Werewolves - Chapter 4

After Martin left Jon at the bar, he and Marijke went back to his hotel room. They did not, however, have sex. They waited about half-an-hour for Famke to knock on the door. Martin let her in. He gave both girls fifty bucks and they went on their way. Martin sighed. He certainly would’ve liked to have had a little fun with them, but he never mixed business with pleasure. At least not with co-workers.  Not anymore anyway. That was a lesson he’d learned many times over during his time with the Company. Yes, that Company. Of course, whenever he told anyone that he used to work for the CIA, no one ever believed him. Unless they worked in the food industry. Then they just assumed he meant the Culinary Institute of America. They obviously had never tasted his cooking. His repertoire in the kitchen consisted mostly of sloppy joes. He could open that can of Manwich sauce with the best of them. There was that one time with the United stewardess. Boy, was that was a story. But it had nothing to do with how now nobody believed he used to work for the Company. So he just stopped telling people about what he used to do. Now he just told them that he used to be a used-car salesman from Jersey before he became a disillusioned ex-pat. The funny thing was that whenever he ran into someone he used to know when he did work for the Company, not one of them believed that he’d gotten out of the business. It didn’t help that for all appearances he was doing exactly the same things he did before. Sure he might supplement his income with poker winnings and the occasional small con on unsuspecting American tourists, but his primary means of employment was still the same - the seduction of women.

For the CIA his skills were mostly used in that time-honored form of clandestine HUMINT asset recruiting, the honeypot. You know, where a sexy, young agent seduces a diplomat in order to either learn state secrets or, more commonly, to put them in compromising situations that can be exploited to the Company’s advantage. Now instead of using his abilities to help his government, Martin was using his abilities to help himself. Namely, he was seducing rich, lonely, older women out of their money. Martin wasn’t exactly proud of his calling in life, but he really didn’t know how to do anything else. His government had trained him then, when it no longer needed him, had cut him adrift to fend for himself. Perhaps he could be forgiven for doing what now came naturally for him. Or so he told himself when he looked into his mirror at night. What darkness stirs in a man’s soul when he stares out into the abyss and he sees only himself? Whoa. That’s some kinda heavy shit for what we’ve got going on here. Way too over the top. Yet there it is. And it’s staying there. Let’s just say that Martin had some secrets. We all do, but he played his even a little closer to the vest than most. For instance, perhaps you will be surprised or not surprised to know that Martin was not his real name. But no one in this story, with perhaps the exception of one person, knows what it actually is so there’s not really any reason to tell you. It would just make things confusing. More confusing.

What was not confusing, however, were Martin’s feelings for Tatiana. He wanted her with a singular desire. Not singular as in extraordinary; remarkable; exceptional. Though it was certainly that. No, it was more singular in the sense of a singularity. No matter which direction his thoughts started out it, they all eventually returned to her. He was trapped within her event horizon. It was something Martin had never felt before and could not explain. He had in fact been trained to avoid this exact situation. His feelings blinded him and made him sloppy. She was hurting his bottom line. He hadn’t taken in a really big mark in months. He’d been reduced to taking a few hundred bucks off dumb American tourists. Well, he didn’t actually think Jon was that dumb. Just young and supremely apathetic. That worked equally as well for Martin’s purposes.

Martin looked at his watch. The night was still relatively young. He could head back to a bar, a different bar of course, he needed to clear his head, well, clear it as much as a night of drinking could, just so long as she wasn’t there, and spend his night’s wages. Maybe he’d hit up one of the nicer places around. There was that attractive redhead he’d seen at the first bar where he’d met Jon. She would probably do in a pinch. Young, bored trophy wives were sort of Martin’s specialty.

Wendy Gianopoulos. That was the name of the first woman to whom he had applied his skills after leaving the agency. She was an American who had married a Greek shipping magnate. (Seriously, is there any other kind? Just google ‘shipping magnate’ and ‘greek shipping magnate’ and compare the lists. They’re practically identical. Anyway…) Mr. Gianopoulos was about three decades Wendy’s senior. You can probably figure how well that worked out.

Martin met Mrs. Gianopoulos at a fundraiser for multiple sclerosis. He found that fundraisers were a great way to not only meet rich chicks but also to impress them with his ‘sensitive’ side. This, of course, existed solely in their imaginations, but he wasn’t going to let them know that. They started talking near the bar after she’d finally been able to get away from her husband. Martin discovered that while Mrs. Gianopoulos was cool with helping people like Michael J. Fox (Martin didn’t bother correcting her), her real passion was sustainable agriculture.

