Napalm Hearts

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Napalm Hearts Page 12

by Seamus Heffernan


  “I’m away for the holidays. Spain. But call me when I get back, the New Year.”

  “Yeah. For sure.”

  “OK.” She gave a wave to someone she spotted across the room. “I gotta slip away, Thad.”

  “Right.” I extended my hand and raised my voice slightly. “Lovely to see you, counsellor.”

  “You as well, sir,” she said, returning the shake and bowing her head slightly. She smiled. At least I knew that she couldn’t see the fear I felt pooling around the edges of my eyes.

  There’s a lot anyone would want to say here. But like most people I said nothing. I let the silence remain, as if it were the only option, ignoring the fact I had a choice to do otherwise, say otherwise.

  “Merry Christmas,” I offered as her hand slid out of mine.

  “You too,” she mouthed silently, slipping into the crowd.

  I balled up the napkin in my other hand and squeezed the wad into my trouser pocket. A waiter drifted by me. I could smell wine and whisky. I felt my throat tighten a bit. I rocked on my heels, and tried to focus on the music than the chatter going on around me. It was a not-bad rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

  “You came!” I heard from my left after a few moments. I had zoned out quite a bit. Andrew Claymore extended his hand. I shook it.

  “Nice bash,” I said.

  “It’s always lovely here this time of year,” he said. “They put on a splendid event.” He gave me a smile. His teeth were slightly crooked but mostly white, crowning that weakish chin, shiny from a fresh shave. I admit I enjoyed seeing him looking happy.

  I smiled back. “You know a lot of the people here?”

  “Absolutely. Some have been my friends for years.”

  “Big crowd. You must be a popular guy, Mr. Claymore.”

  “I fancy myself a people person.” He snagged his own drink from a passing tray. Scotch, of course. “I’m happy to introduce you to some colleagues, if you’d like. Might be a good chance to meet some potential clients.”

  “That’s kind of you, but I think perhaps I’ll focus on trying to relax and having a good time for a bit. Thanks, though.”

  He shrugged, magnanimously. I was about so say something else when Angela Kendall slid into my peripheral vision and then into the crook of Andrew Claymore’s arm.

  “Mr. Grayle,” Claymore said. “This is, well, my former wife, Angela.”

  I stared at her, my brain locking like chained tires on ice, genuinely stunned.

  “I believe you’ve met,” my former employer said.

  “Lovely to see you again, Mr. Grayle,” she said. “You look… well.”

  “Thanks,” I said, regrouping. “This is, ah… a recent reconciliation, I take it?”

  Mr. Claymore put his arm loosely around Angela’s waist. “We’ve been chatting a bit recently,” he said.

  Angela curled in a little closer, but not scandalously so. Merely an old friend offering comfort. “It seems we still had some affection there,” she said, smiling.

  “And with the election coming up, I needed someone strong next to me,” he said. “A friend.”

  “Election?” I asked.

  “The general election is next year. I’m seeking a nomination from the party. Those in the know say I’m in very good stead for it.”

  “Right.” I sipped my drink.

  “And frankly, it won’t do me much good to sit around the house. Time to get a move on, I think. There’s still a lot to do.”

  “And a lot of life to live,” she said. Her eyes met mine.

  “Yes, well, don’t want anyone to say life is wasted on the living, right?”

  They exchanged a glance, and we settled into an awkward silence.

  “Well, congrats.” I raised my soda. “Good luck in the new career, Mr. Claymore.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grayle,” he said, already turning to shake someone’s hand. “I hope I can count on your vote next autumn.”

  “It’s a safe bet I don’t live in whatever constituency they run you in. But I’ll keep a good thought for you.”

  He never heard. He had already moved on.

  “So good to see you,” Angela said oh-so softly as I turned to walk away. My lip curled.

  “Yeah, you too. I hope you’re both very happy together.” The music swelled to life as soon as I had opened my mouth, though. There was no way anyone in that room heard me say a thing.

