Dead Ringer

Howard Keeler propped up the bar and ordered another vodka. The usually moderate drinker welcomed the soothing alcohol; his usual calmness having deserted him. He marvelled at the exquisite furnishings of the Dorchester Hotel restaurant; his ecstatic mood prompting him to raise his glass to unknown diners.

    Keeler had purchased a new Armani suit for this occasion, wishing to impress his belated business acquaintance. He had spoken to Sheikh Aftab Salem briefly on the telephone; the venture he proposed far exceeding anything that the middle-aged building developer had dealt with before.

    Keeler, having suspected a wind up by his frivolous friends had run a check on the Internet, accumulating a wealth of information on the sheikh. Not until the over generous advance of two million pounds was deposited in his bank account would Keeler accept his good fortune.

    The balding Keeler checked his wristwatch, with one eye on the entrance to the lavish restaurant. A slim, attractive, redheaded woman, who was wearing a low-cut crimson dress had her approach promptly disrupted by the doorman. Keeler watched the ensuing argument and pondered whether to take his place at the table that the sheikh had booked earlier.

    The red-faced doorman walked intently towards Keeler and smiled embarrassingly.  “Excuse me, sir, but the lady in the foyer wishes to speak to you. She assures me that it's a matter of urgency.”

    Keeler stared towards the woman, her appearance not triggering any immediate hints of acquaintance. He reluctantly strode towards the stranger, his curiosity in need of sating. She appeared elegant enough, but not someone who you would readily associate with a sheikh. Her high cheekbones and ocean blue eyes portrayed her as a creature of beauty, her lips succulent and ruby red. It was only when she spoke that Keeler's illusions about her being allied to the sheikh were shattered.

    “Yer bastard! Did you really think that I wouldn’t find you?”

    The voice was coarse, the words delivered in a Scouse accent.

    “Excuse me. I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else, darling.”

    “Don’t you frigging darling me, you shit! You were supposed to meet me at Frazier’s last night remember?”

     Keeler looked around and reddened, realising they were being watched by the other diners.
    “Ah, Miss Tyler, of course... Listen, it completely slipped my mind as I've more urgent matters to consider… Now, if you please, I'm expecting someone important.”

    “And your wife isn’t important?

    “Listen, Miss Tyler, as I stated on the phone, your insistence that I was once married to you is ludicrous. Either you'’e a bad confidence trickster, or you need medical help, in which case, I strongly advise you to see a psychiatrist... Now, if you'll please leave me alone, I…”

    “Yer low life! You can’t just disregard me as though I was something on the bottom of your shoe... Either you hear what I have to say inside or I’m gonna stand here and scream the place down until you do listen.”

    Keeler again checked his wristwatch and gazed out into the car park.

    “Mr Keeler,” interrupted the doorman.

    "Yes.”

    "A message from reception... The sheikh apologises for his delay, as his private jet ran into some bad weather. He hopes you won’t be inconvenienced by his absence and he’ll be there as soon as he can.”

    “No problem,” smiled Keeler, who in the circumstances was glad of the delay. “Would it be possible for the lady to join me in the bar for a few minutes?”    

    “Certainly, sir,” coughed the doorman, hinting for his tip.

    “Please let me know when the sheikh arrives.”

    “Of course, sir.”

    Keeler handed over a five-pound note before leading the irritating Merseysider towards the bar. That the other revellers harboured thoughts of the woman being a prostitute bothered Keeler only a little. Even the insane ranting of the common woman was not enough to puncture his dream of the wealth offered by the sheikh.

    The couple entered the quiet barroom and the smiling, bearded barman approached, his face betraying his sinful judgment.

    “What are you drinking er…” stuttered Keeler.

    “It's Holly, arsehole, and you know it. Forgotten already what I drink have you?”

    “Sorry, but remind me.”

    “A double vodka and Red Bull, Howie, or what ever you call yourself now... I’ve gorra gob like an Arab’s flip flop.”

    The barman thrived in Keeler’s embarrassment. “A double vodka and Red Bull for the lady, and for you, sir?”

    "A vodka. Make that a double.”

    Keeler led Holly towards a table as far away from the bar as possible. He perched on his stool and glared at the redhead, who lit up a cigarette, trying not to let his eyes stray towards her large breasts.
    “Okay, Miss Tyler. What are you playing at?”

    "Oh you’re good, fella. You’re fucking good.”

