by Hannah Howe
Mickey leaned back in his leather chair. He glanced at his neatly trimmed fingernails, shrugged then said, “I turned things around.”
“How?”
“I realized that I have an addictive personality – women, gambling, drink. But, most of all, I’m addicted to this job; nothing gives me the same buzz. So I quit the women, the gambling, the drinking for this.” Mickey leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk; he gave me an intense frown. “You understand that?”
“I think so,” I said, acknowledging a kindred spirit.
Our profession offered certain dangers, dangers that fed a dark corner of my mind. My late mother and ex-husband, through years of domestic abuse, had created that dark corner in my mind. It was something I’d learned to accept, learned to live with; for good or bad, that dark corner was a part of me and helped to shape my personality.
While glancing around Mickey’s office, I mused, “This place must set you back a bit.”
“I can afford it.”
I was tempted to ask ‘how’, but held my tongue, for now.
“You’re still a gambler, Mickey.”
He grinned, “Explain.”
“You were seen, at Jeremy Loudon’s card table, under the guise of Tony Michaels.”
Now, Mickey frowned. He picked up a pen and spun it between his fingers. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“Loudon hired me, to find his missing briefcase. He reckons that you might have stolen the briefcase.”
“I didn’t touch it,” Mickey replied defensively.
“But you were at the card game.”
He shrugged, “I don’t deny that.”
“Why were you at the card game?”
Mickey paused. He studied the wording on his pen. The pen advertised Mickey’s agency, and his new website. He’d really moved up a gear over recent months, found a level way above my head.
“I was working for a client,” he said.
“Details.”
Mickey grinned. He waved his pen at me. “Confidential.”
“How did you get into Loudon’s game?”
Mickey dropped his pen on to an open diary. The diary contained details of Anthony and Associates, and Mickey’s activities. Over the years, I’d learned how to snoop on private papers, how to read such documents upside down. The diary indicated that Mickey had accumulated a steady caseload, though none of the entries referred to Jeremy Loudon.
In reply to my question, Mickey said, “I’ve worked for a number of high fliers over the years, secured many solid contacts. When those contacts heard that I was looking to undermine Loudon, they offered a reference or two, paved my way.”
“Why were you looking to undermine Loudon?”
“Because he runs a crooked game,” Mickey said. “He ripped off my client. He’s ripped off scores of people. They’d like to see him taken down. My client financed a seat at Loudon’s table. He told me to prove that Loudon is crooked, and develop a strategy to bring him down.”
“And that strategy involved stealing his briefcase?”
“I told you, I never touched his briefcase.”
“But you saw it, at the game?”
“Probably,” Mickey conceded. “I don’t remember. I had my mind on other things.” We paused, to gather our thoughts, to determine if we were allies or enemies, to sift facts from fantasy, to assimilate the truth. “Wait a minute,” Mickey said, “there was this girl, a maid, quite pretty, dark skin; she was eyeing the briefcase all evening.”
“Any idea what Loudon placed in the briefcase?”
“His winnings,” Mickey said.
“Did you see the maid steal the briefcase?”
“No, but like I said, she was eyeing it all evening. My guess is, when the players got drunk and stoned, she made her move.”
“There were drugs at the game?”
Mickey nodded, “There was more white powder than you’d see in a talc factory.”
“Did you sample any of the drink or drugs?” I asked.
“I told you, Sam, I’m clean. I sipped tonic water all evening, watched the others blow a bundle then crawl under the table. Loudon’s games are a regular Tower of Babel. The players are so out of it, they’re easy to con.”
“Did Loudon partake?” I asked.
“A little. But his girlfriend...”
“Annabel.”
“She was smashed, well out of her skull.”
“Does your client still want to even the score with Loudon?”
“Of course,” Mickey smiled.
“Do you have a plan?”
His smile intensified.
“You should be a politician, Mickey.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re a compulsive liar.”
“I’m telling the truth, Sam.” Mickey offered me a wounded look, a look of choirboy innocence. “I’m not lying, honest.”
