Endgame (6 page)

“Double lucky then,” Spike said with a laugh.

Sandra cleared away some dishes while Edwards replenished the drinks. A faint buzzing could be heard. He pulled out his BlackBerry and glanced at it then looked up with a puzzled expression.

“I'm sorry to tell you that Mr. Keill has been delayed. I've just received a text message from him.”

“Well, does he say when he's coming?” Max demanded. “He knows we can't do anything without him here. This is his game.”

Edwards scrolled through the message and looked up. “Mr. Keill says he hopes to be here first thing in the morning. In the meantime, he urges you all to make yourselves at home and get as comfortable as you can.” The wind gave a mournful howl overhead at that moment. It suddenly died again as though it had changed its mind. Edwards glanced at the window with a doubtful look, then brightened as he continued to refill the empty glasses. “In the meantime, if there's anything you need, just let me know. I'll do my best to get it for you.”

He turned and went back to the kitchen.

Max's fist hit the table. “Well, isn't that just fucking great? Harvey throws this little bash and then can't be bothered to show up.”

Sami Lee put a hand on his knee. “He'll be here. You know he wants this as much as we do.”

Max nodded gruffly and slumped in his chair.

“Don't worry, Max,” Noni told him. “Sami Lee's right. I know Harvey wants this reunion to take place as much as everyone else. He told me so himself, so don't fret.”

“I'll murder the fucker if he screws this up,” Max growled.

The threat hung in the air. No one spoke for a moment.

“Oh, sweetie, don't even think about it,” Verna chimed in, waving her hands and making her bracelets jangle. “Just think of all the preparation he's done already. He's not going to back out now.”

David picked up the bottle of white to top up his glass, emptying it in the process. He turned it upside down in the ice bucket. “There goes one dead soldier,” he said with a laugh.

For a moment, no one spoke. Harvey's sudden cancellation had hit them all in different ways, though it was clear the party seemed to be on a downward swing, the mood turning glum.

It's too early to start thinking doom and gloom
, Spike thought. They would have to get through this weekend and still have the tour to look forward to.

“I'll get another bottle,” he said. He stood and headed for the kitchen. As he pushed his way through the door, he saw Sandra standing in front of the fridge. She seemed distant, her thoughts elsewhere. Edwards was nowhere to be seen, though he'd just gone through that way a few minutes earlier.

“Eddie-boy gone out?” Spike asked.

“Oh, I don't …” Sandra looked over with a startled expression. “Sorry. He was just here a minute ago. Do you need him?”

“No worries,” Spike said, heading toward her. “More drinks. I'll help myself.”

Sandra quickly stepped aside as Spike approached. He caught a whiff of fear. Was she afraid of him? He opened the fridge and looked in. The labels looked expensive, though he knew nothing about wine. He grabbed two bottles closest to the front and let the door slam shut.

“These'll do,” he said, heading back to the dining room.

U
pstairs
, Edwards kept his ear tuned to the goings-on in the dining room. If any of his guests got restless, he might find himself in a very tricky position. Mr. Keill's instructions had been explicit: he was to gather everyone's cellphones without arousing any suspicions whatsoever. He hadn't said why he wanted this done, only that he would square it with them all upon his arrival. A joke of some sort, no doubt. Until then, Edwards knew he had to be careful.

He carried the ring of master keys carefully, trying not to jangle them as he slipped first into one room and then another. He'd managed to get Sandra's cellphone when they first arrived and he got Verna's next when she was busy with her makeup kit. He hadn't been able to find where Spike Anthrax kept his, but then remembered the message said Spike probably wouldn't carry one, not being technologically inclined. He'd let it rest at that, but watched to see where the others put theirs as he showed each of them to their rooms. Most had left them on dressers or bedside tables, but the lawyer, Noni Embrem, had slipped his into the pocket of his jacket. It was going to be difficult getting it from him.

Max Hardcore's red cell was sitting on the dresser beside Sami Lee's purple phone. Pete's was on the table next to his bed, right where Edwards had watched him leave it. The hardest one to locate belonged to the critic, Crispin LaFey. It had been zipped into the lining of his computer bag, but Edwards found it eventually. The laptop's keyboard was in Braille, he noted, slipping the phone into his pocket. So he was truly blind after all.

It was all over in five minutes. By his reckoning, Edwards had every phone on the island except for the lawyer's. He removed the batteries, bagged them all, and slipped downstairs via the back stairwell in time to hear Spike ask Sandra where he was. He heard the fridge open and close again as Spike left the kitchen. If anyone asked, he'd say he was in the bathroom. What could they say to that?

