An Unremarkable Man (2/4)

Byron Gray, my whole reason for being in Southern Italy, the one person I could under no circumstances lose sight of, had suddenly disappeared. One minute he’d been sitting on the terrace smoking a cigar, the next minute that British vixen had distracted me. Now the guy was nowhere to be seen. The only thing left of him was the acrid smell of his Cuban cigar.

Panicked scenarios flashed through my head. Armed thugs had bundled him into a BMW…he was zooming on a Zodiac to a yacht offshore…he’d disguised himself as a watermelon vendor at a roadside Ape…he and his wife were scooting overland on a Vespa… I wondered if Kelly had distracted me on purpose. Was she in cahoots with Gray? Hard to imagine but not impossible.

“Calm down,” I told myself. I took an intentional drag of my cigarette, then mindfully stubbed it out in the abalone shell provided at the hotel bar. He has no reason to run; the government has given him a sweetheart deal. Then a cold chill gripped my heart, like frost spoiling a cabbage: What if a third party were involved? After all, the ’ndragheta had every reason to whisk Gray away, whether to a nearby basement or to Eternity. Then there was his wife’s blackmailers—would they decide to take a more direct route to extorting money…by kidnapping him for ransom? But then, why would they take Gray and not Aisha? She wasn’t the one holding the purse strings.

I had a very bad feeling about all this but didn’t know quite what to do about it. I put my head in my hands, closed my eyes and groaned.

“Are you all right, sir?” Came a melodious voice. The waiter.

“Uh, well, I’ve been better, thanks.” I looked at him, his tall silhouette striking against the soft light streaming out from the bar. “What’s your name?”

“My name?” he looked surprised. “I am Deng.”

“Deng. I’m Nate. Listen, did you see that guy who was smoking there a while ago?”

“Yes sir, I know him.”

“I borrowed a lighter off of him and I just realized I still have it in my pocket. Do you know where he went?”

“Yes sir, I believe he went to his room.”

“Do you happen to know his room number?”

He hesitated, unsure of protocol.

“I think he may miss the lighter before morning, otherwise I wouldn’t ask,” I smiled.

“Of course. Yes, I will tell you.” He went to the cash register, consulted a clipboard on the counter there and returned.

“His room is 304, sir.”

“Thank you. Deng…that’s an unusual name. Where are you from?”

“South Sudan,” he said, suddenly standing a little taller. “It is a common name in my country.”

“South Sudan…” I said. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a new country right?”

He smiled, a brilliant smile that transformed his face. He seemed boyish, a different person to the one who’d glared at Kelly earlier.

“Yes, it is very new. We became independent only in 2011. Our motto is ‘Justice, Liberty, Prosperity.’”

“That’s great,” I nodded. I was worried I’d unwittingly freed his tongue. I didn’t have time for chitchat; I had to go look for Gray, make sure he was in his room, pronto.

“Deng, pleasure to meet you. You here tomorrow? I’d like to ask you some things about your great country.”

“Yes sir, I am here tomorrow,” he said. “I would be very glad.” He bowed slightly, suddenly formal again.

“Excellent. OK, well, I’m gonna turn in now. Good night!”

“Good night sir.”

I looked up and suddenly caught sight of a shooting star. Remembering San Lorenzo, I devoutly wished that Gray was safe in his room and that I would therefore (a) get paid and (b) not get fired. Amen.

When I got to the third floor, I heard that my wish had been answered. The happy couple were at it again, tooth and nail, arguing with raised voices, slamming doors. They may not have been happy, but husband and wife were alive and well.

It was hard to hear individual words, but I guessed the subject of the quarrel probably had something to do with the conversation in the restaurant, how Gray was refusing to pay Aisha’s blackmailers. It would bother me too, I thought. Where was his sense of chivalry?

As if for my convenience, there was a collection of armchairs placed very near to the door of 304. After almost losing him earlier, I decided to camp out there for the duration of the night.