“Do you know,” she had asked Martin that night, “how much we spend on food imports? To ship all that food and pay all the taxes and everything?”

“No,” Martin said.

“Well, neither do I,” Mrs. Gianopoulos said, “but my husband tells me it’s a lot. And you know what else?”

“What?”

“I read in USA Today the other day that the FDA only inspects 1% of food shipments into the country. And of the food they do check, about 6% is contaminated. You know how much contaminated food gets into the country?”

“About 6%?”

Mrs. Gianopoulos paused for a second. “Yeah, I guess it would be. Anyway, isn’t that horrible?”

“Yeah, it’s awful. I have a soybean farm in Texas, and-”

“You own a farm?”

“Sure.” Martin smiled. Sustainable soy bean farmer. It was the cover he used to introduce himself to the mistress of that Politburo member in Prague. He loved being able to recycle identities. That much less chance of him blowing his story. “Anyway, I was saying that we never ship more than a state away. My dad always told me to stay local.”

Mrs. Gianopoulos smiled. “That’s great.”

“Well, Texas is a pretty big state. It’s pretty easy.”

“How did you get into soybean farming?”

“Well, I love old cars. Especially American cars.”

Mrs. Gianapoulos raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

“Didn’t you know that Henry Ford was obsessed with soybeans?”

“Really?” The eyebrow ticked up a notch.

“Oh yeah. He wore an entire suit made out of soybeans. In the 30’s every Ford car was made with two bushels of ‘em.”

“Really?” The second eyebrow joined the first.

“You can pretty much do anything with soybeans. Paints, plastics, whatever. Swear to God.”

“Really?” The brows dropped. She was starting to believe him.

Martin just nodded. “But enough about me. What do you do?”

Mrs. Gianopoulos’s face soured. “I’m married to that slob over there.” She nodded over her shoulder to the plump Greek man at a table in the corner.

“OK,” Martin said, “but what do you do for work?”

“Trust me, it’s a lot of work.”

“OK, what’s he do?”

“He’s in shipping. You know, import/export stuff. A lot of olives and olive oil. Produce.”

Martin laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, I mean, you know…”

Mrs. Gianopoulos did not. Her face showed no sign of mirth. Not a twinkle in the eye, not a twist of the lip. She did not know why it was funny that she was married to a food importer.

Martin smiled, but not because of the joke. “Nevermind,” he said. This, he thought, was going to be too easy.

*

And so it proved to be. He ended up taking her for a couple hundred grand (a loan for his failing soybean farm ;) but most importantly he had ‘borrowed’ her husband’s 1963 DB5. Who made the DB5? That’s right, Aston Martin. Who drove an Aston Martin? If you need a hint, you might find him at the bar ordering a shaken vodka martini.

The point is, that car made Martin very happy. He had a lot of good times in that car. Unfortunately, it was now in a garage in Kiev. The garage belonged to a police inspector, a police inspector who had caught Martin with the Mayor’s wife. Sometimes that was the cost of doing business.

Right now, Martin had to get his head back into the game. Nostalgia wasn’t going to help him with that. He had to remember the reason he had come to St. Maarten in the first place. Waterfront condos were popping up all over the place, luring in the rich from Europe and America. It was the perfect environment to ply his trade.

Martin took a shower then got dressed. He put on his best shirt and a new pair of shoes. He started singing to himself.

“Clean shirt, new shoes/And I don’t know where I’m going to/Silk suit, black tie/I don’t need a reason why.”

He checked his look in the bathroom mirror then stepped out the door. He decided to forget about the redhead at the bar. In the larger scheme of things he could tell she was small potatoes. He headed back to the casino. The high roller room would give him the best chance of finding a mark. Of course not just anyone could stroll on in there. It was invitation only. And a minimum of $10,000 a hand. While at one time that wouldn’t have been a problem, Martin hadn’t been able to scrape that much dough together in awhile. He was not without hopes, but they all relied on how well Louie’s night went.

