by Declan Burke
Ray watched the guy fold in half, then slide down the lobby door.
He thought it through fast, the consequences of letting Karen know he he’d been outside her place, prowling her, then went for his phone, shouldering out the Transit’s door, dialling up as he sprinted across the road towards the security gates that were already closing, his view of the lobby door obscured by a stand of bamboo.
‘Hello?’
‘Karen?’
‘Who’s this, Ray?’
‘Yeah. Don’t answer the ––’
Ray could hear a buzzing in the background, Karen saying: ‘Hold on, Ray. I need to answer this.’
‘Woah! That’s what I’m ringing ––’
Clunk.
The buzzing stopped, Ray hearing a static hiss at Karen’s end. Then: ‘Put that away, Rossi. Don’t point that fucking thing at me.’
Ray took the steps three at a time.
Karen
‘Shit, Rossi,’ Karen’d been saying before the buzzer sounded again, ‘that looks like it’s going to need stitches. Maybe some metal pins to straighten it out. But you’re definitely, I’d say, looking at tetanus shots. Two, minimum.’
Rossi moaning, Karen enjoying herself, Rossi exactly where she wanted him, helpless and in pain. So she wasn’t impressed when her buzzer sounded again. She marched across to the intercom, wondering if she was going to strike it lucky two-for-two, find another guy at her door in pink chalk-stripes crying about his double-stitched dick. Having to tell him too, put it away, don’t point that fucking thing at me ….
Sitting back now in the rocking-chair beside the artificial red-brick fireplace, sipping a tall vodka, Karen watched Rossi and Ray, the way they knew one another but didn’t know how. She’d seen it before she didn’t know how many times, two guys sniffing around waiting for the chance to piss up the other guy’s leg. Except Rossi was more interested in gobbling Nervocaine, sucking hard on the joint Karen’d rolled for him, than staring Ray down. Ray, Karen could tell, wondering why Karen was entertaining the scumbag with his dick stuck in his zipper.
Not that it was any of Ray’s business who Karen entertained.
‘Rossi?’ she said. ‘I’m calling you a cab. No way you’re bleeding to death on my couch. I don’t need the grief right now.’
‘No hospitals,’ Rossi gasped. ‘They’ll only call the cops.’
‘For a guy with his schlong stuck in his zip?’
‘How come you were outside?’ Ray wanted to know.
Asking, as it happened, the very question Karen wanted to ask Ray, Karen starting to wonder how come Ray’d just happened to be passing. He’d already told her, he lived way over on the other side of town.
‘Karen,’ Rossi pleaded, ignoring Ray, ‘no kidding, I’ll sleep on the floor. It doesn’t have to be a bed or anything.’
‘You think you’re staying here?’
And, shit, there it was. The look. Rossi tilting his head, eyes wide, like a baby seal that just got clubbed. ‘Karen….’
‘The lady said,’ Ray cut in, ‘she’s calling you a cab.’
Ray sounding calm and reasonable, telling Rossi how it was going to be. Karen letting it go but wondering too where Ray got off calling the shots in Karen’s home. Wondering how he’d feel if Karen wandered by his place late some night and started laying down the law, making his decisions for him.
‘You don’t want to take a cab,’ Ray was saying, ‘then fine, I’ll drive you. How would that be?’
Rossi’s face shrivelling up into a pinkish-looking walnut as he glared at Ray now with the look Karen’d seen too many times before. So she was glad, for Ray’s sake, that Rossi couldn’t make any quick moves, had his hand bandaged. When Rossi lashed out he hit like a snake, fast and dripping poison.
‘Rossi,’ she said, ‘there’s no way you’re staying here. None. I’m calling a cab, I don’t even mind paying for it, but either way you’re leaving and never coming back. If you do, you won’t have dick enough left to worry about it getting stuck in anything ever again. You hear that?’
A little dead-eyed now, the jay-Nervocaine combo starting to kick in, Rossi said: ‘All’s I want is the Ducati, Karen. The .44. The sixty grand, it’s mine.’