Annoyingly, one of the chairs was occupied by the woman I’d seen in the restaurant, the high-toned white-haired lady that I thought was probably some rich American. She was reading a book and seemed ensconced.

“Good evening,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all,” she smiled. “I’m just waiting for my friend,” she explained, looking at me over the top of her reading glasses.

“You’re an American?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she smiled. “From Boston. And you?”

“Grew up in New Mexico but I’ve been everywhere, like the song. Spent a summer in Boston once. Nice city.”

“This your first time in Italy?

“Yep. Yours?”

“Oh no, I come almost every summer,” she said. “I met my husband here. He’s gone now, but I keep making the pilgrimage. I’m Carol, by the way.”

“Nate. Pleased to meet you.” We shook hands. She seemed a nice old bird. Comfortable somehow. Something of the Earth Mother about her, despite her posh duds.

“I hate you!” Aisha screamed. Glass shattered.

Gray said something inaudible.

“Trouble in Paradise, eh?” I said, jerking my head in the direction of 304.

“Yes,” said Carol, pursing her lips. “They seem very uncivilpeople.”

“You’ve spoken to them? Any idea who they are?” I asked.

“They seem familiar,” said Carol non-commital, “But I can’t quite place them.”

“I get you. It’s a look.”

Room 304 had gone quiet for a bit, but suddenly there was a shout of rage from Aisha.

“Do you think we should tell management?” I asked. “She could be hurt!”

“Oh I don’t think so,” said Carol. “That kind of man wounds with words rather than with fists. And she is terribly highstrung. These sorts of things will resolve themselves, I imagine.”

“Right,” I said uncertainly. It struck me as surprisingly callous for a woman who otherwise seemed warm.

I looked at my phone for a while, wondering when the hell Carol was going to leave. Possibly she shared my discomfort because after five minutes she stood up and wished me good night, saying she was going to her room.

“Night night,” I said. It occurred to me that her ‘friend’ had never shown up. Had that just been an excuse? It sure sounded like one. If so, why had she been sitting there at all? This wasn’t even near her room—I watched the elevator stop at the fourth floor. She didn’t look like an eavesdropper, but it’s hard to tell.

I’ll admit it, I was feeling jumpy. Too much weird shit had been happening tonight. I thought about getting the Glock 22 from my nightstand but decided against it. The feeling of losing Gray had me spooked. I turned my chair around with its back to the door of 304. If anyone came in or out, I’d hear them and they wouldn’t see me.

Soon after I’d turned the chair around, the door opened. I heard high heels clack on the marble and Gray’s dry, nasty voice.

“This will seriously compromise my legal situation—can’t you put it off?”

“Oh, I have to help you? But you will throw meto the wolves?” Aisha laughed harshly.

“Don’t be so melodramatic. Where are you going?”

“None of your business. Let go of my wrist!” she snapped.

“OK. Well, don’t bother coming crawling back,” Gray said quietly. “Because this is final. From now on you talk to me through Harry.”

There was a little scuffle—I imagined Aisha lunging at him—then she was roaring again. The door slammed shut and I heard her muttering “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.”

I heard her slide to the floor and sob some more. I was starting to feel pressure in my bladder and hoped she wasn’t going to camp there on the corridor floor for the whole night. Finally with a sniffle she got to her feet and clacked over to the lift.

As soon as the elevator door closed, I stood took the staircase to my room on the floor below. I took a piss, grabbed the Glock and an energy drink from the minibar. As I opened my door, I heard a woman’s voice in the stairwell, speaking in a low voice. It was a woman with a British accent, but not Kelly. The other one. So they weren’t at the club!

“Everything ready at your end? Let’s land this fish. Two o’clock? Right.”

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and quickly and quietly pulled my door to. Putting my eye to the peephole, I saw the blonde Brit scurry by. She was no longer wearing her club outfit and makeup; now she was wearing a black tracksuit and sneakers.

That’s weird. What is going on?