Louie was one of the pit bosses for the casino. Martin had met him a few weeks ago at the bar where Tatiana worked. Last night, Martin had introduced Louie to the ex-wife of one of the ex-directors of one of England’s larger petrol companies. Somewhat predictably, the ex-wife part was preceded by the ex-director part which was in turn preceded by what the ex-director had termed a “rather minor explosion at an oil rig that had resulted in a bit an oil slick and only minimal loss of life.” Unfortunately, this ‘minor’ incident had cost him his job, his source of income, and eventually his wife. Which was when Martin conveniently (for himself anyway) entered the picture. He convinced the ex-wife of the ex-director to run away with him and squander her rather substantial divorce settlement. This eventually brought them to St. Maarten where Martin (now perhaps you see how he brilliantly conceived of his current alias), dropped the ex-wife of the ex-director, and had already identified his next target, a woman who, well Jesus Christ, this is getting ridiculous, isn’t it? That’s enough insignificant characters for now, and Martin’s womanizing ways have been well-established. Besides, this woman represented one of Martin’s few failures, the reason in fact he was sort of stuck on St. Maarten in the first place, and he really didn’t want anyone to know about it anyway. But what you should know is that his failure made him start to wonder if he was losing his touch. He was getting older. And there is no greater enemy to a confidence man than self-doubt. This led to more drinking, where he found Tatiana, fell into her gravity well, and forgot about everything else for awhile. Then the ex-wife of the ex-director found out about his little hideaway and she started showing up at the bar. At least twice a week she would show up while Martin was there. And every time she left with a different man. Martin figured he was supposed to feel jealous, but he couldn’t give two shits about the ex-wife of the ex-director and he never had. So he pretended it pissed him off. Now, this might seem like he was letting her win, giving her that satisfaction, but Martin was always thinking ahead. He knew people’s anger and jealousy could be used against them. So he cultivated it. Which brings us back to Louie.

You didn’t forget about Louie, did you? Louie was one of the pit bosses for the casino. The previous night, Martin had introduced him to the ex-wife of the ex-director. The circle is now complete. Of course, Martin’s introduction of Louie to the ex-wife of the ex-director consisted of Martin telling her to keep her hands off his friend Louie. Which, of course, guaranteed that her hands would be all over his friend Louie. Which was the plan. You might think the ex-wife of the ex-director might be smart enough to realize that the man who had helped her waste all her money and was clearly only in it for himself might be playing her for a fool again and steer clear of anyone he introduced her to. You might think she’d heard of reverse psychology. You might even think something else entirely. Who knows what you think? The point is, for whatever reason and whatever you or anyone else may think, the ex-wife of the ex-director left the bar with Louie that night. And if all went well, Louie would owe Martin a favor.

Which is why when Martin stepped into the casino, he was very happy to see Louie beaming a huge smile over in his direction.

“Martin, my friend,” Louie said in his inscrutable accent that was the result of living in a place where people spoke Dutch, French, and English and being born someplace where they spoke something else entirely. Louie draped a giant, hairy arm around Martin’s shoulders. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Louie,” Martin said. “It looks like you’re in a good mood. Things go well last night?”

“They could not have been better. You did not tell me what an animal this woman was. Five times, my friend. She was insatiable. And the things she said, my God, you would not find a mouth like that on the worst of Sinbad’s sailors. But what she can do with that mouth… oh.” Louie moaned in the memory of ecstasy.

“At least you don’t kiss and tell,” Martin said.

Louie smirked and did his best Groucho Marx impersonation, “I would have been a gentleman if she had been a lady.”

Martin smiled. “Well, that’s great. I’m happy I could help you out. So… how’re things looking in the Whale’s Club?”

Louie shrugged. “Meh, business is business.”

“Louie,” Martin said, giving his friend a nudge with his elbow. “How are things looking in the Whale’s Club?”

It took a moment, but a giant smile grew on Louie’s face. “Oh, ho, ho,” he laughed. “Things are looking good. Rich men, they like the beautiful women.”

“Any of them, you know, not attached?” Martin asked.

“Well there is one. She is a little older, but she is a real, uh… puma.”

“Cougar, Louie, you mean cougar.”

“Yes, cougar. Anyway, I do not see her with anyone.”

“Maybe I should say hello then.”

“You know the Whale’s Club is only for the very rich. And you, my friend, sadly do not qualify.”

“I know. That’s why I need a marker for a few hundred grand.”

Louie’s eyes bulged. “Are you crazy?”

Martin shrugged. “Look, just hear me out. You give me the chips. If I lose, whatever, it’s not real money anyway. And if I win, I’ll give all the chips back. It won’t cost the casino a dime.”

“I cannot just give you a hundred thousand dollars.”

“A few hundred thousand,” Martin said.

“Whatever. It is ridiculous.”

“You owe me, Louie. She was insatiable, remember?”

“Yes, but…” Louie began, placing his open hands out in front of him. “I cannot do it.”

