Tears in Tripoli: A Jake Collins Novel (Jake Collins Novels Book 1)

by Paul A. Rice

  Crazy stuff, huh?

  I know that I’m also a crazy fool for doing this, and I’ve probably never done anything as stupid in my entire life, but I just wanted to tell you this whilst I’m full of the desire to write, and I am full of desire, Jake…

  Harley was born when I was married to his father, but that’s all history now – if the man would just stop asking me for money, and threatening to take my son away if I don’t pay, then things would be fine! It’s all just history and as soon as I’m home my divorce will be finalized. Anyway, Bry looks after Harley most of the time when I’m not there. I sometimes wonder if the poor kid knows that I’m his Mom… But, I’m going to change that next year, I promise. I’ve already told work that I want some extended leave, so they can give it to me, or they can go find themselves another ‘chief foreign correspondent’.

  So, that’s my big secret, I’m glad that I’ve told you now because I know it could put some people off, other peoples’ kids and stuff. Anyway, if you’re cool with it, then tomorrow, when we eventually get up, make some loud, motorbike noises, like a Harley, when you see me. You know – Brmm-Brmm! That will be so funny (and I’ll be sooo happy)!

  And now, I’m going to sleep, I feel as though I could sleep forever. I wish you were here. The hotel in Djerba can’t come quickly enough… Thanks for a giving me such a great night, and here’s to lots more!

  G’night, Jake.

  Always yours, drunk or otherwise…

  Love

  Andi

  XXX

  PS: don’t forget – Brmm-Brmm!

  ***

  I read her email twice, then again one more time. As I’ve mentioned, I don’t do tears these days, and I haven’t done for years. But, right at that particular moment, I came very close, let me tell you. I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms above my head and running my hands down across my face, listening to the stubble scraping as I dragged my fingers all the way down to the bottom of my neck.

  Andi’s email had completely shattered me, I just couldn’t quite get my head around the fact that she was dead – it was just a complete tragedy, for everyone, including me.

  I was suddenly filled with the desire to attend her funeral. I really, really wanted to go, I must go! Jumping to my feet, I hurried across the room to grab my phone, quickly scanning through the address book until I came across the number for Andi’s news desk…

  I always have the numbers of the various news desks in my phone, simply because if they, the journos, decide to get clever and disregard my advice over some major issue or another, then I’ll just ring the desk and get them to clarify the situation, that way, the duty editor can make a decision based upon a real-time threat assessment. If you’re in my industry, ‘covering-your-arse’ is the most commonly-used term for such actions as ringing the news desk…

  I rang the desk, stating who I was and asking if they knew the details of Andi’s funeral. The woman on the other end said that it was a wholly private affair and that if my presence had been required, then I would have received details of the event. I pleaded with her to give me them, but she wouldn’t budge, the cold-hearted bitch!

  I was almost beside myself with frustration.

  Then, and in complete contrast to my pre-conceived opinion of her, the women said that she would send me an email by the end of the week, after the funeral. The email would have all the contact details for Andi’s parents, that way I could at least get in touch and give them my condolences, as and when I saw fit.

  It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear, but beggars can’t be choosers. I thanked her profusely, gave her my email address, and hung up. I considered going online and trawling through all the funeral directors in New York, which is where Andi had said that she lived, and ringing them all to see if they were holding her funeral. Then, the thought of turning up uninvited at such a horrendous event, and causing more pain for Andi’s family, suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea. I guessed that I’d just have to wait for the email with their contact details – that meant it was now two critical messages I was waiting for, and I absolutely hate waiting for other people to take action. Waiting was not something I easily coped with.

  Waiting? That type of thing could easily drive a man to drink.

  Determined to keep myself busy, I printed out Andi’s email and slid it into the folder where I kept some of my other memorabilia, just things like a photo of my parents and some other ones of a few old mates, only the dead ones, though, you understand?

