Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

“I think I see it!” the woman shouted. Other diners turned to stare at her. “A Bumbailey’s pigeon,” she explained patiently.

“I guess I’ll be running along,” Neal said. “Thanks.” He made his way back to the foyer.

“Is something wrong, sir?” asked the headwaiter.

Neal looked at him with disgust. “That isn’t Lord Hectare.”

Then he went to join the parade.

They’re pretty impressive, these Hare Krishnas, Neal thought as he joined the edge of the crowd of spectators. I mean, you always think of them as airheads, but they know how to throw a parade. And Colin certainly looks happy, trapped in the middle of their intricately weaving patterns and all red in the face and staring at the ground, while Allie laughs and sings along.

Neal worked his way around the chanting procession to put himself in Colin’s path. He found himself standing beside Charlie Chaplin’s statue. Never one to disregard a prop, he casually leaned against the statue and faced front, watching the Hares jingle, bang, and chant with bemused detachment. Ultimate cool. This also gave him time to catch his breath and stop sweating in streams.

He was the first thing Colin saw as the figures finally cleared the way. Colin looked out past the last swirling Krishna to see Neal, one foot planted against the statue, grinning at him. Colin didn’t believe in coincidence. In his business, as in Neal’s, there is a word for people who do believe in coincidence: victims. He matched Neal’s grin and walked carefully toward him. Neal didn’t move, and the smile didn’t fade, and Colin didn’t like that one little effing bit. This was his turf.

Neal watched him coming, and also watched Crisp work his way around to Neal’s left. A minor tactical error, Neal thought, as you should always play the odds that your adversary is right-handed and place yourself in position to grab that hand before it can do something nasty to your boss. Unless, of course, you’re carrying something far nastier and don’t mind using it. Neal pushed that ugly thought from his head and kept smiling as Colin came right up into his face.

Neal got off first. “I liked your Alex and his Droogs act in the restaurant.”

“It’s no act, rugger.”

“No offense. Everybody has an act.”

“What’s yours?” He was still smiling, but Neal saw the edge behind it. He wanted to start crying and say it was all a mistake.

Instead he said, “I steal wallets.”

Colin’s eyes turned killer cold. The smile vanished into a frown. He shook his head slowly back and forth while Crisp waited for the order to bash Neal’s head in. Neal could see Allie over Colin’s shoulder, observing the scene with a petulant sneer. Neal knew he could duck Crisp’s first shot. It was the second and third that had him worried, never mind what Colin might decide to contribute. Bright idea, he thought, trapping yourself against a statue. Very clever.

Colin finally spoke. “Now why did you have to tell me, sports fan? You had a nice thing going, the bit about returning my purse and all, and then you have to ball it up and fookin’ tell me about it!”

Neal wasn’t sure, but he thought the speech had the whiny tone produced by the last straw on a bad day. He sensed that Colin was more embarrassed than angry, and he almost started breathing again. On the other hand, he’d seen embarrassed people do some pretty wicked things.

“What am I supposed to do now, eh?” Colin continued. “You’ve put my balls to the mark and I should break your thieving fingers, eh? But I’m grateful for bailing me out back in the restaurant! Why do you want to put me in a position like this?”

“Just bored, I guess.”

Colin looked him square in the eye. Either this bloke was crazy or he was the coolest character he’d seen since looking in the mirror that morning.

“Well, rugger,” he started to say, then burst out laughing, “if it’s excitement you’re looking for…”

Beware the hospitality of the sociopath. So thought Neal Carey as he leaned against the brick wall and threw up, which started his nose bleeding again.

It had started mildly enough with a few pints thrown back in a congenial Garrick Street pub. Colin played host and introduced Neal around, starting with his own retinue.

“Meet Crisp,” he said. “We call ’im ‘at because ’e’s always eatin’ the ruddy things. Known ’im ‘arf me life, an’ I don’t think I know ’is real name.”

“I play the guitar,” Crisp said.

“Pleased to meet you.”

Colin introduced the girl with purple hair. “This is ’is bird, Vanessa.”

“I’m always eating Crisp,” she said in a surprisingly middle-class accent.

“And this,” Colin said proudly, clearly saving the best for last, “is Alice, your fellow Yank.”

Alice? Neal thought. Alice? The finest schools America has to offer and that’s the best you can come up with? He reached out to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you. Where are you from?”

She didn’t take the hand and she didn’t smile.

“Kansas,” she said. Her blue eyes challenged him to call her a liar.

“Well, Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“‘Er name is Alice. She’s from California.”

Clever Alice, thought Neal. What better to hype the fantasy of a city-bound Brit than a golden California sunshine girl? “I’ve been out there. Where in California?”

She didn’t pause a beat. “Stockton. A real shithole.”

Neal smiled at her. You’re not bad, Allie, not bad at all. “I haven’t been to Stockton.”

She still didn’t smile back. Just looked at him flatly and said, “You ain’t missed anything.”

You ain’t missed anything? Don’t push it, kid. “My shout,” Neal said. The barkeep drew four Guinnesses from the tap.

“What brings you to London Town, then, Neal?” Colin asked. “What wind blows you to our green and pleasant land?”

A pusher who quotes Blake? This is getting weirder and weirder. “Work.”

“An’ what would ‘at be?”

“I’m a cop.”

Maybe Colin didn’t exactly choke on his beer, but it sure didn’t go down the smooth way Lord Ivey intended when he brewed the stuff.

It was so much fun to watch, Neal said, “A private detective.” No reaction at all from Allie, not a flinch.

“Get stuffed!” Colin shouted.

“Scout’s honor. I’m over here guarding some executive stiff who’s buying antiques, or something.”

“An’ you thought you might as well snatch a little nicker on the side.”

“Why not?”

“An’ when you saw me jacket ‘anging over the shitter door, you thought it belonged to John Q. Tourist…”

“But when I saw who it belonged to, I thought I better give it back.”

Now let’s see how big an ego you have, Neal thought. If you buy that one…

“It’s a good job you did,” Colin said.

… you think a lot of yourself.

“My pleasure,” Neal said, looking just enough over Colin’s shoulder to flash his most charming, sleazoid smile at Allie.

“Where are you from?” she asked. She wasn’t making small talk.

“New York, New York. The town so nice, they named it twice,” Neal answered. He knew that one mistake inexperienced undercovers often make is telling too big a whopper as a cover story. Keep it close to home, there’s less chance of getting caught up in your own lies, especially when you’re just feeling your way.

“The Big Apple,” Colin said, flashing his cosmopolitan outlook.

Allie whispered something in Colin’s ear. Neal didn’t catch it.

“Later,” Colin said.

She whispered again.

“I said later,” Colin answered again. A trace of annoyance played across his face. He turned to Neal. “You want some excitement, then, rugger?”