When she’d gone, I ventured out again and climbed the stairs again, pondering. Who were these British girls? My watch said 10.35. Whatever was planned for two o’clock, I was going to be there for it. I figured that ‘this fish’ must have something to do with Gray. After all, everything seemed to revolve around him. He was like some kind of black hole, or rather a gray hole, sucking everything and everyone into his orbit.

Once back in my armchair, I was looking forward to a few hours of peace. I should have known better. Twenty minutes into my vigil, I heard the elevator door, a few unhurried footsteps, then a man’s cough and a sharp three knocks. In front of me, on a low coffee table, was a vase of black glass that reflected the view behind me. I saw the small Italian man from the restaurant, the father of the family who were celebrating a child’s birthday. He was wearing a tailored suit. I could smell his cologne from my chair—something like pine.

The door opened, the guy grunted a greeting and entered.

I was starting to get nervous. Where did this guy come into things? It occurred to me that I really should have asked for a copy of the guest list here. As long as I could hear the sound of voices, I was confident that things were OK.

It was at eleven o’clock exactly that I started hearing fireworks. I didn’t know what the occasion was. San Lorenzo’s day? Or just a Friday in summer? I don’t think I’d have noticed it, but I was so on edge that at first I thought it was gunfire.

Shortly after the fireworks had been going for ten minutes, the door opened, closed to, and the same leisurely footsteps tapped over to the elevator. A cellphone rang and a man’s voice answered.

“Pronto. Sono Enzo. Ah, Tito, caro! Ciao. Senti…” the conversation was swallowed up when the elevator doors closed.

It was now 11.15. I had just under three hours until the blonde and Kelly were going to do their thing. Until then, I had a little time to think. I considered all the angles. It didn’t look too sunny for my man.

1) He’d just thrown his wife out on her ear and she was murderously angry with him.

2) He’d refused his son money, not to mention affection, and the son damned him to hell.

3) An American woman was eavesdropping on his domestic dispute.

4) An Italian man was paying him a visit in the dead of night. Mafia?

5) Two mysterious British girls were planning something odd for two a.m.

I didn’t understand how it all hung together, but things didn’t look great for Byron. I suddenly wished I’d asked for a partner on this assignment. I’d expected to be surveillance, not a bodyguard.

Coincidentally, that was the last thought to pass through my mind before I felt my head being jerked back and something soft and damp pressed against my face, stinking of medical alcohol.

When I came to, it was dark and I had a terrible headache. Someone was humming softly and there was a strong smell of cleaning fluid, which made the head situation worse. My mouth tasted of energy drink, which was also not optimal.

It took me a while to remember who I was and what had happened before losing consciousness. As memory arrived, adrenaline kicked in. I sat up as if electrocuted, bumped my head on a low shelf and immediately lay back down, cursing. I also noticed that my hands were tied together, as were my ankles.

“Take it easy, boss,” said a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

A bright electric light came on and I cried out with the pain. Once my eyes adjusted I saw Deng, the waiter. We were in some kind of big linen closet and he was sitting in a cheap director’s chair dressed in a T-shirt and shorts.

“Sorry boss,” he said. “Should’ve realized that was a bit bright, innit. Just lie back. Make things easier for yourself.”

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Where am I? And why is your accent different.”

“Better if you don’t ask too many questions,” he smiled apologetically. “Nuffink personal—the less you know the safer you’ll be, you know. If it’s any consolation, this is just temporary.”

“Are you a cop?”

He laughed and slapped his thigh. When his merriment abated, he regarded me thoughtfully.

“Sabout mugging you mate, but we couldn’t take any risks, right? Too important.”

“Who’s ‘we’? You and Kelly and the blonde?”

He shook his index finger and smiled in a playful warning.

“Oh no, you won’t get me like that.”

“Whatever man,” I sighed. My head still ached and I didn’t feel like engaging with this guy. He was way too jolly.

