‘Now now, no homophobia.’
‘Some of my best friends know gays,’ Rebus said. ‘You’ve mentioned Calder in the past. I can also tell you he doesn’t drive.’
‘That’s right, Eddie does.’
‘Even when he’s shit-faced.’
Holmes shrugged. ‘I’ve never made it my business.’
‘You will when he knocks some poor old lady down.’
Holmes smiled. ‘That car of his might look like a hot-rod, but it’s in terrible shape. It barely does forty on the open road. Besides, Eddie’s the most, if you will,
‘So it was just you and Calder at the bar?’
‘Until Eddie joined us, after he’d finished cooking. I mean, there were other people in the place, but no obvious villains.’
‘Pray continue.’
‘Well, I went to go home. Someone must have been waiting behind the dustbins. Next thing I knew there was a draught up my kilt. I opened my eyes and saw these two nurses washing my tadger.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what woke me up, I swear.’
‘It’s a medical miracle.’
‘The magic sponge,’ said Holmes.
‘So who thumped you, any ideas?’
‘I’ve been mulling it over. Maybe they were after Eddie or Pat.’
‘And why would that be?’
Holmes shrugged.
‘Don’t keep secrets from old Uncle Rebus, Brian. You forget, I can read your mind.’
‘Well, you tell
‘Could be they’ve not been paying their dues.’
‘You mean protection?’
‘Insurance, as people like to call it.’
‘Well, maybe.’
‘The dynamic duo at the Heartbreak Cafe seem to think maybe it’s an unholy alliance of curry house owners disgruntled at the fall-off in trade.’
‘I can’t see that.’
‘Neither can I. Maybe it was nobody, Brian. Maybe nobody was after Eddie and Pat. Maybe they were after
The pink in Holmes’ cheeks grew slightly redder. ‘You’ve seen the Black Book?’
‘Of course I have. I was looking for clues, so I had a rifle through your stuff. And there it was, all in code, too. Or at least in shorthand, so nobody but another copper would know what you were on about. But I’m another copper, Brian. Now there were a lot of cases in there, but only one that stood out.’
‘The Central Hotel.’
‘Give the man a cigar. Yes, the Central. A poker game took place, and in attendance were Tam and Eck Robertson, neither of whom crop up in the list of punters at the Central that night. You’ve been trying to find them. No luck so far?’ Holmes shook his head. ‘But someone told you all this, didn’t they? There’s no mention in the files of any poker game. Now,’ Rebus leaned closer, ‘would I be right in thinking that the person who told you is the mysterious El?’ Holmes nodded. ‘Then that’s all you need to tell me, Brian. Who the hell is El?’
At that moment, a nurse pushed open the door and came in bearing medicine and a lunch tray for Holmes.
‘I’m starving,’ he explained to Rebus. ‘This is my second meal since I woke up.’ He lifted the metal cover from the plate. A pale pink slice of meat, watery mashed spuds, and sliced green beans.
‘Yum yum,’ said Rebus. But Holmes looked keen enough. He scooped some mash and gravy into his mouth and swallowed it down.
‘I’d have thought,’ he said, ‘that since you’ve figured out the hard part, you wouldn’t have had any trouble with El.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you. Who is he?’
‘It’s Elvis,’ said Brian Holmes. ‘Elvis himself told me.’ He lifted another forkful of mush to his lips and started to slurp it down.
12
Rebus studied the menu, finding little to his liking beyond the often painful puns. The Heartbreak Cafe was open all day, but he’d arrived just in time for the special luncheon menu. A foot-long sausage on a roll was predictably if unappetisingly a ‘Hound Dog’. Rebus could only hope that there was no literal truth to the appelation. More obscure was the drinks list, with one wine called ‘Mama Liked the Rose’. Rebus decided that he wasn’t so hungry after all. Instead, he nursed his ‘Teddy’ beer at the bar and handed the menu back to the teenage barman.
‘Pat’s not in then?’ he asked casually.
‘Doing some shopping. He’ll be back later.’
Rebus nodded. ‘But Eddie’s around?’
‘In the kitchen, yeah.’ The barman glanced towards the restaurant area. He wore three gold studs in his left ear. ‘He won’t be much longer, unless he’s making something special for tonight.’
‘Right,’ said Rebus. A few minutes later, he picked up his beer glass and wandered over to a huge jukebox near the toilets. Finding it to be ornamental only, he studied some of the Presley mementoes on the walls, including a signed photograph of the Vegas Elvis and what looked like a rare Sun Records pressing. Both were protected by thick framed glass, and both were picked out by spotlights from the surrounding gloom. Finding himself, as if by chance, at the door to the kitchen, Rebus pushed it open with his shoulder and let it swing shut behind him.
Eddie Ringan was creating. Sweat glistened on his face, thin strands of hair sticking to his brow, as he shook a small frying pan over a gas flame. The set-up was impressive: cleaner than Rebus had expected, with many more cookers and pots and work surfaces. A lot of money had been spent; the Cafe wasn’t just a designer facade. Amusingly, it seemed to Rebus, there was different music here from the constant diet of Presley served at the bar. Eddie Ringan was listening to Miles Davis.
The chef hadn’t noticed Rebus yet, and Rebus hadn’t noticed a trainee chef who’d been fetching something from one of several fridges at the back of the kitchen.
Rebus watched as Eddie, pausing from his work, grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam by its neck and upended it into his mouth, taking it away again with a satisfied exhalation.
‘Hey,’ said the trainee chef, ‘no one’s allowed in here.’ Eddie looked up from the pan and gave a whoop.
‘You’re just the man!’ he cried. ‘The very man! Come over here.’
If anything, he sounded drunker than at their first meeting. But then, at their first meeting there had been the civilising (or at least restricting) presence of Pat Calder, as well as the sobering fact of Brian Holmes’ attack.
Rebus walked over to the cooker. He too was starting to sweat in the heat.
‘This,’ said Eddie Ringan, nodding towards the pan, ‘is my latest dish. Pieces of Roquefort cheese imprisoned in breadcrumb and spice and fried. Either pan-fried or deep-fried, that’s what I’m deciding.’
‘Jailhouse Roquefort’ Rebus guessed. Ringan whooped again, losing his balance slightly and sliding back with one foot.
‘I’m flattered, but the name’s Rebus.’
‘Aye, well, you should be flattered. Maybe we’ll gie you a wee mention on the menu. How about that, eh?’ He studied the golden nuggets, turning them expertly with a fork. ‘I’m giving this lot six minutes. Willie!’
