Napalm Hearts

by Seamus Heffernan

  “I’m Shane,” he said.

  “Thad,” I said. We shook hands. I handed him my card.

  He read it and laughed to himself. “Bloody hell,” he said. “You serving papers or something?”

  “No, I’m not a sheriff or working for a barrister. And I’m not here to make any trouble. I really just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Riiiiight,” he said, considering this. “See, I don’t actually have to talk to you, though, right?” Up close, his features were a little softer, gentler even. Or maybe it was just the light.

  “That’s absolutely right.”

  We sat in silence.

  “That’s it?” he asked after a moment. “You’re not going to try and convince me?”

  “Hey, it’s your bar. You can turf me if you want. But like I said, I only need a couple of minutes.”

  He began to stand. “Like I said, I’m busy,” he said.

  “Or I can ask about what’s behind door number two there.”

  He was halfway between sitting and standing. He paused, making his mind up. In a moment, he sat back down. “Thought you said you weren’t going to make trouble.”

  “I’m not. We’re just discussing scenarios.”

  “Do tell.” He had laid his hands flat on the table top, but I could see he was pressing down a bit. His knuckles were whitening. I picked up the pace.

  “Scenario one is you tell me about a guy who paid off a big gambling debt a few years back, posh bloke who showed up here with about four grand to buy another fella some breathing room. Sound familiar?”

  “Lotta people pay off a lotta debts in this bar. This is a tough economy. I can’t keep an eye on everyone’s dealings.”

  I let that sit there between us for a bit. He was wondering how hard I would push. Frankly, I had very little traction here. But I was tired and a bit cranky and just fancied throwing my weight around a bit; kick a few tires, and see what—if any—rocks popped loose from the treads. It might get me a smack in the mouth, but at that point I was rapidly losing interest in unsplit lips.

  “Scenario two is I chat to some of my old buddies at Scotland Yard, maybe they come take a look. Send in a health inspector, even. Crack open that door. Hell, could be all sorts of mould or even asbestos down there. And I’m guessing a busy guy like you might not have every piece of paperwork about health and safety up to date.” I crossed my legs, and tried to achieve an air triangulated somewhere between bored, disaffected and quietly menacing. So far, I could tell he wasn’t terribly impressed.

  He said nothing. One of his hands on the table relaxed a bit. He drummed his fingers on it. And he was smiling. “You’re pretty brave.”

  “I don’t try to be.”

  “Coming in here, not even heavy. Shooting your mouth off, asking me questions… Mmmm. I don’t know about this, brave man.”

  “How do you know I’m light?”

  “Your jacket’s open,” he said, pointing at my white shirt. “There’s nothing on your hip and I don’t see any other bumps under that suit.”

  Not bad. “OK, you got me. But who cares? You’re not packing, either.”

  He was still smiling. “You got me, too. Difference is, it’s just you and me in here, Suit. And if it comes down to it, which way you figure the smart money goes on that?”

  “I was kind of hoping we’d be friends. Look, I did some asking around about you before I got here. I know you’re plugged in with a lot of stuff. I’m looking for some info and I could use a bounce. That’s it.”

  “I’ve got plenty of friends.”

  “True, you do seem pretty social. But I’m a good friend to have.” I reached into my suit jacket’s inside pocket and handed him a plain white letter-sized envelope. Inside were three crisp fifty pound notes. He opened it and pocketed the cash.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  “Pleasure’s mine, I’m sure,” I answered, fastening the top button of my jacket. “Can we talk now, get to know each other a bit?”

  “Sure. I don’t want to talk about what’s downstairs, though.”

  “You don’t have to.” I showed him a picture of Claymore. “You recognise him?”

  “Yes. That’s the guy. Four grand. Big payout. Just as you said.”

  “This guy’s wife is missing.” I showed him a picture of Lisa. “Know her?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “No, I’m just making small talk. Let me stare at it for five more minutes and maybe something will pop into my head.”

