The Match

THE MATCH

A Novel

by

Davinia Bostick

and

David Vale

Cover Design by Beate Petruccelli

beatepetruccelli@yahoo.com

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Davinia Bostick and David Vale on Smashwords

The Match

Copyright © 2010 by Davinia Bostick and David Vale

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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I dedicate this book to my father

Dennie Matthew Bostick

for always being there and doing the

best he could.

D.B.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A novel, like a crop, springs forth from the blossoming of untold thousands of seeds and any effort to select which of those seeds is most responsible for the success of the harvest is a struggle in futility. Thus, were I to foolhardily attempt to write an acknowledgment praising everyone whose seedling contributed to the dubious bounty contained in the following pages that worthy endeavor would be longer than the book itself. Yet not to do so would be a deed of shameless arrogance for nothing in the field of human creativity is truly created alone; we all stand where we stand by the grace of a thousand succors.

And so, twixt the planting and the reaping of my modest crop I humbly admit to being assisted by a battalion of field hands all deserving of worthy praise but, regrettably tempered as I am by the logistics of space, everlasting gratitude compels me to acknowledge only a salient few.

My long, sleek, ballerina friend, Rosalyn, whose patient fingers tapping away on her word processor accomplished the near impossible: she translated my hieroglyphic scrawl into legibility, a miraculous feat considering I frequently cannot discern it myself; and more, so much more, for lo! How often her translations were superior to my initial effort I am ashamed to admit, especially to myself.

My dear friends Eric Dugdale and Beate Eisele were the first to read my tale The Match and but for their selfless efforts and keen insights, which so immeasurably enrich the story, I fear there may never have been a third reading.

My compadre Nelson Merrill who showed me dimensions of friendship I did not know existed and then doubled my reward by making me their beneficiary.

My ever smiling spiritual guru Oscar Rosales who, though mired in a quicksand far deeper and more perilous than my own bog, encouraged my escape and, still cheerful as I ineluctably left him behind, like Louie waving goodbye to Papillion, he sincerely wished me a most bon voyage. .

My daughters for my creation of a fictional child is nothing more than a selected gathering of the insights and memories I joyfully reaped from having raised one of these most delightful of God’s creatures.

That monogamous one into whose abyssal eyes I have wondrously gazed and spoke the three most pregnant words in any language; and then to be blessed with one of life’s grandest joys: to have those three words gently requited: I love you.

Finally, that lonely bell tolling in the distance tragically reminding us of what was forever lost.

DB

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Therefore, when thou doest thine alms,

Do not sound a trumpet before thee…

But when thou doest alms, let not thy

Left hand know what thy right hand doeth;

That thine alms may be in secret;

and thy Father which seeth in secret

Himself shall reward thee openly

Matthew 6: 2-4

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Table of Contents

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Epilogue

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DAY ONE

Friday 2:30 am, New York City

Death inspires dreams about the past, not the future. When we hear the door to Death’s dungeon creaking shut we dream about what was, we dream about what never was and we dream about what could have been…especially what could have been?

Jason Tarmon, one of the wealthiest men on earth, is dying and as he dies he again has the recurring dream that has been haunting him now for months; it is a dream about his youth, forty years ago…

In his rear-view mirror he sees the girl stand up and stare at him in disbelief as he drives off. She runs a few steps in his direction and yells for him to come back. He watches her in the mirror and smirks in satisfaction, as if to say, that'll teach her.

Her image stays in the mirror, getting smaller and smaller, until she disappears in the swirling dust.

Jason Tarmon’s eyes suddenly open and he looks around his huge opulent bedroom in confusion before recognizing where he is. He rubs his left leg with both hands, the way people do when they have a deep pain, then reaches for a container of pills beside the bed, pours a few into the palm of one hand, tosses them into his mouth and washes them down with an unfinished cocktail on the nightstand. Before falling back asleep he looks at the illuminated clock beside his bed: 2:45 am

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Friday 2:50 am New York City

It's late, a perfect time for cats to hunt and kill. There are not many people about and even fewer dogs. The city is filled with thousands of feral cats and the wee hours are their favorite time to prowl and feed on another thing the city is overpopulated with: rats. One clever calico Tom makes a reliable living by concealing itself near some human garbage and patiently waiting for a hungry rat to appear, as they always do.

Here comes one now.

