by David Carter
At half twelve she came to his office door.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Ready?’
She had applied fresh lipstick, he clocked that well enough; she had brushed or combed her tumbling strawberry blonde hair, and she looked amazing.
‘Sure,’ he said, standing and buttoning his jacket. ‘Come on.’
He walked smartly through the office, Melanie trailing behind like a Red Indian squaw. If any of the dozy deskbound workers noticed they were leaving together, they didn’t show it. They were probably too busy with their tuna sandwiches and Daily Mirrors and page three girls and checking their text messages, as they worked feverishly on their lottery systems, and competitions to win a new car, or a fancy holiday in Dubai.
Outside in the city it was a pleasant enough day. No need for a coat, not raining, and the sun was trying hard to bully its way through the thinning cloud.
‘Thought we’d go to Shaman’s.’
‘Great,’ she said, now walking beside him, close enough that occasionally their hips would bump and touch as she swayed along the pavement.
The wine bar was half full or half empty depending on your perspective on life. They grabbed a sofa in the far corner and pulled a table closer.
‘Drink?’ said Gringo.
‘White wine, dry.’
‘Back in a mo.’
He ambled to the bar. Naomi was there as ever, and Naomi Skeets was an odd woman. She was married to the owner, Jackson Skeets, and he was standing in the corner at the far end of the bar as he usually did, watching who came and went, monitoring the banknotes tumbling into his till. Jackson nodded at Gringo and Gringo nodded back. Jackson was a lot older than Naomi, and word on the street was that Naomi was having a fling with Jackson’s younger brother, Colum. He was there too, further along the bar, chatting up two skinny blondes who didn’t look older than sixteen. If that wasn’t entangled enough, Gringo had picked up rumours that Naomi’s real penchant was for young girls, girls it had to be said, just like the two pieces of skirt that Colum was flashing his new set of teeth at.
‘How are you, Naomi?’ asked Gringo.
‘I’m good,’ smiled the curvy, dark woman. ‘And I can see you are doing all right.’
‘Eh? How do you mean?’
Naomi nodded over his shoulder toward the glamour puss sitting in the corner.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘Melanie, I’m doing fine, ta.’
‘What can I get you?’
‘Dry white wine and a G and T; make them large ones, and we’ll want some food as well.’
‘Okay. I’ll send over that lazy arse, Colum, if I can prize him away from those two little madams.’
Gringo paid for the drinks and returned to Mel and sat down beside her, close enough he thought, but she promptly linked his arm and tugged herself closer.
‘What were you two talking about?’ she whispered. ’You looked as thick as thieves.’
‘Trying to order food, that’s all. The guy will be over in a mo. Steak pie and chips do you? It comes recommended.’
‘Fine,’ she said, sipping the bucket of wine.
‘What do you make of these people?’ whispered Gringo, trying to speak without moving his lips, nodding at the bar staff.
‘Motley bunch, if you ask me,’ she said, from behind her glass. ‘The boss lords it over the rest like King Canute, but does he really know what is going on in his little domain?’
How perceptive she was, he thought, as he told her of the gossip that circulated about their complicated private lives.
‘My God,’ she said, ‘you could write a book about all this.’
Colum came and went, slavering over Melanie, as men of all ages were wont to do.
‘What a creep,’ she whispered.
‘I’m glad you said that. I’ve always thought it.’
‘You’ve cut yourself shaving.’
‘Yeah,’ mumbled Gringo, his hand involuntarily going to the bloody marks.
‘I’m good at shaving,’ she said.
‘Yourself or other people?’
Melanie giggled. ‘Other people of course, don’t be so cheeky,’ and she gently punched his near arm, while pulling herself yet closer, if that were possible, something he adored, and she knew he would.
A young kid brought the meals, a stranger, a lad that Gringo had never seen before, and he couldn’t help wondering where he fitted into the strange ranks of the Shaman’s Bar staff. To cap it all the cheeky little git winked at Melanie as he retreated from the table.
