Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

  “Then what was the point of the appeal?” Brenda demanded.

  Before Joe could answer, Amy’s mobile bleated out the theme from The Godfather. She retrieved it from her bag, checked the menu window, and then opened up a text. Reading it with a puzzled frown, she stood up. “Will you excuse me a moment? I have a call to make.”

  Joe nodded and watched her shapely behind wander across to the rails where she leaned over and stared across the sea while she dialled.

  “Pretty lady,” Brenda said.

  Her remark brought Joe back to the reality of the picnic table. “Is she? Can’t say I’ve noticed.”

  Brenda laughed and teased him further. “Course you haven’t, Joe. She just reminds you of a classic Stotts Boiler.”

  Never slow to join in, Sheila commented, “I thought your eyes were going to pop out and roll across the pier after her.”

  “Can we just leave Amy out of this,” Joe grumbled. “You were asking about my appealing the CPO. Well, we have to be realistic. We’re not gonna stop the demolition, but that … that … git, Vaughan won’t let me have a unit in his fancy new block, and that’s what I hope I can get from the appeal.”

  Sheila thought about it. “Considering it’ll be an office block, Joe, even if you did get a unit, we won’t get the same passing trade as we do in Britannia Parade.”

  “Probably not, but the office wallahs will make up some of the difference.”

  Sheila fell silent for a minute, while Joe studied Amy’s behind once more.

  “I wonder what the chances are of opening a café in Blackpool,” he muttered.

  Brenda overheard his remark and responded sarcastically. “That’s just what Blackpool needs, isn’t it? Another café.” Moderating her tone, she went on, “Joe, what does all this mean for our jobs?”

  For a moment, he could not look her in the eye. The tracks of his long memory ran over the years they had known each other and worked together. The three-cornered friendship, formed in the schoolyard half a century ago, had endured three marriages, the deaths of their husbands and the departure of his wife, and several years of working as a team. It was founded on the highest principles of honesty and a willingness to help each other without waiting to be asked. He knew that both Sheila and Brenda would fight tooth and nail to save The Lazy Luncheonette, not just because it provided them with employment, but because it was owned and managed by one of their best friends.

  That level of support, he decided, warranted complete honesty.

  “The truth is, I don’t know,” he said eventually. “It may be that we can survive as we are. It may be that a job has to go. It may be that we’ll need to look at job share.” He shook his head, sadly. “I really don’t know.” Looking up from the table, he cast a fierce glance at them. “I don’t want you two worrying about it, either. That’s my department.”

  Brenda smiled. “Okay, Joe. We won’t.”

  Amy concluded her call and ambled back to the table, her brow knitted in either deep concentration or consternation. Joe could not decide which.

  She became aware of his eyes on her and smiled as she sat down. “Sorry about that. Union business.” Silence fell again and she obviously felt uncomfortable. “Am I, er, intruding on a private conversation.”

  “No, no,” Sheila reassured her. “Like you, we have business worries.”

  Joe gulped down the last of his coffee. “Tell me something, Amy, how do you go on when the management threaten jobs; people’s livelihoods?”

  She did not answer immediately. A far-off look in her eyes told Joe she was considering her reply. When she did, he was not surprised by her answer.

  “You get realistic,” she confessed. “It doesn’t happen often at a company like Ballantynes, but when it does, you know that by hook or by crook, management will get their way. We look at natural wastage, first. Those people coming up to retirement who might be persuaded to go early. Then we look at redeployment; finding other work for the employees who may be affected. When we’ve run out of options, we try to secure the best severance deal we can for those people who will lose their jobs. Is this to do with the murders?”

  “No. It’s to do with my café. I told you about Vaughan, didn’t I? If he gets his way, and he likely will, he could put me out of business, and I have my crew to consider.” He pointed alternately at Sheila and Brenda.

  Amy put on a pained expression. “I’m sorry. It’s the way the world is these days. Money does all the talking.”

  “It does more than talk,” Joe assured her. To change the subject, he nodded at her phone. “Was that concerning Stan and Peter?”

