Free Pressure Drop by Peter Abrahams

Ravoukian?”
    Ravoukian leaned forward slightly. “These acquaintances might have a job for you. If they did, and if you were prepared to take it on, I would be prepared to handle your appeal gratis.”
    â€œWhat job?”
    Ravoukian sat back. “That would be better described by them. Perhaps a meeting could be arranged.”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    â€œNaturally your expenses would be taken care of. Airplane tickets, hotels, meals, et cetera.”
    â€œTickets to where, Mr. Ravoukian?”
    â€œParis would be a good meeting place, I think. Do you know Paris, Mr. Matthias?”
    â€œNo. Are these friends—”
    â€œAcquaintances, Mr.—”
    â€œâ€”or whatever you want to call them, are they countrymen of yours?”
    â€œDo you mean Bahamians, Mr. Matthias?”
    â€œI mean Armenians.”
    â€œI don’t think we can speak of Armenians as countrymen. Armenians have no country of their own, Mr. Matthias.” Ravoukian’s tone remained bland and professional, but his stubby fingers shook slightly as he reached for a cigarette.
    Matthias said: “Does this job involve underwater explosives, Mr. Ravoukian?”
    Ravoukian didn’t reply right away. He sucked on the cigarette. Its end glowed and so did his eyes. “That’s for my acquaintances to answer.”
    Ravoukian’s last word lit up a memory in Matthias’s mind: Cesarito, who had listened to Top 40 radio all the time to improve his English, softly singing “Blowin’ In The Wind” from the bow on that last night.
    â€œBy all means. But there are time constraints.” Ravoukian rose and crossed the room to the file cabinets. He wore sandals. Matthias smelled leather and sweat. Ravoukian found a file and returned to the desk. He took out a letter. “This is from the plaintiff’s U.S. counsel. It’s a polite reminder that notice of appeal must be filed by the twelfth of December—six months from the finding of the lower court. Otherwise the judgment stands and, as it says, ‘payment of said judgment, that is one million one hundred thousand dollars (U.S.), will be due on that date.’” Ravoukian laid the letter on his desk. The paper itself seemed intimidating: thick and deckle-edged. And so did the letterhead: Ablewhite, Godfrey, Percival & Glyde.
    Matthias rose again. “I’ll let you know,” he said. This time Ravoukian didn’t call him back.
    Matthias rode to the East Bay marina. He parked the bike beside East Bay Divers, dropped the key in the letter slot and walked to the end of the dock. So What , his nineteen-foot Mako with the twin Merc nineties, floated in the last slip. Matthias climbed aboard, cast off and motored slowly west along the channel. A big cruiser was coming the other way, much too fast; its wash foamed in the moonlight. The cruiser went by with a roar of motors and music; Matthias, rocking in its wake, saw a man and a woman standing with champagne flutes in the stern. The man wore a white suit, the woman a white skirt and nothing else. She saw Matthias and waved. Her breasts gleamed like marble. The man tilted his head and drained his glass.
    Matthias passed the tip of Paradise Island, rounded Silver Cay and backed off until the compass came around to two-hundred-and-seventy-eight degrees. Then he pushed the throttles all the way down. So What raised its bow in the air like a rearing horse and surged forward. Matthias headed for home.
    The sea was a flat sheet of silver and black. The boat skimmed along so smoothly it seemed to have levitated above the surface, gliding the way boats glide in the dreams of little boys. Nothing moved except the moon rising above, and Matthias cutting through the water below, like two bits of matter scattered by the Big Bang. There was no sound but the twin nineties, and after a while it ceased to be sound, leaving Matthias alone with his thoughts.
    He thought of everyone he had