A Single Teardrop

©2011 Ian Hobson

After working for several of the cheaper hotels in the city, washing floors, making beds, waiting table - all shit jobs with shit pay – I'd finally got a chance of something a little better: barman in the Basement Bar and Bistro below the Hotel International.

The Basement was regarded by the young and wealthy as a cool place to hang out, and it was there that I met Anna, who was recruited as a coat check girl just after I started. She was Serbian and lived with her boyfriend, Leon, a black African guy that made a dubious living selling cheap watches to tourists. Though, after a couple of months, he disappeared, leaving Anna to pay a month's rent on their run-down, two room apartment.

Meanwhile, I'd been looking for something better than the squat in a seedy part of the city where I'd lived for the previous six months, so Anna was glad when I accepted her offer to share, and it wasn't long before we were sharing its only bed too. Not that we were in love, or anything; she just loved sex, and I sure wasn't going to complain about that.

One evening, not long after we'd opened, I'd just finished serving cocktails to two English girls when Anna beckoned me from the doorway, as though she had something private to say.

'Carl, take over a minute,' I said. Carl was a waiter who helped behind the bar sometimes. He gave the English girls a smile as he took my place.

'Problem?' I asked. Anna, back behind her counter, looked a little worried.

'Some guy just came in off the street asking if I knew a Renaldo Fabrini. When I told him I not know anyone of that name, he describe you.'

'So what did you tell him?' I was a little surprised to hear the name Fabrini. It was the name I'd been given at the orphanage; the name of one of the principals. Though since I'd become a respectable member of society – with extortionately expensive papers to prove it - I'd used the name Fabiano, which I preferred.

'Don't worry.' Anna grinned. 'I told him I never seen no one like that. But he gave me card and say he pay me fifty Euro if I call him, should man like that come in.' She handed me the man's business card, which claimed he was a private detective going by the name of Grodin.

'Fabrini, Fabiano,' said Anna, looking at me quizzically, 'very similar names.'

'Very similar,' I agreed.

'You wanted by the police?'

'No. I got hauled in for shop-lifting years ago, but since then I've kept well under their radar.' Some more customers were coming down the steps, so I headed back towards the bar. 'See you later.'

I spent the rest of the evening wondering why someone would pay a private detective to look for me. Despite what I'd said to Anna, I hadn't always kept to the right side of the law; in fact I'd unintentionally strayed into something decidedly illegal just a few months before.

***

'Hey, Renaldo man!' Sebastian, sitting at a table outside a café just off Main Street, got to his feet and waved me over. We were both a head taller since last we'd seen each other, and I might easily have walked past having not recognised him, especially the way he was dressed.

'Seb! You win the lottery or something?' I asked, admiring his expensive-looking suit and silk shirt.

'Yeah, man, I won fucking millions.' He looked at his watch and then scanned the street. 'Seems I've been stood up. Can you believe it? A handsome fucker like me? Well, who gives a shit? Hey, let me buy you a drink. Waiter! Two beers!'

I took the seat opposite his and we sat grinning at each other. We were no longer street-kids and, although Sebastian's fortunes had obviously exceeded mine, our days of begging and thieving were over. At least, in my case, that was true.

'How you been, man?'

'Okay,' I said. 'Better than the old days. Did you really win the fucking lottery?'

Sebastian remained silent while the waiter set down our beers and then answered my question with a shrug. 'Not the lottery, but something just as fucking good. You remember Carlos? Alonso's brother?'

'The pimp?'

'Yeah, Carlos was a fucking pimp. I'd almost forgotten that. But he'd moved on, found better ways to make money, and I worked for him for a couple of years. Travelling mostly.'

'No shit! Where to?'

'Mostly in Europe. Africa a couple a times. But now I've got my own business.' Sebastian leaned towards me across the table and lowered his voice. 'I'd made contacts, see? Contacts that didn't like being pissed around by Carlos. When I make a deal, I stick to it. Keep my fucking word. And so, life is sweet. Real fucking sweet.' He reached for his beer and sat back in his chair.

'So what is your business?' I asked.

Sebastian eyed the customers seated nearby, and then looked over his shoulder before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small leather pouch. 'I deal in these,' he answered, opening the pouch and showing me the contents.

'Diamonds?'

'Keep your voice down, man.' He slipped the pouch back into his pocket.

'Sorry.'

'It's cool. Hey! You got papers?'

'Sure.'

'And a passport?'

'No, Why?'

'Well.' Sebastian gave me a look, as though he was assessing me as something other than just a childhood friend. 'Maybe I could get you one and, if you could use a little more money, maybe I could put some work your way. I'll give it some thought.' Before I could ask if the work would be legal, he quickly changed the subject. 'Hey! You remember that girl you were with? The one you looked for for fucking months after she disappeared?'

'Madra?'

'Yeah, Madra. You know she's a big fucking movie star now?'

'Yeah, I know. She was in town a few months ago. She's changed her name to Madeline Dumont.'

'You met up with her?'

'No, I saw her but, not to speak to.' I'd managed to push Madra to the back of my mind. But just the mention of her name was enough to bring back the pain I'd felt after losing her: my first and only true love.

Though, sitting there with my old friend Sebastian, some good memories flooded back as well, and soon we were reliving those times and talking of old friends, as we downed more beers. I was between jobs and almost broke, but I still felt bad about letting Sebastian pick up the tab; though he didn't seem to mind. He even insisted I come back to his place; a spacious apartment in a converted waterfront warehouse that he had moved into just a few days before.

It was a little after midnight when we arrived there and, as Sebastian switched on the lights, he told me to make myself at home. 'Take a shower if you want, man. You can crash in one of the spare bedrooms.' I didn't need to be asked twice; the squat I was living in had no hot water, so I headed straight for the bathroom, which was on the same floor at the end of a corridor.

