The Fall of Declan Curtis

John Jeremiah

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The Fall of Declan Curtis copyright © 2017 by John Jeremiah. Electronic compilation/ paperback edition copyright © 2017 by Whiz Bang LLC.

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To CC

Who inspired me to write this novel.

The Fall of Declan Curtis

N’attendez pas le Jugement dernier. Il a lieu tous les jours.

Do not wait for the Last Judgment. It takes place every day.

- Albert Camus

TABLE OF CONTENTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the Author

Prologue

The New World

THEY SENT an absurd stretch limo to pick Yossi up at Kennedy Airport. A bored driver in a bad suit slouched at the gate. He held a cardboard sign with Yossi’s name on it.

I’m Yossi, said the twenty-six-year-old boy.

Come, was all he got in return.

His family had emigrated to Israel after the 1948 War. Aside from Lebanon, he had never been outside his native land. The flight from Tel Aviv was long and boring but he could not sleep. He dreamed of visiting the largest Jewish city in the world.

Where are you taking me?

To hotel.

The man seemed angry to Yossi. He gave up on conversation. He kept looking around for the famous skyline and the iconic buildings he knew from pictures, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, and the World Trade Towers. But all he saw was an endless low-rise Queens landscape of sad little buildings and sooty gas stations. When they finally pulled up to a faded waterfront hotel in Brighton Beach, the weariness of the trip caught up with him.

I pick you up at eight. You will meet your uncle at party.

Yossi felt a little better after sleeping. The concierge at the desk was very helpful. He explained that the dreamscape of Manhattan was just a few miles away and across the river. There would be plenty of time to see it all. The driver arrived on time and silently delivered him to a garish restaurant. The limo door was opened by a big man in a shiny suit. He was as gregarious as the driver had been sullen.

Yossi, welcome to United States. I am your second cousin, Shimon, he said as he hauled the boy into the darkness of the nightclub.

A great, vulgar banquet was in progress. They said it was for him. In Little Odessa, celebrations were loud and theatrical. Conversations were delivered in fortissimo and with much physical contact. The hugging and kissing was accompanied by endless rounds of vodka and salutes.

Countless people introduced themselves as his cousins. Some were very beautiful and were not queasy at all about their putative shared gene pool. Tatiana was especially affectionate. He was not used to such freedom and sexual aggression at home. She had his attention. They danced wildly amid a crowded floor of sparkling revelers. His satin shirt clung to his soft body as if he had been doused with water. Late in the evening she enticed him to accompany her to the stretch limousine in the parking lot.

I like you, Yossi. I like you a lot. Let’s go to limo and I’ll show you.

Yossi was disoriented but he didn’t hesitate for a moment. The cool evening air revived him somewhat as they exited the club.

Yes, Yossi thought. This will be a night to remember, maybe even to brag about.

Their shoes made sharp, crunching sounds on the loose gravel and broken glass. It was dark. She stopped him just short of the limo and kissed him more passionately than he had ever known.

He didn’t hear the two men until she released him. The first knife went under his lower ribs. She turned away and slowly started to walk back to the club.

Yossi made eye contact with the man who wielded the second knife. He tried to say Why? but a plunge into his stomach took his breath away. He was looking up at his assailants now. They didn’t stop stabbing. It occurred to him in his last seconds that the sounds reminded him of a butcher shop. Yossi relaxed and quickly bled out onto the filthy macadam of the New World.

Tatiana checked her makeup in the wall mirror. She looked at her watch to make sure it was all over outside. Then she screamed.

Help, please help! My boyfriend is being attacked outside!

Chapter One

The Port

THE MORNING SUN scorched through eight foot windows facing the bay. I had a pulsing throb in my brain and a thirst that could only come from three days in the Sahara or consuming a bottle of single malt. It had been some months since I was near a desert. Nineteen-eighty-eight was proving to be a difficult year in my life.

I dropped my feet over the side of the bed and tenderly held my head between my hands, hoping to keep my brains inside. Normally, I enjoyed rising early. English breakfast tea was my morning beverage. Coffee right away was somehow too coarse.

