by Hannah Howe
Velvet nodded, “Every time.”
“So it would be easy to steal from him, providing you know the layout of the building and the pattern of his parties.”
“I guess so,” she shrugged.
“And you do know the layout of the building and the pattern of his parties.”
“Maybe,” Velvet said, her tone defensive, her gaze furtive, “but I didn’t steal the briefcase. Like I said, Tony Michaels took it.”
“His name is Mickey Anthony,” I said.
“You should talk with him, Tony Michaels, Mickey Anthony, he took it.”
Velvet and Lia were hiding something – the truth about the briefcase, or a secret unconnected with Jeremy Loudon? I’d talk again with Velvet, after I’d chatted with Mickey Anthony.
“Thanks,” I said. “And good luck with your singing career.”
Velvet smiled to reveal her strong, pearly white teeth. “Slick says I’m going to be a star.”
At the mention of Slick Stephen’s name, an icicle settled in my stomach. “Slick’s your new manager?” I asked.
“No. But he’s put me in touch with someone. A proper manager.”
Maybe I’d add Slick to my roster of interviewees and pay him a return visit.
I left Velvet’s house with a queasy feeling, the feeling you get when you ride the merry-go-round. Going round in circles is all very well, as long as you’re able to stand when the music stops.
Chapter Seven
I phoned Mickey Anthony and he agreed to meet me. However, we’d meet on his terms, which meant a short journey west, to Wenvoe.
Situated in the Vale of Glamorgan, Wenvoe boasts a television centre, a television transmitter, a quarry and a golf club, amongst many other delights. Basically, a centuries-old farming community, Wenvoe is a property developer’s dream; indeed, many ‘high-end’ properties litter the area. Along with three pubs, the village offers a post office, a shop, a church, a school and a library, though the library is only open part-time. Two megalithic burial chambers reside nearby, a reminder of the Vale of Glamorgan’s historic landscape.
I met Mickey Anthony near the Tinkinswood Burial Chamber. The capstone, which adorns the chamber, measures some twenty-four feet by fourteen feet and is one of the largest in Europe. Archaeologists estimate that two hundred people lifted the stone into its correct position.
Dressed in a woollen hat, scarf and gloves, I smiled as Mickey Anthony jogged towards me. He looked splendid in a red tracksuit with white piping. His running shoes were black while vapour trailed from his mouth. I judged that Mickey was running at ninety percent, and so was nearly back to full fitness.
“Impressive,” I said as Mickey paused beside the burial chamber.
“Race you,” he said, nodding towards a country lane.
“I’m wearing heels,” I pointed out.
“You never used to wear heels.”
I nodded in agreement. “I’ve changed, Mickey, in some respects; I’m a different person now.”
“Yeah, you have changed,” he conceded; “you’re more confident, more assertive.” He jogged rapidly on the spot, then wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Phew, I love to feel the sweat on my brow!”
“Why this transformation?” I asked as we walked towards the country lane.
“I told you, I realized that I needed to get myself in shape, get my house in order. I saw the writing on the wall; however, unlike some people, I read and understood the words.”
“No booze?” I asked.
“Not a drop.”
“No gambling?”
“Not even on flies or raindrops.”
“No women?”
Near a hedgerow, Mickey paused. He turned and gave me a saucy smile. “I live the life of a monk.”
In reply, I offered him a jaundiced look and we walked on.
“Okay,” he laughed, “there is someone, someone special; this could be love.”
“Mickey Anthony and monogamy?”
“Why not?” he shrugged. “After all, I’ve tried just about everything else; maybe it’s time for one woman-one love.”
“Her name?” I asked.
Mickey tapped the end of his crooked nose. “I’d prefer to keep that quiet. I don’t want to jinx anything.”
Respecting his wishes, we walked along the lane in silence. The lane skirted a clump of trees, which swayed gently in the breeze. Overhead, the sky was grey and bleak. To our left, a river trickled by while to our right a farmer repaired a drystone wall. Apart from the farmer, and his dog, we were alone.
