Napalm Hearts

by Seamus Heffernan

  “Ah, just like in the movies.”

  “Yes.” I slapped some more damp from my lapels and smoothed my sopping hair. “And don’t I just feel like Cary Grant right now.”

  “I didn’t think he played detectives. Spies were more his thing.”

  “And here I was, telling you I knew about old movies.”

  “And here you are not answering the question. But a good effort, nonetheless.” She smiled, at least, as she was saying it.

  “I’m working a missing person’s case. The lead I have is the logo I wanted to talk to your man Bryce about.”

  “I know more than Mr. Bryce. So I will be happy to entertain your queries.”

  “Why did Bryce tell you I was coming?”

  “Because he knew better than to not.”

  “That’s pretty impressive employee loyalty you have there. What did you have over him? Or was he not supposed to know what he did?”

  “That’s hardly crucial. I don’t know the exact nature of the logo you’re looking for, but I do know where you can find more of them.”

  “Did Bryce not know that, at least?” I asked, a little amused.

  She waved her hand as if to brush away my asides. “I have a name and an address. You’ll find someone who can definitely help you. And then I hope you can cause them trouble.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Well, with any luck because they’re doing something illegal, or at the very least something to compromise the interests of your client.”

  “Again: why?”

  “Because this man is my competition.”

  “And I suppose that brings us back to my original question.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. Come with me, if you please.”

  She led me behind the bar, through the back offices, to a winding, narrow hallway that weaved far deeper than I thought possible for this building. Finally, we came to another door, and further down the hall I could see an exit onto the street about twenty feet away. She unlocked the door and we stepped inside.

  To the left was a simple desk, with open notebooks and a ledger. Behind it and on the walls were rows upon rows of foreign cigarettes, liquors, colognes, perfumes and even some designer handbags and shades. It was like being in the world’s most cramped airport duty free. I turned towards her, and I assumed my exasperation was showing a bit.

  “Knock-off goods? This is your business?” I asked before she could say anything.

  “Hardly knock-offs, Mr. Grayle,” she said. “Authentic, all of it. Smuggled into the United Kingdom at great expense by myself and my contacts, and sold for great profit. I have a discerning clientele and have built my reputation on repeat business and attention to detail.”

  “Your entrepreneurial spirit isn’t what I came to talk about.” I could hear my voice serrating.

  “No, I realise that.”

  “Bryce deals with dirty magazines and nudie vids. What does that have to do with this?”

  “I did have an interest in that area. But we’ve had to streamline our operations recently.”

  “So who’s selling this Napalm Hearts stuff?”

  “I can give you the details as I said I would.”

  “Listen, I’m not here to do your dirty work so you can sell a few extra cartons of Gauloises to hipsters who’d rather not be seen smoking domestic. Not a lot of this sounds particularly on the level to me, so please, don’t waste my time.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Sure. Is this the part where you say trust me?”

  “No, this is the part where I point out you have precious little choice. Otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to shake down a painfully small-time porn peddler who also happens to be a degenerate gambler. I can only assume you have no other leads.”

  I didn’t feel wet anymore. I felt hot, and my mouth was sour and cottony. I had that feeling you get right before you do something silly and overly dramatic, like throw a plate or punch a wall.

  “Shall we return to the bar?” she asked.

  I said nothing and turned away. I sat at the booth where my untouched sparkling water was waiting, and took a swig. She slipped into the seat across from me. She took me in for a moment, then reached out, opened my notebook, and carefully wrote what she wanted me to have.

  “Why don’t you come back after all this, and have a drink?” she asked.

  “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Well, maybe come back, sit here and watch me have a drink.”

  I put my notebook into my pocket. “What happened to Bryce?”

  “We have parted ways.”

  I nodded, taking that in. “Let me guess: You thought he was out, and then you caught wind he was still hustling filth on your dime and your clock. He calls to tell you I’m coming—maybe he’s scared of this Napalm Hearts thing, or maybe you’ve got even more juice than I figure—and you cut him loose.”

  She finished her tea and stood, extending her hand.

  “I guess I’m just wondering how deep this cutting loose went,” I pushed.

  She took my hand in hers. “You’re very astute, Mr. Grayle,” she almost purred. “It has been a pleasure meeting with you this evening. Please, do reconsider my offer when your business in this matter is concluded.”

  I gripped her hand, and held on an extra half second when she tried to end the shake. “It’s not really my kind of place. So, I likely won’t be back, unless of course my work leads me to believe it is in the interests of my client. Or the authorities.”

  She pulled her hand back. Looked me in the eye. Smiled. “As I suggested,” she said, eyes unwavering, “you may reconsider.”

  16

  I was huddled in another doorway outside, quickly flicking through some texts and trying to unknot my brow from my previous meeting. My focus was interrupted soon enough. I didn’t see the ringed fist connecting with my chin, promptly dropping me. What I did see next from the pavement were two pairs of clean white trainers, collecting some rainwater from the puddles they were standing in. One of them swung forward, quickly and decisively, connecting with my cheekbone. My head snapped back, and then recoiled downward, my chin hitting the asphalt.

