by Ray Banks
“Hey, come on, I know you’re there, alright? Ring me, will you?”
Variations on a theme. Now I’ve turned the ringer off, all I need to hear is the click of the machine every hour on the hour. I don’t need to hear the message to know it’s Plummer, and I don’t need to listen to it in order to know he’s no longer the suave Cary Grant wannabe. The early messages showed the strain in his voice. The last one I heard, he was beginning to sound more like Jimmy Stewart.
“Callum, this … This is important. You better — I’m warning you right now — you better call me back, okay? It’s really urgent that you call me. Right? Call. Me.”
Desperation will do that to a bloke. And this kind of mithering’s enough to drive someone like me to the bottle. Course, my local offy just had its shutters pulled because of rats and green lager, so I have to make do with the rest of the Vladivar.
So by the time Plummer calls back, I’ve had enough booze to feel like I’ve got something to say to him.
I blow smoke as I answer: “Good evening, Callum Innes, private investigator, speaking. How can I help you?”
“Oh, you’re a PI again, are you, Callum?” says Plummer.
“Maybe.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“About. You know me.”
“I know you’re not picking up your phone.”
“What’s this, then? ESP?”
A sigh. “You were supposed to come by the office and pick up work today. I’ve got a backlog for you and Frank.”
“Ah, I thought we talked last night, Donald.”
“Right—”
“And I thought I told you then that if I got hurt one more time, I’d walk.” I clear my throat. “So guess what fuckin’ happened.”
“You didn’t get hurt. I’ve got the paper in front of me right now. You look fine.”
“The pain’s internal, Don.”
I cough dramatically. Reckon if it’s good enough for Frank, it’s good enough for me.
“Don’t be cheeky about this, Callum. My office, tomorrow morning.”
That’s supposed to be the end of it, a direct order. No ifs, buts or questions. I have been told.
Except I catch him before he hangs up. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You what?”
“I’d love to be able to help you out, Donald, but I’m afraid I think my cup runneth over.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Let me just check my availability for the thing you just mentioned. One moment, please.”
“Your availability?”
I put the phone in the crook of my neck, choke back a giggle with some more vodka and pour another glass. Leave Plummer hanging for a slow count of fifteen before I put the phone to my ear and clear my throat. “Donald. Hi. Thanks for holding there. I appreciate it. Thing is, though, I checked my diary, and what d’you know, I’m all booked up for the foreseeable. Maybe some other time, eh?”
“You’re pissed,” he says.
“You’re quick.”
“And you’re not serious.”
“As fuckin’ cancer, Donald.” I tap ash, talk with the cigarette in my mouth. “I’ve had enough of this shit to last me a lifetime.”
“Come round, see me tomorrow morning, we’ll talk about it.”
“Nothing to talk about. I’m through. I’m finished. I’ve decided, the decision has been made, I’m no longer going to be responsible for chucking people out of their homes.”
Plummer exhales loud and long into the phone. There’s the rustle of the newspaper at the other end. “You’ve read what they’re saying, have you?”
“About you? I saw something.”
“So you know what they’re doing to me,” says Plummer. “Hounding me.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“I can’t do business like a human being. I’m being written about.”
“That’s very sad, Donald. But, I’ll tell you, if you want to put your tenants in firetraps, that’s your problem. Can’t expect to get away with it forever. And it’s hardly my fuckin’ fault the place caught alight, is it?”
“It didn’t just catch alight and you know it.”
“Whatever. Not my problem.”
He must think I’m going to hang up on him, because he suddenly speaks quick and high. “I need your help on this, Callum.”
“You remember who you’re talking to, right?”
“Seriously, I need to know who did this to me.”
“I’m sure you do. I suggest you hire a private investigator. Yellow Pages is a good start.”
“I’ll pay good money.”
“You don’t have good money.” I sit on the couch, stretch. Try to relax, because there’s an edge to my voice that I need to control. No sense in getting upset here. I’m the one in control. “I’ve done your jobs before, Donald. All the showers I had to take, my skin’s puckered to fuck. And, hey, I lost count of all the beatings I took on your behalf. Which is, I believe, what prompted this in the first place, am I right?”
“Callum—”
“I’ve walked, Donald. This is me, having walked away.”
There’s a pause. Plummer sounds like he’s growling, but it’s probably interference on the line.
“This is your fault. You know that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“If you hadn’t been such a bloody hero about all this, it would’ve blown over. Just would’ve been a tragic accident, local landlord gets slap on wrist. But no, you had to go mouthing off, get your picture in the paper.”
“To take away from the fact that someone fuckin’ died, Don.”
“And who’s paying for that? I’m the one they’re calling—”
“The Slumlord of Manchester.”
“Because you can’t let go of your fifteen fucking minutes. I’m the victim here, Callum.”
“Oh, you’re the victim? See, I must’ve been confused, because I thought the dead woman was the victim. Maybe her family, who, just in case you hadn’t noticed, are now homeless. Not that they would’ve had a place to live for very long anyway.”
“You self-righteous—”
“You finished?”
