by Geoff Smith
[We miss you Bart. We all do. The others too. And school too. They love you there. You're their superstar. But they'll kick you out if you don't show up soon! You are depriving them of their star student! So selfish.]
[So...]
[COME HOME!]
[COME HOME!!]
[COME HOME!!!]
[Seriously Bart, come home, study hard, have a great life - just like your dad - AND I'M NOT GOING TO DELETE THAT because HE DID HAVE A GREAT LIFE, whatever you think about how unfair stuff is.]
[Big love Bart. Sophie xx]
[COME AND SEE ME NOW!]
36
A fast moving space rock collided with the ship's hull, shattering it into a jumble of fragmented lines.
'Asteroids eh? It's when you move from the middle you're screwed, eh?' A Glaswegian accent. Graham Cameron. 'They're all the rage they retro machines you know.'
Ten in the morning and Bart was one of the only customers in the arcade - everyone else in bed or at work.
'Your boss around?' Bart said.
'Do ya think I talk to the likes of you for fun? Follow me. Save your patter for the big guy, okay?'
And Bart's final space-craft exploded.
*
The heavy-earringed book-keeper looked back at him over the rim of her spectacles and Bart smiled but she didn't return it.
Golden's big frame filled the doorway to his office, and when he saw Bart he took a step forward. He held out his big hand, a firm grip and a handshake.
Blue shirt. Gold chain bracelet.
He ushered Bart into the office and closed the door. Everything was as before. The same tidy office, the dated and mismatched furniture. Bart took a seat as Golden paced slowly about the room.
There was a box of twenty cigarettes on the desk and the ash tray had two butts in it. Golden picked up the pack, weighing the dark green box of cigarettes in his hand.
'Government packets,' he said. 'They used to be gold, you know? Benson & Hedges. I always liked that gold box. But then they went and made everything the same, didn't they? And they'd do it to us as well if they could, make us all the same, like robots. But then, you and me Bart, we're not the same at all, are we? I mean, we're very different, you and me. And you and Zack Richards. You're very different too, aren't you? Me and Richards though, not so much. Me and Richards, now we're far more alike.'
He took out a cigarette and he flipped it up with his right hand and he theatrically lowered it to his lips. He lit it and inhaled. Blew out.
'Now me and Zack,' he continued, 'we're like a couple of Bensons in a gold box. We're a pair of similar individuals.' And he looked at Bart with fixed, icy coldness, 'In the end, it's just a question of who gets smoked first.'
He took another puff on his cigarette and smirked.
'Am I supposed to say something to that?' Bart asked.
'My money says you say something,' Glenn Golden said, the humour gone from his face.
Bart laid the envelope of cash on the table.
'Why are you having me followed?'
Golden dragged on the cigarette and Bart waited.
There was a knock at the door. The book-keeper came in. She put Golden's mug in front of him on the desk. Coffee spilled over the side. Golden gave her a wink. She blushed and she glanced back over her shoulder as she left.
And Bart said, 'Why are you paying off Zack Richards?'
'Well now,' Golden had smoked the cigarette down to the butt. He stubbed it out in the tray. He drank some weak coffee and smiled. 'You've heard of insurance I suppose? Of course you have. Everyone has, haven't they? Well I like insurance, Bart. You see insurance means I always make a profit - one way or another. And Graham, following you, well he's insurance of a sort - I'm keeping you safe, Bart. I'm protecting my investment.'
Bart pushed the envelope across the desk.
'Take it,' he said. 'I can't give you anything. I've got no information. Nothing. Nothing on Lola. Nothing on Zack.'
Glenn Golden sat on the edge of his desk, and he sipped his coffee and he took out his phone and he tapped on the screen.
'I'm afraid I disagree with you there. You see, I've paid for your services. It's time to deliver.'
The door opened and Graham Cameron walked in. And he closed the door behind him, and he stood in front of it, thumbs hooked in his pockets, his legs spread wide.
Golden pulled out another cigarette. He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward and lit it. He took a long drag, then laid it down in the glass ash tray.
