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There’s a bottle of whiskey waiting for him when he gets back home. It’s standing on his desk, plain scrap of paper underneath.
“What’s this?” Tommy picks up the bottle, inspecting it. It takes him a minute to recognize what it is.
“Came for you earlier.” John tells him. “There’s a note. Somewhere.” He gestures at the paper, grinning up at Tommy. He thinks it’s a woman, but Tommy knows who it’s from even before he picks up the paper.
To better business in the future –
A.S.
The handwriting isn’t what he expected. Half illegible to be sure, but educated, all the same. There’s a careful slant to the words. He reads it again, thinking over every possible interpretation. He still doesn’t understand.
“When exactly did this come?”
“This afternoon.”
“And why…” Tommy mutters to himself. It’s a fair-sized bottle, the white, which was good no matter his personal opinion of the man who brews it. He leaves it sitting on his desk and goes about his business. There’s enough to keep him busy that he doesn’t dwell on it.
At the end of the day when he’s sitting alone, and there’s no one else in the outer office, Tommy pours himself a glass. The whiskey laps across his tongue as he watches the lamps along the street get lit one by one. It’s smooth and thick, exactly like whiskey should taste. He takes another drink and leans his head back. Nothing good will come of this, but he finishes his drink anyway.
* * *
“Thank you for the whiskey.” He tells Solomons who grunts at him in response. He barely looks up at Tommy, just keeps thumbing through the paperwork in front of him.
Well, that’s that. He’s thanked the man and now Tommy will leave it alone. He wants nothing more to do with Solomons than is necessary. Every time Tommy looks at him, it reminds him of when he was fourteen and saw a hawk pluck a mouse right out of the meadow grass. It swooped and caught the tiny beast who let out a weak squeak before it was carried off. The precise savage beauty of the act had left Tommy breathless. Now though, he thinks of how the field mouse felt.
* * *
The next gift is bread. He truly doesn’t know what to make of this. The second meeting had gone much better than the previous one. There’s no need for this, but here is a basket all the same. Seven loaves, fresh and smelling sweet.
“What is this?” Pol eyes it. “Some sort of peace offering?”
“Peace offering for what?” Nothing has gone wrong this time. They’re doing well, him and Alfie Solomons. They’re due for another meeting this coming Sunday.
He breaks off a corner of the loaf and tastes it. Light and soft in his mouth. Tommy imagines it covered with butter, fresh out of the oven. It’s good bread. He can’t deny that. He finishes chewing the mouthful, swallows it. Pol just looks at him.
“Go on, have a taste.” Tommy nudges the loaf towards her.
She tears a piece off and eats it, still looking at him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Pol says.
“I always know what I’m doing.” Tommy takes another piece, a larger one this time. It tastes even better.
They both know it’s only half true.
* * *
After the bread Tommy feels obliged to do something in return. To settle the debt so to speak. But what do you do for a man who brews his own booze? At last he takes Solomons a handkerchief. Nothing fancy, just plain linen. The sort you could purchase anywhere. It makes a small neat packet in Tommy’s pocket.
He places it on Solomons’ desk at the end of their meeting.
“What’s this?” Solomons picks it up between his thumb and forefinger, almost suspiciously. He looks at it, at Tommy, waiting for an answer.
“A thank you for the other day, and the bread.” Tommy tells him.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Solomons informs him. He smooths the cloth over his palm.
“Seemed the thing to do.” Tommy murmurs.
“Well,” Solomons clears his throat. “Thank you.” He tucks it inside his pocket and once again Tommy supposes that is that.
* * *
“You know what I’d say if Ada was the one getting these gifts.” Pol remarks the next time one arrives.
“You’ll know what not to say if you know what’s good for you.” Tommy sits back at his desk. This he really doesn’t know what to do with. What is Solomons doing?
“Tommy.”
“I know, Pol.” He does, he does.
* * *
He inspects the razor, fine blade, good silver handle. Tommy touches it once, feeling the weight of it in his hand, and then puts it away. It could be a warning, or…something else altogether.
They’re gifts. He’d bet his life they’re gifts. He is betting his life they’re gifts. Alfie’s not threatening him. Even this isn’t a threat. But as gifts go, it’s an unsettling one. It’s acceptance, a wish, it’s the eye of what he is and what he does. And Tommy doesn’t trust that.
* * *
“What’s this?” It’s Tommy’s turn to ask as he holds up the razor. He needs to know what the man means by this.
“I’d have thought you lot would know that by now. Seeing as you’ve got them sewed up inside your caps and all.”
“Amusing.” Tommy doesn’t blink. “Why did you send it to me?” He places the razor on the desk between them.
Alfie shifts in his seat. “Saw it in a shop window. Made me think of you.”
“You just saw it and you thought you’d buy it for me?”
“Well. Yes.” Alfie says. There’s small tic under his left eye, like he’s said all he can say on this topic. Normally when Tommy senses a weakness in someone he uses it, pressing his advantage. Not today.
Today he sits there and clears his throat and says. “Well, then.”
“Coffee.” Alfie says abruptly.
Now Tommy blinks and says, “All right.”
Alfie fixes a small tin pot of coffee over the stove in the corner. The brew is dark and richly bitter. He pours a cup and puts it in front of Tommy before stirring his own. Tommy drinks it, still confused, still uncertain, warily curious. The razor remains in his pocket.
They discuss business. They continue their deals.
* * *
The bottle Alfie sent him is kept on the corner of the shelf in his office, special occasions and that.
* * *
Solomons has the handkerchief in his top pocket one afternoon, folded neatly along the cloth.
* * *
“How about it?” Solomons asks.
“How about it?”
“The races.” He takes two tickets out of his vest and lays them on the desk between them.
“You want to go to the races?” With me, Tommy thinks. You want to go with me?
“Why not?” Alfie shrugs. “You like horses.” He leans forward, locking his hands together, waiting for Tommy to give his answer.
Yes, he does like horses. Tommy can’t deny that.
* * *
So they go to the races. Tommy drives after picking Alfie up at the train station. It’s a quiet drive to the track.
Alfie buys him a drink and they watch the horses run the length of the track. All the while Tommy’s conscious of Alfie standing alongside of him. At one point Alfie grips the track, shouting encouragement at the jockey. After a minute, Tommy lays his hand on the railing next to Alfie’s. Alfie doesn’t even look at him. But he moves a little closer.
The afternoon sun hits the track. Tommy wipes the sweat from his face. When he lays his hand down again, it rests atop Alfie’s.
* * *
On the way back they pull over by the side of the road to piss. Tommy keeps his eyes averted from Alfie as they do their business.
There’s a stream running along the road and he dips a hand in the water, watching it wind its way past the rocks. When he looks up Alfie’s standing by the car, hands in his pockets. Tommy straightens up. He takes his cap off, straightening it before he sets it on his hair again.
“Could always leave it off.” Alfie remarks as he comes up to the car.
“What?” Tommy says.
“Your hat.” Alfie reaches out a hand, brings it up to touch the side of his head. Tommy feels the touch pulsing through his skull, making his skin throb. Alfie’s fingers are warm.
“Tommy.” Alfie says his name, quiet and thoughtful, like he’s asking a question.
Tommy answers it with his lips.
* * *
When they reach the station the train to London is already pulling in. Alfie gets out of the car, leaning back to look at him. His hand brushes over Tommy’s.
“Till next time.” Tommy says.
“Next time, yes.” Solomons agrees. He steps onto his train.
Tommy watches until he can’t see his face through the window any more. Then he starts up the car again and drives home.