Crystal Caviar

By Gaston Cavalleri

In 2012, writer and Jiu-Jitsu expert, Gaston Cavalleri, made headlines in New York City when he single-handedly chased down, apprehended, and physically restrained a violent handbag snatcher in Central Park until police arrived.

The city was looking for a good-news story to brighten up a long hot summer. New York’s Channel Eleven (PIX11 news) called him “Superman, Batman, and Spiderman all rolled into one!” Appreciative New Yorkers (and the grateful lady-victim) celebrated Cavalleri’s civic-minded vigilance.

New York Post, July 7th, 2012: “A tough-as-nails jiu-jitsu expert made such quick work of a purse snatcher in Central Park Thursday, a group of other would-be crime-stoppers could only stand by and watch his martial artistry.” Cavalleri wrote Crystal Caviar (his first novel) a short time later.

Crystal Caviar is a gritty, street-level tale about a knock-about Australian fighter who pulls the pin on a “no-win, no-pay” fight life in Brazil to touch down at JFK Airport for an enigmatic rendezvous with destiny. This story is a sharp, action packed mystery that weaves black comedy, love, psychiatry, and surrealism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gaston Cavalleri
• Release date: Feb 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310221651

Gaston Cavalleri

Gaston Cavalleri is an author and screenwriter from Australia. He lives in Bondi Beach, a transition he made from a country town fifteen years ago. His date of birth is 18 January 1980. He has a Master of Arts (Writing and Literature), a Bachelor of Science (exercise science) and a purple belt in Brazilian Jiu-jitsu. Gaston is the author of Crystal Caviar and Blue Smartie. His writing began seven years ago - a career choice he made after renovating four properties that led him to Sydney airport for a flight to South America. This adventure lasted six years and sparked his need to write.

Book preview

Crystal Caviar

GASTON CAVALLERI

Copyright © Caviar Literature LLC, 2016

Published by Caviar Literature LLC at Smashwords

Copyright © Caviar Literature LLC, 2015

www.caviarliterature.com

All rights are reserved. The reserved rights under copyright are not limited; however, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without written permission from the copyright owner and publisher.

Author: Gaston Cavalleri.

Title: Crystal Caviar / G. Cavalleri.

Edition: 1st ed.

ISBN: 978-0-9873045-4-4 (Paperback)

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all of the café owners around the world who have delivered coffees to my table so that I could write for six years of non-stop travel. I would like to thank the jiu-jitsu professionals around the world who’ve rolled with me and allowed me to join their lives so that my soul could be as calm as it is. Every day I’m grateful to my grandparents who were always there for me, and I’m sure they still are. I’m thankful to my mother who shaped my rougher edges – combined you have all made me a rugged gentleman.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

1

A shaggy mop fell each side of a fighter’s neck as he stood proud, until the match bell rang. Then he slumped to his knees, sporting black lycra shorts and a defined body like a transparent sachet of peanuts. This was Johnny Cava, an over-the-hill Australian grappler, who just found himself on the rough end of an underground fight bout in Brazil. A chaotic swell of Portuguese chanting surged through the hall. Johnny Cava staggered to his feet, covered in sweat beads and splashes of blood. Cava’s head hung in shame. A referee grabbed his right hand then raised the left hand of his fresher opponent.

Cava was thirty-four, but, in many ways, still had the mind of a younger man. His competitor was at least ten years his junior, about the age Cava felt, especially when he gave his name: Call me Caviar.

Caviar tasted an electrical charge from his newly split lip. A single rope encircled him, a referee, and a victorious rival. Cheers in Portuguese spiraled into the fight pit. It wasn’t common to hear English among these crowds, but tonight, a spooky white face with magpie eyes shone out like a moon.

Nice tip, asshole!

A mousy-brown Lego haircut stole Caviar’s attention. The haircut sat on a delicate head and a neck barely the thickness of Caviar’s forearm. This was Tony, about the same age as Caviar, with a squeaky voice, which he often raised. Tony stood in front of a blazing redheaded woman, at least a forehead taller. She sported collagen-enhanced lips like a flattened pair of Rottweiler’s balls and a set of piercing blue cat’s eyes. This was Tony’s partner, Sheryl, and together they made a cutthroat couple. Sheryl gave Caviar a once up and down.

