good faith.” He produced three separate groups of papers. “You see before you, one final printing of the Rodange, Liebowitz and Gaston, Inc. firm. In these documents you will find the plan to choose who will own all three vases outlined, and the outcome will be binding. I have had these prepared by an attorney, known to all three of us, and I know we will behave honorably regarding the outcome. Nevertheless, I think it is important we all sign here, in front of each other, so that each man may be a witness to each other signature. Agreed?”

  After getting consent from the group, Rodange summoned one of the few street children, gave him the three signed papers and a silver piece to run them over to their attorney’s office. “And there will be a second piece in it for you if you bring me a signed receipt,” Rodange said to the child.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the youth, and he took off running.

  “Shall we get down to business then, gentlemen?” Rodange asked.

  The three men took out their pens and scraps of paper, and each man wrote his name twice, divided his paper and folded each piece in half. Rodange summoned the waitress and asked for a bowl. She soon delivered the fated receptacle, and all three men deposited their strips. The three men mixed the papers, and Liebowitz drew the first slip. They proceeded as such around this table, and the bowl came around for the second pass. No result; the morning stretched out and would turn into afternoon.

  The youth returned with a receipt and note from the attorney written in a flowing, if masculine script.

  Gentlemen,

  I hope you know what you are doing. Best of luck to each of you—those vases are truly wonders that will more than likely never be seen again in this world.

  Yours sincerely,

  R.F. Astroica, Esq.

  The day passed further on, with no results.

  “Should we narrow the odds?” Liebowitz asked, after they had eaten a plate of cold salted beef, cheese, and crusty bread.

  “What do you propose?” Gaston asked, before Rodange could reply.

  “Yes, what do you propose?” Rodange indignantly stated.

  “Well, what if we each removed one slip of paper and the first to pull his name was the winner?” Liebowitz almost pleaded, “The day is getting late and I, at least, am still suffering the consequences of our evening.”

  “No,” Gaston said sharply. “We will proceed until we have an honest winner. That is what the document you signed specified; that is what we agreed upon, that is what we will stick to.”

  He always was one for rules. Rodange privately smiled to himself.

  “Yes, I agree, we should proceed as planned,” Rodange said mildly.

  Liebowitz looked from one man to the other, and then back again. “You two are in this together! You are in cahoots and you are trying to trick me out of my share,” he exclaimed.

  Rodange could sense one of Liebowitz’s renowned fits of rage and paranoia brimming below his friend’s almost too-calm demeanor.

  “That is not an accusation lightly made,” Gaston said darkly. “I would suggest you remind yourself to whom you are speaking. We are business partners; everything we have done for fifty years has been, in my estimation, done in equanimity and friendship. Think before you say such a thing again.”

  Gaston was also suffering from what would infamously become known as a hangover, and was clearly in no mood to deal with Liebowitz’s paranoia.

  His problem, Gaston thought, is that he spent so much time with Rodange deciding how to screw over our competition that he has forgotten there is true honesty in the world, most commonly found among the best of friends. It is a shame that he became this way.

  Liebowitz sat quietly for a moment, clearly collecting himself.

  “I apologize,” he said after a while. “This trial, and the amount of time it is taking, is weighing heavily on my mind.”

  “Would you like a reprieve?” Rodange asked.

  “No. We need to settle this,” Liebowitz replied in a defeated voice.

  “Good then. Let’s get back to it,” Gaston said.

  They began to draw again. Finally, as the dinner hour approached, Rodange drew the second strip of the round, and a look of half joy, half dread took over his face, animating his features in a strange composition of emotion.

  Without saying a word, he showed the other two his slips. Rodange read the first. Gaston did not need to see the second strip to understand what had happened. Liebowitz caught on quickly enough; though Rodange had already flipped the second piece around to show what he had drawn. Rodange, it read.

  Gaston stood up, shook Rodange’s hand and said, “It was the fairest way. I only ask that you allow me to come and visit them every once in a while. You can collect my vase tomorrow morning. I shall spend tonight saying goodbye.”

  Liebowitz, however, looked crestfallen.

  “Come by my place once you collect Gaston’s,” he grumbled.

  Rodange extended a hand, but Liebowitz had already turned and was stalking away.

  “It’s ok,” Gaston reassured Rodange. “He will come around. Would you do me a favor, though?”

  “Anything,” Rodange replied. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling, and I would hate to make things worse by pretending otherwise.”

  “You are a good friend,” Gaston said. “We are getting to be old men. When we pass, regardless of who goes first, would you allow our heirs to go through this exercise again?”

  “Of course,” Rodange replied. “That provision is in the documents you signed.”

  Gaston smiled sadly, nodded and walked away, slowly making his way home. He would spend the night gazing at his priceless vase—each of them had removed their individual pieces to their homes as the new tenants of their building had taken possession that day.

  Austria, Present Day

  Simon sat in the passenger’s seat, feeling a little dumbfounded.

  “So you mean to tell me that… that… three of the world’s most precious crystal vases are all in the back of this truck, right now, and that the men who originally owned them cared so much about keeping them together that they were willing to sacrifice what surely must have been the crown jewel of their family fortunes to do so?”

