The American Broker

by Andrew Hill

  "That's beautiful, you guys! I kinda reckon you two are gonna be on every TV screen in town."

  Behind Claire, in the doorway, was a black fellow, in check shirt and jeans. He strode over to the kitchen hatch, sliding the door back and revealing a small VHS camera, adapted with a lens fitting neatly into the finger recess that would be used to move the hatch. A simple frame supported it on the back of the door.

  "Call us when you're ready for the next take, Mr Bryant." He snapped shut the cassette case and Chris could just make out the word 'Kingfisher' neatly written in white on the black plastic. Dropping the case into an envelope, he scrawled 'CBS - Washington DC' and, clutching the equipment in one hand, he grinned at Bob Lindon, his white teeth flashing. "Sure don't know 'bout your million, Mr Lindon, but a few million gonna see you alright. Awlright!" He was still grinning and shaking his head as he went out the door. Evelyn followed him.

  "Holy shit!!" spluttered Bob. "This ain't no joke. I'm a dead man if that goes out! I mean d-e-a-d dead. Those assholes don't play our ball game. Oh! Do they! You bet your sweet ass they don't! You don't understand the sensitivity of what I am doing. I came here because you shits asked me to help this kid. I don't need your fucking deal. I don't care about your deal. You can all screw yourselves - I don't give a damn - you want to break me. You got it! Take me! Stick my picture on every TV set in the States and you've got it, baby. You've just bought yourselves a corpse and I guess a lot of people are going to come up and shake you all by the hand. But you better watch your own asses 'cos what I don't put on paper I keep right here.." He tapped his forehead with a shaky finger. "...and anyone who reckons you fellows might know too much about me might as well go out into the back yard and start digging his own grave now. Until now, no one knows I exist. You see me in the phone book? You see my name anywhere? You wonder why I can still walk free in the States? Because I do not exist. I'm a nobody. Crazy Jewbody. 'Ha! There goes ol' Bob again. Thinks he's got a million coming tomorrow!' I hear them. I hear you. You're all the same. I never trusted anyone before but I trusted Christopher. You all think I let him down. That's my mistake - I trusted him, and now... Oh shit! I'm blown, baby. Boy am I blown."

  Chris said nothing, just stared fiercely at Evelyn as he walked back to the table and then at Paul and Tyler.

  "You too, John?" he finally muttered.

  Tyler nodded, not looking up to meet his eyes.

  "What are they paying?" he asked with a sigh.

  "£20,000 plus 50% of whatever they get from anyone else interested," said Paul, "and royalties from your book. They reckon it could gross 100,000 in twelve months."

  "I don't bloody believe it," said Chris, more to himself than to anyone else. He got up and walked over to the girl. "Whether you're in on this or not," he said, firmly, moving a finger nail up and down the neck of her dress, "I want you to pack my things and put them in the car, and.." He turned to Bob. "...his too. Now, I'm going in half an hour... which is as long as you've got to tell me what's going on." He looked from Paul to Evelyn to Tyler. "C'mon John."

  "Sorry, mate. I told you it'd got to stop. Ages ago. You'd have us all chasing deals again. We went along with you to get him here. CBS offered good money and, Christ, we need it. You're cut in, too. We did it for your sake as well but ... this bastard's had it too good for too long. We'll never get anything back. If we'd left it any longer someone else would have beaten us to it. We had just one trump card - your book - that clinched the deal."

  "But this was..." Chris started but Evelyn stopped him, angrily.

  "Cut it out, Chris. You aren't as innocent as you try and make out - but we are! And we want our names cleared up a bit. We've got to live. If you'd carried on getting away with everything and coming out of every court room smelling of bleedin' roses... well, you know, Chris, you can't keep quiet, can you. Sooner or later we'd be getting calls from someone and bang goes our chances of a normal life again. It's OK for you but we're getting on. We've had a good time - don't get me wrong - but it's the end of the line for us. You're on your own now."

  "But what about...."

