Hazard (19 page)

“Shouldn't you be downstairs with your party?” Hazard asked.

“It won't miss me.”

“Wouldn't you rather be with your friends?”

“No.”

Even in that high sanctuary the music from below could be heard. Its pervasive thump was like a pulse throughout the house. It was so much a part of Catherine's usual experience that she no longer really heard it. Conversely, Hazard's hearing at that moment seemed hypersensitive, irritated by the thumps and twangs. “Don't they ever take an intermission?”

Catherine used a nearby phone, and a few moments later the music cut off abruptly. “Silence,” she said, “is something a lot of people can't tolerate.” She obviously included herself.

Hazard pulled his shoulders back to stretch the tension from them. His legs were straight out and crossed. He settled down and took a gulp of beer. Five more bottles were being kept cold in a silver bucket of shaved ice.

Catherine changed her position so she was lying on her side, giving him all her attention. He sensed she was studying his profile. “This tax trouble you're in, is it just a matter of money?”

“Why?”

“I have much more of that than I need.”

“Money won't settle it now. They want me to pay them some prison time. For evasion. Anyway, thanks.” He was sorry he had to lie to her.

“But now that you're out of the States they can't touch you.”

“I can be extradited.”

“Then we just won't let them know you're here.” She smiled, an accomplice.

A long silent moment, while she decided she was really very attracted to him. She wondered if his being Carl's brother had anything to do with it. Possibly. But Haz was a lot different. Haz would know how to handle her. At least he seemed to promise that. She imagined herself with him and just picturing it aroused her. That wasn't an extraordinary reaction for her and she had no reason to trust or depend on it. But usually much more was required to cause such a response in her. Perhaps, she hoped, as she'd hoped many times before, it was the stir of something substantial, something that wouldn't be so easily discouraged. It might be, just might. She'd never know until she'd put it to the test, and that was impossible at the moment, with Carl and his death between them. She'd have to obscure that, gradually charm and diminish it. “Let's hear more about you,” she said.

Hazard didn't want to talk about himself, and after a while maneuvered their conversation back to her.

Her people, as she expressed it, came originally from Northumberland. Probably way back her ancestors had been Nordic but there was no way of tracing that. Sometimes, she told him, when she was feeling especially pagan, she believed it was that ancient bloodline at work.

Her industrious great grandfather had made the family fortune from woolen mills at a time before there was any such thing as an inheritance penalty. So his wealth was passed on intact to her grandfather, who succeeded in expanding the family holdings to such an extent and to organize them in such a clever way that even when he died the Government's bite was a comparative nibble. Her grandfather lived to be eighty. She knew him only as the surly, grunting, patriarchal figure whom she saw and was prompted to curtsy to on special occasions. The entire family, and it was large, was unctuous and spittle-licking (she loved that description) around the old man. Her parents were no exception. She had been too young to care and once in protest at being forced to deliver a dutiful kiss to grandfather's old, dry mouth she had stepped on his old, gouty foot. She claimed it was an accident, but always thought Grandfather knew better. Anyway, she'd never been close to him, not nearly as close as most of the others. That was why she often believed his leaving everything to her was only a matter of chance, as though he'd drawn her name from a hat or made a list and threw a pen like a dart at it.

What about her parents? Where were they?

Gone, in 1958, when she was twelve. Both drowned while sailing under the influence of too much wind and brandy—off Holyhead, of all places.

Grandfather outlived them by a year. At thirteen she inherited, along with his fortune, the family's sycophantic attention. At first she rather enjoyed having aunts, uncles, cousins—even those twice and three times removed—fawn over and oblige her. She was never reprimanded. She always won at games and whatever she asked for would soon appear, sometimes in duplicate or triplicate, depending on the number of relatives present when she happened to speak her desire. Her eager benefactors never mentioned that they charged their gifts to her account at Harrod's and elsewhere.