  32

  The next day, early afternoon. Charlie sat across from me, scrutinizing the plastic menu. We were at a barbecue joint I enjoyed, just off Oxford Street. It was run by a guy from Tennessee. I came down on the odd Saturday for brisket and some college football.

  “What’s good?” she asked.

  “Can’t go wrong with the pulled pork,” I advised. On a screen behind her, Michigan and Maryland clashed, but I was only half-watching. It was a replay. “Whatever you get is on me. I feel bad I missed out on that breakfast sandwich you picked up for me yesterday.”

  “If that’s the worst that happens to us this week, I’m sure we’ll be OK.”

  We were sat in a booth by the glass, and we could see shoppers pulsing up and down outside, multi-coloured boxy bags swinging by, like kids’ blocks arcing through the lanes of human traffic.

  “You must like this place to come down here,” she said. “It’s the busiest shopping day of the year.”

  I looked up from my soda. “Right,” I said. “What is today, exactly?”

  “December 23rd.”

  “Shit,” I muttered. “Wow.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Probably too late to get those cards out, then,” I said, trying to force a smile out of her. No go.

  “Thad.”

  We looked across at each other for a very long second.

  “Yeah. It’s all gotten a bit messy,” she said.

  “Ruddick arrested, the office trashed—I’d say it’s messier than we’re used to.” I looped my fingers together and squeezed, watching the knuckles whiten.

  “How’d you know that was going to happen, anyways? The office, I mean?”

  “Someone mentioned I was getting noticed, so it seemed the smart move to get the case files out of there, and maybe throw them off a bit in the process. So here’s the new stuff. You remember Bryce, guy who ran that smut shop who disappeared? He was involved with the Napalm Hearts thing. He was helping to get those vids made. All kinda small time. But it got bigger when these Russian heavyweights got involved.”

  “Well, shit. So what are you doing next?”

  “You guys ready to order?” A waitress had appeared, wearing a Santa hat and a look on her face mixing somewhere between tired, uninterested and anxious. Must be the time of year.

  “Two pulled pork sandwiches, plus an order of burnt ends.”

  “No burnt ends today,” the waitress said, tucking her gum into her cheek.

  “OK, just the sandwiches then. But extra fries, please.”

  “I was going to have salad,” Charlie protested.

  “Indulge me. Or treat yourself. Or it’s Christmas. Whatever. Pick one.”

  “You’re the boss,” she said. The waitress nodded and took the menus.

  “For another week, yes. But thanks.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I pulled out the note Ruddick had given me and slid it across to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “This is where one of the Russian guys is right now. Big dude, one with the weird shoulder tattoos. I’m heading out to visit him tomorrow.”

  Our waitress arrived with two Cokes and laid them down, a touch loudly, in front of us. I pulled my straw loose from its paper and dunked it into the oversized plastic cups. Oh, sometimes I missed America and her serving sizes.

  Charlie stared at me, her own straw pinched and dangling between her index and forefinger. “What?” she asked.

  I took a sip. “I’m going to see him. Tomorrow. I figure it’ll take a bit to drive up th
ere, so I’m going to leave early and try to beat the traffic.”

  “Are you kidding me with this?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Stop screwing around,” she said, and for a second her teeth bared, flashing like lightning. “What are you talking about? You’re just going to hop into your battered little car, drive out to god knows where, and what? Just ask for a friendly chat with a Russian gangster?”

  I scratched my chin and looked out the window. It was already getting a little dreary. England has dark winters, and the night comes in fast. “Yes,” I said, finally. “But I have this.”

  I slid the envelope Ruddick gave me across the table. It was an invitation to Karl’s Christmas party, hosted at a lovely estate about 200 klicks out of London. It was my pass into the place, and from there I would try and figure it out.

  “Why?” she asked. “What are you going to get out of this?”

  I took a moment to stir my Coke, take a sip, and buy some time. “A few reasons. The biggest being I don’t think Lisa Claymore is dead.”

