by David Carter
‘Hi, Paul, how are you?’
‘I’ve never been better!’
‘Really? What’s up, man?’
‘I’ve got a new tart.’
Gringo almost dropped the phone.
‘You are kidding me. Who?’
‘Her name’s Kay. She’s great looking.’
This Gringo had to see.
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘In the pub, Saturday night, we just kind of started looking at one another and that was it. Bingo! Oh, and she’s a Gooner too. Couldn’t be better, really.’
Gringo could picture them together, stumbling down the aisle, kitted out in the latest Arsenal FC shirts.
‘Love at first sight, eh?’
‘You got it, man.’
‘And you’ve known each other for all of four days?’
‘About that, but we’ve never been off the phone. My mobile’s never been so hot.’
‘Have you given her the doings yet?’
There was a short silence as if Paul was thinking of what to say. Gringo guessed that he hadn’t, but that he’d lie about it. But he didn’t.
‘Nah, not yet, give me a chance, man. I’m giving it the big build up.’
Gringo was not to be outdone.
‘Well if you must know, I have a new tart too, as you call it.’
‘Have you? Who?’
‘Her name’s Maria. That Asian chick I was talking to in Naughton’s the other night.’
‘No! See! I knew they fancied us, those two, I said so at the time, didn’t I? Bloody well knew it!’
Gringo didn’t want to repeat what Maria had said about Paul, contenting himself with: ‘You did Paul, you did.’
‘And have you, well you know, given her… the… err… doings yet?’
‘Course I have! Don’t let the grass grow, do I?’
‘You are a lucky whore, you know that don’t you, you dirty little sod.’
‘So they say, Paul, so they say, and less of the little if you don’t mind. Anyway, enough about me; when am I going to meet the gorgeous Kay?’
‘Well that’s why I’m ringing. We’re going for a drink in Naughton’s at seven. Why don’t you pop in and I’ll introduce you?’
‘I might just do that.’
‘See ya later. Must run. Cars to sell.’
Gringo was there at seven. Paul was nowhere to be seen. Gringo bought a lager and was staring into the scummy beer. There was something playing on his mind, something that didn’t fit right. It went back to that memorable night with Melanie, that naughty Melanie Harris who hadn’t rung him once since. No, it was not to do with Mel herself; it was something that Richie had said when they were leaving. Gringo could hear those words echoing now around his head. They say that brains are made of grey matter, but Gringo was convinced his thinking material was black, jet black, it had to be, smooth and shiny as coal, or molten tar, and then, there were those words again.
Goodnight Melanie, Richie had said, as he’d closed the doors behind them. But how did he know her name?
Gringo thought hard. He had never left her throughout the night, he was sure of that, except the once when she went to the cloakroom, and even then he found her outside the door talking to the Young Turk, not to Richie. So how come Richie knew her name? Could he possibly have known her already? Or had he simply overheard, or been told by someone else, or was there another explanation? And more to the point, and closer to hand, could Brian Tucker possibly know that Gringo had been out with Melanie, his wife, and more to the point, did Richie Henderson, does Richie Henderson, somehow know the mad Brian? That didn’t bear thinking about, but Gringo was still thinking about that when Paul came in… with Kay.
‘Reach for the sky, man!’ said Paul, as he slapped him on the back. ‘Hi mate, this is Kay.’
Gringo stood up straight and smiled at the pair of them. He couldn’t take his eyes off the girl. She had a very beautiful face; and her straight brown hair tumbled down past her shoulders, a slender body, pert pair of doo-dahs, reasonable clothes. Unbelievably presentable.
Gringo stood five feet ten in his stockinged feet, though he told everyone he was six foot. Paul was six feet six at least. Kay was six feet eight, a height she enjoyed extending by wearing slinky, red high heels.
‘Hi,’ he said, peering upwards. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Thanks,’ she said, through a soft, ridiculously girlish voice. ‘Vodka tonic for me.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ said Paul in a hurry, swapping a proud look with Gringo.
Paul never drank vodka tonics, ever, leastways he hadn’t until now. Gringo ordered the drinks as thoughts of Paul and Kay’s first meeting flashed into his mind. What was it he’d said? We just kind of started looking at one another and that was that.
Gringo could picture it now. All the normal people down here, and Paul and Kay up there, living in a different atmosphere, exchanging glances above the heads of the pigmies, like a pair of browsing giraffes, large eyelashes fluttering on the female, winking at the slightly reluctant male. Gringo wanted to laugh aloud, but restrained himself because Kay was talking again.
‘Paul’s told me all about you, Gringo. He talks of nothing else, well you and Arsenal Football Club.’
‘Don’t care for football, me.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Why don’t you come down to the Emirates with us one Saturday,’ and she looked at Paul, as if for support.
Eventually he said, ‘Yeah, you’re welcome, mate, you know that, anytime.’
‘Can’t. I’ve got a date.’
Paul explained to Kay that Gringo had just found a new girlfriend and it was still in the super hot phase, and there was a knowing wink as if to say: You won’t drag the pair of them out of bed this weekend. Not a chance!
They sank two more rounds, Kay ready and willing to stand her corner, and after that, the happy couple made their apologies and fled.
