Serious People

by Shea, James A.

  He had just returned to work after a period of long-term sickness, due to a bad back, though no one in the office believed this. All in all, he was just playing time until his pension kicked in, which was now a mere a few weeks away.

  D.S. Early was a fat, lazy, and disengaged police officer. The perfect person to report into Khan. Hawkins smiled broadly as Khan looked the Detective Sergeant up and down.

  Early approached Khan and shook her hand. “Ma’am.”

  “Sit down Early,” Hawkins said.

  Early collapsed into a seat next to Khan, with a big sigh that would lead someone to believe he’d been walking all day to get there. But there was no chance of that, Hawkins thought, smiling to himself. Khan did not look happy.

  “D.S. Early has thirty years’ experience in the force,” Hawkins said, hoping to end the meeting quickly. “Twenty five of these have been as a detective, mostly in different serious crime divisions.”

  “How long until you retire Detective Sergeant?” asked Khan.

  “Got about four weeks left, not that I’m counting,” Early laughed. “The stories I could tell you about this place. Don’t worry I can fill you in on how things work here Guv.”

  “With respect sir,” Khan said to Hawkins. “I need a younger officer. I’m looking to start a vigorous operation…”

  “Stop right there, Missie! There will be no age discrimination in my unit!” Hawkins’ face reddened with anger.

  Khan sank into her seat.

  “Now you might think that you know everything there is about police work, but let me tell you, you don’t! And that man there will be able to teach you a lot. He knows the faces, the places, and everything there is to know about crime in London. Which is a damn sight more than you!” Hawkins glared back at the new arrival.

  Early moved in his seat slightly, unwittingly displaying his discomfort at being present at a disagreement between two senior officers.

  “Sir, I am merely saying that four weeks will not give me any continuity in my operation. I think that D.S. Early would be better suited to a desk job until his retirement.” Khan said, keeping her cool.

  “Ma’am, I have worked in the field for almost thirty years. I'm sure I’ll be able to help with any investigations you have in mind,” Early interjected.

  “And what are your current duties, Detective Sergeant?” Khan enquired.

  “Over the last couple of months, I’ve been helping the whole team with their records a bit,” Early said, looking back at Hawkins.

  Hawkins was just pleased that the Early had not said that he’d had his feet up at home watching daytime TV.

  Khan sighed.

  “We are not here for a job interview, D.I. Khan. You are teamed with D.S. Early from this point, and that is the end of it,” Hawkins said sternly.

  Khan looked back for a moment. She looked like she might be ready to put up more of an objection. But instead she just nodded.

  Chapter Seven - Mickey the Bag

  Mickey walked into the bathroom, while doing up his shirt. Looking good was important to him; it was part and parcel of who he was. He wasn’t a fan of wearing suits. To him that was more for the pricks that worked from nine to five. But with that said he still believed in looking smart. Today he was wearing his black silk shirt, open to the chest to show the gold chain that Dawn had bought him last Christmas. The chain was worth at least five grand and good proper bling. It matched the set of gold rings that he wore on both hands. He looked the shit! He looked how people expected Mickey Dunne to look.

  “Mickey, your breakfast is ready,” Dawn shouted from the kitchen.

  Dawn and Mickey had been married for over twenty years now. They had been through their ups and downs; but though Mickey more than enjoyed his time away from the trouble and strife, he loved his wife more than he’d ever admit to anyone.

  He picked up his comb and then looked into the mirror to see no reflection just steam. He shook his head. “Fuck it.”

  He combed his hair all back and quiffed it up at the front. He had done this so many times there was no need for a reflection to confirm his hair looked good. He modelled his hair on his musical hero Elvis Presley. The guy was the king of cool. If you had to model your hairdo on someone, he was the only one out there for Mickey. Now he didn’t take it all the way. He didn’t do all that teddy boy shit—that was just taking it too far. Dawn had once made the mistake of thinking that liking Elvis and teddy boy stuff went hand in hand. A couple of months into their marriage she had marched into their bedroom, carrying a suit under her arm.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you darling!” Dawn said, looking pleased with herself.