'It's really very simple, Mr. Crowe. You answer me two easy questions and you'll be free to go and you can keep the money.'
Bart scanned the room. Window. Sofa. Blinds. He leaned back, hands on his head, and he said, 'Okay. Well I was thinking you might answer some questions for me too. Did you burn down the Ten-Ten Casino yourself, or did you send your monkey to do it for you?'
Glenn Golden slammed the desk with his palm. A heavy thud. The cigarette shook in the tray.
'Don't you get cocky with me, you shite-arsed little toe-rag!' And he turned and when he spoke again it was almost a whisper. 'Look, I'm a patient man, Crowe - lucky for you - but Graham here, he's got a temper. Just look at him. Look real close. Go on. Look close and you'll see his fingers itch.'
Graham Cameron took a step forward but Golden nodded sharply. Cameron stopped. His fists were clenched tight. He turned his head to the side and he spat on a pot plant.
Glenn Golden sipped his coffee.
He said,'Where can I find Zack Richards? And don't tell me you don't know because I know for a fact that you do.'
'I don't know,' Bart lied.
Golden sighed. He lifted the cigarette from the ashtray and he nodded. Graham Cameron came forward this time and he hooked Bart's arms, held them back behind the chair, his hot breath condensing in Bart's ear. And Golden in front of him, squatting low, blowing smoke in Bart's face. It stung, and Bart winced and he tried to blink the smoke away, but Golden's big hand gripped his throat and his vision was filled with the orange glow of a cigarette. Shutting his eyes tight, he didn't dare move. He could feel the heat, searing his eyelid. And his lashes crackled and he began to shake. The prickling, clawing heat. And Glenn Golden moved closer.
'You don't mind if I please myself and put out my cigarette. It's just that I see that your eye of yours is black already.'
Bart felt the red heat, the crackle and pop of searing hair. He squeezed his eyelids as tight as he could. His whole face began to sweat and he braced.
And then the heat faded.
And the air cooled.
And he heard Glenn Golden's low laugh.
Still he didn't dare to open his eyes, but he released his breath and he gulped in air. Cameron's wet breath in his ear. And when he did open his eyes, Glenn Golden was leaning on the desk in front of him, theatrically putting out the cigarette in a glass tray.
'Don't you worry, Mr. Crowe,' Golden said. 'It's a fresh pack, so plenty more where that came from. Where can I find Zack Richards?'
'I don't know.'
And Graham Cameron's grip tightened.
'Where is Zack Richards? Don't make me light another. It's not good for me, and I hear passive smoking's a terrible thing.' And Golden slapped his palm hard into the side of Bart's head. 'Who was with you? Who was with you last night, at The Lifeboat?' He slapped him again. Bart said nothing. And Golden said, 'Okay, I'll tell you who you were with. You were with my daughter, Mr. Crowe, and you told her where Zack Richards is hiding, didn't you?'
'How do you know about that?'
'Insurance Mr. Crowe. Remember?' He cuffed him again. 'So, where - is - he?'
'Okay!' Bart said. 'I met Lola last night.'
'And?'
'She wanted to know about the shooting. She was concerned, about my injury.'
'You're lying to me. I know you are fucking lying to me!'
And Golden crossed the room, taking his cigarettes with him. He peered out through the Venetian blinds and Cameron's e
yes followed him, waiting for a signal.
A moment of opportunity. There might not be another.
Swinging both legs up, Bart kicked hard against the desk with both feet. And the desk lifted, rearing like a wild pony. The back of Bart's head smacked back into Graham Cameron's skull, sending the two of them keeling back onto the carpet. Pain throbbed in Bart's head. Still giddy, he span out of the chair, clambering over Cameron, frenzied, pushing himself up, elbowing Cameron's face as he did so.
And he stood and backed into the corner of the room.
