Perfect Reflections E-Book

Tom Tikka

• Herausgeber: One Media iP Group
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 277

Beschreibung

Tom Sundell is a former merchant marine and soldier who has survived the oceans of the world and the Foreign Legion. Yet, his biggest challenge seems to be to survive his difficult marriage and be a good father to his boys. Although he is haunted by his violent and traumatic past, Sundell's life continues uneventfully until his wife meets an untimely death and he receives a strange and unexpected letter. Before he even realizes it, Tom is on his way to Buenos Aires in search of something he thought he had put behind him a long time ago.

Leseprobe

PERFECT REFLECTIONS

Tom Tikka

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the author or publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my late father,

Table Of Contents

Perfect Reflections

Chapter 1 5

Chapter 2 9

Chapter 3 15

Chapter 4 20

Chapter 5 29

Chapter 6 35

Chapter 7 40

Chapter 8 44

Chapter 9 48

Chapter 10 51

Chapter 11 56

Chapter 12 60

Chapter 13 69

Chapter 14 78

Chapter 15 81

Chapter 16 87

Chapter 17 96

Chapter 18 100

Chapter 19 105

Chapter 20 107

Chapter 21 110

EPILOGUE 114

Acknowledgements 117

1

Buenos Aires, Argentina

June 22, 2018

Tom looked at the old sign hung up at the entrance of Santo Tatuaje and laughed nervously under his breath. It said, “It’s always a good day for a tattoo.” The wounded merchant marine turned to see if he had been followed, but the street seemed to be as empty as it had been a few seconds earlier. The taillights of the taxicab that had dropped him off were barely visible anymore. The atmosphere was ghostly. Tom was surrounded by darkness that was only slightly broken by the flickering street lamps. This dance of lights was no doubt the result of voltage dips or loose circuits. Those were the most common reasons for such malfunctions, at least in the poorer districts of the southern hemisphere. In the midst of this eerie ambiance stood the weary apparition that was Tom Sundell.

Since Tom was dressed in military attire the ride had been free and the cabby hadn’t asked any questions. It was the way things worked in these parts of the world. Those creatures unfortunate enough to be forced to make their living in the night learned early on the importance of keeping their mouths shut. Tom had sensed that the driver knew what was at stake. He looked like the type who had seen work mates perish at the hands of men like Tom. Their nighttime encounter would remain a secret. Tom was confident of that. The driver had kept his eyes on the road and his thoughts to himself, an approach that had prolonged his lifespan considerably.

Tom limped toward the only tattoo parlor that was open past midnight in Buenos Aires. “This had better work,” he thought, hauling behind him a full-sized carry-on suitcase that appeared to be coming apart at the seams. A coattail was hanging out from one of the corners and the main zipper was broken. It was clear that the luggage was packed beyond its capacity and had been stuffed in a hurry. One of the wheels wobbled and was close to falling off, but Tom pulled the carry-on determinedly through the entrance of the small ink shop, setting off the miniature wind chimes by the door. He was sweating and breathless, trying hard to ignore the pain caused by the injury on his left shoulder. Tom felt numbness in his arm, which meant that the tourniquet he had applied was too tight. He would loosen it a little as soon as possible.

Although his arrival was announced loudly, there was no one in sight to welcome him. The area behind the small counter was empty, half the lights had been turned off and everything was neatly put away. The tattoo guns were hanging from the hooks on the wall and the ink bottles were expertly organized by color on a wooden rustic-looking shelf that stretched across the room. As soon as Tom heard a toilet flush somewhere downstairs, he locked the front door and turned the open-closed sign to CLOSED. He placed the heavy carry-on next to a black tattoo chair, which by the smell of it, was made of real leather. It wasn’t new and there were small cracks in the leather, but it looked comfortable enough for a tired sailor to rest on. Tom closed his eyes and leaned back. He left his .357 Magnum in its holster. The military uniform he was wearing would be enough of a deterrent to the landlord to do what he was told.

The counter Tom had spotted a minute earlier clearly hid behind it a flight of stairs leading to a basement. Tom was too tired to start guessing what it housed. Whatever it was, he’d worry about it later. Now all he intended to do was to rest until the footsteps that echoed below him would reach upstairs.

