by Hannah Howe
“You didn’t come to visit.”
He turned away and stared at a line of racing car prints, adorning his north wall. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see me. The last time we spoke we parted on bad terms.”
“The last time we spoke you were making threats against me.”
Again, the casual lift of his shoulder. “I might have said the odd hot word.”
From his position beside the door, Mac leaned forward. While glaring at Mickey, he asked, “Why were you making threats against the Wee Lassie?”
Mickey dropped his feet to the floor. In one lithe movement he stood, his body arching forward, his hands pressed hard against the edge of his desk. He glared at Mac. “Who rattled his cage?”
Mac stepped into the centre of the office, his shoulder brushing a large punchbag, suspended from the ceiling. Mickey liked to work out and the punchbag was a regular feature of his office. I think the punchbag was there partly to release Mickey’s frustration and partly to impress his clients. Mickey and Mac squared up and I feared bloodshed.
“Leave it there, Mac,” I insisted. “Let me deal with this.” Toe to toe, jaw to jaw, Mac and Mickey glared at each other. Then, responding to my request, Mac inched towards the door, offering daylight between the two men. Mac had backed down, so he deserved an explanation. “Mickey made threats against me because I repeatedly spurned his advances. And because he tried to seduce Alis Storey and I put a stop to it.”
Mac snarled, his chin offering an involuntary dip, akin to a boxer dodging a punch. “You tried to seduce a sixteen year old kid. You dirty old man.”
At his desk, Mickey’s hands clenched into tight, rock-like fists. He sneered, “Get him out of here, Sam, before I do something I might regret.”
“Want to try it, pal?” Mac challenged.
The two men squared up and this time I had to climb to my feet to separate them. “Leave it, Mac. Let me handle this.”
I placed my left hand against Mac’s chest and eased him towards the door. Again, he complied, though the anger on his face and the reluctance in his tread suggested that this episode was far from over.
While leaning against his desk, Mickey straightened his leather jacket and conceded, “Okay, so Alis was a mistake. But I have a different girl for every night of the week and my wife on Sundays, being rejected by you and losing out on Alis Storey is hardly grounds for attempted murder.”
I took his point with a pinch of salt, then asked, “Where were you on the thirteenth of December?”
Mickey shrugged. He offered me a self-satisfied smirk. “Can’t remember.”
“Try to remember,” I insisted.
He thought for a moment, toying with me, playing mind games. Then, he said, “I’ll check my diary.” He removed a black leather-bound diary from his desk drawer. With his back to me, he flicked through the diary, nodding with satisfaction, the smirk still fixed on his face. “Oh, that’s right; I was on a stakeout.”
“Where?” I asked.
He shook his head and the smirk developed into a wide grin. “I’m afraid that’s privileged information to be shared only with my client.”
I sighed. That excuse was familiar to me; indeed, I’d used it myself. Nevertheless, it suggested that Mickey had something to hide.
After placing the diary in his desk and locking the drawer, Mickey said, “Look, Sam, you’re beautiful and I still fancy you, but you’ve got an inflated opinion of yourself if you think a man will attempt murder simply because you’ve rejected him. You’ve got a lot going for you, but no man will risk everything for you.”
I turned away from Mickey Anthony and stared out of the window, at a snow-shrouded train as it pulled out of the station. “Coming from you, Mickey, I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
The air within the office crackled with tension. I sensed that Mickey and Mac shared a common mind in that they wanted to beat the living daylights out of each other. Like two boxers, they eyed each other with vicious intent.
I wanted to question Mickey further, but I felt very tired and the nausea was returning. What’s the matter with you, Samantha; this has dragged on long enough. Get a grip, shake this damn thing off and get on with your life. The after-effects of the shooting were still dragging me down and I was becoming very annoyed with myself.
Back in the Bugatti, I took a sip of water while Mac observed, “You’re looking strained, Missy.”
I nodded, then conceded, “I don’t feel too good.”
