Klempner
Showered, and dried, I examine myself in the mirror…
Swedish…
One great thing about fair hair. It’s easy to alter to pretty much any other colour. I just have to take a little care keep my hair and skin tone compatible.
I comb a little of the lightener through my hair, just enough to streak it slightly blonder, a good contrast to my tan.
The sun will lighten it further…
Then I do the same with my beard: a full-face. No styling except to keep it trimmed and neat.
Then I re-examine myself.
That’s fine.
*****
Hanging my jacket in the locker, I replace it with a bar apron, passing the ties right around my back and to my front before making a neat bow knot.
Achara calls across the floor, her English broken. “You… Gunnar. Mr Arak want talk you, now.”
“What about?”
She shrugs. “He say want talk.”
“Where is he?”
She extends an arm, pointing to the back office.
At the door, I tap lightly, respectfully.
“Come in, Gunnar.”
Arak’s there, sitting leaning back in the chair with his feet up on the desk, crossed at the ankles. A file lies in front of him.
There is a chair placed to the front of the desk, but he doesn’t invite me to sit. So, I stand, waiting, feet a little apart, hands clasped behind me.
He measures me with an assessing eye. “I called you in Gunnar, because I wanted a word with you.”
“What about?”
“You’ve not been telling the truth.”
Which of course, is true.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Arak purses his lips. “You told the bar manager here that you were just a traveller. That you were looking for temporary work while you were on the move.”
I shift on my feet, look down. “That’s right.”
He sniffs, swings his legs down from the desk and flips open the file. “That didn’t feel right to me, Gunnar. Something didn’t smell as it should, especially after your performance the other night with that drunk. Okay, he was just a drunk, but that looked entirely too professional to me for a three-day bartender…
He pauses, perhaps to give me the chance to speak. I don’t.
When you have a secret to keep…
“It’s my job to follow up on things that don’t smell right, so I ran a security check on you…”
“Oh.” I slump, letting my head hang.
… Let them think they have found it…
He reads; “Gunnar Zetterberg, sentenced to fifteen years in prison for assault with a deadly weapon, aggravated assault, robbery… The list goes on. Served eight years with remission for good behaviour.”
He flips the file closed. “You going to tell me that’s not you? There’s another Gunnar Zetterberg roaming the world somewhere?”
I don’t look up, simply swinging my head.
“Didn’t think so. It’s an unusual enough name that it didn’t take too much to track down your record.” He sits back, steepling his fingers. “Just as well you were in Europe. They’re soft on these things there. In some parts of the world, they’d have locked you up and thrown the key away. Assuming they hadn’t executed you instead.”
I shuffle my feet again, then straighten up, unravelling the knot of my apron.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m guessing that I need to look for another job.”
“Not so hasty.” Arak points to the chair. “Sit.”
I allow perplexity to flit across my face, then seat myself.
Arak taps a fingernail on the desktop. “Do you enjoy bar-work?”
I don’t meet his eye. “Not much, no.”
“And the pay’s crap too, eh?”
“I take what I can get.”
“Would you prefer something more appropriate to your skills?”
I allow myself a straight look to his eye, let some hope enter my voice. “Such as?”
“Mr Chuan is hiring. Or to be precise, I’m hiring for him. We always need a good man.” Arak pauses, sits back, folds his arms. “So, what did you do before?”
“Before? Before what?”
“Before prison. Before assault with a deadly weapon, robbery and the rest?” He nods down at my hand. “Nasty scar that. How d’you get it? You got others?”
“I have a scar or two, yes.”
“You a vet?”
I work my mouth, then, “Does it show?”
“When a man ‘stands easy’ in an office, you know he was military somewhere along the line.”
“Ah…”
Arak drums fingers on the desk. “Which army?”
“Whichever was paying.”
He absorbs that, nodding slowly. “Where?”
“Africa mainly. Congo, Chad, Central African Republic…”
“And you stopped… Why exactly?”
“You can get too old for that kind of thing.”
He nods, musing. “Yes, you can. So… you interested?”
“In what? Exactly?”
“As I say, Mr Chuan is hiring.”
“More bodyguards? Another for his collection of chaperones?”
“It would start like that, yes. But if it works out, it could be more.”
“What’s the pay?”
“Five thou a month to begin with, dollars. After that, we’ll see.”
“That’s American dollars?”
“Yes, though you can take it in whatever currency you prefer. Just give us the appropriate bank details.”
“Dollars are fine.”
“Good… So, you interested?”
“When do I start?”
“Right now. Where are you staying?”
“Got a flop at the other end of town.”
“Get your stuff. You’ll be moving into the barracks.”
*****