The Wordsmith Project (16) - The Denouement

It was all for the best, she thought, all for the best. Relationships were just liabilities and she believed that wholeheartedly, except for the fact that she didn't really believe it at all. He'd loved her and she knew that, but she'd hurt him anyway – it seemed the only thing to do when it came right down to it. So now, the plane was taking off, not just metaphorically, not just theoretically – she was sitting next to a window and she could smell the jet fuel and she could feel the body of the plane beginning to vibrate and she could hear the engines building momentum – and in that moment it began to move – the plane, the world. And in that second she knew she'd done the wrong thing in leaving but, after all, it was what she did best. (Amy)

‘Don’t you just hate this moment?’

She looked round. Her neighbour, who she’d hardly glanced at when she squeezed past him in the narrow aisle to take her window seat, had his eyes screwed tight shut and his fists clenched. ‘Sorry?’

‘This take-off into nothingness. Knowing that when we touch down at the other end we’ll walk into an airport lounge that looks, to all intents and purposes, exactly like the one we left.’

She murmured politely.

‘And we’ll leave the airport to find ourselves in another capital city that feels, to all intents and purposes, exactly like the one we left. What’s the point?’

Her heart sank. Trust her luck to be sitting next to a depressive nihilist with aerophobia. (Nicki)

She'd have welcomed conversation, about politics, art, history, literature, anything to separate her mind from her recent action. When the rumbling of the engines smoothed, she wanted her mind to be smoothed as well. It was going to take longer than that. And it wasn't going to happen in a conversation with this guy. She gave a non-committal nod his direction and reached in her bag for her iPod, her sunglasses, and a stick of gum. She was armed for avoidance, the daily art of leaving.

What did her seat companion say?

Take off into nothingness?

Pushing her earphones in place, she thought, you may be taking off into nothingness, I'm taking off to…. (Edy)

Then it struck her. The depressing nihilist was right. She was going to nothing. Just as she’d done all her life. Or at least since she was 17 and had slipped through her bedroom window with $500.00 and a few changes of clothes. Off to seek her fortune, and beginning to learn her finest trick: departure. All these years, all these planes, all these automobiles, and u-haul rental vans, all these skies and dusty roads…going to nothing.

Oh, she’d tell herself she was going to something, but in reality she was jumping off a cliff. Starting from scratch. Reinventing a life. A clean slate. A new leaf. Tabula Rasa and all that. All very modern. All very neat and efficient. All very empty.

But this time she’d brought more baggage than she’d anticipated. This time she was bringing along regret. Regret and the knowledge that someone had loved her, had really loved her. Not just some image of her. Had loved her. And she’d walked away. For the first time it struck her that perhaps 20 years from now, she might just give anything to take this moment back.

It was, of course, at that moment that the plane left the runway and touched the sky.
(Diane)

She set her bags on the floor next to a bar stool and sat down. "Gin martini, two olives, please". The airport bartender nodded and turned to make her drink.

Depressive Nihilist had been right about something else. This airport bar looked like every airport bar she'd ever been in. The overpriced martini would, like all overpriced airport martinis, be vaguely disappointing. But this was part of her pattern. The thrill of departure followed by the flatness of the landing. When in flight, by whatever mode, she was occupied with the notion of freedom. After hitting the tarmac or turning onto a freeway exit she had to face facts, a process best undertaken with a drink in hand.

She sat at the bar, pulling her bags closer by with a nervous foot. These were the facts: she had arrived with two bags, regret and phone number scribbled on a note card. Beyond that she had a vague sense of possibility, illustrated by random postcard images of this new city. She was emphatic only about what she would not be looking for this time around.

She straightened up on her stool as the bartender set down her drink. A yellow plastic spear was thrust through two very small airport bar olives. For 9.50 you'd think they could spring for Sicilian, she thought. She took a sip. They sure as hell aren't spending it on the gin. (Lorraine)

She looked at the number on the note card. She looked at her cellphone, resting next to the notecard atop the bar. She looked at the olives in her martini glass, and the olives, like tiny eyeballs, looked up at her. "Stop staring at me," she commanded, and then pretended to be angry when the olives ignored her.