  "Not another word, Chris!" Evelyn's voice was threatening now and his eyes blazed at the dismayed Chris. For a second, Chris caught what seemed to be nervousness in his colleague, who switched to look in Bob's direction, then back to Chris again. Something was missing from this charade. Something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it. Chris had a million questions. He asked none.

  Chapter XXI Lunch

  In silence, Chris and Bob walked to the car. It started and at the same time Chris de Burgh's 'Don't Pay the Ferryman' burst out of the four speakers. Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't pay the ferryman 'til he gets you to the other side'. The words brought a rueful smile to Chris's face. Turning the volume down slightly,

  "I don't even know what bleeding side I'm on!" he muttered, "Never mind paying anyone to get me there."

  Clasping Bob's arm and shaking it as if to wake him from a dream he asked:

  "You hungry, Bob?"

  "Bet your ass I am. Those guys just ate our lunch!" Bob grimaced.

  The back of the Opel lowered suddenly and the exhaust growled as it accelerated down the hill leading away from the village.

  Chapter XXII Time To Think

  "Gill? Hello. Sorry I'm late..." Gill clutched the receiver with both hands.

  "Chris! Oh thank God you rang. I've been so worried about you. It's terrible here...." She twisted the coiled white flex round her finger and described the events that had happened over the previous few days.

  Chris sighed deeply. "Christ, what's going on in this world?" he asked no one in particular. "Look, Gill, the plan's changed. Evelyn and the others seem to have something of their own organised. God knows what they're doing but I'm on my own - with Bob. I don't really know what to do next but I've got to stick with him and see it through. But they can't have anything to do with what's going on there - God, I expect I'll get the blame for that, too. Gill, please try and find out what's going on - Michaelis should be in London still - call him..." He gave her a number. "...but don't trust anyone, not even John... It sounds awful, I know, but..."

  "Can't I see you?" pleaded Gill. "I miss you so much.... and when you didn't call...well...I'd rather be with you than here."

  "Give me time to think," said Chris.

  "At least tell me where I can call you - God knows what'll happen next... and what if Michaelis has a message?"

  Chris thought for a moment. He looked out of the telephone booth at the large digital clock across the airport passenger hall.

  "OK. I've got to go now but call 010-30-242-41218 at 8 o'clock tomorrow night. I'll be there. Keep trying if you can't get through...."

  "That's Greece!" Gill cried.

  "Yes, it's a tiny cafe bar on Kos, actually. Don't say anything to anyone, Gill, please - I'll tell you more then."

  "Alright... but be there, won't you?" she said, softly.

  "Yes. I promise."

  "And please be careful."

  "You too. Look, I must go now."

  Chris put the phone down and collected the coins that dropped with a loud clatter into the recess at the bottom. Bob and he ran across the empty departure lounge and out onto the breezy airfield. A Swissair girl tore off part of their tickets and stuffed the other halves back in Bob's hand. "You must be quick. It goes!" she told them as they ran over to the red-striped Boeing 737 waiting on the tarmac.

  Breathlessly, they stood at the front of the passenger cabin and a steward closed the door behind them. The plane was full and the two men looked rather incongruous in their dark suits, carrying briefcases, amongst the brightly- and, in some cases, very scantily clad holidaymakers. The subject of many mutterings and surprised looks they found their seats on either side of the aisle about half-way down. Bob collapsed noisily onto his seat.

  "They sell coffee on this bus?" he asked loudly, causing a giggle in the row behind.

  "I suppose someone will come round with somet
hing when we get airborne," replied Chris.

  The speakers above them crackled and a girl's voice welcomed everyone aboard. Everyone craned their necks to watch the two girls at the front of the plane put on a double act performance of pointing out emergency exits and how to inflate a life-jacket. Chris vaguely made out the German version. A burst of laughter followed Bob's remark:

  "Hey, Chris! We must be in England - I can't understand a word anyone says!"

  Chris smiled and closed his eyes. His mind raced back and forth; the smile faded as his thoughts turned to the myriad new problems now facing him.

