by Sam Millar
‘Keep the change. You’ve earned it.’
Grease Monkey smiled even broader, before doing a Steve McQueen back down the road into total darkness.
The Motel Royal looked neither royal nor a motel; more of a fleapit where even the fleas had the intelligence to flee. The concierge barely acknowledged Karl – though he did scrutinise the twenty-pound note handed to him for payment.
The elevator wasn’t working so Karl was grateful for room thirty-six being on the second floor. The thin carpet in the hallway was balding and depressing, and covered in every stain imaginable and unimaginable.
Karl quickly entered the room and flicked on the light switch. The room was lit by a naked bulb dangling from a ceiling covered in damp patches that stretched like leprosy.
Glancing at the World War Two furniture, he began to appreciate the bad lighting. The bed looked saggy and overused. He doubted if it could accommodate his large frame. The sheets looked like they had been washed last week – in body stains.
Throwing Big Ian’s words into an overflowing wastepaper basket, Karl glanced out at the street below filled with drab buildings and walls scarred unmercilessly with graffiti. Among the many uplifting messages, one was in army-green paint: Dublin the heroin capital of Ireland? Big deal. Ballymena’s the heroin capital of Europe!
Defeated by the drab landscape, Karl decided on a quick shower and a bite to eat, washed down with something other than water.
Quickly stripping, he pulled the scum-coated shower curtains open, and gingerly reached to turn the water on. A streak of dark orange rust immediately trailed down from the showerhead, covering the tiny area in dark stains.
Karl tried erasing from his thoughts what the stains reminded him of as he stepped timidly into the lukewarm spray. The shower water stank of ozone, sputtering and stopping at ten second intervals. The bathroom faucet dripped rusty brown, and the pipes beneath the sink were held together by a filthy pair of lady’s torn nylons.
‘Fuck it.’ He stepped quickly out, and twenty minutes later, made his way downstairs to the bar.
‘Please Do Not Ask For Credit As A Punch In The Mouth Often Offends’, was the first sign he saw, nailed over the bar’s cracked mirror. He hoped it wasn’t a portent of things to come.
The bar was humming with sea shanty music. A bizarre mixture of maritime and Dolly Parton portraits hung precariously on the plaster-decaying walls, alongside the odd photo of politicians. Very odd politicians. Ian Paisley smiled from one. He appeared to be staring down into Dolly’s ample cleavage.
‘No wonder you’re smiling, big lad,’ said Karl, moseying up to the bar’s counter and parking his formidable bulk on a stool.
Removing a ten spot from his wallet, he glanced about the bar. Two customers, bearded and smoking pipes, sat docked at the other end, each nursing their own brand of poison. They looked like defeated sailors, forced to become dreaded landlubbers because of the recession or their age. The pipes dangling from their toothless mouths were releasing as much smoke as a small freight train. The smoke covered the bar in an eerie mist.
Karl wondered if the no-smoking laws introduced years ago had reached the backwoods of Ballymena yet? One other customer lingered in the shadowy background, an empty glass her only companion.
‘A Hennessy, when you get the chance, me old shipmate,’ said Karl, to the large barman cleaning glasses from an old jawbox sink. The barman’s massive Popeye-the-sailor-man forearms were plastered in nautical-themed tattoos, and nude ladies with questionable anatomies.
Seemingly in no hurry, the barman eventually placed a Hennessy on the counter, removing the ten spot at the same time.
‘Haven’t seen one of those old jawboxes in ages,’ said Karl, by way of conversation. ‘I used to get washed in one of them.’
Placing the change on the counter, the barman looked Karl straight in the eye. ‘Bit big for that, aren’t you?’
‘They’re now very trendy, apparently,’ replied Karl, ignoring the sarcasm oozing from the man’s mouth. ‘All those home shows on TV call them Belfast Sinks. I suppose that’s appropriate, when you consider the Titanic was built in Belfast.’
The unreceptive barman went back to cleaning the glasses.
‘What’s there to do in this lovely wee town on a Friday night, friend?’ asked Karl, straight at the barman’s back.
The barman didn’t even bother to turn around, opting instead to glance at Karl through the cracked mirror. ‘You’re already doing it, friend, so don’t be getting too excited.’