  Then I tidied the flat up a bit, tried to watch the news, sitting there with the pictures flashing in front of my eyes and the words going in one side of my head and out of the other. Within the hour, I was bored senseless, the thought of going for a run in the cold wetness of some grey rain, which was now falling like a fine mist outside my window, simply didn’t appeal to me.

  ‘What’s that, drive a man to drink, did you say?’ I thought, still going nuts over the whole idea of sitting around and waiting for things to happen. The pub was open and I felt confident there was almost certainly a seat at the bar with my name on it

  ‘Yeah, that sounds like a marvellous idea to me!’ I growled.

  Grabbing my coat, I headed for the door.

  21

  Italian Riches

  Within a week I was back in the land of sunshine and pasta. I was also in receipt of all the things I had so impatiently wished for. The email giving the contact details of Andi’s parents came through just as the women had promised it would. As soon as I read the message, I immediately send her parents a short email of my own, telling them who I was and what my part in the story had been. I only asked for one thing: the address and location of Andi’s grave, that’s all I wanted. Just to go and see where she was and to say thanks for all of the nice things she’d said to me, via that gut-wrenching message written on the morning of her death.

  I kept the message simple, writing down all of my contact details on the bottom of the page, hoping that they would at least reply, even if it was to say thanks, but no-thanks. I checked the letter and it looked Okay, simple and polite. I clicked the send icon and away it went, leaving me wondering yet again if I’d ever hear back from someone.

  Later that same day, I received a text-message on my phone. Hearing it beeping, I walked across and picked the phone up from where it was vibrating on one of the kitchen work surfaces. Opening the message, and seeing that it had arrived from an unknown sender, I guessed that it was Andi’s family and that the answer was no. They’d even withheld their number so I couldn’t reply. I felt gutted. I glanced down at the text, not really understanding what I was reading.

  The message comprised three words.

  ‘Check your balance.’

  I stared at the little screen, hardly being able to see the words without my specs, which were still over by the computer.

  I read the message once more.

  I’d been right the first time, blind old fool or not.

  ‘Check your balance.’

  That was all it said.

  My heart started thumping, but not in a lottery-winning, excited way. No, I simply felt sick. I stood looking at the phone, knowing what I should do, but not really wanting to go and check my bank balance. This electronic nightmare was starting to get to me, the whole ‘should I look, or shouldn’t I look’ scenario had fried my brain. I shook the feelings out of my head, placed the phone down and went over to do what needed doing. I should have been excited, I know, but I wasn’t – I just felt tired. I logged-into my account, went through the security tests and waited whilst the page loaded.

  And there it was.

  Raouf had been as good as his word.

  I… Jake Collins Esquire… had become a millionaire.

  When added to my other funds, Raouf’s deposit meant that I was now actually a millionaire-and-a-quarter, in pounds sterling.

  Now, that was a lot of money.

  ‘Fuck-me,’ I whispered. ‘You, Jake, are loaded, my ol
d son, absolutely-fucking-loaded!’ I sat there and looked at the figures.

  They didn’t seem real; the whole thing didn’t seem real.

  It was stupid in many ways, but mainly because there really wasn’t anything I wanted, not in a materialistic sense anyway. I had two nice properties, yes, I only rented them, but they were my homes. The apartment in London and this villa were both filled with nice things, my things, good furniture, plasma TVs, bespoke kitchens, walk-in wet rooms, and a set of master bedrooms that were fit for a king. I had every toy that any man could ever want – including my Porsche, which was currently sitting alongside two top-of-the-range Ducati sports bikes, all waiting patiently for me in the garage down below. I had clothes, I had shoes, I had gadgets, and I had money in the bank – I had everything.

  The one thing I didn’t have… was any debt.

  The crazy thing is that I’d had all of that stuff way before Raouf and Faizal had donated to the cause. Yes, I had been loaded anyway, and now… well, and now I was really loaded. I no idea what the hell I was going to do with that sort of cash.

  I burst into laughter, saying: ‘Yeah, well… I’m pretty sure that you can have a whole shit-load of fun spending some of it, Jake – hell, yeah!’ I laughed again, sitting to idly contemplate the situation.