“I’ll take you home to the good Dr Storey.” Mac leaned towards the Bugatti’s beautiful wooden dashboard with its multitude of dials and switches. He fired the car’s engine while glancing up to Mickey’s office. “Matey up there, I think he’s lying. I think he knows where he was on the day you were shot, and he weren’t on no stakeout.”
Mac was right. Mickey was concealing something, hiding the truth. But in all honesty, at that moment, I felt too lousy to care.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mac dropped me off at Alan’s house where I undressed and climbed into bed. I slept, fitfully, and it was dark when I awoke.
“A visitor for you,” said Alis while stepping to one side, allowing Dr Felicity Barr to enter the room. At a guess, Alan had taken one look at me and had called his friend, the doctor; while I could understand his concern, I wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
“Hello,” Dr Barr smiled. She was dressed in a dark overcoat while snowflakes melted into her short, dark hair. She removed the coat then sat beside me on the bed. “Alan tells me that you are feeling under the weather.”
“I feel nauseous,” I admitted. “My throat hurts, like hell, I have a bitter taste in my mouth and my lips are on fire. Also, I’m using the bathroom, a lot. I thought maybe I’ve picked up a bug at the hospital.”
“Possible,” Dr Barr conceded. From her medical bag, she removed a blood pressure monitor and a thermometer. After conducting a thorough examination, she reported, “Temperature up, blood pressure up...something is definitely troubling you. I’ll prescribe more antibiotics and see how we go from there.”
“Not penicillin,” I cautioned.
“Not penicillin.” Dr Barr offered me a tight smile. “I severely reprimanded the person who administered penicillin to you; a mishap like that will not happen again.” She returned her medical instruments to her bag, then sat beside me, her fingers adjusting her gold necklace, placing a small crucifix against the black of her lambswool sweater. “Of course,” she continued, “it could be a reaction to the shooting, a stress reaction. You’ve been through a very traumatic event. My main advice to you is rest, maybe in your own bed, away from people and distractions. Alan tells me that you’ve been wandering the city asking questions about the shooting, but such behaviour will not help you; you have to rest and be kind to yourself. I appreciate your desire to know who threatened you but, as I understand it, the police are questioning a man in connection with the shooting. Please, for the sake of your health, leave it with the police, leave it at that and rest.”
“You’re right.” I closed my eyes and turned away, allowing my head to sink into the pillow. “I think I will rest. Thank you, Dr Barr.”
“Felicity.” Her right hand covered my left hand and she gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here as a friend, as well as a doctor.”
“Thank you, Felicity.”
I slept, losing track of time. It was still dark when I scurried to the bathroom. I spent some time in there, in a state of extremis, then I staggered out and fell back into bed.
Concerned, Alis popped her head around the bedroom door. “Are you all right, Sam?”
I nodded. I’d released some of the bug from my system and was feeling a bit better. “I’m okay. On the mend.”
“Dad has nipped to the chemist, to get your prescription.” Alis entered the bedroom; she sat on the bed. “Would you like to talk?”
“Yes. Talk to me, Alis; tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“First, let me tell you that Sweets phoned. The police have arrested Jesus. They think that the fingerprint evidence and the gun are enough to imply guilt.”
Into the pillow, I groaned. “I think they’re wrong.” To Alis, I explained, “I questioned Vincent Vanzetti. He was top of my list, but after talking with him, I’m inclined to cross him off the list. Like he said, if he wanted me dead, I would not be alive now.” I paused to sip a mouthful of water. “I also questioned Mickey Anthony. He was evasive. He lied to me.”
Alis bit her bottom lip. She turned away, to hide her guilt. “You think Mickey is annoyed with you because of what happened between us.”
“He needs women, uses them, to boost his ego. We punctured his ego, the worst thing that could happen to him.”
Alis nodded. She turned to face me. She was young, inexperienced, yet intelligent beyond her years. “If Mickey did this to you,” she said while staring at my bandaged shoulder, “then it’s my fault.”