"Fine. I'll call him. I've come this far. Dialling a simple number should be the easy part..." She reached for the phone, two of her fingers momentarily resting on it's shiny surface, and then she quickly moved her hand away and grabbed the martini. "I'll call him... after this drink."

It wasn't like her to be this nervous. Maybe because she had given up so much for this, even hurt someone else in the process. Maybe because she had no idea what she was getting herself into, or why exactly she was doing it. Or maybe, just maybe, because she had never even heard his voice before.

She was about to. She picked up the phone and dialled the number. It was picked up after only two rings, but no one was speaking. There were some barely audible noises in the background, waves crashing, birds of some sort... seagulls, maybe geese?

Then finally, his voice. "Hello?" (John)

“Hello? Hello?”

She cleared her throat as if she was about to speak, but remained silent. No, she thought, not yet.

“Hello? I know you’re there.” He swore angrily, waited a moment and slammed the phone down.

She turned back to the bar and indicated her glass.

“I’ll have another of those, but this time put some bloody gin in it, okay!”

The surly barman carelessly slid her drink across to her. It slopped all down the front of her linen suit. Not such a good look, she thought, looking down and then glaring back at him. Just seems I’ll have to keep my $50 tip after all. She tossed back the gin, smiled at him smugly and very carefully slid off the bar stool. The alcohol hit her like a wave and she had to walk very straight and tall not to look drunk. She spotted the oily barman watching her progress. What’s his problem?

Stepping off the gutter, near the taxi rank she tripped and sprawled in a heap on top of her bags. “Stupid high heels!” she said loudly . She scrabbled herself and bags together and noticed that the bag she’d been meant to deliver had come open a bit.

“Oh my God! Money! It’s filled with money.” She closed the bag quickly, looked around, sober in an instant. She hauled herself into the taxi, flushed and unsteady, this time not from the gin. (Therese)

Watching the woman lurch out of his bar, Jack chose a cell-phone from the shoebox under the counter. For Jack, one of the perks of working an airport bar was the seemingly endless supply of lost phones at his disposal – if one kept an open ear and didn't ask too many questions, those lost devices could be plenty profitable. Just stay alert , make the occasional call and pocket the cash. Simple.

It wasn't wise to think about where the money came from.

Jack was greedy and incurious so this suited him fine. Another call, another $500. So what if the Two-Olive bitch didn't tip? He'd get his just as sure as she was going to get hers. What hers was didn't concern him. Better not to care, he thought, dialling a number from memory.

" Hey. Yeah, I'm sure –two olives, just like you said- hold on," the bartender read a name from a credit card slip, paused and grinned, " have I ever been wrong? … oh… I'm calling him now, OK?"

His grin gone, Jack made a second call. (Allan)

After rattling off the name of her hotel to the cabbie, she immediately changed her mind and directed him to take her to another, one not so well known. Then she slumped back heavily against the worn vinyl seat, money bag clutched tightly against her soaked linen suit, the others by her feet. Her thoughts careered this way and that, making her even dizzier than the alcohol had done. Maybe she shouldn't have agreed to do this. Maybe… Wait, was the driver sneaking looks at her via the rear-view mirror? (Olivia)

Why had she agreed to do this? Suddenly, it seemed as though everyone could read her thoughts. Every double take, every sideways glance in her direction, filled her with panic. Was the cabbie sneaking looks at her? Had he seen the contents in her bag as she hurried to snap it closed? Didn't he seem to hang up his phone awfully quickly when she got in? Who was he
talking to?

A tsunami of paranoia swept over her. She needed to find another cab - now. She looked around. They had just entered the financial district. Safe enough, she thought. Plenty of cabs, lots of business people scurrying about, I'll blend right in. Yeah, right. How many business people are dragging a bunch of luggage around with them? She noticed a Hilton a few blocks ahead.

"Driver, I'll get out at the Hilton, please," she squeaked, her throat tight with fear.

He looked at her again, that knowing look that said, you think you're so sly, but I've got your number lady. It scared the hell out of her.

