Paris on a warm summer night. I still remember the man. He was sitting in a restaurant drinking a Romanee-Conti—one of the most expensive wines in France. I waited and watched him. He kept ordering more and more. When he finally came out, he could barely walk straight. After that night the man never drank again. I went back to that restaurant the next day and ordered a glass of Romanee-Conti and it is the only wine I drink now.”
Pierre smiled and placed his palms together.
He waited for someone else to speak up.
After a little hesitation, the blond spoke. “My name is Olga,” she said in a Russian accent. “I do this for three years. I don’t like it but I like the money. My first time was in a club in Moscow. The man was very bad. He was son of local crime boss. He ordered a Stolichnaya. It is Russian vodka. He was not very nice to me. He told me he owned the club and he owned me. I gave him the drink and I ran from the club. Next day I read in the newspaper what happen. I have served drink eleven times now.” She rubbed her moist eyes.
“Thank you, Olga, for sharing that with us,” Pierre said. “Someone else, please.”
The Asian man spoke. “I am Yoshi.” His voice was hard and deep. “I do this for seven years now. I am very good at it but I don’t want to do it anymore. My first time was in Osaka. It was a girl. She was daughter of a very rich business man. One night I see her at a karaoke club. She sings very good. I buy her Saki. She laughs loud. She is very happy. I buy her more Saki. When she is drunk I take her out of the club. I get her in a taxi but… she never get home.” There was a pause, as if Yoshi was contemplating his last sentence. “She was very nice to me. I do this many times more but I never forget her.”
Pierre turned to the group, More specifically, he turned to him.
He coughed and started, “My name is Smith. I’ve only done it once. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I can’t say I didn’t, either. It was last year in Niagara Falls, Canada. The man was a heavy gambler and drinker. He frequented the casino there. One night he became very unruly. He screamed that they had cheated him out of his money. The casino threw him out. I met him outside and offered to buy him a drink. I took him to a drinking spot around the corner. He cried when he got drunk. He was a family man but with bad habits. After that night the casino never saw him again.” Smith choked back tears. “He told me he had a wife and two young children. I have not been able to sleep well since then.”
Pierre said, “It is okay. That is why we are here.”
Smith said, “Can I get some water?”
Pierre wasn’t sure but Smith quickly waved at a hostess.
The hostess returned with bottles of spring water for each of them.
She handed him his and placed the rest on the table.
Smith examined the cap, unsealed it and took a sip.
Seeing this, both Yoshi and Olga grabbed a bottle each, examined that it was sealed and then proceeded to drink from it.
Pierre turned to the last two. The older woman spoke in a British accent. “My name is Madeline. My first one was almost twenty-two years ago. It was at a pub in Manchester and it was a woman. The woman’s husband owed a lot of money to the bookies. He lost it on football and cricket games. One night at the pub she was drinking by herself. I got the courage to go up to her. She was feeling terrible. Her financial situation wasn’t good and she was there to drink her worries away. I felt bad for her so I bought her more drinks. We both left when the pub closed.” Tears streamed down Madeline’s face. Smith leaned over, opened a bottle of water and offered it to her. “Thank you,” Madeline said. “After that night, her husband never bet on another game again.”
“Thank you for sharing that, Madeline,” Pierre said.
They all said thank you to her.
Madeline wiped the tears, “What’s worse, after that I never did it again, but now as I get older I want to do it again.”
They didn’t know what to say to her.
Finally, it was the Cowboy’s turn. He pushed his hat up. “The name’s Billy Bob,” he said in a Texan accent. “I’ve been doing this before y’all learned to count. My first time was thirty-five years ago. Thirty-five! I remember it like it was yesterday. He was an old gruff man. A nasty piece of work, wretched in his ways. He used to go to a tavern down by the river and drink by himself. One night I see him hurl insults at a waitress. Poor girl left crying. I went up to him and told him what I thought of him. He eyed me hard. No one had dared say anything to him until then. He laughed and bought me drinks. He could drink anyone under the table, but not me. No siree, Bob. Let’s say after that night no waitress every cried again because of him.”