  She shook her head. “Different matter entirely. One I have to deal with, though.”

  Leaving the table, Sheila and Brenda checked a nearby photographic studio specialising in sepia photographs in various period costumes, while Joe and Amy looked over the shoulder of a caricature artist who was working quickly in acrylic inks on a picture of a buxom blonde, exaggerating her already impressive bosom and defining her tiny nose as needle sharp. Giving in to the demands of Sheila and Brenda, all four changed into Victorian garb and posed for a photograph, Joe cast as the patriarch complete with high collar, and fake moustache.

  That done, the women then persuaded him to sit for the caricature artist, who highlighted his crinkly hair and increased the size of his ears to turn out someone who looked like The Simpsons’ character, Moe Syslak. To complete the picture, the artist asked what Joe did for a living, and after inking in a tiny body, he furnished it with a rolling pin and carving knife. Asking for it to be framed, Joe paid for the picture to be sent by post to The Lazy Luncheonette. “I don’t wanna carry it around with me. It might get damaged.” And with that, they made their way from the pier back onto the promenade.

  With time coming up to five, they began the slow walk through the crowds back towards the Monarch, Joe and Amy parting company with Sheila and Brenda at the Coral Island amusement centre, where Amy had left her car in the back street.

  As she unlocked the car, and prepared to climb in, Joe said, “Amy, will you have dinner with me, tonight?”

  She looked surprised, but also pleased. However, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Joe, but after that phone call, I have something I need to attend to.” Her face brightened. “I could meet you for a drink later.”

  After his initial disappointment, he perked up. “Great. Where… Hey. Tell you what, why don’t you come to the Monarch. There’s a disco on at eight. You can meet the rest of the Sanford 3rd Age Club and see them as they really are.”

  “A bunch of born-again teenagers?” She laughed. “All right. About nine o’clock?”

  “I’ll be expecting you, so don’t let me down.”

  ***

  Getting back to his room just before six, Joe showered, and then sat in the window, bringing his notes up to date on the netbook.

  Downloading photographs from the depot from his mobile phone, he felt tired, but content. Despite having made what he considered to be little progress at Ballantynes, he had enjoyed the latter part of the afternoon and he was looking forward to seeing Amy again. Vaughan was a problem which could wait until he got back to Sanford. In the meantime, he wanted to enjoy himself.

  After an excellent evening meal of cold cuts and house white, dining with Sheila and Brenda, the trio made their way to the bar, where the evening disco, run by a local DJ, soon got under way.

  Amy, true to her word, arrived about nine, and Joe spent a short while introducing her to various club members, including Les Tanner, Sylvia Goodson and the Staineses. He was happy to be in her company, and from the off she got on well with Sheila and Brenda, both of whom promised to divulge ‘all the dirt on Joe Murray’. The butt of their good-natured humour took it in good part, and with music from the sixties and seventies dominating the evening, he danced with all three at one stage or another.

  At ten, during a break in the music, he excused himself and crossed the room to buttonhole Les Tanner, an e
mployee of Sanford Borough Council, on the subject of corruption in the town hall.

  “I won’t have it, Murray,” Tanner declared. “I know Irwin Queenan, and I don’t particularly like the fella, but I don’t believe he’s shifty.”

  “Then how come he’s taking Vaughan’s side in this whole affair.”

  “It’s possible that Mr Queenan is just carrying out the wishes of the council,” Sylvia said.

  “Yes, Sylvia, it is, but it’s also possible that Vaughan has dropped him a few thou in order to persuade our elected members to fall in with the redevelopment. I meanersay, there was nothing wrong with Britannia Parade.”

  “I agree,” Tanner said. “There was nothing wrong with it, but it does not project a modern image, and everything in the Town Hall these days is about modernity.” Tanner became less formal and more amenable. “Joe, it was old country. If Sanford is to attract new businesses and tackle unemployment, it has to show that it’s willing to change. We may not like it, but that’s the way it has to be.”

