The Brodsky Touch

by Lana Citron

  Oh Christ, so much for our kosher book-keeping. Feeling flummoxed, I was unsure whether to call the police or a clairvoyant. If I went to the police, I’d have to prove he existed and then that he had disappeared into thin air, and vice versa with a clairvoyant. All avenues of the investigation led to blind alleys or full stops, and Arthur’s mobile number and email had ceased to be. So there I was on a Sunday morning, breaking into Arthur’s house in a last-ditch attempt to find some clue or remnant of his existence.

  The back door opened easily. Breaking and entering was a knack I had acquired on a three-day course I’d attended (and passed with flying colours) called ‘Detecting Tricks of the Trade’. Hint: it’s all in the wrist action.

  So in I broke.

  The place was immaculate; there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Everything was exactly as it should be, the kitchen pristine, the hallway dust-free, the post neatly piled up on the hall table, though addressed to a Rose and James Fenton. Mr and Mrs Fenton were evident from the family pictures hanging on the walls. I walked through the rooms, scanning for some hint of Arthur’s presence. There was nothing – no remnants of the bookish civil engineer with his dry skin condition, or haemorrhoid cream in the bathroom cabinet or striped shirts or the latest novel by his favourite author or … I was baffled, confounded, mystified and then … Downstairs I heard the front door open. I, in the master bedroom, momentarily froze, then dive-bombed beneath the bed. I heard faint activity from below, someone clattering about in the kitchen for perhaps fifteen minutes and then the front door slammed shut. Gripped by fear, I reckoned it was time for my getaway. Slowly, carefully, silently I crept down the stairs, easy does it. My hand on the door latch, freedom beckoned, my heart thumping against my chest with such force that I was sure I’d suffer internal bruising. The door opened … I was free, I was out, I was face to face with the cleaning woman from the neighbour’s house, who appeared to be on her way in.

  She screamed.

  I screamed.

  She screamed louder.

  I screamed loudest and, in that high-pitched frenzy, I pushed her aside and she stumbled. ‘Stop lief! Lobber, stop lobber!’

  I could still hear her screaming as I fled down the steps and up the street.

  THAT SPECIAL TIME OF THE MONTH

  Aka the monthly office debrief meeting. No cakes this time, just strong black coffee. Attempting to explain how I, a top Honey Trapping detective, had come to lose my own client was not something I’d relish. I was rattled by recent events, kept wondering if the cleaning lady was the type to report me to the police or, worse, her own personal Triad leader, or even worse, both. As for Arthur, I had feelings of anger and abandonment mixed with powerlessness about what on earth I should do next. Tactically, I arrived late to the meeting and thankfully walked straight in on Nadia’s grand announcement. Trisha and Fiona were literally frothing at the mouth, enraptured over Nadia’s forthcoming wedding, all delicious in their girliness. ‘What colour dress do you think you’ll get? What sort of wedding are you planning? When are you starting your diet? Any honeymoon plans? What about the hen party?’

  ‘Sorry I’m late everyone,’ I apologised. ‘Overslept.’ My mind was so frazzled by recent events that honesty in this case was the best policy.

  ‘The hen party … Ah yes, Brodsky,’ sighed Fiona, ‘What’s happening with the Cressida case?’

  ‘Cressida case?’ My mind drew a blank.

  ‘Her Ladyship?’

  Araminta had been keeping me up to date with all the minute details of the forthcoming stag night. Oliver, the best man, had organised some Formula One race driving to get the action ‘revving’, followed by a top restaurant, all washed down with a suitably sleazy Soho cabaret. I’d checked out the joint and there wasn’t much hope of infiltration. I was about ten years too old to hostess/strip, too young to madam the girls and there was no way I was going to spray people with cheap perfume in the lavvies. Attending as a lone female punter was not a viable option. ‘You could do your act,’ suggested Trisha.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘At the cabaret,’ Trisha continued.

  She was right, it was obvious. I could try to do a spot as part of the cabaret.

  ‘You could even dress up for it.’

  ‘How about Nanny Brodsky?’ Fiona smirked.