While admiring the farmer’s handiwork, I said to Mickey, “Tell me about your client.”
“Confidential,” he replied with a grin.
“Then tell me why you were at Loudon’s, undercover as a gambler.”
Mickey paused. He adjusted the collar on his tracksuit, pulled it snug against his chin. Then he turned to look at the farmer, noted his censorious expression and walked on.
“Like I mentioned before,” Mickey said, “my client was ripped off in a card game. He wanted me to gather evidence, prove that Loudon runs a crooked game.”
“And once you’d gathered that evidence?”
“My client would challenge Loudon, demand his money back.”
“And if Loudon refused that challenge?”
“My client would ruin him; let it be known that Loudon runs a crooked game.”
We continued our stroll towards a refurbished farmhouse. The original building probably dated from the Victorian era, or earlier. Whitewashed, and with ivy covering the pine end wall, the building dominated the local landscape, with its leaded windows, huge courtyard and prominent burglar alarm.
Turning to Mickey, I said, “The briefcase.”
“What about it?” he frowned.
“Who stole it?”
“Like I said, my money’s on the maid.”
“Velvet?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, “that’s the one.”
“She reckons you stole it.”
Mickey scoffed. He shook his head in derisory fashion. “She’s lying, trying to divert attention away from herself.”
I thought about that as we paused beside a five bar gate, painted white, and gazed at the impressive farmhouse.
“Fancy a drink,” Mickey asked, “a soft drink?” He nodded towards the farmhouse.
“You’re staying there?” I frowned.
“I live there,” Mickey grinned.
“With your new girlfriend?”
“No, that’s my pad.”
I sucked in my breath, then said, “Mickey, that place must cost a fortune.”
“When you’re on a roll,” he smirked, “you’re on a roll.” He opened the gate and stepped into the courtyard. “A drink?”
“Maybe next time,” I said.
As I retraced my steps, along the lane, back to my Mini, I thought about Mickey Anthony and the farmhouse. Okay, he’d turned his life around, and for that, he deserved the plaudits. However, he was a jobbing private detective, scraping a living, never sure of his workload or the volume of his clients. How could he afford such an expensive house? True, I lived in a desirable residence, but that was due to Alan’s finances and his standing as a leading psychologist. My contribution to the family budget barely covered the rent on the shed. That troubled me to some extent, though Alan dismissed my worries as irrelevant; we were a partnership, spiritually, emotionally and financially. That still left a question mark over Mickey. Maybe his new girlfriend helped him out, financially. If not, how could he account for his sudden wealth?
Chapter Eight
I returned to Splott and camped in Velvet’s street. The lights were on in her living room, burning bright; someone was at home. The curtains twitched and Velvet appeared in the window. She glanced along the street, as though looking or waiting for someone – Lia?
I tapped the steering wheel and pondered my next move. Should I wait, or challenge Velvet? Then a car pulled into the street and parked out
side Velvet’s house. Lia climbed out of the car and ran towards the building. Five minutes later, Velvet and Lia emerged carrying suitcases. They bundled the suitcases into their car and sped off. I followed their car, all the way to Rhoose Airport.
At the airport, we parked our cars then Velvet and Lia ran into the building, a small structure for a major airport, with long queues. Velvet and Lia joined one of the queues. They talked in excited fashion, without glancing over their shoulders. Meanwhile, I mingled with the crowd, my eyes firmly fixed on the suspicious pair.
After Velvet and Lia had printed their boarding passes, they climbed the stairs and approached security. They were flying away – on holiday, business, or something more permanent? I didn’t have my passport or a plane ticket, so I couldn’t follow them. Instead, I ran out of the airport, jumped into my Mini and drove to The Stag nightclub.
I entered Slick Stephen’s office to find Slick talking with a young woman; the young woman was in a state of undress, completely naked. She turned to face me then screamed, producing a blood-curdling yell.
