by M. P. Wright
4
My phone call to Ida Stephens was both brief and succinct. Surprisingly, the formidable overseer had expressed little excitement at the good news that I’d located her missing doctor and set up a meeting with him for later that evening. She’d listened quietly as I’d relayed all the facts and explained what was going to go down at the King’s Head pub. If there had been little fire in her belly in hearing of my success in establishing the whereabouts of Fowler, there sure was plenty of heat coming off her tongue as she delivered her parting sermon to me.
“I don’t have to remind you how sensitive this situation is, Mr Ellington. Just retrieve what belongs to us, pay the man and make sure that you come away with all the relevant particulars in regards to the truth. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yeah, I understand—”
“Good. I expect to hear from you in due course, Mr Ellington.” The line went dead and I was left with the sound of static crackling in my ear. I slumped back into my chair and swallowed hard. My hand tightened around the receiver of the telephone, infuriated by the manner in which I’d just been spoken to. I stared down at my desk and looked at the white envelope containing the wad of cash Stephens had left with me. My instincts told me that something really stank about both the job and Ida Stephens. I asked myself how much crap could I take from people who talked to me like dirt, but with nothing in the bank and plenty of bills to pay, I sure as hell could do with their dough. As I sat thinking about the rights and the wrongs of my decision to see the job through, I nervously recalled how the last person who’d employed me to find someone for them had also had a nasty habit of cutting short their phone conversations with me . . . and they’d ended up dead.
*
It was just after 7.30 p.m.: I drove the short distance out of St Pauls into Bristol and parked my car up on Church Lane, just around the corner from the King’s Head pub. I pulled the key out of the ignition of my 1963 Mark One Ford Cortina, which had been previously owned by my late friend Carnell Harris, and switched on the car’s radio and turned the dial slowly until I found a station playing something worth listening to.
I tapped my fingers on top of the dashboard in time to the beat of the Chiffons’ “Sweet-Talking Guy” as I gazed through the windshield at the sun slowly beginning to drop out of the evening sky. As it fell behind the buildings in front of me, dusk quickly encroached across the city streets, giving the night heavens a beguiling reddish tinge, which, for some unexplainable reason, started to set the hairs on the back of my neck rising up as if responding to an unseen threat. I checked the time on my wristwatch: 7.45 p.m. I was tired of sitting alone in the fading light, worrying about the whys and wherefores of a job I never really wanted to undertake, and my suspicions of its dubious nature. All I knew was that the die was now cast and I felt that I was once again about to enter into the mouth of the wolf, my better judgement no longer an ally to my usually cautious sense of self-preservation. I grabbed hold of my overcoat and hat from the passenger seat and took myself off towards the back entrance of the pub.
The King’s Head was one of those old drinking dens that felt like you were travelling back in time. It was infamous for being frequented by every kind of criminal lowlife known to the city. Local thieves, fences, cat burglars, pimps, whores, pickpockets, every bent and lawless stripe known to man at some point wandered through its battered oak doors and drank in the gaslit shadows of the simple long, narrow, one-room bar. Those who wished to undertake some form of nefarious criminal activity within the hushed walls of the public house and out of view from prying eyes often took advantage of the curiously named “Tramcar Bar”, a snug shaped like a Victorian tramcar with just a narrow passage running alongside it that gave access to a small private area in which to conduct one’s illicit business. Vic had been no fool: he’d carefully chosen the venue for Dr Fowler and Rita Lee to hook up, making sure both their presences would arouse little or no suspicion. A black dude in a predominantly all whites’ boozer generally caused someone or other to kick up a fuss about it, but this joint was different. Here in the King’s Head, black crooks were welcome too.
I wandered in through the inner rear door with its “Bar” gold-etched glass panel. The place was dead, with the exception of two old boys who were soused up to their eyeballs and a woman in her late twenties who was sat at one of the small square tables nursing what looked like a lime and soda in both hands. The woman peeped up at me from her drink as I walked past and, as if recognising who I might be, offered up a brief and uneasy smile. I didn’t return the gesture and made my way towards the Formica-topped bar to get myself a drink. I ordered a large rum, paid and made my way back to where the young woman was sitting.
