Candleburn (36 page)

“And
for the rest of you too: when your wife leaves you for a one-armed Mexican dwarf with a limp, the first thing you will do is not cry, it is to call this number.

“I
don’t care what you’ve done; all I care about is that it’s fixed discretely. Your fuck ups are your own business and nobody else’s. If what you’ve done is illegal or immoral I cannot guarantee you won’t go to jail but, I can guarantee that if I find out about it and you haven’t called this number then whatever else happens you will lose your job and, more than that, we will hang you out to the press to dry. Come to me, confide in me, and however heavily the rain falls, I will see to the best of my abilities that you at least have an umbrella.”

A
couple of the younger players laughed. A few of the older ones shuffled uncomfortably, hopping from one foot to the other. But that was the black and white of it. From now on, when there was a potential news story to be had, it was my job to know about it first and kill it.

“Okay
boys, line up!” Tyler shouted.

Fifty
over muscled hulks tumbled into a queue. A little jostling met with stern stares from Tyler. So, heads bowed like nuns heading for confession, they received the blessings from my hand. Some stuffed the card straight into a pocket. Others kept gawking blankly at it. Christ, what do I do if these dickheads can’t even read?

“Any
questions?”

There
were a few. There always are. “When will it start running?” “Right now.” “How many people will know about the call?” “Just the people in my team. For now that’s just me. Later, when I get around to it, I may hire trusted associates.” “When can I call the line?” “Any time. 24-hours. If in doubt, just call it.”

“Anything
else?” Tyler asked, looking at me.

“Just
this: I’m sure by now you’ve all heard that the club’s second groundskeeper was shot this morning in the Downtown area. Under no circumstances are any of you to talk to the press. Later today, I’ll be dropping by for a chat with you about the situation with some of you. If anyone’s got anything they want to share with me, it’ll be treated in the strictest of confidence. Drop by my office anytime.”

The
inquisition fulfilled, the players huddled in for practice. One of them volunteered to show me to the elevator. My new office was on the tenth floor. As he led the way, I read the wording on his back. Number 37. Ghanimifard. Jesus, if the whole NFL’s made up of names like that, how do the commentators cope? I thanked him as the steel elevator doors opened and I stepped inside.

I
stared into the mirror.

Blue
eyes. Closely cropped, spiky, brown hair. A crooked nose, mostly fixed by expensive plastic surgeons. It was broken by the Korean with the bear claw fist on my fourth night in the pits. In my three month stint in the Port of Nagasaki, he was the only fighter liable to give me the creeps if I ran into him again in a back alley. That’s unlikely now. I heard a while back he was crippled shortly after I left the scene. It makes sense. Few illegal dockland fighters have long-running careers. When I realised how low I’d sunk, I guess that’s why I got out fast.

That
was a long time ago now.

I
fell, recovered, then fell again and now I’m on my way back up. So here I stand, face to face with my reflection and starting out from scratch once more. Why am I doing this to myself?

It’s
a good question.

I’m
not sure I have a ready-made answer, not one that makes sense to anyone else but me, anyways. A change of scene is always good when you turn a page – but boy are there times when this job sucks. It sucks to have to get up at three in the morning because some star player’s been caught in bed with his mistress by his girlfriend and she’s now walked out on him.

Oh
yes, it sucks.

But
that’s the job. That’s what they pay me to do.

I
guess coming to the Black Ears seemed like the right move to make. Something about the mysterious Janokovic sparked a calling within me – an intrigue – perhaps even the notion of a destiny. If you’re the kind who doesn’t believe in such things, though – call the situation of a Russian oligarch buying an American Football club an intellectual puzzle I couldn’t resist. With the number of problems this club had had lately, I’m amazed someone like me wasn’t called in a long time ago.

I’d
spent three years working for soccer club Manchester United on a similar gig. Players may have talent but usually they have shit for brains. Give a kid of twenty, with no common sense and a big ego, millions of dollars a year and you’re likely to find yourself reading stories in the newspapers all day long about the string of models they’ve been sleeping with after going to fashion parties. It’s just what happens. That can be bad for the club’s brand image. And if you can’t keep 53 young men on the straight and narrow you can at least chaperone them.