“What can I do for you, Colonel?” a voice inquired a minute or so later. Tom turned in surprise. Although attractive, she was clearly past her prime. Yet, there was something very sensual about the way she carried herself. She was dressed in leather and the outfit, while tight, suited her thin and firm frame well. Only the wrinkles on her face, especially the ones under her eyes, were signs of middle age. Otherwise, she looked like she could have been in her thirties.

“What do you charge for a tattoo?” Tom asked. He was tired and in pain but tried his best not to sound aggressive or threatening. He needed her to play ball. Time was of the essence. Even if he could find another tattoo artist at this hour, it would be too late. He needed a tattoo badly and he needed it within the hour.

“It depends,” she spoke with a cute Spanish accent. “I need to know the size of the tattoo and the color scheme. Black? Two colors? Three? Size wise, what are we talking about? Your back, arm, chest or ankle? They’re different. Yesterday, I tattooed a biker’s head; the day before that, a model’s wrist. There are as many tattoos as there are people. They’re very personal. Would you like me to show you some of our designs?” The woman looked at Tom eagerly but suspiciously. Tom wiped off a few drops of blood that were trickling down his left hand, but the tattooist had clearly noticed.

“Let me just run downstairs and get a few binders. There are many pictures to choose from,” she added.

“No. Stay. There’s no need. I have the design right here,” Tom said quickly and firmly. He wasn’t going to let her call for help or worse, finish him off with a small-caliber shooting iron hidden somewhere downstairs. Keeping his eyes fixed on the woman, Tom slowly took off his jacket and rolled up his right sleeve, panting and wincing with pain. A tattoo that was revealed showed two hands in a shake over a banner that said “brothers.” The left side of the dress shirt Tom was wearing was covered in blood. He tried hard to hide the pain.

“Okay,” the woman said with trepidation. “No problem. Who’s the tattoo for?”

“For him,” Tom said emotionlessly and pointed to the suitcase.

A long silence fell over the two of them. It was almost as if time had stopped. Tom looked at the shopkeeper straight in the eye without blinking. She was clearly assessing the situation and coming to terms with what she had just been told. You could see from her face that she fully understood the importance of what she said next. This was clearly a situation in which nobody wants to find themselves, and Tom felt she composed herself admirably.

“How long has he been there?” she asked.

“A few hours,” Tom disclosed.

“The skin won’t heal anymore. This tattoo will be a big mess. It won’t look like it’s been there for any length of time.” The tattooist, who clearly had seen it all before, spoke with no hesitation in her voice.

“Leave that to me. The only thing you need to worry about is replicating the tattoo I have on my arm as well as you possibly can. Try to put it in the exact same spot,” said Tom sternly. He’d slash the spot later on, making it look like the mess around the tattoo was not caused by a needle but something else entirely. It was a long shot, but maybe he could make it look plausible.

“And what’s going to happen to me?” the woman asked.

“You’ll be rich,” Tom stated matter-of-factly and handed her two ruby earrings and a diamond necklace. “Just change the ear wires and wash the blood off the necklace and they’ll be as good as new. These will buy you a few houses.”

“And if I talk?”

“I’ll kill your daughters.”

“How do you know I have daughters?”

Tom pointed to a picture frame on the wall that had a photograph of three attractive women in their twenties.

“Para nuestra madre,” Tom remarked softly and pursed his lips. “Hablo español también.” He reached for the jacket on his lap and pulled out a cell phone. Tom held the phone close to the tattoo on his right arm and tried to take a picture of it, his left hand trembled uncontrollably. He gave up after a few attempts and let out a long sigh, handing the phone to his newfound ally with a frustrated smile.

“Would you mind?” Tom asked slightly embarrassed.

The tattooist took the phone from Tom and nodded. The phone flashed as she immortalized the artwork on Tom’s arm. She walked to the counter and placed the earrings and the necklace on it. As she lifted one of the tattoo guns off its hook, she looked at Tom long and hard.

“I’m sorry you were the only shop open tonight,” Tom said with a sincere tone.

“May God have mercy on your soul, Señor,” she muttered to herself as Tom unzipped the carry-on.

It was time to introduce the artist to the customer.

