by Ray Banks
“That’s good, ’cause you haven’t got any to call in. Three hundred a day plus expenses.”
He laughs, but the sound wrestles with the inside of his throat, emerging from his mouth like a sob. He takes a moment to collect himself, says, “You’re kidding.”
“Am I smiling, Don?”
“Callum, be reasonable, that’s—”
“Something you can afford.” I shift position, don’t look at him as I speak. “I’ll take a week up front as a non-refundable retainer. And that’s a seven-day week before you get any ideas. A grand in cash, the rest in a cheque made out to Paul Gray.”
“You think I have that kind of cash spare?”
I pause, look at him. Make sure he gets the full stare before I carry on. “That’s Paul Gray, like the American colour. And I might call him Paulo, but I don’t think his bank manager’s that familiar.”
“Wait a second—”
“And I don’t give a fuck if you don’t have that kind of cash spare, Donald. That happens to be the price. If you honestly can’t afford it, then that’s a pity, and I’ll thank you to get your cheap arse out of my car.”
“No, you’re being completely unreasonable,” he says, his voice hitting a higher register. “If you’ll just hear me out—”
“Non-refundable, non-negotiable. Which means you can’t haggle me down or blag your way out of paying. That cheque’s got to be as good as cash, you get me? You do not want to bounce on Paulo; he’s liable to bounce on you.”
“I’m not trying to … blag anything, Callum.” He’s attempting liquid-smooth with his tone now, but he’s too tired to maintain it and he’s failing miserably. “You just have to understand, I can’t magic that kind of cash out of thin air. Not at such short notice.”
“Okay, Don.”
Plummer smiles. Relief sets in. “Good. So what price d’you think—”
“You’ve got until one o’clock. Actually, no, let’s be dramatic and make it noon.” I check my watch. “That gives you just over two hours to get the money together. Now, I’ll be in my local around twelve, so you just come in with the cheque and the cash and we’ll talk about what happens next, okay?”
“Christ.” Wide-eyed, looks like I’ve just kicked him in the balls. “Jesus, I don’t believe you, the fucking gall on you.”
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
A long pause as Plummer weighs up his options. Then he starts nodding so hard I could stick him on the back shelf. “Right, okay, you just drive me back to the office and I’ll see what I can scare up.”
“Your legs broken, are they?”
Plummer stops nodding. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a tram station up the road there, should take you right into town. And until I get fuckin’ paid, I’m not working for you.”
He stares at me. Shows his bottom teeth in a grimace that could pass for a pained smile. My guess is he’s too tired to notice the faces he’s pulling, or the smell coming from him. He’s still waiting for me to turn the key in the ignition, tell him it’s all a joke, what the hell, I’ll even halve my fee for an old mate like him.
“You shouldn’t have to wait too long,” I tell him.
Plummer laughs once, harsh. Points at me and says, “You turned out to be a piece of work, you know that? I always thought you had it in you.”
“You could always call Frank, mind. Tell you, though, the man might be an excellent driver, but I get the feeling he couldn’t find his own arse if he didn’t whistle.”
Plummer undoes his seatbelt, shakes that finger at me and gets out of the car, slamming the door too hard again. Then he crosses round to the driver’s side.
“Noon,” he says.
“That’s right. And don’t be late. I won’t hang around more than one pint.”
“You’ve never had just one pint your entire life,” says Plummer.
“Keep talking like that, Don, I might just order a fuckin’ half.”
I start the engine. A brief wave goodbye and a smile that doesn’t feel right on my face, then I pull away. Glance at Plummer in the rear-view mirror, and he’s standing there, face pinched as he pulls out his mobile.
Probably calling Frank. Good luck to him with the directions. To be honest, I never expected Plummer to hike it up to the tram station — the man takes public transport the day the Devil wears thermals — but it was such a nice image, I couldn’t pass up the hope of it happening.