  “The cops think so.”

  “I’m not sure they’re convinced. Anyway, they’ll be dragging that reservoir for weeks, if not months. The rocks down there are dragon’s teeth. Her best friend is skipping town because of these Russians, and she told me Lisa wasn’t really the happy housewife type. I think she’s hitting the bricks, too, either because it’s her chance to get out of from under the esteemed Mr. Claymore or to make a run before that guy Karl gets his hands back onto her.”

  “So?”

  “It’s my job to find out what happened.”

  “Not anymore it’s not. You’ve been paid, the cops at least think she’s dead. What’s the upside to you going on this field trip tomorrow?”

  I knew this question was coming. I deserved it, frankly. And I had given it passing thought in terms of preparation. “Claymore and his ex-wife are getting back together. It’s low-key now out of what passes for respect, but it’s obvious she wants her hooks back into him. Looks like he’s going to be a Member of Parliament or some such bullshit.”

  “Well, goodie for him. Sounds perfect for a rich guy without a job.”

  “Yeah. Goodie for him,” I said.

  “That does sound like the end of the story.”

  I spun my straw in my drink, watching it bubble a bit. “Right. Claymore gets to move on and be an even more influential member of high society, his ex-wife gets to be rich again. Case closed.”

  “You’re not saying they had anything to do with this, are you?”

  “God, no. No way. Claymore’s a bit too smart for something that crude. Plus he seemed genuinely messed up about it all. She is definitely made of harder stuff, though, but I don’t think she conspired to bump off the trophy wife. I think they just decided to reconnect. She gets to be Mrs. Claymore once again, and he gets a wife who is not, you know, a twenty-five year-old party maniac who threatens to embarrass him as he runs for office in a year’s time. It’s a love story that will echo through the ages.”

  “All’s well that ends well.”

  “Right. Except this girl might be missing, or in trouble, and no one gives a damn.”

  “Except you, right? I never took you for the self-important type.”

  “I like to keep people guessing. Good for my line of work to not get pinned down too easily.”

  “Oh Jesus. Do you honestly think a man as rich as Claymore hasn’t the resources to find out for himself if his missing wife is alive?”

  “I’m that resource. We signed a contract. He paid me. It’s my job, Charlie.”

  She sighed. “I know this is important to you,” she said, and quite carefully. “But this is outside our usual scope.”

  “This is important to me.” I was surprised to hear my voice rising. “It’s important because I took money to do a job, and meanwhile the closest thing to me having a partner just got busted for making money from betraying a pile of my clients, all the while putting me feet first into this whole goddamned mess. So, yeah—I guess I want to see this through.”

  “Isn’t the whole point of this is that we’ve made money?”

  “Two pulled porks, extra fries,” our waitress said, sweeping in with unfortunate emotional obliviousness and laying the plates down. “Happy Christmas.”

  I looked at Charlie. She looked at her sandwich before delicately picking it up and taking a bite.

  “It’s good,” she said.

  I let her chew for a moment.

  “That was a bit low,” I replied.

  She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Thad, I just think… Shit. Look…” She was struggling. “This is bloody dangerous. And ridiculous. Please see that.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m driving up there tomorrow.”

  “So why are you telling me? I’m not going to support this, and I’m not your priest. You feel guilty about Ruddick, you feel guilty about making money off cheating husbands or cheating wives, you feel guilty about maybe not being a great dad—this isn’t the way to heal.”

  I recoiled slightly from my plate, taken aback. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” I asked, actually flabbergasted.

  “My boss.” She reached out and took my hand for a quick squeeze. “And someone I care about. This could end very badly.”

  I looked at her hand near mine. She squeezed again, and then pulled her slender fingers away. Her nails were crimson and had snowflakes carefully painted on them.

  “I love the food here,” I said. I took a bite out of my pulled pork. “Really, it’s great.”

  “You miss home?” she asked, allowing my deflection.

  “Sometimes.” And it was true.