2

Helsinki, Finland

September 05, 2018

“This is the police. Anybody home?” Detective Nils Gustafson entered the semi-dark flat with caution, carefully stepping over the threshold.

Gustafson signaled the elderly locksmith to leave. His job was now done. The gray-haired Houdini disappeared into the massive hallway that echoed his footsteps long after he had vanished from sight. Nils undid his gun holster quietly and placed his right hand firmly on the grip of his weapon. At sixty-four, Gustafson only had a year left on the job, and he was determined not to take any foolish risks. He was damned if he was going to be one of those cops who gets killed frisking someone a few days before retirement. He knew at least two fellow detectives who had gone down only hours before their last shift was done and dusted. These had been good and capable men but in the wrong place at the wrong time and perhaps they had already let their guard down a bit. One of them, Kari Sevander, had insisted on checking out a case of domestic disturbance on his way home from a retirement party given in his honor. It was a routine call that had gone terribly wrong. Kari was gunned down the moment he stepped out of his vehicle. So while Gustafson was confident about his ability to walk the beat and handle himself in a tight spot, he also knew from experience that a tight spot is always an unpredictable spot. The old wisdom according to which overconfidence could be an instant killer rang true. The scar on his throat reminded him of that every morning when he looked in the mirror. All it takes is one second of absentmindedness and you could end up six feet under. Lucky for him, the crack pusher he was arresting that day had missed the artery by a few millimeters.

Gustafson closed the front door behind him. It was solid oak, the kind you still had to deal with in neighborhoods like Eira, where everything was old. Modern plywood doors were easy to break down. Sometimes all you had to do was to kick them in. Other times, you needed a crowbar and occasionally, a battering ram. In any case, they’d yield ultimately without having to resort to detonation. These oak doors, some of them dating back more than a century, usually put up quite a fight. In the case of solid oak, it was much easier to call a locksmith than to break through the door, especially inside residential buildings, where explosive breaching was not an option due to the extensive damage it might cause to the historic hallways.

Sometimes, in a historic building like the one he was now in, Gustafson found himself thinking about the people, the past generations, going about their daily routines here. He pictured a group of children running past him, playing on the stairs and in the courtyard, hiding behind the bushes and garden benches. In his mind, they were always wearing clothes from the 1940s: plaid shirts and baggy pants held up with suspenders. These were the type of clothes his dad had worn after the Second World War in the pictures he had seen as a kid. They looked funny, something you would expect to see in Chaplin movies, but according to his dad, these garments had been comfortable to play in. However, it wasn’t just the kids that were on Gustafson’s mind. These buildings had also housed some great men from the past. Kaarlo Juho Ståhlberg, for instance, the first president of Finland and one of the main architects of the Finnish Constitution, had lived right across the street from where Nils was now. As one of the few Finnish statesmen with an impeccable reputation, Ståhlberg had always been one of Gustafson’s heroes; a type of leader and person he had aspired to be as a child. Of course, life hadn’t turned out as he had planned and rather than being a politician, Gustafson had become a detective, which meant the only way he was allowed to see inside these expensive flats was if he was working a case.

At first glance, the flat seemed empty. The carpet of the long hallway that housed rooms on each side had not been cleaned for months. There was dust everywhere. A considerable amount of mail was scattered across the floor and there was a bad smell of sewage coming from an unused bathroom drain. Gustafson’s father had always said that the man who invents a P-trap that never dries up will become a millionaire overnight. The older Gustafson was still working on that and was still a million short of being a millionaire. Silly old fool. His dad was a brilliant man who had never been able to reach his true potential. He had worked as a plumber his entire life. Had his family had money to pay for college, his father could have easily been an architect or an engineer.

Gustafson reached for the decorative light switch closest to him and turned the lights on in the hall. Looking around, he caught a reflection of himself in the nearby mirror. He didn’t much like what he saw. His hair was mostly gone, he had lines all over his face and his double chin seemed to be growing every day. He wondered if losing your looks was worse for some than it was for others and began to pull in his stomach in a desperate attempt to make the image in the mirror look slightly better. He had read about a new fad in the Helsinki Times called the Skinny Mirror. These were mirrors that had been invented in California a few years ago and were now taking over the world. The glass on them was curved and made you look five kilos thinner. He could have used one right now. No wonder his wife had left him. Judged by the reflection he was staring at, he wouldn’t want to sleep with himself either.

