Winters & Somers

by Glenys O'Connell

  Winters didn't know whether to laugh or call for back up. Instead he shrugged. “You can put your hands down now – the gun's gone.”

  “Oh, yeah, right, thanks man.” Smokey and Short Eddie both dropped like stones onto the settee, which groaned in shock. He half expected them to disappear through the floor, but instead they settled comfortably, pulling sleeping bags over themselves and looking ready for a good night's sleep.

  Which was more than he was expecting to get. Between the sexual high that Cíara had created and the adrenalin high that being intruded on so suddenly had created, he doubted he'd sleep at all.

  * * *

  But he was wrong. The moment his head touched the pillow in the room that was now his, he fell fast into a calm and dreamless sleep. He could have slept a lot longer, too, even ignoring the clanking of the old pipes as the heat came on and water sloshed through them, but the sound that woke him was gentle laughter and a sudden feeling he wasn't alone. His left arm swept across the bed, wanting her to be there, wanting her – but met only a furry softness that was most un-Cíara-like.

  And was the reason for the laughter. Standing in the doorway, clutching a mug of coffee, she greeted him with a grin. “Even New York cops have to have friends,” she gurgled, pointing to the side of the bed.

  Winters propped open his eyes long enough to focus – and wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. Somehow, in the night, he'd knocked down one of Mary Margaret's big teddy bears from the shelf by the bed and now he lay with the toy clasped in his arms. He knew his face must be beet red. Pushing the toy away, he pulled himself up in the bed, enjoying the way her smile faded as she saw he was naked under the sheet, and snarled: “Was there something you wanted?”

  Cíara swallowed, hard. Oh, yes, yes, there was something she wanted…Her eyes traveled slowly upwards, following the trail of dark hair from his belly button up to where it fanned out across his muscled chest, then up again, to his mouth.

  That miserable bastard was grinning like he knew what she was thinking.

  * * *

  “Wipe that look off your face, Winters, or you'll get scalding coffee in your lap!” she commanded, advancing on him purposefully. He quickly scooted further up in the bed, pulling the comforter up over himself. Straight-faced now, he reached out for the coffee cup she offered, suppressing another grin as he noticed she stayed just outside grabbing range.

  Oh, yes. He definitely had the lady's interest.

  “So what's with the humane gesture?” he asked, raising his coffee cup to her.

  “Oh, I have to go out early on business, and I wanted to make sure everyone was up and moving, and no loose ends or anything.”

  “You mean like your little playmates dossing down in the living room?”

  “They've an ultimatum to find a place today. But then there's you.” She moved cautiously to sit on the end – the very end – of the bed. “Look, Jonathon, about last night – well, I…feck it. I don't know what to say. I was tired and feeling a bit battered after talking to the Henleys. It won't happen again.”

  “Why not?”

  She took a deep breath. “Because it can't. I've no room in my life for a relationship with you, a relationship that's not…”

  “Paying its way?”

  “You could put it that way. Oh, I fancy you; really I do, so your ego needn't feel bruised. But if I – if we were to sleep together, it would interfere with everything I have planned.”

  And then she was gone, closing the door softly beside her. He had an awful, childish urge to punch the idiotically grinning face of the teddy bear next to him. She couldn't sleep with him, because she didn't work for free?

  Or because she couldn't juggle a personal relationship and keep her 'business' entanglements at a distance? Dammit!

  Climbing out of bed and grabbing a clean shirt from his suitcase, Jonathon vowed he'd get Cíara's private detective business going profitably and get her off the streets. And into his bed. Oh, yes, that, too, was very definitely still on the agenda…

  Then it hit him. She was going out 'on business'. An emotion he should have recognized as jealousy but preferred to interpret as exasperation washed over him. It was only 7 am. Who the hell would a hooker be seeing at seven in the morning?

