by Declan Burke
‘Christ, no. How long has she been waiting?’
‘Oh, about twenty minutes or so.’
Frank cut Karen off and braced himself for the calm, reasonable tone that always made him feel claustrophobic. He cleared his throat, punched button five. ‘What can I do for you, Margaret?’
‘You got the brochures, right?’
Frank groaned. There’d been a manila envelope sitting on the desk in his study for a few days now; Frank had taken one look at the handwriting and Fosbury-flopped in behind the wet bar. A letter from Margaret generally cost Frank somewhere in the region of a quart of scotch before he screwed up the nerve to bite the bullet and open it.
‘Brochures?’
‘The travel mags, Frank. The girls’ itinerary.’
‘Shit. How much?’
‘Don’t you even want to know where they’re going?’
‘Give me the bad news first. Then break my heart.’
‘Jesus, Frank – chill the fuck out.’
Chill the fuck out being, Frank presumed morosely, the latest buzz phrase Margaret had picked up from the globe-trotting duo, Jeanie and Liz. Ever since the divorce had been finalised, Margaret had, in Frank’s considered opinion, regressed to adolescence. Hence the pierced belly-button, the smoking of hashish, the unsuitable young men.
‘How much?’ he said.
‘They’ll be needing five thousand, Frank.’
Frank felt his chest constrict. ‘Christ. Where’re they going, into orbit?’
Margaret exhaled with a hiss. Frank reckoned the whole world was smoking except him.
‘You just don’t get it, Frank. They’re off to university. They may never see their friends again.’
‘The campus,’ Frank said as evenly as his gritting teeth would allow, ‘is only two miles away. That was one of the reasons you wanted a house in Larkhill Mews. Also, you said they could practice at home if they made the college swim team.’
‘Uh-huh. But Frank, their whole class is off to Colorado on a ski-trip, to say their last goodbyes.’ What Frank was at a loss to understand was how Margaret could say such outrageous things in so reasonable a voice. ‘Are you going to be the only father who doesn’t love his girls enough to allow them say their last goodbyes?’
Frank, despairing, shook his head. It was almost like old times. The emotional blackmail, the deadly calm, the apcercu of contempt.
‘No way are they going to Aspen,’ Frank said. ‘I’ve seen documentaries.’
‘Where they go isn’t your problem, Frank. How they get there is your problem.’
Five whole fucking grand. Frank could have cried. ‘Can you hold a minute, Margaret?’
‘Don’t you dare put me on ––’
Frank punched button five, then buzzed Karen.
‘Yeah?’
‘Ten Marlboro, Karen. The reds. And make it quick.’
‘But what about the coff ––’
Frank punched five again. ‘Margaret?’
‘So I’ll need that five thousand by Friday, or sooner if possible. Now, about the pool – Frank, that pool hasn’t been cleaned in weeks. And the guy who came around the last time, I think he’s blind with glaucoma or something. And if he’s missing half the leaves, Frank, what other crap is he leaving behind? You want your daughters to pick up some disease that could leave them infertile just because you’re too cheap to ….’
The voice was so monotonous it bordered on hypnotic. On and on she droned, lulling Frank into a soporific state where all he could do was chew a hangnail and wonder what the hell was taking Karen with the cigarettes.
Five fucking grand. Where was he going to get five grand?
When Karen finally dropped the smokes on his desk – no matches, naturally – Frank was startled to realise he’d been daydreaming about Margaret. Seeing her gagged, cuffed and blindfolded. And not in a sexy way, either.
Ray
Ray sat down on the hard-backed chair and gave his name to the overweight woman with straggly hair on the other side of the hatch. She riffled through the box on the counter, found Ray’s card, and slipped it through the narrow gap beneath the pane of bulletproof glass. Ray signed his name, passed the card back and smiled.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
She returned the smile with a wan one of her own. Then she winked. ‘If you’re going to take the trouble to change your clothes,’ she whispered conspiratorially, ‘you really should go all the way.’
Ray looked down at his paint-spattered trainers. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said, grinning.