  I thought about my personal advisor at the bank – Vicky.

  She’d be having a fit right about now. The bloody women made a point of calling me on a fairly regular basis, just to advise me that I was not investing my money properly. ‘We should meet socially at some stage, Mr Collins,’ she had once said. ‘I can give you some really great ideas on what to do with your money, just on an informal basis, of course…’ Yeah, I just bet she could have.

  I’d only met Vicky on one occasion, when I first opened my account. She was a stick-thin woman with narrow eyes, which gazed out from behind thick-rimmed spectacles. She had immediately reminded me of a Praying Mantis, and we all know what those bitches do when they get a bit peckish. I could almost see her licking those tight lips of hers. No, I was happy with most of my money just sitting in a normal account with a few quid being syphoned-off into a savings account every month. I wasn’t interested in high-risk investments, and I wouldn’t trust any banker as far as I could throw them. There was no way would I ever be meeting ‘Vick-the-Stick’ on a social basis, either. Not if I wanted to keep my insides where they belonged, I wouldn’t…

  So, there it was, all but one of my loose-ends were nicely tied-up. The money was in the bank, I’d contacted Andi’s parents, and now, all I had to do was wait and see if they replied.

  It was a long wait and that didn’t surprise me – just over one-week later there was a message from them, and it was a very nice message. In a nutshell: Andi’s parents said they were pleased to have heard from me and were sorry they hadn’t been in touch, but with the funeral and things they hadn’t read their mail for a few days.

  They said they would be scattering Andi’s ashes in three days’ time, on this-coming Sunday. They also said that they would be extremely pleased if I was to attend. They told me where the ceremony would be held, and also that it would just be them and Andi’s sister, who, they said, had told them of Andi’s affection for me. Little Harley, who would be with Bry in the morning, would come to Central Park after lunch so he could be with them for the scattering of his mother’s ashes. They closed by saying they really hoped I would attend and that I would be made most welcome if I did.

  I felt privileged to even have been asked to go to New York, but now, to be able to go and say some form of decent goodbye to Andi, was truly a bonus. I immediately replied, telling them that I would be taking the next available flight from Italy and that I would call them as soon as I had reached my hotel in New York.

  I sent an email to my travel agent, asking for a one-way flight to New York and a room in the best hotel she could find me within walking distance of Central Park, which is where I was to meet Andi’s family on Sunday. Georgia replied in an instant, telling me that the list of flight and hotel options would be with me in an hour.

  Leaving her to it, I went to pack, gathering some decent clothes, including my favourite handmade suit and a pair of smart shoes. It only took me about fifteen minutes and the job was done.

  I dumped my bag by the front door and went to get changed into my running kit. The weather was beautiful and so, with the sun warming my back, I took a jog down the beachfront.

  I was gone for nearly two hours, finally returning lathered in sweat with my legs shaking. Standing under the shower, I felt good, my mind was clear and I had a mission. The thought of having something to do and of having an opportunity to say farewell to Andi, filled me with a sense of anticipation, and dread

  I read Georgia’s list of options, asked her to book my preferred ones, saying that I’d like a first-class seat – why the hell not? Having sent her my request, I sat back and looked at my watch. There were still six-hours to go before I needed to be at the airport – seeing that the weather was still so gorgeous, I went and slipped into my motorcycle leathers.

  Grabbing my helmet and gloves, I think I very nearly skipped down the stairs into the garage. Moments later and I was heading into the hills behind Pesaro, the greenery was fantastic and the smooth tarmac even more so. I gave the big V-twin her head, grinning inside my helmet as the open exhaust-pipes boomed in anger. I rode until the flashing of the Ducati’s fuel-warning light brought my games to an end. I stopped to refuel, had a smoke, and then headed for home, still grinning like a madman as the bike tried to kill me every time I wound the throttle fully open.

  Life was good.