He waited till Sandra was busy gathering dishes in the dining room before pulling out the footstool. He climbed up, pushing the bag into the cupboard over the sink as he'd been instructed, then locking it once he was done. It would be easy enough to find if anyone wanted to search the entire premises, but without batteries the phones were useless. He was about to step back down when he noticed a tin container. Curious, he opened it. It was filled with a vile-smelling white powder. A cleaning agent of some sort, he decided, pushing it farther back. Had it been there earlier? He couldn't recall.

Edwards thought again about his new employer. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this Mr. Keill. Everything had been so specific — the man had made copious notes telling him each guest's food and drink preferences, which rooms to put them in, as well as where to seat them at dinner. He'd been very particular about all of it. In fact, it seemed that nothing had been left to chance except for his arrival. And now Mr. Keill was going to be late.

Edwards hoped the guests wouldn't blame him once they realized their phones were gone. It had all seemed fine at first, but in fact he was no longer sure he liked this job. Despite the excellent pay, it was turning out to be more than he'd bargained for. Though the retainer was generous enough, he had yet to see anything beyond the initial funds that had brought him to the island in the first place.

He got down off the stool and put it away, wiping his hands as Sandra returned bearing a handful of plates. He took them from her and let them slip under the suds in the sink. He hadn't been kidding when he called himself “chief bottle washer.”

Sandra went back out to the dining room. The door opened again almost immediately. It was Crispin, the blind man. He appeared confused as he looked directly at Edwards.

“Sir?” Edwards said.

“Excuse me. Is this the way to the washroom?”

“No, sir. It's to your right, down the hall. Third door on the left.”

“My apologies. Thank you.”

The door closed and Sandra returned a few seconds later.

“Doing all right?” Edwards asked.

“Yes, I guess so,” she said. “They seem to be finishing up out there. It's just all a little bit odd, isn't it? I mean, it's strange how the host hasn't arrived in time for his own party.”

“Perhaps,” Edwards replied with an ironic smile. “You might see if anyone wants any more wine.”

“Will do. Though the green-haired one was just in here helping himself.”

Edward laughed. Sandra picked up a bottle of red and a bottle of white and went out brandishing one in either hand.

A cell buzzed. For a moment, Edwards was startled as he wondered whose phone he'd missed on his rounds. Then he realized it was his own. It was another text message from Mr. Keill.
Serve dessert
, it said,
then show them the video
.

Easy enough.

Yes, sir. All is well here
, he texted back.

Edwards slipped his BlackBerry into his pocket and retrieved nine cellophane-wrapped bowls from the fridge. He'd prepared crème caramel earlier in the day, before the first guests arrived, to allow the pudding time to cool. He slid a knife around the edges, turning them onto dessert plates and arranging them on a tray. He noted with satisfaction how each formed a perfect circle of wobbly custard, like a soft belly, dirtied slightly by the burnt caramel dripping down the edges. Delectable.

He slipped the tray onto a trolley and wheeled it into the dining room. Looking around, he saw that the critic had returned to his seat, but Max and Spike were no longer at their places.

“Who's for dessert?” Edwards asked.

David, the real-estate agent, held up a hand. So did the lawyer, Noni.

“I don't eat sugar,” Sami Lee announced reproachfully, as though he might have been trying to poison her.

“I'll pass, too,” Verna said. “Got to keep my girlish figure.”

“I'll have just a nibble,” Janice said with a guilty look, as though the other women's refusal made her out to be a pig.

“I'm afraid I'll have to turn down the offer,” Crispin said. “I'm a diabetic. I can't eat anything with sugar.

Edwards held a plate in his direction. “I'm aware of that, sir. And I've made a special portion for you, sweetened naturally without sugar.”

He set the plate down in front of the blind critic.

“How considerate,” said Crispin. “In that case, I will indulge wholeheartedly.”

“Me, too,” Pete said. “I don't know about Spike, but you can probably leave one for Max. He eats anything.” He cackled in a high, unpleasant laugh, like an old woman with a pack-a-day habit.

“I'll leave one for each,” Edwards said, setting them on the table for the absent guests and returning to the kitchen.

Pete looked down at the plate before him. The Voice had been oddly silent all through supper. It hadn't made him count the forks at dinner or worry over whether there was an odd or even number of glasses on the table. Earlier, though, it had made him count the chess pieces in the drawing room.

For some reason, the sight of the board had rattled him. That was when the Voice came booming through:
Count them!
There had been twelve pieces in total — eleven on the board in various states of play, and a final piece sitting off to the side. Pete knew the basics of chess. Harvey had taught him to play when they first met. He was able to recognize that the players were somewhere in the middle game. The endgame was still to come.

