Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (18 page)

“No, no, it’s not—”

“—I can make it right again. I can make it better, I swear I’ll make it better.”

Roy’s shaking his head. Doesn’t know if it’s more for Angela
or for himself. “It’s not … That’s got nothing to do with it.” He crouches down, coming to her eye level. His quadriceps shaking under the pressure. “I ain’t too good with new things. I’ve never really been able to … adjust. Most times, I need stability.”

“I can be stable.”

“What I’m saying is, I got used to having you around. You’re part of … you know, you’re part of it now. And that’s great. That’s better than great.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem, hon,” he says. But he doesn’t want to lie to her. Not now. “It’s just … I gotta take stock, that’s all. See where I am right now. See where I wanna be. That’s what Doc Klein says, at least. You understand?”

“Not really.”

“Me either.” He laughs. Straightens up, his legs protesting. “C’mon, don’t miss your train.”

Roy grabs Angela and lifts her onto the train, duffel bag and all. She’s not crying now, not really, and Roy is glad for it. “When I come back,” she says, “we’ll watch the late show?”

“All the way to the end,” he promises.

Angela leans down from inside the train, one hand grabbing the rail to steady herself, and plants a kiss on Roy’s cheek. “Bye, Dad,” she whispers.

By the time Roy looks up, she’s gone. A few moments later, the train is, too.

The main airport on Grand Cayman is sixteen miles outside of George Town. The cab ride into the city is smooth enough, but the cabbie’s air is out, so they roll along with the windows down.
Roy doesn’t mind. The wind feels good against his forehead. He hates planes, hates being stuck in a seat for that long. Even a big seat. He always springs for first class. Doesn’t think of it as a luxury. It’s a necessity. Coach would kill him. No exaggeration, Roy thinks. Kill him.

The back of the cab jumps wildly with every pothole. It’s weighted down with Roy’s luggage. Three bags in all, large suitcases with extra security padlocks. Each bag contains approximately two hundred thousand dollars in American currency. Money that used to be holed up in the ceramic horse. Soon, it will be safely in Roy’s numbered account at the Grand National Bank in George Town. For now, he worries about it. What if the cab hits a hard bump? What if the trunk opens up? What if the bags go flying out? What if they crack open on a rock? That sort of thing.

Wouldn’t be happening if he’d remembered his pills. Left them on the kitchen counter. Roy can see where they are, picture the bottle next to the coffeemaker. He’s been thinking about them since the plane took off. Since it was too late. Like his brain was playing a joke on him, keeping it a secret until he was airborne. He would have gotten off the plane if it was still on the ground. Considered making a fuss, getting them to land again, but knew it was more trouble than it was worth.

He called Klein as soon as he landed on Grand Cayman, and the doctor said that missing a few days’ worth of pills wouldn’t do anything to his condition. That it was not a problem, that he should relax. The Caymans are an island paradise, the doctor said. Roy didn’t tell him he was down here on business. No need for the doctor to know that. He probably knew too much already.

The taxi eventually makes its way into the heart of the city, and Roy gives the driver instructions to wait for him outside the bank. It can be hell trying to pick up a cab at the wrong time in George Town, and he doesn’t want to wait on the street for hours. Wants to check in at his hotel, find something to eat. Sleep.

Roy doesn’t want to be conspicuous dragging his luggage inside the bank, but it’s difficult to manage the three bags at once. He manages to haul them inside the entrance, then waits. Stands there with a purposeful look on his face, and waits. This is not the first time Roy’s done this. He knows it will work.

The female teller who comes over is a new face, but Roy knows his main contacts will still be around. “Can I help you with that, sir?”

“Mr. Cheively, please. Is he around?”

She nods and asks Roy to wait but a second. He looks around the bank, at the other customers. He’s not the only one with luggage. With bags too heavy for clothing. He’s not the only one who’s keeping his guard up.

Roy hears his name called out, and he looks up to find Mr. Cheively, his usual contact. “You did not call to say you were coming,” says the bank executive in the clipped British tones Roy has come to expect from the Cayman natives. “I would have arranged for accommodations.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” says Roy. He never calls ahead. He knows that if he does, Cheively will try to get him to go to dinner, to set him up with a ladyfriend of his, that sort of thing. It had happened before, at the old bank. A Cayman way of encouraging their clientele. Roy doesn’t need encouragement. The anonymous bank accounts and offshore protection are all he cares about.

After a few more blandishments, Cheively takes Roy into the back, helping to drag the suitcases with him. They total the money up together, the executive working a large, old-fashioned calculator to add up the sums. “Are we adding this to the main account, or starting a new one?”

“Same account,” says Roy. He’s never seen the point of spreading the money out. Hidden cash is hidden cash. One bundle, ten bundles, it’s all the same thing. More numbers to remember that way. More passwords. Hassle.

After the cash is counted, after the final amount is tallied and agreed upon, Roy and Mr. Cheively go through the motions of accessing the account. Though Mr. Cheively knows that Roy is, indeed, the holder of the Grand National Bank account, he is duty-bound to get both the numbers and the designated password from him. These are the only things required to access the account, Roy knows. This is why he keeps this information solely in his mind. Not written down, anywhere. Once upon a time, he had the numbers scattered across his house, coded down inside a Rolodex listing. But he tore those up. Security risk. It’s in his brain, or it’s nowhere.

“So now I’ve got … what?”

Mr. Cheively gives Roy a figure that hovers just above the four-million-dollar mark. He’s satisfied. That’s what he expected.

“Now,” says the British banker, “is there anything else I can do for you? Food, drink … women?”

Roy shakes his head, pumps the man’s hand. “I’ll be fine. I fly back tomorrow.”