There and then Karen decided Rossi could go whistle. Threatening rape, prowling Karen’s apartment, packing a knife – the five years away hadn’t done Rossi any good at all. The guy still fucking up, suit or no suit.
‘The bike I’m confiscating,’ she said, ‘along with the .44, for all the grief you’ve ever thrown my way. The sixty grand? That’s Anna’s, the going rate for losing an eye. How’s that sound?’
Not good. Rossi looked to Karen like a deranged imp, the dead eyes suddenly thundery, flashing lightning. But even that one flash was enough to let Karen know she’d be moving on again, somewhere new where Rossi couldn’t find her.
She rang a cab, thinking about the cottage out by the lake. Rossi’d never been too keen about what he called the not-so-great outdoors.
‘Don’t tell them he’s going to hospital,’ Ray whispered. ‘The guy won’t pick up if he thinks there’s trouble.’
‘Hi, yeah. Can I get a cab, please? To, uh, the city centre. Great, thanks. How long’ll that be?’
Karen, giving her details, the address, felt a cold trickle in her stomach, a sensation she hadn’t felt in nearly five years now. It meant, she knew, one thing: Rossi. The inevitability of him, how he’d track her down no matter where she went, how much trouble she took….
The things Karen were proudest about was how she’d nailed her father and tamed a Siberian wolf. Against that was the only thing she could never control, bring to heel – Rossi.
And what she hated most was the way Rossi made her feel she’d always be running.
Ray
What Ray couldn’t figure out was how Karen was so calm, the scumbag in the Charlie Chaplin suit bleeding all over the room. Then, they get the guy into the cab and gone, she goes: ‘How come you were outside?’
Ray thinking, shit, tough audience. ‘I told you, I was just ––’
‘Yeah, right. “Out for a drive, just happened to be passing.” That’s about standard for some guy in a raincoat.’
‘You think I’m a perv?’
‘I’m not asking you to tell me what I think. I’m asking what you were thinking, hanging around outside my place when you’re not supposed to be there.’
Rocking again in the chair beside the fireplace, a foot tapping fast on fresh air. Grim, like she’d dealt with this kind of crap once too often already. Holding the vodka like a prop, not sipping at it.
‘Okay,’ Ray said. ‘I was out for a drive ––’
Karen snorted.
‘No kidding,’ he said, ‘I was out for a drive. It’s something I do when I can’t sleep. You see things, especially at weekends, they can be interesting.’ No snort this time. ‘So, I’m out, I thought I’d swing by this way, see if there were any lights on, maybe call in.’
‘This even though I told you I didn’t want to do anything tonight. And how’d you get my number, anyway?’
‘In the Laundromat,’ he said sheepishly. ‘When the woman rang your mobile? I could see her fingers when she dialled up.’
‘So now you’re peeping my number?’
‘Yeah. Sorry about that.’
Karen brushed aside the apology. ‘What’d you think, I’d have changed my mind by now? Spend a couple of hours away, I’d be mooning around thinking about Ray the sack-jockey?’
Ray thinking, shit, enough’s enough.
‘Hey, Karen – no offence meant, okay? I just thought I’d like to see you. And if that makes me some kind of pervert in your eyes, then maybe you might want to think about the kind of company you keep, makes you presume someone’s a flake just because he thinks it’d be nice to call by, maybe surprise you.’
Laying it out there without mentioning the scumbag, Rossi in the pink chalk-stripes. But letting her know too that Ray didn’t go calling
on his lady friends with any hunting knives stuck in his belt. Hoping Karen’d take a good look at the difference between Rossi and Ray.
‘Just so as you know, Ray. I don’t like surprises.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you don’t want to be surprised, find out every guy isn’t like your father.’
Karen stopped rocking. Then she put the tall vodka down, got up and walked across to the couch. Ray was flinching even before it landed.
‘Out.’ Her palm was scarlet. ‘Get the fuck out and don’t come back. I swear, you even ring me again, I’ll have you done for stalking.’
Ray drove for home, dabbing with a paper napkin at where Karen’s ring had laid him open. Thinking, okay, it could have been worse; true or not, what he’d said had deserved worse.
