The Nicotine Chronicles

by Lee Child

  On the second puff I heard my grandmother singing a very old song, probably a slave song, that told of a couple who ran from the farm and hid in the jungle. They want to be married but are all alone in the middle of the forest so they ask the trees themselves to be their witnesses as they make their vows before God.

  On the third puff I could smell my grandfather’s aftershave.

  On the fourth puff I tasted my eldest sister’s tears on my tongue.

  And on the fifth puff . . . it was always the fifth puff . . . I began to see:

  * * *

  Alvaro was a simple and good-natured man who was too impressed by wealth, power, and all their trappings. He was a carpenter by trade and had a small business on the island that did repairs, renovations, and a bit of light construction. He was introduced to Fred over the telephone by a mutual friend who lived in Miami. Alvaro agreed to meet with Fred when he came to the island and would discuss ways he could help Fred initiate a luxury apartment project—the very building we were sitting in.

  When Fred arrived from Miami on his rented forty-two-foot yacht Superba, Alvaro, his wife Demaris, their sixteen-year-old daughter Rosa, and eighteen-year-old son Quique were waiting on the pier with flowers, chocolates, and pastries. After Fred checked into the Astor-Morgan, the most expensive and luxurious hotel on the island, Alvaro and his wife hosted a dinner at their home in Fred’s honor. Fifteen of their friends toasted Fred and wished him luck with his endeavors. The next day Alvaro and his family drove Fred to the old city and showed him the fort and the cathedral. Demaris prepared a picnic lunch and they ate in the park on a hill that overlooked the sea.

  In the evening, Fred invited Alvaro to dine with him at the hotel. He explained in detail to Alvaro what his plans were and what he needed in order to accomplish them. Over after-dinner Scotch, Fred proposed they work together on the project. Alvaro was overjoyed. They shook hands and Fred made a toast to the success of Porta Liguria, the name Fred had already chosen for their building.

  The next day they visited a potential site for the project and then had lunch at Fred’s hotel. As they lingered over espressos, the manager of the hotel brought over a folder of documents and handed them to Fred. Fred explained to Alvaro that he had taken the liberty of having his attorney draw up a simple agreement that would create the new company they would use to build Porta Liguria. Fred explained in detail how this would work and what Alvaro’s payments and responsibilities would be. Alvaro looked over the three-page document and was ready to sign immediately, but Fred insisted Alvaro have his own lawyer look it over first. Alvaro took his new friend’s advice and two days later the agreement was signed and notarized.

  This was the beginning of what promised to be a fruitful pairing. Fred had financial resources and investors in Florida, Arizona, and Texas, and had no problem funding the project. Alvaro was able to hire the necessary local crews and subcontractors and was also skilled at knowing the palms that needed to be greased in order to expedite their affairs. In the first year, Alvaro made more money then he had ever made in his life. This was before the building was even finished and its apartments sold off. Things were going so well that they began looking at sites for a second project. Fred said he could easily get the financing for another building and was having contracts drawn up by his lawyer in Miami.

  Alvaro could not believe his luck. He and Demaris started looking for a new house in one of the city’s best neighborhoods. When Fred delivered the contracts to Alvaro he asked him to have his lawyer review them as quickly as possible in order to secure a particular investor. Alvaro, distracted by his desire to surprise Demaris with a down payment on a house, forgot to bring the contracts to his lawyer. He was so happy and had grown to trust Fred so much that he read through the contracts himself. Feeling that all was in order, Alvaro signed the documents and returned them to Fred. Fred asked if his lawyer had any questions or comments but Alvaro lied and said no, everything was fine.

  The next day Alvaro drove Demaris to a house she had fallen in love with and told her it now belonged to them.