I stood at the entrance of the snug for a moment and watched as she sipped at her pale drink. With her legs crossed, she fidgeted in her seat as she looked over at me, her eyes darting back and forth anxiously in their sockets like a scared animal caught in the headlights of a fast-moving vehicle. She was dressed in a matching denim jacket and miniskirt and a bright-pink low-cut blouse displayed the top half of her skinny-looking breasts and deep cleavage. As I walked towards her the stink of cheap perfume hit me. I shot her a smile before speaking in an attempt to calm her nerves.
“It’s OK, don’t worry, I ain’t the police. You Rita Lee?”
“All right, me luvver? Yeah, I’m Rita, and you gotta be Mr Ellington.”
I nodded at her. “That’s me. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Hark at ee, you scare me? I ain’t scared, me, not of you or no coppers. In my game there ain’t no point in being scared. An’ besides, I never met a spade who’d be calling himself no copper.”
I sat down on the stool opposite the cocksure streetwalker and took a nip of my rum. Rita Lee was talking up a good fight at me, but frightened eyes never lie: this girl was scared.
I leant forward and spoke quietly. “Look, we ain’t got much time. My cousin Vic tells me you know this Dr Fowler pretty well. That right?”
“Yeah, me an’ the doc, we goes back a way. He’s done his bit when I’ve needed a quack. What you wan’ him for?”
“All you need to know is that I need to speak to the man.” I looked over my shoulder quickly then put my hand into the inside pocket of my jacket and took out a folded-up five-pound note and shot my hand under the table for Rita to take it from me. I felt her fingers briefly touch mine as she snatched the cash then stashed it out of sight. “All you gotta do is git the man to sit down with you, give him some bull ’bout you being in the family way, and by the time you done that, I’ll be back in here and you can be on your way: it’s as simple as that. You clear on what needs to be done?”
Rita Lee shot me a suspicious look. “You ain’t gunna hurt the poor old bugger or nothing, are ya? I mean, he ain’t never done me no harm—”
I butted in, aware that precious time was ticking away. “I ain’t here to hurt him, I promise you. Now when the doc turns up, you don’t even look at me when I come over to join you, just git up and walk on outta here. You understand me?”
“Yeah, I got it: you come in, I piss off . . .”
I nodded back at Rita, picked up my drink and raised my glass then lifted myself out of my seat and began to walk away. As I did, the call girl called after me.
“Here, Mr Ellington.”
I stopped in my tracks and turned around to face her.
“Word on the street is you do this kinda thing a lot. You really one o’ those private eyes, like in the films?”
“Nah . . . I ain’t no detective. I’m just a guy whose bin paid to snoop around some.”
“Snooping around, you say? I suppose somebody’s gotta do it, but sounds like a real shitty way to make a living if you ask me, Mr Ellington.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
I walked away, thinking to myself that Rita had some nerve commenting on how I made my living, especially coming from a woman in her shifty line of work.
I found a doorway to
stand in across the road from the King’s Head and waited patiently in the shadows for Fowler to turn up. I didn’t have to wait long. It was just before eight o’clock when I first caught sight of the wary-looking elderly black guy standing under the orange glow of a street lamp. I watched as he carefully checked behind and in front of him before entering the pub. Since I’d left, not a soul had gone in or out, so it was odds on that the brother who’d just walked into the place was the man I was after. I strolled across the street, took a look inside the window of the alehouse and watched as the old boy stood at the bar and ordered himself a drink. He knocked back a double scotch then quickly bought himself another. After he’d walked away towards the snug, I waited a moment then took myself back in the place, bought myself a pint of mild and supped at my pint for a few more minutes before joining Rita and her old medical acquaintance in the smaller room at the rear of the building. As I leant against the door jamb, Rita looked up at me and I motioned with my head that it was time for her to leave. Without a word, she did as she was told: got up then walked out, staring at her feet and with the five pounds I’d given her earlier burning a hole in her pocket.
