The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

by David Carter

  He rang his dad who sounded as miserable as ever, and afterwards over a chicken dinner for one he sat and wondered who’d rung him twice and never said a word. They could have been wrong numbers but something told him different, perhaps it was his vanity intruding again, his calls simply had to be real calls. Important calls. But from whom? He prepared his clothes for Tuesday, yawned loudly, and took an early night.

  Meanwhile on the other side of town Maria and Vicky were getting merry discussing their love lives, and currently, that revolved mainly around Mister Greene. Maria told Vicky of the telephone call he had received when they in bed together.

  ‘The phone rang when he was doing me the other night,’ she said, gulping more wine.

  ‘No! Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some hussy he knows.’

  ‘What did they talk about?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can remember. I was otherwise occupied.’

  ‘I wouldn’t stand for that,’ said Vicky, mounting her high horse.

  ‘I know Vick, but what can I do?’

  ‘I’d think of something,’ she said, emptying her glass.

  ‘Do you know what the funniest thing was?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘He didn’t even slow down, all the while he was talking to her, he didn’t stop the once.’

  ‘He’s a one off, Maria, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Oh he is Vick, he damn well is. If I didn’t like him so much I’d tell him to piss off.’

  There was considerably more in the same vein, and that was what Vicky wanted to hear, discontentment. She’d encourage that line of thinking all the way, why don’t you tell him to piss off? ever eager to step in and pick up the pieces.

  Twenty-Five

  The train slunked and clunked into Reading railway station at five past eleven like a bad tempered slug. That was cool, because Dryden’s head office was only a ten minute taxi drive away. The journey had been comfortable and uneventful, Gringo dozing in his first class seat for most of the way.

  The women employed at head office were truly something else, like a bunch of off duty airhostesses, but as Gringo had discovered on his last visit, they were off limits and untouchable, a case of millionaires only need apply. Gringo didn’t stand a chance, though later he tried to fix a date with a slender blonde who it turned out was engaged to a budget airline guy, the bloke that owned the blinking company. An under manager like him from a provincial office… well, it just wasn’t going to happen.

  He was shown upstairs by a black girl in a figure hugging grey suit and told to wait by the Country Life’s. A couple of minutes later she came back and said: ‘Mister Soloman will see you now.’ She pointed toward the boardroom door as if he were an impostor; or an idiot, opened the door for him, almost pushed him inside, and closed the door behind him.

  There were two guys sitting there. Mr M A B Soloman himself, he of the brusque internal memos, and another bloke that Gringo had never seen before. He was one of those skinny, balding, bespectacled guys who infested offices like Dryden’s up and down the country; as if these were the only places men like him could ever find a decent job. They both stood up.

  ‘Ah,’ said the boss guy, glancing at Gringo, ‘Kevin Greene, do come in.’

  Gringo strode forward and shook their hands.

  ‘Have you met Donald?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I have.’

  ‘Ah well, you have now, this is Donald Streeter, he’ll be looking after you while you are here. Take a seat, there, opposite.’

  Gringo sat and stared across the table, not exactly nervous, but meetings like this were bound to set one on edge. Could it be promotion? Could it be the bullet? Fifty-fifty bet. He was about to find out.

  Soloman began speaking again. ‘We have a little problem, Kevin.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘We think you are just the man to help solve it,’ interjected the skinny guy, determined, so Gringo imagined, not to be left out of the conversation.

  Soloman gave Streeter a slightly nervous look, a guilty look even, and turned back to Gringo.

  ‘The problem concerns the Inland Revenue.’

  What the hell has this got to do with me, was the first riposte that entered Gringo’s mind, but he held back for a second.

  ‘Customs and Excise,’ clarified skin and bones, ‘to be exact.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Soloman, ‘The VAT office to be precise.’

  ‘So?’ said Gringo. ‘Surely that’s an accounts matter.’