  Around this time, unknown to Alvaro and Demaris, Fred began picking up Rosa from school every day and taking her on long drives down the coast. He professed his love and said he had fallen for her the moment he first saw her on the pier. She was flattered by the attention and promised to keep their meetings secret. One day Fred bought her a gold bracelet and expressed his desire to marry her when she finished school. That afternoon he brought Rosa to his hotel and they drank champagne at the bar to celebrate their intentions. After their second glass he asked if she would like to see the view of the city from his suite. Rosa knew what this could mean but she was in love with Fred and trusted him. In the living room he began to kiss Rosa as the sun started to set over the bay. They sat on the couch and Fred began to remove her clothes. When she was in just her bra and panties, Fred pinned her arms down and spread a thick piece of duct tape over her mouth. Rosa struggled and cried as Fred taped her wrists together behind her back and ripped her underwear off. She was helpless.

  Fred did things to Rosa that the worst john wouldn’t do to the most unfortunate whore found in the filthiest alley. Things that before that day were unimaginable to Rosa. And throughout the entire ordeal Fred took pictures. When he was finished with her, he showed her the bathroom and handed her a bar of soap and a towel. After she washed and dressed he gave her money for a taxi and showed her to the door.

  Shortly after his assault on Rosa, Fred hired a private detective to surveil Alvaro’s son Quique. Quique was a slight and soft-spoken young man whose features were less than masculine in Fred’s opinion. Fred had suspicions about him from the first time he’d dined at Alvaro’s home and the detective found evidence that confirmed Fred’s theory: Quique, who was now in his first year of college studying education, hung out in the gay bars downtown. Quique kept to a pretty consistent schedule of specific bars on specific nights and the detective gave his itinerary to Fred. It was a Friday night when Fred took a taxi from his hotel to La Maria for a cocktail. Quique was sitting alone at the end of the bar sipping a glass of white wine. The seat next to him was empty and it appeared he was waiting for someone. Fred walked directly over and asked if the empty seat was taken. Quique said no before he turned his head and a split-second later he was looking right at Fred. Quique went red with embarrassment and stuttered as he tired to explain why he was there. Fred smiled, rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and said, “Your secret is safe with me . . . Can I buy you a drink?” Fred told him that he was pleasantly surprised to find Quique in the bar and that he’d always felt an attraction to the boy. He asked Quique if he liked “to party.” They went into the men’s room together and Fred gave Quique three large hits of cocaine. The pair stayed in the bar for two hours talking, drinking, and even briefly dancing together. Quique got very high and drunk and called his mother to say he would be staying at a friend’s house.

  In the taxi, Fred discreetly and tenderly rubbed Quique’s thigh. But once they were in Fred’s hotel room things changed, and the same debauchery endured by his sister was inflicted on Quique. And all of it documented with photographs. When Fred was finished, Quique was offered the soap, towel, shower, and taxi fare. Neither he nor his sister ever spoke of what happened in Fred’s suite.

  It was not long after this incident that Porta Liguria was completed. The apartments sold out in a matter of weeks and Fred, as per the contract, took ownership of and furnished the penthouse. Alvaro was paid his share and used it all to purchase a brand-new Cadillac.

  The site of the next apartment project had already been secured and ground was finally broken. Two months later, Alvaro received a registered letter from a legal firm in Miami. Alvaro was confused about what the letter actually meant so he took it to his lawyer, who scolded Alvaro for signing a contract without his knowledge and called him a fool. The letter said that Fred was exercising his “option of dissolution,” which meant that Alvaro was no longer part of the
new construction project and had waived his right for any cash buyout settlement as long as the partnership was dissolved before the building’s completion. There was nothing the lawyer could do, the contract was legitimate.

  Alvaro called Fred who was now living in the penthouse at Porta Liguria, but Fred would not answer his phone. Alvaro drove like a demon to Fred’s home but the housekeeper said that he had left for Miami a few days prior and she was not sure when he would return. Alvaro drove to the new construction site but the project manager Nestor, a longtime associate of Alvaro’s, said that he was no longer allowed on the premises. Alvaro refused to go. A fight ensued, and the security guards dragged Alvaro out to the street, giving him a nasty beating along the way.