Another glance, and even at this distance, it’s obvious from the way Plummer’s carrying himself that he’s pissed off.
Good. Let him be pissed off. Let him be forced into an uncomfortable situation. Be a pleasant irony for the bastard. Because if he thinks that I’m going to play go-between for him and the biggest bunch of arseholes in the North West, he’s mistaken.
If he pays up — and that’s a big if, given the amount and time limit — I’ll do what I said and find out who torched his property. I’ll do the necessary legwork, talk to the necessary people, act like the private investigator I’ll be paid to be. But any proof I get won’t be minutes in a fucking meeting, it’ll be taken to the police or the press, whichever I find more effective. Get them banged up or ruin them.
After all, I’ve got a reputation to maintain.
17
Twelve o’clock on the dot, and I look up from my pint to see Plummer clattering into the pub. He looks full of hell and even more tired than when I saw him two hours ago. Then I realise, he’s probably had a splendid time trying to find out which pub in Salford’s my local.
He doesn’t wait for me to acknowledge him, digs into his jacket and sits opposite. I’m expecting a torrent of excuses, but an envelope appears instead. He drops it to the table with a disgusted flourish. “That’s the right kind of envelope, isn’t it?”
“You what?”
He prods the envelope. There’s dirt under his fingernail. “That’s the kind you’re supposed to use for extortion, right?”
“Oh, I get you.” I smile politely. “But I wouldn’t know.”
“You’ve got the knack for it.”
“Listen, you want a pint, Don? Getting to be a warm one, today. You look like you could use a drink.”
“Yeah, why not?”
He sits there, waiting. I stare at him.
Then it clicks. “You not had enough out of me yet?”
“Expenses, Don. Mine’s a Kronenburg.”
Plummer pulls himself out of his chair and shambles to the bar with a proper face on. I finish the rest of my current pint. Reach for the envelope, open it. There’s a grand in tatty twenties, a cheque made out for the rest slapped against the cash. Fair play to the bastard, he’s come up with the money. Didn’t think he would, and kind of wish he hadn’t. Then I could tell him to shove his job up his arse twice in one week. Which I should do anyway, but now the money’s too much of a temptation.
“There’s been a slight change of plan,” he says as he returns with the beers.
“And what’s that?”
“I’m not paying you any more money.” He sits down, pushes my pint across the table at me. Beer slops over the sides, makes a right mess. He prods the envelope again, looking at me with wide, bloodshot eyes. “That envelope there, that represents the sum bloody total of what you’re going to get out of me.”
“That’s a week’s worth.”
“And that’s all the time you have.”
“What if I can’t get the job done in a week?”
“Then you’re a fuck-up, aren’t you?”
“Don—”
“You don’t find anything out, I want that money back.”
“Then take it back now.” My turn to prod the envelope. “This cash, Don, is non-refundable. I already told you that.”
“You have one week,” he says.
“Or maybe I don’t, how about that?” I sit back, spin the envelope back towards him. I want to raise my voice, but I can’t do that and keep the upper hand. He’s the one upset h
ere, I’m the one in control. Got to remember that. “How about I give you your hard-stolen money back and we forget the whole thing? Because I’ll tell you, I’m only doing this job to stop your mouth from going, and because I kind of feel a bit sorry for you. But if you think you can mither me every step of the way, you can take your money and your job and fuck off.”
Plummer tenses. He shuffles his chair back. He’s been at the top of his game too long; he’s not used to being spoken to like this and it shows. I should’ve expected some resistance, right enough. Normally you’d have to break Plummer’s fingers to get a penny out of his hand, and there’s me wiping out what looks like his petty cash in one fell swoop.
Still, he’s got to know who’s in charge here.
I’m about to ask Plummer if we’re clear, when I feel a presence to one side. I turn in my seat, see one of the regulars, don’t know him to talk to, but he’s smiling at me. Blonde hair, turning a nicotine-tainted grey at the edges, tousled like he’s just woken up, and a red roadmap across his nose and cheeks.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Help you with something, mate?”