"Sure thing, lady," he responded, almost growling as he said it His furrowed brow told her she'd pissed him off. She was getting really good at that - pissing off men. She relaxed a bit, and breathed a sigh of relief, as the cab swung into the hotel's driveway. Her mind raced as she planned her next move. That call had to be made - and soon. But right now, she just had to focus on getting herself and her bags out of this cab and into a room safely. The cab lurched to a halt. The driver glared at her again.

"That'll be $23.50," he snapped.

She tossed $30 at him and stepped from the cab with the help of the doorman, who had opened her door and extended his hand to help her. She clutched the money bag tightly and stood watch as the bellman retrieved her bags from the trunk of the cab, piled them onto a cart, and headed into the lobby. The automatic doors opened with a whoosh and she stepped into the sanctuary of the very busy lobby. The glowering cabbie sped off, tires squealing. Thank God! I couldn't get out of his cab fast enough. If I never lay eyes on him again, it will be too soon, she thought. (Gina)

Airports, bars, cabdrivers, hotels. It seemed everything in the whole world was familiar in a threatening sort of way. It was as if all the elements in the universe had lined up for reprogramming in somebody's sinister plan. And here she was only noticing now, only after surrendering herself utterly and completely.

She hated the nihilist for his accuracy.

She hated herself for her part in the madness. Here she was about to register under a false name so she could make a drop tonight. And none of it was necessary. Not one second of it. She was out. Free. She could have been cooking tilapia right now, as she had promised him. She could have been laughing with him, talking about the insane waiter they had last night. That would have been a fun conversation, and now it would never happen.

She vowed to stop beating herself up over it, when the thought crossed her mind. They usually tell her where she's picking up the day after. Why didn't they tell her? It doesn't make any sense. The guys tonight won't know. They couldn't. They're always runners who are kept in the dark.

The reality of her situation was like a slap in the face. She made a
mistake. She chose wrong. And now, she was a mark. (John)

Upon entering the hotel, she was overwhelmed with anxiety. Who was waiting? Who was watching? Who knew?

She followed the bellman to the reception area, her fingers turning white from the pressure of her grip on the money bag. her linen suit was not only damp from the spilled gin, but also from a light sheen of perspiration.

Her mind reeling with options, almost panic, she asked the bellman to hold her bags, ‘for just half an hour’ under the last name of Greenstreet.

Then she headed to the hotel lounge. Surely their olives would be more satisfying. (Barb)

She felt her anxiety back off a degree as she entered the lounge. Not crowded, yet with enough patrons so as to not make her feel conspicuous. She walked over to the bar and sat down.

"I'll have a martini, please, with two olives," she said to the bartender.

"Coming right up," he said pleasantly and turned to pour her drink.

She set her purse on the floor, careful to keep the strap wrapped around her leg, and set the bag on her lap. The bartender placed a napkin on the bar in front of her and set the martini on the napkin with no sloshing. He gave her a friendly nod and returned to the corner of the bar, turning his attention to the football game on the television.

She picked up the drink, took a long swallow and carefully set the glass down. Her hand was shaking and she longed for a cigarette, but had given them up years ago. Dipping her fingers in the drink, she found an olive and placed it in her mouth.

She was in over her head, but she had to try to work this thing out. Disappearing into a strange city with someone else's money could be a very bad idea. Someone would miss this money very much. One way or another, she'd have to see this thing through to the end. Then she'd be free of it all. (Kim)

She dialed the number again but this time when he answered she said, “It’s me.”

“Me?” There was a thin laugh at the other end of the line.

“I’m here.”

“So I hear.”

“So you hear? What do you mean, so you hear?”

“You’ve been made.”

She sat quietly for just a moment. She could definitely tell that he was outside, near water and she asked, “Where are you?”

“Irrelevant where I am. Let me walk you though this, ok? If they’re not there already, they will be. Two very well dressed, very well paid, very well appointed men with the added benefit of being complete sociopaths. Are you listening, Laura?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl. Sit up straight now, smooth out your face and let’s take a look in that mirror behind the bar. Tell me who you see.”

She looked over the tops of half poured bottles at the reflections in the mirror, “There’s an older couple drinking coffee, three men drinking beer and one guy sitting at the very end of the bar watching the football game with the bartender.”

“Alright then, sounds like you might have a minute or two.”