‘Ignore Colin,’ said one of the old seafarers, edging up towards Karl. The man had an alcohol-ruptured nose and a mottled pink complexion. ‘The name’s Johnny. Johnny Walker. And you can forget about cracking any old whiskey jokes. I’ve heard them all a million times before.’
‘Please to meet you, Johnny,’ said Karl, shaking Johnny’s hand. Johnny’s gnarled fingers felt like serrated steak knives wrapped in wiring. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make it my business not to crack any whiskey jokes.’
‘Colin doesn’t have much to say. You’d think he was getting charged for each word coming out of his gob.’
‘Wish my ex-wife had been like that.’ Karl smiled. ‘Can I get you a drink, Johnny?’
‘Thanks. I’ve a thirst something shocking. I’ll have a jar of Guinness,’ said Johnny, cheerfully, grabbing a handful of salty nuts resting in a bowl.
‘Colin? A pint of your blackest black stuff for Johnny, and another Hennessy for me. Have something for yourself,’ said Karl, producing a twenty spot this time.
Johnny kindly offered the bowl of nuts to Karl.
‘Er…no thanks,’ said Karl, knowing that most drunks never wash their hands after going to the toilet. The thought of all those unwashed urine-stained hands groping the bowl of nuts was off-putting, to say the least.
Colin placed the drinks on the counter, before mumbling thanks to Karl for the free drink.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ said Johnny.
‘Jim. Jim McFadden,’ said Karl, his lie as perfect as a politician’s face on polling day.
‘Staying upstairs, Jim?’
‘Yes, just for a night, probably. I’m trying to trace an old school friend from years back. I heard he’s living somewhere in this lovely wee town.’
‘Perhaps I know of him? What’s his name?’
Before Karl could reply, the other customer from the end of the bar squeezed tightly in beside him.
‘You were asking what’s there to do in this place on a Friday night, big fella? Plenty, if you ask me.’
Karl’s jaw nearly fell off his face. It was a woman, the pipe and beard camouflaging any feminine features donated to her face. She had bigger forearms than Colin the barman – with an equal amount of tattoos. Her breath stank like dead flowers, and her teeth had obviously been unzipped from her mouth.
‘I…’ Karl was lost for words.
‘No one asked for your company, Marion Dunlop,’ said Johnny, rather huffily.
‘Nor yours, Johnny Walker. Just keep your beak out of it,’ retorted Marion, adjusting her arse on the stool. ‘Jim here is looking for some nice female company. Isn’t that right, Jim?’
Karl felt ice fingers tighten on his balls. He shuddered inwardly. ‘To be honest, Marion, I’m dead tired. I was just having a wee drink before going to bed.’
‘Exactly my sentiments, Jim!’ winked Marion, nudging Karl playfully in the ribs.
‘Stop being a pest, Marion,’ said Colin, bringing his face close to Marion’s. He spoke with the confidence of someone not used to having to repeat himself. ‘Head back over to your end of the bar, or leave.’
Karl felt like reaching over and hugging Colin.
Marion’s eyes rolled. She mumbled something vile before heading back to her patch of the bar.
‘And I’m keeping a good eye on you as well, Johnny Walker,’ said Colin, before heading back to the sink.
‘She’s a head-melter, that one,’ said Johnny, giving
Marion a scornful look. ‘Lost her mind in sixty-nine and never got it back. Now, before we were so rudely interrupted, you were about to tell me the name of the friend you’re searching for.’
‘Thomas Blake. Know of him?’
Johnny shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do.’
‘I do,’ said a voice directly behind Karl.
It was the woman with the empty glass. Exceptionally lovely, she was wearing strawberry-coloured hotpants, tight buttocks protruding provocatively, legs all the way to her shoulders. To Karl, she looked like something out of a Robert McGinnis painting, the kind of woman who could whistle ‘The Derry Air’ magnificently on her magnificent derrière.
She eased close enough for Karl to smell perfume from her skin and the booze on her tongue.
‘Want to buy me a drink, stranger?’ she asked in a husky, kittenish voice.
‘No one invited you into our company, you Jezebel you,’ exclaimed Johnny. ‘Just keep your–’
Like lightning, the woman reached and grabbed Johnny by the balls and began squeezing.
