Once a Crooked Man

by David McCallum

  “I am Detective Sergeant Elizabeth Carswell.” She spoke with a Cockney accent. “My friends call me Lizzie. My classification is ‘Pain in the Arse,’ as I have a special knack for sticking my nose in where it’s not wanted.”

  She turned to the man at her side. “This dozy, idle individual here is Detective Sergeant Ivan Sapinsky. Otherwise known as ‘Ivan the Terrible.’ His ancestors came from Stara Zagora in Bulgaria. Take my advice, Harry; don’t fuck with Ivan.”

  Leaning back in her chair, she lifted her legs, and her boots landed on the desk with a crash. “On second thought, you’d better not fuck with either of us.”

  She tapped the clipboard with the back of her hand. “I’ve read your little story, but I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. If you refuse to oblige me, I’ll turn Ivan loose. He’ll probably grab you where it hurts the most. You get my drift?”

  Harry was captivated. He nodded.

  Lizzie took out a packet of Camels and lit one with a small jeweled lighter.

  “How did you find me?” he asked. “I know how Villiers tracked me down, but how did you?”

  “Find you?” She took a noisy drag. Smoke came out of her mouth in spurts as she talked. “We never lost either of you. I spent the last couple of days in hot pursuit of your chum Villiers. Ivan’s been glued to your ugly backside like a leech.”

  “Villiers lost you at the entrance to the garage,” said Harry.

  Lizzie looked at him as if he were a naughty child. “We knew all about his little getaway car, Harry. The minute you both headed towards that garage we had squad cars all around the place.”

  She turned her attention to the clipboard.

  “You were born Harold Patrick Murphy in Brooklyn, New York, September 20th 1981. You presently reside at 409 West Fifty-sixth Street, New York, New York, 10019. You are a member in good standing of the Screen Actors Guild, the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists and Actors’ Equity. You are represented by the Milstein Agency of New York. You have a good credit rating. You flew overnight to London on American Airlines. You checked into the Fabian Hotel, from which you made one very brief call to the residence of one Charles Villiers. You visited the aforesaid residence at eleven-oh-five hours that morning, being admitted to the premises by his wife, one Rhonda Villiers. You returned to your hotel and stayed in your room for the rest of the day.

  “Later that night you walked to Soho. After dinner, you patronized the Isle of Capri Coffee Lounge, where you consumed one coffee and two alcoholic beverages and attempted to pick up Policewoman Susan Banks, who had been assigned by Ivan here to observe and report your activities.”

  Her eyes had a cheeky glint when she looked up at him. “Susie was real surprised. She thought you’d penetrated her cover.”

  Harry tried to remember if he’d said anything stupid after two Sambucas. Lizzie read his mind. “You don’t have to worry. Susie told me you behaved real nice.”

  The clipboard was dropped to the floor and she peered at him intently. “I’ve got all the facts, Harry, so, now, as I say, I want to hear you tell it to me. All of it. Every little detail.”

  Harry felt a disturbing affinity towards this unusual female, so he not only obliged her but also added small particulars wherever he could. When he had finished, she sat silent for almost a minute before getting to her feet. With Ivan the Terrible in tow, she walked out of the room. Five minutes later they were both back. This time she swung the chair around, straddled it with her legs and leaned on the back.

  “Who sent you, Harry?” she asked lighting another Camel.

  “Nobody sent me!” he answered forcefully. “I’m not working for anyone.”

  “Ivan thinks that as well as being an actor you’re making a little extra money on the side as a courier.”

  Harry jumped up in frustration. “I don’t know anything about being a courier,” he protested. “I’ve never seen Villiers before and I have nothing to do with him or his organization, or any other organization, for that matter.”

  Lizzie inhaled into her toes. “Prove it,” she said.

  “Can I go back to the hotel?” he asked.

  “What for?”

  “I have something there that might help me.”

  “Okay,” she said, and stood up.

  “You want me to come too?” asked Ivan picking up the clipboard.

  “No,” she replied. “You have a kip. We won’t be long.”

  “Do we take my car?” asked Harry.

  “No we don’t take your car,” said Lizzie. “We’ll have one of those good-looking young coppers drive us.”

  She picked up the handcuffs and snapped one end on Harry’s left wrist and the other on her right. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I’d feel real bad if I lost you.”

  When they walked into the hotel, Lizzie pressed against him so no one would see how they were linked. Up in number 14 his new luggage stood neatly wrapped in brown paper. Lizzie took off the handcuffs and dropped them on the table. Harry reached into the closet and pulled out his carry-on. From the side zipper pocket he produced his iPhone. As soon as it was booted up he went to the Notepad app. “As I told you. I made a list.”

  Lizzie took the phone and looked at the screen.

  “Well?” he asked. “Do you believe me now?”

  Lizzie made a clicking noise with her teeth and pulled out the pack of Camels. Harry walked past her and opened the window wide. “If we’re going to spend time together you’ll have to stop doing that,” he said with mock irritation.

  “Are you a convert?” she asked as she handed back the phone.

  “I smoked when I was too young to know any better. I gave up when I discovered just how badly I smelled.”

  “What about pot?”

