Napalm Hearts

by Seamus Heffernan

  “OK,” she said. “It’s different to what I signed on for.”

  “In the interest of full disclosure, he had a cricket bat. In his car. Smashed my window. Bit messy, that.”

  “Thad.”

  “Look, I’m fine. And you’re only here for a few more weeks.”

  “Two.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Forget it. It’s your job. And I generally like it. And I like being here. But I’m not into this cops and robbers shtick. It’s a bit… coarse.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  She sighed. “You’re probably right. Just keep your head up.”

  “I actually can still move my head, and relatively pain-free.”

  “Har-har.”

  We returned to our coffees.

  “We OK?” I asked after a moment.

  “Yep.”

  “Go do your homework,”

  “I might just go to the library.” She stood and brushed crumbs off her jeans. “You need me for anything?”

  “It’s Saturday. The coffees were already above and beyond.”

  “Sure?”

  I turned back to my laptop. “I’m good. Wanted to look up this name and address from Tate and, admittedly, being here was easier than being in the flat. I’m seeing Amy in a bit, and then I’m going to chase this down.”

  She grabbed her bag and stood in my door. “Go get ’em.”

  “I thought it was obvious I was trying to. At least before they got me again.”

  “You’re really funny on weekends,” she said, almost smiling.

  “And you’re a dedicated employee. Weekends or not.”

  “Give Ruddick a call. He probably wants to make sure you’re not concussed or bleeding out or anything.”

  “He’s a big boy. And he’ll have to trust me to be the same.”

  She nodded and left to get to her work. My coffee was now lukewarm. I dunked it into the wastebasket and sat for a bit. My head was still a little fuzzy, and my gut was still queasy. Nobody likes getting a beating. Charlie’s anxiety bothered me a bit, more than I would have liked. I suppose I didn’t like disappointing anyone. I decided to sit and dwell on that for a bit before getting back to work.

  19

  “Careful,” I said, a little too loudly. Amy held the wooden block daintily between two willowy fingers, breaking her stare from the fragile stack just long enough to shoot me a deathly glare. She laid it down, softly and cleanly. The stack held.

  “Nice try,” she said. “Nerves of leather, me.”

  I cocked my head slightly. “I think those are supposed to be ‘steel.’”

  She shrugged. “I prefer to go with something organic.”

  My turn. I pulled a block from the lower middle of the Jenga tower and, showing off a bit, lay it down in one quick movement. A slight sway, but nothing more. We were outside, playing on a commandeered chess bench table in Hyde Park, but there was no wind to speak of. Or to blame.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know, some dads take their daughter to the movies on Saturdays.”

  “Yes, well, some dads would prefer to spend some time talking to their daughters on a Saturday afternoon than sitting in a dark room, avoiding them.”

  She reached into the Sainsbury’s bag and pulled out an Orangina. “Go on. What do you want to talk about, then?”

  I smiled. Fourteen years old, and she was already learning how to play men and their cheap deflections and oh-so-obvious angles.

  “How are you feeling about the move?” I asked.

  “How am I supposed to feel?”

  “I don’t know. Seriously. So try and tell me.”

  She played with her straw. “It sucks changing schools. It looks like some kilted nunnery on their website. And mum is trying way too hard to make it all sound, like, perfect.”

  “It is supposed to be very pretty there,” I said. The split with Rox had somehow made being the peacemaker my first instinct, at least in front of my daughter “But yeah, it’s going to suck for a while.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, and her eyes returned to the stack. “Speaking of school, we have this show and tell thing. Except you’re supposed to bring a person so they can talk about what they do.”

  “Like bring your dad to work day?”

  “No, not exactly. This girl in class, Sian, is bringing the vet who put her cat down. I think he feels he owes her one.”

  “Well, I’ve never killed anyone or anything at work. Do you think I’ll hold their attention?”

  “Sure. Just pretend it’s interesting.”

  I laughed, genuinely. “It sometimes is, you know.” I had told Amy my black eye was the result of a Sunday footie collision, a lie that would hold here but would never pass Roxanne’s muster. She knew I wouldn’t run after a missed bus, let alone a ball.

  “I don’t even know what you do. Not really.”

  “It’s not cops and robbers. But you do get to help people with a bit of peace of mind.”

  “Mum says you spend a lot of time telling people bad news.”

  “More like confirming the bad news they were expecting,” I said. “And sometimes I save insurance companies a few bucks when someone is trying to fake an injury.”

  “Not exactly Wallander, is it.”

  “He was a police detective. I’m private. It has its pros and cons. And now you’re just saying things you know already to change the subject.”

  She pulled another piece loose. “Reggie seems happy. About the move, I mean.”

  I watched her very closely, as she laid the piece on top, hands steady as a mannequin’s. “Well, he likes his work. It’s probably a great opportunity,” I said.

  “Why do you like this game?”

  “It’s cheaper than bowling.”

  “Dad.”

  “My mom and I used to play it. And it takes actual skill. A lot of kids’ games don’t.”