“Sure you can,” Martin said, putting a hand on Louie’s back. “Hire me as a security consultant.”

“What?”

“Look. Hire me as a security consultant and let me go undercover. You give me a bunch of chips and I pose as a whale so I can make sure no one is cheating you.”

“But I do not believe anyone is cheating us.”

“Of course not. Because you’ve hired me to make sure that they don’t.”

“Okay, now you are just confusing me.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just give me the chips, and if anybody asks you why, just tell them that it’s a routine security operation.”

“I do not know.”

“Louie, look at me.” Martin tried on his brightest smile. “It’s just a little favor for a friend. You can trust me.”

Louie’s face looked pained. “I suppose it would be all right.”

Martin slapped Louie on the back. “Of course it will be all right.”

Louie sighed. “So why do I feel like I will be mopping floors by next week?”

But Martin continued to assuage Louie’s fears, and a few minutes later he sat down next to the woman Louie had told him about. She was a middle-aged brunette, about Martin’s age, the lines were starting to peek through here and there, but she had the body of a woman at least a decade younger, and the predatory gleam in her eye of a jungle cat.

For the first few hands, Martin didn’t say anything to her except hello. He played conservatively and studied her style of play. It didn’t take Martin long to see that she didn’t have one. As far as he could tell there was no rhyme or reason to her play. One hand she’d stick with a fifteen and the next she would hit on an eighteen. Dealer showing a seven both times. Somehow she won both hands anyway.

“That’s an interesting style of play you have there,” Martin said.

“Oh,” the brunette said, arching an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware I had a style of play.”

“That’s what’s so interesting about it. Very unpredictable. Stay.” Martin waved his hand over the ten and eight in front of him.

“I like to rely on my instincts.” She tapped the table and the dealer flipped over a six to go with her seven and eight.

The dealer was showing a three. He flipped over a ten then dealt himself a queen.

“See,” she said, “we would have both lost if I had stayed.” She stacked the chips the dealer had just given her.

“You have an interesting accent,” Martin said. “Toulouse?”

“That’s a good guess. Most Americans are lucky to get the country right. I’m from Bordeaux. Actually, I’m descended from Aliénor d’Aquitània.”

Martin smiled. “Really. Now that’s interesting.”

“You seem to find a lot of things interesting.”

Martin shook his head. “Not really. Did you know that Katharine Hepburn was also descended from Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

“Fascinating. How is it that you’ve come by so much useless knowledge?”

“I spend too much time watching TV in hotel rooms.”

“You travel a lot?”

“I used to work for the CIA.”

She chuckled. “Why is it that Americans always want to be James Bond?” She paused. “So, who are you, really?”

“Just a businessman. My work is very boring, I assure you.” Martin placed his next bet. “But lucrative.”

“Do you have a name?”

Martin held up a finger. “Hold on, let me see if I can remember this.” Then, after a moment, he said, “Tan m'abellís vostre cortés deman, qu'ieu no me puesc ni voill a vos cobrire. Ieu sui Arnaut, que plor e vau cantan; consirós vei la passada folor, e vei jausen lo joi qu'esper, denan. Ara vos prec, per aquella valor que vos guida al som de l'escalina, sovenha vos a temps de ma dolor.”

“Was that la Langue d’oc? I am ashamed to say I don’t know much of it myself.”

“That’s all right, neither do I. I was just quoting Dante. I’m not even sure what it means anymore. I just remember it because I had to read The Inferno in high school and my name is Arnaut, too. Martin Arnaut.”

“Impressive. It is a pleasure to meet you Martin Arnaut. My name is Nathalie Pochet.”

“The pleasure’s mine. So what brings you to St. Maarten?” Martin asked.

“I’m trying to spend as much of my husband’s money as I can before my lawyer gives him the divorce papers on Monday.”

“I could help you with that. It’s actually one of my specialties. I mean, I usually blow my own money, but I’m more than happy to spend someone else’s.”

She laughed. She started to say something else, but Martin didn’t hear her. He was staring over her shoulder at the entrance to the Whale’s Club where a couple had just entered the room. The man was large in the way that a walrus was large, all his rolls of fat merging into one continuous whole and giving him a rather round appearance. He had short gray hair and a large mustache further complementing the image. Martin guessed he was Russian or of some other Eastern European descent. The cut and fit of the man’s suit screamed gangster. The knuckle and neck tattoos confirmed it. But much more interesting to Martin was the woman on his arm.

It was Tatiana. Martin sighed. He excused himself and left the casino.