But wait
, he remembered. That wasn't right. The twelfth piece — a white pawn — hadn't been sitting off to the side of the board at all. It had been
lying
on its side. He'd been tempted to pick it up and set it upright, but the Voice hadn't said to do anything besides count them. Pete knew to do precisely what it said and stop there. If it had more to say, it would tell him. When the Voice went silent, he knew well enough to leave it alone.

Just then a whiff of pot filtered through the open screen door. Spike and Max had helped themselves to the bowl of joints in the parlour. They sat outside on the porch now, just beyond hearing range of the others inside.

“So is this it, then?” Max asked, watching Spike toke. “Where are the hordes of fans Harvey said would be here to prostrate themselves at our feet?”

Clearly disappointed, his bravado had slipped down a notch.

Spike handed him the joint. “Nah — this isn't it,” he answered, holding in a lungful of smoke. “This is just the first leg. These are the negotiations. The real deal comes once we get it all down on paper.

“So where's the camera crew?” Max said. “What about this documentary they're supposed to be filming of our reunion? I hate that fucking word: reunion.”

“I guess they're coming with Harvey. Harvey said he had everything arranged.”

Max took a long toke. “This better not be another one of his loony stunts,” he said, exhaling at last.

“It's not — didn't you see the piece in
Noise
?”

“Yeah, I saw it. But I'll kill the fucker if he fucks up again.”

Spike snorted. “I plan to kill him anyway. Once the contracts are signed, I mean.”

Max scowled. “Right … that.”

Spike took the joint. “Anyway, we know he's not reliable. Remember when he had that idea to give away a free Christmas tree with every copy of our third recording,
Very Bad Dog
?”

Max laughed. “We had the kids lined up for blocks, but he ran out of trees in fifteen minutes …”

“… and gave the records away for free when he ran out of trees. The idiot!”

“Right — and then he tried to deduct the cost from our percentage. As if it was our idea.”

“True enough,” Spike agreed. “He was a cunt even back then.”

“And wasn't it his idea for that joke track, ‘Farting on Demand'? That was just stupid.”

“Yeah. That was more of his nonsense. It sounded convincing, though.”

A long silence passed between them while the wind stirred overhead. Darkness was descending over the island.

“Penny for?” Spike said, catching Max's pensive look.

“We had our fun. Whatever happens, they can't take that away from us.”

“True. But I want more. I don't know about you, but I intend to grow old disgracefully.”

Max shrugged. “So maybe we should just cash in on this offer — finish the record and go home.”

“I'm all for that. A tour would be nice, but the recording is the real prize as far as I'm concerned. That would prove that we're back on track. It wouldn't hurt to have some royalties coming in too.”

Max's eyes lit up. “To be back on the charts again — I'd give anything for that.” The scowl returned to his face. “Still, I'm doing nothing without Harvey here. I want to see his blood spilled on that contract before I'll play a fucking note.”

“Yeah, me too.” Spike looked carefully over at Max. “Still, I've learned to show a little gratitude along the way. How 'bout you?”

Max shrugged and took another toke. “'Course I have! I learned a thing or two over the years. I'm not a total twat.” He held onto the smoke before exhaling again. “Just mostly.”

Spike sighed. “You know, I always meant to call you. After the breakup, I mean.”

“So why didn't you?”

“I stayed pretty pissed about everything for a long time …”

“We were both angry.”

“— especially the money thing with Harvey, though we always said we weren't in it for the money. Why didn't you call me?”

“Same reason. Anger. Back then, anyway. It's mostly just a posture now. Something to keep my mind occupied so I don't go crazy.”

Spike listened carefully to Max's words, the tone of voice. They were pretty much the same things he'd thought himself over the last few years. But could he trust Max? Not likely.

“So then we're both a couple of twats,” Spike said at last.

Max nodded. “Yeah — probably. Though I still think Harvey's the real villain here.”

“I agree a hundred percent,” Spike said, nodding. He paused. “Do you ever think about …?”

“What?”

Spike shrugged. “You know … that girl.”

Max took another toke and turned away. “I try not to. It was a long time ago. What good would it do to think about it now?”

“No remorse then? Nothing?”

Max scowled. “Nah. No regrets. What's the point?”

“You're right.” Spike took a final toke and ground the roach out under his feet. He stood. “I gotta piss. I'll see you inside.”

Max sat looking out at the water for a few minutes, feeling the smoke loosen him up inside. The truth was, he thought about the girl more than he liked to admit. It was as though she lived inside him now, long after her death. He'd dreamed of her several times over the years and woke in a sweat, trying to get away from her before anybody could pin it on him.