  ‘Yes, normally it would be, but as you know, the regional VAT office is located in your parish, so to speak, so we thought it would be better if it were dealt with locally on the ground… through your office.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Gringo, ‘Julian Smeaton’s your man.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ skinny was talking again. ‘But unfortunately, Julian is not for this world much longer.’

  ‘What! You mean he’s ill?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ said Soloman, sharing another patronising look with Streeter. ‘Natural wastage, you understand, but keep that little gem under your hat, old boy.’

  Old boy! Old fucking boy. I am not part of the old boy’s network, Gringo wanted to cry out, but instead he heard himself uttering an acquiescent, ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, we think you are just the man to handle this one,’ said Streeter.

  ‘And,’ butted in Soloman, ‘it would not go unnoticed. Big plus mark on your record, gold star, that type of thing, and who knows where it might lead?’

  ‘So what exactly is the problem?’

  ‘Wrong figures submitted. £50,000 of VAT money has been reclaimed, incorrectly, from the VAT office. We have the cash, albeit in error, they want it back. Get the pic? The thing is, they have got it into their little heads that this was a premeditated act. Maybe, even a regular occurrence.’

  ‘That would be fraud.’

  ‘Yes, Kevin, it would.’

  ‘With a big penalty.’

  ‘Correct again. As you may know the Customs and Excise is the only law enforcement body, if you care to refer to them as such, that don’t have to prove one guilty. It’s up to the other party to prove one’s innocence.’

  ‘A hard thing to do,’ said Gringo, scratching his parting.

  ‘Yes indeed, very hard, if not impossible.’

  ‘And are we guilty? As you put it.’

  ‘Well, you tell us,’ said Streeter in a hurry.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The error,’ said Soloman slowly, ‘emanates from your office, old chap, hence your involvement here today.’

  Silence reigned.

  Gringo’s hand went to his mouth. His brain clicked through the gears. His black matter began formulating data. Soloman and Streeter watched him intently.

  ‘All Nippon Steel,’ surmised Gringo.

  The pair of them smiled and shared another look.

  ‘I knew we had the right man,’ said Soloman.

  ‘I go with your judgement,’ added Streeter, ‘every time,’ and that sounded to Gringo of brown nosing of the worst kind.

  ‘There’s an appointment fixed at your local VAT office, for, let me see, yes here it is, 2pm, on Thursday.’

  ‘But that’s the day after tomorrow,’ said Gringo, suddenly wondering what they were asking of him, and what might be the ramifications.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ confirmed Soloman, ‘but you have the remainder of the day to go through everything with Donald. You’ll be up to speed by Thursday. I’m sure you can handle it.’

  ‘The appointment is with some bitch called Cairncross,’ said Streeter. ‘Yes here it is, one Ms J Cairncross,’ and there was something inherently bitter about the way he said some bitch.

  ‘Shouldn’t we have legal representation present?’

  ‘No, we don’t think that’s a good idea at all, only guilty people take along the legal eagles.’

  ‘But I’m not even an accountant.’

  ‘W
ell that’s what we thought,’ said Streeter eagerly, as if this was his precise part of their dirty little plan. ‘You can always plead ignorance. Can’t you? It’s often the best way. Throw yourself on their mercy, so to speak.’

  Throw yourself on their mercy. Jesus, thought Gringo. He didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  ‘So that’s it then,’ said Soloman, standing, ‘I shall leave you with Donald and he can fill you in on the background. Ask him anything you want, old boy, anything at all, and perhaps you could ring me on the Thursday afternoon and let me know how you got on.’

  They all stood and Soloman shook Gringo firmly by the hand, Soloman’s well-practiced crooked business handshake, without looking him in the eye. Then he mumbled some excuse about a very busy diary and fled the room.

  ‘Come on,’ said Streeter. ‘Let’s get down to business.’