  “Touchy. We’ve gone from friends to old married couple pretty quickly.”

  “Then I’ll repeat: I don’t know who she is.”

  “Fair enough. Last thing: know this logo?”

  I laid the DVD case down, the Napalm Hearts emblem facing Bowering. He looked down at it, looked up at me again, and returned his gaze to the case. After a moment he looked back up. “Yeah. I know it.”

  “Good.” A surge ran through my gut, relief at not getting a proper kicking mixed with a little old-fashioned adrenaline. “That’s good. You’ll tell me what you know?”

  “It ain’t much, but yeah.” He nodded, and his large, round eyes looked as clear and sincere as they had been so far.

  “Thanks. Do you think I could get another Diet Coke?”

  He nodded again.

  14

  I was back in my office, unwrapping my late-lunch falafel and making the notes from my meeting with Bowering. Charlie swooped into my office and took them to be recorded, filed and generally tidied.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  “Very good. I think we have what’s known in the business as a lead.”

  “Very cool.”

  “I miss anything?”

  “We have a gent who called in earlier, guy named Harris. He’s found what appears to be his wife’s second credit card. One he didn’t know anything about. So he’s ripping his place apart looking for—”

  “Bills, receipts, payments to hotels, condoms, nicer makeup than she usually wears,” I rattled off. I spun slightly in my desk chair, left-to-right, then returned to the centre position.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “When’s he want to come in?”

  “ASAP. He sounded pretty anxious.”

  I took a bite of my falafel.

  “Your afternoon is clear. We could have him come in around two o’clock if you’d like.”

  “You talk to Ruddick today?”

  “No. Why? Is he working on anything for us?”

  “No, he’s not. Give him a call. See if he’s free for two o’clock.”

  “You want him to sit in on the meeting?”

  “No, I want him to take the meeting.”

  “OK.” She lingered a moment at the door.

  “Did you want to talk about the Claymore thing a bit?”

  “Well, yes, but I have class. But that’s not why I’m standing here hoping you’d notice and engage me in conversation.”

  “OK. I’ll take a shot: I don’t miss meetings.”

  “Gold star. No, you don’t. And this person asked for you.”

  “Ruddick can have the initial contact. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Anytime you do something different for the first time is kind of a big deal,” she said.

  “How do you know it’s the first time?” I said, willing to poke a bit. “You don’t know what protocol was like before you got here.”

  “You’re not given to change. So call it a solid hunch. Look, it’s your shop. I’ll call him, no problem. But I don’t know if Ruddick’s got your gruff sympathy in these matters.”

  “He can be gruff.”

  “And not terribly sympathetic.”

  “Ouch. He does good work for this place, Chuck.”

  “He does,” she said. “And I’m not trying to rag on anybody. Look, it’s your name on the door. People like talking to you. You’re straight with them without being, you know, devastating.”

  “How th
in are those walls? How much you hearing out there?” I cocked my head a bit, trying to look wry and lighten the mood.

  She wasn’t having any of it. “Not as much as I’d like. And look, it’s just my opinion. But you should take your own meetings.”

  “It is just your opinion, but it might still be right.” I leaned back and tapped the armrests on my desk chair. “I’m thinking it over.”

  “What did you shake loose earlier?”

  “A bookie who recognised the logo.”

  “Wow.” She eyed the seat a bit, obviously considering sitting back down for the story. “This is getting all kinds of Philip Marlowe, isn’t it?”

  “Here’s hoping. I’m getting a real taste for dive bars and watered-down colas. Did we hear back from Lisa’s friend yet?”

  “Nope. OK, hang on. I have to text somebody.” She thumbed her phone while slipping into the well-worn seat. “Don’t start without me.”

  “You’re going to text class and tell them to wait for you?”

  “No,” she said, and for perhaps the first time I saw a slight rise in colour in Charlie’s cheeks. I had just caught her in a small lie, I realised, even it was merely one of omission. I was more intrigued than annoyed.

