Joe slid out of the rich comfort of the Merc, clutching the bundle of notes Pollinger had produced from his wallet. The Merc moved silently away. Joe opened the door of the Mini and Whitey let out an angry howl which diminished as Joe flapped the notes in his face.
'I got the only cat in the world that recognizes the smell of money!' said Joe. 'Let's count this lot then head to Daph's Diner to celebrate!'
Fourteen.
Daph's Diner gets a cautious recommendation in The Lost Traveller's Guide for the depth and nutritional qualities of its hot bacon sandwiches.
With the casual indifference to expense of a man who's got eight hundred quid tucked down his Y-fronts, Joe ordered two and a pot of tea. Someone had left a copy of the Bugle at his table. He used the thick Property Market supplement as a fat-absorbent tray for Whitey's sandwich after checking he was out of the sight line of the counter. Daph, a formidable young woman with a second-class honours degree in art history and a realistic attitude to its attendant job opportunities, was unreliable in her attitude to animals on the premises. Last time a customer complained, she'd thrown Joe and Whitey out, but the time before it had been the amazed customer who ended up on the pavement, closely followed by her jam doughnut.
Satisfied they were unobserved, Joe took a mouthful of sandwich and read the front-page account of the attack on Felix Naysmith. There was no mention of Sixsmith Investigations. He didn't know whether to be pleased or put out.
'OK if we sit here? It's a bit crowded today,' said a female voice.
'Sure,' said Joe, looking up.
Recognition was simultaneous.
'It's Merv's mate, Joe, isn't it?' said Molly McShane.
'It is, it is,' said Joe stimulated to a hearty mock Irishness by this life-enhancing presence. 'Sit down, please. A great pleasure.'
He meant it. Even against the glitzy background of the Glit she had shone. Here in the sage and serious surroundings of Daph's, she burnt like a beacon, dazzling his eyes so much he hardly noticed her companion at first. When he did, he guessed this had to be Dorrie, the dyslexic daughter. She was a younger version of Molly, though yet to burst into full flame, with a willowy figure where the elder woman's was voluptuously full, and her hair cropped short where the other's cascaded in a rich red Niagara. And if she had her mother's joyous smile, she wasn't about to show it.
There was a third member of the group, a child in a push chair To Joe, who was no judge, it looked about three and rather bonny, but maybe this was only because it was asleep.
'Joe, this is Dorrie, my daughter Doreen, that is. And my lovely little granddaughter, Feelie.'
'Pleased to meet you,' said Joe.
Feelie kept on sleeping and the mother grunted something which politeness required him to understand as, 'Me too,' but the message coming from her expressive face was, I may have to sit next to this plonker, but I don't have to enjoy it. She positioned the push chair between herself and her mother, sat down by Joe, picked up the Bugle and started reading.
Molly's mouth tightened for a moment then she said pleasantly, 'Now isn't it grand to get the weight off your feet? Dorrie, my love, what is it you fancy?'
'I don't want nothing to eat,' said the girl in a voice which had something of her mother's lilt with a strong admixture of local Luton. There's a sodding cat making a mess down here. Christ knows what you could catch.'
'He's with me,' said Joe. 'We're leaving shortly. Molly, can I fetch you something from the counter before I go?'
'Joe, you're a real gent. I'll have a hot chocolate and a Danish. Dorrie, what'll you have?'
Without looking up the girl said, 'Cappuccino,' making it sound like a Latin oath aimed at Joe.
This attitude was hard to take from someone who'd caused him considerable embarrassment by getting his name wrong on the hand-out. OK, so the poor kid was dyslexic and in any case Merv's writing was like a ball of wool after Whitey had finished with it. And OK again, she didn't know she'd got it wrong, seeing as the besotted Merv hadn't felt able to tell Molly what had happened. But none of this excused rudeness. Good manners cost nothing, said Aunt Mirabelle, but bad manners can be real expensive.
So what am I going to do? thought Joe. Pepper her cappuccino?
Maybe Molly would give her a good maternal dressing down.
When he returned to the table this is exactly what seemed to be taking place, but as he picked up on the exchange he realized it was nothing to do with him.
'She's your granddaughter, for God's sake!' snapped the girl.
'Yes, and I love her. And I look after her every hour that God permits when you're at work. But this week you're off and I've got other things to do. You can't just spring this on me, Dorrie. Why didn't you say something earlier?'
'Because I didn't realize earlier. Please, Ma. Just for an hour or so.'
Her voice was low and pleading. She did it well and Joe could see Molly was on a hiding to nothing.
'OK, but just an hour. After that I've got to ...'
Thanks, Ma,' said Doreen with the supreme indifference of the young to the independent existence of their elders. 'I'll pick her up in an hour. Two at the most.'
'Dorrie!'
