The Little Black Book

Exhausted and on autopilot, Gerrard trudged into his apartment, placed his keys in the porcelain holder and the black book right next to it on the console table in the entryway. Without bothering to turn on the lights, he flipped the slit on the doorknob and turned the deadbolt above it to lock the door behind him. There was barely enough ambient light filtering in through the window blinds from outside, to discern the distinction of the objects in his apartment by their silhouettes but not bright enough to ascertain their details. He went to his refrigerator, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, held it at the back of his head, and continued languidly into his bedroom, right to the foot of the bed, and paused. He seemed fixated on the artwork, mounted on the wall, above the headboard. Seemingly imbibing it in silent contemplation, like an art savant, except, his gaze held no focus and it was dark. Whatever he was looking at, whatever he was seeing was not in front of him!

He turned around gingerly and slowly sat on the edge of the bed like a severely battered victim, moving at the pace of least soreness. Again staring intently ahead… at nothing! He’d ordinarily have shown some reaction had he registered the time depicted on the wall clock: Two o’clock. He eased his back onto the bed still holding the bag of peas in place on his head and exhaled deeply. He was mentally consumed by the scenes of the day replaying on his mind. He was disheveled and filthy from the day’s exertions, and cut a cringe-worthy juxtaposition against the immaculate sheets, giving the eerie semblance of a squatter!

It wasn’t that he did not care anymore. He was drained of ideas of what to do next; drained of the energy to do anything; drained of emotion to invest in the superficial concerns of hygiene thus eluding the luxury of consideration. He had resigned, at least for now, the physical participation in his reality, escaping into his head where without the proposition of ulterior motive, he’d succumbed to the entertainment of his memory. He closed his eyes in continued recollection.

Meanwhile, across town, the apartment of his newly made acquaintances sprang to life by the jubilant indulgences of its two inhabitants. Their current physical state indicated they too had partaken in whatever was responsible for Gerrard’s except that same ordeal seemed to have left contrasting fortunes in the wake of its aftermath. They looked like they had endured twelve rounds of a bare-knuckle boxing bout but had not triumphed. Despite the black eyes, facial swelling, much bruising, and some blood, both Mike and James were giddy; hugging and butchering the lyrics to whatever was playing on the radio in the name of singing, drinking the cheap spirits procured from the gas station convenience store on the corner of their block. The alcohol may not have prompted the jubilation but true to the expectation of its involvement, had exacerbated it. They had survived the scare of their lives brought about by the little black book with a gold monogram etched on the cover. The same one that now lay on the console table in the entryway of Gerrard’s apartment.

When they’d dragged themselves out of bed and into work that day at Larry’s Auto Body and Detailing, there was no indication of the turn it would take. They were part of the detailing crew and the highlight to their mundane daily routines of underemployment were usually rare automobiles or women in rare automobiles. The day seemed as non-extraordinary as any until on their walk home, half a block away, a white Mercedes pulled up right beside them, matching their pace. The tinted window rolled down.

“Hey! You guys Mike and James who work at Larry’s?” The driver inquired.

“Who’s asking?” James turned toward the vehicle.

“I’m Gerrard, my man here is Kevin. Anyway, I came in earlier this morning with a silver Rolls Royce Phantom and was wondering… Hey! Yo, what are you doing?” he reached for his door handle as James turned in response to his name getting yelled out from an increasing distance to find Mike a few yards up the road in full sprint and he immediately sprung to action without awaiting the ensuing command, run!

Mike looked over his shoulder, pleased to see that James had heeded his warning but that satisfaction dissipated almost instantaneously as right behind James and gaining quickly was the driver, proving to be the more athletic. He also noticed in the passenger going around into the driver seat likely to continue with vehicular pursuit. However, the sound of his best friend getting tackled immediately brought him to a halt behind a strip mall.

They were tussling on the ground and James was getting dominated, getting pinned so quickly and flapping beneath Gerrard like a fish out of water. Mike jumped on Gerrard and tried to choke him from behind but he reached up over his shoulder and hooked Mike right on the neck with his right arm and pulled down swiftly, flipping Mike over like a rag doll! James, who had managed to wriggle a hand free, was hitting Gerrard viciously with closed fists, in hammer-like fashion, not punching. He had never been in a real fight. Gerrard punched back once and was yelling that he stopped fighting back.

