Ten Grand

by Seamus Heffernan

  She smiled, but there was little joy in that slender lift of her lips.

  “I know you’ve got a friend somewhere in the Service,” she said.

  I shrugged, taking in the still water. “Well, I am a people person.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, because now you and I are going to be friends.”

  I squared to face her.

  “I’m sorry—how’s that?”

  “I’ve been thinking it over,” she said. We fell back into step. A pair of joggers weaved past us. “You’re clearly privy to a lot of info. That Gill girl is effective, too.”

  “She’s on leave for a bit.”

  “God,” she said, already losing patience. “Look, I’m not arguing with you about this. This is what you and I are going to do. You’re gonna keep your ear to the seedy ground people like you walk on. You hear anything related to a major crime, particularly homicide, you will get in touch with me ASAP, and no-one else. And if it happens to be a neat case, easy to wrap up, all the better.”

  “You’re making some big assumptions here,” I said. “Cases like this one don’t happen too often.”

  “Well, you’ll figure it out,” she said. “But get me something.”

  “And if I should decline?”

  She pulled her hands loose from the coat, giving them a quick rub. It was chilly by the lake.

  “I’d rather make a friend of you than an enemy,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

  I ran the options through my head, quickly, Ayesha’s earlier warning about Dunsmore’s possible vengeance looming in my head. She had been right, of course. Despite it all, the Detective Inspector still had the upper hand.

  “If this is what you want, you got it,” I said. “Happy to help local law enforcement, of course.”

  “Good,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ll be hearing from you soon, then.” She turned away, and her posture and pace made it clear our summit was concluded. I sat at another bench. Leaned back. Watched Dunsmore stalk off. Sat a bit longer, watching the city go by.

  41

  That Valentine’s Day text had been from my old friend Sarah, whose aspiring journalist son Jeremy had been somewhat insistent about career day. She happily informed me her son attended St. Ann’s. Sighing inwardly, I told her I wouldn’t need directions.

  When she called, I had been resting up after getting Quigley and his band of merry legbreakers their cash following the sale of the watch, flush with relief and feeling I deserved a distraction. Agreeing to speak to his class now found me sitting in front of a roomful of feet-shuffling, uniformed Year Tens, the elite-yet-disaffected of our youth. I was next to a big-bellied firefighter and a nervous-looking veterinarian.

  “You all right?” I asked the vet as we shook hands. Damp palms.

  He nodded. “Not much of a speaker. Better with pets, I guess.”

  “Kids love animals,” I said, trying to be reassuring.

  “Not when they find out part of my job is putting them down,” he said.

  “Maybe don’t open with that,” I said, standing to take their questions. “Don’t worry. I’ll tank a little bit, lower their expectations.”

  Miss Williams, the teacher, was a slim young woman whose eagerness seemed well-matched to her sunny smile. She quickly introduced me as Jeremy’s guest. She ushered me to the front of the class, explaining she imagined part of my job was to help the police.

  “Or stay out of their way,” I said. I gave the class a half-wave. “Hey.”

  They stared at me blankly. A lone cough was half-suppressed from the back.

  “So. Um.” I rifled through my pockets, pulling loose a sheet with some notes on it. I was clearly out of practice being in front of a classroom.

  “Do you have a gun?” a ruddy faced girl in the front asked.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m not really a fan. Plus, they are super illegal here.”

  “Where are you from?” she quickly followed up, my accent giving me away.

  “Seattle. United States. Go Mariners.”

  “Have you ever shot anyone, though?” someone else called out.

  I looked at the teacher. She shrugged, although her smile had dimmed slightly.

  I shook my head once again.

  “No, I haven’t,” I said. “Well, not yet, anyways.”

  The vet laughed. No one else did.

  “Do you go through people’s garbage?” someone else called out.

  “Yeah, sometimes,” I said. “People throw out all sorts of stuff that they forget can get them in trouble.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, uh, forged cheques, sometimes. Credit card bills with stuff on ‘em people shouldn’t be buying. E-mail hard copies with stuff they shouldn’t say. You know, love letters to the wrong people…” My voice trailed a little bit as I could feel my throat tightening. I saw Jeremy shifting in his seat.

  “My mom hired a PI,” another kid called out. “She found out my dad had another family.”

  “OK,” Miss Williams said. “Let’s thank our guest—”

  “I used to do that work,” I said. “But not any more. I mainly work for insurance companies now and other folks who need background work done.”

  “Do you make a lot of money?”

  “Well, I’m not rich,” I said. “But I’m my own boss. So I don’t often do anything I don’t want to do.”

  “That’s cool,” one of them said, and a slight murmur spread through the group.

  A tentative knock on the door interrupted. Some younger students filed in, Miss Williams explaining that they were given the chance to see some of the senior class’s presentations.

