November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin

by M. C. Newberry

  “C’mon Stan, before they have it on their toes!”

  There was a muffled cry from behind and Moe turned to see his companion being helped up by an overly anxious man with a stained trilby hat and, Moe did not doubt, a stained character. Even as the policeman watched, the other man’s hands were in and out of sight as he made a big show of assisting Downes to his feet. But Moe knew a pickpocket when he saw one, even if Downes was oblivious to what was happening. Moe was there before anything was lost, bumping trilby man to one side, hands and all, to take over and help Downes upright.

  The pickpocket, thwarted by this unwanted interruption, was now protesting that he had only been trying to help. Moe led Downes away.

  “I was tripped,” Downes said, angry and embarrassed at being made to look foolish. Pride before a fall personified.

  “No prizes for guessing who by. One of his pals, no doubt.” Moe jerked his head back in the direction of the still protesting dip.

  Downes reddened, mortified as the truth dawned on him. He fumbled for his wallet and then their winning ticket. They were both safe.

  He spluttered in relief. “People like that give real Samaritans a bad name, damn them!” Moe agreed, then held up one hand. The result was being announced. “First … number six …” On The Ball had won!

  Happily, the two men shook hands. Now they had other fish to fry.

  They reached the hurriedly packing bookies and Downes snapped their winning ticket up into their unhappy faces. Of Legge, there was no sign. Downes looked around for him, the disappointment momentarily spoiling his fun. In that instant, the bookmakers had shut up shop and were trying to push their way past, muttering some nonsense about business being finished for the day and to contact them ‘later’. Moe was having none of it when a stern faced man with a neatly clipped moustache and a breezy military manner, smoothly interrupted.

  “Anything I can do to help?” He produced identification showing himself to be a ring inspector, employed by racecourse security to safeguard the honesty and reputation of betting at racecourses.

  The substance of the claim was quickly proved and the bookies were to be found wanting in more ways than one.

  “We’ll barely have enough for the fare home,” one of them whined plaintively as the ring inspector delivered his verdict. Downes obliged with a very impressive version of a poor wronged old git.

  “It probably doesn’t mean very much to the likes of them,” he added pitifully, clutching at Moe’s sleeve, “but it’s a small fortune to an old man and a lad.”

  Moe winced. The ‘lad’ bit was a bit strong. For a second, he thought Downes was actually going to wipe his nose on his sleeve. But the old man wasn’t quite done with the would-be welshers.

  “Perhaps that nice Mr Legge could give you a lift home in that big expensive car of his.” This elicited an immediate scornful response.

  “Him! He wouldn’t give you the snot from his nose!”

  The ring inspector took offence at this verbal vulgarity.

  “That’ll do,” he barked. Shortly afterwards, two pasty-faced and impecunious rail bookmakers were on their way. Moe managed to catch sight of the two lonely fivers left in their satchel before it shut. He almost felt sorry for the men but the feeling was fleeting. He produced his warrant card to the ring inspector and offered his hand to the surprised official.

  “I swear that I will never again complain that you can’t find a ring inspector when you need one.” The moustache bristled, unsure how to react. “I’d buy you a drink but I know how things are about drinking on duty. C’mon Stan.” Leaving the official staring after then in some confusion and with just a hint of disappointment, Moe and Downes headed back towards the Saddlers Bar.

  “Aren’t you driving?” Downes adopted a virtuous, almost saintly tone, far removed from his old git’s whine.

  “Just the one – and you’re buying.”

  “Oh, all right then.”

  The die-hard hangers-on determined to get back their losses on the last race of the day regarded the two crazily laughing men with the patient familiarity of long association with the species on courses across the country. ‘Saddlers’ was a lot quieter now and they had no difficulty this time establishing themselves at the bar with room to spare. Brunhilde was nowhere to be seen and Moe was pleasantly surprised to find himself facing a generous cleavage and a smile to match. Winners’ privileges, he thought as he ordered.

  “Two single malts. The Highland Dream over there would be fine.” Moe indicated the ornate inverted bottle. “We had some luck.” The answering smile was genuine, as was everything else. Moe took a swig of the whisky and the glow spread rapidly. “He’s paying!”

