The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

by David Carter

  Lincoln Heights

  2605 West End Avenue, and the rest of it.

  He folded the paper and inserted it in the envelope, but didn’t seal it, just in case. In case of what? In case he should think of something else he should have written. In case, in the fresh light of a new day, he didn’t like what he’d written at all, in case those exact words should speak something entirely different on a new day, as they sometimes did, especially with his rambling prose. He stamped the letter ready, but wouldn’t seal the envelope until the last moment.

  Afterwards he fired up the telly and put the phone back on the hook. By then he was beginning to hope that Brenda might ring after all. But she didn’t. He could always have rung her, but that naughty little man inside his head who was always making naff suggestions, like the paper clip git on the word processing software, always butting in when it was least wanted, and never to be seen with a sensible suggestion when help was really needed, that little demon inside him, put him right off the idea.

  As it turned out, in the morning, he didn’t change a thing, though he was still uncertain as to whether to post the letter. He took it with him to work. There was a post box right outside the main entrance of Frobisher Buildings, the six story office block where Dryden’s rented the top two floors.

  It was drizzling as he slipped the envelope from his raincoat pocket. He glanced around. It was busy, people rushing this way and that, anxious not to be late for work, anxious not to fall foul of a bad tempered boss… like him. He brought the letter to his mouth and kissed it and slipped it into the fat red box that stood there like a silent sentry. For a moment he wondered what other letters might be held captive inside, how many love letters had made their way via this very post box, how many blackmail letters, breaking off letters, threatening letters, begging letters, hopeful letters, hurtful letters, puzzling letters, proposals even. Perhaps he shouldn’t have posted it at all. Too late now. He snorted and kicked the ground like an angry bull, and set off for work.

  A few seconds earlier Melanie had rounded the corner. She noticed him immediately, prevaricating there by the post box. She witnessed the self conscious little kiss, and the casual toss of the envelope into the belly of the red beast. Well, well. She could guess who that was to. Maybe Gringo Greene was sweet on Glenda Martin after all. She watched him hurry away and hustle into the front entrance and scamper away for the lift.

  He hadn’t seen her, she was sure of that.

  Ten

  Gringo took his place in Naughton’s Bar at ten past seven. Paul wasn’t there but that wasn’t unusual. Paul was often late. Gringo went through to the rear bar he preferred. It was long and narrow with a low ceiling that somehow kept any atmosphere firmly inside. But it was Tuesday night and it was very quiet. He ordered a pint of lager from the usual barman, the last pint before the barrel blew and burped and needed changing like a demanding baby. Gringo drank half the beer in one visit and leant on the bar and stared into the glass.

  ‘Penny for them,’ said the girl at the other end of the small bar. He hadn’t noticed her come in. He looked up and across at her and smiled. The babe nodded at the beer.

  ‘Oh, I was just thinking,’ said Gringo.

  ‘I could see that. Where’s the barman?’

  ‘Beer’s off. Needs changing. He’ll be back in a tick.’

  She was foreign, the girl. No, that wasn’t quite right. She was Indian, Asian perhaps, dark, shoulder length black hair, good teeth, slim with a pretty face, and Gringo had a feeling he might have seen her before.

  ‘You work in Dryden’s, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, office manager.’

  ‘Emberdy’s, me.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘MBD’s, Mitchell, Barrett and Deaver, Accountants. Everyone calls them Emberdy’s. I’m a trainee accountant.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Gringo. ‘I thought I’d seen you before.’

  Her employer occupied the whole of the floor beneath Dryden’s. She picked up a beer mat and tapped it nervously on the bar. There was still no sign of the barman.

  Gringo said: ‘Don’t mind me asking, but are you British?’

  That put her on the defensive, and who could blame her?

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘No, nothing really, I just wondered about your background, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you racist or something?’

  ‘No, certainly not, look I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  There was an awkward silence that was probably only a few seconds but seemed much longer.