Mickey was still offering me his cherubic smile when his secretary popped her head around the door. “You have an appointment with Mr Bruce. In five minutes.”
“Thank you, Kelli.” To me, Mickey added, “Cute, isn’t she?”
“And with her hovering around you all day, you’re not tempted?”
“I told you, Sam, I’ve turned over a new leaf; I’m a new man.”
Maybe Mickey Anthony had turned over a new leaf. Maybe he was as pure as the driven snow. And maybe I’d win a million on the lottery at my first attempt.
With a sigh and a word of thanks, I threw my bag over my shoulder and left Mickey Anthony’s office.
Chapter Three
According to Velvet’s CV, supplied by Jeremy Loudon, she lived in a terraced house in Splott, a south-eastern suburb of Cardiff. People often ridicule Splott because its name sounds like splat. How the locals laugh when you tell them that, she said with heavy irony. However, some historians believe that Splott is a corruption of God’s plot, a reasonable assumption when you consider that originally the area was a swathe of ecclesiastical land.
In 1891, the Victorians established a steelworks in the region, a major example of the city’s industrial transformation. When that steelworks closed in 1978 it represented the de-industrialization of Cardiff, the culmination of thirty years of decline, a legacy of the Second World War. In less than a hundred years, the blink of an eye in regard to Time, the city had developed and reinvented itself.
Splott also boasts a beach, which is largely inaccessible. The two miles of Splott coastline consists of brick and coal, wire and slag, industrial waste reshaped by nature, remoulded by the stormy seasonal tides.
I parked my Mini outside Velvet’s house, a simple two-up, two-down terrace, painted red. The paint was peeling to reveal a rainbow of colours, the artwork of previous generations. Bay windows protruded into a front garden less than a metre deep. Indeed, you would probably clean those windows from the street, not the front garden.
I rang the doorbell and chatted with neighbours. I established that Velvet was not at home, so I returned to my Mini to ponder. An hour later, with the streetlights blazing and an icy wind blowing, I drove away from the terraced street. I drove across the city to The Stag nightclub, the venue where Velvet performed on an ad hoc basis.
At The Stag, I climbed a staircase to Slick Stephens’ first floor office. Originally, a riot of vibrant paisley, the staircase carpet was now threadbare; tattered and cheap, it spoke volumes for the nightclub.
Slick Stephens’ office door was ajar, so I nudged it wide open to find the man himself seated behind his desk. Slick glanced up, dragging his gaze away from a glass panel. The glass panel, inserted into the floor, offered a view of the exotic dancers and clientele.
Slick smiled at me and said, “Look who it is, motor mouth...questions, questions, questions.”
I waited.
“Or maybe you’ve come to audition.”
I held my tongue.
“You got laryngitis or something?” he frowned. “Lost your voice?”
“Yo
u haven’t lost any of your charm,” I said, closing the door, entering the office.
In his early fifties, Slick Stephens had dark, fine hair, combed back, greased down. His eyes were dark and partially hidden behind blue tinted spectacles. His complexion was pasty while his skeletal features were set with a lantern jaw. Prominent upper teeth, nicotine stained, added to his unsavoury appearance.
“Let me show you a trick,” he said while shuffling a pack of playing cards. The playing cards were garish, depicting a series of nude models. “Find the lady, the queen of diamonds. Is she there, here, or there?” Once again, he shuffled the cards. “What say I get a feel of your boobs if you get it wrong?”
“The queen of diamonds is on the floor,” I said, “where you dropped it.”
Slick scowled at me. He stooped to retrieve the playing card. “You’re no fun,” he growled.
“I’m looking for a young woman,” I said.
“Aren’t we all?”
“Her name is Velvet.”
“The singer?”
I nodded.
“Good voice,” Slick conceded. “Decent curves.”
“She works here?”
“Occasionally.”
“Singing?”
“Dancing, mainly. Once in a while I let her sing.”
“Your clientele like her?”
“Like I said, she has decent curves and a great voice.”
“Tell me about her,” I said.