It was after I'd showered and finished dressing - wishing I'd had some clean clothes to put on - that I heard a crash and then a door slamming, as though someone had kicked the door in and immediately shut it again. There were voices too; Sebastian's voice and at least two others - unfriendly ones - and then there were the sounds of a struggle. Slowly, I inched open the bathroom door but, from there, I couldn't see into the living area where the disturbance was taking place. I'm tall, and I know how to use my fists, but I wasn't going to rush headlong into a fight without something to even the odds a little. So, still barefoot from the shower, I stepped out of the bathroom and opened the adjacent door.

The room, clearly one of the spare bedrooms, was unfurnished except for a mattress against the far wall and an assortment of wooden and cardboard boxes in the centre. But leaning against one of the boxes was a set of golf clubs. Quickly, I grabbed one of the heaviest clubs and returned to the hallway from where I could hear voices again.

'You want him dead, Boss?'

'Not yet. I need information first.'

Without further hesitation, I ran along the corridor with my weapon held high. There were just the two intruders; a short bald-headed man I recognised as Carlos the ex-pimp, and another, much taller guy standing over Sebastian, who lay on the floor with blood dripping from a cut above his right eye. The tall guy was pointing a long and deadly-looking handgun at my friend but, as he heard me coming, he swivelled and I found myself looking down the barrel. If he had pulled the trigger I would have been hit for sure, but his moment of indecision was all I needed, and I swung the golf club in a downward arc, hitting his wrist hard and knocking the gun from his hand.

Carlos seemed stunned by what was happening, but I saw him reach inside his jacket for something, so I swung the club again, upward this time, catching him under the chin and sending him sprawling backwards across a chair. Then the wind was knocked out of my lungs as the big guy threw himself at me, like an American footballer tackling an opponent, and we both went crashing to the floor. I tried to fight him off, but he was heavy and had taken hold of the golf club and was forcing it against my throat, throttling me. Then I heard three or four muted shots, and then another as one side of the man's head exploded, splattering blood and brains across the floor.

Sebastian helped shove the corpse off me and I got shakily to my feet. He had grabbed the handgun, which I now realised had a silencer fitted. 'You okay, man?' he asked me. Blood was still dripping from the cut above his eye, and his hands were shaking.

I looked over to where Carlos lay, in a spreading pool of blood, with a hole in his forehead and another in his chest. 'Shit! Did you have to kill them both?'

'No fucking choice, man. They were going to kill me, and you too.' He began to laugh then and collapsed into a chair in hysterics. 'You sure know how to swing a fucking golf club, man.'

I slid into the chair opposite, crazily joining in with his laughter. 'I never figured you for a golfer,' I said.

It turned out that the golf clubs had been part payment on a debt owed to Sebastian by a business acquaintance. I wasn't sure at first, but he soon convince me that calling in the police would not be a wise thing to do. When I asked what he intended to do with the bodies, he led me into the kitchen and unlocked a door at the far end. Beyond the door was a staircase leading down to a basement area, complete with trapdoor, beneath which was an old waterway that led to the river.

I was scared shitless for days afterwards, thinking that every cop I saw was looking for me or Sebastian. But the river had been in spate that night, so Sebastian's prediction that the bodies would be washed out to sea was probably correct. He had given me his number, told me to give him a call, and promised me some lucrative work, once he had fixed me up with a passport. I wasn't tempted. I figured that to be poor and alive was better than to be rich and dead like Carlos. Diamond smuggling was not for me. Soon after that I got the job at The Basement.

***

A month or so after the night when the private eye showed up, Anna's ex-boyfriend, Leon, returned and, to my surprise, the two of them promptly left town, this time leaving me to pay the rent. But I could afford it; I was on reasonably good pay plus tips. And then there were the occasional female customers who wanted a little extra attention so, as Sebastian would say, life was real fucking sweet.

Then one day, everything changed. It was a Tuesday; the day after my day off. I was a few minutes late for work and I arrived to find Carl looking a little apprehensive. 'What's the problem?' I asked.

'A guy came in yesterday,' he replied. 'He didn't give his name, but he asked if his friend, Renaldo was in. Without thinking, I said you'd be in tonight. Did I do the right thing?'

'Why do you ask that?'

'Well... he looked like he might be a cop.'

'What did he look like?'

'Tall. Dark hair. Grey suit.'

I thought that it might have been Sebastian, but the description didn't fit; so Carl had me a little worried. Then I remembered the private detective. Perhaps he was still looking for me and had finally tracked me down. I kept my eye on the door. It was a typical Tuesday evening; fairly quiet, a handful of wealthy tourists mixed with a few regulars who lived or worked nearby. By eleven, the place was empty, and I expected to close early. But then, as I was wiping down and putting glasses away, one last customer came in and walked straight up to the bar.

I almost said, 'Sorry, we're closing.' But there was something familiar about the way she moved and, as she slipped off the sunglasses and headscarf she was wearing, the words froze on my lips and my jaw dropped.

'Hello, Renaldo. You're not an easy man to find.'

'Madra?'

She smiled then. A smile that I knew so well - a smile that could launch a thousand ships, or break a thousand hearts, according to her publicity; and loosing her had certainly broken mine.

'Well, you could at least offer a girl a drink.'

'Sorry. What would you like?'

'Fresh orange juice, if you have it. Oranges always remind me of you.'

I knew exactly what she meant: we had shared three oranges I'd stolen from the market the last day we were together. A single teardrop formed in her left eye and rolled slowly down her cheek, answering one of the many questions that had haunted me for so long: does she ever lie awake at night and think of me?

*****

Related story: Lost Love
( http://www.abctales.com/story/ian-hobson/lost-love )