Gustafson turned away from the looking glass and began moving slowly from room to room, checking each square centimeter of the condominium. It was an impressive apartment. All the tables, chairs and cabinets were antique, most likely from the early 20th century, and each piece had been chosen to match the color on the walls. The overall impression was very Victorian. But apart from the unread mail and the flashy décor, the place was completely empty. There were no clothes in the walk-in-closet and no food in the fridge. The bathroom towel hooks were empty and so was the toilet paper holder. Personal items like shaving equipment, combs and brushes, deodorants and shampoos had all gone. Everything of value had been left but things needed for everyday life were nowhere to be seen. To the veteran detective that meant the owner was not coming back. This is what he hated about experience. It usually gave you answers you didn’t want to hear. As a young detective he would have been busy going around the flat, following every clue he could get his hands on, but now, after nearly four decades on the job, Gustafson had seen enough to know there wouldn’t be any real clues here. If he happened to stumble on any, they were left in the flat on purpose. That was the oldest trick in the book to throw off investigators.

Frustrated, Gustafson buttoned up the gun holster under his arm and sat down on the living-room couch. His heart was racing and his palms sweating. Tom Sundell had vanished in Argentina. The last security camera footage they had of him was getting off a plane at the Ministro Pistarini International Airport in Buenos Aires in the beginning of June, but after that no one seemed to know about his whereabouts. Gustafson had called the local police right after he had dealt with the airport officials, but just as he had suspected they had their hands full with actual crimes and could do little more than file a missing persons report. “He’ll turn up somewhere sooner or later and when that happens, we’ll let you know,” they had said.

The doorbell rang. Gustafson got up and walked slowly to the door. The adrenaline rush triggered by forced entry was still surging and although in control of his emotions, Gustafson's legs were shaking slightly. Opening the door, he found himself staring into the pleasantly plummy face of his partner, Jari Lindroos.

“Why is it that just as I’ve sat my sweet ass down, you show up?” Gustafson said as he walked back to the couch. Surely he deserved a few more minutes on the beige La-Z-Boy sofa. The fabric alone warranted a second seating.

“Hi Nils, I came as soon as I could. I see you got the door open,” Lindroos observed with an approving smile. “Where’s the kid?” he continued.

The older detective leaned his head back, closed his eyes and sighed, “He’s on his way. He got held up but said we could go in.”

“He should be here, Nils. You know this as well as I do. This isn’t a crime investigation. We’ve no authority to go anywhere without him,” Lindroos said with a concerned tone. "If one of those five hundred people who hold a grudge against you gets a whiff of this, we'll find ourselves in a world of shit."

“Don’t worry. He was the one who called the locksmith. His brother couldn’t find the spare key anywhere. It’s all good,” said Gustafson with a dismissive gesture of his hand. “Lucky for him there was no damage to the door. It’s beautiful, probably the original door. They’re very expensive.”

Gustafson hated risking damage to items of antique value. It felt like being indifferent to history. His ex-wife had been an antique restorer and through her he had learned to appreciate vintage objects. But waiting was no longer an option. In Sundell’s case they had done enough of that; three months to be exact. The kids had pleaded with them to find their father, but as far as the police were concerned, a man who had a return ticket to Argentina and no warrant for his arrest was allowed to leave the country for a three-month sabbatical to mourn the loss of his wife, even if he told no one he was going. In fact, nobody at the station believed for a second Tom Sundell wasn’t coming back and yet, he hadn’t boarded the plane bound for Helsinki in Buenos Aires a few days ago. Any hopes Gustafson and his colleagues had harbored of Sundell's return were gone and now he had to explain to Tom’s children that the police had been wrong all along and that their father was now officially missing.

“I need a moment, Jari. My head’s killing me and I got to think what I’m going to tell the kid. Could you get my painkillers from the car,” Gustafson said handing Jari his car keys with an anguished look on his face.