The cabdriver is waiting outside, and Roy climbs in. “Hyatt Villas,” he says. “Wake me when we get there.” Roy settles down in the back of the cab, tucking his legs under him for the drive
to Seven-Mile Beach. He’s glad to be rid of the cash, to get it out of the horse, out of his house. Into safety. He tries to sleep as the taxi bounces across the road, the wind whipping through his hair. Traffic begins to intensify as they near the resort. Tourists in their own cabs, in their own rental cars, shooting by, clogging up the main resort arteries. Roy remembers when he first started coming here, almost ten years back. When it wasn’t so crowded. When his suitcases weren’t so heavy.

Roy’s suite isn’t ready yet. It’s after three, after check-in time, but the room isn’t prepared. He’d put up a fuss, growl, complain, but there’s no point. He’s not really upset. Highsmith, the hotel manager, feels bad enough to comp him in the lounge. Wanted to get some sleep, but a drink will do.

The lounge is empty this afternoon, just a few couples slumped in the overstuffed chairs, staring out at the sea. Big picture windows with majestic views of the ocean. Roy’s seen it. It’s blue. It’s wet. He doesn’t know how to scuba. Doesn’t want to snorkel. He sits at the bar, his back to the water.

“What can I get you?” asks the bartender.

“Gin and tonic, twist,” says Roy. “Highsmith sent me.”

The bartender doffs a hat that’s not there and mixes up Roy’s drink. “Enjoying your stay, sir?”

“Just started it, friend.” Roy grabs at a bowl of almonds and cracks them between his teeth.

The bartender squeezes a quarter of lime into Roy’s drink. Slides it across the bar. “Do you plan on enjoying your stay, then?”

“Preferably,” says Roy.

“Family?”

“No,” says Roy instinctively. Then, almost as quickly: “A daughter. Back in the States. She’s fourteen.”

The bartender smiles and grabs an almond of his own. Casual fellow. “You should bring her next time. We’ve got a lot for a young girl to do. She like to go diving?”

“I don’t know,” says Roy.

“Swimming? Snorkeling? Volleyball?”

He shakes his head again. “Not sure.”

The bartender cocks his head. “What does she like, then? I’m sure we have it.”

“We played games. We always liked to play games.” He sucks down a gulp of his drink. It tastes bitter.

The bartender spreads his arms wide. “We got all kinda games around here. We got a whole room full of ’em. She like chess? We got a beautiful room with chessboards, looks out right over the water.…”

Roy leaves the bartender talking to himself. Stands up and strolls to the edge of the lounge. The picture window in front of him, the glass walls to the hotel. He can almost see his reflection, at the same time as he’s looking out on the ocean. Like he’s on top of the water. Like he’s inside the water. Like it’s surrounding him, comforting him, buoying him. The ground below his feet, blue and wet, the carpet soaked and wet. The carpet. Wet.

Roy looks down. He’s spilled his drink. All over the carpet, he’s spilled his drink. A dark stain spreads across the thick white pile of the lounge. Stained, he thinks. Permanently stained. Now the ocean is closing in. Pushing, from all sides. His legs wobble, begin to buckle beneath his body. He takes a seat in a nearby
chair, arms dangling from the sides. Head back, propped so he can see the sunset. He’s seen it before, of course. It’s pink. It’s yellow. It’s blue. It’s all those things, but it’s better than watching the carpet. Better than watching the stain, which is spreading even now, spreading across the whole floor. A permanent discoloration. Filthy. Ruined.

And the bile begins to rise again. Roy curses himself silently. This is stupid, this is wrong. Klein said this wouldn’t happen. He said the pills wouldn’t work this way, that they’d stay in his body. But the bile is coming fast, and he can picture it. Green, slimy, crawling up his throat. Slowly, like a horror movie monster. Tickling his uvula. Filling his mouth with saliva. The carpet below, stained. Ready to be stained more. Ready to be destroyed.

He bursts from the lounge, stumbling into the lobby. Slamming into tourists. Shocked gasps. Wide eyes. Running to the rest rooms out front. Falling into a stall, onto his knees, tearing his pants. Pulling the bowl wide, stomach coming up, coming out. Mouth spreading, allowing for the flow, ready for the onslaught.

Nothing. Dry heaves again. Small hacks, coughs. Cackles. His shoulders shaking with each convulsion. Tears dropping into the bowl. Running down his cheeks. Breath coming sharp, cool air running into his throat. The stinging gone now. The bile gone now. The carpet, gone.

Roy staggers to his feet, out of the stall. Washes off his face. Straightens his tie. Wipes down his scraped knees. They’d better have his room ready now. They’d better give him one with hardwood floors.

Stop signs are not Roy’s concern as he makes his way back home. Traffic signals are disregarded. It’s all about speed. It’s all about shortcuts. Roy is at the tail end of a sleepless night and day. He maneuvers his car in a half-fog, keeping his eyes on the road as best he can. This morning, he barely made it out of the hotel in time to catch his plane. Checked the room to make sure he didn’t leave anything, then checked it again. And again. Six run-throughs before he was convinced, then he closed the door. Thought it was over. An hour later, he had checked it five more times.

He knows he’s in trouble. Knows he needs to get at that medicine. Called Klein from the airport, but he wasn’t in. Machine picked up. Roy figures he’ll call once he’s at home, once he’s taken the pills. The pills are waiting for him there.

The flight back was an exercise in self-control. In breathing patterns. In keeping his eyes closed. One of the pretty little stewardesses nearly went home with a broken nose. She kept trying to wake Roy during the flight. To offer him cocktails. To tell him about the movie. To suggest he buckle his safety belt. The last time, Roy didn’t even look up. He let his hand fly through the air, narrowly missing her face by an inch. She didn’t bother him again.