Slick dropped the playing cards on to his desk, a large mahogany item, deeply scarred. His legs were visible under the desk. I noticed that he sat with his right leg arched, resting on tiptoes. Through nervous energy, his leg vibrated. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Her personality.”
“Quiet. Shy. Except when she’s on stage, singing; then she really performs. That’s the thing with singers, see, you don’t just sing the words, in tune, you have to capture the emotion.”
“And Velvet captures the emotion?”
“Sure.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“No idea.” Slick shrugged a skeletal shoulder. “She was due to dance for me a couple of nights ago, but she didn’t show.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“No,” he said slowly. While gazing through the glass panel in the office floor, he retrieved a paperknife from his desk. Then he proceeded to clean his fingernails in absent-minded fashion. “Maybe she’s at home,” he suggested, his tone off-hand, casual.
“I tried there,” I said.
“She lives with someone.”
“Who?”
“A Dutch bint...forgot her name.”
“Try to remember,” I cajoled.
Slick waved the paperknife at me. His grin broadened. “Aren’t you supposed to do me a favour?” he asked. “Drop a few notes on my desk. Or let me have a squeeze. At least undo a button.”
I glared back, inching the zipper up on my leather jacket.
“You really are no fun,” Slick complained.
“Velvet’s flatmate,” I said.
“Lia, Lia Jansen. She’s a dyke.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, she is, isn’t she,” Slick shrugged. “Sometimes, she meets Velvet at the door, to take her home. If she sees me, she always grumbles, goes on and on about me exploiting women, about how disgraceful it all is, about my lack of morals...me, an upstanding citizen...about how the nightclub is a throwback to a less enlightened age. I mean...enlightened. This age is hardly enlightened, is it? Look at the crap they show on TV. I mean...what we offer here is quality entertainment, five stars.”
“What you offer is naked young women dancing in front of sweaty middle-aged men.”
“Yeah, but the way my girls dance, it’s an art, innit? That’s the trouble with you feminists, no sense of humour and no appreciation of art.”
“I’m not a feminist,” I said.
“What are you then?” Slick frowned.
“An individual.”
“What’s that?” he scowled.
I ignored Slick. Instead, I said, “Any idea where I can find Lia Jansen?”
“Try one of the gay bars, at a guess.”
With a casual flick of his right wrist, Slick speared the paperknife into the scarred surface of his mahogany desk. Then he picked up the playing cards and shuffled them.
“Before you go,” he said, “let me show you another trick.”
“Let me show you one,” I said.
“Okay,” he shrugged. “I’m game.”
“Stack the playing cards on your desk,” I instructed. “Without touching the cards, I’ll cut the ace of hearts.”
Slick stacked the greasy cards on his desk. He frowned at them, then at me. “Can’t be done.”
“Wanna bet?”
Once again, he studied the playing cards, then me. Outside, the wind howled. A gust disturbed the velvet drapes, adding a touch of drama, a touch of old-school theatricality to the occasion.
Raising a skeletal finger, Slick picked his nose. Maybe he disturbed the hotline to his brain because his features brightened with an idea. “Tell you what,” he said, “I grab a feel if you don’t do it.”
I smiled, pleasantly. Then I picked up the paperknife and drove it through the playing cards, into Slick’s desk.
“There you go,” I said, “without touching the playing cards I cut the ace of hearts.”
“That’s cheating,” Slick complained.
“Cheating?” I laughed. “You should know; you make a living out of it.”
Slick tugged the paperknife out of his desk, his violent action scattering the playing cards over the floor. As he stooped to retrieve the cards, I walked towards the door.
Maybe he’d slip a disc, picking up the cards. You live in hope.
Chapter Four
From The Stag nightclub, I drove home, west to St Fagans on the outskirts of Cardiff. There, I found my husband, Dr Alan Storey, in the living room, watching rugby on the TV. Our cat, Marlowe, was sprawled on the sofa alongside him.
“Who’s winning?” I asked.
“The referee,” Alan groaned.
“Lousy match?”