  Chapter XXIII Kos

  Kos airport is small, neat and efficient, particularly by Greek standards. Chris breathed deep the warm, dry air as he stepped down from the plane - the dry, yet unmistakably Greek, scent that he always noticed was a welcoming sensation. The late afternoon sun was still strong but a breeze blew through his hair and sent both sides of his jacket flapping at his sides. They followed the chattering tourists and joined the queue waiting for the grey-suited officials to stamp the series of red passports and Chris wondered how much delay his and Bob's odd ones out would produce.

  He peered through the large glass windows separating arrivals from the tanned crowds waiting to depart, clutching their blue and white 'duty free' plastic carrier bags, full of booze and cigarettes. The passport official made no comment as they passed through, more concerned with the excited conversation he was having with a colleague as he almost automatically opened the booklet, searched for an empty page and stamped it.

  The two men joined the cluster around the small arc of a conveyor belt carrying cases, arriving through rubber flaps at one end and then disappearing through another set in the wall at the other end. Bags of all shapes and sizes passed by. It was a relief to see Bob's black suitcase approach, followed by Chris's rather battered blue one. Hauling them off the moving belt, they turned and walked through the open door and past the group of holiday company reps who anxiously watched the crowd and clutched clipboards to their chests.

  "You know, I've never been to Greece before," said Bob, as they headed towards a grey Mercedes taxi. "And is it hot!" he added. "Phew, Violet didn't pack my two-piece!" he joked.

  "Kardamena parakalo" said Chris, trying to recall the little Greek he knew.

  "Ne" replied the driver, putting the cases in the boot. "Sie sind von Deutschland?" he asked, as they drove off.

  "Nein, er...ochi" stuttered Chris. "Ime Anglika".

  "Ah! Cala! I know England," said the driver. "I stay in Bermondsey - you know Bermondsey? Three years."

  Chris didn't know Bermondsey but made approving noises; he did not want to become drawn into a lengthy conversation.

  The Mercedes careered round one of the two roundabouts on the island and headed down a straight stretch of road towards the village. On either side of the road tall dark pink flowers waved as they passed. Further away, the uneven and pitted landscape was a gentle green with dark poplar trees standing erect from place to place and, amongst them, masses of yellow blooms appeared. Occasionally the rich scent of lavender wafted in the open window as they sped along.

  Bob watched the scenery go by and was entranced by its beauty. Then, when the car lurched as the driver avoided a pothole, his hand grabbed the doorframe and he shouted against the wind:

  "I know where you picked up your crazy driving habits now!"

  Kardamena came into view. A small collection of red-tiled, white-walled buildings bounding a gorgeous blue sea. A few large new hotels rose out of the jumble of smaller box shapes and, as they came to the first buildings, large untidily written signs advertising disco bars and restaurants caught Bob's eye.

  "Don't worry, Bob," said Chris, "It's quite quiet actually," reassuring the older man that he wouldn't be subjected to the non-stop entertainment he might have begun to fear.

  The taxi turned and stopped at a small parking area on the sea front. Chris gave him a green 500 drachmae note.

  "Oriste"

  "Efcharisto," replied the driver, searching his pocket for change.

  "Andaxi," said Chris, waving his hand.

  "Efcharisto poli," smiled the driver, taking the cases out and handing them to Chris and Bob. They decided that, despite the heat, it was easier to wear their jackets than carry them and so off they set, walking along the promenade, looking slightly ridiculous.

  On their right was a series of tavernas and cafe bars, each with its own music competing with the next. Brown bodies slumped in red, white, blue, all colours of chairs, and sheltered in the shade until, cooled a little, they would emerge to the beach again. An impatient motorcyclist sounded his horn behind them and Bob leaped out of the way as the tiny machine buzzed by.

  "Hullo there!" he shouted at the two girls astride it. The blonde at the back waved without turning, shaking her head to let her hair catch the breeze. Bob put his bags down, put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. "I can think of better places to be kidnapped!" he shouted at Chris, "but this'll do fine!"

  Chris looked at him, laughing, but the use of the word 'kidnapped' had not escaped his attention. He wondered whether that was what Bob really thought or whether it was just one of his things to say.

  "I can think of one or two other people to be kidnapped with!" he responded, continuing the analogy, "and you won't do fine!" he added. They carried on walking, swinging their cases along as the forward momentum generated seemed to help them make progress past the busier parts of the street, where groups had congregated outside the more popular bars.