  “And shut down viable concerns like my café?”

  “Small concerns,” Tanner corrected. “Yes. It may throw a dozen people out of work, but if it sees hundreds in employment while the new buildings are going up and hundreds more employed when the office block is completed, it’s a necessary sacrifice.”

  ***

  While Joe debated with Tanner and Sylvia, Amy went to the bar and Brenda took the opportunity to exchange views with Sheila, asking, “What do you think of our Miss Amy?”

  Sheila tittered. She had noticed the signs all evening. “I think she is definitely enamoured of our little Joe.”

  Brenda laughed. “I think so, too. Time for a word to the wise.” She stood up.

  “Now, Brenda, don’t go interfering.”

  “If I don’t, Miss Amy will go home seriously frustrated. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Skirting the dance floor, Brenda made for the bar and positioned herself next to Amy. “I thought you might need a lift.”

  Amy raised an empty tray from the counter. “I’d have managed.”

  “Yes, well, I’m here now.” Brenda mentally rehearsed her opening gambit. “Amy, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I couldn’t help noticing you’re, er, fond of Joe.”

  Suspicion clouded Amy’s eyes. It needed no reinforcement, but the gravel in her voice stressed it anyway. “Is that any of your business?”

  “No. None. But I thought you might appreciate some advice.”

  The suspicion turned to confrontational anger. “Am I treading on someone’s toes, Brenda? Yours for instance? Trying to warn me off?”

  Brenda smiled and shook her head. “Nothing like that. Calm down, Amy, or your blood pressure will pop your head off. I’m trying to tell you something about our Joe.”

  Amy showed no inclination to calm down. “And what’s that? He’s gay?”

  Brenda found the idea amusing and laughed. “No. He’s as straight as … well … I’m trying to say that he’s an idiot.”

  Brenda pointed behind Amy where the barman was waiting. Amy turned, placed her order, and while the barman prepared the drinks, she faced Brenda again. “What are you talking about? He seems perfectly intelligent to me. And he’s good fun when you get him to loosen up.”

  “I’m not talking about his approach to life in general. Listen, both Sheila and I have known him since our schooldays. He’s a clever man. His powers of observation are unequalled. He misses nothing. When it comes to business, he can work profits out in his head while you’re still looking for your calculator. He comes across as grumpy and he is a bit outspoken, but he will never see anyone in trouble if he can help. Having said all that, he has this blind spot … women.”

  “Women?” Amy had gone from angry to puzzled in too short a time, and she was relieved when the barman tapped her on the shoulder and asked for her money. She paid for the drinks, but instead of picking up the tray, she turned her back to the bar again. “I don’t understand.”

  “He doesn’t know how to deal with women. Oh, he has no problem asking for a date. He and I were going steady for a short time in our teens, but he lost out to the man who eventually became my husband. And the reason Joe lost out is because he didn’t know how far he was supposed to go at any given point.” Brenda sighed wistfully. “Yes, and I wasn’t the woman I am now. It wasn’t the done thing for a girl to lead the way back then.”

  “I do remember.” Amy sounded slightly less irritated.

  “Well, he’s still the same. What I’m trying to say is, if you don’t take him by the hand, all you’re likely to get is a goodnight kiss … or maybe even a handshake.” The enormity of what she had just said struck Brenda. “I’m not insinuating that you’re ready to, er … you know.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “But if you were, you’d have to let him know.”

  To Brenda’s relief, Amy chuckled. “Thank you.” She turned to collect her tray. When she turned again, it was to find herself face to face with George Robson and his most alluring smile.

  “I’m George. Who are you and aside from the cop shop this afternoon, where have you been all my life?”

  “I’m Amy.”

  “Well, hello, Amy.”

  She smiled back at him. “Goodbye, George.”

  He stared at her back as she wriggled her way round the dance floor to join Sheila. “What happened there?”

  “Amy has her eyes on bigger fish, George,” Brenda explained.

  He shook his head. “Not possible. I’m the biggest here, and you know it.”