‘Going for a meal at Shaman’s,’ explained Paul, relishing in his unaccustomed position of being the guy with the girl. Poor Gringo would just have to make do with a few beers and his own company.
After they’d gone Gringo said aloud, ‘Seven feet, for God’s sake, seven feet,’ and then he remembered something his old boss used to say about tall girls. They are all the same height lying down.
Gringo sniggered. He wondered if that was right. Did it really work that way? Did it make any difference? He wondered too if Paul and Kay would be lying down later on. He couldn’t quite picture the scene. He didn’t really want to picture the scene. In any event, they’d need a bloody big bed. He giggled to himself again and bade the barman a goodnight, and headed home to another ready meal, though definitely not curry.
Thirteen
More than ten years before Gringo had decided to dedicate Saturday to himself. He figured that after working his guts out for someone else all week the least he deserved was a decent treat on a Saturday. Sometimes it would be new clothes, or the start of a holiday to faraway places, very occasionally a new car, often an expensive meal out, invariably with his latest girl, other times it could be a full daytrip out somewhere new, and later on in the evening, if he was really lucky, and if he had prepared the ground well enough, he would grab the greatest treat of all. After all, what was life for if you couldn’t enjoy a treat now and again, and especially on a Saturday?
Saturday finally came.
Decision day.
He woke up in an optimistic mood. He usually did on Saturdays. Today she would need to come across, or she would be on the receiving end of the Farewell Francis treatment, the Goodbye Glenda, See ya Susie, Bye bye Brenda, Heave-ho Harriet. He tried to think of something appropriate for Maria, but the best he could come up with was: Missing you Maria, as he waved her goodbye.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d grown quite fond of her. She was a pretty girl with a decent body, even if people did sometimes stare at them in the street as if they were the odd couple. He
still wanted to find out more about her, much more.
As before she came skipping through the doors the moment he pulled into the car park. It was a cool, dry evening as he watched her approaching the car; that pleased to see you smile set firmly on her face. She was wearing trousers, no surprise there, he thought, but one thing was for certain, it would be the last time she wore trousers on a date with him, one way or the other, the trousers were finished.
They were brown slacks to be accurate, with a short maroon leather jacket up top covering a primrose blouse, not unlike the shirt he’d slipped into last time, a fact she alluded to when she jumped into the car and pointed to the shirt and said, ‘See, same colour as yours.’
He took her to Lino’s Italian that was located opposite the bus depot. It wasn’t the most fantastic location, but the ambience inside more than made up for that. Lino’s was twice as big as the Bombay Kings, but seated only the same number of diners. As they stepped through the door Gringo inhaled. He adored the aromas that flooded through Lino’s at night, fresh virgin olive oil, basil, garlic bread, Mediterranean vegetables, Chianti, Parmesan cheese, the whole mosaic.
Mario met them with a smile and an Italian wink for the dusky wench. Ten minutes later he returned with minestrone soup, lovingly prepared by his non-English speaking father. Mario noticed that Gringo seemed uncharacteristically nervous as he made to set the soup before them.
‘Don’t-a worry, Meesta Greengo, I am notta about to speel it!’
Maria giggled and smiled at Gringo and Mario in turn, who winked at her again before turning tail.
‘Do you think they’ve heard about the accident in the Bombay?’ asked Maria.
‘God knows. I hope not!’
The meal went well. Great food, exciting company, good service, a combination that could not fail. During the main course he caught her gazing across at his face, as if studying him.
‘What is it?’
‘Is Gringo your real name?’
He laughed through his nose.
‘Course it is.’
‘Really? I’ve never heard it before.’
He found it hard to believe that she could possibly think it was.
‘Actually, it’s a nickname.’
‘So what’s your real name?’
‘I don’t like my real name.’
‘But what is it?’
‘I will tell you on condition that you never use it.’
She pulled a face.
‘All right, if that’s what you want.’
‘It’s Kevin, if you must know.’
‘Kevin Greene,’ she said slowly, the names rolling off her pink tongue. ‘That’s not so bad.’
‘I prefer Gringo.’
‘So why does everyone call you Gringo? You look like something out of the Wild West.’
‘That’s about right. There was a guy in the pub who grew a big droopy moustache and everyone starting calling him Mex. So I grew a moustache too, and Mex started calling me Gringo, and it’s stuck ever since.’
‘I don’t mind the name Kevin, honestly I don’t.’
He bobbed his head. She was a good kid.
‘I prefer Gringo. You call me that.’
‘Whatever you say. You’re the boss.’
He liked that. The way she said: You’re the boss, and the cheeky look on her face that accompanied the remark, and he liked the idea that he was indeed the boss, the dominant one. He could not and would not have it any other way, and he imagined that she would not want it any other way either.
Afterwards she linked his arm on the way back to the car. Inside, a moment later she let him kiss her passionately. Why shouldn’t she? She was in love with Gringo Greene, or at least that was what she’d told Vicky Williams in Naughton’s the previous evening.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Vicky had said. ‘We’ve heard it all before, Maria.’
‘No Vick. Not like this. He really could be the one.’
Vicky had given Maria her best sceptical look.