  At the end of the street the way ahead was blocked by a red Nissan pick-up trying to get round a tight corner. A white Suzuki jeep was parked opposite a small kiosk selling postcards and tee-shirts and there was only a narrow gap between the jeep and the merchandise spilling out of the shop. The shopkeeper was standing in the doorway watching the scene, his hands on his hips, his expression speaking volumes.

  "Yassu Christo!" cried a voice. Chris turned and the driver of the pick-up came over, slapping him hard on the back and then shaking his hand warmly.

  "Ah, yassu Jianni!" replied Chris. "Ti kanis, cala?"

  "Ne, ne, cala. Exeis?"

  "Cala!"

  Jiannis was a thick-set man of anything between thirty-five and forty-five, one just couldn't be more accurate. He was dark brown and black hair covered practically all his visible skin. A stained red vest hung loosely over a pair of black jeans. A thick, black moustache sat like a roof over his mouth, now smiling, genuinely pleased to see an old friend back again. He grabbed the cases and threw them into the back, gesturing to Bob to get up there with them. Bob clambered over the side, assisted by Chris, who then followed him rather more nimbly.

  "You stay same place?" asked Jiannis, who had returned to the cab and called out of the window.

  "Yes," said Chris, waving at Jiannis' two sons through the glass at the back of the cab, against which they had their noses and hands pressed.

  A group of locals had unceremoniously pushed the white jeep down the street and left it a few yards further on where it would not be so much of an obstruction. Jiannis pulled away sharply, sending Bob flying to the back of the truck as he was caught off-balance.

  If the sight of the two men walking along the sea front had not caused amusement already, then watching two dark-suited gentlemen perched in the back of a truck certainly did. The truck pulled up outside a couple of buildings a few minutes later. Chris jumped out and took the cases down and Bob jumped after them. With a laugh and a wave Jiannis roared off.

  Behind them, a soft, white sandy beach stretched out to clear water. In front was a block of four apartments, fairly new but already in need of some repair. A dull pink paint had been brushed over most of the concrete but, here and there, patches of the original white showed through. The shutters were closed on one of the first floor rooms but the others lay open with towels and assorted beachwear hanging from the balconies. From around the back came a plump little woman who be
amed when her brown eyes saw Chris.

  "Come, come.." she said, after greeting them. "How many days?" she asked, as she puffed her way up the stairs. "Efta, octo....maybe enia," replied Chris, Andaxi?"

  "Andaxi," she confirmed. She opened the door, and then the shutters, letting out the stuffy air, then went out and made her way down the stairs again.

  "Not exactly the Sheraton Skyline, Bob, but it should do us for a few days," said Chris. Bob was looking around the room.

  "Great! They got a toilet in this place?" he asked.

  "Sure, over there, but there's no seat.... or, at least, there wasn't last time!"

  "Who said anything about sitting down?" laughed Bob, "I just want to go to the toilet!"

  Chris was tired but he was also thirsty. Tempting as it was to follow Bob's lead and just fall asleep on the bed, fully clothed, he decided not to. He didn't really want to let his thoughts get the better of him and needed distraction. He changed into a fresh shirt and trousers, pulled on some clean socks and a pair of trainers, stuffed a few notes in his pocket and headed for the village.

  Night fell quickly in Greece but it still remained delightfully warm and the breeze had now subsided. The cicadas chirped noisily in the bushes and trees and the beat of a hundred different rhythms pulsed from the tavernas along the beach. He strolled into Angelo's Bar and waited for his friend, Stavros, to come to his table.

  Stavros was immaculately dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers. He worked at the bar most evenings and featured on so many holiday snaps, and in so many different poses, with girls of all nationalities that he had a selection pinned up around the wall of the bar.

  He greeted Chris by giving him something akin to a bear hug and tugging at his cheek with his fingers before dashing off to pour a couple of large drinks.

  They clinked their glasses together and shouted "Yammas!"

  "What are you doing now, my friend?" asked Stavros.