“You’re Callum Innes, right?”
I glance across at Plummer, then grin at the regular. “That’d be me, yeah.”
He nods, puts out his hand. “Joseph Carr. You can call me Joe.”
“What can I do for you, Joe?”
“Uh, right, it’s kind of …” He holds up a beer mat. “Daft, I know, not having owt on me, but I wondered if you’d sign this for us.”
I blink. “You taking the piss?”
“No,” he says. “Not at all. I told me kids when I was reading the paper last night, I said, I drink in the same pub as you, like. But they didn’t believe us. Reckoned I was just spinning ’em summat. So I told ’em, next time I see you in, I’d get your autograph to prove it.”
I jerk my head at Plummer. “You got a pen, Don?”
He’s shaken out of his stupor, looks flustered as he realises the situation, watching Joe to see if the guy recognises him, too. He waits for a few seconds without comment from Joe, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a silver ballpoint. He’s wary about giving it to me, but once my hand’s out, he doesn’t have much choice in the matter. Plummer starts to say something, but I cut him off, asking Joe, “You want me to make this out to anyone?”
“Yeah,” he says. Then, as if he’s embarrassed about it: “Could you make it out to me? Just, y’know, so the kids believe us and I didn’t buy it off eBay or summat.”
Plummer laughs. I glare at him. He shuts up, but he still smiles at me, his arms folded. Like he’s enjoying the show.
I write: To Joe, the next round’s on me! Callum Innes.
Not great, but it’ll have to do.
Joe takes the beer mat, reads it, a smile spreading across his face. “Cheers, Mr Innes.”
“Not a problem.”
“Look, just so you know, what you did, there’s a lot of people round here think it was a bloody good job you was there.” He glances at Plummer, who’s staring at him. “All the rubbish you read in the paper, it’s good to know there’s people out there who’ll do the right thing when the time comes.”
“It was nothing, Joe.”
“You’re supposed to say that. But you saved that lad and that’s good enough for me.” He nods, smiles at the beer mat again, tapping the edge. Then he holds out his hand. I give him the two-hand shake, one clamped on top, proper politician-style. He glances at Plummer again, then back at me. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it. Sorry for interrupting.”
“No worries, Joe. Thanks, mate. You take care.”
Joe heads back to the bar, pulls himself onto his stool. I see him talking to the landlord, showing him the beer mat. Then he goes back to his pint.
“Nice,” says Plummer.
I turn back to him, drop his pen on the envelope. He reaches for the pen.
“About the money. This job. We clear?” I say.
He’s smiling to himself as he puts his pen back in his pocket.
“Don.”
“You set that up, did you?” Plummer picks up the envelope and hefts it in one hand, then pushes it across the table to me. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Believe me, Don, I’m not that desperate to impress you.” I nod at the cash. “I take it this is a sign that we’re agreed on the terms of employment?”
“If you want to put it like that.”
“I do. And I don’t want any confusion about this.”
“You have the money,” he says. “A week’s all I can afford. I’d appreciate it if you could get this done in that time.”
“Okay.” I sit back in my chair. “So why do you think you’re getting pressure from the White Brotherhood?”
Plummer’s mouth parts in a vinegar smile. “Phil Collins.”
I nod. “Phil Collins. Right. I didn’t know. Kind of puts all that charity work into perspective, doesn’t it?”
“Not that Phil Collins.”
“I wondered.”
“He’s the one who called me about Moss Side. He’s the one that told me to get the tenants out.”
“You got a number?”
Plummer nods, hands me one of his business cards.
“His number, Don.”
He twirls a finger. “It’s on the back.”
I flip the card over. COLLINS MOTORS, handwritten. A phone number next to it. “This a garage?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You’d think so with a name like Collins Motors, wouldn’t you?”
I ignore the tone. “You talk to him about the burn?”
“Why?”