I made my way over to join the old man and sat down on the bench seat next to him. He stank of stale booze and smoked-out cigars. The dark jowls of his heavily lined face were unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and watering. He looked like a washed-up corpse and gave off an unpleasant air of a man used to being around death. I gave him the once-over, then stared hard right into his face: one of those long, knowing looks I’d perfected while strong-arming a suspect when I’d been a cop back home on Bim.
“Is your name Fowler, Dr Theodore Fowler?”
“What’s it to you who I am?” The old man went to get up. I grabbed hold of his elbow and dragged his ass back into his seat. I could feel him shaking through his overcoat. I kept hold of his arm to let him know I meant business.
“I’ll only ask one more time befo’ I start gittin’ pissed at you.” I burnt into him harder with my stare. “Is your name Fowler?”
“Yes . . . I’m Fowler,” he stammered. “Who the hell are you?”
“Good, now we’re gittin’ somewhere. My name’s Ellington.”
“Well, what do you want with me, Mr Ellington? I’m a busy man; I don’t have time for any foolish games.”
“Oh, I ain’t playin’ no game here, doc, and from that knocked-fo’-six look on ya face I think you know why I’m here.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are going on about, man. Let go of me or I’ll have the landlord call the police.”
“Go ahead. I’ll even dial ’em for you myself. In an hour’s time you’ll be sunning yo’self in the pokey.”
“Pokey? What are you talking about?”
“Theft’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. A pile o’ paperwork that didn’t belong to you. Confidential stuff that the people you used to work for want back, and damn sharp too.”
“Theft? Paperwork? I don’t know what you are insinuating. This is all highly irregular.” The quack looked down at his scotch, desperate to take a drink. I took hold of the bottom of the glass and slid it across the table out of his reach.
“Cut the ‘innocent me’ crap, will ya, doc, I’m here on behalf o’ your previous employer to retrieve a bundle o’ medical records: death certificates that for some godforsaken reason you decided you wanted fo’ yo’self.”
The doc leaned towards me, suddenly getting bolshie. “Look, I never took a damn thing from out of that place. You’ve been sent on a bloody fool’s errand. Is this some sort of joke?” Theodore Fowler was pushing his luck with me. I applied a little more pressure to his puny elbow and, as I did, realised I’d already broken my word to Rita Lee about not harming the old fellow.
“Do I look to you like I’m joking to you, doc? Now you pin back those well-educated, drunken old ears o’ yours an’ listen up, cos this is how it’s gonna roll tonight. I’ve been retained to find both your thieving butt and to retrieve those death certificates you stole from the orphanage. Now from where I’m sitting I’ve completed half o’ the task by locating your miserable hide; all I need is fo’ you to cough up those documents and I can be outta ya hair forever.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t have any documents belonging to the orphanage.” Fowler was getting shirty and I was getting hot under the collar.
“All I’ve heard from you up to now is a crock o’ shit. You got more do-do coming outta your scruffy black mout’ than a farmyard muck spreader. Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Personally, I’d prefer it if you took the laid-back route.”
I saw the quack’s face soften a little, so I let up on the pressure on his arm a little and leant across the table and drew his glass of whisky back towards him. He gingerly picked up his drink then gulped back the remainder in three short mouthfuls.
“What exactly do you want from me, Mr Ellington?” Fowler’s shoulders slumped; defeated resignation appeared to take over him as he looked down into his empty glass.
“Just like I said: the death certificates are what I’m here for. Once I git ’em, there’ll be no comeback on you, and to sweeten the deal I’m to offer you a heap o’ money for their safe return.”
“Money . . . How much money?”
“How’s five hundred sheets sound to you?”
“Sounds like a lot. Whatever I’m accused of taking, they must want it back rather badly.”
“That’s just what I thought, doc, so what’s it to be: you gonna play straight with me or am I gonna have to break your arm to get what I want outta you?”