He nodded, “Too much whistle.”
“Sorry I’m late.” I stooped and kissed Alan on the lips.
“Kiss me like that again,” he said, “and you can be as late as you like.”
So I kissed him again and he pulled me on to his lap.
With a giggle, I protested, “I’m blocking your view.”
“Believe me, darling, even at your worst, you look a damned sight better than a bunch of mud-covered seventeen stone men.”
I made myself comfortable on Alan’s lap then stroked Marlowe. The cat opened one eye, offered a lazy twitch of his whiskers, then went back to sleep. Meanwhile, Alan continued to hug me, running a hand over my thigh.
“You used to play that game,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the TV.
“At a minor level.”
“Why did you stop?”
He shrugged, “Because of family commitments, career commitments and a dodgy right knee.”
I caressed his right knee then asked, “Had dinner?”
“No, I was waiting for you.”
“You really want me to cook?”
He nodded, “Good practice for our dinner party.”
The dinner party. How could I forget? Alan had invited three of his colleagues, psychologists all, and their partners to dinner. Eight people, with yours truly as the head chef. My mind boggled. I broke out in a cold sweat.
“You really want me to prepare dinner, for your guests?”
“Why not?” Alan asked.
“Because I’m God’s gift to salmonella; I’ll poison your guests.”
“You’re a good cook,” Alan insisted.
“I burn the salad,” I said. “I’m a microwave cook; chuck it in and wait for the ‘ping’.”
He laughed then patted my thigh. “Practice thi
s evening, on our dinner. If you need me, just call and I’ll lend a hand.”
So while Alan watched the rugby and Marlowe slept, I retired to the kitchen to prepare lasagne con pesto.
With my cookbook to hand, I followed the instructions diligently. Preheat the oven to gas mark four. Even I can do that. Place the garlic, basil and pine nuts in a food processor. Pour in the oil and blitz for ten seconds until smooth. Transfer the mixture to a bowl and fold in the cheese. I was on a roll; hey presto, the pesto was as good as done. Prepare the béchamel sauce. Prepare the vegetarian mince, onions, carrots and celery. Add wine and tomato purée. Now, the tricky part. Spread a quarter of the béchamel sauce over an ovenproof dish. Cover with four sheets of lasagne. Spread the veggie filling over the lasagne and top with béchamel sauce. Repeat. Sprinkle with parmesan cheese. Place the lasagne in the oven to cook. Drink half a bottle of wine. Collapse in a nervous heap.
Give me a villain with a gun any day, anything than a kitchen and a cooker.
While fanning myself with my right hand, I went in search of the wine glasses, but they were not in the kitchen cupboard. “I can’t find the wine glasses!” I yelled to Alan.
“Mrs Murphy tidied the cupboards,” Alan said. “They should be in there somewhere.”
I wandered over to the living room door and leaned against the door frame. “Mrs Murphy is very efficient,” I said.
“She is,” Alan agreed.
“I like her, even though she tends to frown and scowl at me.”
“That’s just her natural Irish charm,” Alan said.
“The Irish are smilers,” I said, “not frowners.”
Alan grimaced. He blasphemed at the TV. “Someone should tell that to this Irish referee.”
“Mrs Murphy is nice,” I said, “but don’t you think that we should do our own washing, ironing and cleaning?”
“And put someone out of a job?” Alan complained. “I don’t have time for washing, ironing and cleaning; do you?”
“Not really.”
“Well then,” he said, shaking his head at the rugby on the TV.
“It’s just that, I don’t like the idea of taking advantage of someone.”
“We’re not taking advantage. We pay her a fair wage.”
I shrugged, and conceded defeat. We did pay Mrs Murphy a fair wage and she was very efficient. Maybe I could offer her a bonus, and she could teach me how to cook. My mind went back to my alcoholic mother and her lack of parental guidance, and to Mrs Cronin, my domestic science teacher. Mrs Cronin hated me for some reason, maybe because my long hair always seemed to trail in the food. Amazing the damage some people can do, accidentally or wilfully.