  ‘A schoolgirl may work better,’ suggested Nads.

  ‘No, it has to suit Brodsky’s material,’ Trisha elucidated. ‘Your shtick … hmmm.’ She considered the notion awhile. Funny, sexy, high energy, these were the adjectives going through my mind.

  ‘A desperate, delusional woman,’ she concluded.

  Nadia laughed. ‘That’s it, exactly. Issy, you know I love you, but your material is so cringeworthy.’ Thank the Lord I had rhino skin.

  ‘How about a dominatrix?’ Fiona was way off the radar.

  ‘Got it!’ Trisha proclaimed. ‘A nurse. Do it as a nurse.’ All eyes were on me, three chins nodding in agreement.

  ‘Nurse Issy Brodsky … I can see it now.’

  Thing was, I could see it too. Besides which, there was no point in wasting that cheeky little nylon number I’d splashed out on in the hope of seducing Scarface into submission.

  POST-SPLIT ANALYSIS

  The ‘break’ with Scarface kept being extended. Three weeks down the line there was no hint of a reconciliation. I didn’t do rejection well. Does anyone? It hung in my throat and clogged my intestines. I’d fret and have nightly horizontal workouts, twisting and turning in my bed before eventually succumbing to sleep. Scarface moved out or, rather, up. Not that he’d actually, in reality, ever moved in, though he did keep a spare pair of underpants in my knicker drawer and a toothbrush in the bathroom. In the interim I tried to pretend that we had never occurred. Haphazardly I flung my ragged emotions in the pending box ‘to be dealt with later’, only the hurt was a bit like facial filler and had a tendency towards seepage.

  MUMMY IS A CRY-BABY

  Peeking through the classroom window, I spied thirty five-year-olds sitting obediently with their book bags on the desks waiting for their collectors to shuffle in and claim them. Max sat at a table in the middle of the classroom. I could see him straining to catch a glimpse of me and when he did, his face beamed. Every day at 3.30pm this collector (me) was guaranteed a mile-wide smile.

  ‘Hi Max.’

  ‘You okay, Mum?’

  ‘Hayfever.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  OR

  ‘I can’t get over losing you,’ I was singing in the kitchen, preparing tea. Max was watching his favourite show of all time, The Simpsons, and when it was over he came to check up on me.

  ‘Mum, why do you keep playing the same record over and over again?’

  ‘What’s that, darling?’ I turned down the volume.

  ‘Are you crying, Mum?’

  ‘No, I was just chopping onions for dinner.’

  ‘What are we having?’

  ‘Fish fingers and beans.’

  AND THEN

  ‘Where are you, Mum?’

  ‘In here.’

  ‘Can I turn the light on?’

  ‘Sure, come here and give us a cuddle.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘Are you sad?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘About Scarface?’ Aghh, but aren’t they just so intuitive?

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Mum, Scarface has only gone back upstairs. It’s not a big deal.’

  The man-to-boy talk had been very reassuring for Max. Scarface promised everything would be fine, nothing would change, and for Max, little had.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, can I have another cuddle?’

  Breaking up was such a pain. I ended up getting in touch with an old mate, one I’d dropped the minute Scarface had come on the scene (I know, but shit happens!).

  ‘Hi God …

  Long time no see …
<
br />   How’s it going?

  It’s me, Issy …

  … Brodsky …

  Sorry I haven’t been in touch recently, but, well, I’ve been in a relationship …

  Yeah, I know. Me in a relationship! I swear. Sure as you know yourself, anything’s possible.

  Look, God, I realise I’m a person of little faith and a fair weather friend and now single again, but I need your help, guidance, advice. Hello? Hello?’

  Same old, same old. Men, they’re never there when you need them … probably hanging out with his holy mates.

  THE UNTOUCHABLES (GOOD NAME FOR A POLE-DANCING TROUPE, EH?)

  ‘Ohh,’ I squirmed, ‘that looked sore.’ The girls were just finishing up their opening act. Opening being an apt and, in their case, descriptive verb.