“How did you know where I was?”

“Irrelevant how I knew. Here’s what you do, my friend. Finish your drink. Done? Ok. Pick up your purse, walk to the end of the bar past the television and head towards the little girls’ room, you follow?”

“Yes.”

“When you get to the hallway take a left and walk until you see a door that says Employees Only. You’ll be in the kitchen now. Take another left and keep going, don’t make eye contact, keep going. You’ll pass the prep station, then the rack storage, dry storage, there yet? Keep going. You’ll see a freezer on your left and a door on your right. Take the door. You’ll be in an alley, only one direction from here sweetheart and that’s another Louie. With me? Good. Go to 24th and Main, Column Apartments, Number 14. A bartender friend of mine named Jack Carver’s waiting for you, he’ll take care of you...I promise.” (Amy)

She hesitated, one hand on the open door, the other holding the phone to her ear. She looked up and down the alley, wondering what was familiar about it. Not the alley itself, it wasn’t that, but something tugged at her mind…

“Laura? You still there?”

Without replying, she lowered the phone. She listened carefully for a few seconds, then turned sharply back into the hotel. Retracing her steps through the kitchen at a run she yelled into the phone. “You bastard! Yeah, I just bet you and your ‘friend’ are going to take care of me – soon as I emerge from that alley!”

“Don’t do anything foolish, Laura…” His next words were drowned out by a sudden rise in pitch of the background noise – seagulls, geese, whatever the hell they were. She’d never known much about birds. What she did know was that it was the very same racket she’d heard when she stepped into the alleyway.

“You’ve had me on a wild goose chase, you bastard! Well sorry, chum, the rules are about to change.”

Now back in the foyer, she rushed up to the desk. The bellman smiled at her in friendly fashion.

“Quick, give me my bags!”

“Sorry Ma’am, I don’t have them.”

“But…”

“Mr Greenstreet just collected them.” He gestured towards the French doors. “ He’s waiting for you.”

She walked, her head reeling, out onto the verandah, which overlooked a wild seascape. A man sat facing her at a table, a cellphone to his ear. “Ah, here you are,” he said. The words came at her in stereo, through her own cellphone and straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were.

“You??!!” she exclaimed..

“Laura, my dear, do have a seat.” He handed her a glass. “I took the liberty… Martini, two olives. Shaken not stirred. It seemed appropriate.” (Nicki)

“You!!” she said again.

“Yes, me,” he said.

“But…?”

“But, how did I..?”

“Yes, how did you…?”

“It wasn’t easy.” he said. “Sit down, my dear and…”

“Not before I…”

“Before you?”

“Not before I finish a sentence.”

“Ah,” he said.

She sat down. She saw the bags by his feet.

“The bags!” she said.

“Yes, they’re mine. It was me who sent them to you in New York. Me who arranged for you to bring the money out here. Me who planned everything. Me! Me!! Me!!!”

“But why? And why disguise yourself as a depressive nihilist with aerophobia? Why oh why? Tell me. Please!”

“I needed a courier who wouldn’t prove to be a stool pigeon. Someone they wouldn’t suspect. Someone sitting next to me, but not actually me. Someone more like you than me. If they’d seen me carrying the money, I’d have been a dead duck. And disguising myself as a depressive nihilist with aerophobia seemed the obvious thing to do. You were never in any danger, my dear.”

“But all those birds! Geese, seagulls, pigeons, ducks? I feel so gullible”

“Yes, strange, isn’t it. And gets even stranger. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Goose. Godfrey Goose!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Yes… and enough already! I’m a collector. Let me show you.”

He opened the bag that had contained the money. Lying on the purple velvet base were about twenty large yellow olives.

“This is what I came to Istanbul for,” he said, opening the parcel. “Beautiful, aren’t they!”

“Olives?” she said. “I’m sick to the back teeth of olives. Olives and birds!”

“No, you misunderstand. They are eggs. Tiny eggs embellished with intricate carvings and tiny precious stones. Made for a 15th century caliph. I was just weighing them. Pure gold! And you helped me buy them.”

“ I see it all now,” she said. “You’re the Goose that weighs the golden eggs!” (Charlie)