  “You got plans for Christmas Day?”

  “Would you be amazed to know I have kind of lost track of all that?” I laughed, a grim little murmur.

  “No,” she said, her voice genuinely kind. “My mum and I are having a quiet day in. Proper turkey dinner, some old movies, paper crowns, a few bottles of wine. We’d love it if you would come by.”

  I was both surprised and bemused. “Ah. I don’t know.”

  “You got a better offer?” she asked, but not meanly.

  I did not. And pretty much everybody in my life would know that. “I’m seeing my daughter on Boxing Day,” I offered by way of proof of a life away from the office, a life perhaps she didn’t know everything about.

  “You have a gift?”

  I nodded. “A book. Something young adult and typically dystopian. As long as she’s reading I’m happy.”

  “Still a teacher.”

  I said nothing more, intent on studying the stained Formica table top for a moment.

  “Christmas Day,” she reiterated. “That’s December 25th, in case you’ve forgotten. Pop by around noon. OK?”

  The game was over, and I had again missed the final score. It didn’t really matter. Charlie was eating her sandwich a bit more enthusiastically now, any lingering salad guilt long gone. It was snowing a little harder. I looked around: The place was about half-empty, but most people there seemed to be lively in their chatter and merry in their spirits. Except our waitress—she was at the counter, hand under her chin, looking tired, disinterested. I wondered what she would do on her Christmas Day.

  “OK,” I said. Charlie nodded, smiling around the shredded meat and barbecue sauce. I picked up my own. “Should I bring anything?”

  “Yeah,” she said, dunking a fry in ketchup. “Yourself. Preferably in one piece, if you can manage it.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Despite myself, I was smiling a bit. I had read about this: fear can produce inappropriate emotional responses.

  Charlie chewed, nodding thoughtfully. “Maybe some wine, too.”

  She smiled back.

  33

  I sat in my car, watching the windshield fog up a bit as I fiddled with the radio. For some reason, the music that would be playing when I returned seemed very important to me. If you�
��re going to stall, might as well be productive.

  For about the twelfth time I looked at the address and its W8 postcode scrawled in my notepad but this time I peered out the passenger window at the place. It was pretty much as I had imagined it. I figured three bedrooms, plus the little patio garden out front that no doubt had a larger companion in the back. I might never have been invited here, but it was certainly meeting my expectations.

  Gathering the bag from the back, I popped the door and slipped out. I took my time walking to the front door, giving the neighbourhood and my well-heeled betters one final sweep of my gaze before pressing the buzzer.

  Roxanne opened the door.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” she said, curious, surprised, but not entirely unfriendly.

  “I wanted to drop these off. For Amy.” I handed the bag over. Roxanne peered inside at the flashy paper and ornate ribbons.

  “Oh, well, thanks. But aren’t you coming on the 26th?”

  “Yeah, yeah, for sure,” I said, hurriedly. I could feel myself getting anxious, as I always did when we spoke. I reminded myself to keep my voice steady and unrushed. “But, y’know, if she wants to open it on Christmas Day, now she can.”

  Rox shifted. I could see a patch of her hip above her jeans. An old Pixies t-shirt of mine she had kept was hanging loose at her waist. 2004 tour, we had seen them at Brixton Academy. I felt a twinge—I missed the shirt. That had been a good night, hot and loud and close and brilliant. It still looked pretty good on her.

  She had a dishtowel in one hand. She was obviously in the middle of last minute Christmas domestic duties. She regarded me with genuine curiosity. “You OK?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “You really can’t miss the 26th. Amy will freak out.”

  “I figured she was still mad at me from the other day.”

  “She was, but don’t worry. She’s over it. She mentioned some show-and-tell thing. Apparently it got pushed back to January, if you’re free. Or interested.”

  “Yeah, she mentioned that. It should be doable. I think things might quiet down after Christmas.”

  She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. A small smile was struggling to find its place around her mouth. “Business good?”

 

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