  Reggie ran the Soho Strip Club. ‘It’s 110 per cent kosher,’ he promised. ‘Everything over board [I think he meant above board] and you,’ he said, spittle flying, with his finger poking my chest, rat-a-tat-tat, ‘had better be good, ’cause these guys want top entertainment, razzmatazz, glitz.’ His finger then disappeared up into his left nostril.

  I had taken Trisha’s advice and managed to persuade Reggie into letting me perform. The club was tiny, or rather intimate, lots of smoky mirrors and black-leather upholstery. I hadn’t a clue what to expect from the cabaret line-up, but was glad to be performing fairly early on. It happened that the act before me was a woman with a smoking fanny. Believe me, that proved hard to follow. I’d heard about acts of that calibre, but had never witnessed one before and it crossed my mind that it may be a safer method of smoking. Araminta’s fiancé, Henry, was in an uproarious mood. He and his gang of stags were having a wild time. The club was at their mercy, being the only group present, bar a few lone punters. Brushing down my nylon nurse’s outfit, I stepped through the smoke cloud and into the spotlight.

  The stags were so well brought up; they laughed in all the right places and applauded my efforts with such vigour I overran my set, enough so as to peeve off Nicola and her extraordinary Nipple-ettes, who were on next. Offstage, Reggie awarded my arse with a triumphant slap and offered me a drink. The only beverage was Champagne and, realising I had a mighty thirst on me, I accepted.

  Everything was going according to plan, until I spotted Bambuss perched on a stool by the bar, his largesse spilling over the sides. Bambuss, the hirsute detective, boyfriend of the wonderful Maria (our Honey Trap ‘Bosley’) was not altogether happy to see me. He was never happy to see me.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ I demanded, arms crossed.

  See, the last time we had encountered one another had led to Maria and him almost splitting up when I’d accused him of being a philanderer. It occurred one afternoon when I found myself wandering in Soho prior to a coffee date with my brother and chanced upon him in Ann Summers4 fondling lingerie, specifically a crotchless pair of panties and cupless corset. Knowing Maria would not be seen dead in such a cheap and nasty get-up, my suspicions were roused as opposed to aroused. A couple of weeks later I sighted Bambuss once more, this time strolling nonchalantly in the Soho area with his arm wrapped round a peroxide blonde.5 Now, what would any normal law-abiding citizen think?

  Exactly. So I immediately called Maria, trusty beautiful Rubensesque Maria. She was shocked, hurt, taken aback, stunned as I relayed to her the grimy details. Hand on my heart, I swore to the Lord above that I’d witnessed her Bambuss, the love of her life, her paramour and more, cavorting with a dirty street prostitute during daylight hours. Holding back on none of the seedy details, I gave it to Maria straight. Okay, so I did embellish the story a wee bit, but it was negligible, mere word aesthetics.

  ‘Perverted sex stuff. I swear to you Maria, I wouldn’t say this unless I thought it best you knew about it.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Crotchless panties, pornish in style, baby-doll nighties, titty tassels. As if you’d wear that in a million years.’

  Turned out I was wrong.

  ‘Issy, you big prude,’ she giggled.

  ‘No way!’ I gasped. ‘I didn’t think they did that stuff in your size.’

  ‘What you mean “my size”?’

  Damn me and my big mouth. ‘Nothing. I meant … nothing, Maria, but what about the prostitutes I saw him with?’

  ‘What string of floozies?’ Bambuss yelled at me in defence of his reputation and relationship. ‘On my mother’s mother’s mother’s moustache I swear, I haven’t looked at another woman since meeting Maria.’

  ‘Really, Detective? Then answer this, what precisely were you doing on Wednesday, 7th April, between the hours of noon and half past in Brewer St with your arm linked to a woman of ill repute?’

  Turned out he was arresting her.

  ‘Look, we all make mistakes,’ I appealed to their senses of both mercy and forgiveness, even contested that the undue suspicion I’d planted on their relationship could easily be redirected and shaped into a heavy douse of passion, or a trust test, thus cementing their love for one another. They didn’t buy it.

  Now Reggie was standing at my side pouring a flute of Champagne. Here was my opportunity to prove to Maria that Bambuss really was a low-down dirty dog.

