30
Nov
Written by: Dashell
The doll came off as needy, hysterical, and a compulsive liar. But I’d always been a sucker for dark haired dames.
She had certainly selected a trendy enough spot, if you ignored the closed storefronts, that is. I felt like I was in a developer’s dream, but a banker had shaken him awake once the finances dried up. The still construction cranes loomed ominously, waiting to either work or slowly descend piece-by-piece. The high-rise condos, with their open, vacant windows, had plenty light but very little light. She was in a drinking mood, not a talking one. By coincidence, so was I.
From punch-laden pool halls in Liverpool to posh West London, this was the place where I felt the most uncomfortable. I could tell after two gin & tonics on the rocks that the lady needed professional help. It took a death stare and total silence to get her to stop fidgeting and sit goddamn still. The questions would have to come soft & easy, but my patience had grown thin.
In my mind I reviewed the facts. An old redhead had hired me to tail some old Scot. The Scot got around a lot and allegedly was a shipping magnate. He also knew this young lady sitting before and my older client. I smelled a divorce somewhere. Was it a conflict of interest that I had arranged lunch with the Scot’s alleged mistress? Conflict, to me, is what you make of it.
I was not one to frequent the Holloway road tube stop. The young professionals, the expensive leather handbags, everything filled me with jealous. In another life I completed uni and had a respectably profession as a pediatrician or an estate barrister. But not in this one.
When the dame finally opened her mouth, her eyes fidgeted form side-to-side. She tried to flirt but met a cold gaze. I can be as welcoming as a statute of Medusa when need be. I wanted answers first. Pleasure comes later. But when she told me that the Scot was her Uncle, my ears perked up. I glanced around the restaurant and felt a bad vibe. We needed the privacy that only a trot could afford.
Once outside, the fog and coldness filled my lungs like a cigar. But the taste was too familiar to complain. We strolled about the Highbury development in its disheveled glory. So the Scot was her uncle, and my client? She had an answer for that too: his sister. This was either an intricate web of lies, or all my assumptions had been just that – assumptions. Probably both.
And then, as we strolled along, she started to talk about her great uncles. Seems the Scot and my client had some wealthy parents, some trust funds about to be unfreezed ’cause somebody related to somebody croaked. But only she cared about the money. The Scot and the old redhead wanted a family heirloom, a statuette, a glorified block of wood with some historical significance. I feigned interest.
As we turned a corner, I saw some young kids with matching kits holding court on a corner. One of them, short dark hair and enough eyebrow to warm his entire face, was obviously the ringleader. A couple black kids, not older than 25, ran up and down the street. This scrawny fellow with an Adam’s apple like a cantaloupe was the lookout, and a short, stout man with a baby face and Eastern European eyes gave us a glare to go away. But we didn’t.
And then my old friends from West London showed up.
I tugged the dame around a corner and caught my breath. After a few minutes, with no sound of gunshots, I knew this would be a feast of flesh pounding flesh. I glanced around the corner and, while the kids started strong, the old guys’ size and sheer strength wore’ em out. In boxing speak, the kids looked ready for the 9th round while the old timers had just heard the second round bell.
Sirens shrieked and both gangs dispersed, but not before one of the black old-timers got in one last vicious sucker punch. I chuckled and ducked back around the corner, but my company had decided to part ways without so much as a goodbye. I was not surprised, but a little disappointed in myself. Some children never outgrow babysitters.
Still, I thought of the Scot, the young black-haired woman, my old red head client, and the turf wars I’d seen in Liverpool and London. It all had to add up, but I was in no mood for arithmetic. And this statuette, this Maltese falcon, did it really exist? Could it really tear apart a brother and sister?
I saw Mr. Eastern European eyes duck into a pub, and I subtly followed suit. I would stick around in these parts for a spell – too high class, but plenty of action. Could I trust this dame? My instincts said divorce, but what she told me painted a different picture. For now….for now I’d trust her. But I let out a laugh and strolled into the pub.
I’d always been a sucker for dark haired dames.
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