“Jeez,” Slick complained, “don’t you ever knock? Can’t you see that I’m busy, auditioning?”
“That’s what you call it?” I frowned.
“I’m trying to run a business here,” Slick said. He turned to the young woman. “Okay, darling, get dressed. Tomorrow night, eight o’clock, you got the gig. Your name?”
“Bea,” she said, “Bea Miller.”
“Okay, Bea. I like your moves, but maybe you could work on your abs, lose the love handles, firm up your bum? Our clientele like the lean look. Think you could do that for me, honey?”
“Sure, I can work on it,” Bea beamed. She’d forgotten all about me, and the fact that she was standing there naked, wearing nothing but a smile.
“You do that,” Slick encouraged, “there’s a love.”
While Bea dressed and scurried down the stairs, I slipped into the client’s chair. When alone with Slick, he ran his fingers through his greasy hair.
“I don’t know,” he sighed, “sometimes I have to father them, mother them, be their best friend...”
“And lover?” I asked.
“Leave it out,” Slick scowled. “Chance would be a fine thing.” He circled his desk, pockmarked with paperknife indentations, littered with nude playing cards, and a file containing nude pictures. Sitting and placing his feet on the desk, he asked, “Why are you here? Again.”
“Looking for information,” I said. “Velvet and Lia took off from Rhoose Airport this afternoon; I’d like to know where they’re going.”
“How should I know?” Slick shrugged. He gathered up the playing cards and shuffled them.
“Velvet told me that you’ve set her up with a manager, someone to oversee her singing career...”
“Oh, that,” Slick said, fanning the cards from hand to hand. “I did that, yeah.”
“The details,” I said.
Slick dropped the playing cards on to his desk and his feet on to the floor. He leaned forward and straightened his narrow tie. “Why don’t you leave the kid alone, give her a break.”
“The details,” I repeated.
He grinned, flashed his nicotine-stained teeth. “Sit in my lap and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Or maybe I should just drop the paperknife into your lap,” I suggested.
Slick grimaced. He sat back and crossed his legs. “You shouldn’t say things like that; it makes a man’s eyes water.” He picked up the paperknife and dropped it into a drawer, for safekeeping. “Okay,” he conceded, “I fixed Velvet up with a manager, in the Netherlands.”
“Where in the Netherlands?”
“Amsterdam. The Old Centre, the Dam, near the Central Station.”
“His name?” I asked.
“Gijs de Wolff.”
“What’s your connection to de Wolff?”
“Business,” Slick said, “purely business.”
“You fixed Velvet up, for a fee?”
He nodded, “A small percentage.”
“How much?” I asked.
Slick grinned, “That’s between me and Velvet.”
“Is de Wolff legit?” I asked.
“Of course,” Slick said, offering a deeply wounded expression.
“So you haven’t stitched Velvet up?”
The hurt on his face morphed into pure agony. “Why would I do a thing like that?”
“What will de Wolff do,” I asked, “to help Velvet?”
“He’ll give her her big break in the music biz.”
“In Amsterdam?”
“Yeah. Lots of great bands and singers come from Amsterdam.”
“Name one,” I said.
“Er...” Slick paused. He scratched his balding head, his bony fingers disturbing the fine strands of greasy hair. “Focus?”
“That was in the 1970s,” I said.
Slick shrugged, “Then high time for Amsterdam to rock the music world again.”
I adjusted my position and crossed my legs. Slick eyed my legs even though they were covered in woollen tights to keep out the cold. “How did Velvet pay you?” I asked.
“Cash.”
“A lot of cash?”
Slick laughed, a sound akin to the devil inhaling nitrous oxide. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, “I have another artiste to audition. Unless, that is, you want to give us a twirl.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
Once again, he shrugged and rolled his bloodshot eyes. “Can I help it if I’m a born optimist?”