Terror and pain registered on Johnny’s face.
Colin smiled a crooked smile from the mirror, seemingly enjoying the ball-crunching entertainment.
‘Please,’ said Karl, staring directly into the woman’s composed but determined face. ‘I’m sure Johnny didn’t mean what he said. Just the booze talking.’
‘Just the booze talking, Johnny?’ asked the woman. ‘Shooting off stupid words with that shotgun mouth of yours?’
Johnny made a whimpering sound. Nodded continually, like a cat with a small creature lodged in its mouth.
‘Okay, Johnny,’ she said, calmly. ‘When I release my grip on your tiny balls, you’ll do an about-turn and head straight for the door. No back-lip. Deviate whatsoever from my instructions, and I’ll crush what little you have left. Am I clear?’
Johnny nodded quickly. Tears began forming in his eyes.
The woman released Johnny from her death grip, and watched him staggering out, doubled-over with pain.
‘You can call me Sandy and buy me a drink,’ said the woman, putting out her hand to Karl.
‘Jim…Jim McFadden.’ Karl shook the hand that had just squeezed the life out of Johnny’s balls. The hand felt terribly warm. ‘That’s some grip you have, Sandy, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘In my business, you need to have a good grip on all things, otherwise, you’re dead – just like Johnny’s balls.’
‘What would you like to drink?’ asked Karl, reluctant to ask Sandy just what exactly her business was, even though he could hazard a decent guess.
‘A g and t.’ She smiled, and suddenly looked very gentle.
‘A gin and tonic for the lady, Colin, and have another for your good self.’
‘Which room are you in?’ asked Sandy, becoming all business-like.
‘I…’ He didn’t want to go there – at least for what he suspected Sandy wanted to go there for. ‘To be honest, Sandy, I’m not really looking for company. I’m dog tired.’
‘You’re gay? I can accommodate that.’ From her impressive handbag she produced an extremely large dildo, pink in colour.
‘Shit…’ Karl’s haemorrhoids suddenly began flaring. His skin went clammy. ‘No…no thanks. You can put that weapon away.’
‘Is it the colour? I’ve others.’
‘The shape. I’m not gay I’m not even in a gay mood, to be honest with you.’
‘Hmm. You’re not gay? And you don’t want to fuck an attractive woman? What do you not like about me?’
‘What’s not to like? Don’t be insulted, Sandy, it’s just that I already have a beautiful woman whom I’m madly in love with.’
‘Old fashioned morals? That’s a rarity in the men I usually meet. I like that in a man.’
‘That’s me. Old fashioned and boring.’
‘You want info on your long lost friend?’
The hairs on Karl’s neck suddenly nipped his skin. The way she pronounced the last three words told Karl there was at least one person in Ballymena not buying his long-tall-glass of a story.
‘Yes,’ said Karl. ‘I’d appreciate any info you have, Sandy.’
‘Now that we both know where we stand, which room are you in?’
‘Thirty-six.’
‘That’s one of my all-time favourites. Not a lot of noise comes from the springs. Mattress isn’t too comfortable, though.’ Sandy smiled again, but this time Karl could see the damage in her eyes.
Colin interrupted the conversation by placing the booze on the counter. Handed Karl his change. Mumbled a thank you. Returned to the sink.
‘Come on,’ said Sandy, taking her drink. ‘Let’s go. More privacy up there.’
Reluctantly, Karl eased away from the bar and followed her.
‘Like what you see, Jim?’ said Sandy, tilting her head over her shoulder, before smiling at Karl.
‘I…’ Karl, for the second time that evening, was lost for words.
Sandy pulled the strawberry-coloured hotpants up tighter. ‘I’m not a good Christian girl, but I’m more than willing to turn the other cheek.’ She gave Karl a cheeky wink.
A very cheeky wink, thought Karl, trying not to grin like an oaf.
Even soulless Colin managed a grin.
Marion glared with disgust as Karl and Sandy progressed up the stairs to the room.
‘I always liked this room,’ said Sandy, before sitting down in a rickety chair. ‘Simple decor and bare necessities.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it’s seen a lot of bare things.’ Karl smiled.