‘Bloody nerve,’ muttered Gringo.
‘He’s well cute,’ said Melanie.
A few moments later, between shovelling steak pie down her throat, Melanie said, ‘So is this a date, Gringo?’
‘Course not!’ he said. ‘Dates have to be at night time, don’t you know that? You can’t have a proper date during the lunch hour, it’s not right, there is not enough time, and anyway, you are a married woman. Married women don’t go on dates.’
‘How sad,’ she said, ‘and who’s to say married women can’t go on dates?’
‘Don’t suppose Brian would take too kindly to it.’
‘You are right there, mate. He’d kill anyone who even thought of it.’
It was only as Gringo expected. Brian Tucker was a mad bastard. Everyone knew that, not to be messed with, and Gringo had no intention of incurring the wrath of Mad Brian, even if the delectable Melanie was the ultimate prize. What’s more, he had no wish to have his recently cleaned teeth realigned, no thank you, nor his straight nose bent into a question mark.
‘Brian’s away on Saturday night,’ she whispered, sipping the wine again. ‘Conference in Birmingham, or something.’
Gringo shook his head as if to check his hearing. What could she be suggesting? What was he thinking of a second or two ago about not incurring the wrath of Brian? And then he said without a moment’s hesitation or forethought, ‘How about dinner?’
She smiled through the near side of her face.
‘Thought you’d never ask, Gringo. Of course I’ll have dinner with you, any time you want.’
‘It’s a date, then.’
‘On one condition.’
Gringo raised his right eyebrow.
‘Two conditions,’ she corrected herself.
‘And they are?’
‘You keep it a total secret. You must never tell anyone. Not a living soul. If Brian ever found out he’d kill us both, and I’m not joking.’
‘Course,’ he said. ‘No one will ever know, not from me, never.’
‘And secondly,’ she said, coyly Gringo thought, as she licked her fork after finishing her lunch, before placing it carefully in the centre of the empty white plate. ‘We go somewhere miles away, out of the district, away from prying eyes.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘Where will you pick me up?’
‘Do you know White’s bookshop in front of the Town Hall?’
Melanie didn’t really go in for books, in fact she hadn’t read an entire book since she’d left school eight years before, but oddly enough she did know where White’s bookshop was, if only because Brian was something of a petrol head, and had wanted the newest motoring book the previous Christmas, written by that curly haired geek off the television motoring show.
‘I know it, yeah.’
‘I’ll pick you up outside there at eight o’clock.’
‘Fine,’ she said, wiping her ample mouth on the white paper serviette.
‘Just in case there’s any problem I’ll give you my phone number.’
Gringo glanced around to check they were not being listened to. ‘But don’t write it down anywhere, keep it a secret locked up here,’ and he tapped the side of his head.
‘I’ll never remember a telephone number,’ she said.
‘Course you will. It’s safer that way, we don’t want anyone finding it,’ (and they both knew who he meant by anyone.) ‘It could cause problems.’
‘You can say that again.
Brian would go ape-shit if he found out.’
‘All the more reason to be careful.’
‘I will never remember a telephone number,’ she repeated.
‘Yes you will.’
‘How?’
‘Two plus four, is?’
‘Six.’
Gringo nodded. ‘That’s it, that’s the area code.’
‘246,’ she said, and smiled at her own logic, and watched Gringo bob his head.
‘What’s the rest of it?’
‘England won the World Cup.’
‘I don’t know that! I am not a boy, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Gringo had noticed that well enough, and what was more, Melanie knew he had.
‘1966!’
‘I wasn’t even born!’
‘That’s not the point. Neither was I! But there are two dates that everyone remembers, 1066 and 1966.’
‘I’ll never remember that!’
‘Yes you will, and if you forget, just ask someone. So what is my phone number?’
‘246,’ she said slowly, ‘1966.’
‘See! You’ve remembered it.’