  “Are you going back anytime soon? How do the Mariners look for next season?”

  “Not great. But thank you for pretending to be interested.” I flashed a brief grin to let her know I wasn’t being too mean.

  “It’s your move,” she prompted.

  “How is school going, anyhow?”

  She sighed, just a bit dramatically. “Same old. Like English Lit. Hate Maths. The boys are idiots. And half the girls are too.”

  “Just half?”

  “That’s better than last year.”

  “I don’t know if that means they’ve grown up or you’re just settling. So no boys for me to worry about?”

  She shrugged. “Not yet. But it’s only first term.”

  I pulled a piece loose, in one quick jerk. “Well, I’d say if you ever needed to talk about it let me know, but that’s always been your mother’s field of expertise.” I laid the piece on top. It held. We sat in silence for a moment. Resetting.

  “Are you still coming over Boxing Day?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Have you thought about what you want? For Christmas, I mean.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “What if I gave you some money?”

  “Besides it being so very personal and touching? I’d probably give it away to charity.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  She thought for a moment. “Human Rights Watch. Or Amnesty International.”

  “I’m impressed. What if I gave you a gift card?”

  “I’d use it to buy my friends gifts.”

  “What about those chocolates you like? The orange ones?”

  “I’d share them with the people who live on the street.”

  I scoffed. “No one lives on the streets where you live.”

  “Then I’d save them for when I visited you.”

  I laughed again. “You’re killing me here, kid.”

  “You think that’s tough, watch this.” She eased a piece loose and quickly placed it on top. Her confidence was rewarded: the tower still stood.

  “Don’t get cocky.” I exaggera
ted a stern look.

  She smiled, not sarcastically or meanly, and it spread across her face like white sunshine, her teeth strong and bright and young. My beautiful girl.

  I pulled a piece loose, but too late I saw I had I misjudged.

  The pile collapsed.

  She raised her arms, triumphant.

  I arched my eyes skyward in defeat, and then extended my hand. She shook it, gleefully.

  “Do you want to play again?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll be gracious and let you go out on a high.”

  “What do you want to do now?”

  I grabbed the Jenga box and began scooping the pieces towards it. “I have to do some work. I’ll drop you off back at Reggie’s and your mom’s.”

  “Dad,” she said.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But this is important. I’ll see you Boxing Day.”

  “I thought we could go for lunch.” She was disappointed, not petulant, and that was making it even worse.

  “We can stop for take out,” I offered. “You can bring it home with you.”

  “Dad, come on. Mum says you’ve been working too mu—”

  I held my hand up. “I’m not interested in what your mom says about my job, OK?” It had come out harsher than I intended. I saw her smile turn to a tight flat line, creasing her face and nothing more. Teenager or not, she was still a kid, even if her precociousness sometimes let me forget that.

  “I am working a lot,” I said, “but what we’re looking into is time-sensitive. It has to be taken care of now.”

  “You know, Mum and Reggie make a lot of money, and they don’t have to work these crazy hours.”

  She let that hang there for a second.

  “Like, a lot of money,” she reiterated.

  “That’s great,” I said. “That’s super. They’ll be able to take care of that new school in Zurich for you.”

  Her eyes hardened, and I shrugged.

  “Ready to go?” I asked.

  She nodded, angrily thrusting her arms into her hoodie’s sleeves.

  The walk to the car was quiet for the first few minutes.

  “I don’t want to move,” she eventually said.

  I nodded. “I know. I don’t want you to move either.”

  “Then why don’t you stop it? Ask mum to let me stay with you?”

  “It’s not that simple. And I know you hate the idea of it now, but it’s going to be good for you, trust me. And I’ll visit.”

  “Sure,” she said, sulkily.

  My car unlocked after a meek beep-beep brought on by my fob. We stood by our respective doors, where I hesitated.

  “It’s not easy for me to say this, but you are better off with your mother and Reggie right now,” I said. “It’s more stable. And it will give you a lot of experiences, real-life experiences, which will definitely pay off in the long run. You’re going to get a better education and meet amazing people. You don’t want to hear it, but all that stuff’s important.”

  “It’s not hard for you to say that,” she said, snapping the words off with those perfect teeth. “It’s easier to say that than admit you just like things how they are. You just like being left alone.” She slipped into her side and slammed the door.

  My face was hot. I closed my eyes and counted to three before getting in. The ride home was quiet, too.

  20

  The address Tate had provided was residential, a lovely little place in Primrose Hill. I took a moment to give it the once over—cream-coloured, aged but in good shape, with a certain rustic sensibility. I imagined it could be quite knick-knacky inside, but still functional, maybe even classy. I double-checked the digits one last time and stepped up to the front door.

  It opened shortly after my brief, sharp knock to reveal a very tall, very broad man in pressed dark trousers, crisp chambray button-down and wine-coloured loafers whose tassels peeked out from the cuffs at his feet. His hand absorbed mine as I gave my name, and he gave me his: Iqbal Mackenzie.

  “That’s an interestingly mixed moniker,” I said.

