Chapter 15

*****

Twenty-Six Years Ago - Klempner

“What do you have for me, Frank? Bech tells me you’re very pleased with yourself.”

He displays teeth like a magician brandishing a hat. “Bech was right. In fact, I have what I think will be very good news for you.”

“Yes?”

Conners rolls out a ground plan, jabbing a forefinger at a small area marked out in red. “You own now almost all the area surrounding Blessingmoors. But, that plot to the west side…. you know the one…. with the old witch that kept complaining about the noise? It seems she’s been in a road accident; hit and run. She’s in hospital. Her family have put the place up for sale.”

“She’s alive?” I glance at Bech who, almost imperceptibly, widens his eyes but shrugs.

“Yeah,” Conners is off-hand. “…. but they say she won’t be coming home again. If she lives, she’ll be in a home. You don’t have to worry. If you want it, the property’s as good as yours.” He straightens up. “You want me to go ahead? I took the liberty of putting in a statement of interest to make sure it didn’t slip by you.”

“Yes, I want it. You can offer in a bid. What are they asking…?”

*****

Conners smirks. “I think that calls for a celebration. Who wants a drink?”

“I’ll have a malt. Bech?”

“Not for me. I have to go. Got stuff to do.” He catches my eye as Conners heads for the bar. Lowering his voice, “My apologies, sir. I’d thought I’d dealt with the old woman….”

“Just get it finished, Bech. We don’t want her staging any kind of miracle recovery.”

He nods; an economic movement; then leaves.

Conners returns with my drink. He’s got the same for himself, watching Bech’s back as he exits. “I know you two are friends, Larry, but he’s an unlikeable bastard isn’t he.”

“He’s not a friend. He’s an employee. And I don’t hire him for his charm.”

“Fair enough, but if you want him to front for you, tell him to turn up the charisma a notch or two.”

As he said himself….

….. Bech’s cut out for the back-room….

The smoky aroma of the whiskey hits the back of my throat. It’s warm and curls through my sinuses, clearing my head. Frank sits back, swishing his drink around his mouth, then his eyes slide side-long as he smiles. “It’s good, isn’t it.”

“It is.”

And for a drawn-out minute, it just feels right. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. But the warmth of the whiskey, the hue of success and a long companionable moment….

This is what it’s about….

Conners looks over the top of his drink. “Hey, look at that piece of ass there.”

I turn, casually, to look. Then twist to see properly.

She's sitting at the bar, alone, reading a newspaper…. a pink newspaper….

Don’t see too many women reading the FT….

A pen in one hand and with a slight furrow in an otherwise perfect brow, she makes occasional notes on the paper. By her feet is a collection of bags bearing designer logos. Her clothes are classically elegant; a halter-neck dress, simply cut but enhancing her figure and showing just enough skin to tempt….

And never in my life have I seen so beautiful a woman.

She is perfect….

She glances up, meets my eye and looks away again, back to her reading. Even the momentary flash of eye-contact is vivid….

Real….

I can’t take my eyes off her.

Her hair is a burnished auburn; long but pinned up, displaying the line of her neck, a smooth curve from pale shoulders. I want to see her face properly, but looking down, focused on her reading, it is turned away from me.

She looks up again, and this time meets my eye and holds it….

She is pale, her make-up subtle and lightly applied, with just a trace of colour at cheekbones and lips. All her colour is concentrated into that copper hair and her eyes; an intense and brilliant green….

As she sees I am watching her, she breaks into a smile….

…. and a face that was already beautiful blooms to spectacular.

Oh my God….

My stomach drops, and my balls tighten. The battering in my chest must surely be loud enough for Conners to hear. I have never experienced a reaction to a woman anything like this.

Why is she alone? Why isn’t she with some man?

Conners takes a deep breath. “Will you look at the rack on that.”

Moron….

But he’s right. Under her clothes, she’s full-figured. Not in any way fat or blowsy. Just with that perfect combination of breast and waist and hip that narrows and blooms in all the right places and which makes me want……

…. Makes me want….

Is she wearing a ring?

No…. No ring….

She’s still looking at me.

Is it an invitation?

I’m willing to take the chance. I stand, straightening my jacket as I do so then stroll to the bar to stand an arms-length from her. “I’ll have another,” I say to the barman, “and whatever the lady is drinking.”

“One Glenfiddich coming up and one Virgin Mary.”

“Thank you,” Her bar-stool squeaks softly as she swings to face me, her legs crossed at the ankles on the chrome foot-rest. Her shoes are as classic as the rest of her in a pastel green that matches her dress and with just enough heel to display trim ankles. A nice combination of sexy and able-to-walk.

I explore my limited supply of small-talk. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

“Not at all.” Her voice is smooth and her words well-enunciated, as though she has perhaps taken elocution lessons.

Product of the local Ladies College?

But that doesn’t feel right. I’ve encountered a few of those women in my time. They invariably either think far too highly of themselves or they’re doing everything they can to spend the money earned by their wealthy middle-class husbands. Nothing about this woman feels like that.

My gaze drops to her reading….

Yes…. The Financial Times….

…. and trying not to be too obvious about it, I look to see which page she is reading….

FTSE index….

Stockbroker?

Small investor….?

Or just some rich bastard’s wife…?

?

?

No ring….

“Looking for a good investment?”

“Always.”

There is a small pile of newspapers and magazines beside her on the bar. The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, Barron’s….

Serious then….

“So, what are you reading?”

Her gaze is level. “It’s a piece about the situation in East Germany. The wall coming down…. The chaos it’s caused and the opportunities it’s raising….”

All those people moving….

Opportunity knocks….

From behind me, Frank’s voice grates in. “So, we were trying to figure which of us you were giving the eye.”

“Who says it was one of you?”

Her words don’t make sense….

Then realisation….

…. and disappointment….

…. clutches at me. “Sorry, I'm being dense, aren't I? You're a pro.”

She gives me an age-old look. “You have a problem with that?”

I thought you were interested in me….

Me….

“Not at all. So long as we know what game we're playing….”

Fuck me…. Pay me….

His glass in hand, Frank pushes in beside me. “Sounds good to me.” His grin is wide and irritating.

“So…. the pile of journals is, what? Window-dressing?”

Her head tilts. “Does it have to be? I can’t earn my living with both my body and my brain?”

Conners jaw drops. “Hey look a hooker with a brain. There's a first.”

Fuck off, Frank….

But he has a point, and I want to think about it. But more than that….

“Do you have somewhere to go?” I ask.

Her voice is throaty and yet as smooth as the whiskey; a warm balm that flows over me taking body, brain and spirit along for the ride. “I do, yes. We have all night if you want it.” Her gaze passes between us. “Yes?”

“Oh, yes.” Frank knocks back his drink. “Lead the way, doll.” Then he puts his glass down on the bar. “I’ll have another of those to go.”

The woman glances at the barman. “427,” he says.

“Come this way, gentlemen.”