And that was all it was, a quick one-two. But even that was too much for the asshole on line behind Ray.
‘Whyn’t you just get her number, chief?’ The voice was a hoarse bray. ‘Get a room.’
Ray heard some snickers, a guffaw. Saw the woman blush up with a purplish tinge, the tentative smile dying fast, the eyes draining out. Then he stood up and turned around.
There were nine or ten men waiting on line in the high-ceilinged hall but Ray caught the comedian straight away. A small guy, mid-thirties, with a thin pale face and teeth like a mouthful of half-chewed cashew nuts. Wearing this baggy suit with pink chalk-stripes, so the guy looked to Ray like Charlie Chaplin gone anorexic.
Ray stared.
The small guy caught the challenge, bristled up, stepped out of the line working his neck and shoulders. ‘Something I can do for you?’ he said.
Ray just stared.
The small looked around, then swaggered a little closer. ‘Maybe there’s a problem,’ he said, ‘I’m the only one can fix it.’
Ray just stared. At some point, he knew, the guy would have to move towards the hatch counter, and then he’d either go through Ray or go around. If he went around, Ray was planning on walking out through the snickering crowd. And if he went to go through Ray, well, Ray’d just have to deal with that one if it came up.
But there was no way Ray was walking around this miserable midget.
The guy, coming on slow, said: ‘What are you, deaf and dumb? Or just plain fucking stupid?’
Ray just stared.
By now the guy was so close Ray could smell stale sweat, a hint of garlic, cold grease. Ray had to credit the guy’s balls, shorter than Ray by a good five inches and giving away maybe thirty pounds.
‘Get out of my fucking way,’ the guy growled, ‘or I’ll have you planted.’
Saying it just as the security guard came through the glass doors at the end of the hall. Ray, watching the security guard over the guy’s shoulder, leaned in close and said: ‘What do you do, fuck dwarves or pay extra for the tall ones?’
A farmer-looking kid on line whooped. That got the small guy whirling around, tight-lipped, which brought the advancing security guard into his line of vision. He looked back at Ray, smiled a cold one, then tapped a finger against his eye.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he hissed. Then he moved to one side.
Ray strolled out, shrugging his shoulders at the security guard as he passed. The last thing he heard, before the glass doors swung to, was the ratty guy whining: ‘How the fuck would I know my social security number? I’ve been infuckingside the last five years. You see what I’m saying?’
Ray grinned all the way to the Transit, enjoying the warm sun on his face, the pleasant ache in his groin. It’d been a while since Ray last scored, a couple of months at least. And Karen, she was upfront in more ways than one. A nice ass too, and lots of it.
He climbed into the cab, cranked the engine and punched the tape-deck, waited for Bruce to kick in. Thunder Road, the live version, just Bruce and a piano, some harmonica. Ray rolled out of the parking lot into heavy traffic, singing along.
‘Scream those psalms, Mary it’s just sweet ….’
They weren’t the right words, Ray knew. But he liked the song better that way.
Karen
Thinking it over, Karen didn’t like the way she was thinking about Ray. Not that she was thinking about him in any particular way
; it was more that he was on her mind. Karen had other priorities.
First off she needed to pull a job, the end of the month coming due. Also, her period was coming on early. Karen could always tell, it was when the cramps finally stopped from the last time. When it came to biology, Karen’d drawn one of the shortest straws going.
Plus, Rossi. That skinny prick would be getting out soon, and Karen’d take the cramps over Rossi any day of the week.
So the last thing Karen needed was Frank coming on all Demi Moore over the intercom. Cancelling all appointments, he was feeling suddenly unwell and didn’t want to offer a degraded level of consultation. The usual hangover crap. But, Karen thought, sounding nervy with it. When Frank had a hangover he sound dull, nasal. Karen had always thought that if seaweed could talk it’d sound a lot like Frank with a hangover.
Except Frank sounded highly strung, as if he were about to start twanging. And Karen could hear, over the intercom, the Lone Ranger crap playing in Frank’s office. The last time Frank’d started twanging and playing his opera shit, it’d taken a hummer to loosen out his knots.