He decided he’d give her a couple of days, time to cool off, then ring again to see if she was serious about the brush. Ray wasn’t giving up that easy, not on someone like Karen, gets insulted and damn near breaks your jaw, draws blood. Ray, still bleeding from the narrow gash, had to admire the girl’s panache.
Then there was the small matter of trying to figure out the hook-up between Karen and the ex-wife, the possibility that Terry Swipes was running a double-cross, scheming with the shylock, the Balkan crew, looking to see Ray go down before he walked away from the life, maybe talked to someone he shouldn’t be talking to….
Soon as he got home, Ray rang Terry.
‘Hey, Terry – what’s with the surgeon? What’s the twist?’
‘Whaddya mean, twist? Why’s there have to be a twist?’
‘You tell me.’
Ray heard the clink-flick of a lighter, a short hacking cough. Then: ‘All I know is, the guy’s a surgeon, wants his wife snatched. Looks like there’s some malpractice suit coming up, the guy needs to unfreeze some assets, let ’em leak away before the lawyers come calling. Why – you got a feeling about it?’
Ray in a bind. If Karen was in on the double-cross, the last thing Ray wanted to do was tip Terry off that he’d tumbled. But if Karen was playing it straight then there was no double-cross, which’d look bad for Ray, suspecting Terry. So all he said was: ‘You ever hear of a doctor before wanting his wife snatched?’
‘One time? This guy owns a circus came looking to have his mother kept on an island for a week. I mean, a fucking island. After that I stopped worrying about the whys.’
‘Okay. But a plastic surgeon?’
‘It’s a funny one, Ray. I mean, the guy can’t do any surgery anymore, but what he can do is minor stuff – skin jobs, Botox, that kind of crap. Plus he can call himself a consultant, so the bigger jobs, he can refer them on, take some points off the top. But where the guy lives, with all he’s got going on, I’m guessing he’s finding it tight right now.’
‘Where’ll I find him?’
‘You know St John’s, the retirement home? Well, around the corner there’s a street of Georgians, covering in ivy. The whole street’s the same except with different coloured doors.’
‘I know it.’
‘He’s number 24.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Place called The Paddocks. Up near Wood Grove, around the back of the lake. Actually has a putting green in the back yard with these dinky little flags. Why, what’re you going to do?’
‘Dunno. Drop by, maybe. Check the place out.’
‘What’ll that tell you?’
‘Probably nothing. But Terry – I find anything that looks off, I’m taking a dive.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yep.’
Ray waiting for it, Terry telling Ray he was paranoid, the pep-talk that’d let Ray know Terry was offside.
But all Terry’d said was: ‘Fuck it, we’ll sting him for the good faith anyway. And Ray? If you find out the guy’s trying something funny, I’ll bung you a tenski. How’s that?’
‘Okay by me.’
Saturday
Doyle
Doyle hated crowds, especially on her day off. So she got into town early, wearing new trainers and faded baby-blue jogging sweats, hair scraped back in a ponytail.
Leaving the chemist with a sackful of Clarins essentials, she suddenly remembered she was all out of legal pads back the office – the memory jog happening, she’d later tell Sparks, mainly because she spotted the tall guy with the fringe walking into an office supplies outlet across the street.
She tossed it around, factored in the ponytail, the sweat pants, and thought, hey, no harm in taking a look.
She found him in the rear of the store checking out technical drawing pads, holding pages up to the light. Doyle sidled up. ‘Hi, excuse me? Would you mind helping me find the legal pads?’
He turned, Doyle only now seeing the plaster-strip under his eye. She wondered if he thought he was a hard-case, a scrapper.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t work here.’
‘I know, yeah. What I’m asking is for you to come help me.’
He considered that, a slow grin starting, the eyes warming up. ‘Yeah, okay,’ he said, putting two pads back where he’d found them, tucking a third under his arm. They strolled up the aisle. ‘You should probably know,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t know a legal pad if it barfed on me. I’m Ray, by the way.’
‘Stephanie. But most people call me Doyle.’
‘So what are you, a lawyer? A brief?’