  Alvaro went to a bar in the old city, drank half a bottle of rum, and pissed himself as he wept with his head lying on the bar. The bartender told him he had to leave but Alvaro shouted and took a swing at him. Two customers came to the bartender’s aid and together they forced Alvaro out the door and shoved him into the gutter where they kicked him in his gut, ribs, and back. Alvaro vomited all over his shirt and pants.

  He woke up in his own bed a day and a half later. Alvaro had no idea how he got home and he could not recall much of what had happened. Demaris brought him some coffee and the details started to become clear. As Alvaro recalled how he had been swindled by his partner, his phone rang. It was Fred, who said he was surprised that Alvaro would be so angry, since he himself signed the rider that allowed Fred the option to dissolve the partnership. Alvaro confessed that he didn’t show the contract to his lawyer. Fred laughed but stood firm, saying his decision had been made and he didn’t owe Alvaro a dime.

  Alvaro got dressed and went to El Batay, a dive bar near his house, and got as drunk as he could without pissing himself, weeping, or causing any ruckus. El Batay became his daily routine. After two months of this, Demaris changed the locks on their house and told Alvaro she couldn’t live with him unless he stopped drinking. But her words had no effect. Alvaro drank even more, and after his friends at the bar got tired of letting him crash on their couches, Alvaro started sleeping in his car.

  One morning the police woke him up, knocking on the window of his Cadillac. Alvaro lied and told the cops he had drunk too much the night before and had misplaced his house keys, but the officers told him they were there for a much more serious reason. Alvaro’s son Quique was dead. He had been found by Demaris hanging by his neck in the attic of their home.

  The news of Quique’s death reached Fred the next day. Fred’s only reaction was to delete all the photographs he had taken of the boy. Then he ordered a bottle of tequila to be delivered to his house and a large quantity of cocaine.

  At three in the morning he thought he saw Alvaro in the street in front of Porta Liguria. He watched as the man he thought was Alvaro went into the backseat of a black car and sat there for a long time. Fred removed a loaded revolver from his safe. He went back to the window and watched the black car for what seemed like hours. Suddenly, the man got out of the car and Fred realized it was not Alvaro at all. His mind was playing tricks on him.

  Fred became very paranoid and began carrying a gun. He also hired extra security at Porta Liguria. His cocaine use increased and he would stay up all night and only sleep for a few hours during the day. Even with the extra precautions, Fred knew it was only a matter of time before a slipup happened and someone got to him. He would pack his bags and move back to the US, even leave Miami and go to Houston. But he had to wait three more weeks or he’d lose a fortune. He needed twenty-two days to establish the six-month-and-one-day residency requirement that would exempt him from federal income tax and net him a gain of three million dollars.

  One night he told Gallo, his coke dealer, that he was worried that someone was trying to harm him. Gallo told Fred that he had eliminated one of his main competitors through the work of an interventor: “No fuss, no muss, no blood, no cops.” Fred was open to the idea but the old woman Gallo hired had passed away, so he introduced Fred to Chu.

  The last thing I saw was myself in the elevator of Fred’s building.

  * * *

  I looked at Fred and he was smoking a cigarette, his eyes wide and waiting for my solution to his problem.

  “You have a home in the States, do you not?” I said.

  “I do. Yes, in Miami. I’m going back soon. I’ll be gone from this shithole of an island in three weeks but I’m worried something may happen in the meantime.”

  “Perhaps it’s better if you leave now.”

  “I can’t leave now. I won’t. Can you help me or not?”

  “Of course I can help. It’s why I’m here,” I lied through my teeth. “Do you have an object that belonged to the person?”

  Fred thought for a few seconds then shook his head. “I . . . I don’t . . . I don’t have anything of his. How can I get anything of his? It’s not possible.”

  “Do you have anything he might have given you? A gift?”

  Fred was frozen for a moment and then came to life, springing to his feet: “Yes. The Scotch. The Johnnie Walker Blue!” He went to the kitchen and took a wooden gift box of Scotch from a cupboard. He brought it to me. “Take it! Get it out of my house!”