Janokovic
had probably heard about me when he met Manchester United’s owner at a charity event. That feckless American was looking for ways to cut costs so he could take more money out of the club to buy his wife Ferraris and his mistress fur coats. Laid off, I’d chased down every sports team I knew to see who else could use my services.

Janokovic
spent almost six months making me jump through hoops of fire, answering questions for his “Head of American Investments” Olaf Blavatsky over the telephone. “How would I react in this situation? What did I make of that moral dilemma? If a house were on fire and my wife and child were inside, would I rescue my wife or the baby?” Eventually, he’d agreed that I was suitable for the role he had in mind and put me forward for approval from Janokovic himself.

The
bell rang.

The
steel lift opened once more. I stepped out into an inoffensive little hallway, carefully carpeted in blue with magnolia walls. I walked down the corridor staring at the numerated doorways, scanning for mine. If there was a methodology behind the numbering, it eluded me. I wondered, if he visited, which would be Janokovic’s temporary office. None of them had the requisite grandeur.

I’d
met the billionaire at a luxurious restaurant in London. A short, balding man in his fifties, with sausages for fingers - each crowned with a gold ring that when bunched together formed a makeshift knuckle-duster. These days, I doubt very much if Janokovic is at the down and dirty end of his business, but old habits die hard.

He
had an expensive taste in cigars, Saville Row suits and the other finer accoutrements of Western high-brow living. We talked for perhaps three hours over linen table cloths graced with
foie
gras
and Veuve Cliquot before he slapped me on the shoulder, gave me a bear hug and said “This is a man I could trust with the life of my daughter”.

It
took a little time to work my contacts in the business hard enough to get new offers of employment rolling back in. When they did, Janokovic was by far the highest bidder. Whether or not it was my reason for signing, after five years in his service, if I was careful with my cash, I’d never have to work again.

Chapter 3

When I got to my office, I was impressed. They’d done me proud.

It
was a large room, with a minimalist feeling to it. Clean cut lines. An ideal photo opportunity for some Feng Shui expert’s brochure. How does a club that can’t afford to paint the girl’s locker room properly find the cash to splash out on an executive suite like this? Someone’s priorities need to be beaten roughly until they fall into shape.

It
was also strange to lavish all this time on the room’s layout, yet leave the almost inaudible indeterminate low-frequency hum that accompanies contemporary offices unchecked. Air conditioning? Neon bulbs? Distant machinery? I’d have to track it down or, like some post-modern Chinese water torture, it would surely drive me to madness.

Set
the perfect distance from the door to keep my Yang “just so” was a chic metallic desk with a polished wooden top, buzzing quietly with a new Apple and two telephones. One was black and one red. A red phone for the hotline. Nice. Fitting, almost. Any calls coming in from the players would go directly here to avoid confusion with day to day office conversations on the black phone.

Someone
with a sense of humour had put a small British Union Flag paper weight on the desk to remind me of home. Or then again, perhaps it was a wind-up to remind me that I was a foreigner in this country. Underneath was a padded envelope. It was hand written and simply marked “Ritter”. No address, no stamps, no markings.

Curious.

I
opened the package. It didn’t contain a letter but something small and heavy at the bottom. I tipped it upside down. A dead rat dropped onto the table. Clotted blood in a mass of matted grey fur made it difficult to identify at first. Where its neck should be, small tubes of veins and arteries protruded - as did the hacked cartilage of its neck. It had been decapitated. Brutally. I’d say, with a pen or steak knife.

I
scratched my head in confusion. Interesting. Someone knows enough to have my name, be able to get an unmarked envelope to my desk and, with that information, chooses to send me a headless, dead mammal as a message. I haven’t been in town long enough to make these kind of friends.

“
You settling in?”

Startled,
I turned to see an Hispanic lady, late twenties, standing at the door.

“Yes,
thanks,” I replied as I brushed the rat back into the package with my pen. Fortunately, its hardened blood didn’t leave a stain.

“What
was that?”

“Packed
lunch,” I said. “I didn’t know if your canteen would be any good.”

She
looked confused.

