Napalm Hearts

by Seamus Heffernan

  I wasn’t sure if that was a swipe or not, but it didn’t really matter either way. I re-buttoned my coat.

  “You could have asked Andrew all this, you know,” she said at the door.

  “Don’t worry. I will. And then we’ll see who has the most to say.”

  “You don’t think I had something to do with this, do you?” she asked, with very little resembling concern in her voice.

  “Actually, no. And if I change my mind… well, we found you once.”

  “Mm. You’re certainly confident.”

  “Occupational necessity.” I headed out the way I came in. “One last thing: You don’t seem to have a lot of real acrimony towards Andrew Claymore. Why are you two so intent on staying out of each other’s lives?”

  “Because Andrew can’t look at me for too long before remembering I killed his son, Mr. Grayle,” she said. I stepped over the threshold and into the hall, turning to face her. I said good night to a closing door.

  10

  The next morning, about twenty past nine. I entered the office to see Charlie sitting at her desk, back like a rod and looking straight ahead as she typed up some invoices. She had her hair pulled back loosely, a baseball cap peaking her head and a simple crew-neck top. Sitting across from her was my ex-wife, Roxanne.

  “Morning, Thad,” the former Mrs. Grayle said.

  I couldn’t help but draw a breath first before replying. “Morning, Rox,” I said, walking past her and into my own office. I could already see Charlie’s shoulders relaxing a bit in my peripheral vision.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” she said, sitting. She shifted a bit, readjusting her pencil skirt and tugging her nylons into parallel order. My ex worked in PR for a big firm. She put in long hours, but by the look of her figure she was still making time for the gym. I hung my coat before sitting myself. I powered up my laptop, thereby giving myself a valuable few seconds before turning to face her.

  “So,” I said. “How’re you?”

  “I’m good. Yourself?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Well then. Good.”

  Charlie brought me a coffee. “You have some messages,” she said.

  “Give me a few minutes.”

  “Yep,” she said, exiting quickly.

  “She seems nice,” Roxanne said when Charlie was safely ensconced at her desk.

  “She hustles.”

  “So young. She certainly seems comfortable, though. I like her trainers.”

  “We usually only get dressed up for big meetings or clients. And we don’t get a lot of walk-ins.”

  “You should return your calls. You’d get even less.”

  “What would you like to hear? That I was too busy or I didn’t want to talk to you?”

  “Even you’d have to admit you have to talk to me now.”

  I sipped my coffee. She was right. I waited for the caffeine to steel me a bit. “By all means,” I finally said. “What’s on your mind?”

  She took a long breath through the lovely slit splitting two perfectly glossed lips. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come out with it: Reggie and I—we want to get married.”

  I hadn’t really expected that. “And how is Reggie?” I asked, by way of avoiding awkward silences.

  She rolled her eyes. “We are at the point of our relationship where it is very serious. And part of that is planning the future, our future.” She paused here for a moment. “I need you to let me get on with that planning.” Her eyes lowered for a second.

  “Well, you two have been together for a long time.”

  “You know it wasn’t like that. We were never together until you and I were done, Thad.”

  “And when did we both know we were done?”

  She sighed. “No pity parties, please. We’ve both had our chances to throw toys from our respective prams. And I can’t make this any clearer. I want a divorce. It’s been almost two years now.”

  My turn to sigh. It was hardly worth the breath. “OK. It’s probably time to get on with it, anyways. Have your lawyer contact mine.”

  She said nothing, just nodded a bit. Her gaze was lowered.

  “What’s up?” I said, leaning forward slightly. “Bit late to get all misty, isn’t it?”

  She looked up then, and her eyes flashed. They were decidedly dry. “There’s something else,” she said in a measured voice.

  “I might be out of favours this morning.”

  “Reggie got a new job. In Switzerland. Zurich.”

  “Hunh,” I said, as this information and its ramifications worked its way into my consciousness.

  “We want to move. It’s a brilliant opportunity. And it’s a chance at a fresh start, free and clear.”

  “Free and clear of what?” I said. “Lousy weather? Subpar grammar schools? Long mornings on the Northern Line?”

  She was silent, refusing to engage my sarcasm. It had always been her strategy. It was a good one, like a boxer letting the other guy throw all the punches until he was spent.

  “You just going to take my daughter to Switzerland?” I asked. “How is visitation going to work with that?”

  Still, she said nothing. But her gaze was nowhere near downward now.

  “She’ll visit,” she said. “I promise. And you can too.”

  “Thank you for your permission to travel abroad.” I had hoped it would sound cutting. Instead it sounded weak. Schoolboy snideness.

  “We’ll move without the divorce,” she said. “It makes it easier if it’s done, obviously, but we will still leave. And you’ll give it to us, eventually.”

  Us. Of course.

  I drank my coffee, determined to do something with my hands so as to keep them from trembling slightly. Finally: “OK,” I said. “You’ll get it.”

  She stood, gathering her purse. “Thank you.”

  “I’d like you to leave now.”

  “I was already on my way.” She turned neatly and walked out.

  I stood and closed my door. I sat, not at my desk but where she had just been. I could feel the heat of her still in the wood, the slightest trace of very expensive perfume. My throat was tight, a corset’s waist.