  ‘I’m a British Asian if you must know.’

  ‘I see. I thought you might have been an overseas student or something.’

  ‘Nope, my fulltime student days are well and truly behind me, born and bred in Birmingham, but I hope without the accent.’

  They shared a nervous laugh.

  ‘You don’t have an accent at all. You have a lovely voice.’

  She smiled, displaying those bright white teeth.

  ‘Former Portuguese colony in India, that’s where my grandparents came from, if you’re that interested.’

  ‘Goa?’ he said.

  She smiled again.

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘Not so many to choose from,’ and as he said that he was wondering what a person from Goa was called. A Goan, a Goanna, a Goer maybe, but perhaps not, and he stifled another laugh.

  ‘I’m Maria by the way. Maria Almeida.’

  ‘Gringo Greene. Pleased to meet you,’ and he raised his glass and toasted her.

  ‘I’m with my mate,’ and she beckoned behind her.

  Gringo glanced round and sitting there, before the clouded window that bore the old brewery logo, before it had been taken over by the Danes, on the long bench seat that ran the length of the bar, sat a red headed girl in a red two-piece suit. She was sitting with her legs crossed, and her skirt was shorter than it should have been

  ‘That’s Vicky. She works at Emberdy’s too.’

  Right on cue Vicky sensed her moment and performed a silly circular wave.

  ‘Hi, Vicky,’ said Gringo, ever willing to be introduced to new talent.

  ‘Where’s this lazy barman?’ said Maria, as she leant across the bar, and then glanced back across at Gringo when she thought he wasn’t looking. She liked his thick black hair, though she wasn’t so sure about the muzzy, but you couldn’t have everything. He was okay. He was, as her mother used to say, just your type. At that moment the barman came back grumping about incompatible pipes.

  ‘Two white wines please,’ she sang, still managing a smile. ’Can I get you a drink, Gringo?’

  ‘Thanks, but no, I’m waiting for my mate.’

  ‘Another night maybe?’

  ‘I might be in here tomorrow night, around 7.30.’

  ‘That’s funny because I might be in here too.’

  ‘Well if you are, you might like to buy me a drink.’

  ‘Well if I am I just might do that,’ she said, grinning and collecting her change.

  At that moment Paul strode into the bar. His mere presence alerted Maria Almeida and her mate too. Paul had that effect on women. He was six feet six and built like a mosquito, sunken chest, exploding unkempt black hair, and glasses that looked as if they’d been hewn from the bases of brown beer bottles. Tall, dark and handsome, well two out of three can’t be bad.

  ‘See ya, Gringo,’ she said, and she collected the wines and hurried away and went and sat with Vicky, all the while keeping a wary eye on the weird stranger with the high waistline and ridiculously long legs.

  ‘Reach for the sky, man!’ Paul said, punching Gringo playfully on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?’

  ‘No,’ said Gringo, ‘not that I know of,’ and he ordered Paul a pint.

  ‘I think that dusky maiden might fancy me,’ said the ever optimistic Paul, and he turned round and gazed across the bar like a lighthouse keeper peering
through fog.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Gringo, and his judgement appeared vindicated, as the girls picked up their drinks and coats and disappeared into the front bar.

  Gringo looked up at his pal. He was wearing his Gooner’s shirt, the latest expensive model, though Gringo wouldn’t have known that because he hated football. He had far more important things to do with his time, his Saturdays, his energy, and his cash.

  ‘So how’s it going?’ said Paul. ‘You still seeing that fat wench?’

  ‘You mean Brenda?’

  ‘That’s the one. The voluptuous Brenda.’

  ‘Now and again.’

  ‘You dirty bugger. I’m on the lookout for someone new.’