  He dressed quickly and slipped out past the still-snoring Smokey and Short Eddie, just in time to see a blur of red as Cíara's sports car flew by on the other side of the square. He was after her in minutes, ignoring the prickle of guilt that here he was again, following his own partner. Not very trusting. He told himself it was for the sake of the business. How could a reputable private detective business flourish if one of the partners was distracted by following the Oldest Profession?

  His groin tingled as he remembered the way he'd felt when she was in his arms last night. Dammit, the woman could probably make her fortune seducing men, why should she bother running a legitimate investigation agency?

  * * *

  She eased into the early morning traffic, which was still thankfully light but building steadily, got stuck at the traffic lights alongside the elegant building that housed Rathmines Library, then turned left. On the main road she turned right at the second next lights, driving alongside the canal which lay quiet this morning, disturbed only by a family of ducks that swam lazily towards an old man on the bank who threw bread into the murky water.

  Wrapped up in her own thoughts, wondering how to approach the problems on hand, Cíara didn't notice the sleek SUV that hovered a car's length from her rear fender. Of course, its occupant was one of her problems. She'd been honest enough to admit to Winters that she was attracted to him, but she knew she'd bungled her explanation of why their relationship could go nowhere. And she knew why.

  How could she admit to the World's Most Exasperating man that she wouldn't start an affair with him because she knew he would someday soon walk out of her life and leave her broken hearted? Other lovers, that hadn't been a problem – she'd known from the start that the passion was a temporary thing, and they'd part company once it burned itself out. Usually she'd been glad when they'd reached that point – some men could become so cloying!

  But all her instincts said it was different with this one. Even now she was squirming in her seat as her treacherous hormones let the memory of his touch ripple silkily over her skin.

  But at least he'd seemed to understand. He was right when he'd said their relationship wouldn't pay its way – in fact, would probably interfere with their working partnership. So, maybe she'd leave it at that.

  She slipped her hand into her fanny pouch – yes, the precious jewels were still there. First, she'd go see Sly Stevie, the pawnbroker. He had a reputation for being sharp and once or twice there'd been rumors that he was also well in with the police, but she was sure he'd treat her fairly. After all, hadn't she been to school with his daughter Breege? And Breege wouldn't be above giving her old man a thorough tongue-lashing if he cheated one of her friends….

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Hi, old buddy. Listen, I need a favor – just an idea, a hunch I'm following up.” Winters took the good natured ribbing and the very curious questioning of his Gardaí friend Bill O'Malley in good part, and managed to hide his surprise – and his plummeting heart – when Bill gave him the information he asked for.

  The pawnshop – Second Glances – was owned by a fly character named Steven McGonagall, or Sly Stevie. McGonagall was known for skirting the edges of the law, but had also come across as a Gardaí informant enough times for them to turn a blind eye to some of his lesser misdemeanors. So far, he’d bought himself a reasonably hassle free life – from the police, at least – by being extremely co-operative in passing on odds and ends of information which had proved useful. And at the same time he'd managed not to get his head kicked in by some of the darker figures that lurked in the murky underworld ponds into which Stevie occasionally dipped his toes.

  “So, why'd you want to know and what do you have? Is it connected to the D
iamond Darling? I'd have thought that was a bit exotic for Sly Stevie.” Bill was on a fishing expedition himself, and gave in gracefully when Winters refused to give him a straight answer.

  Now he wondered just what Cíara would want with a pawnbroker who was basically a smalltime fence for stolen property – jewelry included. How did she come to know such scum – and why would she have a business appointment with him?

  He told his rebellious heart that Cíara's business meeting with the fence was probably more to do with the jewels she'd lifted from her grandparents than any earthier coupling. At least, he hoped so.

  A slightly built blond-haired man, dressed in casually elegant style that shouted Money! Money! at anyone who cared to notice, stopped in front of the store, glancing in the window. His face was familiar – Winters remembered he'd met this man at the Henleys. A friend of Cíara's through her grandparents? Was it him, not Sly Stevie, that she'd had come to meet?

  Yes, he remembered they'd made dinner arrangements. He sighed with relief when she came out of the store, the look of surprise on her face very genuine as she greeted the other man.