    Keeler swallowed a liberal amount of his vodka. “Listen goddamn it! Whoever you think I am, you’re mistaken.”

    “Faking your death was a master stroke. How did you manage it, Richard?”

    "Richard? Christ, you are mad... What do you mean, faking my death?”

    “Eight years of marriage, Richard, and what did you leave me with? Your frigging bills and a hovel of a terraced house in de pool…that’s what.”

    “De pool?”

    “Liverpool.”

    “Give me strength,” said Keeler. “I’m not your husband, never have been and never will be. I can see why the poor bugger would fake his death though.”

    Holly almost downed her drink in one and inhaled on her cigarette before continuing.
    “Okay, let’s call the bizzies and see what they have to say.”

    “No! I mean, by all means call them later... I've a very important business meeting and would be grateful if you left.”

    “Oh, you’d love that wouldn’t you, darling? It was only by chance that I saw your mug in the newspaper. Did you really think that you could get away with this?”

    Keeler looked to the ceiling and smiled. “Who put you up to this, Holly? It’s a wind up, right? Is this one of Peter Miller’s pranks, or is that barman Jeremy bloody Beadle?”

    “I’m glad you can see the funny side, Richard, because you’re going down for a long, long time, fella.”

    The doorman entered the room and approached their table. “The sheikh, sir, he’s arrived.”

    “Thank you... Listen, Holly; can we discuss this another time? I'll give you my telephone number... Really, you have mistaken me for someone else.”

    Holly stubbed out her cigarette and reached for her handbag. She pulled out a photograph and waved it in front of Keeler’s face.

    “So if you’re not me hubby, then who the frig is this?”

    Keeler reluctantly accepted the snapshot and gazed in astonishment at the groom who was standing beside Holly, who wore a bridal gown. Either the photograph was genuine or it was a very good forgery.

    “Bloody hell,” gasped Keeler. “He certainly looks like me and I can understand why you’ve mistaken your husband for me, but I can assure you that the person in this photograph is not me.”

“Bullshit! Look at the mole on the left cheek.”

    Keeler rose to his feet. “Phone me, Holly and we'll sort this mess out later... I swear, I’ve never been to Liverpool in the last ten years.”

    Holly slapped her hands against the table, knocking her glass to the floor. “That’s not good enough. I’m calling the bizzies right now.”

    “No! Please. Listen…what exactly do you want?”

    Holly squinted, her eyes swivelled towards the ceiling. “I think fifty thousand pounds will be ample compensation for my suffering.”

    “Fifty... Are you insane? Don’t answer that… Listen, wait here for me and I'll be back after I’ve concluded my business with the sheikh.”

    He dipped into his wallet and handed her a wad of notes. “This should keep you refreshed until I return.”

    Keeler mopped his brow and straightened his tie as he strode towards the restaurant. His appetite had disappeared, but to gratify the sheikh, he would overlook his predicament with the crazed bitch and eat heartily.

    Surprisingly, the sheikh was seated at the table alone, looking elegant and mystical in his long, flowing white robe. The bearded man left his seat and held out his bejewelled hand to greet Keeler.
    “Have you ever-sampled Arabian food?”

    “No, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

    “Then, Mr Keeler, you’re in for a pleasant surprise... The food I thought we would forgo until our negotiations are concluded. The sheikh handed over a large folder. “This is a proposed draft of the complex. The apartments will be situated in the Jumeirah Beach area; a most attractive residential district in Dubai.”

    “I have abandoned all other projects, Sheikh Salem, and priority is to be given to this venture.”

    “And you claim that the construction of the complex will be completed before June 2014?”

    “On that, you have my word, Sheikh Salem.”

    The waiter approached and the sheikh ordered fresh orange juice. Keeler acknowledged his host’s strict stance on alcohol and ordered the same.

Keeler’s eyes lit up with the appearance of the sheikh’s chequebook.

    “Are you certain, Mr Keeler that a down payment of two million pounds will suffice?”

“Oh yes,” said Keeler, rubbing his hands together, observing every curve etched by the nib of the gold pen. “Two million pounds will be fine, Sheikh Salem.”

    The clatter of high heels disturbed the joyous moment, and Keeler turned to see Holly walking unsteadily towards their table. He rose up immediately.

    “Is something-wrong, Mr Keeler?” asked the sheikh.

    “Wrong? No, of course not... Would you please excuse me for one moment?”