Graham Cameron was back on his feet. Golden was moving towards him, both men between him and the door. And Cameron spat and a stream of blood trickled down his chin. He stopped about five feet from Bart with his arms poised like a gunslinger, his body spring-loaded and charged with malice and cool violence. Bart anticipated a punch but Graham Cameron surprised him with a kick to his midriff. Breath rushed from his lungs. And then Cameron came at him with an elbow. And he jammed it against Bart's throat. His fist pumped twice into Bart's stomach, and Bart writhed against the wall, then dropped to the floor. Then Cameron's knee came in. It thudded into his shoulder and knocked him backwards as he tried to stand. He tried again. But pain pulsed up his spine as Graham Cameron's foot stamped on the small of his back. And staggering forward Golden was there, his fist cracking into Bart's jaw, sending him spinning towards Cameron again.
'Doesn't want to go down, does he?' said Golden, laughing.
And Bart was steadying himself against the trestle table by the wall.
Graham Cameron said, 'I'll break his fuckin' legs. That'll do it.'
And he positioned himself for the kick.
Gripping the back edge of the trestle table, Bart pulled it from its stands and he spun it around, certificates and pictures clattering to the ground. Glass frames crunching underfoot. He held the narrow table top in front of him, and he jabbed it at the two older men.
In angry breaths he rasped, 'How do you know I met Lola last night? How do you know? Tell me! I said - how - did - you - know?'
Golden grinned.
'My daughter, Mr. Crowe, is my business. I pay attention.'
And Golden grabbed an end of the plank and he pulled but Bart shoved it sideways, into Golden's stomach. Then he swung the plank at Graham Cameron - but Cameron caught it, yanking it from his grasp. Bart made a break. He ducked under the table top and he ran for the door, and he swiped the envelope of money from the desk as he passed.
The red-headed secretary barely looked up as he barrelled out of the office. And he he rattled down the corridor to the exit.
But when he reached it the door was locked.
Locked. Locked. locked!
He backed up. He rammed it and shouted and hoped the customers in the arcade would hear him and maybe phone the police. But Cameron was behind him in the corridor now. Bart turned to face him. With his back to the door, he kicked out with both feet. Graham Cameron cried out. The door creaked behind him. A tearing sound. Beginning to give. But Cameron took a hold of Bart's leg, and he pulled him back. Gripping the flimsy steel handle of the door, Bart wheeled his free foot round and clumped it into Cameron's head with enough force to make the Scot drop his other foot. And again Bart launched himself at the door. Again it creaked. Again it bent. A slither of light. And he rammed it again. And it clattered open and Bart sprawled, face first, on the blue carpet of The Golden Arcade. It smelled of sweat and rain.
He could make out the feet of people gathering around, taking a good look. And then Graham Cameron's hand gripped Bart's leg, and Bart, twisting onto his back, pushing himself away.
'Get off of me you dirty old man!' he said. 'I won't have sex with you! Get off me you perv! Someone photograph this bastard will you?'
And Graham Cameron let go and receded into darkness, and the broken door wobbled drunkenly on a single, twisted hinge.
37
'Flowers for Mrs. Malone.'
There was no answer and he was about to ring again when the intercom clicked.
A woman's voice said, 'Just leave them outside, love. I'll send my son to collect them in a minute.'
'I need a signature.'
Bart held the flowers up to the camera.
Another long pause.
The door buzzed, then a click. He pulled it open and signalled to Lola who hurried in behind him.
At the door of the flat, a slim woman in her seventies, hair greying but still dark. Full-round glasses with thin metal rims.
Bart handed her the flowers and he held up his card.
'Mrs. Malone, my name's Bartholomew Crowe. I'm a private investigator, and -'
The door was pushed shut, but by then Bart had his foot inside the gap. The door slammed against it and he did his best not to call out. Rumbling and knocking in the flat. Sounds of panic. And as the door swung back, a blur of blonde hair. And then up close. Zack Richards charged him, his head thumping into Bart's stomach, the two of them tumbling to the ground. And Zack was on top, ready to spring away. He looked down at Bart and he grinned and he raised his fist.
But then he saw Lola.
And the rage inside him drained away and his hand fell to his side.
Lola said, 'Hi.'
*
Bart drank milky tea from a china cup and helped himself to a biscuit from a willow-pattern plate.
Mrs. Malone said, 'So, now we're all comfortable, why don't you tell us exactly what you want, Mr. -?'