‘Guess again.’ Doyle picked up the five-pack of cheap legal pads from the usual rack. She had the eye going on with the guy behind the counter; Till Guy, she called him. He’d charge her low and ring it up high, hand Doyle her receipt with a wink. Doyle, who was it hurting, always winked back.
‘You’re never a cop,’ Ray said.
‘This is because, I’m presuming, you don’t see so many gorgeous cops.’
‘Absolutely,’ Ray said, just as they arrived at the counter. ‘Fact is, you’re the best-looking cop I’ve ever met.’
Till Guy did a double-take, from Doyle to Ray and back again. Doyle smiled sweetly as she handed over the legal pads and a twenty, saying: ‘You have time for a quick coffee?’
Till Guy froze, swallowed hard, and glanced up from ringing in Doyle’s purchase just in time to see Ray nod and say: ‘You know anywhere we could get some Blue Mountain? That’s some seriously fine coffee.’
Doyle checked her receipt while Ray paid for his pad, noting how Till Guy, the jealous prick, had billed her low even though she’d winked him a seductive one. She shrugged it off, figuring it was worth it; coffee with a guy who seemed good-natured, friendly, could handle a conversation. Worst-case scenario, it’d be a story for Sparks. Doyle tried to remember the last time she’d had any kind of date, or even just a good flirt, and hadn’t managed to do so by the time Ray said: ‘Ready?’
In the crowded coffee shop, sitting at a counter, awkward because the stools were close together and Ray had long legs, Doyle said: ‘Your turn. What do you do?’
‘You get right to the point, don’t you?’
‘It’s a rare gift. So what do you do?’
Ray sipped on his mocha. ‘Right now I’m paint-decorate specialising in murals. But I’m thinking of going back to college, getting into architecture.’
‘Didn’t someone once say architecture is manifest proof of Freud’s theories?’
‘If they didn’t, they should have.’ He scooped up some foam on the tip of his finger, sucked it dry. ‘What’s that mean, towers are big wangs, some shit like that?’
‘You can’t see it?’
‘What’s worrying me are the homosexual connotations.’
‘I can see how that could be an issue.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘The fringe,’ Doyle murmured, spooning her creamy chocolate.
‘The fuck’s wrong with my hair?’
‘Nothing. That’s the whole point.’
‘This is what happens to every guy tells you you’re the best-looking cop he’s ever met?’
‘See it my way. You been this close
to many cops before?’
‘Not many. And men, mainly.’
‘I rest my case.’
‘What’s that, cop humour?’
‘Yeah. Anyway,’ Doyle said, her reserves of small-talk exhausted, ‘how’d you fancy going for a drink sometime?’
Ray grinned. ‘Straight to the point, right?’
‘There’s two possible options here, Ray,’ Doyle said, still spooning her chocolate. ‘One would be the act of a gentleman. The other’ll get you parking tickets like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘A cop stalkeress,’ Ray mused. ‘You’d need to be unlucky.’
‘You could nearly call it fate. So – yes or no?’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Christ, Ray….’
‘Don’t beg,’ he said. ‘Please. There’s no dignity in that.’
Doyle stopped spooning the chocolate and burnt the back of his hand with the hot spoon. Ray yelped.
Karen
‘Can you believe it?’ Karen said. ‘A fucking willy waver, hiding out in the bushes. The fucking creep.’
Madge, chewing toast on the other end of the line, said: ‘Whadidheday?’
‘He said he was just driving by. Which is bullshit, he lives the other side of town.’
‘Maybe he wanted to see if you were still up, so he could parachute in, a box of chocs under his arm. A little Friday night frolic. You can’t blame a guy for trying.’
‘Whose side are you on, Madge?’
‘Yours hon, until you get some coffee inside you. So – I’m guessing the visit with Anna is off.’
Karen, who’d already found the box of Belgian truffles wedged behind a cushion on the couch, decided to skip the bit about how she’d warned Ray off, the calling-the-cops routine. Wincing now as she heard it again, Ray standing there with his cheek split, blood trickling. He hadn’t looked angry, though; just disappointed. Like she’d spit in his face and hadn’t quite missed.
