walked to the bedroom door, and opened it with purpose. Six empty bottles of Stella sat on the coffee table. Robbins had left the sofa but he hadn’t left the room. He was in one of the pine chairs, which he’d pushed against the apartment door. His head was back, mouth open, as he breathed and snored in spurts.
Ava went into the bathroom and locked the door. It took her half an hour to pee, brush her teeth, shower, wash and dry her hair, and put on the lightest touch of makeup. She couldn’t remember ever enjoying bathroom time quite so much. As she was finishing up, she heard shuffling in the apartment and knew that Robbins had left his chair. She listened, trying to figure out where he was. She had no intention of opening the bathroom door and walking into him. Then the noises he was making became indistinct and she had two thoughts: he was in his bedroom or he was standing outside waiting for her.
She opened the door carefully and saw him almost at once. He was standing at the entrance to Seto’s room. “You need to look after this guy,” Robbins said.
Ava had almost forgotten about Seto. She went to his door. He was flailing on the bed, kicking the covers free, revealing a pair of jockey shorts that didn’t flatter his stick-like legs. When he saw her, he motioned with his head for her to come close. She pulled the tape from his mouth. “I need to pee,” he gasped. His eyes were still glazed from the drug, but she could see that the flash of anger, the hint of growing confidence that had begun to emerge in them the night before had completely disappeared. He was a whipped puppy again, just the way she liked them to be.
“Take him,” she said to Robbins, who had come into the room and was standing only a few feet behind her. “Behave,” she said to Seto.
“I want nothing to do with him,” said Robbins.
“I can’t do it, and we can’t have him here all covered in piss if I have to bring the banker back.”
She watched as Robbins thought it out through his beery haze. “Fuck,” he finally said, brushing past her and reaching down for Seto. He picked him up by the armpits again and, holding him at arm’s length, carried him from the room. Seto looked back at Ava, his eyes rolling in panic.
While they were in the bathroom she prepared another dose of chloral hydrate in a glass of water. She had only a bottle and a half left. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it all.
Robbins carried Seto back the same way he had taken him and threw him onto the bed from a metre away. Seto bounced and then lay sideways across the bed. Ava helped him sit up and held the glass to his mouth. “Drink,” she said.
He shook his head.
“Drink it or I’ll get Mr. Clean here to hold your mouth open and I’ll pour it down your throat. Look at it this way: you’ll be sleeping through a whole bunch of unpleasantness. This is a kindness, not a punishment.”
Seto looked up at Robbins, then at the glass Ava held. His lips parted and he drank. The roll of duct tape was on the bedside table. She tore off a strip and re-taped his mouth. “This will be over soon enough,” she said to him.
Robbins followed her from the room, breathing heavily, the stench of beer and body odour wafting from him.
Ava said, “I need to get organized for the meeting this morning. I’m going to get my paperwork and sit in the kitchen. I would appreciate it if you stayed away from there until I’m finished.”
“Do I bother you that much?”
“Your smell does.”
He raised an armpit, sniffed, and then smiled. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
She went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She knelt by the bed and said a little prayer invoking St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Given the Roman Catholic Church’s stance on homosexuality, Ava had quietly cut her ties with the institution. But she couldn’t entirely revoke her childhood. She saw no relationship between prayer and the Church, or between St. Jude and the Church. She prayed to him often when she was working, not because she was involved in that many lost causes, but more because he was also the patron saint of desperate situations, and those were something with which she was more familiar.
Her prayer finished, she laid out her clothes and accessories for the day. She decided on the pencil skirt, thinking that a show of lightly tanned, nicely shaped legs wouldn’t hurt. The white Brooks Brothers shirt fit a little tighter than the other two, and her black bra would be vaguely visible through it. The green jade cufflinks and the ivory chignon pin were musts, as were the Cartier watch and the gold crucifix. They completed the image she wanted to project: professional, successful, and attractive in an understated, conservative way.