Lindroos grabbed the keys and nodded his head to Gustafson. Jari was a short stout Swedish-speaking Finn in his mid-forties who always came to work wearing a suit and tie. And today, as always, he had a colorful handkerchief neatly folded in his breast pocket. They were homicide cops but since Nils had known Jari, the younger man had always looked like he was on his way to a cocktail party. But it wasn’t just his appearance. Jari seemed to be constantly making small talk. He mingled. Even at a murder scene he was constantly chatting, especially with the women on the scene, lowering his glasses while looking at them in a way only he could find flirtatious. Gustafson often wondered if any women had ever fallen for that gimmick. It seemed unlikely but then again, attraction was a strange thing. People after all had different preferences. And when it came to women, Gustafson had given up attempting to understand them some time ago. To him, sweeping a woman off her feet seemed like rocket science, reserved for guys with money and looks. Old plain-looking guys like himself had to resort to other means, most of which, save prostitution, turned out to be rather ineffective.

Gustafson thought of a time he had read about a convicted felon who had allegedly hypnotized women into sexual relations. He always doubted the allegations. His logic had been that if something like that was possible, hypnotism training courses all over the country would be fully-booked for the next decade. To make sure his logic held water, Gustafson had checked if this was the case. He had gone online, seen the half-empty courses and made an informed decision not to enroll. Jari, seeing himself as a man of the world, had enrolled and had since spoken very highly of hypnotism as a tool to woo women. It had started right after the course and continued to this day. Nils had decided right away that his partner was full of it. Jari had a habit of stretching the truth, and even though Nils appreciated his friend’s stories of conquest, he thought of them as little more than products of Jari’s vivid imagination.

Aware of his partner's ability to spin tales, Gustafson had often wondered about Jari's real background and had a hunch that there was more to him than met the eye. Quite a few things Jari had told him about his parents and upbringing didn’t really make that much sense. At best, he was sexing up his childhood; at worst, he was rewriting it completely. But then again, that was probably true for most people, even the ones who fit into the category of what was labeled "normal." And then of course, there were those who were deeply disturbed.

Gustafson remembered interrogating a registered sociopath during his rookie year. “Are we who we are, Detective,” the man had said, “or are we who we decide to be?” The memory of that interrogation still haunted him. That particular case had been one of the most disturbing cases of Gustafson’s career and the worst part of it was that they were never able to put the guy behind bars. There wasn’t enough evidence of him kidnapping those little girls, sexually abusing them and then starving them to death. For all Nils knew, this monster was still out there fulfilling his sick fantasies. The thought sickened him.

Gustafson felt sick all of a sudden and to set his stomach straight he forced his mind back to Jari and the obvious tales his partner was feeding everyone. But then Jari’s innocence only made him smile. He got it. It was hard to come to the capital city from Turku. The Swedish-speaking community here were ruthless about a person’s pedigree. In Jari’s position, Gustafson would have probably done the same thing. He would have found out about distant relatives in the capital area and claimed he spent summers and vacations there. Knowing your way round Helsinki was like gold in those circles and in Jari’s defense, probably the only way for him to be accepted in the elite crowd.

Of course, Gustafson was far from perfect himself. He hadn’t exactly been honest with Jari about everything. He’d left out the fact that he knew Tom Sundell personally. Well, quite a few former merchant marines in his age group did and the ones who hadn’t met the guy knew Sundell’s legend well. Gustafson also knew that tracking down his old buddy would most likely prove impossible. Sundell was one of those people who had the ability to disappear. It was a skill they had both acquired in the Foreign Legion, where they had served in the late seventies. To put it bluntly, he and Jari would only find Tom if he wanted to be found, which was just as well because with the slim resources at their disposal, there wasn’t a thing the police could do in a situation like this. If a crime’d been involved, it would have been an entirely different matter.

Lindroos came back with Gustafson’s painkillers. He shook the bottle from side to side and asked, “These?”

Gustafson nodded and took the container from the junior detective’s hand. “Thanks,” he said, quickly opening the bottle and sinking three tabs.

“You bet,” said Lindroos, adding, “the kid is here. I asked him to wait outside. Does he know finding his father is going to be an uphill battle?”

“No,” Gustafson said with a worried look on his face, “that’s one of the reasons why he’s here. We need to explain that to him.” He took a deep breath, swallowed a few times, got up from the couch and walked over to the door. His partner followed him close behind. In the hallway, he found a handsome, dark-haired figure waiting anxiously.