It wasn't until she was sixteen that she fully realized what counterfeiters her relatives were. She began to devise little tests for them, and they all failed. And when they were all eliminated from her faith, she found an awful loneliness had set in.

Did she tell them off and send them packing?

No, not then, anyway. She didn't even let them know she was on to them. That, in fact, was how she got back at them; by letting them continue their insipid pretense. She toyed with them, doled out encouragements and then enjoyed dashing their hopes. It was, she thought, a fitting, excruciating punishment. They nearly had a mass stroke when, at twenty-one, she married Carl.

After that she was more irritated by their hypocrisy. By then many of them had come to live here in this very house. It had been part of her grandfather's estate and belonged to her. She paid for its upkeep but never liked the place and so had never made an issue of her relatives moving in to stay. The place was overrun with them. They were literally waiting in line for a vacancy. Then one day, apparently on a whim, she announced she intended to have the house redone. They'd all have to leave. They could, however, take with them whatever they wanted.

They correctly understood from her tone that it was the end of the free ride. They took everything, stripped the house bare of the many valuable pieces it contained, not overlooking the doors and boiserie. She didn't care. In one fell swoop she'd gotten rid of her sponging relatives and saved herself the trouble of having to sell off the ugly, traditional junk. Shortly thereafter she had the house gutted and commissioned the best Italian interior designer a lot of money could buy to do it the way she wanted, as it was now. No memories.

Hazard was on his fourth beer. Normally he wasn't a good listener, but he'd been interested in Catherine's ironic account of her past. Now that he knew her better he felt differently about her. He even liked her for the first time.

“What are you going to do for money?”

Test question, thought Hazard, and told her, “I've got some.”

“I just don't want you to go without. By the way, since this seems to be my night for confessions, I've got another to make.”

“What?”

“This afternoon I purposely put you with those boobsy twins.”

“Boobsy?”

“They're notorious for pooling their assets and going to work on a single target. I wanted to see if you'd succumb or not. Did you?”

“No.”

“Actually, it wasn't a fair test now that I think of it. Those two could probably defile the Pope if he granted them an audience.”

Hazard laughed but thought he'd have to keep on his toes with her. He used an honest excuse for cutting the evening short; he'd been up since 4:30 that morning.

At the door to his room Catherine said her good night with cheek kisses closer to his mouth than before and a bit more lingering. Also, when her lips passed from cheek to cheek they once ever so lightly brushed his lips.

When he got into bed it was ten minutes to twelve. The bed was not set against the wall, but cantilevered by a stubby chrome column, like a giant flat-topped mushroom. Not having a headboard made him feel vulnerable and he hoped it wouldn't keep him from getting some sleep.

The carton of images was on the floor nearby. When his watch approached midnight he took out at random one of the small envelopes. He carefully opened it and slid out the image. He saw the one he'd chosen was unlike the drawn, outlined ones he'd worked with before. It was a color photograph and in that respect more realistic.

A white gull in flight against a blue sky.

Because it was more realistic it might be easier to send, Hazard hoped, and fixed his mind on it. He had trouble. His concentration was diverted by thoughts of Catherine, and also there was that question he'd been asked that afternoon: “Do you fancy birds?” He had to stop, refocus and remind his mind it was supposed to be communicating with Keven. She seemed so far away.

After several intense efforts he gave up. He was sure he hadn't gotten through. He wrote the day and date on the reverse side of the image card, along with an understatement:
present surroundings may be a distracting factor.

Kersh would understand. So would Keven …

10

T
HE NEXT
noon when Hazard went down he found Catherine having brunch on the terrace. He joined her for rarebit, rashers of Irish bacon, a portion of sunny tranquility, and then told her he definitely should return to London.

Catherine had other plans for him but she nodded and said she'd go into town with him. They'd have dinner. She said it with such enthusiasm that Hazard had to choose between agreeing or greatly disappointing her.

