Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

She was back, balancing the plates with easy grace, put them down, gave me a look, asked, “You have a touch of Irish in yah, haven’t yah?”

I wanted to put more than a touch of Irish in her, right there, right over the mess of eggs, bacon and linked sausages. I said, “Second generation.”

She blew that off like it was horseshit, said, “And a house full of harps and Irish music, fecking sad.”

Left us to our food.

Her voice, the real deal, the soft lilt, those gentle vowels, you could have her cuss at you all day and still want more of that sound.

I gulped some coffee, it was bitter, black burned my tongue, just the way I liked it, like my fucking life.

We don’t get a bill, we leave a fat tip on the table, that’s how it works, Richy left a twenty and seeing my look, he pleaded, “I’m gonna ask her out, can you give me a minute?”

When he went to ask her, I switched the twenty for a five…no point in madness.

I waited in the prowl car, the radio squawking and my head full of her, she was dancing across my heart…fuck and fuck.

I lit a Lucky, tried to figure out what the hell had just happened to me.

Richy came back, shit-eating grin all over his dumb face, said, “She said yes, can you believe that?”

I said, as I put the car in drive, “Guess the twenty did the trick.”

I didn’t have to look to see the disappointment on his face, like his school project had been trampled on.

Tough.

The next couple of weeks, Richy was gone, signed sealed and fucked. He was taking Nora to fancy restaurants, clubs, buying her shitloads of jewelry, clothes, and crackin on about her, till I went, “Shaddthefuckup.”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Where was the money coming from and it took a lot of moola.

Richy had grown up with wiseguys and now he was on the pad. He’d hinted I might like me some of the action till he saw my face and I could tell, deeper and deeper in the hole to these scum, he was going.

He was my partner, what could I do, watch the disaster take shape and get ready to annihilate him.

I watched.

One evening, I was sitting in the Mick bar, down a block from the precinct, fuming, the constant simmering rage in barely reined leash. I had me a Jameson rocks, Guinness back, and it wasn’t my first. Someone slipped onto the stool beside me and I got the whiff of that perfume, swoon stuff.

Heard,

“Tis himself.”

I turned to face her and my damn treacherous heart skipped some beats, those eyes and that Irish colouring and she had lips, you wanted to run your finger, gently across them and kiss them till they bled. She was wearing a tight dress that had to be against some law, least one that protected fools like me. She asked, “So will himself buy a girl a jar or have I to beg?”

She had a double Old Grandad, Bud back. I asked, “You’re not gonna drink an Irish brand?”

She gave me a look, her eyes half lidded, said, “Sure I’m in America, I can have the other stuff at home, wouldn’t I be stone mad not to try yer drink?”

She put a cigarette between those gorgeous lips, waited and said, “So Mr Grumpy, are yah going to light me up?”

Jesus.

I did and she held my hand as I did so, I swear, I had a tremor in me fingers and she said, “Christ fellah, calm down, I’m not going to bite yah…yet.”

An hour later, I was buried to the hilt in her, sweating and groaning and howling like a lunatic and she goaded, “Ride me like yah loved me.”

After, her head on my chest, I asked, “What about Richy?”

She was pulling at the hairs on my chest, said, “Tis a bit late to remember him now.”

I sat up, that hair-pulling, the sucker hurt, said, “So you’ll finish with him?”

She laughed, asked, “Are ye mad entirely, he’s loaded and I love money.”

I tried for some decency, not that I know much about it, said, “He’s my buddy.”

She began to massage my dick, asked, “And how do you treat yer enemies?”

Another month of me fucking her twice a week, Richy buying her more and more shit, getting deeper in the hole and one evening, over a few brews, his face a riot of agony, he said, “Joe, I’m in trouble.”

I thought, “You’ve no fucking idea, pal.”

I said, “Spill.”

Deep, huh?

He drained his fourth bottle, now, he hit the Jameson, hard, said,

“I owe some guys and I can’t meet the vig, never mind the freaking principal and Nora B, she’s wanting more and more.”

I echoed, “Nora B…what’s with the B?”

He was puzzled, said, “Jeez, I never asked…beautiful, I guess.”

Bitch, I thought

I said I’d see if I could maybe help him out.

Right.

The following Monday, Richy had his kids, and against my better judgment, I went back to Nora’s place, always, we’d used my pad, we were deep in it when the door opened and there was Richy, his face a mask of stunned bewilderment. Nora, cool as an Irish breeze, slipped out of bed, naked, said, “How ‘as your day dear?”

He was reaching for his piece when she shot him in the head, twice, said, “I just wouldn’t have been able for all that whining he’d have done…you?”

I was too shocked to speak and she said, “Let’s make it look like his shady friends got fed up with him, you can fix it to look like that, can you sweetheart?”

I could and I did.

And worse, I was part of the team that went after the wiseguys.

Nora disappeared, taking every cent Richy had stashed under the bed, she left me a note,

Joe a gra

I’m tired of policeman, ye are too serious.

I was thinking of getting some sunshine,

so if you’re ever in Florida, look me up.

Tons of kisses,

Nora B.

‘Course, she wasn’t in Florida or anywhere else I could find her.

She just seemed to vanish.

The years went by, and I managed to retire with most of my pension, and a cloud over my whole career.

Most nights, I sit and listen to that Irish wailing music, they give free razor blades with it, and I see Richy in my dreams, always with that lost look.

A few days ago, I heard from an old cop buddy, there was a hot joint up on the west side, run by a hot Irish broad, she had the most stunning red hair he said…and get this, green eyes.

I got the knife from a guy in a bar, and soon as I finish the next Jameson, I’m gonna take a stroll up there, after I chop off that red hair, and before I sever the jugular, she’s gonna tell me what the fucking B stands for

It’s like, been… bugging me.

They were all poor country people in the church, for the castle in which the old family had died, was an empty ruin, and there were none but humble folks for seven miles around. They would gather round her in the porch, before and after the service; young children would cluster at her skirts; and aged men and women forsake their gossips, to give her a kindly greeting. None of them, young or old, thought of passing the child without a friendly word; the humblest and rudest had good wishes to bestow.

Right! That’s enough of that garbage. Though I’ve a lot more of it up my sleeve before “Little Nell” can be allowed to die. The great British public can’t get enough of such sentimental twaddle, and they shall get it a-plenty. When the book is finished I shall offer it to Mrs Norton, or Mrs Gore, and if it’s not in their line I’ll load it off on to Charles Dickens, who is certainly a low fellow, but he does a nice line in weepies himself. He’ll take it on, put his name to it, earn a tidy sum.