“You’re name’s not really Deng is it?”

“Nah, it’s Clarence,” he giggled.

“Listen Clarence, do you have any water? My mouth tastes like an oompa loompa’s ass right now.”

“Of course. We’re not monsters you know. Unlike the authoritarians of the West.”

‘We’ again.

He held a bottle of water up to my mouth and spilled some down my front but some of it went in my mouth. Close enough. Tattooed on the inside of his arm, inside the elbow, was a tattoo identical to Kelly’s—'the barrel of monkeys’ shape.

I decided to be quiet, hoping the silence would get to him. After a minute or so he started humming again. Without seeming to do so, I looked around the room to get my bearings. There was a door. Someone had pushed a pile of cardboard boxes up against it. There was a window. It was high, but getting through it might be feasible if I could manage to get untied and neutralize ‘Clarence’ here. It looked like we were still somewhere in the hotel so maybe I could attract attention by banging on pipes, yelling, or pulling the fire alarm switch…

At that moment, Clarence’s phone vibrated.

“Yup,” he said. “Oh.” He looked at me sharply, then walked to a far corner of the room. I don’t know why because I could still hear him perfectly.

“What happens now? What do I do with this…situationI’ve got here?” He made a frantic gesture over me, the trussed-up pig.

A woman’s voice was speaking quickly and loudly. Clarence listened and shook his head.

“OK,” he sighed finally, then rang off.

“Problems?” I asked cheerfully.

“Yeah, well, don’t look so pleased, right? Byron Gray’s been shot.” He ran his hand over his scalp.

My mouth was immediately dry again.

“Say what?”

“Shot in the head, innit. Execution style.”

“That’s not good,” I whispered, feeling sick. “That’s not good at all.” No more cushy job for me. Could they send me to jail for messing up this badly?

“No it’s fucking not,” he said, looking thunderous, kicking the wall and hopping with the pain.

“Wait,” I said. “So it wasn’t you guys?”

He looked genuinely shocked.

“What do you think we are? Fascist thugs? This is murder.”

“Look buddy, I don’t even know who you are because you won’t fucking tell me anything. But, you know, you knocked me out and tied me up after posing as a Sudanese villager so I’m not predisposed to think of you as a model citizen. I don’t know about Cockney Land, but kidnapping isn’t exactly a misdemeanor where I come from.”

“OK, OK. Calm down. Look, first things first. I’m not hanging around here waiting for the cops.” He looked at me with his hands on his hips. “Umm, don’t be offended but I’m going to pick you up. OK?”

I sighed.

“I don’t have a choice about it, do I? You’re just making it more humiliating right now.”

He picked me up. I’m a small guy and he was huge so it wasn’t much effort. I snuggled into his chest.

“Mmm, I can hear your heartbeat,”

He promptly dropped me back down on the bench.

“Christ, grow up! I was just kidding,” I said when I got my wind back.

“Nah, I just realized I need to gag you.”

“You’re wasting time,” I said. “I pinky-promise not to make a sound, all right?”

He looked doubtful, and was starting to pace back and forth, agitated and hyperventilating.

“Clarence! Clarence! Get it together. Focus. You think I’m going to draw attention to myself right now? This is not a great look for me. Just pick me up and we’ll go to your car and everything will be OK, right?”

“Right,” he nodded. “Right.”

He picked me up, carried me out of the basement and out into a carpark. It was still night, but there was an emerging glow in the east that made me think it must have been about five a.m.

“That’s your car?” I said in disbelief and started laughing. It was some kind of electric MINI.

“Yes it’s my car,” he snapped. “Wake up, mate. It’s the 21^st century innit. I suppose you drive a Cadillac with coal rollers.” He shook his head before dumping me in the tiny back seat.

“Nah, nah, respect, respect,” I giggled. “It’s the juxtaposition is all. What are you, six foot eight?”

“Six foot seven,” he said tersely. Then we were out of the carpark and sped away from the hotel.