  After a few moments, I could hear Charlie shuffling papers on her desk a bit, a keyboard clicking under her fingers. She needed me for whatever she was working on. Our work, the goals of the day, whatever they might be. There were matters that needed attending to, responsibilities that had to be met. But they would have to wait.

  11

  Later that afternoon. I’d been catching up on paperwork, determined to numb my brain a bit before actually talking to people. Finally, Charlie and I had lunch at my desk. She didn’t ask anything, and I didn’t offer anything. We talked about a new temp. She’d been making a few calls, and wanted to set up some interviews.

  “Do you have any preference?” she asked.

  “No more students,” I said, adding some extra mayo to my club.

  “Nice.”

  “No reflection on present company. But I might need someone for the long haul.”

  “Oh, for sure.” She glanced around the cramped confines of my office and its stacks of papers and books. “How could any of us ever leave all this behind? I suppose they need to be female, though. And young and charming.” Charlie knew I was upset and was trying to be a little cute. I didn’t mind. It was an almost pleasant distraction.

  “I’m not nearly so particular,” I said. “One thing, though—are any of the applicants mute?”

  “No, not that I’ve seen. Just dedicated and stubborn,” she answered, sweetly.

  I smiled, in spite of myself. Charlie smiled too. I pushed a hand through my hair. This would be the point where I would talk about what happened earlier, if Charlie was a real-life friend as opposed to work friend. But she’s not. She’s a nice young woman who makes sure the bills around here get paid, answers the phone, and is good at her job. We get along, but it might be best not t
o blur the lines too much.

  So, instead: “Did you get in touch with Claymore?”

  “Yep, he’s good to meet you outside of Westminster Tube a bit later. Why not just go back to his house? Were you that underwhelmed?”

  “No, not at all,” I said. “It’s a lovely dump, really. But I want us to be somewhere neutral, somewhere we can go for a walk and talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m annoyed with him,” I said. “So I’m getting him off that nice cushy couch and away from his older-than-Jesus whiskies.”

  “Tough love. That’ll show him.”

  “When are we meeting, again?”

  “Four p.m.” She looked at the clock behind me. “You’ve got some time to kill. No appointments today, and we are caught up on everything else.”

  “Anything good playing?” I asked. There’s a lot of night work in this job. When I have free time in the day I sometimes go to the movies. Charlie keeps an eye on the new releases and matinee times for me.

  “Nope,” she said.

  Ah, well. I pulled on my overcoat regardless. “I’m off for a walk,” I say. “Shut ’er down in about thirty and bill out until five p.m., OK?”

  “Thanks,” she said, balling up her own sandwich’s wax paper. “You all right?”

  “Oh yeah.” I wrapped my scarf around my throat.

  “Thad.”

  We looked at each other for a moment.

  “I’m fine. I’m off for a walk and a think. It’s not unheard of, you know.”

  “You tend to do your brooding at rest, not motion.”

  “I’m mixing things up.”

  She nodded and left it.

  “Thanks for looking into that temp stuff,” I said over my shoulder, as I heading out the door.

  “No problem.” She pulled her hair back. I hadn’t noticed until then that Charlie had taken out her ponytail before she came in. Some detective.

  12

  I took my walk, fiddling with my aging iPod to pull up some Clash I added last night and trying my best to block everyone else out. It was left foot, right foot, and focus on breathing. I willed my head to clear, and it almost did. Eventually I took the Tube to Westminster.

  According to Big Ben, it was shortly before 4 p.m. as I ran up the steps to exit and emerge into the winter darkness. Claymore was already there, looking down the bridge, and rubbing his palms together despite the gloves he had on. He turned and saw me behind him, and we quickly shook hands.

  “So,” he said. “What do you have?”

  “Let’s stroll.” I headed towards Whitehall.

  He fell into step next to me. “Chilly tonight,” he observed, as we strode towards Charing Cross.

  I said nothing and kept my eyes front.

  “Anything to report?” he ventured once again after a moment.

  I stopped. To our right were a trio of huddled smokers, banished from the warm confines of their pub. “Mr. Claymore,” I said. “It’s pretty important for the success of this investigation that you tell me the truth about yourself.”

  He stiffened. “And where is this coming from?” he asked, able to muster some indignation.

  “I met your ex-wife last night,” I said.

  “Ah.”

  “If that’s your idea of an apology, I’m afraid you and I might define that word a little differently.”

  Claymore sighed, and glanced at the nearby audience. “Could we keep walking?” he asked.

  “No. Why didn’t you tell me you were married before and that you and your ex enjoy a somewhat chequered past?”

  “I didn’t think it was relevant. My ex-wife is obviously not involved.”

  “I thought you were paying me to make those distinctions.”

  We stopped talking for a moment. His eyes had flashed a bit, and I could see that even in the late-afternoon dusk. Finally, after a hard moment: “I apologise,” he said.

  “That’s fine.” I didn’t see the need to drag it out. “But we need to talk about her.”

  “Fine.” He glanced back up the road. I gave a quick nod, and we started walking again.

