Meanwhile he stood there, like the big dog they'd told him about at school, guarding the entrance to hell, though why anyone should have wanted to get into hell Joe had never quite grasped. But the way to get round him was toss him something to eat.
Trouble was, Joe couldn't think of anything this guy might have an appetite for except maybe his head.
'Joe Sixsmith? Is that you?'
A burly balding man in a tracksuit had come out of the door leading into the depths of the Dome. He was smiling at Joe.
'Yeah, this is me,' admitted Joe.
Thought it was. Don't recognize me, do you?'
In fact the man's creased and weather-beaten face did look familiar. But there was a sense of a thinner, younger face peering out of fortyish flesh which was more, though differently, familiar.
'Jim Hardiman,' said the man. 'We were at school together.'
It was the nose that finally did it.
'You mean Hooter Hardiman?' said Joe.
A shadow touched the smile like a crow floating across the sun.
That's right,' he said. 'Long time no see, eh?'
But in fact Joe had seen Hardiman several times both in the local paper and on the telly since he had come to prominence, first as Zak's trainer, then as sports director of the Plezz. He felt ashamed as a PI that he'd never made the connection between the grown man, Jim, and the schoolboy, Hooter. His excuse was that the nose which had stood out like a chilli on a cheesecake at fifteen had been absorbed and assimilated by forty. Also the boy had been a class above him and they'd never had much more contact than the usual ritual bullying a schoolboy heavy feels it necessary to dish out to whoever gets in his way in order to encourage the others.
But now it was best-years-of-our-lives time.
'Heard a lot about you recently, Joe, and often meant to look you up. Have a chat about the good old times we had together.'
Would take all of ten seconds, thought Joe.
He said, That would be great, Hoo ... er, Jim. But I'm here to see Zak just now. Any idea where she is?'
'Zak? She expecting you?'
That's right, Mr. Hardiman. Ms Oto told me to look out for him.'
This was the gung-ho guard unexpectedly coming to his support.
Joe said, 'You knew that, why all this guard-dog crud?'
Thought you were just a pushy fan, didn't I? Ms Oto didn't tell me you'd look like ... how you look.'
A diplomat already, thought Joe.
Hardiman said, Thanks, Dave. Come on, Joe. Let me show you the way.'
He set off into the Dome with Joe following. The place was full of workmen.
'You going to be ready on time?' said Joe, gingerly edging past WET PAINT signs.
'No sweat,' said Hardiman. 'Gilding the lily is all. Time for a quick word.'
It wasn't a question. As he uttered the words he opened a door marked DIRECTOR OF PHYSICAL RECREATION, a title rather larger than the office he ushered Joe into. There were lots of files and correspondence in evidence, but all neatly stacked. To Joe, who could create chaos out of two sheets of paper and an empty desk, it looked like the workplace of a busy but well-ordered man.
'Have a pew,' said Hardiman, 'and tell me what this is all about.'
'Can't do that, Hoo ... er, Jim,' said Joe. 'Private business.'
'So you're here professionally?'
So it wasn't Hooter who suggested me, thought Joe as he shrugged noncommittally.
'OK. But I need to know if this is anything to do with that stupid business about that phone call.'
Another shrug. It was pretty good this shrugging business. Saved a man a lot of tripping over his tongue.
'I'll take that as a yes. Listen, Joe, I appreciate you got a duty of confidentiality, but I've got duties too, and anything to do with the New Year meeting is my business. Zak told me about the call, I told her it was the price of fame, some nutter, ignore it. I thought I got through. What's happened? There been more?'
Joe varied the shrug with a little hand movement, sort of French, he felt.
'OK, so there's been more. Listen, Joe, I've got to know this. Is Zak seriously thinking about scratching because of this crap?'
There didn't seem any harm in saying, 'No, I don't think scratching's an option,' till he'd said it, after which he realized it implied agreement with all that had gone before. But shoot, not even a Frenchman could shrug forever.
Thank God for that. But if she's so worried, why hire you? Why not talk to me again, or go to the police?'
Back to the shrug.