  Mickey, who was still in bed at the point, looked up from under the covers and grunted a response. Dawn then grinned and laid a suit out onto the bed. The suit was best described as electric blue in colour, with a big black collar, and matching pockets.

  “What’s that?” Mickey asked.

  “That is your new suit,” Dawn grinned back.

  Mickey looked at the suit, hoping his eyes had not yet to woken up properly. He squinted at it again; it was definitely some kind of teddy-boy design.

  “It goes with your hair!” Dawn added, as if she was just handing him the keys to a brand new Ferrari.

  “Do you think I’m some kind of cunt?”

  “No Hun,” Dawn replied looking confused.

  “If I walked into some club dressed in that clobber, people would fucking laugh,” Mickey said, trying to control his temper. “People would think I’m some kind of fucking homo.”

  Dawn looked back at him for a moment. Her bottom lip started to quiver and within a moment she was in tears. Mickey hated it when she cried; it was something he couldn’t hack. He’d been brought up to respect his Mrs by his old dear, and any sign of tears from her would put him in an instant reverse, whatever the conversation was that caused it.

  “Look babe, it’s alright. It’s alright, babe. You weren’t to know,” Mickey said, leaping up and clutching her close. “You weren’t to know; but this is what proper cunts wear. I am not one of those.”

  Dawn had rarely bought clothes for Mickey since that day, which was for the best. Instead, she mainly stuck to jewellery, which was fine by him. Where he came from, the extravagance of the rings and chains that you wore were a direct representation of your standing in society.

  Mickey strolled into the kitchen. Dawn was arranging his cooked breakfast onto a plate. She was a good bird; every morning she seemed to time it perfectly. Food on the plate when he was walking through the door. Lovely.

  “Hey, what you think babe?” Mickey said, with his arms our stretched presenting himself. He decided today was the day to use the hair dye that Dawn had got him ages ago. He had grown to quite like the streaks of grey through the sides of his hair, but now he was the wrong side of fifty he decided it was a good time to take ten years off.

  Dawn looked up. “Oh my God,” she said.

  She was obviously pleased. “I used that anti-grey shampoo stuff last night, how do I look?”

  “That stuff I bought you?” Dawn questioned. “How much did you use?”

  “Just an old blob in the hand, you know. I thought I’d give it try; bring back some of the old Mickey,” he said, his arms still outstretched.

  “What do you think?” Dawn said cautiously.

  “I dunno. The mirror was all steamed up as usual. God only knows why you have to douse yourself in boiling water every time you have a shower,” he said, sitting at the table.

  “Oh” Dawn said, forgetting Mickey’s breakfast was still on the side.

  “Am I having breakfast today?” Mickey smiled.

  “Sorry, of course, sure…”

  Dawn picked up Mickey’s plate.

  “Hey, It’s OK. I must look pretty damn good though!” Mickey said, tucking into his food.

  “Why don’t you stay home today, Mick?” Dawn said, sitting down opposite him.

  “That dye must be good stuff.
I'll have to use it again.”

  Mickey was beginning to think this through when a car’s horn sounded twice outside. In his mind he was more than owed some time off before the morning start; and to say things had slowed down recently was an under statement. But his loyalty to Charlie and Robert did not allow this to linger in his mind for long.

  “That’ll be Seamus. I had better go,” he said, breakfast unfinished.

  “Mickey—really —please stay home today,” Dawn said, almost begging.

  Mickey began to wish he’d used the dye months ago; he had no idea it would have this kind of effect. He hadn’t even known what he was doing when he was using it. It had occurred to him—too late—to read the instructions on the bottle. But he never felt he had the time to do stuff like that. Instead, he just squeezed out most the bottle between his hands and onto his head. If you put more on than you’re meant to, he reckoned, then you probably don’t need to fuck around with keeping it on your bounce for hours on end before washing it out. In any case. It seemed like he had cracked the secret formulae from Dawn’s reaction.