  Downes was up to the occasion. “One for yourself, my dear. An old man’s pleasure and privilege.” The charm and deft lightness of touch took Moe by surprise and he was impressed to see how the barmaid lit up with delight as she poured herself a glass of wine. But Downes had taken only a sip or two when he signalled to Moe and indicated the stairs to an outside balcony. “Spoilsport,” thought Moe but he noticed that his companion was looking a bit peaky. Too much excitement. With an apologetic smile at the barmaid, he let himself be shown the way out to the fresh air.

  The balcony was one of a number, with a commanding view of most of the course and its infrastructure. Downes subsided with a sigh of relief on to a bench and leant back. “Sorry about cramping your style Arthur. But I don’t expect Marie would mind.” Moe spluttered a gulp.

  “You crafty so and so.” But he had to laugh.

  “I felt a little dizzy … can’t take the pace these days. Bear with me.” Downes stared out over the prospect before them. The undulating course stretched away left and right, its far side bordered by a newly built, rather nice housing estate, liberally dotted with trees.

  “Nice spot to live for a racing fan,” Downes observed.

  “Mmmm,” Moe agreed. He was doing what all coppers did, on and off duty. Clocking. Sussing out the scenery. Either side of them were several other balconies, occupied by groups of people most with field glasses and full glasses, all enjoying a good time in various stages of alcoholic affectation. Having taken them all in, Moe leaned over the rail of their own balcony and peered down at the throng beneath.

  “See anyone we know?” Downes enquired genially from behind him.

  “Nah … just habit … sorry.” Moe was pulling back when he stopped sharply. Carefully, he inclined his head back over the guardrail.

  “Amend that last remark.”

  “Oh?” Downes was at his side, trying to see.

  “There …” Moe nodded down and to the left. “There … the smooth looking guy with the sharp suit and the permatan. See who I mean?”

  Downes saw but was none the wiser.

  “Should I know?” Downes waited patiently for an explanation.

  Detective Inspector Tighe was using a large pair of binoculars to gaze into the distance when he was joined by another younger man who placed a hand on the policeman’s shoulder in casual intimacy. Moe coughed then blinked as the fine spray of single malt got up his nose.

  “I think I’m seeing things.”

  “I don’t know what I’m s’posed to be seeing,” replied Downes peevishly.

  Moe wiped his eyes and looked again, following the direction of DI Tighe’s binoculars. Suddenly, a familiar skin-headed hulk burst into prominence among the crowd like a boil demanding to be lanced. This was getting curioser and curioser. Then the hulk was gone, lost to sight as the crowd closed around him.

  Moe swung his attention back to the watching DI and his newly arrived companion. The hand on the DI’s shoulder was reaching playfully for the binoculars. Tighe jerked away irritably and was muttering something rude on losing his quarry. But Randy Hands couldn’t have cared less. Laughing and lunging, he was all over the DI like some adolescent groupie groping a pop star. Tighe’s irritation evaporated as he play- boxed the young gardener to a giggling standstill while intrigued raceg
oers looked on. Fortunately, neither of the combatants chanced to look up. Moe sank back and shook his head. It was a funny old world.

  “So what was that all about?” Downes asked finally.

  “Seeing things you wouldn’t believe,” Moe replied.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Ho-Hum restaurant was well known for its exotic cuisine, in Baytown and far beyond its borders.

  According to DS Swift, whose ample bulk testified to knowledge of such matters, its reputation had never been tainted by rumours of missing moggies and disappearing doggies and he readily recommended it as a venue for an evening out.

  Wanting to celebrate their win, Moe had contacted the CID man at his office and had earned an immediate and appreciative response.

  “Just say when!”

  As far as Moe could guess, Baytown CID work would just have to wait. Rachel would like to come; was Moe bringing Marie? You bet he was.

  She was at home washing her hair when Moe rang, and when, at last, she had finished going “wow” at the news of his win, he asked her out. “Just say when!”

  “That’s Swift’s line,” he joked. But she didn’t get it.

  Downes was also ‘in’, only too eager to ‘enjoy the first night out for many a day’ as he put it. But wouldn’t he be in the way, like the proverbial wotsit at a wedding? Moe had said no and it was settled.