  The pair of them, Gringo and Streeter, spent the rest of the day poring over facts and figures, VAT returns and printouts and God knows what else, pausing only for a brief late pub lunch, where Gringo attempted to turn the conversation to the stunning women that ran riot through HQ. Somehow Streeter didn’t seem that interested, though Gringo never once considered him to be gay. Odd though.

  At 4pm he was presented with a huge file of copies of everything they’d examined. He was almost dragged to the front door and sent on his way, as if Dryden Engineering Head Office imagined they could solve their problem by simply booting it, and him, out into the street to fend for himself. Bye, bye, and good riddance!

  Poor Julian, pondered Gringo on the rainy train journey home. He and Julian had often had their differences but by and large they respected one another. He would be missed, that was for sure, if only for the workload he shouldered. Someone else would have to take that on, and Gringo determined that it would not be him.

  He even lets me sit on his knee.

  The new office femme fatale’s words came back to him and he laughed aloud, much to the amusement of his fellow passengers.

  Not for much longer, Becky, not for much longer.

  Twenty-Six

  First thing Wednesday morning brought Gringo another huge stack of mail, and hidden in amongst it was a handwritten envelope. Alas, it was not from overseas, and on first inspection he didn’t recognise the writing. It looked like a birthday card, though it was most certainly not his birthday. Perhaps it was some kind of clever advertising ploy. If it was from National Double Glazing he would take it round to their showroom after hours and set fire to it and shove it through their letterbox, a crazy idea he would never carry out, but an inspiring one nonetheless.

  He opened the envelope and pulled out a card.

  It was from Sarah.

  It was a Thank You card.

  The front cover featured an old American design from the fifties. A tall, dark and slim gentlemen dressed in a morning suit, carrying a top hat, a smug grin set on his face, while before him standing on tiptoe was a slightly shorter, micro waisted lady, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek, a speech bubble pouring from her pert little mouth announcing: Thank You, Darling.

  He opened the card.

  Sarah had written:

  Gringo,

  Thank you, darling, for a truly wonderful weekend. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed myself. I hope you did too. I think you did!

  I am away this coming weekend, Antiques fair in Norwich, booked up long ago that I can’t possibly escape, but I shall be back the following weekend, and I’ll be going down to the cottage on the Friday.

  If you would like to accompany me, you would be most welcome. Come to the flat any time on Friday up till six-thirty. I shall be leaving at seven.

  Hope to see you then.

  All my love,

  Sarah,

  XXXXXXXXXXXXX

  And seeing as I know how you adore kisses, here are some more XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  and for luck XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX!!!!!

  Gringo immediately knew he would go. There was never a doubt about it. The only question was, how could he explain his absence to Maria, and would he let Sarah know he was coming, or just turn up at the last moment? That was a no brainer. He’d keep her guessing, sweating; of course he would, right up to the last second. He tugged open the kitchen drawer and tossed the card inside and didn’t think any more about it.

  The date that night with Maria went better than he could have hoped. He pumped her for information about the VAT office and Ms Cairncross in particular, a woman Maria did not know, and of what might be the outcome of his visit to VAT HQ. Maria was flattered he’d asked, and more than that, willing and able to talk on the subject at great length, though never, Gringo thought, in a boring or overbearing way.

  They enjoyed a cosy meal in a small country pub that neither of them had visited before, and afterwards adjourned to Maria’s apartment. She made coffee and they cuddled up on the sofa and kissed and hugged, Gringo more than happy to interact with her super fine lips, though there was something there that told him everything was not quite going to plan. For his part he was still concerned about displaying his body. His skin now presented multi coloured bruises that suggested a herd of wild buffaloes had trampled across his flat stomach while he was asleep.

  During a break in the kissing Maria whispered: ‘I’m sorry Gringo, but we can’t go any further, it’s my time of the month.’

  Oh thank you, God, thank you!

  ‘That’s all right, doll. It happens to everyone.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘I thought you’d be livid, seeing as we haven’t done it all week. I thought you’d be gagging.’