  He shrugged, rolling his thick shoulders back from his head for a moment. “My mother was Zimbabwean, my father Irish. We had interesting Christmases.”

  “Yeah, my folks were a bit of a mix, too,”

  He nodded and without further hesitation waved me inside. “Would you like a coffee or tea, Mr. Grayle?” he inquired, motioning to a soft leather chair in the corner of his sitting room.

  “No thanks.”

  The room was small but well-kept. A picture of my host with a smiling woman and two children was on the mantle. Hanging above it was a fairly abstract painting that looked to be a man wearing a collar of fire as he fell to his knees as those around him stared, unmoved. There was also a well-worn green-and-white striped Celtic scarf hanging from another chair’s back.

  Iqbal entered and sat across from me, sipping green tea.

  “So then, Mr. Grayle, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for something, something specific. And I’m looking for a man who is talented in helping people get their hands on specific things.”

  “Everyone has their talents. But why have you come to me?”

  “We have a mutual friend who recommended you as perhaps being that man.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me, but I don’t think our social circles overlap, Mr. Grayle.”

  I sat forward, pressing my hands together. I looked him in the eye.

  “Mr. Mackenzie, you’ll have to believe me when I tell you the person who sent me here has no reason to lie about your work.”

  He considered this. We waited as his gears turned. Finally, he stood and drew the doors to the study shut and returned to his seat.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m not a cop. I’m a PI. I’m looking for a missing girl, one who might not want to be found. And all I have is this.” I hand him a photocopy of the Napalm Hearts logo. He took it and was polite enough, at least, to give it a serious once-over.

  “Ever see it?” I ask.

  He cocked his head slightly. “It’s certainly possible. But I could use some time to gather my thoughts.”

  “Close enough,” I said, pulling my notebook from my jacket.

  He held up a hand. “Please, not so fast. Most people at least attempt the preamble of small talk.”

  “I’m getting the feeling you don’t want to talk about the weather.”

  He crossed his legs, stared at me, hard. Something resembling a smile might’ve been pulling at his lips but it wasn’t exactly a sure thing. I cast a glance over one broad shoulder to the drawn doors, the only way out of the room. He still had the hard look on his face. Idiot, I thought. I’m a goddamned idiot. There’s no way out if things get rough. Again.

  “So…” I said, trying to buy some time.

  “Who sent you,” he said. Statement, not a question.

  “I’d rather not tell you that. I’m not looking to get in the middle of your business affairs.”

  “It would appear you already are.”

  “Look, I just need anything you know about this, and I’m gone. You’ll never see or hear from me again.”

  “So we make a trade.”

  “I have money,” I countered.

  “So do I.”

  “Well then,” I said, suitably defeated. I give him Felicia’s name.

  He sat back and the smile fully formed. “Clever. Clever little minx. Hardly doing much to fight the sneaky stereotype.”

  I shrugged. “Can we do some business now?”

  “Why didn’t you want to share her name?” he asked, ignoring my question.

  “Because if you thought I was working for her or looking to stitch you up, I might end up getting a bit of a beating.” I pointed at my face. “Already had mine for the week.”

  “I assume she sent you here hoping your arrival might interfere with my business.”

  “That was her assumption. But like I said, I’m not a cop. So, we have a deal
?”

  “Certainly. I’m still going to take some of your money, however.”

  “Figured as much. But maybe you’d let me spend it rather than me just donating it.”

  He considered this for another moment. “Come with me.”

  Out through the double doors and down the stairs in his kitchen, Mackenzie led me into his cellar, lined with rows upon rows of sooty wine bottles and cool dark stone. He slid one rack aside, and ducked into the room behind. He waved me in after him.Inside was some of the stuff Felicia was hawking—cigarettes, liquors, high-end perfumes—but the vast majority was aimed at the baser desires of his clientele. Magazines, DVDs, panties sealed in plastic, costumes, plus what I could only imagine was an extensive selection from the pain-for-pleasure wares. The breadth and catholicity of the collection was remarkable. The room smelled of dust, old booze and latex.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “We can start with Napalm Hearts,” I said, bending to study the cover of a German extreme bondage video. There was a guy sealed in leather with a zipped hood covering his face. I tried to find something resembling pleasure in his eyes.

  “I don’t have any of that material here,” he said.

  I stood. “But it’s out there, right? Homemade smut, made for those who like the amateur stuff, maybe?”

  He cocked his head. “I tend to deal with more high-end productions. But yes, there are different Napalm Hearts discs out there. Why wouldn’t there be?”

  “Because I’ve only seen one.”

  He looked me over for a bit. “Who are you looking for, Mr. Grayle?”

  “You got your name,” I said, a touch sharply. “So I’d like mine. You said you’ve never seen the Napalm Hearts stuff but you’ve heard about it. So I’d very much like it if you could tell me who told you about it and if you had a number that’d be even better. All this showing up unannounced stuff is nagging my social conscience.”

  “I’ve not had dealings with these people myself. But I have, on occasion, seen a man connected to Napalm.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.