They took her Maserati Ghibli. It only had about fifteen hundred miles on it, even though she'd owned it for over a year. She drove, said she wanted to. She drove too fast but with impressive authority. Hazard's only complaint was she often took her eye off the road. Suicidal lapses? he wondered. He hoped she didn't just conveniently forget to match a curve with a curve. She stopped off for a moment at her town place. It was in a Nash-designed complex on Chester Terrace, Regents Park. Then they went on to a restaurant in Chelsea, small, expensive, casual. Along with cognac and coffee she gave him his choice: Annabel's or Tramp for dancing and looking, or her place for quiet, privacy, and well, whatever….

Hazard told her he felt lucky.

If he'd been wearing a tie she'd have taken him to Cleremont, but as things were she decided on the Pair of Shoes. Even there, Hazard's open collar was an exception allowed by the proprietor, who knew Catherine and was persuaded mainly by her quick request that he honor her check for five thousand pounds worth of chips. Hazard felt a bit small-time buying only three hundred.

First they played blackjack.

Hazard took it slow, betting twenty pounds a hand. Catherine went for a hundred. He saw right off she didn't know the game. She asked for hits when she shouldn't have and stayed when she shouldn't have. However, after three quarters of an hour she was five hundred ahead and he was down fifty. Irritated, he suggested they take a break at the bar.

The Pair of Shoes was more intimate than most London casinos. It offered in the same room two blackjack tables, a craps table, and roulette. The place was deep red—velour on the walls and plush carpet underfoot. So much red would have been garish under normal lights but with the lighting bright only over the playing tables it created an elegantly wicked atmosphere. Standing at the bar permitted a good view of the entire room, but Hazard was turned away, paying attention to the gilt-framed sketch that hung over the bar: a fortunately endowed girl wearing only a pair of shoes. He thought the odds on anyone being that physically ideal were at least a million to one, against. Although he'd known a few who came close. Keven, for instance. Keven …

Catherine claimed him with her hand on his arm, light, not pressuring. She told him: “I read someplace that gamblers are quite pathological.”

“Quite.”

“It said the urge to wager is connected to the childhood need to masturbate.”

No comment.

“It also said gamblers are aggressive and enjoy trouble. Do you?”

At that moment a group of people were entering the room. Five men and four women. Hazard turned and noticed them. He almost dropped his drink. There they were, all three.

Badr and Hatum and Mustafa.

One of the other men in the group was also obviously Middle Eastern. He was huge, as thick-chested as Mustafa and half a head taller. His large nose looked as though it had been broken and rebroken. One of his eyes was half shut, so only a slit of pupil showed—glazed, milky, and useless. The fifth man wasn't an Arab. Hazard didn't get a good look at him but overheard the club proprietor call him by name. Pinchon. The women with them were young, but overstated, brittle looking, apparently paid company.

They all went directly to the crap table, bought chips, took places around the end of the table, and began to play.

As Hazard watched them, the back of his neck flushed hot and his stomach went hard. The same overwhelming hate he'd felt when he'd stood at Carl's grave.

Catherine noticed the change in him and asked if anything was the matter.

He only half heard her but the interruption helped him regain control. It occurred to him then that their showing up here was too much of a coincidence. Were they on to him? They'd hardly make him aware of the fact by putting in a public appearance. Maybe, being typical Arabs, they just enjoyed gambling. And here in the West End there weren't all that many attractive casinos. Maybe. Anyway, right now he'd better decide how he was going to handle this. Only in his wildest fantasies had he imagined getting onto all three of them at once. Now fantasy was reality, but he'd be crazy to try for all of them at the same time. He'd just have to play it as it fell, be ready.

“Let's try some craps,” he told Catherine, hoping his voice sounded calmer to her than it did to him.

“I favor roulette,” she said, but went along with him.

They stood at the end of the table opposite the Arabs. It was Hazard's first good view of them. He studied them casually. He didn't know which was which but he was sure that going up against any one of them would be more dangerous than it had been with Saad.