Billy Bob leaned over, grabbed a water bottle, unsealed it and chugged it down.
“Thank you, Billy Bob,” Pierre said. “Thank you all for sharing what must have been very difficult for you. I assure you, it will feel like a heavy weight has just been lifted off your chest. You will feel like you can breathe again. For those who don’t want to continue with this lifestyle, you will feel free. For those who don’t want to give it up, it will make it a little easier.”
“I’ll toast to that,” Smith said, raising his bottle.
They all did, even Pierre.
“Now,” Pierre said. “I don’t have to remind you to not tell anyone of this meeting. Another meeting will be held at an unknown date, time and place. You will be informed accordingly. We have flights to catch. Thank you for coming. Au revoir.”
They looked at each other.
There was an overwhelming sense of understanding. It was as if they all knew each other’s secret and it was okay. To keep something inside for that long was crippling and to have it out was an immense release.
Neither shook hands or even embraced. That was not how it worked.
They merely acknowledged the fact that there were others who felt what they did.
Smith walked away from them and the lounge and headed straight for the restrooms. But instead of going in, he moved past them and went straight to the lockers. He gathered his belongings and went to the other side of the terminal. He bought another overpriced cappuccino and found a spot in the corner.
A family with four young children sat near him.
The mother was having trouble getting them to eat their meals.
He took a sip. The froth again covered his upper lip. He saw one of the children look over at him. With his tongue mimicking a windshield wiper, he cleaned it off.
The child smiled back.
He looked over and saw them. First Yoshi, then Madeline, then Olga, then Billy Bob, and finally Pierre strolled by him.
None looked his way.
They must have noticed him but did not show it.
Precisely twenty minutes later, he bolted.
Instead of heading to a flight, he exited the terminal.
Outside, he hailed an airport limousine.
The driver, who was wearing a turban, asked, “Where do you want to go, sir?”
He gave him an address. The limousine turned left, then right, then right again, until it was on the main road.
He looked back, and when he was certain it was clear, he relaxed.
He pulled out the card with the series of numbers. Also written on it were two letters: AA.
A smile crossed his face.
It didn’t stand for Alcoholics Anonymous, but for Assassins Anonymous.
The meeting he’d just been through had nothing to do with regular people wanting to get sober, but for hired killers suffering through remorse.
What a joke!
If you have regrets then you confess to the authorities and pay for your crimes. Or better yet, you end your own life like you did your targets’.
But both options were no longer necessary.
Unknown to all of them was that he had been to that lounge before. He had spoken to the very hostess who had brought the bottled water.
The hostess
’ father had been murdered some two years ago. He had convinced her that one of them had something to do with it.
Using a syringe, a lethal and deadly liquid had been injected into the bottled water. He knew they would be suspicious if the sealed caps were tampered with. So the insertion was done from the side, with the manufacturer’s label wrapped over it.
The plan was, when he waved to the hostess, she would bring the bottled water containing the poison but hand him one without it.
In the end he was able to convince them all to take a drink from it.
He looked at his watch.
About now the mixture would be taking effect.
They would all be on their respective flights.
His smile widened.
It took him a year to finish this assignment but his employers would remunerate him handsomely.
Unlike his targets, he could retire and leave the life behind.
But he would have no regrets.
He felt something in his throat.
He tugged at his collar.
His chest suddenly constricted.
Sweat rolled down his temples.
He felt numbness in his left arm.
Everything began to spin around him.
He was having a heart attack!
Before he collapsed, a thought ran through his mind: He was also a target.
Read AA and other stories in the collection:
TEN TYPEWRITER TALES
MOBASHAR QURESHI was named one of the ten rising Canadian mystery writers to watch by Quill & Quire Magazine. He is the author of RACE, THE OCTOBER FIVE, and THE PAPERBOYS CLUB.
Visit the author’s website:
www.mobasharqureshi.com
Visit the author’s blog
Mobashar’s Musings
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