Not that Karen was complaining. All Karen’d had to do was jerk Frank off behind her nose, hand low down on his shaft. Frank had been none the wiser. Better still, he caught a dose of the guilties and tried to buy them off with a raise for Karen, two hundred a month.
The thing about that was, next time out the ante would be raised. Karen didn’t mind giving out handjobs, it was even good exercise for the wrists. But Frank’d get in Karen’s pants the day the pope proposed, down on one knee with a yellow rose stuck in the crack of his ass.
‘Jesus, Frank. It’s short notice, don’t you think? Most of them are already on their way.’
‘Do your best. Some of them have mobile phones. And make sure to apologise profusely to those who arrive.’
Profuse my hole, Karen thought, imagining the reception area full of blue-rinsed harridans squawking like moulting parrots. Then she twigged.
‘Hey, Frank – if you’re not going to be around, I can take a half-day, right?’
Frank groaned. ‘Isn’t there any filing you could be doing?’
‘Sure, Frank. Filing. On a sunny Thursday.’
‘Okay, Jesus. Take the fucking half-day.’
‘Thanks Frank.’
‘And Karen?’
‘What?’
‘It’s “Doctor” on the intercom, Karen. Please.’
‘Okay by me.’ She winced at that, hearing Ray say it. ‘And can I say “fucking” over the intercom too?’
The connection clicked dead. Karen thought about bringing him in a coffee and slopping some on the desk so she’d have to lean in low mopping up. Frank just loved it when that happened. Then she caught a flash of Ray, the way he’d woken up and turned around, saying sleepily: ‘Hey, is it too late to try that fit-together?’
She wrinkled her nose, sloughed Ray off that way, then thought about what she’d do for the afternoon. Go see Anna, maybe. Anna’d need to know, and soon, that Rossi was getting out. Karen didn’t want Rossi turning up unannounced to see Anna.
The last thing Karen needed, with everything else that was going on, was trying to find Anna a new place to stay after she’d ripped Rossi’s head clean off his shoulders.
Rossi
The scene at the brew with the weirdo, the juju eye shit – that one spiked Rossi’s buzz a little. Still, the freak’d keep. Rossi’d stake out the welfare office later on, maybe in a month’s time, see how well the fucker stared with just one eye.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it, gouging the blunt end of a fork into the socket behind the eyeball, then levering back – ping-fucking-splat. Okay, it’d been a hound that time, but Rossi couldn’t see how the procedure would be any different with some Elvis-looking freak.
Mostly it was the injustice of it all that burned. The freak turning around, picking Rossi out in the queue. Rossi’d been minding his own business until the freak made it personal, staring Rossi down.
Rossi didn’t even know who said what or why, but one thing he’d learned inside, you don’t back down. Don’t go looking for it, but never walk away. You do, every asshole with a blade fronts up and you wind up like Bogie, Dark Passage, head in a bandage, face flayed to shit.
He took a cab into town, relaxing again, enjoying the ride; even tipped the guy for dropping him right to the front door of the shopping centre. Rode the escalator down to the department store that took up the entire basement floor and wandered through the aisles, keeping an eye out for Karen, watching the hordes of sad-sack retirees comparing prices on spaghetti sauce. Rossi had to laugh. Most of the punters drifting through the aisles in these saggy yellow jogging suits, they’d flip if they had to do time, even a single night inside. But they had no problem spending half their lives stuck between high walls of breakfast cereal, this ghastly fucking plinkity-plonk muzak tinkling down from invisible speakers ….
A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
‘What the fuck?’
The heavy hand turned Rossi around and pushed him back against a display of Krunchy Korn fritters.
‘Sir,’ the security guard said, ‘if you’re not engaged in the purchasing process, I will have to ask you to leave.’
‘The purchasing process?’ Rossi squawked, outraged at this latest infringement of his civil liberties. Worse, the infringer was an African-looking motherfucker, all thick lips, flat nose and perfect fucking English.
‘Yes sir. The purchasing process.’
Rossi squirmed and wriggled but failed to shake off the heavy hand. ‘This is fucking harassment,’ he said.
