“The girl is mine,” Theodor says.
“We’ll see about that.”
It infuriates me how they both call me “the girl,” reducing me to my sex and treating me like an object.
Theodor snarls. “Listen, you moron, you have no idea what you’re up against.”
“It takes more than a rich guy with a driver and a bodyguard to impress me,” Doc says defiantly. “My cars are as fast as yours. There are three of us in this one, and three in the other, and we’re armed to our teeth.”
“I’m trembling,” Theodor sneers.
“You should be! When we catch up, my men will kill your men, and I’ll reclaim what’s mine. And then I’ll decide whether to kill you or ransom you.”
Darrel opens his window and leans out, holding a pistol!
Where did he get that?
“On your signal, your… boss!”
Who calls their boss “your boss,”I wonder despite the jitters.
“Hold it for now,” Theodor commands. “Jordan, let’s see what this baby can do.”
To my surprise, Jordan slows down a little and straddles the center line, allowing our pursuers to take either lane behind us. Even so, we’re all still driving way too fast.
I look through the windshield. A sharp turn is coming up. The car hits the curve, drifting slightly. Jordan corrects it until we’re parallel to the road again.
Doc’s cars pop out from around the curve in a long, out-of-control drift. They slide right off the road and skid down the bank of a ditch.
Darrel rolls his window back up. “If he survives and still doesn’t get the message, I’ll make sure to convey it to him more clearly.”
Who are these people?
Are they gangsters of a bigger caliber than Doc? So far, they’ve been perfect gentlemen around me. But what if it’s just theater, a show they’re putting up to facilitate my cooperation?
The theory seems plausible, yet something doesn’t add up. There’s effortless authenticity to their manners, to the way they speak and hold themselves. If this is theater, then they are all world-class actors, especially Theodor.
We drive in silence from thereon. As I listen to Mozart and Vivaldi playing in the car, my heartbeat returns to its normal pace. Soon enough, Jordan pulls up in front of Grandpa’s building.
“We’ll be back in an hour or two,” Theodor says to his men.
Jordan nods. “I’ll find somewhere to park.”
“I’ll wait here,” Darrel says, pointing out a spot by the gated entrance.
I press Grandpa’s button on the intercom, and he buzzes us in. As we enter, he gives me a warm hug before nodding to Theodor, whose bespoke clothes don’t seem to impress my grandfather. Nor does his disfigured face.
Grandpa’s second-floor apartment is small and rather dark. He airs it diligently several times a day, but it still retains the distinctive smell of old furniture, books, clothes, appliances, and even plants. I don’t mind that at all, quite the contrary. For me, it’s the smell of my childhood, and it never fails to comfort.
While it’s true that Grandpa’s lair is in a desperate need of decluttering, it’s also true that what looks like junk to the uninitiated is uniquely meaningful to him. Grandpa’s hobby for years was antique hunting. Each object on the floor, each frame on the wall and each bibelot on a shelf has a story to tell, either from his life or from his treasure hunting adventures.
He likes to say they’re all portholes into the past.
In his TV room, one wall is dedicated to books and the other to music. Gramps loves music. Everyone in my family does, including myself. We all have a decent ear and a sense of rhythm, but we’re pathologically incapable of singing. That is, I can “sing” a great many songs in my head, but the moment I use my voice, the notes come out all wrong and derail me to the point of losing the tune.
It’s the same for Gramps, which is why he never sings, not even when he’s by himself. But he listens abundantly. For that purpose, he owns a radio, a reel-to-reel tape recorder, a vinyl record player, a cassette player, and a CD player. The latter is as high-tech as it’ll ever be for him. In my teens I tried to upgrade him to the MP3 technology. I failed. He won’t listen to music on his phone, either. Music must come from a dedicated device, and it has to be embedded within a material object such as a disc. Those two things are nonnegotiable.
Grandpa serves us some tea, and we make small talk while drinking it. He asks me how Theodor and I became friends.Good thing we came prepared!