The brilliant sunrise shimmered on the bay. I lived in a six story brick mill building, one of the many remnants of the Merrimac Valley’s nineteenth-century heyday of manufacturing. When I discovered this forgotten port at the mouth of the Merrimac River, it was a time capsule of the Yankee past. The people spoke a distinct dialect with echoes of Elizabethan English. The main commercial street was largely boarded up and property values were laughable. All that was rapidly changing.

The promise of a scalding hot shower coaxed me from bed. I started some water for tea and raced for the bathroom. After setting the tea to steep, I drank half a quart of orange juice. Then I dragged myself into a stall the size of a walk-in closet. It was lined with slate. Several nozzles pounded me from three directions. I stretched my arms against the walls and waited for the beating to get everything alive and circulating again.

The bright tea eased the pain of waking up. I leaned on the granite window sill and watched hungry gulls swooping below. The steely glints of sunshine on the scalloped water were hypnotizing. I let my focus blur. Patterns of light formed rhythms like music. I loved this time.

That was why I had left the windows undraped. Only when I put myself to sleep with a bottle of Macallan did I regret it. This was happening too often now, since my wife had taken off with a local sailor. He was evidently a great lover who bedded most of the desirable ladies in town. Also, Gator was a close friend.

The rattle of the freight elevator announced visitors. Passengers were expelled into a wide, ill-lit corridor. We leased one floor of the semi-abandoned mill as a group. Living spaces were walled off in a freewheeling pattern, all construction done illegally by each communal tenant. I was expecting a visit from my closest friend. Gus, to the best of my knowledge, had not bedded my wife. He was a taciturn man of few, and often blunt, words. He would have fit well in a Bergman film. He managed my affairs while I was in Switzerland.

Hey, Bubba, had enough coffee yet?

I’m floating but I’ll do another.

I’m leaving on Lufthansa the day after tomorrow. Can you drive me?

Sure, but it’ll cost ya.

Right, put it on my tab.

My business was acquiring antique oriental rugs and selling them to European buyers. My first business ventures involved restoring seventeenth and eighteenth-century homes in the Port. This evolved into an interest in antique furniture and oriental rugs. It was providing me with a decent income. Then I met Magdi, a Coptic Christian from Egypt who spoke five languages. He had discovered two things. First, the tribal rugs that European collectors sought were nearly worthless in America. The second thing he learned was that Persian Herez carpets, disdained by Europeans, were wildly popular in America. Thus, a business opportunity presented itself. All he needed was a partner. This mirrored the old Yankee tradition of bringing manufactured goods to the Far East and returning with tea and silk. An alliance was formed, Phoenix LLC. In five years we had done several million dollars’ worth of business. During those five years I had developed an expertise in rare collectible tribal rugs, so I became a buyer as well as a supplier. Now the Soviet Union was coming apart. No one knew where that would lead. Many Russians were finding ways to get wealth out while confusion reigned. Oriental rugs were flowing into Western markets. Phoenix LLC was involved in that trade. I was due in Zurich in two days.

 I had a suite at The Storchen. This quaint hotel is on the canal just off the lake. My room overlooked the water. Its restaurant had an open kitchen with a wide rotisserie upon which succulent marinated lamb patiently turned until called for. A classic European square with cobblestone paving fronted the hotel. I looked forward to the lamb. Years of this commute taught me not to drink on the flight. I only drank sparkling water. We landed around eight a.m. I would take a hot shower and go directly to bed. In this way, I shook off jet lag and could make my first appointment over dinner with a clear head.

Magdi showed up on time. The Copts are an ancient people, Christianized by Mark the Evangelist himself. But living in that Moslem milieu had invested him with a puritanical attitude. This evening he was happy to eat lamb and discuss tomorrow’s business. But he drank no alcohol at all. Fortunately, he did not seem to begrudge me.

We are meeting with Aaron in the morning. He’ll join us for coffee after his tennis games and then we can go to the zollfreilager, the free-port, and look at the new shipment.