She opened the Chanel bag she took to meetings and put the business cards from Fong Accounting and all of Seto’s ID into it. Grabbing two sachets of VIA instant, her notebook, and the Barrett’s Bank file she had taken from Seto’s office, she left the bedroom and went to the kitchen. Robbins was back in the chair at the door. She thought he was sleeping until his eyes flickered open.
Ava put on the kettle, and while she waited for the water to boil she slipped onto the balcony, leaving the door open behind her. The sun was well above the horizon, beaming down on Road Harbour, the Caribbean a shimmering sky blue with streaks of green and the boat hulls gleaming. It was already warm, at least in the mid- twenties, but a light trade wind ruffled the morning air. Ava decided the balcony was for her. She left the notebook and files on the table and returned to the kitchen to make her coffee.
She drank half a cup standing by the stove, added a bit more coffee, topped up the water, and went back outside. She went through the bank file first, reacquainting herself with the account history. Thank God Jeremy Bates wasn’t entirely new. If she’d drawn a manager who hadn’t dealt with Seto before, her job would have been that much more difficult, if not impossible. At least Bates knew what Seto looked like.
Then she opened her Moleskine notebook and reviewed the notes she’d made after Seto had described the procedures for withdrawing more than $25,000 at a time. She wasn’t worried about being able to cover the transaction with a plausible paper trail. It seemed to her that Seto’s signature on a wire application, along with presentation of the appropriate identification — with copies signed and dated if necessary — would give the bank everything it needed. The important, overriding question was, would the bank insist on seeing Seto actually sign the documents? But why would they? she thought. They had his signature on record for comparison. She would be able to present his genuine ID in a couple of forms, with copies signed and dated. Not right away though, not at the first meeting. The worst thing she could do would be to overwhelm Bates with documentation.
The most important thing was for her not to rush, not to appear the least bit anxious. Slow and steady, slow and steady. Spin Bates the story. Establish her credibility. Show him Seto’s ID. Establish the relationship. Get Bates primed to organize a wire but don’t try to close at that first meeting. It would take two meetings, maybe even three. As long as she could keep nudging him along… tiny steps, tiny steps. Let him tell her what they needed and how they needed it. Let him think he was in control of sending the seven million dollars to Hong Kong.
The only problem was that Robbins thought five million was in play. She knew — at least, if he was smart — that he’d want to confirm the wire that Barrett’s sent to Hong Kong. If he knew it was seven million his price would go up. She needed to convince the bank to send two wires, and that was doable. The way she figured it, if Plan A worked she’d be able to look after Tam and pocket an extra commission for herself. If things moved on to Plan B, Tam would still recover most of his loss.
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair. The sun was naked in the sky, the heat building. She loved the sun on her skin, but it dulled her senses, lulled her to sleep. Time to go in, time to go to work, she thought, pulling herself up from the chair.
The apartment’s living room was empty. Robbins’s bedroom door was open but she could see no sign of him inside. Then she saw him standing in the bathroom at the sink. He was naked to the waist, rolls of fat rippling like ruffles on a splotchy white dress. He had a cloth in his gloved hand and was rubbing his left armpit. Robbins’s eyes flickered in the mirror, staring back at her. Ava avoided his glance and went on into her room. Maybe he wasn’t a complete animal after all. Or maybe he just couldn’t bear his own stench.
She took her time brushing her hair, fixing the chignon, applying a hint of lipstick, and slipping into the clothes she had laid out on the bed. It was almost a ritual. When she was done, she stood back and looked at herself in the mirror on the dresser. She had left the top three buttons of her shirt undone. She turned sideways and then bent over to see how much breast showed. Too much, way too much for an accountant and too much for the banker. She buttoned one of them. The Cartier watch went on last, and she saw that it was already nine thirty. She did one last check of her Chanel bag to make sure she had everything she needed and then she was ready to go.
Jack Robbins sat on the sofa, his bare feet up on the coffee table. He had shaved as well as washed and had
