The Black Knight Squash Fiction League Match #3

 The Loose Strings  The Racketeers
CHAPTER TWO

Hayden
by David Smith

I have always been slow to wake.   I revel in that fog of consciousness that leaves me warm and fuzzy.   Unlike those thriller novels where the assorted action characters are instantly awake at the slightest click, creak, or change in ambient sound, I have never been able to do that.   Yes, a smarter person would have chosen a different path in her life.

For a lot of reasons.
 
If I was a character in a novel, I would have heard the text messages arrive.  I would have seen Ollie checking my phone.  I might not be in my current mess.  Sadly, I just had a vague sense that I had missed something. I sat up and saw Ollie walking toward the bathroom where the light was already on. 

Really, my life was simpler and safer when I was working at “gentlemen’s clubs.”  Not that there were ever any gentlemen in those grip and grope palaces.   But, noooo…I had to step further out onto the ledge.  You see, I was quite popular at New York’s high-priced clubs but the income, while good, couldn’t compare to what I made now.  And my current lifestyle was not bad.   As Charlene sang, “I’ve been to Nice and the Isle of Greece…”  You know the rest.  Truth be told, the rush that I feel from the action, the danger, was better than sex.   
  
I grabbed my phone and saw that the screen was lit up as if it had just been used.  Had Ollie been looking at my phone? I checked my messages and froze when I saw the messages from Jean-Luc.   Not that the content was unexpected.  It had just been a matter of time.   It was a disaster if Ollie had seen the messages from Jean-Luc.  Yet, it was impossible to be sure.   Was I being paranoid? 

I rolled through my limited options.   Go ahead as planned or call it off?   If I changed the plans now, how would Jean-Luc react? 

“Ollie, what time did you want to head up to the Whitney?” I called across the loft.

"Why don’t we leave about 11:30?  We can walk and grab lunch somewhere before the museum.”

Ollie’s Meatpacking District loft was very trendy, but the open floor plan did not provide privacy.  I needed a place to myself to think. 

Clothing options were limited.   I kept nothing of my own at Ollie’s apartment.   I slipped out of bed and grabbed yesterday’s running clothes from the floor.   I didn’t bother to smell them…it wouldn’t be pleasant.   I looked great in the compression shorts, though.  Just don’t get close to me.    

I poked my head into the bathroom.  “Sounds good.  I am going to run a few errands and clean up at my place.  Meet you back here before 11:30.”  I dashed before Ollie could react. 

I jogged along 14th toward my place in the Flatiron District.   I loved my small apartment across the street from Eataly.   The upscale food emporium reminded me of Harrods Food Hall.  I had spent a lot of time there last year when I lived in London. 

I ducked in Eataly’s side door on my way to the Lavazza counter.   I had just picked up my espresso and croissant and was looking for a quiet place to sit when I saw a face that I knew well, my squash coach at East Side.  

“Hi, Hank!  How are you doing?”

“Hey, Hayden.   It’s good to see you.”   Hank’s smile made me forget my crisis momentarily.   Yes, I have always had a thing for my older squash coaches. Don’t judge me.

“I haven’t seen you at the club lately.”  

“I know, Hank.  I need to get back and work with you.  I love the “new” East Side.  You’ve done a great job with the place.  I’ll call and get some time booked with you.”

“Great.   I saw a couple of tournaments that would be perfect for you.  Come in, we’ll talk about them.  You have too much talent—you’ve got to use it, Hayden."

“Oh, Hank.   It would require a lot of work to get ready.  I’ll come see you.” I gave Hank a long, simmering smile before I turned and walked slowly to the door, letting Hank get a good long look at my compression shorts.   Best invention ever.  

I found a table under the trees in Madison Square Park and claimed it.   A sip of coffee and bite of croissant and I closed my eyes to consider my next move. 

Should I walk away now?  It was probably safer to see this through than to piss off Jean-Luc.  And there was a lot of money on the table.   Enough that I would be able to disappear for a good long time if necessary.  

You see, I have never been known for making the right decisions. 

How did I get into this mess?   I had been introduced to Jean-Luc by a former client.  That’s how my business worked.  I had been warned that these boys from Quebec were not to be messed with. 

Using my usual cover, I had entered a squash tournament in Montreal.  After my second round match, I took the late afternoon commuter train west from Montreal to the suburb of Beaconsfield.    The train station was near a dilapidated golf course with a number of good trails through the woods.   I avoided the dogs and their owners who had turned the old golf course into a dog park, and headed for the woods.   I wandered the trail through the trees until I was approached by a tall, lean man who was casually well-dressed.    In his mid-40s, I couldn’t help notice that he was fit and quite good looking.  

We wandered through the trees and the wild reeds that grew along the trails.    No one could see us as we walked and talked.   A half hour later, I had agreed to his plan, though I had a feeling that I had no other choice.  He walked away along the trail to the north and I went in the other direction back to the train station and the next train to Montreal.  

Now, after four months of work, at a crucial part of the plan, I had screwed up and left my phone on.  Fuck!

By this time, my coffee was cold and I needed to get going.    I stared at my phone, swallowed hard and composed a message to Jean-Luc.

“We’ve got problems.  He may have seen your texts.”

I walked out of the park toward my apartment and waited for my world to implode.   My anxiety grew with every step.  I forced myself to keep my cool.   Why was Jean-Luc not responding?  
  
Back in my apartment, I stripped and hopped in the shower.  Soap, rinse, towel, quick.  I didn’t really have time to enjoy the warm water.   I was still dripping when I heard my phone deliver a new message.  To me and my anxiety, the tone sounded ominous. 

“NO changes.  Get him there.”

I guess I had known that already.   It was showtime.  It was Hayden time.   I dressed wisely:  sheer, silk, and small, highlighted with La Perla for fun.  Even if Ollie was suspicious, I was confident that I could manipulate him.
 
I had luck finding a cab quickly and got back to the loft right on time at 11:30.    As I entered the loft, I called Ollie’s name. 

“Ollie, I’m ready.   Let’s go.    Ollie?”

It was then that I realized I really had screwed up.  




David Smith is a Long Island-exiled Medical Device executive of questionable humor and talent, whose unrestrained passion for Chardonnay and San Francisco is only surpassed by his love of the Michigan State Spartans.




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