“Say,
you’re Cara, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Marie-Claire,
actually. But, yes, everyone calls me Cara, if you prefer.”

“Yeah,
I saw your photo in the club publicity bumph I was sent before taking the post. Head of Communications, right?”

“That’s
me!” she said, her face beaming. God, she was a babe. Latin curls, lips as inviting as ice-cream. It was a wrench, but I flicked my eyes away. Rein it in hormone boy. You’re on Candid Camera.

“Great,”
I said. “Pretty name, by the way.”

“Well,
my grandmother on my father’s side was from Andorra.”

“Uh-huh,”
I replied. “Then your name would be Spanish. It’s French.”

Cara
blushed meekly.

“Sorry,
I’m just so used to having to give a reason every time I give my name that I made an answer up years ago about where it comes from. Now it just sort of slips out. It saves having to go into a long elaborate explanation.”

“Is
there a long elaborate explanation?” I asked.

Her
blushing continued, lifting rosy hues to her cheeks.

“Not
really, no. I think we’ve just always had a slight French thing for girl’s names in the family. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,”
I said, trying to hide my grin. “That’s just an honest answer. It’s good; I’m not used to those. It’s refreshing.”

“What’s
so refreshing about honesty?” she asked.

“Most
people, when they give you a response, are lying. The trick is to be able to tell if they’re lying because they don’t know the answer and are trying to save face, lying because they don’t know the answer but think they do or lying because they do know the answer but just don’t want you to know it.”

“You
go through life thinking like that?” she asked.

“No
– we all go through life thinking like that. We just like lying to ourselves about the truth of it.”

“You’re
funny,” she said. “Weird, but funny.”

“There
you go again with that honesty,” I replied. “I hope it’s a common trait around these parts.”

We
continued talking for a little while longer. Mostly about her; hobbies, interests, background. Cara’s family had moved to Florida shortly after the Spanish Civil War. She was a second generation American, a perfect example of the melting pot in action. Her mother was part Cuban and part Armenian, which explained the golden hue to her face. Oh, she was beautiful; tanned skin, brown eyes, and curly dark hair that fell like a waterfall from her shoulders.

She
also wore a three-banded wedding ring.

Damn.

“When I heard they were going to bring in a new post for a chaperone, I had no idea they’d take it so seriously as to bring someone in from overseas.”

“It’s
an important post. Janokovic has invested a lot in this club and I’d expect there to be more on the way. He’s just protecting his money.”

I
watched her twitching facial muscles, the broad sheet of the
quadratus
labii
superioris
contracting, from the side of the nose to the zygomatic bone, and the nasalis around the cartilage of the nasal cavity. It indicates an almost biting snarl of minor aggression in humans that wrinkles the nose. It’s what’s referred to as a micro-gesture – a barely controllable action of subconscious body language.

“You
know him?” I asked.

“Janokovic?”
she replied. “Only by reputation. When I learned about him – and the club, I mean – I did a little research. Tell me, do you really think you can keep 53 testosterone filled guys out of the newspapers?”

There
was more. Clearly, there was more. Now was not the time to push for her deeper reservations.

“I’ll
know better by the end of the day,” I said.

“Why?”
she asked.

“If
you don’t take control on day one, then by day three you’re dead in the water,” I said. “Once the first newspaper hears I’m doing this for the club, they’ll try and break a big story about something. The others, so as not to look silly, will then start sniffing round looking for stuff too. If you can’t fend them off and hold the fort for the first twenty four hours, by day three there’s so much out there in the public domain that pretty soon everything starts to implode: first you’ll get calls from authorities asking if some of the stories concerning illegal activities – drug taking or wife beating or players taking dives in games – are true. Then concerned sponsors start pulling. Finally, the fans start making a fuss. Trust me, I’ve done this long enough to know that if you can make it through the first day then you can survive pretty much anything.”

Cara
seemed slightly impressed.

“I
think we may just have found the right man for the club, then.”

“Like
I said, we’ll know by this time tomorrow.”

“Well,
with all this new Chechen stuff I guess it will be even more difficult for you than you expected,” she replied.

“Chechen
stuff?” I asked.