What’s the deal with tennis? I asked.

His friend is a Persian guy with a retail store. They play tennis three or four times a week.

It was still relatively early when we finished. I promptly bedded down. I would be alert and ready to go in the morning.

Chapter Two

Ayatollahs

WE MET AARON AT A CAFÉ. I was ready for coffee. I also had some cheese and air-dried meat. There would be no American style bacon and eggs until I got home. Aaron had an easy and friendly way about him, even when we were in the midst of bargaining.

After we’re done here, I’d like you to meet Muktar Zadeh, my tennis partner, he said for my benefit, and see his retail shop.

 What sort of material does he deal in? Can we do some business? I asked.

Sure, he deals in authentic old pieces. He likes tribal things and he buys a lot from me.

It was a stylish store front, very modern and minimalist. The contrast with the rich colors and textures of the carpets only increased their impact. Everything was clean and ready to go. The stacks were studies in perfect geometry.

I think you know Magdi, Aaron said as Muktar nodded, and this is his friend, Declan Curtis, from the U.S.

You can call me Deck.

 I’m pleased to meet you. Let us have some tea, Mukhtar purred.

 Of course we were offered tea, despite having just come from a café. If one chooses to live in this world, tea was one of the endless offerings which had to be accepted graciously.

Work tables were set up at the back of the room with carpets draped over them. Old men with beards worked diligently with strong but twisted fingers. I had no doubt that these men were master weavers before I was born. Despite their concentration on the work, I could feel their eyes on me. I tried out my disastrous pidgin Farsi on them. No dice. Not a word of reply, just a momentary glare. Hagiographic pictures of the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini hung over their heads.

 They don’t speak any English, Muktar said as he rested his arm across my shoulders and steered me to some French gilded chairs. We had tea and biscuits. Muktar placed a cube of sugar between his front teeth and slurped his tea through it. His skin was very brown and there were wide black rings around his eyes.

Finally, it seemed to be time to do some business. I could not suggest this. By custom, I needed to seem as disinterested in buying as he was in selling. So, I gradually worked the conversation towards my business activities. After this slow dance, he suggested that I look at a few things that might interest me. The ice was broken. Young boys appeared. Stacks were pulled down. He wanted me to make a pile I would purchase. I preferred to do it American style and get a price on each piece as we went. This annoyed him. The process took almost three hours. In the end, I had an attractive stack of tribal rugs and bags. They added up to forty-two thousand dollars. I was satisfied. We had been bent over the rugs like men in a crap game. I stood up and stretched.

No, he said abruptly. Not enough.

I was surprised at first, but I assumed this might be a ploy to squeeze a little more baksheesh out of the blue eyed devil.

What more can I do for you, Muktar? I have chosen what I want and you agreed to the prices.

Take these, too. He toed a stack of things I was interested in but had found his prices too high.

You’ll make the price better? I asked hopefully.

No, last price. You take them.

I don’t want them at that price. Let’s just finish what we agreed to. It’s a good start for the future.

I don’t do business for less than fifty thousand dollars.

Really, Muktar, you won’t take my money?

All or nothing.

I wouldn’t be treated this way. I had no tolerance for abuse since my wife left. I was not naturally short-tempered. This was the new me. I had developed a careless tolerance for violence and confrontation. Magdi and Aaron were now jabbering away in Arabic and French. Things were getting out of hand. Once the elaborate customs of politeness were cast aside in that culture, violence was only a whisper away. Like a sheep dog, Magdi herded me towards the door. Aaron placated his friend. The repair men stopped working. They, and the Ayatollahs, were glaring at me with hatred.

You’ve wasted my time! I growled over my shoulder.

That set him off. He was spitting out something incomprehensible at me in Farsi as he pushed through the door. I faced him on the cobblestoned street.

"Arschloch!" I spat, since he knew German and I couldn’t think of anything sufficiently insulting in Farsi. We went at each other furiously, but briefly. Our companions separated us and we