“No,” I replied, my tone hard, decisive, “if Mickey pulled the trigger, he’s to blame and no one else, so don’t burden yourself with that guilt.” I offered up a wan smile and my voice softened, “Are you over him yet?”
Alis nodded, disturbing her long, wavy hair, which caressed her cheek, its shadow framing her youthful face. “I thought I loved him. He sucked me in with his charm. I know he’s old enough to be my father. I was so stupid to believe the things he said about me, the lies he told me. I guess I sensed that you and dad were getting together and I wanted someone to love, someone to call my own true love. I was very immature and stupid.”
I reached across the duvet and patted Alis on the arm. “We’ve all been there, Alis.”
“I feel nothing but contempt for him now. Mickey was a very bad period in my life.”
It was an effort, but I tried to sit up. While struggling into my dressing gown, I said, “But you’ve learned from the experience.”
“Yeah.” Alis dipped her head. When she looked up, her face was swathed in a shy smile. “I met this guy in art class.”
I grinned. “Tell me about him.”
“Not much to tell...”
I sat up straight while Alis lent a hand, to adjust my pillows, their softness and bulk offering welcome support.
“...except he’s my age, loves art, wants to take me to the cinema.”
“What does your dad think of him?”
“Dad approves.”
“Learn from someone who tried to run before she could walk, take it slow.”
Alis swept her hair from her shoulders, revealing her beautiful face. She flashed me a heart-melting smile. “I will.”
We were lapsing into small talk when Alan walked in with my medicine. “Take this, Sam,” he ordered, “it will soon have you jumping around.” He poured out a spoonful of the foul-tasting medicine and I gulped it down. “And, Sam,” he added with a strong hint of authority in his voice, “this time you’re going to take the doctor’s advice, you’re going to rest. Right?”
I smiled meekly while the rebel in me offered a silent growl. “Right.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The following morning Mac arrived with a message – Vincent Vanzetti had some information for me and he wanted to meet up. Alan was at work while Alis was at school, so I thought I could get away with a little mild deception. Breaking my word to Alan, which produced a pang of guilt, I struggled into my clothes then allowed Mac to chauffeur me to the rendezvous point.
Vincent Vanzetti lived near the village of St Donats, eighteen miles to the west of Cardiff. We met at a local sports field where a bunch of students, presumably still on Christmas leave from college, had arranged a football match. The ground was rock hard while a thick blanket of snow covered the pitch. Clearly, this was no ordinary game of football. Indeed, most of the players were dressed in tracksuits, though a few brave souls did bare their knees and thighs. The goalkeepers sat on wooden chairs beside their goalposts while the referee wore a long white coat and a thick ginger wig. As the ball rolled over the ground, it accumulated snow and the players laughed at the absurdity; this was a fun fixture, far removed from the professional game, from the spectre of multimillionaires prancing across our television screens.
As we walked around the perimeter of the pitch, Vincent Vanzetti adjusted the collar on his sheepskin coat and asked, “Are you a sports fan?”
“I watch the occasional game of rugby, but I’m not really a sporty type.”
He glanced at the students and their efforts to stand upright, let alone run after the football. “So you’re not a follower of the beautiful game.”
“At its best, football can be exciting,” I conceded. “At its worst it can be littered with prima donnas and actors.”
Vanzetti nodded, then grimaced as one of the players took the football full in the face. While the player’s friends gathered round to offer words of solicitude, or to laugh, depending on their persuasion, Vanzetti said, “My grandfather was a footballer, a goalkeeper, for Napoli. The fans loved him. He died a pauper, but there are times when I envy the adoration, the affection the fans showered on him.”
On the pitch, the referee produced a Christmas card, which served as a red card and he ordered the player deemed responsible for causing the facial injury from the field of play. As the footballer departed, to friendly jeers and a hail of snowballs, he flashed his behind, an act of stupidity or bravery, depending on your opinion.