  …………………………

  Rachel beckoned Marie closer and said in a stage whisper, “What say you we dump these rozzers and go for the Paul Newman lookalike they brought along?”

  Downes preened, smiled broadly and dropped ten years off his age. “He can afford you,” Swift retorted.

  Rachel grabbed the CID man’s fleshy thigh and bared beautiful teeth. “Watch it buster. We don’t come cheap, you know!” Swift looked pained. “I know.”

  Moe raised his glass. “I’d like you all to join me in a toast to the man whose wise advice helped make this evening possible. To ‘Screwy Naylor’.”

  Marie got a fit of the giggles.

  “Who?”

  “A friend indeed to this friend in need,” Moe replied patiently.

  Marie leaned across the short distance between them and murmured so that only Moe could hear. “I thought that was me.” Moe murmured back, “You’re more than a friend.” Marie went all soft and luminescent and scuffed his cheek with her lips. Moe tried again but louder.

  “TO SCREWY NAYLOR!”

  As one, they lifted their glasses. “TO SCREWY NAYLOR!”

  “And Maurice Moe, God bless his memory,” Downes added quietly. Moe thanked him with his eyes as they drank.

  Swift felt inside his jacket, and brought out a well-worn wallet from which he produced, with a flourish, his winning betting slip.

  “The lads in the office think I’m their best pal. Ernie Swift, bookie-basher extraordinaire!” Extravagantly, he kissed the small bit of paper.

  Moe sighed and rolled his eyes. “So much for keeping quiet.” Swift hurriedly replaced the slip and buried his wallet out of sight, having the grace to look a little sheepish.

  Rachel squeezed Swift’s thigh. “Why don’t you kiss me like that?”

  Marie gave Swift’s arm a comforting pat. “Maybe the next time you will … right?” Swift nodded – swiftly.

  Downes was watching, enjoying the fun. But his eyes were serious as he looked over at Swift.

  “Let’s hope you get your money OK.”

  Swift looked back. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “We saw our local bookie Legge at the course with the two men who tried to jump our bet. None of them looked happy, Legge least of all. Could be he’s got some bad cash-flow problems. Who knows?”

  Swift wasn’t impressed. “He’d better not try any funny business, that’s all. He’d be making a few enemies he could do without.” Then he seemed to have an idea, looking from Downes to Moe and back again.

  “How about you two coming along. Moral support if you like. He doesn’t know you’re a copper does he Arthur?” Moe shook his head. “There you are! He could complain that I was using my job to lean on him if I was to go along with a few discontented colleagues with a vested interest,” Swift tapped his unseen wallet, “abuse of authority and all that.”

  “I’m game,” Downes replied.

  “And they shot him,” Moe joked grimly.

  “We go in together, and if he gets stroppy,” Swift gestured at Downes, mischief in his eye, “Paul Newman here gets to sort him out.”

  Rachel took the old man’s hand in hers and stroked it amorously.

  “He would too,” she said huskily and was rewarded with a watery smile.

  …………………………

  The girls had gone to the girls’ room, leaving Downes leaning over a large fish tank examining its flamboyant content, while Moe and Swift sat waiting for the bill. Moe decided to test the water. “I saw your DI Tighe this afternoon … at the races.”

  “Did you now? What would he be doing there when I’m left holding the can at work?” Swift was clearly not amused by Moe’s revelation.

  “I thought you might tell me.” Moe pressed on. “Is the smooth Mr Tighe a married man?”

  “No … why?” Swift leered forward. “Was he with a bit of all-right?”

  “Depends on which side you dress.”

  “Oh-oh,” Swift said flatly and sat back.

  “He was in company with a young guy I know from the caravan park.”

  Swift cracked his knuckles. “I trust your judgement Arthur – on gee-gees anyway.” He looked around impatiently for the waiter. The latter was in animated conversation with Downes about the merits of the various occupants of the fish tank.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, however grudgingly and sparingly given, Ernest,” Moe chuckled dryly. “The young man in question is gay, out and proud.”

  “And my DI is gay, out there – and sussed, I suppose!”