Throw some coin at my head! Tony mimicked like a squeaky child.

Caviar’s face showed a man in distress. He fought to pay his rent, so when he didn’t win fights the following month was usually beans on rice.

Caviar hobbled across to Sheryl and Tony. You win some, he reasoned with opened hands. You lose some.

If you’d said that earlier, Tony replied spitefully, I wouldn’t be ten down.

An hour ago you didn’t know me from a bar of soap. Consider yourself lucky I even care. Caviar scratched his head. Sheryl patted Tony’s shoulders.

Walk with me, Caviar continued, turning for the locker rooms. Tony fumbled under the ringside rope dragging Sheryl behind, crossing a blue fight mat.

I think you owe me five, Tony squawked as Caviar walked ahead.

Amused, You can’t get blood out of a stone, Caviar replied, with a brief glance over his shoulder, as he left the fight mat and walked into a hallway, making for the locker rooms. Angry chants floated into the hallway from the arena. Security guards parted a path through the crowd.

You think I do these fights for love?

I’m not saying you do, Tony responded. But it does make me wonder why.

Caviar bumped his way through the crowd. Sheryl and Tony tagged behind.

I lost tonight, too, you know. Caviar continued bitterly. . . . a bit a courage, a bit a pride; next month’s gonna be a bitter reminder. Would you like to contribute to this?

You’ve cost me an absolute fortune tonight. If I leave now, I’m running a loss, Tony retorted with expressive hands.

I haven’t a cent on me, Caviar replied sincerely, eyeing Tony and Sheryl. Like I said, you win some, you lose some.

Tony stretched his neck tall. Get cleaned up. I’ve got an offer. It’s twelve hours north of here.

Caviar laughed. You must’ve heard me.

I heard you, Tony snapped back. If I leave now, I’m ten down. He was in Caviar’s battered face; Caviar was financially up shit creek.

I’ll get you work. You contribute, Tony proposed. Caviar curiously raised his chin. Tony went on, You’ll owe me five.

*

Thirteen days later, a deep base note hit a toilet bowl in the bathroom of "The Cheery Den," an upper-class drinking hole in New York’s East Village. Caviar stood peeing, admiring his pride and joy – a biscuit-beige pair of cow skin boots.

The bathroom door creaked open, the noisy bar crowd echoing off a tiled wall. The sound vanished as the door swung shut. Someone entered an adjacent toilet cubicle. Then another cascade, with a higher pitch, drizzled into the neighboring toilet bowl. Caviar finished, shook off the last few drops, put his pecker away, and saw, to his astonished surprise, a splash of yellow fluid had hit a white tile on the floor under the cubicle’s barrier.

Mate? You’ve just about pissed on my boot. Caviar’s lips filled with air, exhaling as he looked at the top of the toilet partition.

An unenthusiastic hum was the only response.

Caviar, usually a rather humble man, had played contact sports his entire life, and hadn’t given up jiu-jitsu since the day he’d started it – fifteen years ago. No less than five times a week, he scrubbed the soles of his feet so he could enter a jiu-jitsu mat. He bowed before he entered, and before he exited, and often to lesser men. He’d been dished up hidings, and he’d dished many hidings out. So his days of proving himself to himself were over. Nevertheless, every now and then some rude bastard risked tipping him over the edge.

Caviar bent down, elbows on knees, to look under the cubicle wall. Sorry, maybe? Two pasty white legs stuck out of a pair of green knee-length shorts and ran down into a peach-colored pair of boat shoes. No frigging manners! Caviar straightened his clothes and took a deep breath, containing his irritation. A scent of disinfectant mixed with urine saturated the air. Then he saw it: a wet splash of urine, smack on the point of his favorite boot. And not even a cheap-ass ‘sorry?’

A hollow trickle persisted behind the cubicle wall, followed by a moment of silence. Next, with five bear-like fingers, he reached under the cubicle wall, shackling a fragile pasty ankle. There was a struggle along with another cut-price moan.

A few more manners and we wouldn’t be here. Caviar dominated the leg, clamping it hard against the wall. The toilet brush sitting behind the bowl somehow found its way into Caviar’s hand, then into the rich orange urine and freckled