What the fuck, Samuel?
I feel like the biggest ass on the planet. There are no new messages on the phone, which is a little unusual. By now, she’s normally sent me an update on Munchkin. I sigh and rub my face again. She’s pissed. There’s no doubt about it. I’ve totally overstepped the mark. A discreet knock on the door catches my attention and I look at the time. 7am…it’s probably my regular breakfast order. God, I need coffee more than air.
“Come in,” I call out, not bothering to cover up. This is a five-star hotel – I’m sure they’ve seen worse things than a man in his trunks. The door opens silently and a nondescript man in hotel livery wheels a trolley into the sitting area. He murmurs a polite greeting and then leaves just as quietly.
I swing my feet off the bed and make for the breakfast tray, pouring the heady black brew into a cup until it slops over the top. I reach for the TV remote and flick the switch, flipping aimlessly. Finally, I give up trying to find anything in English and let it stop on a news channel. I drop onto a leather couch and slurp loudly at my coffee, waiting for the caffeine to seep into my bloodstream. I can’t face food just yet, and I turn my attention to the television.
Images are flickering across the screen, accompanied by the guttural monologue of a stone-faced news anchor. I don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but I don’t really care. Until something catches my eye and I sit up straighter. The presenter is describing a sequence of camera footage of police vehicles gathered around a harbor scene.
The port of Odessa is gloomy and gray, ice-locked, but still bustling with cargo vessels. Crime scene tape has cleared an area though, and there’s a cluster of uniformed men standing around what looks like a body beneath a sheet on the concrete beside the murky water.
I can’t make out what the anchorman is saying, but it seems serious. A journalist is shoving a microphone into the face of a grim-faced detective and firing off a barrage of questions. A photograph appears on the screen displaying the face of a man…a man I know. Even in the photo, his beady eyes seem to glitter with greed, and I feel a growing sense of dread as I recognize the pawn broker I sold the jewelry to.
Chapter 16
“Live a little dangerously”
Samuel Foster
Cory is not pleased. I’ve just told him that I plan to go home and I’m packing my bags as we speak.
“What the fuck, Sam! We still have two more shows. They’ve already paid the deposits,” he’s blustering from across the room. I don’t look up from my packing.
“Pay them back,” I say. “I’m sure you made enough from yesterday’s show to cover it.” He curses quietly and I know I’m right. I’m sure the asshole charged triple price for that little performance. There wasn’t a guest in the audience who didn’t look like they bathed in cash daily.
“But why, Samuel?” he asks, pleading now. “I thought things were going so well. After the show for Oleg—”
“Something’s come up,” I snap. I’m losing my patience. “Just book me a fucking flight. If you don’t do it, I’ll do it myself. And my future flights will be booked by my new agent.”
Cory clenches his jaw. He knows he’s lost this battle. “Fine,” he huffs and stalks out of the room. When he calls me soon after, it’s to let me know that my ticket has been emailed to me. I’m scheduled to leave within hours. The sense of relief almost leaves me weak at the knees, but I don’t feel safe until my bags are checked through airport security and I finally sink into my seat on the plane. Cory will see to the crew’s return.
As the Boeing taxis down the runway, I settle in for the twenty-hour flight ahead of me. There’ll be two stopovers too, but I don’t care. I couldn’t expect Cory to organize much better at such short notice. I console myself with the extra space afforded by my first-class seat. When the overhead lights finally ding to announce that we can unbuckle our seat belts, I stretch out and heave a sigh.
A crisply beautiful air hostess is at my side offering me a drink, and I happily accept a whisky. The over-indulgence of the day before might have put me off under different circumstances, but the shock of seeing the pawn broker, knowing he’s lying in a morgue, has left me shaken.
I’d googled the news while waiting for my flight and confirmed that it had indeed been the same man. No next of kin, which explained why his identity had been revealed on the news. Plus a rap sheet as long as my arm. He hadn’t been a good man. That didn’t mean he deserved to die. And it was all my fault. There’s no doubt in my mind that he was killed because of the deal he did with me. And if they got to him, it’s only a matter of time before they get to me.
I knock back the whisky in a single quick gulp and wait for the burn to take my mind off the guilt. I need to think of other things, but somehow that seems callous.
Flipping through the inflight magazine gave me some highlights of the city I’m fleeing, along with information on how to access the onboard Wifi. I link up and check my messages. Still nothing from Arielle and the feeling of rejection joins my growing sense of being a murderer by proxy.
I hate this feeling. I’ve lived my life with the constant sense that it was my own fault my mother abandoned me. Maybe if I’d been better…quieter…more careful…
“Be a good boy, Sammy.” “Fucking half-breed! Shut the fuck up!” “Oh, Sammy, why do you have to be so clumsy?”
For a moment, I relive the dark terror of trying to make my way on the unfriendly Las Vegas night-time streets, unforgiving to a nine-year-old boy. Thank God for Atticus. If he hadn’t found me— I shake myself free of the memories and type out a message to Arielle.
Hi, Arielle. Hope things are good over there. Been a change of plans and I’m heading home early.
Her reply eases some of my anxiety.
Oh, wow, that’s wonderful news! Munchkin is going to be so pleased.
I almost want to ask if she’ll be pleased too, but after last night, that would be all wrong. I wonder if she’ll still be at the house when I get back tomorrow. The prospect makes the flight feel less tedious. I have something to look forward to. My phone pings again.
When will you be home? Do you need a lift from the airport?
She says ‘home’ like it’s hers too. That warms me.
