The Stranger

The Stranger

The atmosphere of the local surf-and-turf was perhaps not the most romantic setting for an important milestone. It was a warm crowded restaurant near the sea. The lighting was dim enough to hide the fact that most of the place hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned by the minimum wage staff who wore painfully forced smiles. The air was filled with cigarette smoke with a hint of fishiness. It was often crowded on the weekends, usually by footballers going in for a cheap pint, birthday celebrations, bachelorette parties, or cheap first dates which subsequently became last dates too.

All in all, it wasn’t exactly the place for a 10th anniversary celebration. But Elizabeth Streiff was never one to complain. She knew her husband. She knew that he was trying his best. He just wasn't the romantic type. And so she waited patiently for their waiter, smiling pleasantly at her husband who had arrived to the restaurant late, sans anniversary present.

“Welcome to Shrimpy’s Surf and Turf.” A middle-aged waitress with a flat monotone voice and glazed over eyes greeted them, “What can I get for you lovely folks this evening.”

“I’ll have the steak and shrimp combo and a beer.” Paul Streiff said, barely glancing at the menu as he took his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the old wooden table in front of him. “She’ll have a salad and a lemon water.” Elizabeth Streiff did not particularly like salads, but she smiled and handed her menu to the waitress anyway. As the waitress left, Paul’s phone began vibrating on the table. It seemed to be doing that more often off work hours.

“So… how was your day, darling?” Elizabeth asked her husband, trying to initiate some form of conversation. If she didn’t, nothing would ever get said.

“Oh, you know. Busy as usual.” Paul shrugged as his phone vibrated again. He ignored it again, looking around the painfully nautical themed restaurant aimlessly. His face was worn and had lost the vibrancy that had attracted Elizabeth to him. But she considered herself to be dedicated, loyal, and she loved Paul even though he had grown distant with every year of their marriage. “How was your day?” Paul asked with a voice that suggested he was not remotely interested.

“Well, Kelly came over for our Friday yoga session. She sends her congratulations.”

“Hmm. That’s nice.”

“And then Linda and I went out for lunch and she told the funniest story-” Elizabeth’s story was interrupted by the vibrating of Paul’s cell phone again. He snatched it up and glanced at it.

“Sorry babe, its work. You know we have that new project. They can’t do a thing without me.” He laughed, getting to his feet. “I should take this. I’ll uh… I’ll get us champagne at the bar. Wait here.” He got up and left her sitting alone again, quaintly looking around.

After a few moments, she watched Paul at the bar. He was checking his phone, reading through messages. It seemed as if he was constantly glued to his phone. Elizabeth was starting to feel neglected again, and on her 10th anniversary no less. She wiped off her fake smile and frowned, wondering what Paul was doing. She was so concentrated, she barely noticed the man sit down on the high backed bench opposite her in Paul’s seat.

“Good Evening, Mrs. Streiff.” A handsome young man said to her. He had bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and a million dollar smile. His frame was smaller than the average man and he wore an elegant form fitting suit that looked expensive. It was leagues away from Paul’s cheap ill fitting ones that looked like they came out of an 80’s outlet mall catalogue. He didn’t look like he belonged in the seedy sea-side bar. Elizabeth put on a surprised smile, inspecting the young man before her.

“Hi… uh…”

“Nicolai Cerny.” He introduced himself, extending a gloved hand to her.

“Mr. Cerny.” She said, shaking it, “Do I know you?” She asked, trying to place his face. The young man laughed lightly and flashed another refreshing smile. The sort of smile that would make anyone trust him.

“No... But I know your husband…”

***

Paul Streiff looked down at the slew of text messages that had been blowing up his phone all evening.

Where are you?

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Want to come over?

We can do it in the hot tub again.

Why aren’t you answering?

I know you’re there.

Are you with her again?

Just ditch her and come over to my place. I’ll make it worth your while.

Paul shook his head and texted back, furious. Mila knew that it was his anniversary. She knew he had made dinner plans with his wife. She was just trying to throw a wrench into his plans. She fed off the drama of it all like a shark smelling blood in the waters. She had nothing to lose, but she enjoyed watching Paul jump through hoops to avoid Elizabeth ever finding out about his numerous liaisons.

He had been able to fool Elizabeth for 10 years and his on and off affairs were the least of his transgressions in their marital life. Marrying Elizabeth had come with a mansion, a garage full of cars, and all the money he could ever dream of. A divorce would leave him with nothing. Mila was getting too clingy and he wasn’t about to let her ruin it for him and take away his comfortable life. He would have to find a way to end things with her amicably. Perhaps later that night. He could leave his dinner date with Elizabeth early and swing by Mila’s. Elizabeth wouldn’t mind, she never did. She was the perfect wife, she never questioned him.

Paul ordered two champagnes from the bartender and quickly glanced over at his table. A sharply dressed man was sitting across from her, smiling pleasantly as if they were catching up. Probably one of her friends from yoga; Henry or Simon or whoever she had mentioned once. On the table in front of him was a little black book. He strummed his fingers on the book as he talked to her, the pleasant smile never leaving his face.

Paul heard the bartender announce his drink order and he turned around to pick up the tall glasses. When he turned back, the young man was gone.

Paul went back to the table, his phone still vibrating in his pocket. Their food had already arrived and Elizabeth was staring blankly at her small salad. Paul set the champagne down, forgetting to give a toast as he dug into his steak hungrily. He hadn’t noticed that his wife had changed her mood. He rarely noticed things like that anymore.

His phone buzzed again and he huffed, setting down his utensils and fishing it out of his pocket again. He didn’t notice her pick up his steak knife from the table.

“Sorry, babe, work is calling.” He said dismissively, staring at his phone. “You know how it is.”

“I know about her, Paul.” Elizabeth said, her voice almost a whisper. “I know about all of it.”

“Hmm? What was that?” He asked, still not paying attention to his wife. It was only when the knife plunged into his chest, that Paul looked up at his wife of ten years, for the first time that night.

***

“Oh my god! Somebody call an ambulance!”

The Stranger stepped out of the restaurant, donning his black hat just as the diners began to cause a commotion inside. He lit a cigarette near a tacky tiki torch outside just as his phone vibrated. He looked at the message glaring on the bright screen.

$20,000 has been transferred to your account.

Above the new message was the one the stranger had sent only seconds prior:

Paul Streiff; November 8th; 8:42 PM; Homicide victim

The stranger put his phone away and slipped his leather black book from his breast pocket. He opened it to a page with a few sentences written on it in neat penmanship.

Paul Streiff, 34, businessman. Wife; Elizabeth Streiff, 30, housewife.

123 Gillingham Lane.

Mistress; Mila Lockhart, 26. 246 Lakeview Drive.

He tore out the page, paired it with a few elicit photos, and burned them using the small flame of the tiki torch next to him. Once the evidence was nothing but ash, he flipped to the next page in his notebook.

John Peterson, 43, businessman. 579 Smith Way.

The stranger pocketed his book again and walked off just as an ambulance and police vehicles pulled up to the restaurant. The paramedics would be too late. It would be in all the papers tomorrow on the front page. Or perhaps the mysterious death of John Peterson would be on the front page, depending on how soon he got to him.

He would just have to wait and see.