  “I’ll make sure I’m early tonight babe.”

  Mickey gave his wife a wink and walked out. “Oh, and make sure you get some more of that blob in. I think I used most the bottle and I might want to sprinkle a bit more on before the end of the week.”

  Mickey walked out his house and towards Seamus’s Range Rover, which had been bought off one of Payne’s contacts. It was six-months old and top spec, in gleaming white, it was the type of motor you’d see premiership footballers whizzing around in. Mickey didn’t like it.

  He didn’t like it for a couple of reasons. Firstly, this game was about discretion, about flying under the radar. You never know when you might need the benefit of having a car that was difficult to remember. Mickey had never owned a flashy motor; flashy motors were, in the main, for pricks.

  The second reason why Seamus’s motor annoyed him, was that the meathead had no idea he was now into Robert for thousands. The small brained chump had just thought the price he’d paid was a good deal for knowing Robert—it was most his wages for the year. This guy was a complete donut and this car said everything about him.

  As Mickey got in the car he was greeted by Seamus’ loud music. “Jesus, Seamus, do you really need it that loud?”

  “You gotta be seen in a car like this, Mick,” Seamus said, grudgingly turning the stereo down. “I love this car. It’s just me. It just says me everywhere.”

  “I agree.”

  “And you just have to be seen in it!”

  “It’s not being seen, it’s being heard I’m worried about,” Mickey said, turning to Seamus, who was now staring motionless at Mickey’s hair. “What?”

  “Your hair, Mick” Seamus said, still staring.

  The kid was clearly impressed and Mickey didn’t blame him. He only wished he’d been able to see it himself in a mirror and properly take in his new look.

  “You’re wondering how I did it, aren’t you,” Mickey said smiling.

  “Yeah.” Seamus replied, “and why?”.

  “Listen, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a man’s man. Not really the type that would act like a ponce but there comes a time when you need to put a bit of colour back in your mush. But I’ll tell you something. Dawn couldn’t get enough. I had to practically drag myself out of the house today,” Mickey said proudly.

  “Really?” Seamus said.

  “I reckon I must look just how I looked thirty years ago,” Mickey added, putting his hands through his hair.

  “Were you a punk?” Seamus said, trying not to look at Mickey’s hair.

  “What the fuck Seamus! Are you looking for a slap?” Mickey said, glaring back at his retarded colleague.

  “But Mick, it’s just…” Seamus said, trying to defend himself.

  “Was I some kind of punk? Can a guy, not put a bit of colour into his hair these days? Drive the car you fucking prick!” Mickey said, bringing down his window and looking outside.

  “Sorry Mickey…” Seamus said, getting ready to drive away.

  Mickey glared back.

  “I might as well be driving around with a fucking Teletubbie!”

  Chapter Eight - Max Fame

  “So Maxie, when are the record company going to want me back at the old studio?” the aging rock star said confidently.

  This was going to be difficult, thought the showbiz manager, Max Fame. He had been in the business for over twenty years now and had become used to difficult conversations.

  He could remember so many times being sat in his office, with supposedly the next big thing being sat in front of him, usually flanked by at least one parent. “Look at her,” they would say. “Look at her looks; she’s gorgeous, and we thought it would be best to invest in that boob job. Because that’s what they look for now isn’t it?”

  He had long since given up asking if they had thought about the glamour industry; this was only after a mother had vaulted his desk and beaten him to the floor with her handbag. What had angered him on that occasion was not so much the physical abuse, but the small-minded stupidity. The “how dare you talk about my daughter like that” parents! Their emotion blinds them from viewing their different options with a business mind-set. He had offered the suggestion as a sensible career direction, after hearing the little lovely belt out a very special version of I will always love you.