  He tried to ignore the flash of jealousy that rasped through him as he saw her throw back her head and laugh when her companion stood close to speak into her ear. And he ignored the impulse to get out of the car and go and intrude on their little tête-à-tête, but it was hard, and he was relieved when she climbed into her own vehicle and took off into the traffic again.

  * * *

  Good God and His Blessed Saints!

  Of all the people to meet outside the pawnbrokers but Anton Wallace, one-time fiancé of Serena McLaughlin and erstwhile dinner guest of the Henleys! Cíara shook her head, knowing she'd find the situation funny if it didn't intrude a little too closely into her private business. And this was private – she certainly didn't want news of her activities getting back to her paternal grandparents.

  She paused as she remembered the painful revelations of the previous evening. The Henleys had seemed almost human, sitting in their kitchen, plying their unexpected nighttime guests with cocoa and spirits and talking in a way she'd never heard them talk before.

  You mean, you never listened! Cíara's conscience pricked. But she couldn’t shake off a lifetime of anti-Henley training – Good Lord, Granny Somers had even used the Henleys in place of wicked witches and big bad wolves in the bedtime stories she'd read her infant granddaughter!

  But even so, maybe there was a kernel of something she should look into further. But later. Later, after she sorted out the day's business, and later still, when she dealt with Jonathon Winters, got him out of her life, and maybe stuck a poultice on her bruised and battered heart.

  Right now she was going to play good fairy to a good friend, and she hoped he wouldn't punch her out for her generosity. You never could tell with Harry.

  She drove into the forecourt of the ramshackle garage and beeped her horn. All she could see was Harry's coveralled backside sticking up from under the raised hood of a car, but a hand waved at her – two greasy fingers raised. She hoped it just meant he'd be with her in two minutes and wasn’t some rude sign that suggested she should go away.

  She'd only just poured herself a mug of coffee in Harry's office when the man himself came in; looking no less disgruntled than he'd looked on her last visit. But he managed to crack a smile for his favorite customer.

  “Morning, Cíara. You're bright and early today, sweetheart.” He wiped his hands with a greasy rag before grasping the coffee cup she offered him and taking a deep drink. “So what brings you out this way? The red devil playing up again, is she?”

  “No, Harry, I've a little scheme I want to bring you into…”

  And she told him what she had in mind, then handed him the envelope she'd had in her pocket.

  “Oh, my God – you can't be serious! I wish you'd never found out about this! Girl, you can't do this!”

  “Oh, yes I can and I will, Harry. Just watch me. But you keep up your end of the bargain, and everything will be okay.”

  Harry was silent for a few minutes. When he looked at her again, he was all business.

  “Man, Cíara, that little MG was just purring as you drove in – a lovely piece of work. Keep that body in tiptop condition and you'll always have something valuable to trade. Money in the bank, that is, girl.”

  * * *

  Winters had managed to get close to the open window of the office and hear the end of the conversation. His fingers curled into his palms as he heard Cíara threatening the middle-aged man who sat at the desk. What was she threatening him with? “…keep up your end of the bargain and everything will be okay.”

  A Dublin bus roared by and he missed a chunk of the conversation, hearing only the end. “…. a lovely piece of work. Keep that body in tiptop condition and you'll always have something valuable to trade. Money in the bank, that is, girl.”

  Was the mechanic trying to pimp for Cíara? That would explain why she was threatening him, a desperate attempt to stay out of the clutches of a seedy low-life? He slipped back into the shadows of the garage as the door opened. She stepped out into the sunshine, the light bouncing off her black leather jacket and glimmering like fire through her hair.

  Lord, but she was beautiful. And was that a tear she'd just wiped away?

  He waited until she'd climbed into her sports car – where did the woman get the money for a car like that? Then he silently entered the office. The sight of burly Harry the mechanic, slumped on the desk with his hands over his eyes, shoulders heaving, met him.