“Because if I mention it to him, I don’t want rolled eyes and a fuckin’ shrug. If you talked to him about it already, I want to know what he said.”
“I haven’t accused him of burning the place down, if that’s what you mean.”
“Very tactful of you. You talked to him at all recently?”
“Not since he called me about the Moss Side tenants.”
“Okay.” I put the card in my pocket. “Anything else you’d like to share, maybe give me a leg-up seeing as I’ve only got seven days to get this done?”
Plummer thinks about it. He’s slumped in his chair, and I can almost see cohesive thought draining right out of him. I’ve taken the job, he doesn’t need to think anymore. He can get some sleep. That’s the way he’s looking at it. Plummer shakes his head, moves his shoulders at the same time — very Gallic.
“I’ll keep you updated, then.” I get up, down the rest of my pint — nobody’s leaving unfinished drinks on my watch — and head for the door. Plummer doesn’t say anything. Before I push out onto the street, I look over at him. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was dead — he’s completely motionless, half hunched over the table.
I step through the pub doors, see Frank across the street. Relegated to driver, or maybe promoted. I don’t know how Plummer’s employment hierarchy works. He’s sitting in the Merc right now, waiting for Plummer to come out. I saunter over to the driver’s side. Frank buzzes down the window. Neil Diamond sings “America’.
“Y’alright, Frank?”
He gives me a thumbs-up, singing along to The Diamond.
“Good to hear it. You’re busy, I can tell. See you later, mate.”
I tap the roof of the car, cross the road to mine.
I’m glad it seems to be working out for Frank. He still doesn’t deserve Donald Plummer as his boss, but at least he’s not waiting to get chinned anymore.
I get into the Micra, flick a cube of glass from the frame. I go to check the wing mirror before I remember it’s gone, too.
I reach into my pocket, pull out the card Plummer gave me.
Reckon I should really get the car fixed, especially now I’ve got the money to do it. I reach for my mobile, call the number on the back of Plummer’s card.
“Collins Motors.”
“Yeah, got a bit of a job for you.�
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“Then just bring her round. Sooner the better.”
18
Collins Motors is near where the Maine Road ground used to be. Now Man City’s moved to Sportscity, all that’s left round here is a massive swathe of bulldozed land, as if something reached out of the sky, grabbed the stadium and then patted the ground level. A green fence surrounds the wasteland, but the traffic cones and empty Lambrini bottles show that it’s not much of a deterrent. Signs proclaiming that the land is to be used for luxury flats have been defaced.
I’m not surprised. People are getting sick of houses being built that they can’t possibly afford.
I pull in outside Collins Motors, get out of the car. Two blokes are busy working on a Punto, the front bumper of the car mangled beyond repair. The mechanics know it, instead concentrating on whatever seems to be fucked under the bonnet. A third bloke, shaved head to disguise a receding hairline, comes out of the back when he sees the Micra. He’s a big guy, or was before he realised the joys of takeaway food. Now he’s just fat. His gut hangs over his suit trousers as he approaches. Shirtsleeves rolled up, but he’s wearing a tie, which throws a lot of preconceptions about mechanics out the window. More follow when he grins at me.
“Mr Innes,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know it was you on the phone. Eddie told us it was a Mr Innes like it was nowt special. I didn’t clock on till I saw you just now.” He extends his hand. “I’m Phil.”
I shake. “Nice to meet you, Phil. What d’you think?”
He looks behind me at the Micra, then grins at me some more. “Who’d you nark?”
“Nobody important.”
“Somebody armed, though.”
“Yeah. Anything you can do?”
“The windows shouldn’t be a problem. What’s that, a ’90?”
“I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t matter. Tell you what, bring her round back and I’ll get one of my lads to have a closer look.”
I get back into the Micra, watch Collins jog across the street. He comes to a stop by an alley that looks way too narrow for a motorbike, never mind my car.
“You’re joking,” I say.