  Now, he tried to make a point of steering away from dealing with parents—unless this conflicted with his main rule of following the pound notes. If it did, the latter would prevail, even if it might well involve Fame having to consume copious amounts of his ‘calming pills’. These were an absolute necessity to any agent or manager who worked in the showbiz world.

  Max Fame looked across at the drawer that kept his endless batch of pills. He wouldn’t need those for this meeting. This was an altogether different type of difficult conversation to that. The man who was sat in front of him was only a few years younger than he was; he was all that was left of one of his very first acts he had managed.

  The two of them had made a fair amount of money together. In the nineteen-nineties, both had been on a similar upward trend in their respective careers. Indeed, to an extent, they had both got their own first tastes of success together. But whereas Fame’s had plateaued for the last ten to fifteen years, at the top of the showbiz game, Ronny Wild’s had been descending since the new century had begun.

  Ronny Wild still had his famous long hair, held back by expensive sunglasses; he was covered by expensive jewellery, on his fingers, ears and around his neck. These all only served to reflect his former glories. He could still just squeeze into his leather trousers and wore an expensive blazer over the top of a white t-shirt in the way that only a rock star can pull off. He was a picture of delusional grandeur.

  “So when we talking, Maxie baby?” Ronny asked again.

  “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this Ronny,” Fame said. He was sitting up in his seat now, in the similar way that a hospital consultant would before delivering a dire diagnosis.

  “I was thinking about possibly an acapella album next? Show off some of the old vocal range. I’ve been working on it for a couple of weeks.” Ronny looked for a response from Fame, that didn’t come. “I could use my voice to make the beat and the guitar sound, like this…”

  Fame stared back as the rock singer, whom he had known for over twenty years, began to make hopelessly pathetic sounds. They somehow more closely resembled a cat being slowly water boarded, than the electric guitar that Wild was trying to mimic. He had to put the animal out of its misery. It was the only fair thing to do.

  “The label has dropped you, Ronny.”

  Wild froze momentarily. “What, why?”

  “Your last two albums… The sales have been down significantly compared to their other acts. They’re looking to take a new direction. Move away from that classic rock vibe; find a new sound,” Fame said, with little sympathy in his voi
ce

  On occasion, there was a benefit to be found in bending the truth. But on this occasion, the truth was all that needed to be said. Wild had been around the block. He’d made a reasonable amount of money. He must have got that this was coming.

  “Um, hello; accapella album? You can’t get a newer direction than that,” Wild argued.

  Fame looked back at Wild. Was he high or something? How could this be news to him? Fame had had to cancel his last tour after three dates; because the venues had been practically empty. It was frankly embarrassing.

  “I don’t think that’s the direction they’re looking for Ronny,” Fame said crossing his arms. “And your last album, well lets face facts, it was a complete flop.”

  “What are you talking about? I had a number one on the last one!” Wild said, now getting more agitated.

  Fame looked down at his desk. “In Albania, Ronny.”

  Wild stood up, unable to contain his frustration. “Albania is a big market now! One of the last great bastions of CD sales, in contrast to all this download shit around the rest of the world.”

  “Well, that’s their view Ronny, and to be honest it’s also mine,” Fame said, looking back toward the ageing rock star.

  “What!” Ronny said astounded.

  Fame took off his glasses. He always did this when he was about to give a frank assessment. “We’ve had a good run, Ronny. But every good thing comes to an end, and I don’t see where else I can take you?”

  “A tour of Albania?” Ronny said desperately.

  Fame shook his head and put his glasses back on.

  “Oh it’s like that! Well, we'll see about that! As soon as I leave this shitty office, I’m going to have offers coming out my ears! Ha! My phone’s vibrating right now.” Ronny took his phone out of his pocket and scowled at it.

  “Well?” Fame asked.

  Ronny was still looking at his mobile phone. “It was just a network message; but that’s not the point. It could have been an offer! I'm going to be beating them off.”