01
Feb
Written by: Dashell
London was the kind of town you could live in your whole life and never call home. London smiles at you like a mother but only loves you like a mistress. You only got into trouble when you confused the two, and you couldn’t help but confuse the two.
So at this redhead’s insistence I’d followed her ex(?) husband, this Glasgow Shipping magnate, from Merseyside to West London to the Piccadilly stop. Given his acquaintances and enemies, I’d deduced he may be in shipping, but not of the legal variety. But who was I to pass judgment? What bugged me was my client’s own motives. She sent a check a week that didn’t bounce, but what was in it for her? I didn’t see jealousy. This was one of those aristocratic marriages of convenience – she went from daddy’s checkbook to the next available bank account. Only a slight difference in age.
So what was I to do? Well, spy on my own client, that’s what. But first I had to nose around the old Highbury haunts and see an old friend.
First, for the sake of sanity, I gathered my thoughts and recalled how I got to where I was. I had followed the Scot and his lanky boys, one of’ em “Vandy”, to a bar in Merseyside which ended in a brawl with some clowns. I recall a big Blondie doing most of the damage. The Scot also had a young dame at his arm in a stunning red dress.
I then followed the Scot to West London, where I learned he was married. To the old redhead or the young lady in red, I was unsure – but I had an inkling. I had set up a whiskey-fueled observation post in a coffee shop when some thugs tried to pound some sobriety into me. Turns out the thugs thought I was working for the Scot, so the Scot had smarter enemies than himself. Or so it seemed. Or maybe the Scot knew I was following him, but didn’t consider me a threat.
Either way, I headed to Holloway Road in the hopes of seeing the young dame in red at one of the fashionable establishments. I got drinks with the Scots’ young squeeze, who turned out to be his niece. The young lady also said my client, the old redhead, was the Scot’s sister. Seems a family member had died and was about to leave a nice little pot of pounds. But she and the Scot only wanted one little statuette, a family heirloom.
I believed her as far as I could throw her. Before we could walk to one of my favorite pay-by-the-hour accommodations, we spied my friends from West London do a real number on this uppity gang of youthful miscreants. The sirens came and she flew the coop, but I stuck around because I have a theory of the universe:
If you stick around anyplace long enough, the trouble comes to you.
And it did.
I ducked into a pub and, after an hour of drinks and chit chat with the bartender, in walked the Scot and his collection of miscreants. They strutted about like they owned the place, set up shop in a corner, and began to shoot some pool. In walked the young lady and her eyes played tricks with the Scots’. I could smell the chemistry from my side of the bar, and I counted hole number on in her “family story.”
In walked the young tikes from around these parts, but they hardly looked equipped or interested in fighting. One of them, a short pale fella, carried a briefcase. He nonchalantly set the briefcase down near a table and started to shoot some pool. The head of the tikes, this skinny guy with carefully kept dark hair, spoke a few words to the Scot, but his body language made it clear who was in charge.
The kiddos beat it after about half an hour, but conveniently forgot their suitcase. The Scot, smiling from ear to ear, picked up the suitcase after a few minutes and stepped outside. The young dame stayed inside and talked to the henchmen, flirting and making them feel uncomfortable yet beholden. Then she cast me a glance sharper than a butcher’s knife.
Then, I was out like a light.
I came to consciousness in a scantily furnished apartment with blood stains on the wall. Prospects were dim. I was tied to a chair, in a living room, and there was an ancient old sofa a few feet in front of me. The blinds were shut, the lights off, and the sunlight fading fast. My stomach grumbled, my wrists ached, and I promised myself I’d never fall for a dark haired dame again.
I passed in and out of consciousness, but awoke to the jangling of keys and the door opening. It was pitch black in that damned apartment, and as the door opened I was temporarily blinded. But then I made out the shapely figure of my red headed client. She rushed up to me and, before I could say anything, planted a kiss to make every single hair on your neck stand on end.
She apologized and promised to explain as she untied my hands. I only cared about one thing – my hands. When she finally freed my wrists I jumped off the chair, grabbed her arm, and pinned her against the wall. I had every reason to give her an earful, when the sound of gunfire and tires screeching interrupted our budding conversation.
I let her go and stepped to the blinds, peeking but seeing nothing. Still leaning against the wall, she said “They know we’re here. They’re coming.” I let out a grunt and a laugh. “Of course they are”….
London was the kind of town you could live in your whole life and never call home. London smiles at you like a mother but only loves you like a mistress. You only got into trouble when you confused the two, and you couldn’t help but confuse the two.
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