Only the eyes of the cunning Tom move, following the approach of his prey. He squints his eyelids almost completely shut so as not to reflect light and watches the hungry sewer rat greedily approaching the luscious smelling garbage. It moves stealthily, in short bursts from hiding place to hiding place. The closer it gets to the prize the less acute are its survival instincts, dulled by the overwhelming odors of the waiting feast. There, at the base of a dumpster filled with construction debris, are the remains of a pastrami sandwich the rat smelled a hundred yards away. A few yards become a few feet…then inches…and just as the rat opens its mouth to partake of the delicacy the equally hungry but far craftier Tom silently pounces, like a hungry tiger. The feline's sharp claws dig deep into the rat's back and the carnivore’s teeth bite down hard on the scavenger’s neck, severing the vertebrae. The vermin lets out a final death squeal.

"Eeeeeek!"

Stuart Tarmon and his new friend Nina come walking down the lonely street, arm in arm and giggling. They both jump at the death cry of the dying rodent. Jesus, look at that, Stuart points to the calico Tom carrying off his dinner.

They stand outside an old apartment building in Manhattan’s Chelsea neighborhood. Stuart proudly points to a dusty banner hanging above the entrance that proclaims:

A Stuart Tarmon Enterprise

See, I told you so.

Nina admires the banner, Wow, you really do own it?

Lock, stock and barrel, he boasts. Come on, let’s go inside. He leads her up the short cement stoop, opens the door with his key, flicks on the dim hallway lights and stands to one side. Home sweet home. I’m having the entire building remodeled so things are kinda messy.

Nina, a busty blonde woman in her mid-twenties, does not hesitate, Great, I don’t know anybody in this town that owns a whole building.

Plenty of privacy too, brags Stuart. After I bought the place I had everyone evicted for the remodel. All the top floors have been gutted but I’ve kept a snug little place here on the first for myself. I normally live on the upper east but I decided I’d live here until the remodel’s finished, make sure the hired help aren’t ripping me off.

Stuart starts down the hallway with Nina following. The hallway is cluttered with painting and plastering paraphernalia. In a corner are stacked several ladders, some scaffolding, white tarps, piles of one-gallon and five-gallon buckets of paint and miscellaneous tools. The walls are speckled with huge swatches of drying plaster.

I keep the Jacuzzi at 104 and there’s plenty of cold champagne in the frig. The workers won't be here till eight so we got lots’a time.

That's what ya think Romeo, A raspy voice comes out of the darkness.

A stunned Stuart turns to run but two burly men suddenly emerge from a door behind him and another appears in front.

Looks like ya been renovatin' with Carlo's cake. Raspy Voice rises from the chair he has been patiently sitting in under the staircase. He is a small man, no more than five-three, but he exudes a deadly air. His sunken cheeks are heavily scarred from acne and his full lips curl down to one side when he speaks. He wears a tight fitting short sleeve shirt revealing faded tattoos on both forearms.

No, stammers a terrified Stuart. I got a construction loan. My dad co-signed.

Carlo's tired’a hearin’ about yer dad. He don't owe the cake, ya do, and ya missed yer last two vigs. He motions to his cohorts who quickly grab Stuart and Nina and frisk them for weapons.

Now wait a sec, pleads Nina desperately, I’ve got nothing to do with this. We just met a few… the small man backhands Nina hard, then takes out an eight-inch switchblade and flicks it open, holding it menacingly close to her face.

Shut the fuck up bitch or I'll cut somethin' off.

Stuart feels nauseous, his eyes bulging with fear. I can get the money, he stammers. Two days-no, one day-that's all, one day. Oh God! he screams in pain as Raspy Voice grabs his testicles and squeezes.

He hisses in Stuart's face, Carlo said not to cut any arteries, but he dint say nothin' about not cuttin’ yer dick off. He squeezes again and pulls hard.

Please…I, sputters Nina who is instantly silenced by a vicious backhand from Raspy Voice.

I told ya to shut the fuck up bitch. Raspy Voice grabs a roll of duct tape and tosses it to one of his men. Tape 'er. The men quickly wrap two loops of tape around Nina's mouth and continue down her body, pinning her arms at her sides and her legs together. Raspy Voice turns to Stuart who has pissed in his pants; a huge wet stain covers the front of his white chinos. Well, lookee here. Looks like Romeo needs a diaper. All the goons snicker. Now what am I gonna do with ya Stu? Huh? Yer inta Carlo fer more’n three mill. Three fuckin’ mill! That calculates yer vig at ninety thou' a week plus penalties but instead’a showin' a little rispect yer renovatin' and spendin’ money on pussy like this.

One day…please…tomorrow, I can do it. I can catch up. I swear.

Ya can, huh? Raspy Voice rubs his chin, pondering the situation. I tell ya what I'm gonna do. Ya get ta keep yer body parts-for now-but I want three, he holds up three fingers for emphasis, three payments in twenty-four hours. That's two hundert and seventy big ones plus forty extra g’s in penalties. That totals ta three hundert and ten g’s. You think ya can manage that Stu?

