‘Funny that.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Because you look like someone pissed on your chips.’
A mouth on this one. I smile, say, “I don’t have any chips to ruin.
‘Aw,’ she says. ‘Tell you what, I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t look like the kind of guy who’d ask that.’
Known me five seconds and she’s already got me pegged.
‘I’m getting drunk,’ she announces after she comes back with the drinks, a couple of chasers lined up.
‘Looks like you already are.’
‘Are what?’
‘Drunk.’
‘Are you?’
‘Not me. You.’
‘You got drunk fast,’ she says.
‘I’m not. Why’re you getting drunk?’
‘Because I hate my job.’ She crosses her legs and pulls her skirt over her knees.
‘Everyone hates their job. That’s why it’s called a job.’
‘Oh, you’re funny,’ she says, deadpan. She drinks, then: ‘I’ve decided. I’m going to take a half-day.’
‘It’s already three.’
‘A quarter-day. Whatever. I didn’t go back after lunch. You up for getting sloshed?’
‘You don’t know me,’ I say. “I could be anyone.’
‘Yeah, you could be a murderer. What’s your sign?’
‘Leo.’
She breaks into a beaming smile, shows fantastic teeth.
‘You actually know your sign. Jesus, I was joking. What’s your name?’
‘Cal.’
‘Like the Helen Mirren movie.’
‘Can’t say I saw it.’
‘You didn’t miss much. Love story set in Ireland. She’s the widow of a murdered Proddy copper, he’s skirting about with the IRA. I’m Donna.’
‘Pleased to meet you. So what’s so bad about your job?’
She sighs dramatically. ‘I’m a PA for a director of a PR company. It’s all initials to make a job sound more important.
What do you do?’
‘I’m a PL’
Donna laughs. ‘So we’re in the same boat. What does PI stand for, anyway?’
‘Private investigator.’
‘That kind of PI? Fuckin’ hell, I thought you meant personal injury. I was about to say, you don’t look like a lawyer, like. Wow.’ She seems genuinely impressed. But then, she’s slurring. ‘So you’re like a two-fisted kinda guy, right?
You do the cheating spouses, fraud claims? You solve the murders?’
‘The first two sometimes. The police solve murders.’
‘Sometimes. I heard there was this gadgie, they slit his throat and dumped him on the beach at Tynemouth. They never solved that one. But a PI, wow. How’d you get into that racket? That’s the right lingo, isn’t it? Racket?’
“I sort of fell into it. Did favours for a few people, they paid me for it. I discovered I had a knack for it. Not something I can explain. And yeah, your lingo’s spot on.’
‘Cool. You don’t look like a private dick.’
‘What am I supposed to look like?’
She thinks, then opens her hands and says, ‘Mickey Spillane.’
‘You know what Mickey Spillane looks like?’
‘Alright, Humphrey Bogart.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
“I didn’t say I was disappointed. So what you working on, Shamus?’
I shake my head. Too much for polite conversation, no matter how much the drink seems to be flowing. ‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘Unemployed, eh? Looks like I’ll be getting the drinks in, then.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say.
‘I’m a modern woman, Cal. I can do whatever the fuck I want.’
And as we tan those chasers, I don’t doubt it.
TWENTY-TWO
Came out Accident amp; Emergency with a splint on me finger.
Doctor said it weren’t broke, like, but what did that cunt know? It felt broke. And I were boiling over with things I’d do to Paulo given half the chance. The look on me face were enough to get the doctor rushing me through. And the bastard didn’t prescribe any painkillers, either. Fucker.
Baz were outside in his Nova. He didn’t want to come in; the lad had issues with hospitals. Said his mam died in one.
When I got in the car, he said, ‘Y’alright?’
I held up me splint. ‘Do I look alright?’
Baz nodded to himself, started the engine. ‘Where you want to go?’
‘Pub,’ I said. ‘We got business to discuss.’
‘What business?’ said Baz.
‘Alison.’
Baz sighed. ‘Why you always got to go on about that, man?
Christ, look at you: your finger’s broke.’
‘It’s sprained.’
‘You got X-rays. It’s broke.’
‘It’s sprained. And I’m gonna fuckin’ kill that Paulo.’
‘Leave it, Mo. He’s not worth it.’
‘What do you know who’s worth it? I’ll do the cunt.’
I knew I were a daft bastard for going round the club, but what else could I do? Summat had to be done. Summat had to be said. I had to tell me dad that I weren’t fuckin’ happy with this situation, not one fuckin’ bit. And going round the club were the best way of doing it. You tell us not to interfere, Dad, here’s what I think of that. Fuck yourself.
Course, the whizz helped matters, gave us that extra touch of rock’n’roll. Trouble was it got snapped out of us when Paulo did his fuckin’ finger trick.
I stared out the window. Fuck it. Reached in me trackie bottoms and pulled out me mobile. Realised I couldn’t dial worth shit so I chucked it at Baz. He nearly lost control of the car.
‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘Call Rossie. We got to get a plan B.’
‘You call him.’
I held up me finger. ‘You been in a fuckin’ coma, Baz?
How’m I supposed to press buttons with this?’
‘Aye, alright,’ he said. ‘Jesus.’ He searched for Rossie’s number on me mobile, one eye on the road.