  ‘So, Detective Bambuss, what excuse are you going to use this time?’

  ‘Brodsky, my dear,’ he snarled at me between clenched teeth, ‘I’m on a job, get lost.’

  ‘Yeah right. I may look like one, but I’m not a complete idiot, Detective.’

  Meanwhile Reggie, having heard me utter the word ‘detective’ twice, had become quite excited.

  ‘Out, fatso, out of here now before I call the …’

  POLICE RAID

  Araminta was sobbing down the phone.

  ‘You’ve ruined my life, Issy Brodsky.’

  ‘Look, Lady … erm.’

  ‘Araminta.’

  ‘Look, Lady Araminta, you asked me to do a job and that’s exactly what I did. Okay?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not okay. Henry’s reputation has been sullied. His whole future in politics could be affected.’

  This dame was driving me nuts.

  Bambuss turned out to be telling the truth, again. He and the boys in blue had uncovered a ring of Albanian women in a ‘massage parlour’ run by a man known as Vlad. A tip-off led them to Reggie’s club and they had been casing the joint for weeks. Apparently it was a place Vlad felt comfortable trading flesh in. On the night in question, after I’d blown Bambuss’s cover, a kerfuffle ensued, followed by an outright brawl. The stags had thought it was all part of the evening’s entertainment, an updated version of a Western cowboy saloon scene, which only served to make matters worse, and the evening ended with the club being wrecked and everyone hauled down to the station.

  ‘It’s shameful. Mumsy has had to take to her bed. It’s prompted one of her migraines. She is of a nervous disposition, you know.’

  Dear oh dear, I thought, how tragic. I could hear Lady A sniffing.

  ‘Don’t you think you are being a tad over-sensitive. After all, they weren’t arrested, merely cautioned.’

  Lady A wasn’t the only one pissed off. The performers were livid. Raids were only acceptable at the end of an evening. They held me personally responsible for their loss of earnings, ditto Reggie, and they were threatening action.

  ‘What type of action, Reggie?’ I asked. ‘Live?’

  ‘Oi,’ he sneered, ‘what are you? Some sort of joker?’

  PROCRASTINATION

  The office windows were wide open, time once again for rising dust and the stressful sound of homebound traffic. Maria was picking Max up from school, allowing me do a full day’s work. An unhindered day without the school pick-up – glorious. I managed to get more things done during that time than at any other day in the week. Of course, with each passing year it had become in many ways so much easier to look after Max but, and there was always a but, now my chauffeuring abilities were constantly under strain, as I had to ferry Max hither and thither to his
extra-curricular activities, play dates and parties.

  It was touching six. Trisha sat opposite me giving herself a French manicure and Fiona was on the internet looking for a present for Nadia’s forthcoming engagement party.

  ‘We could get her some silk sheets,’ Fiona suggested, obviously bored with her task.

  ‘I already told you,’ I sighed, ‘she wants cash.’

  ‘I hate giving cash, it’s too impersonal and Nadia is our number-one Honey,’ stated Trisha.

  ‘Excuse me?’ and I pointed to the picture on the Honey of the Month award board. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Brodsky, a) that’s not you and b) that was ages back.’

  Jeez, but Trisha was right. I mean, where does the time go? One minute it’s mid-March and the next it’s the end of June. High summer was upon us.

  ‘Brodsky, I’ve been meaning to ask what happened with the Arthur Penn case.’

  ‘Er, what?’ Damn, but there a huge lump under the carpet by my feet. Detective Tip Number 514: When in doubt, do nowt. I’d let things simmer awhile, out of sight, out of mind. Procrastination was my order of the day.

  ‘Oh, it’s going fine,’ I lied.

  ‘Really? ’Cause according to your worksheets, he now owes us close on 300 quid.’

  ‘What?’ I near choked on the thought. This was all I needed. I couldn’t believe I’d misused or, rather, misappropriated that many hours of office time.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Thursday just gone.’ I gabbled, fist in my mouth. I forgot someone had to pay for all those hours. I knew it was wrong, tantamount to thievery of time. ‘Tea, anyone?’ I nervously offered.