Yes. I'll get the money.

Yeah…but just to show ya that bizniss is bizniss, I'm gonna have to make an example of yer bitch here. He points to the tarp in the corner. Spread out that tarp and lay this bitch on it, he barks to his men.

Nina grunts and struggles but she is strongly bound with the duct tape, like a cocoon. The men spread out a tarp and lay Nina down. Get that paint shaker over here, commands Raspy Voice. The men bring over a paint shaker. Now put her head in it. His men place the metal bands of the paint shaker against the sides of her head. That's it- now screw it down-hard-I said fuckin' hard. Nina grimaces and grunts as the rounded half-bands of the paint shaker are tightened against her head. Raspy Voice stands on Nina's legs, further immobilizing her. Now, Stu, come over here and flick that switch on, he points to the paint shaker.

No…I can't, please…I.

Now Stu, ya better show some rispect or I might reconsider ya keepin' yer Johnson. He flicks open the switchblade again.

One of the goons pushes Stuart in the direction of Nina. He falls to his knees and vomits. Yer dick or yer girlfriend Stu. What's it gonna be?

Stuart looks at Nina and mouths a pathetic I'm sorry as he reaches for the shaker switch.

Nina's desperate eyes are pleading: No! No! No!

Raspy Voice kicks Stuart from behind, Do it.

Stuart hits the switch.

Nothing happens.

Nina’s face contorts as if ready to receive a shock and Stuart looks over in surprise.

Heh, heh, heh, Raspy Voice chuckles sarcastically. The three goons also start laughing. I was just fuckin’ with ya Stu. He points to the electric cord. It ain’t plugged in…heh, heh, heh…but if it was that pretty little face‘d look like a fuckin’ watermelon that fell off a fast truck.

Raspy Voice gets down on his knees and sniffs Nina’s body. He inhales deeply with his nose on her neck then exhales slowly and ecstatically, Ahhh…Oh yeah, that’s some nice pussy. He looks mockingly at Stuart. Ya was gonna be samplin’ a little of this tonight, wasn’t ya Stu?

Stuart does not respond.

Raspy Voice puts his hand on Nina’s groin and massages the terrified woman, Maybe ya wouldn’t mind if my boys here had a little taste first, huh?

Raspy Voice rips apart Nina’s blouse and buttons go flying. He puts his knife blade under her bra strap and cuts it open. Her large breasts fall sideways into her armpits. With his fingertips Raspy Voice squeezes one the way someone might squeeze a peach for ripeness, Nice…natural…no fuckin’ plastic. The way God intended. Yer gonna be nibblin’ on these titties tonight eh Stu?

Please, I’ll get the money.

Raspy Voice begins examining Nina’s breasts; with the point of his knife he slowly circles her left areola. Ya know, someone tol’ me once that sometimes when these broads get a titty job that the doctor completely cuts the whole fuckin’ nipple off and moves it. Sews it back on somewhere else. Imagine that? Cut the whole fuckin’ thing off!

He gazes into her horrified eyes, Ya want I should reposition yer nipples, honey?

The helpless woman shakes her head as best as she can. He turns his gaze to Stuart and allows several seconds to slowly tick by, enjoying the moment. Ya ain’t gonna disappoint me tomorrow night are ya Stu?

No, I promise. I’ll have the money.

Raspy Voice sticks his tongue out and gives a big animated lick to one of Nina’s breasts. All right…I’m gonna trust ya. He stands up, closes his knife, then goes to Nina’s purse and takes out her driver’s license. Listen up bitch. He shows her the license before putting it in his pocket. I know who ya are and where ya live and if ya go talkin’ about this, I’ll find ya and fuck ya up. He motions to his men to leave, I’ll be leaving ya two lovebirds alone then. Don’t disappoint me. Tomorrow Stu.

Stuart doesn’t move until he hears the front door close then he immediately begins tearing at the duct tape around Nina and unscrewing the bands from her head, That little fucking dwarf. This time he’s gone too far…I’ll talk to Carlo…You were never in danger. I knew it wasn’t plugged in. He laughs, I knew it…It was all a bluff…a bluff…I owe too much money for them to really hurt me.

As soon as Nina’s arms are free she furiously rips off the remaining tape. She frees her mouth. Get the fuck away from me! Don’t touch me! Get away!