  That was not new news. In all the time that Gringo had known Paul he had only had one girlfriend. Maureen, that was her name, and they went out for all of three weeks. She was a foot and half shorter than him, slim build, good clothes, two lovely eyes, it was just a pity, Gringo thought; that they didn’t quite match. He imagined that Paul, forever peering through those glasses that always seemed to need cleaning, simply didn’t notice. Gringo would always swear that one night in that very bar, with Maureen standing between the pair of them, she was looking at both of them at the same time, eyes like a reptile, swivelling this way and that. Ah well, no one is perfect. He never discovered why the unusual couple fell out and Paul never told him. Paul glanced around again.

  ‘Have the tarts gone?’

  ‘Yes Paul, some time ago.’

  ‘Damn! We were in there.’

  Paul, the man of many nicknames, but he had his uses. He was a sales person at the local Ford dealer, and he could always get you a good deal on a new car, not that Gringo Greene was too keen on buying Fords. Besides that, Paul was good hearted and good company, and just what Gringo needed when he grew tired of the company of women, something that happened rarely, but occasionally, for if nothing else, it reminded him of how beautiful the company of a pretty girl really was.

  Afterwards they went for a bite to eat in Shaman’s Wine Bar and after that Gringo drove him home, way out into the suburbs, a 1920’s semi detached house, where Paul Shepperton lived with his mother and father and their three cats.

  The following night Gringo ambled into the bar at 7.40. The pub was empty. Wednesday night, always quiet, especially early on. He wondered if she’d show. He wondered if she was playing games. A different barman asked him what he’d like. Gringo said he was waiting for someone and the barman was miffed at still not making a sale. She came in ten minutes later, and it was just as well she did, because he’d decided to leave in another minute.

  ‘Hi Gringo,’ she said. ‘Sorry if I’m a little late.’

  ‘No worries.’

  She was wearing a tight fitting beige jumper and white slacks. Ordinarily he did not like women in trousers, though he had to admit she looked pretty cute. She’d obviously changed from work, and he found himself wondering if she had been home, wherever that was, or had she rung the changes in the ladies loo at Frobisher Buildings? She stood at the bar, taking the occasional chance to glance up at his rugged face, and that turned down muzzy of his that she still wasn’t sure about.

  ‘What are we having?’ she said.

  ‘You’re buying,’ he said, ‘Remember? I’ll have a glass of lager.’

  ‘I forgot about that,’ she giggled, and she dived into her maroon leather bag for her purse.

  It was an expensive bag, he noticed that much.

  She bought the drinks and then she said: ‘Shall we sit down?’

  ‘Sure,’ and they went and sat on the same bench seat where Maria and Vicky had briefly sat the night before.

  ‘I didn’t care for your mate much. He kept staring at us.’

  ‘Paul’s all right, he’s just a bit short-sighted.’

  ‘A bit! Vicky said he looked like a long streak of misery.’

  Yes, that was one of the nicknames that Gringo had heard several times before. That and Lurch and Piece of Piss and Wild Man of Borneo and The Liquorice Shoelace and others far ruder than that.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you for example.’

  In all his years on the prowl he had never come across a woman who didn’t revel in the chance to talk about herself, no matter how much they might protest otherwise. He was on safe ground and he knew it.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘I can’t tell all my secrets to a man I’ve just met.’

  ‘No, maybe not, but you can make a damned good start. Married? Single? Lovers? Children? Lesbian tendencies? Age? Family? Ambitions? Star sign? Come on, let’s hear it. Start talking. Chop chop chop.’

  Maria’s mouth fell open. ‘You are terrible.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but we have to begin somewhere.’

  ‘I’m not married, if you must know, no ring look,’ and she dangled her hand before his dark eyes. ‘So therefore it follows I am single, and thanks for enquiring. I don’t have any children, nor want any for a long time yet. I live in my own apartment near the station. I have no family, other than my mother and father who live in Solihull. My star sign is Libra, I am very ambitious, if you really must know, whether I have any lovers is for me to know and you to find out, gentlemen are not supposed to ask a lady’s age, but as you’re clearly not a gentleman, I shall tell you anyway, I am twenty-six, and as for the other malarkey you mentioned, something about tendencies, I refuse to answer that on the grounds it might incriminate me. How’s that for a start?’