  Franz smiled quietly. “Not quite kid, not quite.”

  “What could that possibly mean?” Simon asked.

  Simon did not think his mind could take much more information at the moment, but he wanted to hear the rest of the story, if indeed there was more.

  “It means that the exchanges between Gaston, Liebowitz and Rodange did not go according to plan,” Franz said.

  Simon’s sharp intake of breath was all Franz needed to launch back into his narrative.

  Austria, 1914

  The next morning Rodange got up early and took his two prized brandl bracken for their morning walk. He arrived back home to a wonderful breakfast, of which he ate heartily, washed his hands and face, and put on one of his very best suits. He had his carriage brought around to the front of the house and, with a cheery look at the driver said, “To the Gaston manor.”

  As the driver pulled away, Rodange got comfortable in the back seat of the carriage, and could barely suppress the overwhelming joy he felt at the idea of taking possession of all three Swarovski crystal vases. The gentle rocking of the carriage, coupled with his delightful daydreams soon had Rodange lulled into a rather unobservant state of mind, almost trance-like, when suddenly the carriage stopped. He did not realize that he had arrived at the Gaston family manor for a few moments, but eventually the driver came around and opened his door.

  “Sir,” he said, proffering an arm to help Rodange step down.
Rodange did not take the offered hand, but instead smiled gently at the driver, knowing that his intention was not at all meant to give offense.

  The entire Gaston family had gathered outside the front door, neatly arranged, all dressed up. Tidy hair, tidy smiles, tidy everything.

  I’m sure the inside isn’t quite that perfect—it never is! Rodange thought to himself, amusedly.

  While the Gastons had presented a very united, picturesque façade, Rodange knew better. The Gaston children and his own were very close friends; the eldest two boys had been the best two students in their grade since they were old enough to begin attending school. They always seemed to be neck and neck—neither being able to gain the upper hand over the other, and Rodange and Gaston looked forward to watching the boys challenge each other as they continued to grow older.

  The severity of the meeting was not lost on Mrs. Gaston, and Rodange did not bother to try and assuage her emotional pain. However, the children had no such qualms, and their calm demeanor did not last much longer than the time it took Rodange to walk from the carriage door to the front door and shake Gaston’s hand.

  “Mr. Gaston,” Rodange greeted his friend seriously, with only a hint of humor glimmering in his eye.

  “Mr. Rodange,” Gaston greeted his friend just as seriously.

  The boys looked from their father to the man they knew as Uncle Rodange, or Runcky—a clever combination of Uncle and Rodange on the part of the youngest boy Mikhail—and they all burst out laughing.

  “Runcky! Runcky! So good to see you.” Their fond greetings echoed through the courtyard, and the boys began slowly but surely ushering him through the Gaston house. He soon found himself on the large, open veranda overlooking Mrs. Gaston’s gardens. The bees were busy buzzing their mind-numbing drone as they went from flower to flower; collecting pollen to turn into the honey that would be vital to their survival once the cold months came.

  Rodange gave an involuntary shiver, thinking about the harshness of the Austrian winter. Mrs. Gaston soon appeared with a silver tray, a fresh-pressed pot of Italian coffee, two mugs, a pitcher of fresh, chilled cream and a crystal bowl filled with crystalline cubes of sugar.

  “What was that?” Gaston asked mildly.

  “What was what?” Rodange replied, equally mildly

  “You veritably shook out of your coat,” Gaston stated.

  “Ah yes. I was having a thought about the bees,” Rodange started to explain.

  “The bees?” Gaston inquired.

  “Yes—their droning makes me ever so sleepy, you see, but I know they need to collect the pollen to make the honey so that they can survive the winter cozied up inside their little hives. And that got me thinking about winter; thinking about how no matter what I do, Frau Rodange’s fingers are like… like frozen icicles which she insists on sticking into my pockets to get them warm.” Rodange smiled at Gaston as he remembered this quirky habit of his wife’s and continued his explanation. “Hence the reason I shivered.”

  “Is that all?” Gaston poked at his friend jokingly.

  “Yes, that’s all.” Rodange’s sardonic reply was a bit slow in coming.

  “Don’t be so cheap this year and buy the woman some mink lined gloves for her cold hands. God knows she deserves it for putting up with the likes of you.”

  “Ahh, yes. A good idea, Gaston. But then who will put their hands in my pockets, eh?”

  Gaston poured coffee for them both as they laughed, then sat down and crossed his right foot over his left knee, and reclined his head ever so slightly, basking in the late summer’s warmth. The two men stayed that way, silently content in each other’s presence. The pot of coffee slowly dwindled, as the morning moved toward afternoon. As the sun approached its zenith, Gaston shook himself out of his stupor, and said to his friend, “Well, I suppose it is time then.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. I would hate to keep Liebowitz waiting,” Rodange replied with a sly, sideways glance toward Gaston.

  Gaston chuckled and said, “For some reason, I think Liebowitz would be content to wait for a very, very long time.”

  Gaston took Rodange into his sitting room, and went out again, briefly returning with a large wooden packing crate.