  Aiden stood in the back, apart from his classmates who excitedly grabbed seats next to the big kids. He was stiff, his arms crossed, eyes downcast.

  “What was your last case like?” the ruddy faced girl called out.

  Aiden looked up.

  I looked over at Miss Williams, hoping she was going to try and wrap this up again, but she had sat back at her desk, looking at me attentively.

  “Um,” I said. “You know, some cases you can’t talk about. Confidentiality.”

  “Have you ever seen a dead body?” another kid quickly followed up. They were keen now, sensing I was holding back.

  Aiden and I made eye contact.

  The room patiently awaited my answer.

  I scratched my chin.

  Aiden held my gaze.

  Take care of yourself, kid was all I could hope he read in my eyes.

  “You know what?” I said. “It’s a pretty boring job. You guys watch a bit too much telly.”

  “Could I be a PI?” another kid called out, a boy of about 15 and already built like a diesel engine, his collar straining at his pocked neck.

  Aiden’s eyes were tired, red. He looked away.

  “Sure,” I said, gathering my coat to leave and nodding to Miss Williams. “Why not? They’ll pretty much let anyone do it.”

  The vet nodded good-bye. I walked out, careful in closing the door behind me.

  Epilogue

  It was not yet 4 o’clock and so Bowering’s place was relatively empty, and certainly quiet, save for the meek beeps from the decades-old fruit machine tucked away in the back. I pulled up to the bar.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Look who’s still in one piece.”

  I shrugged, trying to hide the low-glow of joy inside me that persisted, despite everything else that had happened the last few days.

  I checked my phone again. Charlie’s message had spilled over into a longer e-mail. She was disappointed with how things had been left and she wanted to have a chance to talk. I couldn’t tell if she expected an apology or not. I didn’t know if I would be willing to give it, either.

  Bowering presented me with a pint of cola.

  “No diet stuff for you today,” he said. “After a brush with death, treat yourself to some actual sugar.”

  I smiled my thanks and took a sip. He lingered
.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  He scratched his chin. “Remember that project we talked about a ways back, the one I got you to check the kid out for suitability?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, the long and the short of it this: We are picking up debts from other, ah, lenders at a cut price and them collecting them for ourselves.”

  “How does that work?” I asked, amused. “Like a collections agency?”

  “Something like that,” he said, wiping down the bar. “Some guys disappear, and it’s just not cost efficient for the lender to try and track them all over Europe, or hell, the world. So we pick up the sheet for pennies on the pound and try to collect if and when the opportunity presents itself.”

  I considered this entrepreneurial turn.

  “Not bad,” I admitted. “Your idea?”

  Bowering nodded.

  “You put the kid, Raynott, on it?”

  “Nah. You guys were right. He’s too nice.”

  “Well, it’s a good manager who recognizes both his team member’s talents and limitations,” I said, raising my glass.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking my light snark in stride. “So far, it’s been a pretty good side business for us.”

  “Well, continued success with it,” I said, standing. I laid a few quid on the bar. He scooped it up and dropped it in the register before returning.

  “No change,” I said.

  “No, no,” he said. He laid out a piece of paper. “This is someone who came to our attention. Thought you might be interested.”

  I sat back down, unfolding the slip and taking a look at the name.

  “That’s your boy, isn’t it?” Bowering asked. “Guy who left you holding a pretty big bag?”

  There it was, in neat black block letters. Taylor Brock and his current address, somewhere in darkest Birmingham. Hell, they even had his e-mail and mobile number.

  “Bag big enough for ten thousand pounds, yeah,” I said. My stomach was already in a slow roll. “How’d you get this?”

  “I have a few associates up north,” he said. “Obviously, the debt has been settled, thanks to you, so there’s no job there for us anymore.”

  I stared at the paper for what was beginning to feel like a long time.

  “Of course, that doesn’t mean someone else wouldn’t want to swing by,” he said. “You know, just drop in. Have a chat, like.”

  Another punter came in and headed to the far end of the bar, calling out for a pint of Stella. Bowering drifted to the taps.

  I picked up the paper, giving it a final once-over. Neatly folding it, I slipped it into my jacket, careful to button the inside pocket.

  “How we doing?” Bowering asked. “Another Coke?”

  My phone buzzed one more time. I glanced down.

  Charlie. Again.

  I shook my head.

  “Nah,” I said. I shifted on the stool, loosening my tie. I looked over Bowering’s shoulder and pointed to the top shelf.

  “What kind of whiskey you got?” I asked.

  Thank you for reading this Crooked Cat novel. If you have enjoyed it, we and the author would be grateful for a review. Thank you.

  Learn more about the author and his upcoming work at www.seamusheffernan.com.

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