He stared straight at me, but my gaze passed over him, to the second. She was so small as to be almost hidden in the crowd, but the black leather pants and tiny muscle shirt told me which particular gang she belonged to.
Trying to look nonchalant, I stubbed out the Camel, and headed back into the terminal.
They followed…twenty yards behind and making no attempt to remain inconspicuous. By the time I arrived at the departure boards there were six of them, all in a line behind me. Filmed in slow-mo with a wind blowing through their hair and the sun at their backs they might have looked impressive, but here they just looked like some kids in need of a bath.
The departure board told me there was still too long a time remaining before I could check in.
When I turned back to look, they had moved up to within ten yards of me.
I didn’t let them get any closer. I headed back to the bar.
Once there I ordered another beer. I didn’t really want one, but I needed to get close to the T-shirted lads.
“It’s nice to see a group of boys like you going away together,” I said to the nearest.
He turned and looked at me. His eyes were already unfocussed and bleary, and his breath smelled like he’d been gargling with vodka.
“Watcha mean… boys like us?” he said, as belligerently as the booze would allow him to be.
“You know,” I said. “Gays, like you.”
“Are you calling us poofs?” his mate said, suddenly taking an interest in the conversation.
“No, not me,” I said. “It was those Goths over there,” I said, and pointed at the six leather-clad youths hovering at the edge of the bar area. “They said you must be…what with the matching T-shirts and the shorts.”
That was all it took. Ten seconds later that end of the bar was a rolling maul of flying fists and feet. Twenty seconds after that the security men moved in en-masse and all of them, T-shirts and leathers, were dragged off, hopefully to somewhere in the bowels of the airport where they would stay locked up long enough for me to get away and clear.
I watched closely for the rest of the night. No more of the Elf’s pack showed up… at least no one that I could see. There was more security around the bar, but neither the T-shirted crowd, nor the leathers, showed any signs of returning, and the pensioners weren’t in any mood for mayhem. I even managed to relax slightly.
That is, until the beer started to work its way through. By now it was getting close to my check-in time, so I paid a final washroom visit.
And it nearly was my last.
He was waiting for me as I turned away from the urinal. Six-foot six, nearly the same wide, bald and goateed, he looked like a refugee from a strongman act at the circus, down to the tight black vest that only accentuated his muscles.
I didn’t recognize him, but I knew the voice that came out of his mouth when he spoke.
“Best hand it over son,” the Elf said. “Or Curtiss here will have your baws in a basket.” It was like watching a ventriloquist’s dummy. The man’s lips moved, but not quite in time with the words, and his eyes seemed to swivel this way and that, staring and unfocussed.
“That’s a good trick,” I said. “How far up his arse do you need to put your hand?”
I wasn’t expecting a laugh, but I got one, a hollow thing that came from somewhere deep in the big man’s chest.
“You know, I could get to like you,” the voice said.
“Just as long as you keep your hands to yourself,” I said.
I was trying to buy time. We were in an airport toilet. At any second someone would come through the door, and I’d be able to bluff my way out. All I had to do was keep the Elf busy.
Unfortunately he knew it too. The big man moved towards me and showed me the size of his fists.
“It’s not my hands you should be worried about Mr. Adams,” the voice said.
I backed off, but I was at the door of a cubicle, and had nowhere to go but into it. He was almost on me. I did the only thing I could think of... I took the belt from my pocket, backed into the cubicle, and held the belt over the bowl.
“One step closer, and I flush,” I said.
That got me another laugh, but there was no humor in this one.
“You wouldn’t dare.
“Try me.”
We stood and stared at each other for long seconds.
“So, now what?” I said.
The Elf didn’t reply. The big man just stood, silent, staring at me. But when I moved, he moved to cover me.
“A standoff,” the Elf finally said.
“Maybe I’ll just flush it anyway?” I said.
I got the silent stare again.
We could have still been there yet, had it not been for the old man walking in. He’d been a big man himself in his day; I could see that by the slope of his shoulders and the way he carried himself. But age had bent him, and fat had spread to cover any muscle he might have had. He looked to be around the same size as the strongman, but soft in all the wrong places.
He looked us up and down and pursed his lips. He pushed past the big man.
“Don’t mind me lads,” he said. “I’m only here for a shite. Better shite then flight than the other way around, that’s what I always say.”
“Do me a favor,” I said to him. “Get a cop. This lad’s trying to mug me.”
He looked at me, then back at the big man.
“We don’t need the Garda for the likes of him,” he said. Before the Strongman could move the older man stepped in and threw an uppercut that would have taken my head off. The Strongman fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Now excuse me,” the old man said, pushing past me into the cubicle. “But when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.”
He closed the door on me and I left him to it. As I reached the washroom door, the Elf’s voice spoke from the body on the floor.
“I’ll find you Adams,” was all he said.