‘This isn’t harassment.’ The security guard grinned, showing straight white teeth. ‘Would you like me to show you harassment? Out back?’
Rossi stopped squirming. The security guard increased the pressure on Rossi’s shoulder, propelling him down the aisle.
‘But I didn’t come here to do any shopping,’ Rossi protested.
‘I can see that, sir.’
‘I mean, I’m looking for someone.’
‘Sir, I suggest you try a dating agency.’
‘Someone who works here,’ Rossi clarified.
The security guard, still pushing Rossi forward, said: ‘Does this person have an actual name?’
‘Yeah. Karen. Karen King. She works on the tills.’
‘Very well, sir. Why don’t I take you around to Personnel. Perhaps they can help.’
Rossi tried a simultaneous nod and shoulder wriggle, which only caused the guard to clamp down tighter. Thirty seconds later Rossi was outdoors and staring at a high red-brick wall against which had been carelessly parked a number of large grey dumpsters.
‘So this is Personnel,’ Rossi said, a sinking sensation in his stomach. ‘It could do with some, I dunno, potted plants maybe.’
The security guard released his grip. Rossi turned around, backing away and massaging his shoulder.
‘We don’t have any Karen Kings working here,’ the security guard said. ‘Haven’t since I started on the job. You’re sure it’s Karen King you’re looking for?’
‘Maybe she left.’
‘Maybe she did.’ The guard jerked a thumb in the direction of the dumpsters. ‘If you come back,’ he said, ‘ever, I’ll put you in one of those and leave you overnight. The one we use for fish.’
Rossi, picking his words with care, said: ‘But if Karen doesn’t work here anymore, I won’t need to come back.’
‘Good boy,’ said the security guard, patting Rossi on the head.
Frank
It was all very simple to Frank. All he needed was a favour from one of his golf buddies. And Frank, in his time, had done favours for his golf buddies above and beyond the call of four-ball duty – cost-price implants for their wives, mostly. But Doug, for some reason, was playing it coy.
‘I don’t know, Frank. How come you need to extend the policy for just eight days?’
Frank re-gripped the phon
e. ‘Because there’s no point extending it any further. I mean, the divorce goes through on Friday week. Why would I want to insure Margaret for after we’re divorced?’
‘This is what I’m not getting. Why would you want to insure her now? I mean, what’s likely to happen in the next eight days?’
‘I don’t know. Isn’t that why we have fucking insurance in the first place?’
‘Sure, yeah. But still, I don’t know.’
It dawned on Frank that Doug was bitching because his commission on eight days’ worth of insurance wouldn’t buy him a vegetarian breakfast.
‘Look, Doug, just think of it as bridging insurance. And once I get this one out of the way for eight days, I’ll be back for the full works again. For me and Gen, like.’
‘It’s all highly irregular, Frank. I mean, for eight days? I’d have to, y’know, load the policy. Otherwise there’ll be questions asked.’
Frank groaned. ‘How d’you mean, load the policy?’
Doug had him by the curlies, knowing Frank couldn’t afford to shop around. Two years now Frank had been suspended pending an investigation on the eye job that went wrong. Christ, it wasn’t a surgeon the woman had needed, it was a bona fide miracle from the Bible, a bolt of fucking lightning or some shit.
Still, Frank wasn’t one to complain. By virtue of one of those little quirks in the law – Bryan, the acid-fried waster, had managed to winkle it out during a moment of clarity – Frank couldn’t practice but could still consult, refer cases on, take a percentage off the top.
After two years of that, though, and with little hope that the Medical Ethics Committee would ever get its act together, deliver a final judgement, Frank was pretty much running on empty.
‘Weeeell,’ Doug said, ‘I couldn’t just give you car and house, contents, that kind of basic package. You want something irregular like you’re asking for, you’ll have to take the comprehensive. I mean, everything.’
Frank swallowed hard, held the receiver away at arm’s length, exhaled as quietly as he could. ‘You mean,’ he said cautiously, hardly able to believe his good fortune, ‘the exact same package again. For eight days?’