  “I haven’t nailed it shut yet,” Gaston said.

  “Why on earth not?” asked Rodange.

  “So that you may verify that the contents of this crate are what I say they are. So that you will know that I held up my end of the bargain,” Gaston replied seriously, but not without humor in his voice.

  “Fine, fine, but you were never the one I was worried about in this bet, Gaston.”

  “I know—neither was I,” he shot back.

  He lifted open the crate to reveal what was, in his opinion, the most beautiful of the three vases. Clear all through its many facets, when the sun struck it at a particular angle, the light would refract throughout the vase; all the hues of the rainbow would be visible in every part of the exquisite piece of art. Rodange was in possession of the pink-tinted vase and, while it cast some almost unbelievable hues of deep red, yellowy orange, and soft, delicate pinks, it did not hold all the colors of the rainbow.

  Liebowitz had the dark blue, and its range of colors was equally as impressive as the pink-tinted crystal vase; yet it still was not, in Gaston’s opinion, the same level of perfection of the clear crystal he had come to treasure. The two friends sealed up the packing crate together, and Rodange made his way to the Liebowitz estate.

  As Rodange approached the gates, he had a feeling something was wrong. The gates, for one, should not have been chained shut. For another, while it was not bad manners to remain inside a house as an unexpected guest approached, when expecting a visitor one at least had a footman stationed in the courtyard that would announce their arrival and provide enough time for the host to come out with his family to greet his visitor.

  No matter how sour he is, he should at least have the courtesy to have the gate opened.

  Rodange sat inside the carriage for quite some time as he awaited the opening of the gates. His driver went up to them and rang the gate bell, hoping to attract a servant’s attention. Finally, after what could have been an hour of waiting, a frazzled, haggard-looking man came out.

  The man cleared his throat at Rodange, gave him a very haughty how-dare-you-darken-my-doorstep look, and said, “Master Liebowitz regrets to inform you that the object you are here to collect is no longer in his possession. Therefore, your business being concluded here, you should leave.”

  Finished with the pesky intruder, the servant turned his back to the gate and began walking away when Rodange, who had remained quiet and had kept his temper under control finally lost it.

  “Get back here you impudent, disrespectful man.” Rodange practically screamed it at the man’s back. “You tell Master Liebowitz that he is a dishonorable coward, the lowest of the low; tell him he is worse than JUDAS!”

  Rodange had gotten very little reaction from the servant up until his last phrase about being a coward. The man stopped, turned, and gave Rodange a look. The man walked right back up to the gate, his face turning redder with every step he took. He put his face right up against the bars, as close to Rodange’s as he would dare and said in the most forceful whisper Rodange had ever heard, “There has been a burglary and this house has lost one of its most valuable treasures. Kindly leave here, sir. Master Liebowitz is very distraught. Please, do not return without a specific invitation from the master of this honorable and ancient house.”

  Well, Rodange thought, it could be a coincidence. Although, probably not.

  Austria, Present Day

  “So what did Rodange do?” Simon wanted to know.

  “That part isn’t quite as clear. My personal theory is that Rodange knew he was being duped by Liebowitz. A robbery? It would have been the talk of the whole city. And yet, he, one of the most influential individuals in the town, hadn’t heard a thing.”

  “Yeah,” Simon said, “that doesn’t make
any sense at all.”

  “Right you are. What you have to understand, kid, is that these were three cut-throat men. They did not spare anyone. And after years of business, I think that the line between friend and foe had begun to blur for Liebowitz. Not only would he have felt cheated, he would have wanted to hang on to what he saw as rightfully his.”

  “Well,” Simon asked, “did he or didn’t he?”

  “No. There did end up being a break-in and subsequent robbery at the Liebowitz estate. However, Liebowitz’s announcement of the event had been about a week early. For the rest of their time together as friends, Gaston said Liebowitz must have had a bit of a premonition or some skill with seeing the future.”

  “What do you mean?” Simon inquired.

  “Later that night, Rodange sent a very small group of people to the Liebowitz estate. He did not believe for a moment that there had been a break-in the very evening before he was supposed to come around to pick up the vase. He knew better than that, and he knew how Liebowitz could be. About as stubborn as a rock and implacable as a mountain. So Rodange sent this small group to check out what had happened and, if possible, to claim the vase as his own.”

  “Did they get it back?” the kid asked.

  “They certainly did. And with quite a ruckus too. However, most of that stayed quiet as far as the public was concerned.”

  “Why?”

  “What are you kid, ten?” Franz replied. “No, it stayed hush-hush because, unfortunately for Liebowitz, he had signed the papers saying he agreed to the terms. He tried to renege on the game, you see. But if he had tried to go against the contract, he could have found himself in prison. Or worse. So instead, it became a game—each of the other families trying to steal back their vase. It’s been going on for… oh, just about a hundred years or so now,” Franz finished his tale and let Simon steep in knowledge.

  “So will this be the first time they’ll be seen together since Rodange recovered the blue vase?” Simon needed to know.

  “I really don’t know that, kid. Rodange succeeded in stealing the Liebowitz vase. And that is what we’re taking to the other side of the country.”