  “Who are you texting?” I leaned forward, resting my chin on my fist.

  “A friend. Well, a guy.” She was still a touch ruddy in her face and upper throat. “We are meeting for a coffee in a bit. I just told him I was running behind a few minutes.” She slipped the phone away and looked at me expectantly.

  “A few minutes? Nonsense. This story is an epic. It’s expansive. It’s the Ben Hur of detective anecdotes. You better ask for four hours.”

  “I thought you were an investigator,” she said.

  “And I thought we were colleagues who generally told each other the truth,” I said. “You know, when asked.”

  “OK,” she said, sitting. “It’s a friend of a friend. She’s setting us up. I’ve not even met him yet.”

  “What’s he like?” I asked.

  “I haven’t met him yet,” she repeated.

  “Tall? Kind of rugged? One of those hair-cuts that swoops down a bit? Maybe he straightens his hair. Skinny jeans? Is he tall?”

  I was keeping a completely straight face, and Charlie tried hard not to let her lips twitch upwards.

  “It’s a blind date. It’s not even a date. He sounded like a nice guy and I thought it’d be fun to have coffee with a nice guy. Christmas is coming, you know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean it’d be OK to have someone to spend it with. Even if it’s just a nice guy who might be a pleasant way to pass the holidays.”

  I suppose I hadn’t thought about it like that. I was not a big Christmas person. “OK. No problem.” I pointed at my laptop screen. “Want me to run a thorough credit check on him?”

  “How sweet of you. But no. I think I’ll risk one cappuccino and let him speak for himself, at least the first time out.”

  “You’re pretty optimistic. Considering the men who come in here.”

  “You going to tell me about the bookie now?” she asked, pointing at her wrist.

  I gave her the rundown: Bowering claimed he had recognised the logo. He had seen it on a DVD case in some hole-in-the-soul downstairs shop in Soho that sold a lot of smut books and videos. It wasn’t for sale, but it was lying around near the counter. The guy who ran the place, Bryce, had a bit of a gambling problem. Bowering was there to have a word with him about keeping up to speed with his debts. The guy tried to buy some time by gifting some porno, but Bowering wasn’t interested. The guy paid up, eventually, and everyone was friends again.

  “You just going to take Bowering’s word he didn’t help himself to some of these wares he was offered?” Charlie asked.

  “Don’t care. But here’s where it gets really interesting. Bowering calls the guy and says he’ll give him better-than-house odds on something coming up if he’ll talk to me.”

  “Why does Bowering want to help you out?”

  “We’re friends. And he wants us to cement that friendship by never hanging out with me again.”

  “You make such great impressions.”

  “I am a people person. So Bryce and I are connecting tonight. I’m buying him a pint near his shop. And, with a little charm and a little luck, we might get an answer.”

  “How do you even keep a shop like that running these days?” Charlie mused. “Between the Internet and Craigslist…”

  “I think some people’s tastes are especially refined in this area. If they can’t find it online, they’ll go elsewhere.” I looked at the clock. “See if that Harris fella is still good for a two o’clock. Let’s get him in here. An hour or so of me not trying to Internet snoop this damn logo likely won’t make a bit of difference.”

  “OK.” She was pleased, but like most clever women was good at hiding her joy in victory from the men she had bested.

  “And I need you to add an invoice to the Claymore thing for a £150 expense, too.”

  “OK. I’ll take care of it tomorrow, if that’s cool. I really gotta go after this call.”

  “No problem.” Then, after a moment: “Have fun.”

  “He’s good for two,” she called out from her desk. “He’ll be here in about thirty.”

  “Thanks. Did you hea—”

  “Bye!” she called out. The door closed behind her.

  15

  Night in Soho and it was raining, of course. All the better to see the neon signs slash through the fog. I weaved through the throngs, my topcoat’s collar up against the chill. My phone twitched in my pocket. I didn’t know the number. I stepped into a doorway, earning a quick bark from someone I had inadvertently cut off.

