by stewartgiles
TWENTY NINE
2009
The Hog’s Head was busy. Marge had hired two extra bar staff for the night. Whitton was already sitting at the bar when Smith walked in at fifteen minutes past eight.
“Am I late?” he asked her.
“Only just,” she smiled, “I’ve got you a drink.”
“I’m supposed to buy the drinks aren’t I?”
“Good old Australian chauvinism?”
“We call it chivalry,” he said, “thanks anyway. Have you seen Theakston?”
“He’s upstairs asleep; Marge said he’s better off up there away from the crowds.”
“I’ll just go and check on him anyway. Keep my seat will you.”
“Ok. Unless someone much better looking comes along.”
Theakston was curled up on a blanket next to the radiator in the kitchen. Smith stroked his belly. The puppy smiled and stretched out but did not wake up.
“I’ve got the day off tomorrow boy,” he said softly, “we’ll do something fun.” He left the puppy to his dreams.
“Are you going to play tonight?” Whitton asked as Smith sat down.
“I think so,” he replied, “I dropped my guitar off at the club earlier. I know the owner, it’ll be quite safe. He’s expecting quite a crowd tonight. You look very nice Whitton by the way.”
Whitton was wearing make up for a change and her hair was not tied up in its usual pony tail.
“Thanks.” Whitton blushed.
“Another drink?” Smith asked
“Ok,” she replied.
“I’ve organised our friend Dave to pick us up at half nine,” Smith said when he returned with the drinks.
“I like him,” Whitton said.
“He is quite a character,” Smith agreed, “He has a friendly face, smiling eyes. You can tell a lot about a person from their eyes.”
“Is that so?” Whitton laughed. “What can you tell about me?” She moved closer and looked him directly in the eyes. The make up highlighted the unusual green colour and for the first time, Smith noticed the light blue circles around the pupils.
“Well,” he said and studied her for a while, “your eyes are telling me that they belong to someone who shouldn’t really be buying drinks for her boss on New Years Eve.”
Whitton slapped him playfully on the shoulder and looked away.
“Seriously,” he said, “the rest of the night’s on me ok? That’s an order.”
“Yes sir!” she replied and raised her arm in a mock salute.
“Dave will be here soon,” Smith said, “drink up; you’re lagging behind.”
“I was trying to pace myself.” She finished her beer in one go. “There are still a few hours left of this year,” she added.
“How’s the case going Mr Smith?” Dave asked as he left the Hog’s Head car park.
“Getting closer every day Dave,” Smith lied, “you helped us a lot.”
He noticed that Dave was playing that corny Beatles song again, the one with the nonsensical name.
“I’ve remembered something else about Christmas Eve,” Dave added.
“Dave,” Smith said, “I’m actually enjoying a night off.”
“Sorry Mr Smith but I thought you might want to know that that man was very angry that night.”
“What man Dave?” Smith sighed.
“That man with the kid.”
“Martin Willow?” Smith was suddenly interested.
“That’s him,” Dave said, “The one the papers say killed his wife.”
“What do you mean angry?”
“He was in a very bad mood. Nasty man. He spoke to his wife like she was a pig. I got quite scared of what he would do. I was so glad when he got out, no tip too.”
“Ok Dave,” Smith stopped him, “that’s enough for now. Are you on duty all night?”
“All night,” Dave replied, “and all of the morning; there’s good tips to be made at this time of the year.”
“I’ll give you a ring when we need picking up again. This is the place here, how much do I owe you?”
“No charge for you Mr Smith.” Dave smiled at Whitton, “have a nice evening, I’ll see you later.”
The Deep Blues Club was situated between two shops on the outskirts of the city centre. During the day it was possible to walk past it without even realising it was there.
“There was something strange about that taxi driver tonight sir,” Whitton said as they were about to go in.
“What do you mean?” Smith asked, “And please don’t call me sir tonight.”
“I don’t know. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“He seemed fine to me,” Smith said, “let’s grab a good seat before this place starts to fill up.”
Smith led Whitton to his usual seat; a double padded chair with a small table in front. “Not too far from the stage,” he said, “but not too close that we won’t be able to talk over the noise.”
A middle aged man with thinning long hair in a ponytail approached them.
“Jason Smith,” the man said and stretched out his hand. “The Wizard of Oz, are you in the mood for jamming tonight?”
“Mad Dog Malone,” Smith shook his hand. “I am in the mood, yes,” he added.
“Then your drinks are on the house. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
He looked at Whitton.
“Erica,” Smith used her first name, “Meet Billy ‘Mad Dog’ Malone. He owns this dump and he plays the drums quite well too.”
“Nice to meet you Mr Malone,” Whitton said.
“Billy, please,” Mad Dog insisted, “I’ll have a waiter come and take your order. You two have a good evening.”
“I think you’re charmed Jason Smith,” Whitton said when they were alone, “do you ever have to pay for anything?”
“Charmed or cursed,” Smith mused, “what are we drinking tonight?”
The Deep Blues Club was slowly filling up. The lights over the small stage were switched on and Mad Dog assumed his usual position behind the simple four piece drum kit. He was joined on stage by a bass player and a guitarist.
“Are you going up?” Whitton asked.
“Not yet,” Smith said, “we’ve just got here, let’s just listen for a while.”
The shrill tones of a blues harmonica filled the room. Mad Dog tapped out an intro on the high hat; the bass joined in with a slow, ambling bass line. The guitarist played a single A chord and held it; there was a crash of a cymbal, a drum roll and then silence. Whitton looked at Smith with bewilderment in her eyes.
“Just wait,” he reassured her, “they always do that.”
The guitarist played the opening riff from Crossroads and the audience erupted.
“These guys are good,” Whitton said after a while, “either that or I don’t get out enough.”
Smith smiled at her. He was starting to forget about work; the music was soothing his soul and he happened to be in the company of a very attractive woman.
“So, Jason Smith,” Whitton said, “I know nothing about you. Tell me something.”
She was becoming quite merry.
“What do you want to know?” he replied, “Twenty six years old, Aquarius, Police Sergeant, no friends, no life, can’t even look after a dog. Anything else?”
Whitton laughed so loud that she could be heard over the music.
“Here’s to being a pair of complete losers.” She raised her glass.
“Let’s order some Bourbon,” Smith suggested, “real Blues drink. Jack Daniels,” he gestured to the waiter, “bring a bottle and two glasses.”
“This is going to be a night to remember,” Whitton said. “Or forget.”
“A few of these,” Smith said as the waiter put the bottle and glasses on the table, “the Mojo will be loose and I’m going to play.”