Six
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
I arrived in St John’s on Monday at 9:00 am local time.
The flight itself had been uneventful. The only near glitch came as I passed through security in Dublin. Something I had on me set off the alarm.
“Move to one side sir,” the security woman said. She was small, squat, and looked like she’d been training for a place in an American Football squad.
“It’s probably this,” I said, holding up the Zippo.
She ignored me.
“Raise your hands please sir.”
I complied.
Resistance is futile.
I thought of saying it, but even I was smart enough to know that any bad mouthing of security in airports meant only one thing –a one way trip to the room where they made you bend over with your trousers down.
I let her pat me down, and saw her eyes light up as she found the lump in my pocket.
Again a thought came to mind.
I’m just pleased to see you.
And yet again, I bit my tongue.
“Take that out please sir.”
The woman behind me in the queue tittered, but I managed to keep quiet. It was a strain though.
I removed the hair belt from my pocket.
“What have we here?” she said. She held it up in front of her. I didn’t know what I was going to do if she tried putting it on around her waist.
“This looks like an antique,” she said. She looked delighted to have found it. “There are strict rules about taking antiques out of the country.”
I leaned in close and whispered in her ear.
“Actually, I take it everywhere with me. It’s made from my dead wife’s pubic hair. It’s all I have left to remind me of her. Please?”
I felt quite proud of the sob I managed to get in my voice.
She stood back and looked me in the eye. She must have liked what she saw, for she passed the belt back to me.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, and let me through.
I manag
ed not to smile until I got out of Security.
I had no such problems at the St John’s end. I showed my passport to the man at the desk.
“Holiday or business sir?” he said as he checked me against the picture. I wasn’t sure whether he was just making polite conversation or not, so I thought it best to answer.
“A bit of both.”
He took a long time looking at my passport; any longer and I would have started to sweat. But in the end he just waved me through.
“Enjoy your stay,” he said, and I walked into Canada.
I got myself a hire car and paid by credit card. I had no idea how long I would have to stay out of Scotland, and thought it prudent to save what cash I was carrying. I had a wash and brush-up in the washrooms on the main concourse of the airport. A quick check of my armpits told me what I already guessed. I needed a change of clothes.
George had packed denims, heavy work-shirts and woolen sweaters. I had a hankering for the old three-piece suit, but it wasn’t to be.
I wondered why George had packed only heavy clothes, but once I got outside I knew. It might be May, and almost summer back in Scotland, but it was bitterly cold here in Newfoundland. Snow was still piled high in dirty drifts on the side of the road, and gray clouds hung low and heavy over the airport. I had the heating in the hire-car cranked up high as I drove down the hill towards town.
The street map I bought in the airport proved almost useless. The small city is a warren of narrow, one-way streets and dead ends that had my frustration levels running high after less than five minutes. By the time I pulled into the parking area of McBarnette and Arcand twenty minutes later I felt on the verge of screaming.
The receptionist made things worse.
“Can I speak to Mr. McBarnette or Mr. Arcand please?”
“I’m afraid neither of them are in today. They are out most of this week.”
I moved forward a bit closer to her. She smelled of lavender and soap. This close I could see she was fastidious about her appearance. Her nails were buffed just so, and her clothes looked as if they’d been washed and ironed that morning. Her hair had been tied back tightly, a ponytail without a hair out of place draped straight down her back almost to her waist.
“Do you know where I can find them?”
“They’re up north somewhere,” she said, “Or maybe over at Gros Morne.”
“When will they be back?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she said.
“You are a secretary aren’t you?”
“I’m their Personal Assistant,” she said haughtily.
“Well then, do some assisting. Please tell them I need to see them.”
“I can’t do that,” she said. “They’ve got a very busy diary.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “It’s them I want to see, so their diary can be as busy as it likes.”
That one went over her head.
“As I said. That’s impossible I’m afraid. Their next free slot is on Wednesday morning.”
“You did say you were their assistant didn’t you?” I asked.
“Yes.” She was starting to get bored with me. I could tell by the relentless tapping of her pencil on the desk.
“And here was me thinking you were more like their mother.”
“I’ve been with them for five years and their business is confidential.”
“Five years eh? I’d have thought by now you’d know where they were during the day.”
“Are you trying to tell me my job sir?”
I dropped into Bogart.
“No. Just having fun trying to guess what it is.”
That got me another blank stare. She stopped tapping the pencil and pointed it at me. I suspect she’d have preferred it to be a knife.
“Is there anything in particular you need to see them about?”
“Nothing I’m willing to tell somebody that knows so little as you,” I said sweetly. “Tell them Derek Adams is in town.”
I didn’t tell her where I’d be, but I figured that if they could find me in a back street pub in Glasgow, they would find me easily enough in their town.