  Good God, what had she done – or threatened to do – to this man?

  “Look, I know about Cíara and I know she's threatening you. Why don’t you tell me all about it, and I'll see there's an end to it,” he said into the silent room.

  Harry jumped up, leaving black streaks across his face where he knuckled away tears. “Who on earth are you? And what the hell are you yammering about?” The man demanded aggressively.

  “I know about Cíara 's little sideline. You're right, she does need to keep that body in good shape. But I want her to give it up. And I know you've been trying to muscle in on her scene, trying to profit from it, and she's threatening you. Whatever she's holding over you, we can fix it. And turn the tables on her – make her give up the streets.” Winters was using police techniques. Sound like you know the whole story, even if you don't, and make 'em crumble and confirm.

  But Harry stared at him open mouthed, as though confronted by a total lunatic. Then he leapt across the space between them, moving incredibly fast for such a heavy man, and pinned Winters against the office wall.

  Unprepared, he fell backwards and found himself held against the cold cinder block with an oily smelling arm across his throat.

  “I don’t know who the hell you are, buster, but I don't like what you're saying about Cíara. That angel girl is one of the sweetest little things on the planet, and you're suggesting that she….” And a meaty fist was raised. Winters managed to duck, and Harry stopped before he hit the wall.

  “Hey, slow down – talk to me. I'm Cíara's partner and I'm worried about her,” he yelped. Harry stopped, looked him up and down, and then went and sat back at his desk, chair tipped backwards and his feet on the cluttered steel surface.

  “Sit down. Tell me what's eating at you – but no more nasty stuff about my friend, Cíara, okay?”

  Winters sat down, feeling absurd. His gut was screaming at him that somehow, somewhere, he'd missed something important. “What was she doing here? Whatever it was, it left you pretty distraught.”

  “Course I was distraught, man, the woman just saved my life. The corporation's buying up the land this garage stands on, for redevelopment. The owner's going to do all right, fat bastard that he is, but I've only a lease that's nearly up, and I'd never find another place at a price that would let me still buy groceries and a pint at the end of the week.

  “Then Cíara walked into my office just now, and slams one hundred
and fifty grand on my desk and says she'll come up with more. That'll get me into a place of my own, and well equipped, too. Do you know how long I've dreamed of having me own place? With the kids growing up, and the wife has acute diabetes, she can't work, we've found it hard to make ends meet sometimes even when the business has been booming. Then the Celtic Tiger arrived and property prices flew out of the reach of an ordinary man. Getting a lump sum together to make a down payment would have taken a miracle.”

  “And what does Cíara want for her generosity?” Winters' voice was hard.

  “Ah, now, isn't it just like the girl? She wants me to promise lifetime care for her little sports car! It’s cost me a pretty penny at times, but, sure I love that car almost as much as she does, and I'd look after it for free if I had to!”

  “Her sports car?”

  “Yeah, would you believe she did all the body work on it herself? Rescued it when it was nothing but scrap, and put the thing together herself, with me rebuilding the engine for her. Every spare penny she's had for years went into that car. And it’s a little beauty now. The envy of half of Dublin, that car is. I was just telling her, you know, it's a lovely piece of work, and if she takes care of that body she'll always have something to trade if she wants to change to another vehicle later. Money in the bank, a car like that is.”

  Harry stopped suddenly, looking aghast at the man in front of him who was rocking backwards and forwards on his hard wooden chair, laughing like he was fit to burst.

  * * *

  Cíara drew a deep breath. So far, so good.

  The trip to the pawnbrokers had gone well – Sly Stevie, mindful of her friendship with his daughter, had offered her a good price with a full six weeks for redemption; by that time, he said, he'd have sounded out some quality jewelers to see if he could get her a better deal.

  No, no, he'd insisted, he wouldn't take a fee, not for old time’s sake. Didn't she come to play with his Breege when they were both knee high to a grasshopper? And wouldn't she be sure and tell Breege about what a good deal he'd cut her friend…