‘But that’s only because you have just told me.’
‘No it isn’t. Trust me. You will remember.’
A puzzled expression came over her face, so Gringo began talking again.
‘You can ring me any time you like. Doesn’t matter how late it is, doesn’t matter where you are, doesn’t matter whether you have any money or not, just reverse the charges, if you ever need help of any kind, if you ever need someone to talk to, if you are ever in trouble, if you just want a chat, if you are going to be late, or simply can’t make it, call me. Understand?’
Mel thought of that for a second and then smiled and said, ‘Yeah, okay. Thanks Gringo, that’s great.’
‘So what’s my number?’
‘246-1966.’
‘You got it, kid. And where are we meeting?’
‘Outside White’s bookshop.’
‘When?’
‘Eight o’clock, Saturday night.’
‘And what are you going to do if you can’t make it?’
‘I am going to call you.’
‘Easy-peasy.’
‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’
‘It’s my job. I’m a manager. I manage things.’
‘Are you going to manage me, Gringo?’
‘Damn right I am. Now come on, or we’ll be late back. We don’t want tongues wagging.’
All four of Shaman’s staff stood behind the bar and watched them leave, though in truth none of them paid much attention to Gringo Greene. They couldn’t take their eyes from the curvaceous blonde, the same young woman who smiled at each one of them in turn as she passed by.
Back in the office, Gringo went about processing his paperwork with renewed vigour, whereas Melanie opened her diary to the back page and wrote down Gringo’s number before she forgot, though she stopped short of feeding it into her mobile. Brian was always checking up on that, and it simply wasn’t worth the hassle. Fancy England winning the World Cup in 1966, she never knew that, you learn something new every day. I wonder what sport it was; she thought to herself, I wonder if Beckham played.
Four
On Saturday morning Gringo rose early. No hangover for him, he had deliberately gone to bed before half ten and had slept well. He intended hitting the city, he was going on a buying spree, and thanks to his dear grandmother, he could afford to buy whatever he wanted.
She had left him fifty grand in her will and he had spent it wisely. He’d bought a three-story townhouse off plan that he referred to as his three-story bachelor pad. The market had been kind to him; the value had trebled, despite recent price retreats. On top of that in the early years he had thrown money at the mortgage company, so much so, that he’d paid off his debt entirely. He was mortgage free, and that enabled him to indulge his twin passions of expensive technology, and women.
He imagined hi-tech would impress his intended conquests, when in reality young women were not generally interested in here-today-gone-tomorrow trash, a fact that passed Gringo by completely.
He was in the city early, the first customer of the day in the House of Jaeger. He bought a new two-piece suit, black to match his thick hair and muzzy, made of best mohair with a big ticket to match. To compliment the suit he picked out a fine white cotton button down shirt, and was thinking about a new tie.
He remembered his last date with Glen.
He recalled her saying: ‘I like your tie, Gringo.’
Prior to that, he’d never thought twice about his ties. ‘Yeah?’ he’d said, glancing down at it.
‘Yes, red, red’s dead sexy.’
‘You think?’
She’d nodded and said, ‘For sure. It reminds me of a big tongue.’
Gringo smiled. ‘All the better to eat you with.’
‘Precisely!’ and Glen had nodded and grinned wickedly as they shared another look, and they both knew exactly what they had in mind.
‘And would one like a new tie to go with the suit,’ minced the assistant, bringing Gringo crashing back to the here and now. ‘I can offer you one of the blue silk jobs free with the compliments of the management.’
‘Red!’ insisted Gringo. ‘It must be red.’
‘Now there we have a little problem, sir,’ wittered the slight young man. ‘Only blue’s on offer today. Take a blue one, sir. Go very well, it will. Really well.’
‘Not interested, show me the reds, I don’t care about the width, so long as it’s red.’