  “No, never did that,” he said, putting the phone back in the carryall.

  “Never?” she asked. “I thought everyone in show business did shit.”

  “Not me.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “I never felt the need.”

  With the bag back in the closet he turned to see that Lizzie had dropped into the armchair and was sitting with her knees apart. “Do I smell bad, Harry?” she said with a provocative smile.

  “Yes, you do,” he replied. “But it suits you. Goes with the territory.”

  “Rubbish. I stink because I haven’t had a wash in three days. Thanks to your friend Villiers.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “Good question, Harry. One possibility is that we will charge him with attempted murder. Ivan’s a pretty reliable witness so he’s certain to be convicted.”

  “How long before he goes to trial?”

  “Why?”

  “Will I be allowed to go back home?”

  “To America?”

  “Yes.”

  “Depends.”

  “Am I being charged with anything? Because I should probably get in touch with the Consulate.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Harry. I think you’re what you say you are. You are free to go.”

  A strong feeling of relief swept over Harry. “Can I get you some breakfast?” he said impulsively.

  Lizzie walked over to the bathroom and looked inside. “Can we have it up here?”

  “Room service? Sure.”

  “What you going to have?” She yanked the ceiling cord and the light came on.

  “The works,” he replied. “Coffee, eggs, bacon, sausage, toast.”

  “I’ll have the same, but make mine tea.”

  As he dialed room service, the water in the bath started to run. By the time he had placed the order, Detective Sergeant Elizabeth Carswell had thrown all her clothes into a small pile in the bathroom doorway. Harry stared at the black underwear with little red bows. The faucets were turned off. He heard her step into the tub and there was then a momentary silence.

  “Feel good?” he inquired.

  “Great,” she replied. Her voice echoed in
the tiled bathroom. “What do you know about the Real IRA, Harry?”

  “Not a lot. Why?”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “Just what I read in the papers. It’s a bunch of guys dedicated to the unification of Ireland. After all these years it seems like a lost cause to me.” Harry sat down on the edge of the bed. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “In a way,” she replied.

  “I thought they came to some sort of an agreement a long time ago. A cease-fire of sorts.”

  “That was the IRA. I’m talking about a new organization called the RIRA, or True IRA, as they like to be called. Formed in 1998. They didn’t go along with the cease-fire and the buggers are still pretty active. Bombings, shootings, assassinations. They tend to operate in covert cells keeping a low profile to avoid being infiltrated by informers.”

  Water splashed as she began to wash. “You know it takes a lot of money to keep an organization like that going.”

  “Yeah, I imagine it would.”

  “And not just for guns, ammo and explosives. Money for fine wines and fancy cigars. After all these years of the money flowing in from the States some of them have got themselves some pretty expensive tastes. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Harry, wondering why she was telling him all this.

  “Trouble is the US government has now declared it illegal for anyone to donate to the RIRA. As a result, the supply of cash has dwindled.”

  “Really?” He thought for a moment. “What has all this to do with me and Villiers?”

  “Ivan and me is part of a group that keeps an eye on known IRA sympathizers in the UK. We are particularly interested in anyone acting as a conduit for illegal funds. We been sitting on our arses in Manchester for the last six weeks watching a man who did nothing except collect his dole and take walks to the local pub. We were just about to give up when we got lucky. One lunchtime he meets with another idle wanker who Ivan recognizes right away. He had arrested him a couple of years back for stealing dynamite from a stone quarry and smuggling it across to Ireland. Anyway, when he leaves we follow and he leads us to Kensington Mews. So we get ourselves a warrant to watch and listen to number four. That’s what we were doing when you turned up and put a spanner in the works.”

  “So you and Ivan are back to square one.”

  “We never left square one. But now we got their money. Quite a lot of their money. And I’ve got you.”

  Harry could see his life getting complicated. “You think I could help in some way?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How long will it take you to make up your mind?”

  “Not long. Do you have any shampoo?”

  “It’s on the shelf by the basin. There’s conditioner there too.”

  “Be a pet and get them for me.”

  Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Her invitation was so blatant. Sure, he found her attractive, but he found this odd in itself. Lizzie was the antithesis of every girl he’d ever known: aggressive, irreverent and vulgar. And she smoked.

  She was lying full length in the soapy water. Harry took the two little plastic bottles from the glass shelf and handed them to her. She sat up, unscrewed the cap and poured some onto the palm of her hand. Her wet skin was flawless. Her body muscular and beautifully proportioned.

  “Thank you,” she said, and worked the shampoo vigorously into her scalp.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, and returned to the bedroom.

  He listened as she washed and rinsed her hair. The plug was pulled and the water gurgled down the drain. Bare feet squeaked on the tile floor. A moment later, she walked in wearing a hotel bathrobe and rubbing her head with a big towel.

  “On Thursday morning,” she said, “you said Villiers and his wife were expecting someone named Rocky. Right?”

  “That’s what they told me. Only I think it was Rocco.”

  “Well, we can be pretty certain that Rocco found out what happened.”

  “Maybe Rocco is the guy with the Uzi.”

  “No. The guy with the Uzi was Eddie Ryan. A known villain.”