  “Grayle,” I said, my voice carrying the retort I choked down a moment ago.

  “Hello, Mr. Grayle,” I heard. A woman’s voice, smoky. Odd accent, too.

  “Yes,” I said. “May I help you?”

  “You certainly may. I understand you are meeting an associate of mine shortly for a drink and conversation. Is that correct?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t usually work through intermediaries. Who is this?”

  “My name is Felicia Tate. And I am not an intermediary to this gentleman. I am his supplier. He has brought this matter to my attention. Would you now prefer to meet with me instead?”

  I pulled the phone away from my face for a moment and leaned my head against the wall. I considered my options. None were great considering I now had the definite lower hand. “Sure.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “Meet me here.” She gave me the address as I fumbled with a pen and my pocket A-Z.

  “Ten minutes?” I said.

  “Sounds grand. You have a lovely voice, Mr. Grayle. Where are you from?”

  “I’m American.”

  “Well that much is obvious,” she said, and I could hear her chuckle, low and throaty. “Whereabouts exactly?”

  “Why don’t we catch up when I get there?” I said, ducking my head into the street. Still slashing it down. Still crowded. Damnation.

  “We are nothing if not hospitable,” she said and hung up.

  “Obviously,” I said out loud to no one.

  I made my way to the spot, getting only half-drenched in the meantime. It was a club, cocktail specialists by the looks of it. Rows and rows of multi-coloured bottles lined the backs to the two bars and very few of the glasses on display were pint-shaped. The space was open, with a few tables and couches and booths lining the walls. Everything was red and black and a bit too lovely for me. But standing in the entrance, feeling the water work its way down the back of my neck, I smelled something a bit too close to sweet. I couldn’t place it.

  At any rate, it was too early for clientele. The place was empty as I stood there. A slim man, his long legs barely filling out narrow dark trousers and a tightish black shirt, stepped out from behind the bar, and motioned me in.

  “Evening,” I said.
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  “She’ll be right with you.” He had a sandy-brown widow’s peak and a sloped jaw. His fingers were long and nimble as he stacked a row of fresh gin. “Want anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind. She said it was on the house.”

  Felicia Tate stepped into the main room from behind the VIP curtain. Like her barman, she too was tall, but she was pulling it off better. Her dress, gold-and-red-and-very-glittery, wrapped her tighter than a hug, and the slit on the side showed a lot of a well-worked leg. She approached me, and smiled, extending her hand.

  “Mr. Grayle,” she said.

  “Ms. Tate,” I said, returning the shake and meeting her eyes. They were dark, and slightly almond shaped. Her hands were warm and soft, the skin a shade or two darker than mine.

  “Shall we?” she asked, motioning to a booth at the far end of the bar. We sat. The barman—Emerson was his name, and she thanked him—brought her a tea and me a sparkling water, just to avoid looking rude.

  “I was thinking about our conversation,” she said. “And I think you’re definitely from out West. I was thinking Oregon, perhaps.”

  “Seattle,” I said. “But still the Pacific Northwest. A good effort, Ms. Tate. Do you know many Americans?”

  “My business has taken me abroad many times.” She took her first sip.

  “What business is that?”

  She laughed, and there it was again, that low happy rumble spilling out. “I’m sure we will get to that, Mr. Grayle, but I was hoping we might get to know each other a bit first.”

  “Well, I’m a Pisces. I like old movies, and my favourite ball player is Ichiro Suzuki.”

  She smiled. “Yes, of course. Mr. Bowering did say you were rather droll.” She stretched out slightly.

  “I’m a real hit at parties, too. What would you like to know?”

  “Well, I think seeing you on such short notice and extending you such courtesy here might have earned me the right to ask this first: What is your business, Mr. Grayle?”

  “You invited me. And I’m a private investigator.”