Balance - Book one
CHAPTER 17
After leaving Selena’s mansion I proceeded, via means of overpriced taxi, to the nearest shopping centre.
Here I asked for a coffee grinder and was met with looks of perplexed confusion, as if I had perhaps asked for a gold-egg-laying-goose. At some point the world had forgotten coffee’s true origins.
After being passed off to the manager I was told that a coffee grinder and coffee beans could be purchased at a specialist store located about an hour’s drive north. Since there was no real choice I headed off.
The specialist store was aptly titled “Serious About Coffee”, situated in a swanky neighbourhood that was inhabited entirely by unsmiling middle aged men.
I entered, already kissing goodbye the remainder of my money, and was greeted by a permanently unimpressed man. He introduced himself as Benedict Walton and launched into a lecture about the importance of real coffee. Since coffee was now my forte I attempted to listen with interest. It soon became apparent that no matter how hard I wished for it, coffee beans were not riveting subject material.
Eventually I asked Benedict what he recommended and this, naturally, was a grinder and bag of beans that cost more than my entire net value times two. I settled for a cheaper bag of beans and left feeling vaguely like a rape victim.
I managed to avoid rush hour traffic on the taxi ride back to Benny’s apartment, arriving about an hour before he did. This time I used to experiment with my grinder, producing a cup of coffee so strong that drinking it was an experience similar to being kicked in the mouth with coffee flavoured boots. Regardless, the action of grinding the beans and sipping the brew created the desired relaxing and Spirit draining effect.
When Benny arrived I was sitting with my “uber coffee” at the living room table, following each sip with a grimace of agony.
“Coffee?” Benny asked in a tone that suggested both envy and disgust.
“Yes,” I replied with mock smugness, “Ground with my own hands. And it will never result in dreaded lung disease.”
“Wow. Some guys have all the luck. Any good?”
“Little strong.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll learn to love it. Any problems with the Primary Crutch initiation?”
“None.”
“Good.” He hesitated. “Any sign that…uh…”
“No,” I said, answering the unasked question, “I’m still sure she doesn’t suspect anything.”
“Great.” There was an audible sigh of relief. “Then I guess we should get busy with our training. Last chance for it.”
“Okay.”
The deck of cards emerged and we started the now familiar routine.
About an hour into the proceedings and with me not missing a single predication via peripheral vision, I felt the practice to start becoming a little redundant. Regardless Benny gathered up the cards for another round. And another.
Eventually we were interrupted by the phone ringing. Benny stood with a grunt of annoyance and moved to answer it at a side table.
“Yes?” he barked into the receiver. The unheard response turned his expression to concern. “Brent? Are you okay…?” He paused as more was said, then turned to me and gestured towards the kitchen, signalling for me to listen in on the other line.
I stood and did as he asked, hurrying into the kitchen and grabbing up the receiver.
“…deliver on time,” I heard Brent croaking, “They say if you’re late they’ll kill me.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll deliver on time,” Benny replied, “Tell them we’ll deliver on time.”
“Saturday. 8pm.”
“Saturday?!” Benny snarled, “Sunday, Brent! Sunday morning!”
Benny’s anger was misplaced, as though it were his brother making the demands.
“Date’s changed,” Brent muttered, his breath hissing against the receiver, “Saturday. 8pm. Valhalla Hotel. Same room as before.”
“But…” I could visualise Benny raking his fingers back through his hair. “Yes, fine.”
“Be on time, Benny. Or they’ll kill me. They…” he stammered, his voice cracking as he fought back tears, “…they knocked my damn teeth out. And broke my fingers. Two of them. I’m pissing blood. I think…”
“It’ll be fine, Brent.” Benny’s voice switched gears to a soothing tone. The speed at which the man could change moods was astonishing. “You’ll be fine. Just stay strong. I’ll get you out of this. Okay?”
A pause, more hissing of Brent’s breathing against the receiver. There was something unnatural about the breathing. My guess was his nose was broken.
“I’m sorry,” Brent whispered at last. “I’m sorry, brother, about everything… I’m sorry.” Now he was crying. My stomach tightened; the whole affair was becoming all too real. “I’m sorry…”
“You just relax,” Benny declared, “Just stay strong. Jet’s here, he’ll make everything right. We’ve been training.”
The line went dead. I hung up the receiver.
When I returned to the living room Benny had taken his seat. The expression on his face was distracted annoyance.
I stood mute; feeling as if something should be said, but not sure what. Benny spoke first.
“Looks like Brent finally got what was coming, huh?” he said. But not even he could produce a convincing smile at that moment.
“Uh huh,” I agreed. I felt compelled to play along with the farce in some feeble act of mercy, and returned an equally uncommitted grin.
“Maybe not really what I expected,” he continued, forcing a chuckle, “But as I said, Logical Prediction isn’t an exact science.”
“Right, you did say that,” I agreed, letting my gaze drop to the floor.
“See the magic just below the surface…”
The deeper reality of the situation sunk in. I recalled that Benny had requested, no demanded that his brother face the loan sharks alone. This had been what I assume Benny felt was a brotherly act of “tough love”; an attempt to make Brent take responsibility for his actions. Or perhaps even just a bit of revenge for years of Brent’s annoying behaviour. But it seemed that things had gone differently from how Benny expected. My guess was that Logical Prediction had not foretold the part about Brent being beaten, tortured and potentially murdered. A little miscalculation on Benny’s part.
I sat and the practicing continued on until early hours of the morning. My new coffee habit was already paying off.
Throughout the whole procedure Benny remained almost mute. The words he did speak were limited to “Well done”, “Good job” and such similar phrases, all of which were both unnecessary and uncommitted.
By 2am the fatigue was unbearable. But Benny continued regardless, gathering up the cards and continuing to deal hand after hand. My accuracy never faltered.
As the clock inched towards 3am I had made up my mind to declare myself officially incapable of continuing, despite how compelled I felt to show dedication to the cause. But Benny’s face required I build up a bit of courage before speaking.
“I think we should call it a night,” I said.
“Another round,” he declared, not looking up from the cards.
“Benny. I’m exhausted.”
“Another round!” The words emerged in a bark that shattered the silent ambience, loud enough to make me jump in my seat.
A moment later his expression melted into one of embarrassment and he placed down the cards.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
“No really, I’m sorry, Jet.” He met my gaze, making apparent the dark rings under his eyes. “About all of this… bullshit.”
I took a moment to consider my response.
It had occurred to me that the situation had been thrust upon me, rather than being a choice. And yes, it had occurred to me that Benny had never officially acknowledged my decision to unquestioningly be involved. But it did seem rather silly to start discussing this at that particular moment. After all, I had passed the point of no re
turn at least ten miles ago.
“It’s fine,” I said eventually. He nodded in response. “And don’t worry. Really I think at this point I could do it with my eyes closed. And I mean that almost literally.”
“Okay. Thanks, Jet.”
“Sure.”
“You know, I care for him. He is my brother.”
“I know, Benny.”
“It may not always seem so, but I do. He’s an asshole sometimes but he’s my little brother. You know?”
“I know.”
We sat in silence for a few moments more. Then both stood and headed for bed without another word.