She stands up and slaps Stuart with all her strength. You son of a bitch! She picks up objects and hurls them at Stuart: Tape, paint brushes and tools. He scrambles to his feet and runs into his apartment. Just as the door slams shut behind him she hurls a bucket of paint against it. Sick Bastard!

A terrified Stuart peers out the peep hole at the topless irate woman and sees another can of paint coming his way.

Asshole!

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Friday 9:30 am

A cockroach nibbling away on a tiny piece of cheese beside Stuart Tarmon's answering machine is rudely jolted from its meal by the sudden ringing of the machine. Grabbing the cheese, it scurries away, looking for more peaceful surroundings.

The machine picks up on the sixth ring:

Hi, this is Stuart Tarmon. I'm not available at the moment but leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.

"Beep!"

Stuart, Graff here. I'll be at your father's office in thirty minutes. Great news. It looks like we have a match.

"Beep!"

A naked Stuart, holding an electric toothbrush in one hand and foaming at the mouth, emerges from the bathroom and stares at the answering machine with a shocked expression before picking it up and hurling it violently against the wall.

Fuck!

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Friday 9:31 am

A crow, sitting in her cozy nest in a weather-protected niche among the huge steel beams that make up one of the world's great bridges, is oblivious to the endless stream of traffic below. She is resting, having just delivered a long, bloody piece of squirrel road kill that her three chicks are greedily eating. One of the chicks, pulling hard on a piece of the meat, loses its balance and goes tumbling from the nest when the piece breaks off. The chick flutters its underdeveloped wings but plummets helplessly until it lands hard on the roof of a black limousine and bounces off onto the roadway where it is instantly squashed under the wheels of a delivery truck.

Sitting in the back seat of the limousine is Dr. Joseph Graff who gently sets a phone back in its cradle and grimly looks out the window as he crosses over the George Washington Bridge. His mind is whirling as he ponders what he knows will be the most momentous and perilous decision of his life. He is so lost in thought that he does not hear the soft thud of the crow chick hitting the roof inches above his head.

Dr. Joseph Graff is a man of impeccable cleanliness and bearing. His salt and pepper hair is still mostly shiny pepper and he combs it straight back exposing his large forehead below a V-shaped hairline. His eyes are brown and penetrating, eyes that have seen death a thousand times, to the point of no longer being moved by what most people consider the ultimate tragedy. To him death is just another natural process, like having a bowel movement. His nose is long, straight and thin giving his face a sharp look. His lips are also thin and made thinner by his habit of rarely smiling or expressing strong emotions. As a child he was ridiculed by his peers who mockingly called him chicken lips.

Fifteen minutes later Dr. Graff still ponders his deadly problem as he absent-mindedly gazes out at the passing waves of humanity; his driver slowly navigates the busy streets of Manhattan's mid-morning traffic. He touches the electric button on the door to lower the window several inches and the unmistakable din and clamor of big city life instantly fills the air.

He jerks up, suddenly realizing he is in the city. Immediately he closes the window and relaxes, back again in the quiet interior of the limousine. Taking a deep breath of the filtered air, he taps his sternum with his fingers. City air, he reminds himself, is filled with every conceivable pathogen.

Ten minutes later the limousine stops in front of an ebony stone skyscraper in midtown on Madison Avenue. In huge sixteen foot tall letters etched into the black granite are the words: 

TARMON TOWERS

Dr. Graff steps out of the limousine holding a white handkerchief to his nose with one hand and carrying a black briefcase with the other. He is not a big man, about five-seven, but he is trim and moves with an athletic quickness. A scraggly homeless looking man sits on the sidewalk, reclining against the building and holding a hand scrawled cardboard sign that reads:

Dying of Aids

Please Help 

Dr. Graff veers as far from the beggar as possible and stands beside a door waiting for it to be opened from the other side. After a ten second wait the door opens and he hustles in the building. Still holding the handkerchief to his nose he quickly makes his way past the elevator banks in the main lobby to a plain metal door off the central hallway. Setting down the briefcase between his legs he takes out a small remote control devise from a pocket, points it at the door and enters a six-digit code. The door clicks open. Still pressing the handkerchief to his nose, he opens the door, picks up his briefcase and enters. Behind him he hears the heavy metal door click securely shut.

He stands in a single-car garage size space with marble floors and dark wood paneling. At the far end of the space is a single elevator door. Finally, he takes the handkerchief from his nose, breathes in deeply and exhales to clear his lungs. Above the elevator door are two protruding cameras on mounts with a speaker in between; one of the cameras swivels and focuses on him.

The elevator door opens and Dr. Graff steps inside. He has been in the elevator many times and knows the routine. There are no buttons to push. A security guard, watching him through the dark half-dome camera in the center