Once settled to the best of his ability, he pulls a small parcel from the inside pocket of his coat. A black, hardshell case zipped at the seam. “Никаких проблем.”
His succinct report is: no issues. Payment was accepted, product secure, no incidents with bystanders or the authorities. Partially unzipping the case reveals a plastic vial sloshing with clear liquid and a capped microsyringe. As with any agent that leaves no trace in the body, it costs enough to spring a tear to the eye. Fortunately, I’ve already received payment from Herr Bauer. His death is on his own dime, and even I can appreciate the morbid irony in that. An intramuscular prick. Over the railing. Whatever’s to happen afterwards isn’t of consequence, whether Luisa Bauer reports her husband missing or not.
If she doesn’t, suspicion will naturally fall upon her.
If she does, his disappearance into the sea would be all too logical to explain away as accidental. It’s doubtful anything will be recovered. If so, nothing of significance.
Rezipping the case, overly aware of the terrible company Borislav makes, I let enough breath slip from my nose to name it a sigh.
—
Zakhar did this shit on purpose.
“Carrington, who the fuck let you shotgun a Spyder?” Charlie’s reaction, at least, is worthwhile. He looks downright disgusted, face twisted six ways from Sunday. His cheeks are dusted with pink, eyes a little glassy. Three drinks from plastered, if I had to guess.
“None of your cocksucking business, Kaiser. What are you doing out here? I thought you were all…inside…”
I trail off, awkward, as Henry presents even more displeased than he sounded on the phone. Stone-cold sober, too. Ten bucks says he caught sight of Zakhar’s stupid, blonde head in the driver’s seat, as the bastard’s almost just as flashy as the car. Henry’s seen him before, and he knows all too well our recent, inappropriate history.
“I stepped out to wait for you. Charlie and Cedric wanted to smoke.” Stiff, frigid.
Ah, shit. Again, guilt worms up my throat. I keep leaving Henry alone on a trip he barely wanted to attend. Charlie might like to think he’s everyone’s first pick for company, but I know it’s wearing on Henry’s nerves to be dragged behind the guy in a diamond-encrusted collar: clubs, beaches, boats, bars, retailers, rinse, repeat. At the very least, he was expecting my solidarity during it all. Yet, I’m off running side quests or hiding under the duvet.
Cedric’s perched by a bollard ashtray, but his gaze tracks the Gallardo as it loops the roundabout. “Who’s driving it?”
“Probably some half-dead retiree he blew for a ride.” Charlie scoffs.
Zakhar is none of the above, and I didn’t blow him for a ride. I blew him…just because. The ride was on the house, I think. So, technically, he’s wrong.
“Jealousy’s ugly on you, Kaiser. Don’t you have a briefcase of unmarked bills to blow in there? Hop to it.”
Cigarettes whittled down and buzzes beginning to die, it doesn’t take much more cajoling than that for the pair of polo-clad twats to return from whence they came. Then, it’s just Henry and I. For several moments, it’s unbearably stifling. I can’t look him in the face, but he’s not looked away. Fortunately, like always, he’s quick to deflate. Henry’s never been one to hold grudges or hang onto anger. He sighs, burrowing his fingertips in the corner of his eyes.
“So, you were with him?”
“I–” There’s no sense in lying about it. “…yeah.”
“I guess you sorted it out then, huh?”
Instead of irritated or accusing, he sounds…resigned. Relieved, almost. Maybe it’s a comfort getting any kind of answer, considering I’d been so vague. I’m back in one piece, no thunderous clouds of emotional distress hanging over my head. Henry’s a chronic worry-wart, and not at all the type to inflate a minor issue into a major one. He might be disappointed by my absence, but he’d never make me feel like shit for it. I can do that for myself.
“Sort…of? It just, ah…happened like that. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after this. I’m…I’m sorry, man, I know we had stuff going on this morning.”
I’m not blowing smoke. Zakhar will be ‘otherwise occupied’ tonight, and our boat is set to dock in Rome in less than two days. I doubt there will be any leftover time or inclination for…whatever we’ve been doing, and it’s the only thing I can think to say to smooth things over. To assure Henry the rest of my time will be dedicated to making the tail end of this trip suck a little less. He shakes his head, dismissive.
“Nah, I didn’t think you’d do the breakfast thing anyway. It would’ve been rough for you on a boat that small.” He offers a tired smile, then scrapes a hand over his scalp. “I’m just…this shit is exhausting, Kit. I miss Sarah, I miss the dogs.”
“I know, man.”
We start dragging our feet back towards the casino’s entrance, but I flinch into a stumble when Henry presses: “It’s going good with that guy, then? What’s his name?”
“Wha–? Going…?” I’m not sure what’s happening with my face, but there’s a lot of blinking and soundless movement of the mouth. Going good…? With Zakhar? Something can only go good or bad if it has longevity. Moving into new digs, school, work, friendships, relationships. Because it’s going without a clear endpoint, or is at least expected to last. Since my cold, bloated body isn’t washed ashore off the coast of France or the Balearic Islands, I guess that’s ‘going good’ by our standards. But, that isn’t what he’s asking.
“‘s just hooking up, dude.” I shrug, withholding a nervous laugh.
Henry looks at me like I’m an idiot, or I’m insinuating he is. To be fair, it’s a tough sell to my own ears.
“Kit, you rarely sleep with the same gi–person twice,” Henry swapping out ‘girl’ for ‘person’ makes me pinch my eyes shut, annoyed. “–but isn’t this, like, two nights in a row? And if you were together this morning, you slept in his suite. It’s noon the next day, man. He dropped you off in a Lamborghini–”
“Alright! I get it, fuck. What’s your point?”
“I know I told you to…go with the flow, but it’s a little out of character for you.”
Shoving my hands in my pockets because they’re suddenly restless, I tip my head back. Eyes closed, sighing like Henry’s giving me the third-degree instead of making real, fair points. It’s definitely uncharacteristic behavior. In my whole life, there’s only been three relationships lasting longer than a week, the longest of which barely made it to four months. They’re too much work, and I’ve never met a girl I was willing to do the work for. All this puerile charm wears off when my partners realize I’ve got one foot out the door before I’d even fully stepped through it.
I don’t care where you’ve been. I don’t care who you’re hanging out with. I don’t care if days go by without a text, call, or meetup. I don’t want to have to care. Maybe it’s due to something in my upbringing, a diagnosable attachment style that’ll doom me to dying alone, but I find myself burdened by romantic affections. Worrying about what another person wants, thinks, or feels in the bounds of a relationship has always been a chore. Tiptoeing around someone’s feelings, trying to keep them happy. Suffocating. Restrictive.