  “I’m not talking about your wedding tackle. I mean bigger, richer, smarter and less pushy fish.” While George presented a fogged face, she explained, “Joe.”

  It looked like it had added insult to injury. “Joe? No way is Joe better than me in any department.”

  Brenda smiled again as she left. “Take it from me, lover boy, Joe is better than you in every department.”

  ***

  The evening drew to a lively close, with the dance floor still crowded, the bar serving drinks faster than ever and the members of the Sanford 3rd Age Club in party mood.

  At their table, while Amy appeared thoughtful and subdued, Joe complained persistently about Les Tanner, Queenan and Vaughan, to the point where Sheila and Brenda took to the floor and he was left with only Amy as an audience.

  She deftly changed the subject, asking what he had done with all the notes he had been making at Ballantynes.

  He answered as if he believed it should be obvious to her. “Transferred them to my netbook, as usual. And the photographs.”

  “Photographs of what?” Amy sat bolt upright.

  “Peter and Stan,” Joe replied diffidently. “It may sound bizarre, but I took pictures of their wounds. That kind of thing can help sometimes.”

  “But you hadn’t been asked to investigate at that time.”

  He grinned. “No, but I expected to be. Besides, it wouldn’t matter if I hadn’t been asked. I’d have followed the story in the papers and the moment the cops got it wrong, I would have been shouting.”

  Amy lapsed into silent contemplation again.

  “Something wrong?”

  “What? Oh, no. Just thinking. Listen, Joe, do you think I could see these pictures?”

  Her suggestion caught him off guard. “They’re, er, they’re not very pleasant.”

  “I know that, but … please, Joe. Peter was my husband you know, and Stan and I … I’d really like to see them.”

  With a shrug, he finished his beer. “Okay. You sure you can trust me on your own in my room?”

  He said it with a grin, and Amy responded with a broad smile.

  After a brief word with Sheila, Joe led the way from the bar and up to his first floor room, where he opened the door and let them in.

  Inviting her to sit, he dug into the wardrobe and his small suitcase to retrieve the netbook and its mains adaptor.

  “It takes a minute or two to boot up,” he
said from the depths of the wardrobe, “and like I say, the pictures are not pretty.”

  “Joe, forget the computer.”

  He stood, turned to face her and to his astonishment found her unbuttoning her blouse.

  Throwing it off, she said, “Let me show you something instead.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Where’s your star-crossed lover?” Brenda asked.

  Tucking into bacon and eggs, Joe raised his eyebrows. “Who?”

  “Amy?”

  “Where do you get lover from, never mind star-crossed?”

  Brenda tilted a dish forward to scoop out the last of the cereal and milk. “Joe, she was all over you with her eyes last night. Yes, and if I’m not mistaken, she’ll have been all over you with more than her eyes later on.”

  “Jealous, dear?” Sheila asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Just nosy,” Joe declared, and sliced through the rubbery egg.

  “All right, so I’m nosy. Did she spend the night with you?”

  Joe shook his head as he ate. Gulping down the piece of egg, washing it down with a mouthful of lukewarm tea, he said, “The hotel would probably have charged me for putting her up. Besides, she lives right here in Blackpool.” He smiled at the memory of Amy leaving close on two in the morning. The smile broadened when he recalled the passion before her departure. He caught his two friends looking at him expectantly. “Mind you, she was late getting home. She must have been, the time she left my room.”

  Brenda was about to dig at Joe for more details when Keith left his table and joined them. “Any news on the bus, Joe?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice. I’m assured it’ll be ready first thing tomorrow morning and they’ll bell you when you can go pick it up.”

  “I bloody hope so.”

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” Brenda demanded, venting her irritation on him instead of Joe. “You’ve had a free weekend in Blackpool, haven’t you?”

  “It’s cost me a bloody fortune, and Her Indoors is on the phone every ten minutes whining cos I’m not home.” Keith turned back to Joe. “So how did you get on with those two blokes what killed each other?”