  “She tells me you helped her out a few years back,” I said.

  “That’s true,” he said. “Her next choice in romance was hardly of the strongest moral character.”

  “So why help?”

  “My wife and I are… not close,” he said. “But I saw no need to be vindictive. Despite her feelings to the contrary, I don’t hold any deeply-rooted animosity.”

  “So you don’t blame her for the death of your son.”

  Claymore stopped walking. “No. No, Mr. Grayle, I do not.”

  “I have to ask.”

  “And you’ve made it clear I have to tell you the truth. And I just did. So, please: kindly do not ask about or discuss my son again.”

  “Mr. Claymore, I realise you’re the client, and believe me I appreciate that, but a big part of my job is asking hard questions. You don’t actually get to tell me what to do too often in our working relationship.”

  We kept walking, and I decided that was enough punishment.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think your ex-wife had anything to do with this,” I said.

  “That’s good.”

  “But she gave me the name of the bookie you two paid off.”

  “I paid him off.”

  “Well, yes, I realise that it was your money—”

  “Excuse me. I mean to say I delivered the cash myself.”

  I cocked my head. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? It was a lot of money. I wanted to make sure it got into the right hands, and on time.”

  “Don’t you have people to do that for you?”

  “No, not really,” he said, bemused. “Mr. Grayle, what exactly is it that you think I do for a living?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “I’ve done many things, but I don’t have… henchmen or anything.”

  “So what did you think of Mr. Bowering, then?”

  “Nice enough bloke on first impressions. But I don’t have a lot of illusions about him beyond his polite smile and firm handshake.”

  “I’ll drop in on him tomorrow.”

  “Why? He doesn’t even know Angela, and I’d be surprised if he even remembered me.”

  “Any man who hands you an envelope fat with cash is someone who will likely be remembered,” I said. “And even though his direct involvement is a serious longshot, a man in his line of work might know something.”

  “Don’t you have people to do that for you?” he asked.

  “Usually, yes. But he’s on some other things right now.”

  We had reached Trafalgar Square. Nelson loomed over us, reaching into the night’s mist. Despite the chill, there were still some teenage girls and tourists clambering about the great lions at the base of his plinth.

  “You’ll be in touch?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  He nodded his thanks, and looked out into the street to snag a black cab.

  “Plans tonight?” I asked him. Getting personal for a moment. What the hell.

  “Not really.” He stood by the open door. “Yourself?”

  “Me neither.”

  “We can split the ride, if you’d like.” He slid in, and almost sounded like he meant it and wasn’t merely being polite. I thought about my flat and some leftover takeaway waiting for me in that sparse refrigerator. Three halfway-read novels and a stack of criminology journal articles I was still distractedly picking through. A fern that would never forgive me.

  “Nah, I’m good. I don’t mind the walk,” I said, pulling out my earbuds again. He gave me a quick dip of his chin and closed the door. His cab slipped into traffic, and I stuffed my hands into my overcoat’s pockets to keep them warm, to give them somewhere to go.

  13

  Bowering’s pub was a place called The Bells, and it wasn’t that bad, actually. Most of the seats were cigarette-burn free, and the
pumps for the draught looked like they had been cleaned sometime in the last six months. It was about ten after eleven in the morning, and I was quietly sipping a Diet Coke at the end of the bar. The only other people in here were an old lady playing the fruit machines and the young guy behind the bar, and neither looked like they were eager to become my friend.

  “Same again?” the barman asked.

  I shook my head. “The landlord around? I was hoping to drop off a resume.”

  “He’s in shortly,” he said, polishing a row of glasses. “But we’re not exactly busy, you know.”

  “Well, it’s early,” I said. “And it’s Tuesday. Friday nights pick up, don’t they?”

  “It’s not really that kind of pub,” he said, picking up another glass.

  Bowering came through the front door, exchanging a quick pleasantry with the barman who whispered something to him. He glanced at me and, after a moment of considering me in my suit and tie, found his way down to my stool.

  “Help you?” he asked. Bowering was big and thick-armed, with a head struggling to differentiate itself from his just-shaved neck. His short black hair was slicked down close to his scalp. He wore a tight black tee and a somewhat sceptical look.

  I made a smile and extended my hand. “Hi,” I said, cheerily. “I was looking for some part-time work and was told you were the man to talk to.”

  “I am, yeah. But we’re not hiring right now.”

  “I’m multi-talented,” I said, keeping my smile in place. “Gotta sec to talk it over?”

  The barman and Bowering exchanged looks. The barman shrugged.

  Bowering stood. “I’m pretty busy. Maybe you could come back some other time.”

  I stood up, as well. “Two minutes,” I said, holding my hands up, palms towards him.

  He gave me another once-over, and perhaps his curiosity was piqued more than his annoyance. He sighed, resigned. “Sure. Office is through here.”

  We stepped behind the bar and into a box-sized room, with a lone filing cabinet in the corner and a single fluorescent bar overhead. There was small door against the far wall, barely five feet high. He sat at the card table that passed for a desk and motioned me to the seat across from him. I heard a scuttle behind the hatch, and then the clank of a very large lock sliding into place behind it.