“Hi, Edwin, I’m Nils Gustafson and this is Detective Lindroos. We’ve spoken on the phone a few times. We don’t know much yet, but whatever we do know, we’ll share with you. Your dad’s apartment doesn’t offer any new clues about what might have happened to him. I’m sorry,” said Gustafson. “Come in and have a seat.”

3

Buenos Aires, Argentina

June 5, 2018

Tom Sundell stood in front of a massive baby pink mansion called Casa Rosada in the heart of Buenos Aires. He’d seen it many times before, but each time the building captivated him. Even today, it was as if he was looking at it for the first time. It was decorated with so many small, beautiful details that one could easily get lost in its architecture for an entire afternoon. Truth be told, even though Casa Rosada was the executive office of the president of Argentina, it was so exquisite that to Tom it had always looked more like a royal palace with its central arch and side loggias. This was a powerful building designed for powerful men, and if you allowed yourself to forget your surroundings as well as time, it was pretty easy to picture Onganía or Perón standing on the balcony in their dress uniforms, waving to the nation.

There hadn’t been many good times for the average Argentinian. Tom was aware of this. He had been here as a young merchant marine and had countless stories to tell about the Argentine secret police and the Dirty War, during which as many as 30,000 people disappeared or went missing. Back then, people were scared, constantly looking over their shoulders, living in a state of fear and chaos. The country was desperate for a change. The problem was that change in South America was never easy to initiate. Everything was tightly regulated by the junta or the government. To make matters worse, if you had revolutionist or socialist opinions or were suspected of colluding with someone who did, the government-controlled right-wing death squads would hunt you down. They did that to anyone with such leanings and more often than not tortured them to death. Their bodies were either disposed of or their deaths were made to look like accidents or suicides. Sometimes, the activists’ remains were left in front of Casa Rosada as a warning for everyone with anti-government sympathies. Usually, the squads targeted dissidents such as students, trade unionists, writers, journalists and artists, but every once in a while, they might arrest a drunken sailor as well, especially if the poor bastard was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The unwritten rule of merchant marines was never get attached to anyone while on leave in a harbor city, and nowhere was this rule followed more closely than in Buenos Aires, where being associated with the wrong crowd might actually get you killed regardless of your political opinions or even nationality. Be that as it may, it hadn’t stopped Tom from getting into a world of trouble. In fact, he had been arrested in front of the very building he was now admiring – and all this to impress a girl. He had been so young, gullible and naïve. Lucky for him, the police had merely roughed him up. Once they had realized that he was a Finnish merchant marine and not a local student, they threw him back onto the streets with a broken nose, bruised eye and a busted lip. That was nearly fifty years ago but it felt like yesterday. In fact, Tom still carried a scar from that beating on his right temple. It was a souvenir he was proud of, a small memento of a violent encounter with the local law and enforcement.

A noisy group of elementary school children went past him with their equally noisy teachers. The racket broke Tom’s thoughts of the past, forcing him to snap back to the present. The children were dragging their feet and making faces. It was clear they’d been forced to come here from the countryside to see the capital. The teachers were explaining the history of the Plaza de Mayo to them. It was to no avail, of course. Their knowledge and enthusiasm were wasted on the children, who either looked bored, mischievous or confused. The girls were silent or giggling or exchanging looks; the boys were throwing pieces of crumpled paper at their schoolmistresses whenever they weren’t looking. It made Tom laugh. They must have gone through a tremendous amount of trouble filling their pockets with their ammunition before leaving for their field trip. The old cliché, “Boys will be boys,” still held true, he thought.

A tourist group close by drew his attention with their cameras and tripods aimed at Casa Rosada. They were looking for perfect angles from which to capture the building that had changed very little since the early seventies. Time had been almost as kind to it as it had been to Tom. For a sixty-five-year-old, Tom looked great. He was broad-shouldered, muscular and robust, and even though his hair was not as thick as it once had been, he still looked handsome and debonair in his white-linen suit and gray tie, both of which brought out his tan. People always guessed his age wrong. They usually pegged him to be in his early fifties. Tom liked to think it had something to do with his sympathetic face and strong arms. However, at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter. Tom was just grateful that he looked younger than his age.