'Crowe.'
The old lady nodded the way you might nod at an insurance salesman. Bart placed his tea cup on the saucer and smiled.
Then he looked at Zack and said, 'I'm working for your step-mother, but you've already guessed that.' And trying to look conciliatory. 'She's concerned about your safety -'
Zack shook his head, eyes of a cornered cat.
Bart said, 'Look, she's just worried you might be involved in -'
'Oh fuck off,' Zack said. 'Just give it a rest, okay Crowe.'
Mrs. Malone frowned.
Bart continued, '- And, she wants a meeting. That's it. One meeting. That's all. Job done. Game over.'
Richards snorted.
He said, 'Okay. So, let me think. Oh wait, actually, this is an easy one. No.'
And Bart said, 'Listen Zack, you do know I am going to have to tell someone about this place. About this address. There's my client obviously, but - I mean, then there's the police. They definitely want to talk to you, and then there's Mr. Golden. He's very keen to know where you are.'
Lola's lower lip dropped and Zack's eyes scanned the room.
Bart said, 'In fact I had a meeting with Glenn Golden this morning. He threatened to stub a cigarette out in my eye. That was because of you. And I've been shot in the arm - that's because of you. My best friend has a hole in her gut and a twelve inch scar down her side - and that's because of you too. And that's not even counting this.' He pointed to his black eye. 'Do I need to say I've got that because of you? So, I reckon that you probably owe me anyway.'
'I don't owe you a fucking thing!' Zack snarled. Then, 'Sorry Mrs M.'
Lola took Zack's hand.
Bart ignored him and continued, 'So anyway, you should take a moment, weigh up the choices you have. Turn yourself in to the police, or disappear again. Except if you do that, then how are you going to protect Mrs. Malone, here? I mean - once Golden gets this address -'
Lola squeezed Zack's hand.
'Zack.'
And Zack Richards looked at Lola, and his eyes searched for whatever it was she kept hidden behind those pale blue eyes.
He turned to Bart and he said, 'Look, Crowe, I don't owe you shit, but I'm going to tell you how things are, okay. So shut up, and listen.'
Bart dunked a bourbon biscuit.
'All right,' he said.
Zack leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees.
'Well you already know about my real mum, yeah? Emily Cruz. She's Argentinian. She and Dad had wild times in the nineties. Dad was a to
tal superstar back then, and they'd had me before it properly took off. And when it did take off and I was all over the world, man - like New York, Paris, London and - well, everywhere. And I had these really cool private tutors. Artists, musicians. I saw so much stuff. Amazing. Like learning all the time. And not just trigonometry or plate fucking tectonics, but proper soulful stuff, you know, real knowledge, and crazy crazy people.
'Trouble was that Mum was crazy people too. She'd just disappear for weeks at a time. Argentina, Paris or wherever. And sometimes I'd go with her. And wherever I went there'd be people looking after me, you know - which was great - but after a while I began to realise I was seeing Mum less and less. Dad was cool. We'd go riding and we'd shoot and camp and all of that wilderness shit. We'd go to the cool shows and restaurants. Except, more and more, when we did, there'd be this woman there, Lori. I took her for granted at first cos Dad had loads of friends and she was nice and she asked me questions. I suppose I quite liked her.
'And around that time there started being all these stories about Mum in the papers. Like drug busts and crazy parties and shit, and the stories would have a comment from Dad, and it would read as if they were together all the time - like he was by her side and getting in all this help. But he wasn't by her side at all. I didn't get it. Most of Dad's friends did drugs too, and Dad took a load himself, but none of them were ever in the paper.
'And then we were in New York one day, and Lori and Dad tell me that they're together. And at the time I'm like, okay. But what they don't tell me is they've actually been together for like, nearly my whole life. And when I think about that, and the two of them keeping that from me, I burn like crazy. So fucking angry. Like the two of them made a lie of my whole childhood, you know. And then Dad and Lori were 'captured' together for the first time - it was all staged. Totally fake. And after that, Lori took charge of pretty much everything.