  I stood up and told him I had what I needed. He handed me an envelope thick with cash. I called Chu to tell him we had finished early and waited in the lobby until he came to pick me up.

  Jueves, 11 de Octubre

  Chu called me at eleven p.m. and told me that Fred’s fully clothed body had washed up on the beach of the Astor-Morgan Hotel. The police were investigating but there was no blood, no wounds, no obvious cause of death besides the water in his lungs.

  Fred’s money had been well spent; his wish had indeed come true. Yes, Alvaro was truly out of Fred’s life . . . as was every other being in the world.

  Domingo, 30 de Diciembre

  Today I began my new job rolling cigars for the cruise-ship tourists who wander the narrow streets of the old city. I am happy to say that my mother’s radiation treatments have been a success. Her cancer is in remission.

  * * *

  The last thing I saw was myself in the elevator of Fred’s building.

  Part III

  Hungry For Flavor?

  Smoking Jesus

  by Eric Bogosian

  I’ve tried to stop smoking.

  I know it’s important not to smoke. In fact, it’s stupid to smoke. I smoke, but I try not to smoke. Every time I light a cigarette I think, I should not be doing this.

  I want a better life. But it’s an uphill battle, it is an uphill battle because I try to do the right thing, but I don’t do the right thing. And . . . I smoke anyway.

  Fuck it, I don’t smoke that much. The chances that something really bad will happen to me as a consequence of my smoking habit are slim. In fact, the chances that something else might happen to me for other reasons are far greater. Something will happen to me, though.

  Sooner or later. That’s guaranteed.

  I could be immolated in a fiery plane crash. Or I could be infected with a fatal flu, or flesh-eating bacteria. Suffer a massive coronary. Slip on an icy sidewalk and lie there for hours slowly freezing to death. Choke on a chicken bone. Fall down an elevator shaft. I could be robbed at gunpoint and stupidly resist and get shot. Get hit by a speeding beer truck while crossing the street. Get dragged out in a riptide and get consumed by sharks.

  Fate has something to do with this. But there is no fate. There’s just . . . happenstance versus my urge to control . . . my fate.

  Still, I try not to smoke because lung disease, specifically lung cancer which is the most prevalent form of cancer, is primarily caused by smoking tobacco, which furthermore is a product that has no constructive use and is farmed and marketed by massive evil impersonal corporations. If for no other than political reasons, I should not smoke.

  So I try not to smoke.

  Plus, if I ever do get sick from smoking, I will hate myself. I will
hate myself while I am racked in unbelievable pain, as I undergo chemotherapy and radiation and surgery. As my bank accounts are drained by massive uninsured health care expenses and as my wife and kids and everyone I know hate me for ruining their lives. Perhaps my last thought on earth will be, I was so fucking stupid to smoke!

  But see the problem is, I like to smoke. It gives me pleasure. I like to smoke because it makes me feel . . . different. When I smoke, I stop worrying for a moment or two. I stop worrying about all the things that might happen that are bad. I lose my fear. I feel happy. Even a little giddy.

  Deep down the truth is I enjoy smoking because I’m not supposed to do it. And sometimes I want to do things that I’m not supposed to do. It’s just a deal I have with myself. An attempt at . . . freedom.

  Anyway, I’m sure if this were a bad habit that I knew for certain would cause incredible grief to myself and other people, like for instance being a serial killer, then of course I would stop.

  I think.

  But stopping a habit simply because of a potential predicament in the future, well, that’s asking a lot, isn’t it? Of human nature. Of me.

  And besides, the problem with completely eradicating this bad habit from my life is that a vacuum will be left behind, a kind of hole.

  Something would be missing that was there before. Something that made my life complete.

  The man on TV, the man who knows everything that’s good for me, says: “Fill that vacuum! Fill that hole! Fill it right up. Now what are you going to fill that hole up with? How ’bout God? Have you thought about God? Just use Gaaawwwd like plaster. Spiritual plaster. And fill that hole up with Jesus or Buddha or Abraham or whoever you like. Higher power! Replace the bad thing with the new thing, the good thing!”