  “Was?”

  “Someone put a knife through him yesterday in the hospital right in front of the copper who was detailed to watch him. A neat and professional hit. We didn’t get nothing out of Eddie.”

  Lizzie went back into the bathroom. Rummaging around in Harry’s toiletry case, she came back with his hairbrush. “D’you mind?” she asked.

  He started towards her. “Let me wash it first.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” she said, curling up in the armchair to brush her hair. “By now Rocco will have passed on the news that someone tried to kill Villiers and the cash is missing. After you left Colonel Villiers in Myrtle Avenue, he spent most of the day in the Hampstead Public Library. When he wasn’t reading he was making telephone calls, so we can be pretty sure he also passed on the fact that he gave the money to you. As they have not a fucking clue who you are this will not come as good news.”

  There was a polite knock at the door. Harry opened it and two young maids entered with the breakfast trays. The first smiled politely. “Where would you like us to put them, sir?” she asked.

  “Anywhere’ll do,” he answered.

  The first maid placed her tray on the chest of drawers as the second hovered by the table. Harry picked up the handcuffs and threw them on the bed. The maids left in a fit of giggling.

  “What do you suppose they thought we were up to?” said Lizzie. The robe had slipped open.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked somewhat ambiguously.

  “I don’t know, Harry; I don’t know. I’m going to need a little time to think.” She spoke to him with mock intensity. “Whatever I come up with, do you think you’re man enough to handle it?”

  “I’ll never know until I try,” he said with a grin.

  With a sudden move she pulled the robe open and pressed her body against him. Her heart was beating like a hammer. He put his arms around her waist and held her tightly.

  Lizzie spoke first. “Breakfast’s getting cold.”

  “We’ll order lunch,” he said, and kissed her gently on the neck and shoulders. When she spoke her voice was husky. “If we’re going to work together you’ll have to stop doing that.”

  The robe fell to the floor.

  “I should take a shower,” he said.

  “Stop being so bloody American.”

  She kissed him hard. There was nothing tentative or hesitant about Lizzie. Desperate to share her nakedness, she tore off his clothes and flung them in all directions. When Harry tried to take the initiative she pushed him back and down onto the floor. She kissed him from head to foot, producing sensation after sensation in every part of his body with her hands, mouth, arms and legs. Suddenly she stood up and put one foot on either side of his chest. With her eyes fixed on his she lowered herself until they made contact.

  Contracting and relaxing her muscles, she squeezed him tightly, deep inside her. Then she began to rock back and forward, side to side, rhythmically and smoothly. Suddenly she lost all control and became like a frenetic animal. Her body glistened as she thrashed about on top of him. From her throat came grunts and moans of pleasure. When Harry exploded Lizzie was not far behind and with a final yell she collapsed beside him.

  For a few moments she let him hold her but then abruptly jumped up, scooped up her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom closing the door with a bang.

  Harry wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to react. Did this crazy woman have some sort of weird sexual desire that needed to be fulfilled? Or was she simply suckering him into becoming a willing accomplice?

  At the best of times Harry had never been able to figure out the way women thought. Whether they were instinctively calculating or calculatingly instinctive. Paranoia made him feel he was responsible for their weird and unpredictable ways. With everyone else he was sure they were calm and reasonable.

  He picked up the d
amp robe and put it on. As he knotted the cord Lizzie came back in fully dressed except for her boots.

  “Is New York anything like they say it is?” she said picking up a rasher of bacon and popping it into her mouth. “I’ve never been there.” She flopped into the armchair, pulled on the boots and laced them up.

  “It can be a pretty lonely place if you don’t know anyone,” replied Harry.

  “I know you, though, don’t I?”

  She picked up a fried egg with her fingers, swallowed it in one bite and washed it down with milk straight from the jug.

  “Time to go,” she said and picked up the handcuffs. “Got to go see our friend the Colonel. Find out if he’s going to be cooperative.”

  “He’s our friend now, is he?”

  “Let’s hope so, Harry; let’s hope so.”

  “What about me?”

  “You wait here. I’ll be in touch. Thanks for breakfast.” She grinned. “It was just what I needed.”

  And she was gone.

  Harry walked into the bathroom, closed the toilet seat and sat down. A frothy residue adhered to the sides and bottom of the tub. Discarded towels lay in a heap, one smeared with mauve lipstick. The indent of Lizzie’s small wet footprint was still visible on the thick bath mat.

  Slipping off the robe, he rinsed off the tub, sat down in it and tried to take a shower. The hand spray was a pathetic substitute for the real thing. Harry could never understand why the British preferred baths to showers. What was the attraction of lying in a tub of dirty water?

  British daytime television soon wore thin. He read The Telegraph from cover to cover and then tried his hand at the crossword on the back page but was only able to fill in one of the answers, the word “scent” missing from a Shakespearean quotation. Harry had played Hamlet’s ghost in high school and could still remember his overly dramatic reading of, “But soft! methinks I scent the morning air!” All the other clues seemed to be the product of a deranged mind. Tossing the paper aside he lay for a time on his back watching a horse spider symbolically weave a web in the corner of the ceiling.