Turning his back on the footballers, Vanzetti stared at me. “I have some news for you. I put the word out and can confirm that there is no contract out on you. Many people I spoke to would like to see the back of you, but none of them are prepared to risk a bullet, yet.”
“So that means the gunman is closer to home and the shooting is linked to something personal.”
“That is my conclusion, yes.”
I nodded. Closer to home. Mickey Anthony. In many respects, he was an obnoxious person, but I have to admit I did like him. “Thank you, Mr Vanzetti.”
Vanzetti shrugged, no doubt sensing my disquiet. “It must be tough,” he added, “being a lone woman in the rough and tumble of our game.”
“My work has its difficult moments.”
“And rewards?”
“I like to help people, that’s my reward,” I replied simply.
Vanzetti glanced over his shoulder to the footballers. Someone had scored a goal. In their excitement, the goal scorer’s teammates had wrestled him to the ground, where they showered him with kisses.
“Ever thought of becoming a team player?” Vanzetti asked. “There’s more security when you’re part of a team.”
“How?” I asked.
“I have many men on board, but few capable women.”
I arched an eyebrow while my lips twitched into a smile. “Are you offering me a job?”
Vanzetti shrugged with his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. He gave me a non-committal look, take it or leave it, then said, “I’m open to the idea.”
“Doing what?”
“Handling jobs that are not suitable for the men in my organisation.”
My smile developed into a broad grin. “Like washing your dishes and ironing your shirts?”
“I have a dishwasher for my dishes and a maid to iron my shirts,” he replied, his voice stern, his expression serious. “No, I was thinking of something a little grittier, something that would suit your considerable talents.”
This was a backhanded compliment of the highest order. One of the leading villains in the country recognised that I had certain abilities. Furthermore, he would welcome me into his organisation. My ego was tempted to run with the idea, but instead I said, “I am very flattered, Mr Vanzetti, but feel that I must decline.”
“Your reasons?” he asked, his tone laced with curiosity.
Throwing caution to the wind, I offered him the truth. “When all is said and done, you are a villain, albeit an urbane one.”
The corners of his moustache bris
tled and I feared reprisals. However, his lips soon slipped into an easy smile. “It takes balls to speak to me like that. No one in my organisation would speak to me like that. Don’t look so worried,” he added, “I’m offering you another compliment.”
The football match was drawing to a close. The players gathered around a goalmouth and proceeded to take penalties. The snow held up some of the penalties while many of the penalty takers ended up flat on their backsides. The goalkeepers were the only constant; unable to dive on the hard ground, they slithered over the icy surface displaying all the grace of hippopotami on roller-skates.
In silence, Vanzetti accompanied me across the field, to the well-gritted main road and Mac’s Bugatti. At the car, he turned to me and said, “There might be a time when we’ll need each other.” Then, to Mac, he added, “Look after her, Big Man.”
Mac nodded and we watched as Vanzetti’s bodyguard chauffeured him away in his bottle-green Bentley.
“Where now, Missy?” the Big Man asked.
“My office. I always go there when I need to think.”
“Have you identified the shooter?”
“I don’t know about that,” I admitted, “but I’m beginning to think that the shooter is someone I regard as a friend.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mac and I were in my office sipping warm coffee, taking the chill from our bones, when the phone rang. It was Sweets, “Jesus has confessed; he insists that he shot you.”
“I don’t believe it,” I replied. “I want a word with Tyler.”
Mac helped me into my trench coat and into his Bugatti then, once again, we were on the road.
The city streets were quiet, compared with the pre-Christmas rush. Heavy snowdrifts still blocked the side streets, though the main roads were passable with care.
As we paused at a pedestrian crossing to allow an elderly woman and her dog to walk past, Mac groaned, “You know that when I get to within two miles of a police station I come out in a rash.”
“It’s called guilt, Mac.”