“No.”
“Yeah, you are. And you know what? You are a slumlord. And a prize cunt into the bargain.”
I put the phone down on him. Look at it and finish my drink. Light another cigarette and get off the couch. Keep staring at the phone.
Fifteen minutes. Fuck him.
I pour another drink. Suck the smoke out of my Embassy and grind it out. Sparks and ash fly onto the coffee table. I batter the sparks into the table.
I did something. Paulo’s proud of me, which is a minor fucking miracle, the way things have been going since I got out of prison. And I’m a hero PI, I’m a name, I am known. People actually know me now. And that’s not going to last, I know that, but there’s no reason I can’t enjoy it while it’s happening, is there? Fuck it, if nothing else, it’ll be a story to drink on for a while.
I grab the newspaper again, realise I can’t focus on anything because my vision’s gone double, triple, all over the fucking shop. Doesn’t matter. I think I know most of it off by heart anyway. So I stare at the picture of myself looking all shitty and drink the vodka.
When the phone rings again, I pick up the receiver, slam it down once, then leave it off the hook. He can shove his fifteen minutes up his arse, right along with his job. Top up my drink and propose a toast to myself.
Here’s to living the fucking dream.
15
Donald Plummer doesn’t think a slam-down hang up is a strong enough response. Say no till you’re blue in the gills, Plummer’s never been one to cut his losses when he can just pester someone into an affirmative. But I still don’t expect to see him hanging around outside my block car park first thing in the morning. I also don’t expect to see Daft Frank in tow. He’s dressed in a suit, which makes me wonder who died.
When I reach the gate, Fra
nk raises one bandaged hand in greeting. I nod to him, then tell Plummer: “I thought we talked last night.”
He does not look good. Like he’s been hanging around here all night waiting for me to show up. Plummer’s cheeks show the greyish stubble of a man suddenly grown old and tired. It’s been a while since I’ve actually seen him in the flesh, but I’d swear that he wore the same suit, except then it looked clean. Now it’s crumpled, sweat stains on his shirt collar, darker patches under the arms. Frank’s a daisy by comparison.
“You going to let me in, Cal?” Plummer wraps one hand around a bar in the gate. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I think you should hear him out,” says Frank. “It’s only polite.”
I look at the big lad. Wonder when exactly he became a full-on company man. Thinking Plummer must’ve given him a hike in salary and told him he was promoted. “You still doing evictions, Frank?”
“Driving,” he says.
“He’s a good driver, Don. You lucked out there.”
“Wait in the car,” says Plummer, staring at me, but talking to Frank.
“Sorry?”
Plummer snaps his head around. “Wait in the fucking car, Frank.”
Frank hesitates, his face starting to screw up. Then he turns and walks towards Plummer’s silver Merc which is parked across the street. I watch him duck and heave himself into the driver’s seat. He slams the door, sits with his hands on the steering wheel, and stares through the windscreen. Vague look on his face, like he doesn’t know what he did wrong.
“You shouldn’t talk to him like that,” I say. “He might be touched, but he’s a good bloke.”
“He’s cheeky.”
“What do you want, Don?”
“I already told you, we need to talk.”
“You want to offer me the job again.”
“I can’t talk about it here.”
“I already told you—”
“Please,” he says, “I just need you to hear me out. That’s all. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate, Cal.”
I look at him. And he does look desperate.
Swipe my card, pull open the gate. Plummer pushes through the gap as if he’s scared I’ll slam the gate on him. I turn, head for my car. “We talk and that’s it.”
“Right, of course, that’s all I want.”
“If I say no, I want this clear, there’s no more negotiation, right? I don’t need you pecking my head when I’ve got real work to do.”
Plummer nods as he catches up with me. “Absolutely.”
I unlock the driver door, get in the Micra and open the passenger side. Start the engine. Plummer doesn’t move.
“Are we going somewhere?” he says.
“Yeah. You can’t talk about it here, and as much as you want to keep this just between you and me, I really don’t want to be seen with you. So get in.”
Plummer nods, drops into the passenger seat. Slams the door a little too hard for my liking. He fumbles with his seat belt, manages to click it on his third try. Once we’re moving and he can feel the breeze coming through my window frame at him, Plummer looks as if he has second thoughts about being in the car with me. I swipe the gate again as I pull out of the car park. As we pass Frank, the big man’s face crumples in confusion.
“Should I tell Frank to follow us?” says Plummer.
“No.”
Plummer pulls out his mobile, the size and shape of a credit card and probably cost enough to max one out. I watch him in glances. A couple of fiddly button presses, then he tells Frank to stay put. He slaps the mobile off and returns it to his jacket pocket.
I head out towards Salford Quays. A weekday morning, the Lowry Outlet mall should be dead. And right enough, the Outlet car park has only a couple of spaces filled. I take us right to the back of the car park and kill the engine. Outside, the sun’s beating down so hard, I expect to see bubbles in the tarmac. A woman wearing a smart dress suit heel-clicks her way to the entrance of the mall. She checks her watch, turns and glances my way. For a second, I think I recognise her and my heart throws itself against my rib cage.