“Five hundred, you say?” The old man was starting to see sense.
“On the button. Got it stashed in my inside pocket, right here.” I partially pulled out the envelope and let Fowler see the edge of the cash. “Look, doc, I ain’t here to roll ya. You give me what I want and you walk away, free as a bird.”
“And if I get you what you’re looking for, neither you nor Walter Wilkins will involve the police?”
“Nobody gonna be the wiser. We’re talking serious money here, doc. That could buy you a lotta scotch, brother.”
“I’m not interested in buying alcohol, Mr Ellington. The money could be useful to me, though.”
I watched Fowler’s face as he began to weigh up the pros and cons. “So, have we got us a deal?”
“Perhaps . . . If I could obtain what you are looking for, how do I know I can trust you?”
I took the envelope out of my inside pocket and quickly slung it onto Fowler’s lap. “Here, that’s how you know you can trust me. You hang on to it while we go get what I want. Go on, take it, skim your fingers through those notes and make sure it’s all there, brother. I ain’t here to stiff you. But I warn you, you think ’bout runnin’ out on me with that dough, I’ll break your legs from under ya feet befo’ you have time to cook up a sweat. You understand me?”
“I understand, Mr Ellington. It looks like we have an understanding.”
“Good. Now there’s one more ting befo’ we sign this off.”
Fowler looked up at me as he was stuffing the envelope into his coat pocket.” “Yes . . . What is it?”
“Tell me where I can find the truth.”
5
“Truth . . . What damn truth?”
For a man with a complexion of pure jet, Dr Theodore Fowler’s face had just turned a nasty pale colour right in front of me. My strange question had clearly knocked any healthy pigmentation right outta the old doc’s bombed-out features. He sat staring back at me with an icy, panicked look of shock on his time-worn face. I watched as he licked at his dried-out lips then anxiously rubbed at them with the tips of his fingers. He looked down and covetously eyed up the drink that was sitting in front of me. His eyes darted back up to briefly look at me then shot back to my half-finished pint of mild.
“Go ahead, brother. You look like you need this more than I do.” I leant forward and pushed the beer across the table towards him, his
trembling hands instantly reaching out to snatch up the jug. He knocked the contents back in one swift chug then nervously returned his gaze back to me.
“So, come on, doc, tell me.”
“Tell you what? What is it you want from me, Mr Ellington?” Fowler pleaded.
“Just like I said . . . the truth.”
“You’re not making any sense, man. Look, I told you that I’d get you the certificates, I thought we had a deal.”
“We do, don’t worry, that deal’s still sweet, but befo’ we get down to that, your old employer wanted me to ask you the truth question. She was very specific in the way I should ask you.”
The doc looked cautiously around the room, and then whispered. “Who’s ‘she’?”
“Woman by the name o’ Stephens, Ida Stephens. You know who I’m talkin’ ’bout?
The doctor’s breathing became heavier, his posture sunk, and his body dropped forward from out of his seat. He had the kind of pained look on his face that comes over a man when he needs more hooch.
“Yes . . . Yes, I know her.”
“I’m gonna ask you again, just like Ida Stephens told me to ask you. Where can she find the truth?”
“The truth? That bitch is insane. I don’t know what it is that she expects me to tell you.”
“Do I have to squeeze this shit outta you? Doc, I can tell you’re stalling me, man. Now quit while you can. The sooner you git out with it and tell me what I need to know, the sooner we both can git outta here, go pick up those papers and you can get on and drink your ass into oblivion.”
“Please . . . Enough of this madness. I don’t know what truth Ida Stephens is talking about, really I don’t. Now, if you want the certificates I suggest we make a move.” Fowler lifted himself up unsteadily out of his seat. I was about to heave him back when he dropped down next to me with a thud, looking like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Now what the hell’s the matter with you? Jesus, doc, if you weren’t such an old fart, I swear I’d clip up across the back o’ ya nut fo’ jerkin’ me around like you doin’.”