  Malarkey, that was a good word. Gringo liked her. She had a sense of humour and a feistiness he always found endearing. She was pretty too, and that always helped. He’d never been out with a British Asian before, a black girl yes; and a Chinese one too, but not someone from the sub continent with roots in Goa. Goan? Goanna? Goer? He must ask. It would be fun finding out.

  ‘What about you?’ she said, sipping her wine.

  ‘I’m thirty-four. Tell me about your work?’

  It worked every time. Answer one question and turn the conversation back on the girl. They simply couldn’t wait to start talking about themselves again.

  ‘Take my finals next year. Bit nervous about it, if truth be told. In the meantime we get treated like the lowest of the low. All the bog standard auditing work from the crummy, crap companies that no one else is interested in. Harris’s Garden Sheds for example, who I’m working on right now, I mean… give me a break.’

  ‘I suppose someone has to check up on the financial health of Harris’s Garden Sheds.’

  ‘Yep, true, but not me thanks.’

  ‘Does it pay well?’

  ‘Not yet. Are you paid well, Gringo?’

  ‘Not as much as I’d like.’

  ‘Everyone says that.’

  Gringo emptied his drink.

  ‘Do you fancy going for a meal?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, draining her glass.

  ‘English, Italian, Indian, what?’

  ‘I thought we’d go Indian next time.’

  They shared a coy smile. It wasn’t lost on Gringo the intimation that there would be a next time. The girl had made plans, and there was nothing wrong with that. Gringo liked women who thought ahead, especially when it involved him. It boded well. It might yet fit in with his strict three strikes or you’re out rule.

  Strike one. Date one. English, Shaman’s Wine Bar, again, but who cared?

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘get your coat.’

  Eleven

  Gringo always went out on a Saturday night. What was the alternative? Sit in and watch crap talent shows on the television, a pizza on your lap, and bloody football, and then news of the latest disaster unfolding somewhere on the globe. Television companies weren’t happy unless they were unearthing some catastrophe somewhere or other, and the world was a big place. If you looked hard enough and far enough afield, you could always
find pictures of human misery, and that wasn’t Gringo’s idea of entertainment, or of what life was all about.

  Saturday night was dress up and smile night. Kiss and cuddle night, and maybe, just maybe, a heck of a lot more.

  He was taking her to the Bombay Kings Indian Restaurant, reputedly the best Indian eating place in the city, and he was looking forward to it. He enjoyed it, the big build up, everything about it, the preparation of the car, the collecting of sufficient cash from the gob in the wall that spat out his money, the wallowing in the bath, the careful dressing, ensuring that everything was just so, the arriving ten minutes late, the casual check on his date to ensure that she had made at least some effort to please him, the long drawn out meal in an expensive place, the conversation and banter, the teasing and an occasional double entendre, though nothing and never too crude, the paying of the bill with a flourish, the arm-in-arm amble back to the car, the kiss and cuddle on the front seat, the starting of the engine, and the big decisions to be made: Your place or mine? Would you like to come back for coffee?

  Damned right! Never say no to coffee, even if you detest the stuff.

  Yes, Gringo adored the courting ritual, and through constant practice he had become good at it, and he knew it too, and most times the intelligent women he dated, the ones he infinitely preferred, realised it too.

  Strike two. Date two. Indian Meal night.

  As he drove toward her apartment he thought back to Wednesday night. Everything had gone pretty much according to plan. They had ended up back at her new apartment just along the tracks from the railway station. She’d invited him in and he’d said yes.

  She insisted that she never heard the trains, that she soon became used to them, but when he eased back the floor to ceiling lace curtains and looked out from the third floor window, gazing through the darkness at the arc lights that lit the station approach, he saw there were four parallel sets of tracks, and constant movement of passenger and goods trains alike, all too often making that hideous Bee Po noise as they departed the station.