The metallic echo from an empty chamber jolted me back into time and place. Had the gun jammed? I stared at a fat knuckle of fate, waiting to see if it would squeeze the trigger a second time. The finger relaxed and withdrew.
The raucous laughter of Tommy and Jimmy filled the woods. It hung in the clammy air long after I’d lost sight of them through the trees. To be sure, one day I’d have a good giggle about it myself, but in the meantime, I decided to cancel any plans that involved fucking with the psychotic gangster, here-before-referred-to as Jimmy “Kingpin” Cartwright. He was an A1 certified lunatic.
And that was on a medicated day.
After a ten minute shuffle, retracing my route, I got back to the road. My legs were shaking and my clothes were soaked in sweat, but I was out of the woods. Only in a literal sense, maybe, but for the time being at least, I was safe. Relief frothed over me like a soda stream. In the brief calm, I decided what to do next: even in tip top condition it was too far to walk, but I was close enough to civilisation to hitch a lift back to town. With my head angled in the direction of the approaching hum, I planted a speculative toe on the tarmac, extended my thumb and waited.
Despite looking like an extra from a zombie flick, in the end, my despairing thumb worked. An obliging sales rep stopped and took pity. He seemed to accept my story about being mugged in the forest, despite my unsuitable duds for that terrain. Maybe he wasn’t listening, too busy daydreaming about his next call and the possibility of major payola.Ahh, the sweet, fragrant, mesmerising smell of a newly conceived payday.
The memory took me all the way back to where my fate had first happened upon the crossroads marked Cartwright, Clegg, Porson … oh, and that little shit, Bugg.
CHAPTER THREE
Thursday (the day before) – 12:30
Whoever said a week is a long time in politics should try going from Wednesday to Thursday in Weighton.
Having collected freshly pressed business cards from Fingers & Thumbs early on Wednesday, I’d gone straight to a meeting with my first prospective client. The ink had still been tacky when Mrs Porson palmed my card. She’d soon availed me an alluring smile, some flirtatious chitty-chat and that all-important retainer fee. With her cheeky cheque safely deposited by lunch-time, my new career was set for take-off. I’d become a fully-endorsed, in-the-money, cased-up, Private Investigator. Eddie was in the big leagues with a first client and first assignment: a simple blackmail triangle. What could go wrong?
A lot, as it turned out. And quickly.
When I found Mrs Porson on Thursday, just past noon if you want the actuality, she was a good deal less chirpy. It’d been a bummer of a day until then and you’d think I was owed a break. No such luck.
She’d told me to go to her place, a huge Victorian house. When I got there, all seemed bright and beautiful, the high overhead sun yolking a milky sky. The front door was open slightly, flapping in the warm air, so I slipped in. A god-awful smell led me to the lounge where I found Mrs P sprawled on her stomach in front of the leather sofa, her head twisted awkwardly on the pepper-flecked rug. A swamp of bodily fluids stained the fabric beneath her, which accounted for the stink. She provided a compelling centrepiece for the room and I couldn’t fail to be moved by her stillness.
I lowered an ear to her lips and gently thumbed her wrist. Nothing. It was so quiet in that place I swear I could have heard a beatin’ heart. But this heart was beat. I may have been new to the game but I picked up the fundamentals pretty quick. The dame was dead. This femme was fatale.
I didn’t say it – well, you wouldn’t, would you – but I thought it: why’d you go and die on me, Mrs P? Everything had been going along just peachy. But the plaintiff appeared uncooperative and not even a subpoena from hell would fix that. I had to
The raucous laughter of Tommy and Jimmy filled the woods. It hung in the clammy air long after I’d lost sight of them through the trees. To be sure, one day I’d have a good giggle about it myself, but in the meantime, I decided to cancel any plans that involved fucking with the psychotic gangster, here-before-referred-to as Jimmy “Kingpin” Cartwright. He was an A1 certified lunatic.
And that was on a medicated day.
After a ten minute shuffle, retracing my route, I got back to the road. My legs were shaking and my clothes were soaked in sweat, but I was out of the woods. Only in a literal sense, maybe, but for the time being at least, I was safe. Relief frothed over me like a soda stream. In the brief calm, I decided what to do next: even in tip top condition it was too far to walk, but I was close enough to civilisation to hitch a lift back to town. With my head angled in the direction of the approaching hum, I planted a speculative toe on the tarmac, extended my thumb and waited.
Despite looking like an extra from a zombie flick, in the end, my despairing thumb worked. An obliging sales rep stopped and took pity. He seemed to accept my story about being mugged in the forest, despite my unsuitable duds for that terrain. Maybe he wasn’t listening, too busy daydreaming about his next call and the possibility of major payola.Ahh, the sweet, fragrant, mesmerising smell of a newly conceived payday.
The memory took me all the way back to where my fate had first happened upon the crossroads marked Cartwright, Clegg, Porson … oh, and that little shit, Bugg.
CHAPTER THREE
Thursday (the day before) – 12:30
Whoever said a week is a long time in politics should try going from Wednesday to Thursday in Weighton.
Having collected freshly pressed business cards from Fingers & Thumbs early on Wednesday, I’d gone straight to a meeting with my first prospective client. The ink had still been tacky when Mrs Porson palmed my card. She’d soon availed me an alluring smile, some flirtatious chitty-chat and that all-important retainer fee. With her cheeky cheque safely deposited by lunch-time, my new career was set for take-off. I’d become a fully-endorsed, in-the-money, cased-up, Private Investigator. Eddie was in the big leagues with a first client and first assignment: a simple blackmail triangle. What could go wrong?
A lot, as it turned out. And quickly.
When I found Mrs Porson on Thursday, just past noon if you want the actuality, she was a good deal less chirpy. It’d been a bummer of a day until then and you’d think I was owed a break. No such luck.
She’d told me to go to her place, a huge Victorian house. When I got there, all seemed bright and beautiful, the high overhead sun yolking a milky sky. The front door was open slightly, flapping in the warm air, so I slipped in. A god-awful smell led me to the lounge where I found Mrs P sprawled on her stomach in front of the leather sofa, her head twisted awkwardly on the pepper-flecked rug. A swamp of bodily fluids stained the fabric beneath her, which accounted for the stink. She provided a compelling centrepiece for the room and I couldn’t fail to be moved by her stillness.
I lowered an ear to her lips and gently thumbed her wrist. Nothing. It was so quiet in that place I swear I could have heard a beatin’ heart. But this heart was beat. I may have been new to the game but I picked up the fundamentals pretty quick. The dame was dead. This femme was fatale.
I didn’t say it – well, you wouldn’t, would you – but I thought it: why’d you go and die on me, Mrs P? Everything had been going along just peachy. But the plaintiff appeared uncooperative and not even a subpoena from hell would fix that. I had to
Similar Books
Miriam's Secret
Jerry S. Eicher
All My Sins Remembered
Joe Haldeman
Audience Appreciation
Laurel Adams
Hour of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #1)
Cherise Sinclair
Going Batty
Nancy Krulik
Parasite Soul
Chris Jags
Passion in Restraints
Diane Thorne
Monster: Angels of Chaos MC
Zoey Parker
The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf
Bartholomew Gill
Lulu in LA LA Land
Elisabeth Wolf