On my way down the staircase, I passed a young woman walking up, to audition. At the foot of the staircase, I paused and offered a double take. The young woman paused too and smiled. She was a he, an attractive transvestite. I smiled back. He winked. I pictured the look on Slick’s face as he groped the artiste and discovered the truth. Karma, maybe it did exist after all.
Chapter Nine
From The Stag I drove to Llanmaes and Jeremy Loudon’s mansion. A guard at the gate spoke on the telephone then escorted me into the house. I found Loudon in his gymnasium, leaning back in a wicker chair, his feet resting on a stool. He sipped a cocktail, his adoring gaze fixed on Annabel. She was lying on a massage table, face down, a towel draped over her posterior. The masseuse, an oriental woman with an impassive expression, continued to knead Annabel’s back as we talked.
“Have you found my briefcase?” Loudon asked.
“No, but I have a fair idea who stole it.”
“Velvet?”
“Yes.”
Loudon sighed, “I could have told you that before you started. I hired you to find my briefcase.”
“True,” I said. “But you didn’t tell me that you won the money, stuffed into the briefcase, in a crooked game.”
Loudon placed his cocktail on a side table. The table, circular with legs of wrought iron, looked surprisingly cheap in Loudon’s expensive home. That said, it probably cost a fortune and its finesse was lost on me, Sam the flea market miser.
“Who told you that I run a crooked game?” Loudon scowled.
“Mickey Anthony.”
“Mickey Anthony...” Literally, Loudon scratched his head as he shuffled the names around. “Tony Michaels?”
I nodded. “He grabbed a seat at your table on behalf of a client. The client hired Mickey to prove that you run a crooked game.”
“The client?” Loudon asked.
“Mickey didn’t say.”
Loudon nodded. “Never mind, I can guess.”
As Loudon sipped his cocktail, he glanced at Annabel. He blew her a kiss, but she didn’t notice. With her head bowed, she endured her massage, her groans suggesting pain, not pleasure.
“My games are not crooked,” Loudon asserted; “that’s just sour grapes.” He stood and walked over to me, towered over me, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. “I want my briefcase, and its contents, and I want them now.”
“Darling,” Annabel mumbled from her prone po
sition on the massage table, “I think I need to relax.”
“Isn’t the massage relaxing you?” Loudon asked.
“Yes, but...”
“Okay,” Loudon nodded. He addressed the masseuse, “Thank you, Tamiko.” Tamiko bowed gracefully, then left the room. Meanwhile, Loudon helped Annabel off the massage table, wrapping the towel around her curves. “In the safe,” he said. “And don’t forget the combination this time.”
Annabel kissed Loudon on the cheek. She touched his cheek then smiled, “Darling, when my mind is so full of you, it’s so easy to forget.”
Cocaine doesn’t aid the memory either, I thought, but kept that to myself.
“She’s got a great ass,” Loudon grinned as Annabel stumbled from the gymnasium, her muscle memory generating a slinky swing of her hips. “What do you reckon?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “I can’t see her donkey from here.”
Loudon offered me a sideways glance. He frowned, “You jealous? Of course you are; any woman would be jealous of Annabel. God, I love her.”
Eventually, Annabel staggered from the room. When alone with Loudon, he growled, “I want my briefcase.”
“Maybe Annabel could find it for you.”
“Annabel couldn’t find a diamond necklace even if I placed it around her neck. Annabel’s not good at findings things. Annabel’s good at other things. You’re good at finding things, so I’ve been told.”
“Your briefcase,” I said, “and its contents, might be in the Netherlands.”
“Velvet’s flown to the Netherlands?”
I nodded, “So I believe.”
“Then fly after her,” Loudon said.
“I would,” I said, “but my cape’s in the wash.”
“Are you always this lippy?” Loudon scowled.
“It’s being around great wealth,” I said, “it makes me light-headed.”
“Get your ass on a plane,” Loudon instructed. “Fly to the Netherlands. At this stage, I’m willing to forgive and forget. But if Velvet gives me more of the run around, I might have to consider drastic action.”
“The police?”
He nodded, “If need be, yes.”