Gringo duly bought two red ties boasting discreet diagonal stripes, and after that he headed across the square and invested in a ridiculously expensive pair of shoes, black for sure, lace ups essential, and then as an afterthought, he dived into one of the men’s fashion boutiques, and picked up some fancy new black underwear, the kind of thing a porno star might wear, just in case he should strike gold, a store where he collected more than one lascivious look from the fat geezer behind the counter.
Afterwards he hurried home, desperate to try on his new possessions, pausing only at the car wash, where he lavished the most expensive selection on his gleaming black beast.
Soon after that, as he plunged the key into the lock at Gringo Towers, he heard a sound he didn’t want to hear. Inside, the telephone was pinging away.
‘No!’ he said aloud. Surely the stupid girl wasn’t ringing to cancel. He knew he shouldn’t have taught her that blessed number. It was his own fault, and now it was coming back to bite him on the backside. He dumped the bags on the sofa and rushed across the room and picked up the phone.
‘Nineteen sixty-six!’ he yelled.
‘And here was I thinking we’d moved into a new century,’ said the woman caller.
Oh, thank you God! Thank you! thought Gringo. It wasn’t Melanie at all, thank heavens for that, it was big Brenda.
‘Hello, Gringo,’ she purred. ‘I thought you might have rung me by now.’
‘Hello, Brenda…’ but before he could mention he was unavailable that night she was speaking again.
‘I thought, Gringo, I could cook you a lovely sirloin steak, just as you like it, I could make a real fuss of you, I’ll bet you’ve had a very stressful week, and later on, in return, you could make a real fuss of me… if you like.’
‘Are you thinking of tonight?’ said Gringo, ever eager not to close any door unnecessarily.
‘Of course I am thinking of tonight. When else? It seems ages since I’ve seen you. I’ve missed you, Gringo. Please say you’ll come, I’ve bought some new gear and everything.’
‘Can’t Brenda, got something on tonight, important stuff. Really important. Maybe another night, eh?’
‘Oh Gringo! You are the end! Can’t you bloody well cancel? I’ve bought the steaks now, and four bottles of that claret you like.’
She’d probably bought four bottles of the claret she liked, but no matter, No meant No. Crazed horses wo
uld not drag him round to Brenda’s pad tonight, not even if Melanie blew him out would he go there, not even if Melanie rang up in five minutes and cancelled, well maybe then, just maybe, every man had a breaking point.
‘Well when, then?’ she sulked. ‘Tomorrow?’ and in the way she spoke Gringo could envisage her pouting face.
‘Maybe. I’ll ring you. Sorry Brenda. Got to go.’
He didn’t wait a moment longer to hear the cursing that was certain to be heading his way. For a short while after that he left the phone off the hook, something he was loath to do, because he always imagined a really important call might be trying to get through.
He gathered his new treasures together, leapt up the stairs to the top of Gringo Towers, and laid his things on the black silk-topped bed. He took a shower, ran the bath, and wallowed in a haze of bubbles for more than an hour, pondering on the night ahead.
Nothing would be left to chance. He would take her to the best place he knew. He would lavish money on her like no man had done before. He guessed that Brian had never made such a fuss of his wife, as he planned to do. Gringo rehearsed his lines, revised his jokes; he even made little notes in his black leather diary, ace conversation starters and extra little funnies, just in case the date should ever grind to a halt. He could always dash to the cloakroom and refresh his mind, recharge his vocal chords with renewed ideas. Anything to impress her. Nothing would be left to chance.
Five
He always aimed to arrive on dates ten minutes late. Just long enough to keep them on their toes, keep them guessing. When he appeared, he expected to see them standing, waiting, wondering; glancing at their wristwatches. He hated it if they showed up late. It showed a lack of respect, a lack of interest, and that wouldn’t do.
He glanced at the car digital clock. 8.08. Perfect. Only the last block to negotiate, one more corner, left at the City Hall and he was there. White’s bookshop nestled in the centre of an old Victorian block on the left-hand side where he expected to see her standing, waiting, and she was.