  22

  New York – New Discoveries

  I took the Porsche to the airport and, having had the Ducati reignite my need-for-speed, I drove flat-out all the way to Rimini, arriving with three hours to wait before my flight to the States. I didn’t care, there was a bar in the terminal, and Peroni is a damned-fine drink…

  The flight was a long one but I was completely relaxed, lying stretched-out in my first-class boudoir and being waited upon hand-and-foot by the nicest, and best-looking, air stewardess I think I’ve ever met. Yes, Suzy was just the best and her perfect attendance soon ensured that I was as drunk as a Lord. Within two-hours I was fast asleep and no-longer needed anything from her, which is probably why she gave me so much free booze in the first place…

  I managed to get through the US passport control without too many problems; those guys can give a severe grilling if they’re not happy with you. Freedom, it comes at a price I suppose. It was a good job I showed them one of my less well-travelled passports, because, had I presented one of the others, filled with visas and stamps from some really ‘interesting’ places, then I’d probably still be there today, and they’d be snapping on the rubber gloves.

  The taxi ride took ages to get into the centre of New York, the traffic was horrific and I wondered how it would feel to have to endure this every time you went to-and-from work. I had chosen to stay at the Marriot hotel in Times Square, and Georgia had reserved me the best available suite. I paid the driver, gave him a tip and then went into the hotel to check-in. It was a nice place. There were better hotels around, I’m sure, but, according to Georgia, they had all been fully-booked. I didn’t care – my room was on the forty-third floor and the glass-walled elevator rose so fast that it was like lifting-off. I tried it twice, going up and down like a kid in the park, it amazed me.

  I unpacked my bag and hung my clothes up, making sure that my suit was in some form of decent state and that my shoes were ready to go for Sunday. After sorting out my stuff, I ordered a meal and a couple of beers from room service, I was hungry, I was tired and I hadn’t changed my watch. With no idea of what day it was, I sat and had my burger, which was the size of a baby’s head, and drank my beers. Deciding that I’d give my liver a break, I had a shower and fell into the soft embrace of an enormous bed.

  The next day, Saturday, I sent Andi’s parents a
text, telling them where I was staying and that I would see them on Sunday. The reply was almost instant: ‘Central Park, the Alice in Wonderland statue, we’ll be having a picnic at about one-o’clock. See you there, looking forward to meeting you.’

  I acknowledged their message and then started browsing through the hotel’s literature in order to find out where the rendezvous was to be held – guessing that it must be some tourist spot in the park. I soon found what I needed, the brochure’s picture of Alice and an oversized toadstool being followed by some clear directions. I guessed it would be a decent walk and so made plans to leave the hotel with plenty of time to spare the following day.

  I went to the gym and it was a good one, better than many of the ones I had used in the various fitness-clubs around the globe. I spent at least an hour in there before going back to my room to spend rest of my morning in doing the square-route of absolutely nothing. I had breakfast delivered to my room and then just lounged around and watched the TV, trying unsuccessfully to get my head around the rules of American Football. In the end I gave up and took to flicking through the plethora of TV channels. It was rather nice being so lazy and I soon felt the tension leaving my mind and body. By lunchtime, I was raring to go. I slung some comfortable clothes on and hit the city.

  New York is amazing and you either love it or you hate it – for me it was little of each. I hated the crowds but I loved the madness and the buildings. Huge skyscrapers and other marvels of architecture and engineering abounded on all sides. Buildings covered in cast-iron facades were being refurbished everywhere, scaffolding towers crawling up their sides like steel ivy. Yellow cabs and open-topped buses filled the streets. Fire engines, ambulances and police cars often went racing past, the wailing of their sirens ricocheting around the building-lined streets. Poor people, rich people, cleaners, tourists and tramps, they were all there. It was crazy, but I loved it. I walked all the way down to the site of the World Trade Centre, staying for at least an hour to read all the posters and signs that had been erected on the nearby fences. It was still a very emotional place, even then. I walked down to South Street Seaport, had a coffee and then hopped on a tourist boat, enjoying the wind in my hair and sight of the Statue of Liberty as we drifted past.