  ‘No-ooo, I know how the world works, though I have to admit, I have been looking forward to seeing you.’

  ‘Thought so. Would you like me to do something else?’

  Would you like me to do something else?

  His mind shifted through the gears.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well… you know... I could do anything you want.’

  Normally, Gringo would have jumped at the chance of doing something else, or having something else done to him by a pretty girl like Maria, but his mind returned to the state of his still hidden body.

  ‘No, you’re all right, darling. Perhaps another time, eh?’

  ‘Sure, Gringo,’ she said, smiling, ‘any time you like.’

  Not long after that she saw him out with a goodnight kiss in the hallway, and any worry or anxiety that had been there on her part had evaporated. He was content enough to discover her lips were now relaxed and back to their best brushed warm towel state.

  ‘Night, darling,’ he whispered, nibbling her pierced ear.

  ‘Night, Gringo.’

  Driving home he knew he’d had a close shave. But what could a man do? When you run more than one partner it was a constant problem, and he had no intention of becoming monogamous, not now, not for her, not ever.

  He jumped into bed as soon as he arrived home, but before falling asleep he thought of Soloman and Streeter and the cowardly way, that was his take on it, they had passed their hot potato to him. He wondered what Ms J Cairncross was like. How old? How fat? How officious? How desperate for promotion? A tubby lesbian, or tall slender sex bomb, probably somewhere in between. His mind shifted back to Sarah and her neat Thank You card.

  I enjoyed myself. I hope you did too. I think you did!

  Oh yes, I enjoyed myself all right, and after that, he recalled the events of the entire weekend, before anticipating the next occasion, lost in that shack of a cottage down by the river, a true shag palace if ever there was one. He fell asleep soon afterwards and for some reason dreamt of unending journeys on crowded and odorous railway trains.

  Ring ring, Ring ring, Ring ring, Ring ring.

  The phone beside Gringo’s bed was a chunky old-fashioned one, black of course, with a thick maroon cable, a collectable item in its own right, that he’d acquired at auction. He’d bought it espe
cially for the black Bakelite case, and the loudness of its toll.

  Ring ring, Ring, ring, Ring ring, Ring ring.

  When Gringo fell asleep he did so completely and utterly. There was no point in doing anything half-heartedly. He did it for keeps.

  Ring ring, Ring ring, Ring ring, Ring ring.

  He had read stories of infamous burglars who had impressed their cohorts by sitting astride their slumbering victims, whilst clapping their hands as loudly as possible. It is much harder to wake a sleeping human in the dead of night than most people think.

  Ring ring, Ring ring, Ring ring, Ring ring.

  Gringo could now hear the bell resounding through his bedroom. He imagined he was dreaming. Was it the bell from the railway engine? Finally he came to realise it was not, but still he couldn’t rise and move and answer.

  Ring ring, Ring ring, Ring ring, Ring ring.

  In the darkness his eyes jerked open. He sat up and reached for the lamp. The telephone had stopped ringing. But it could only have just happened, because he could still hear the tinny echo of the bell bouncing from the walls of his bedroom. He glanced at the clock. 2.48. Outside, he could hear the wind getting up.

  Who had been be ringing, disturbing him, at this ungodly hour? If it was that silly little bitch Rebecca Walker again, playing some childish prank, he would have a serious word with her, but was it her? He picked up the phone and dialled 1471.

  You were called at 2.47. We do not have a number to return the call.

  Great! Call withheld.

  He cursed and turned off the light and went back to sleep, though it took considerable time to do so, his brain active again, imagining impossible scenarios.

  Twenty-Seven

  He had only visited the tax offices once before. It had happened almost ten years earlier when he was summoned to appear for failing to submit a tax return in each of the previous five years. Their offices were dull and musty, with a proliferation of ancient brown lino on the corridor floors that seeped into the office where he was shown, frayed floor covering that someone had tried to cheer up by tossing down an ancient maroon and navy rug.