I’d expected many things from St John’s, but what I hadn’t expected was to feel quite so much at home. The small city sits on a series of hills overlooking a large natural harbor. The streets, especially in the old part of town near the docks, are packed in a tight labyrinthine block along the hillside. It reminded me a bit of parts of Edinburgh, but where in Scotland we had houses and alleyways of heavy dark stone, here you had primary colors on wooden frames, blue, yellow, green and red, all one after the other like long blocks of fancy ice-cream.
If the streets reminded me of Edinburgh, the bars did more than remind me of Glasgow.
You can tell most of what you need to know about a city from visiting its bars. It’s always the first thing I do on checking out a new town, even before finding a hotel. Downtown St John’s offered many to choose from. I left the car in a parking area and went in search of one.
The first few I walked past were obviously geared at the tourist trade. They were slightly gaudy, with pretensions to being up-market and, this early in the morning, completely empty.
The real drinkers were in the older bars, tucked away in quiet corners. One in particular caught my attention. The main door was open and a small crowd of smokers huddled together for warmth in the doorway. Inside was the welcome chatter of conversation. Music played, but it was turned low. It was an Irish bar, but nothing’s perfect.
As I waited for my beer, I could have closed my eyes, and been back in Glasgow. The accents around me were mostly Celtic, and the Newfoundland local speech was close enough in style to blend right in. The television above the bar was even showing a UK soap opera… Coronation Street.
The barman saw me looking as he handed me my beer.
“I can turn it up if you’re a fan?”
I shook my head.
“My Grandpa was, but it never took with me.”
“They love it round here,” he said, and laughed. “Gives them something to talk about on the long winter nights.”
I sipped the beer. It colder than I was used to, but it looked like beer, it smelled like beer, and it tasted like beer. It would do for me.
“New in town?” the barman said.
“Just blew in,” I replied.
“Let me guess, West Coast Scotland?”
I nodded, but if everyone could identify my origins this easily I’d have to be careful.
“Glasgow,” I said.
“Well if you’re looking for company, there’s plenty of your countrymen in town.”
“How do I find them” I asked, but knew immediately I said it that it had been a stupid question.
“Just look for a bar that’s open,” he replied. We were both laughing as he moved on to serve the next customer.
I stayed for an hour nursing the single beer. I wanted more, but my spidey sense had started tingling again. I had a feeling I’d be hearing from Mr. McBarnette or Mr. Arcand before too long, and I wanted to be sober when I did.
Nobody paid much attention to me, and no leather clad friends of the Elf showed up. I might well have stayed a lot longer if the barman hadn’t handed me a telephone.
“You’re Derek Adams?” he asked.
“Depends on who wants to know.”
“He says he’s from McBarnette and Arcand. If he’s who he says he is, his word is good around here.”
I took the phone.
“Mr. McBarnette?”
I got a laugh from the other end.
“No. The other one. I’m Mike Arcand. Welcome to Newfoundland Mr. Adams.”
He was a Canadian, even I could tell that much, but not a Newfoundlander.
“How did you find me?”
“Same way we did in Glasgow,” he said, and laughed again. “We lawyers have our own methods of detection.”
“Aye. I’ve noticed,” I said dryly. “So, what now?”
“Yo
u have something for us I believe?”
“In my pocket… if it’ll stay there. And you have something for me?”
“Oh yes. But I hear you had a bit of trouble back home. What you need is a holiday. Come and see us at the ranch.”
He gave me an address that didn’t make much sense to me, but I memorized it anyway.
“You can stay as long as you want, and we’ll make sure the law stays off your back.”
“It’s not the law I’m particularly worried about…” I started.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We don’t go for black leather out here either.”
After I hung up I asked the barman about the address.
“Port Rexton? That’s up on the Bonavista Peninsula.”
“How far?”
“About three hundred kilometers…three and a half to four hours’ drive from here I’d guess. How do you say it? Out in the sticks. Head for Clarenville on the Trans-Canada first. Then you’ll find an exit for Bonavista. Take that and just keep going in a straight line. You’ll hit Port Rexton eventually.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
“Yep,” he said, laughing. “You’ll have trouble finding any beer that’s not in a bottle out there.”
“It’s that far out in the sticks?”
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “They have running water and electricity. Just don’t expect any frills.”
It was just after eleven when I left the bar, but after twelve before I managed to get out of the city, defeated again by the one way system. Fortunately I managed to find one of the main thoroughfares, and followed it. It led me along a wide double road lined on either side by rank after rank of car dealers, drive through fast food outlets and supermarkets with names I didn’t recognize.
Finally I came out into open country.
I took an exit to the Trans-Canada Highway, hoping I was heading in the right direction by going west. I was rewarded two minutes later with a sign that told me it was two hundred kilometers to Clarenville. I started to relax for the first time since getting into the car.
The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections) Page 53