‘I am pleased for you, babe, just don’t go getting hurt, that’s all.’
Don’t go getting hurt, that’s all.
Those words swirled around her head now. She’d been hurt many times before. Men all too often dined her, wooed her, had her, and then promptly dumped her, though it had to be said, it was more often than not after she’d cooked them a meal. Maria was not a great cook and the over fiery Goan fare she served up simply couldn’t be handled by some English men. It didn’t help either that she always fucked up the rice. An Asian woman who couldn’t cook rice! She must have been unique in that respect. This time she was determined she would not make that mistake with Gringo Greene. She would not cook him a damned thing, not until it was absolutely necessary.
Back at the house he asked her to make the coffee, something she was happy to do. You couldn’t fuck up a coffee machine, could you? Not that it really mattered because he wasn’t in the least interested in coffee.
He slipped the jacket from her shoulders and hung it on the hooks in the hall, then grabbed her and pulled her close and kissed her harder than before. Her lips were dry, but rounded and responsive. She possessed unbelievable lips, not huge, not enhanced; just ultra responsive, truly incredible, and he couldn’t kiss them enough.
Moments later they were writhing together on the sofa, Gringo’s tongue venturing into places it had never been before. He pressed down on her, kissing her all the while, forcing her into the leather cushions.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he whispered, between breaths.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not ready.’
He was tempted to say: Well when will you be fucking ready? but just about managed to rein himself in.
He need not have fretted.
Ten frantic minutes later she whispered: ‘All right, Gringo, all right.’
It was exactly the words he wanted to hear.
It was an admission.
An admission that he had won, just as she always knew he would. An admission that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. An admission that she was now available to him. An admission that all his efforts had finally paid a big dividend. There could be no turning back.
He had heard those words issued in that same breathless manner many times before. All right, Gringo. He looked out for them. He yearned for them because he knew exactly what they meant, and so did she. Now he must act before anything intervened. Fate sometimes plays terrible tricks on ditherers, on anyone not seizing the moment. Phones ringing, people knocking on doors, televisions exploding, anything can happen! Seize the day! Seize the night! Seize the girl! Nothing must interfere.
He stood up and pulled her to her feet, grabbed her shoulders and pushed her toward the stairs.
‘All right, Gringo, all right. Gently!’
She was now ascending the stairs.
He slapped her backside. It was only to be expected.
‘Gringo!’ she pleaded, breaking into a trot.
He slapped her again, all the way up to the top of the house.
‘You are terrible, Gringo.’
‘Get in that bedroom!’
He went for the trousers first, yanking them off. She would never wear trousers in his bedroom again, ever.
‘You will have to wear a thingy.’
He wasn’t at all keen on wearing thingies, but sometimes he would make an exception.
‘Fair enough.’
She wore blue, woolly knickers. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. She wouldn’t wear crap gear like that again either. The pants went the same way as the slacks.
A moment later she was beneath the silk sheet, naked. They both were. He kissed her again, hard on those lips that captivated him so.
When they came apart she whispered: ‘Gringo, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure babe, anything you like.’
‘Have you had any sexual diseases?’
It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. He propped himself up on his elbows.<
br />
‘Certainly not! Have you?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘Then why ask?’
‘You can’t be too careful these days.’
She lifted the sheet and peered down the bed to make sure he was adequately suited and booted. Gringo knew what she was looking at. He watched her eyes. She pulled a funny little face and bobbed her head and seemed happy enough. He pecked the end of her nose and nibbled her bottom lip.
‘May I now proceed?’
‘In a moment. Just one other thing.’
‘What! What?’
‘Can you please make it last as long as you possibly can?’
‘Oh I will, I intend to. You can count on that.’
She didn’t speak again for twenty-five minutes. When she did she uttered the same word, seven times.
‘Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! - Stop! Stop! Stop!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t go on, not once I’ve finished.’
So much for: Making it last as long as you possibly can.
Afterwards, he remembered thinking that was unusual. Normally they simply couldn’t get enough. He had never been asked, nay ordered, to stop before, how peculiar. But it wouldn’t be long before he started again. She would have to pay for that, for interrupting him in full flow, she would have to pay big time, and eventually, she did.
Fourteen
Gringo was daydreaming. It was Monday afternoon. Recently he’d noticed he was daydreaming more often, and he didn’t really have the time to waste. He glanced down at the ever-increasing pile of papers mounting on his desk. Whatever happened to the paperless society? It certainly hadn’t arrived in the office of Dryden Engineering. To hell with it, just for once he would daydream a little longer. He would stay late if he had to. There was nothing to rush home for.
The object of his dreaming was, for the moment, Maria Almeida. It had been a decent weekend. Not the best in the greater scheme of things, but damned decent nonetheless. He’d driven her to church on Sunday morning, but hadn’t gone in; he had no time for all that mumbo jumbo. She was Catholic; it came with her Portuguese Goan roots, though he’d only taken her there on condition that he could pick her up again afterwards, and on the strict understanding that she would be his for the remainder of the Sunday. She hadn’t taken a lot of persuading, but by the time he’d returned her to her apartment at midnight, she was more than ready for home; and bed, alone.