    The sheikh's curious eyes followed the trail of his business partner, wondering who the redheaded woman was.

    “What do you think you’re doing?” whispered Keeler, seizing Holly by the wrists.

    “I’m tired of waiting,” slurred Holly, her voice raised.

    “Shhh!” urged Keeler, looking around and smiling reassuringly at the frowning sheikh.

    “You think more of that camel shagger than you do of your wife... I'm calling the bizzies.”

    “No! Keeler again glanced over his shoulder, before ushering Holly back into the bar.  
    “Can’t you get it into your fucking thick Scouse head that I’m not your husband? Do I sound like I’m from Liverpool?”

    Holly’s eyes oscillated in their sockets, her red lips trembling. “My hubby was not from de pool.”
    “Mr Keeler.”

    The flustered man smiled falsely towards the sheikh, who had entered the bar. Keeler walked swiftly towards him, the perspiration running down his face.

    “Mr Keeler, I am not accustomed to being interrupted during business negotiations… Who is that woman?”

    “Woman? Oh, Holly you mean. She’s the wife of someone I know... She's slightly inebriated, if you know what I mean,” said Keeler, moving his hand as if he was shaking a glass. “She's been to a wedding,” he lied.

    “A bar is no place for a woman,” snarled the sheikh. “Mr Keeler, I trust the person who is to oversee the construction of a multi million pounds complex is a cultured man? I cannot afford to be involved with any discrepancy or scandal, you understand?”

    “No, everything’s fine Sheikh Abdul.”

    “It's Sheikh Salem, Mr Keeler.”

    “Of course it is, and I do apologise... If the sheikh will kindly allow me two more minutes in which to phone my friend’s wife a taxi?”

    “Very well.” The sheikh returned to the restaurant and Keeler walked swiftly towards the annoying woman.

    “If I call you a taxi, will you please leave, Holly? Tonight, we’ll talk and hopefully come to some arrangement.”

    She shook her head teasingly and fondled her mobile telephone... “Oh, oh. No way. Now, either you pay me the fifty grand or I’m gonna call the bizzies right now.”

    Keeler held his head, his mind unable to deal with the situation. Reluctantly, he reached inside his jacket pocket for his chequebook. He reasoned that fifty grand was a relatively small sacrifice to eliminate the bitch from his life; after all, what was fifty thousand compared to the two million he stood to lose?

    “What’s the name again? Holly what?”

    She giggled girlishly. “Good try, Richard.”

    “The fucking name!” he screamed.

    “Tyler, as well you know, hubby.”

    “Don't call me that,” he grimaced, as he wrote out the cheque... “Now what’s to stop you coming back for more once you’ve spent my money?”

    “You have my word, Richard.”

    “That's not good enough... You see that Arab in there?”

    She nodded.

    “Well, he’s a woman hater, and a good friend of mine. He’s that good a friend that he’ll do anything for me, including arranging your murder. Do I make myself clear?”

    Again, she nodded… Keeler threw the cheque at her and turned his back on Holly Tyler forever. The sheikh was talking on his mobile telephone when his absent guest approached.

    “I’m sorry, sheikh but…”

    A raised finger concluded the sentence. “Mr Keeler, I’m so sorry, but an urgent matter has come to my attention. Please forgive me and feel free to dine alone. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it... I’ll meet you here tomorrow at the same time, if that is acceptable?”

    “Of course... Ahem, the cheque, Sheikh Salem.”

    “The cheque, ah yes. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Keeler.”

The elated building developer waited until the sheikh had left the Dorchester before kissing the cheque and screaming, “yes!” He even managed a smile at the satisfied Holly as she departed. This had been a most profitable day, he thought. A most profitable day indeed.

    Six weeks later and David Grant was standing at the bar of the Savoy Hotel, cradling a glass of whiskey. The sheikh was already five minutes late, but Grant did not mind. Today, he would negotiate a healthy contract with the sheikh, with the promise of an advance cheque of two million pounds.
    Grant watched with interest, the bickering going on at the entrance to the hotel. The doorman was insistent that the redheaded woman wearing the crimson dress would not pass. The doorman finally relented and paced slowly towards the building developer.

    “Mr Grant?”

    “Yes.”

    "There’s a lady at the door, sir, and she insists on seeing you.”

    Grant gulped down his whiskey before striding towards the damsel in distress.

    “Can I help you?” he asked.

    “You bastard! Did you really think that I wouldn’t find you?”