“Callum,” says Plummer. “Are you listening to me?”
“Not at all. What were you saying?”
“I said, you know why we’re here, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You want me to find out who torched the house in Longsight.”
“No.”
I turn and look at him. He’s shaking his head. “No?”
“I already know who torched the house,” he says.
“Who?”
“The same people who threatened me before. Over that Moss Side eviction with the asylum seekers, you remember that one?”
“No.”
“Couple of months back. Think it was your first one after you came back to work for me.”
Yeah, I remember it now. I wasn’t going to do it. And then all that shit in Los Angeles, so I came back to Plummer and this job. Came back to a Moss Side community group, pissed off with having asylum seekers as neighbours, even though these people were there legitimately and, as far as I could tell, were keeping themselves to themselves. But somehow they’d rubbed these people up the wrong way, and even though I felt kind of bad for them, I ended up serving the notice. It was a steady wage when I needed it.
“A community group,” I say.
“No.” He’s shaking his head again. Reaching into his jacket pocket. “Not just the community group.”
“I thought you said—”
“This came sometime yesterday night,” he says, holding a piece of paper, folded in half. “Shoved under the door to the office. I mean, I was there all night, I didn’t see a thing.”
He hands me the paper. I open the sheet to reveal a typed list of what I assume are Plummer’s properties. And there’s a cigarette burn in the middle of the Longsight address.
“Okay,” I say. “I give up. Who’s threatening you, Don?”
Plummer pauses. When he looks at me, his face is stone.
Then he says, “Neo-Nazis, Callum.”
16
I watch Plummer for a long time, waiting for him to burst out laughing. But he’s serious.
“Don’t look at me like that, Cal. I know what I’m talking about. The Neo-Nazis, the Jeffrey Briggs brigade.”
“I think they prefer to be called National Socialists, Don.”
“They can prefer to be called Susan, I don’t give a shit. This is the ENS, Callum, I know it.” He points at me. “If it was about money, I would’ve received demands already. Everyone in this city knows I can’t exactly go to the police, not when they’re thinking about pressing criminal charges over this stupid bloody fire. Who else do I go to, the press? No. So if they’re not demanding money, then there’s an ideology in place, am I right?”
I put my arm out through the windowless frame, tap my side of the car. “So what do you want me to do about it? Go break some heads, tell ’em you’re not a man to be fucked with? Because I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m hardly in the best physical condition.”
Plummer frowns. “If I wanted heads broken, I would’ve sent Frank.”
“So what is it?”
“I need concrete proof of who’s doing this. Who sent me that note.”
“You just told me who sent you the note.”
“I need it confirmed.”
“And then what?”
“And then I need you to arrange a meeting.”
Silence as I study him. Waiting for the smile, something to tell me that this is a joke. It doesn’t happen.
“Don, you need a good night’s sleep. Your brain’s not working right.”
“I need to know, Callum.” He opens his hands. “I mean, the way it’s being played at the moment, I don’t have a fighting chance, do I? I’m being persecuted—”
“That’s a bit harsh—”
“Persecuted by someone who’s either jealous I’m making money, or pissed off because of who I re
nt to. Whatever it is, they’ve got an infantile way of showing it. So — hang on a second and listen to me — if I can find out who this person is, I can sit them down, talk to them, work something out …”
“You wouldn’t want them charged with arson. Or manslaughter. You just want a shot at charming the pants off them.”
He snatches the note back from me. “I want the opportunity, Callum, to arrange a situation that could be mutually beneficial.”
“Jesus, Don, ever the fuckin’ businessman, eh?”
“Look, these people are obviously connected.” He holds up the list. “If they can pull a stunt like this and get away with it, plus have the whole thing reflect badly on me, then they’ve got friends in important places. Man like me, it’d do me good to make those same friends.”
I stare at Plummer. He tries to stare back, but his eyes turn glassy as his focus hits somewhere in the middle distance. I wonder how long he’s been awake, and at what jittery point of the night he thought that this was a solid idea. Sure enough, it looks like a good night’s sleep would turn into a week-long coma, and the more he leans towards me, the more I can smell the fear on him, struggling to overpower the odours of sweat and stale coffee coming from him. He’s clutching at straws, because for the first time in his life he’s not the one in control. And he’s been kicked silly with guilt because he’s just spent an entire night trapped in his own head.
For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him.
But moments pass quick enough.
“I don’t work for you,” I say.
“I know that.” He sniffs. “I’m talking about hiring you in an investigative capacity.”
I look out of the window. Think about it some more. The bloke’s fucking nuts and it’s never a sure sign of success if your client’s a mental case. But as much as I don’t want to work for Plummer again, the idea of someone getting away with torching that house makes me a little sick. Call it the Polyanna side-effect of that newspaper story yesterday. Starting to believe I should live up to my own press.
Besides, this’ll be on my terms or not at all.
“It’ll cost you,” I say.
Plummer nods. “I expected that. I’m not about to call in any favours.”