  “I’ll reserve my own judgement, but on the evidence it looks like three out of three.”

  “I think I could do with a coffee.”

  “But was it business or pleasure? I’ve been asking myself,” Moe went on. The waiter arrived, took Swift’s order for five coffees and left them, passing Downes who was still entranced by the riotously hued residents of the tank.

  “Anyway, he’s your DI. I thought you might know the hows and whys.”

  Swift shrugged expansively. “He’s a law unto himself, is our DI Tighe. I have my own ideas about pleasure, and as for work taking him there, your guess is as good as mine.” A fleeting smile.

  “Fate fucking with fortuity – your words, I recall.”

  “The analogy may be appropriate,” Moe replied. Swift slowly sucked in his breath, expanding alarmingly. Then, like a balloon subverted by a pin, he subsided into a rumpled replica of his larger self.

  “I never cease to be amazed,” Swift blinked, his mind obviously conjuring up disturbing visions of his boss and his unknown (to Swift) boyfriend cavorting in full view among the racegoers.

  “I don’t think I’d underestimate your Mr Tighe in any chosen area of endeavour.”

  “I won’t. He’s all right.” A pause was followed by a magnanimous throwaway gesture of the hands. “I wish for his sake he has as much success in love as anyone else – honestly.” Swift seemed genuine.

  Moe was remembering Randy’s hand on Tighe’s shoulder.

  “Sly dog.” Swift growled.

  “Gay dog!” Moe responded.

  “Who’s a sly dog?” Rachel asked, returning to the table.

  “Who’s a gay dog?” Marie enquired, close behind her.

  “Why me, of course, my dear ladies,” Downes beamed behind them, holding back their chairs for them. He was even better being Paul Newman than a whining old git, Moe thought gratefully.

  “You’re more of a pussy cat,” Rachel purred.

  “Don’t be fooled by that smarmy manner,” Swift cut in, “he’s a consummate play-actor.” />
  “I’m Paul Newnan,” Downes struck a passable theatrical pose.

  “Yeah, a guy known for his famous sauce!” Moe observed tartly. “Do I detect the little green God of envy?” Marie lifted her head at Moe, teasing him mercilessly with her eyes-to-die-for.

  Rachel made another grab for Swift’s thigh. “Just because they haven’t got the sort of style that makes a woman feel special …”

  “Ow! Don’t DO that. My leg’ll be black and blue,” Swift complained.

  Rachel sniffed and confided loudly to Marie. “I’m trying for black and white.” Just then the waiter arrived with their coffees and some semblance of calm and order was restored. Rachel faced Moe across the table.

  “And what about you? How long are you staying, Officer Moe?”

  “A few more days, give or take.”

  Rachel leaned towards Marie. “What will you do then, girl?”

  Moe felt funny inside when he saw Marie’s obvious tissue-eyed dismay. “I don’t know. Make a real bitch of myself to everyone I meet maybe?” There was a very real danger of the mood going downhill but Swift came to the rescue, carelessly borrowing a phrase from Moe. “But are we downhearted? The night is still young and so are we.”

  “Speak for yourself, sonny-boy,” Downes grumbled good-naturedly. Rachel squealed as Swift went for revenge and made a grab at her leg under the table.

  “You’re as young as the person you feel,” he cried and kissed her. She kissed him back. “You’re disgusting, but I love you,” she crooned contentedly as the others clapped. But Moe saw how Marie’s smile was suffused with a sadness he knew was his own fault and he hated himself at that moment.

  …………………………

  They huddled in a disconsolate group outside on the pavement as the lights in the Ho-Hum restaurant dimmed and went out. A fine drizzle was falling now, the type that finds out every inadequate garment and spoils a good hair-do.

  Moe keyed the passenger doors of his Astra and he and Downes waited on Marie as she slipped gracefully into the front nearside seat. Rachel went for a last word as Downes climbed in. Swift took Moe aside.

  “You seem to be telling me more than I can tell you. Sorry – no excuses, just the usual story of too many demands at work and a demanding woman.” He smiled away in Rachel’s direction. Moe was about to go to the driver’s door of the Astra but Swift hadn’t finished.