Mike, already bleeding from his mouth, went at Gerrard again, throwing a punch with all his might that landed on the side of his head and hurt him more than it did Gerrard. Noticing they were not responding to his call for a truce, Gerrard realized he would have to beat them to submission. As the white Mercedes emerged from the corner it dawned on Mike that this could be the end and he looked for anything he could use as a weapon! He grabbed the piece of wood that held open a dumpster lid, handled it like a bat, and swung as hard as he could, hitting Gerrard on the head despite his raised arm to counter it. He stiffened and fell off from over James who was then pulled to his feet a few seconds before Kevin who’d come running out of the car got to Gerrard.

At this point, self-preservation had taken over completely and since fighting had let them down spectacularly, there was only one option left to pursue: run! The best friends obliged with aplomb. Perhaps it was another jolt of adrenaline but they looked like athletes of equal merit performing a synchronized sprint a la Usain Bolt. They did not slow down nor pause for breath till an alley a block and a half away. They hunched over holding their knees trying to catch their breath while unable to speak. James’ phone began to ring. It was an unsaved number and over Mike’s objections, he answered.

“Hello?”

“What are you guys doing? I just want to talk. Look, I got your number from Larry’s. I hope this is not some type of scheme you guys running…”

“I don’t even know what is going on…”

“You certainly did not act like someone who doesn’t know what’s going…” Before James could finish, Mike grabbed his phone and hung up.

“We have to lose your phone before they track us. I gotta show you something.” He reached into the inner pocket of his overalls and pulled out a book. It was black with a gold monogram etched on it. “I found this on the back seat of the Phantom. There is a name in it.”

“You stole from one of Larry’s Clients?! You know we’re screwed now, right? Finished! Rolls Royce Phantom! He probably has enough connections to bury us under the jail if we survive today. Look at us!” Reality had set in on James and it did not look nor feel good. They had to think fast. “What is in the book?”

“Numbers. Lots of numbers and mentions of exotic places. I think these are offshore accounts,” Mike said leafing through the book then a folded white envelope fell out. On it was written a phone number in red ink and there was a scratch-off, lottery ticket in it. It just did not make any sense.

“I am not going to destroy my phone but will turn it off for now. We can’t go home and we can’t talk to this guy again until we have some leverage. What the hell are you doing?”

Mike found some plastic bags in the dumpster. “We are going to hide it here. I will take pictures of the pages. But if we get caught with it on our person, we are surely dead but we can negotiate and send them here to get it.” He took pictures, wrapped up the book in layers of plastic, and hid underneath a pile of bricks in the corner. Then he started scratching the ticket.

“Are you an idiot? Why? What if it is some sought of a clue or key to figuring out those numbers?”

“Yeah, you right! Wasn’t even a winning ticket!” They left on the cover of darkness and staked out their apartment until it was close to midnight and Mike was beginning to get sleepy. They decided to at least sneak in change clothes and collect their passports because they realized their lives as they knew it was over!

They’d barely made it inside when relief turned to dread with a banging at the door.

“I saw you come in here! You can either open the door and talk or you can forfeit the opportunity of conversation for what’s behind door number 2 and I am not going to tell you what’s behind that door!” The door opened and Gerrard steps in and pulls out a gun! He asked them all to sit. He explained that he knew they had the book but was shocked at the lengths they were willing to go for something that wasn’t theirs. He learned the book was not with them and he put his gun on the table to call Kevin presumably.

Mike who had been watching, saw an opportunity to pounce right as he was about to make the call and charged him like a football player! All hell broke loose but this time James had managed to grab Gerrard’s gun and they ordered him to sit. At which point he starts laughing. His gun was not real. He’d procured the bb gun from a pawn shop after their first scuffle as he thought he would need it to make them comply. He also explained that the book was nothing but a twelve-year-old boy’s book of cipher where he wrote elaborate number codes for his father to decipher. Some father and sons bond over sports, but Junior and his Dad did over numbers and espionage thrillers.

That explains why the name they’d googled shook them to their core: Henry Korelenko was one of the biggest financiers in Hollywood. He wields enough clout to singlehandedly greenlight blockbuster projects without the fear of career or financial ruin in the event of a flop. Simply put, he was great at what he did and had the backing of the biggest financial institutions in the world. Made sense. What drug mastermind would write their name in an incriminating book?

All had been about a major misunderstanding and it was at this point of his memory that one important detail came back to him. He opened his eyes. The envelope on which he’d written the most important phone number for his new career if there was going to be one. He needed that envelope. He called James and told him how important that envelope was.

The following morning, Gerrard drove to Larry’s and picked up his envelope. Mike had bought a replacement ticket from the convenience store on the corner. Gerrard had forgotten about the ticket being in there. He scratched it. Winner. $20,000!