Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

“Who?” she said, and her voice was a fingernail dragged across glass. “The man you’re looking for, that’s who.”

We sat in silence as the barman brought over my orange juice, while I felt my anger grow stronger by the minute. Once we were alone again, I asked her to tell her story.

“I’d gone to the bar when it opened,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “Sometimes there are men who can’t spend an evening away from home, so they come to the bar at lunchtime, pick a girl and go to a cheap hotel for an hour.”

“And that’s OK?” I asked, as matter of fact as I could.

“It is what it is.” Lin shrugged. “They’re not drunk or aggressive; they don’t want to spend all evening boasting about how important they are, then all night explaining why they can’t get it up. Good money for quick, easy work.”

I’ve known enough working girls to debate just how easy the work is, and once the bills and the pimps have been paid, the money’s not that good either. But I’ve learned that telling other people what they should be doing doesn’t get you anywhere.

“So what happened this lunchtime?” I asked.

“I was sitting in my usual corner when he came in. I recognized him from talking to Natasha a couple of times. She didn’t go with him, but she didn’t blank him either, so I wondered if he knew where she was.”

I lit a cigarette, gusted blue smoke into the dim light. The nicotine hit me, gave me the sense that I was closing in on the trail.

“I caught his eye, smiled, did my usual routine—you know, looked at him from under my eyelashes, ran my tongue along my lower lip.”

To my distinct unease, she demonstrated, with all the subtlety of a dancing elephant.

“You men,” Lin said, and I could hear the contempt in her voice. “Sometimes it’s like spearing fish in a pool. As if most of the women in here would have anything to do with you and your cocks if you didn’t have cash in your hands.”

“Go on,” I said, keen to avoid the feminist rant, however legitimate.

“He came over, offered me a drink. I said Red Bull, but he came back with a Bullfrog, watched me take a sip, put his hand on my thigh.”

“I don’t need the foreplay, Lin,” I said. “Can you fast-forward to what happened.”

“I asked if he’d seen Natasha recently; he said not for a few days, asked if I was a close friend. I said not really, but I hadn’t seen her, wondered where she was.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You drank the Bullfrog, chatted a bit more—what’s your name, how long in Dubai—then the killer question: you want a lady?”

Lin nodded, impressed by my knowledge if nothing else.

“I think you spend too much time in bars, talking to business ladies,” she said.

I shrugged, lit another cigarette, sipped at my juice. Too much time trying to find out who killed them, I thought, but there are some things you don’t share with other people. I deliberately hadn’t told Lin I was ex-Murder Squad; I’m sure she thought I was just one of Tynaliev’s thugs for hire. I knew that telling her my real job would close her lips faster than she’d close her legs if someone suggested sex without paying first.

“I told him my friend has a room we could use for an hour, only a hundred dirhams, two blocks away, quiet, discreet. But he said he wanted longer. Could we go to his apartment? In the daytime? Why not? So I said yes, we left, got in his car.”

“What sort of car was it?” I asked, casual my middle name. But not casual enough; I must have been out of practice.

“Why? What does that matter?” Lin asked, suddenly wary.

“If he’s a friend of Natasha’s, I might have met him. You know how you forget people’s names? I might recognize him by what he drives.”

It obviously sounded plausible enough, because Lin said, “One of those black four-wheel drive cars, tinted windows. I don’t know what sort.”

“That’s all right,” I lied. “I think I know the guy you mean.”

“He’s a bastard,” Lin swore. “We get to his car park, underground; he drives into the darkest corner and starts to beat me. Screaming, red-faced, I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”

She paused, touched her cheekbone, winced.

“If he’d had a heart attack, he’d have waited a long time for the kiss of life from me.”

“What had you done to make him angry?” I asked, hoping to provoke a response. Lin took the bait; angry people always reveal more than they intend, and I needed every scrap I could get.

“I’ve given blow jobs to punters in cars before now, as long as the coast is clear. Quick, easy, and they’re so worried about being caught, they don’t try and drag it out to get their money’s worth. But I hadn’t refused; he just started with the punches, not stopping even when he was questioning me.”

I plumed smoke into the air, stubbed out my cigarette. There comes a moment in any investigation when suddenly the world stops turning, when silence drowns everything else out, and the dice are about to land on double six. It’s the instant when the key is dangled before your eyes, and all you have to do is work out how to snatch it out of thin air before it disappears.

“Seems a strange way for a punter to behave,” I said, waving to the barman for another round of drinks. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d get a lot of sexual satisfaction from beating a girl up. I know I wouldn’t.”

Lin laughed with about as much humor as a coffin lid slamming shut. “You’d be surprised what gets some men off,” she said, venom filling her voice.

“What was he asking?”

Lin exhaled. “How long had I known Natasha? Were we very good friends? Had she ever given me something to look after for her? He went on about that, over and over again, and every time I said ‘Never’ he punched me again. And when he got bored with that, he fucked me.”

I paid for the drinks, raised my glass.

“A few days, you’ll look as good as new,” I said. “Better.”

“And who’s going to put noodles on the table while I look like this?”

I held up my hand, gave her a few more bills. Tynaliev could do someone a good turn for once, and it might even be me.

Lin took the money, no surprise there, tucked it into her cleavage and out of sight. She looked at me, suspicious as a pointed gun. “So what do you want?”

“I want to know where Natasha is,” I said.

“Cost you more than that,” Lin said, tucking the money further into her bra.

“I’m tapped out,” I said and started to get up.

Lin put a restraining hand on my arm. “Where’s the fire?” she said and threw a parody of a leer my way. “Maybe there’s more money if you find what you want.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, took out my mobile, hit speed dial. Lin watched me as if I was a wallet on legs trying to make a getaway.

“Who you calling?” she asked.

“My business partner,” I said as the dialing tone kicked in.

“Partner?”

“Don’t worry.” I smiled. “You won’t like her.”

Saltanat arrived with her usual silent skill. One minute the rest of the bar was empty, the next, death walked through the door in a simple black blouse, black jeans, black biker boots. I admit to being prejudiced when it comes to finding Saltanat beautiful and desirable, but what most captivates people about her is her unerring poise, her perpetual living in the moment. There is never a sense that Saltanat is anything other than completely in control, of herself and of everyone around her.

I watched the barman stare at her, unsure whether to serve her or to drop down behind the counter, the way they do in movies just before the shooting starts. Saltanat accustomed her eyes to the gloom, let her all-encompassing gaze sweep the room like radar, spotted us and came over. As always, the grace with which she carried herself transfixed and terrified me. Every movement seemed considered yet natural. I sensed Lin beside me bristle, the way a cat’s fur rises at a hint of danger, as if she realized there could be no comparison, no competition, between the two women.