Giles Blunt - No Such Creature

Clem came up the escalator. His sunglasses were Ray-Bans, but they were just a touch crooked. He was carrying a magazine.

“Where the fuck you been?” Zig said.

“Magazine store,” Clem said, offended. “Got the new Woodworker . I got a subscription at home, but I didn’t want to wait. They got a feature on gun racks.”

“Magazine store? Then how come you reek of alcohol?”

“One drink, I swear. Shot of Johnnie Walker.”

He sat down heavily on the metal chair and pulled closer to the table, making a horrible scraping noise on the floor.

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” Zig said. “Already you’re drinking. I want you to stop right now, you got that? From now on you drink like a normal human being or I’m gonna kick your ass, you got it?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Don’t say yeah, yeah. I asked you if you got it.”

“Yes, Zig. I got it.”

“All right, what’s the scoop? What’d you find out?”

“I gotta get a coffee first.”

“No you don’t. Just tell me what you found out.”

“The fuck, man. You guys got coffee.” Clem started to get up but, seeing Zig’s look, sat back down. “All right. Your fat man has got two associates that we’ve seen so far. Three if you count the kid.”

“I don’t count the kid. Who are they?”

“Roscoe Lukacs and Terry Pook-bald guy. People call him Pookie.”

“I met Pookie on the job I did with Maxwell,” Stu said. “Good driver. Seemed like he was a steady guy, you know, reliable. That was a long time ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

“What about the other guy?”

“Lukacs used to work with Jonny Knapp few years back. Totally minor player. Strictly freelance. Lives in Seattle, where he does something in real estate-manages a couple of buildings.”

“So why’s he working with a guy like Max?”

“Why am I working with a guy like you?” Stu said, and Zig glared at him. “He likes to steal shit.”

“You figure out which trailer they’re in?”

“Yeah, we did. And it ain’t a trailer, it’s a Trailersaurus. Biggest damn Winnebago you ever saw.”

That night, Max insisted that Owen get dressed to the nines before they went out to dinner. When he saw Luigi’s Restaurant, he was glad he had put on the Armani. The casual opulence of the place made him feel like a movie star enjoying a night out incognito. Max was resplendent in summer-weight Zegna. He looked like a European film producer.

Having Pookie and Roscoe along would be “good for esprit de corps ,” he had explained to Owen as they drove over from the trailer park. “They’re loyal little bastards,” he had said with some affection, “and they are underpaid. I like to make up for it once in a while.”

“Why don’t you just pay them more?”

“Honestly, Sunshine, you are such an infant.”

It was obvious to Owen that one of the reasons Max liked to have Pookie along was that Pookie just out-and-out worshipped him. Tonight he was trying out a cowboy accent.

“Pookie, speak normally,” Max said. “Really, sometimes you are insupportable.”

Roscoe was staring out the window, coloured light flowing over his long, angular features. Without even turning to the others, he said, “Christopher Jones was captain of what vessel?”

“O base Hungarian,” Max said. “Spare us the trivia just once?”

“The Pinta ,” Owen said.

“That was Columbus,” Pookie said. “The man distinctly said Christopher Jones. Who the hell is Christopher Jones?”

“Christopher Jones,” Max said, “as all you pathetically ignorant Yanks should know, was captain of the Mayflower .”

“ Mayflower is correct,” Roscoe intoned. “We have a winner.”

They all went quiet when their waitress arrived-not out of politeness, but just because she was that kind of beautiful. She handed out their menus, and then Max surprised everyone by asking her to wait a moment.

“Everybody,” he said, “I want you to meet Sabrina, child of an old, old friend of mine. My dear, there are a thousand Maxwells in the phone book but only one Magnus Max. Surely you remember? Used to visit you when you were still playing with dolls.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t say I do. You knew my parents? How’d you know where to find me?”

“Your father has had people looking out for you here and there, and I’ve done my own modest research. I asked Luigi to make sure we were seated in your section.”

Max introduced everyone at the table. When he came to Owen, Owen found himself blushing for no reason whatsoever, other than the fact that Sabrina was flat-out gorgeous. Her dark hair was pulled back into a twist, exposing a perfect neck. The effect was erotically prim, and Owen found himself imagining her with her hair spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes were green and caught the light in a way that reminded him of certain purloined items back at the Rocket.

“I still miss your mum,” Max said. “Sweet lady. I used to love to visit just to bask in her beauty. You’re the very image of her.”

“I am not,” Sabrina said. “She was way more elegant than I’ll ever be.”

Max raised a hand to forestall argument. “My dear, the two halves of a cleft apple are not more like. Now, before we move on to food, we shall require an extremely cold bottle of Dom Perignon. Have to get the best,” he added with a nod toward Roscoe and Pookie. “I’m trying to buy their loyalty.”

“Do you think it’ll work?” Sabrina said.

“It will fail miserably,” Max said. “But I shall be happy as a clam nevertheless.”

Sabrina smiled and it was as if the power had just been restored after a blackout. Owen had to fix his gaze on the tablecloth to avoid gaping at her. Pookie and Roscoe were entranced as well, though Roscoe registered this by fiercely gripping his menu, and Pookie by drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, skull-and-crossbones ring flashing.

“Sabrina,” Max informed the table when she was gone, “is no other than the daughter of John-Paul Bertrand, otherwise known as the Pontiff. The thief’s thief, and a gentleman of the first order. Promised him the day he was hauled off to Oxford that I would look in on her whenever I could. Make sure she was okay.”

“Looks okay to me,” Roscoe said.

Pookie ran through the menu, warning the others of cholesterol here and triglycerides there. He became more fanatical on the subject each year.

Sabrina returned with the champagne and Owen felt her beauty pass through him in waves of benign radiation.

“A timely arrival, my sprite,” Max said to her. “We are gnawed by the tooth of hunger.”

The champagne was followed by a bottle of Amarone, and then another. Owen burnt his tongue on his spinach ravioli and had to keep cooling his mouth with sips of wine.

Max noisily devoured a huge plate of osso bucco. “Nothing like a first-class meal,” he said, swilling the last of the Amarone in his glass. “Makes all seem right with the world.”

“What word do the Amish use,” Roscoe inquired, “to refer to anyone outside their community?”

“Auslander,” Pookie said.

“Amish-Not,” from Owen.

“Must we?” Max said.

Roscoe looked around the table, solemn as a horse. “English.”

“I’m so glad we cleared that up,” Max said. He launched into a war story about Peter O’Toole, making the others laugh. He became bossy over dessert, ordering tiramisu for everyone. Owen wished they could have ordered separately, just to keep Sabrina lingering at their table.

Later, the older people had brandies and espressos.

“I gotta say, that Sabrina is one good-looking girl,” Pookie said.