  I managed something resembling a grunt, and pulled myself up onto my elbows. My ears were howling, the tinnitus a result of possible concussive impact. A hand grabbed my hair and yanked my head back.

  “Time to back off,” one of them said, leaning close to my face. Rain splattered my now-hot skin and slicked with the blood seeping from my mouth. These boys were big, fast, and not overly stupid. They stood directly in front of the door’s light, meaning I couldn’t see anything other than their capped heads’ silhouettes. This was not good. And, frankly, it really hurt.

  “You’ll… have to be more specific,” I achieved through gritted teeth. I could feel my eyes welling as he gave my hair a stiffer tug.

  “Napalm Hearts,” he rumbled.

  I could hear the rain pounding the streets, and his breath was clouding in the winter air. “Sorry,” I said. I peered up and tried to smile. I could taste my mouth filling, the blood’s coppery taste stinging my tongue and throat. “Sorry, gents. But I think you’ve got the right guy.”

  “Oh, for…” the other bloke said. He cocked his right hand, measured the distance, and popped my jaw’s other side. I flopped down on my back.

  “Don’t be stupid,” the first guy said and spit on my chest. “Whatever it is you’re into, it’s over.”

  They walked off. I lay still for a minute, listening to my heartbeat, happy to still have it. A moment later, someone walked by, slowed, and asked if I was OK.

  “Oh God, yes,” I said, still on my back and feeling the rain splattering my savaged face. He walked on. I sat up.

  In a few minutes, I pulled myself back into that doorway, sitting out of the rain. I grabbed my phone from where I had dropped it and wiped it on the inside of my coat. More people walked by, so I took them all in. I pressed the cuff of my shirt, hard, against the openings
on my lip and chin. I watched the white cotton quickly turn red. I closed my eyes, measured my breathing, and felt the pain dull a bit. With nothing else to focus on besides the rain, I tuned everything out except London. I could hear the city, her snarls and shouts and bleating car horns and breaking pint glasses. Her rhythm, her Friday night thrum. When Ruddick showed up about ten minutes later, pulling me up and half-dragging me to his Benz, he would later ask how it was I looked almost serene.

  17

  “Ouch,” I said again.

  “Yep,” he replied. We were at his flat, and he had applied iodine and some fresh dressings for my face.

  “Still pretty?” I asked.

  He handed me a whiskey, and even though I was very much out of practice I could recognise a so-so blend when I saw one.

  “I don’t merit a single malt, even with this mug?” I asked. He ignored me. I took a hearty gulp, and winced.

  “Your resources in the prettiness regard are limited enough,” he said, sipping his own. He lit a cigarette and slid it between my ragged lips.

  “I quit,” I growled lowly.

  “Well, maybe now you’ve not.” He lit another for himself.

  I took a drag and laid the cig in his pewter ashtray. “Thanks,” I said.

  He looked up. He knew I wasn’t just talking about the Marlboro. He nodded. “So, Thaddeus,” he said. “Good night?”

  I rubbed my jaw, the right side, the one that took the last pop. “Not bad, actually.”

  “Oh my. No need to act tough here.”

  I chuckled, and then felt my ribs lurch. “I think it’s pretty obvious I’m not a tough guy.”

  “At least your suit survived.”

  “You look good, you feel good.”

  We sipped our whiskies.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “They told me to back off the Napalm Hearts thing.”

  “And?”

  “They were young, and pretty good. But they aren’t connected. They were just paid to rough me up, scare me off.”

  “You sure?”

  “They didn’t even know what they were talking about. They knew ‘Napalm Hearts’ and to knock me around a bit. That was it.”

  “So, again: what are you thinking?” He inhaled deeply on his cig.

  “Someone’s nervous. So we’re obviously doing something right.”

  “Easy on the ‘we’ stuff, respected colleague. I’m merely a well-wishing associate.”

  “Can I have some more whiskey?”

  He poured, and smiled. “Not like you.”

  “Well, I had a big night.” I took another slug and felt its cleansing burn work its way down my neck. God.

  “Next time you get jumped, if you get the chance, head-butt the guy,” Ruddick said. “Quick one to the nose. Really drive your forehead in. Drops them every time.”

  “Are you going to chastise me for playing with the big boys?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Go ahead, Inspector.”

  He paused. He gave me a hard once over, and poured himself a drink to match mine. One quick drawn breath, and he began. “You’re a mate, you’re a good investigator, and you’ve always been fair to me. I’ve enjoyed working for you. Always have. You’re above board, and you’re straight with the clientele.”

  “Not bad for a Yank,” I said, trying to smirk and only half-succeeding. He was kind enough to ignore my affectations.

  “You got a tidy little business ticking along. Whatever this Claymore is into, it’s not worth this garbage. Let it lie. We have a good thing going. And you still have all your teeth.”

  Ruddick let that hang for a second. Then he went to the kitchen and returned with a cheese tray and a bottle of Bordeaux.

  “You treat all your guests this well or just the ones who got the shit knocked out of them?” I asked, grabbing a wedge of Swiss.

  “Actually, I have another guest coming shortly.” He uncorked the wine. “So hands off. I hadn’t scheduled you getting your bollocks handed to you as part of my social plans for the evening.”

