“No expense accounts, or lunch or discounts/or
hyping up the charts, . . . no consumer trials, or
A.O.R./in Hitsville U.K.
— THE CLASH, “HITSVILLE U.K.”
Took me a moment to register what he was asking, I echoed,
“A job?”
My amazement blazing through, he began to peel the label off the long neck, said,
“I have a chain of security agencies with a little private investigation on the side, all over the country, this climate of paranoia, business is booming.”
I asked the obvious:
“Why me?”
The bartender, unbidden, set up a fresh set of beers, with bowls of peanuts, chips, even a selection of dips; Bill attacked them with passion, said,
“Couple of reasons; first, because I like you, not that it's necessary but it helps. Two, you're smart and that definitely is a bonus. Three, you were in the service, know how to handle yourself, that's a major plus.”
I finished my beer, tried not to hear him grind the peanuts and he asked as I smiled,
“What's funny?”
I told the truth.
“A private eye, hadn't figured on that as a career choice.”
He selected a chip with great care, had to be the biggest, dipped it in the cream, offered,
“Here, they're good.”
I passed, waited, and he added,
“Here's my card, give it some consideration, pay's real fine.”
I put it in my wallet, said,
“I don't have a green card.”
He wasn't bothered, said,
“Not a problem, am I wrong, you plan on staying Stateside?”
“That's the plan.”
“So, you're going to need a job, can't see you like . . . what, working a bookstore or some nine-to-five jive.”
Tempted to tell him that was exactly what I used to do, I said,
“I've some stuff to get done, then yeah, why not?”
He called to the tender,
“Set us up something special, we're celebrating.”
I said,
“I'll stay with beer, that okay?”
He had a bourbon, rocks, asked,
“You want to catch a show, hit the tables, my dime?”
I finished the beer, said
“Love to but there's a couple of calls I should get to.”
He had his hand out, said,
“I've to be getting back to Chicago real soon, but here's to a bright future.”
I went back to my room, the beer fortifying me, time to call Siobhan, I was up, feeling good, put the call through, waited . . . then heard,
“Yeah?”
A male accent, worse, a Northern Ireland accent.
Stapleton.
Stunned, I tried to regroup, asked,
“The fuck you doing in my house?”
A laugh, then,
“Stevie, we've been worried about you, boy, thought you were never going to call.”
I tried for control, the beer not helping at all, asked,
“Where's my girl?”
He made a sound, as if smacking his lips, said,
“Good question . . . she's like, disappeared.”
I felt the room spin, tried to focus, shouted,
“If you've hurt her . . . “
“You'd do what, write to me, you need to calm down, big guy, she was here, and let me say . . . “
Pause.
“She's a hell of a fuck, man, she buckled under me like a wild cat, you know that already, of course, I'm getting hard just recalling it.”
The wet sound again.
I said,
“She's dead, isn't she?”
He gave a low laugh, then,
“You're a terrible man, always jumping to conclusions, it's that Brit in you, let me ask you something?”
I waited and he went,
“That accent them fuckers have, them Brits, if you gave them a fright really early in the morning, they'd talk normal, do you think?”
Sweat was pouring down my front, I said,
“If you've hurt her . . . “
He gave a sigh, then,
“You're off again, why would we hurt her, she's our leverage . . . for our money.”
I couldn't help it, echoed,
“Your money?”
Now he went Barry Fitzgerald mode,
“Sure and whose t'would it be?”
A fun guy.
I said,
“If Siobhan's hurt, you'll never see a bloody cent.”
He took a moment, then,
“Am I hearing hostility?”
When I left the black hole, that is, didn't answer, he said,
“The said Siobhan wasn't inclined to chat but eventually, she sang like a blackbird, the money scam, meeting you in Tucson . . . are you still up for that?”
My mind was reeling, I tried,
“And you're planning to tag along?”
He laughed, said,
“Wouldn't miss it for the world, I don't see you returning to us, call it an intuition.”
I let my rage flow:
“Bring it on, shithead, I'll be there, waiting for you.”
A sigh, as if I disappointed him, then,
“I'm still hearing those negative waves, you need to get a handle on that, boyo.”
I crashed the phone down.
Stood, turned on the TV . . . Friends . . . I watched without a single reaction. An enclyclopedia salesman was trying to sell a volume to Joey, going,
“How is your general knowledge?”
Seeing Joey's blank face, he tried,
“Where does the Pope live?”
Not missing a beat, Joey replied,
“In the woods.”
I switched off, got on the phone, took time, but eventually, got one of Siobhan's friends. Not encouraging, Siobhan hadn't been seen for two weeks, hadn't shown up for work.
After the call, I said aloud,
“She's dead.”
But what if she wasn't? She'd no way of contacting me, if she had escaped from them, she'd try to make the Tucson rendezvous. Either way, I'd have to go . . . I wanted to meet Stapelton . . . Jesus, did I ever.
I dialled another number, Siobhan's home. A long shot but if she needed to hide, anything was possible; her father answered, sounded like he always did, gruff, belligerent, drunk. I asked,
“Is Siobhan around?”
“Who?”
“Your daughter, Siobhan, have you seen her?”
A pause and for a brief moment, my spirits lifted . . . maybe . . . then,
“I haven't clapped an eye on her these three years, with a bit of luck, it will be three more.”
Closed him down.
The room was oppressive, my mind riddled with poison, I got out of there, walked quickly back to the Sahara, Bob was still at the bar, said,
“Hey, hey, you changed your mind.”
I ordered two shots of bourbon, nudged one over to Bob, said,
“I need your help.”
He lifted his glass, touched it to mine, said,
“You got it, good buddy.”