Sandy returned the smile. ‘I like your attempt at wit, Jim. A man who can make me smile is very special – even if he is a cop from Belfast. Going to arrest me for solicitation?’
Karl’s face froze for a second. ‘Cop? You’ve got me all wrong, Sandy. If I gave you the impression of being a–’
‘You’re a cop or cop something. I can smell it a mile away. Let’s not argue over semantics, Jim. Now, who are you and what exactly is it you want to know about Blake? If you start with more lies, I’ll leave immediately.’
‘I…’ Karl thought quickly. Reached inside his wallet, before handing Sandy one of his business cards.
Sandy studied the card. ‘Karl Kane. Private investigator. Wasn’t too far off the mark, was I?’
‘I’m trying to trace Blake because his brother is dying. The family need some sort of reconciliation or closure before death. Nothing sinister.’
‘Want my advice, Karl? Go back to Belfast. Tell his family you couldn’t find him.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because Blake is a scum bucket. Drugs. Loan sharking. Runs a brothel in the town centre. Anything the devil’s invented, Thomas Blake had his hand firmly in it.’
‘Oh…’
‘I know that look on your face, and what you’re thinking. Here’s a woman, a hooker, and she has the audacity to complain about a brothel.’
‘I might be thinking you’re trying to get me to lean on the opposition.’
‘If you saw how he treats the women in that place, then you’d understand.’
‘I’ve seen enough of it in Belfast to understand fully what women go through in those places, Sandy. Why don’t you just make a confidential call to the cops, make them disrupt his business, if you’re so concerned?’
‘He opens the cops’ palms with drug money and they close their eyes. Free membership to the brothel thrown in.’
‘Just like Belfast.’ Karl shook his head. ‘I wish I could be of help, Sandy. I really do.’
‘Then you’re not going to take my advice?’
‘Tell his family I couldn’t find him? No. Once I take a job on, I see it through. It’s a bad trait, I know, but I’m kind of stubborn that way. I usually end up in a mess of trouble because of it.’
Sandy stood. Walked to the door. Opened it. ‘You’re a good man, Karl Kane. You’ve got decency written all over you. I wish I’d met someone like you abou
t ten years ago.’
‘If you’d seen the state of me ten years ago, you’d have run a mile, Sandy,’ said Karl, walking to the door.
‘If you ever tire of that lucky woman in your life, come and look me up – anytime.’ She smiled, and then kissed him full on the mouth. It burnt his lips. ‘You’ll find Blake’s brothel over at Princes Street.’
‘Thanks for the info, Sandy, and the kiss. Very much appreciated.’
‘One word of warning, Karl. When you come to a ghost town like Ballymena, just be careful that you don’t leave as a ghost. Goodnight, and probably goodbye.’
Less than five minutes later, a fully clothed Karl lay on top of the soiled linen and saggy mattress. He tried not thinking about the warning Sandy had given him, but something about it rattled him.
Removing his mobile, he hit some numbers. Placing it to his ear, he listened to the tone. She’d probably be sleeping, but he needed to hear her lovely reassuring voice.
‘Karl?’ said the groggy voice of Naomi, a few seconds later. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh…’
He pictured her in bed, warm and snuggled under the sheets, and suddenly felt terribly lonely.
‘What’re you doing?’ he asked.
He could hear her moving slightly, getting herself comfortable.
‘I was sleeping until some big hunk woke me. What’re you doing?’
‘Me? Just finished having great sex with a lovely lady of the night.’
‘Good. You deserve it. How’s that hotel?’
‘Don’t ask. The only thing this dump has in common with any hotel is four of its letters spell hole.’
He could hear her yawning.
‘What’re you wearing?’ he asked, knowing she was probably wearing her Winnie the Pooh and Tigger Too, pyjamas. Her “comfy zone”, as she liked to call them.
‘I’m nude. You?’
‘Same, except for a pair of cowboy boots and a sheriff’s badge pinned to my hairy chest.’
She giggled.
‘I’ve been thinking of that lovely arse of yours, Naomi. Making me feel very sporty.’
‘How so?’
‘I’d love to be playing handball on it.’
‘I think you need to get a good sleep, Mister Kane.’ Naomi yawned loudly.