  “Fair play.” I finished my second drink and stood, feeling a little buzzy. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll call you a cab. And next time, remember: head-butt the prick. Right across the nose. Then run like hell. Some professional advice there.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. I grabbed another piece of cheese when his back was turned. When he realised I was standing stock-still in his living room, his lovely whiskey tumbler hanging loosely in my hand, he came and got me, ushering me to the door.

  I was a bit dazed, I admit, from the headshots and the Jameson. But for some reason I was also very, very happy. Well, giddy, at the very least. My post-adrenal comedown hadn’t kicked in yet, I reasoned. He paid for the cab. Good guy, Ruddick. I told him so and that I hoped his date went well. He sighed loudly and told me to grow the hell up.

  18

  Despite my best efforts the next morning, I still looked a bit of a horror when I settled at my desk. I was stiff so had slipped off my suit jacket and was in my shirtsleeves when Charlie came in around ten with two Americanos and chocolate croissants.

  “Hi,” she said, handing me my cup and treat. Charlie enjoyed surprises. She popped the lid of her own coffee, added some sugar, sat across from me and finally saw my face. “Oh my God.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “What happened to you?” she almost yelped.

  “I got knocked around a bit last night.” I tentatively nibbled on my pastry. Politeness prevented me from wincing noticeably, as my blood-caked lips pressed together.

  She stood, and took a step towards me, but I raised my hand.

  “Don’t,” I said. “I had a mother for many years. I’m not seeking another.”

  “You still have a mother, you ass.”

  “I’m fine, Charlie.” She sat back down.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She nodded. “It’s just… wow. You look terrible.”

  “Oh, I know it. But thank you, all the same.”

  “This about the case?”

  “Yup.”

  “You make someone mad?”

  “Likely, yes.”

  “You going to stop?”

  “Not likely, no.”

  She sipped her coffee, and I could see her smiling a bit behind the lid.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just cute seeing you emotionally invested.”

  “It’s my name on the door,” I said, almost defensively.

  “And it’s your blood on that lapel,” she said, dipping her chin towards my jacket.

  “And it’s my name on the cheques.”

  “Actually, the temp agency pays me after they bill you,” she said.

  “A reasonable point,” I conceded.

  “You need any ice?” She frowned a little as she kept checking out my face.

  “Nah. Did all that last night.”

  She stood again, and leaned in close. I pulled back a bit, my desk chair reclining slightly. The morning sunlight splashed my face.

  “That’s some shiner,” she said, softly, peering at the dark half-moon under my eye.

  I let her look for a second, and then realised her gaze had shifted to my still un-blackened eye. I nudged my seat back to its upright position, and she sat back down.

  “It’s Saturday,” I said after a moment, sipping my coffee. “What brings you by?”

  “I was going to do some schoolwork.”

  “But you brought two coffees.”

  “And two treats,” she added happily.

  “Chuck—”

  “Ruddick called. Last night, looking for you. I told him you were in Soho for that meet. I got a text from him this morning saying it went a little rough, but I thought he meant maybe you guys had partied a bit.”

  “I don’t really party.”

  “He wasn’t too specific. But he figured you might be here doing some work. I took the chance. For the sake of
a couple of quid, it seemed worthwhile to pick up some extra supplies.”

  “Thank you. That was very kind.”

  “You’re welcome.” She took a bite of her own croissant. “He was worried about you. I could tell. He usually talks to me like I’m the bloody maid or something.”

  “Well, he’s terribly old fashioned.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “We have a further avenue to our investigation,” I said, holding Tate’s competitor’s address between two fingers.

  “And your face?”

  “Got some of its boyish charm knocked off of it, I admit.”

  “How many?”

  “Two guys.”

  “Two? That it?”

  “Well, they were big guys.”

  “How was your meet up with the porno gambler guy?”

  “What, Bryce? A wash. His boss, or former boss, contacted me and gave me the tip. Name’s Tate, and she says I can get answers from a guy who just happens to be her competition.”

  “Competition?”

  “Yeah. Someone else serving the moneyed and feckless of London through imports in rare, desirable and otherwise illegal goods.”

  “What was she like?”

  “She was OK. Bit pushy. Bit tall. But she was smart, I could tell. And she’s got some steel to her, I’m guessing.”

  “So what, we’re dealing with female supervillains now?”

  “Grayle Investigations are equal opportunity cynics here, miss. Male or female, everyone’s potentially capable of being feckless, duplicitous and otherwise self-serving.”

  “As long as the cheque’s clear,” she said. I saw her face shade slightly.

  “Hey.”

  There was a pause. “Sorry,” she said.

  “We do help people here, Charlie.”

  “I know.”

  “We joke about it but there is a real need for peace of mind in this stuff. We’re not relationship counsellors. But we do a job.”

  “Again: I know.”

  “So…” I said.

  “So, maybe I don’t like seeing people I work with get knocked around for doing the job. This is a bit different to what we signed on for.”

  “Actually, since I took the case, it is exactly what I signed on for. This stuff can happen sometimes. It’s OK. I took some cracks a few years back when a guy spotted my car while I was photographing him and the mistress groping in a parking lot.”