“Didn’t
you see the latest thing on CNN? They’ve been reporting it twice an hour!”

“I
really don’t watch a lot of TV news,” I said. “I don’t have a great deal of respect for journalists.”

“Well,
a Chechen separatist terror movement released a statement declaring that they were planning a new bombing campaign,” she said. “They released a video of men in ski masks. It was all talk about how the only way Russia can have its arm twisted into giving the state independence is by having rich Russians who live overseas put pressure on the government. They’ve threatened each of the Russian oligarchs living in London, Paris and New York with acts of violence unless they immediately begin to push the Russian president to open talks about succession with Chechnya’s breakaway administration! Isn’t that amazing?”

Just
what I bloody need right now.

“Hopefully,
Tequesta’s such a long way from anywhere that they won’t think to come and bother us. At least, not today,” I said.

“You
don’t think it’s exciting?” she asked.

“I
think it’s a distraction. I’ve started a new job. I’m jet lagged. I have a corpse to deal with. And I haven’t had breakfast yet. Right now, I have far more urgent things to take care of.”

“Well,
if you’ve had no breakfast – we should do lunch. Give me a shout later,” she teased as she left my office. “Perhaps I can show you around Tequesta. It’s a fascinating town – one of the oldest in the country. Four national flags have flown over the main square.”

“Britain,
Spain, the United States – who’s the fourth?”

“The
Confederacy.”

“People
count that as a fourth national flag?” I was surprised.

“It
depends what part of Florida you’re in. Around these parts there were plantations. Let’s just say there’re a lot of people here who take their history seriously.”

“Interesting.”

“So it’s a date for a tour later?” she flirted.

Yes
please. I’d like that very much. Then I looked at her ring again. Married women. They’re not my style. But just being acquaintances would gnaw at my heart. Tricky. Especially given the signals she emitted.

The main thing when looking at body language and mentally profiling peoples’ thoughts is never to do it in absolutes. You’re always dealing in probabilities. If someone takes off a layer of clothing, they may be sending you a signal. But you can’t take anything in isolation. After all, it might just be a sunny day and they’re feeling too warm. You must examine the whole. Otherwise, you run the risk of missing far more important signals or even clues that what you’re seeing is irrelevant. Even Sigmund Freud, famous for seeing sexual meaning in everything, once said: “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

Some
people say that because body language doesn’t deal in absolutes, it’s all rubbish. It’s an often heard argument from people who don’t want to believe that the signals they send tell a story – one that sometimes contradicts the drivel spewing forth from their mouths. Such people usually declare something like: “I say what I mean and I mean what I say”. Well, that’s fine. They can live their lives looking at the world with what works for them. In my experience, without my understanding of people, I would be no good at doing what I do.

Once she’d gone, I turned to the computer. There was already an email waiting for me. Olaf Blavatsky. Subject heading: Recent Development.

Ritter,

I’m concerned about Josh Wheeler’s death. Get to the bottom of it and smooth the situation over before things get out of hand. A media storm could render the club unviable. Its closure could upset Mr. Janokovic and have unfortunate consequences for us all.

It told me nothing I hadn’t already figured out for myself. But then, these people had to be handled delicately. At Manchester United, you could be sacked if you screwed up. That was it. No one was going to feed you into a sausage-maker, feet first.

Sure,
I had to learn how to handle more than fists in Japan when the local Yakuza politely suggested I hit the canvas against their favoured fighter. I don’t take dives. Not ever. Things got a bit hairy. But I had the option of getting out – it’s not like there was a contract that would be enforced if I evaporated in the night.

When
you fall as low as I did, there are only three ways out of the situation: discipline, religion or a wooden box. The army wasn’t my style. I’d have been peeling potatoes all day long. And putting on an oak-panelled overcoat isn’t the kind of fashion statement I like to make. I spent nearly a year in a Buddhist monastery in Nepal. I learned to meditate, I tamed my anger. I guess later events showed I didn’t lose my self-destructive streak quite as well as I thought.

Maybe
that’s why I started smoking again...

But
right now, my mind is focused. Right now, it’s clear. I guess that’s what irritated me most about the email: it was a distraction. Distractions are dangerous.