An Accident Waiting to Happen. Vincent Banville

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СКАЧАТЬ swung in the wind. It was out-lined in neon strips, some of which had passed their sell-by date.

      I knocked on the metal door and waited. A snake of water splashed down from a broken gutter and I had to be quick on my feet to avoid it. After two more knocks and a couple of kicks to the panel, a window opened above me and a head emerged.

      ‘What’s all the racket about?’ a voice asked. ‘We don’t open till eleven tonight.’

      I made the mistake of gazing upwards and got a splash of water in the face for my trouble. I moved back to get a better view. The face above me was young, female and nestled in a huge mop of bright blue hair. She didn’t look very happy to see me.

      ‘I’m John Blaine,’ I bawled up at her. ‘I was sent for. By Bertie. About a bit of business.’

      ‘A bit of wha’?’

      I sighed deeply, but resisted the temptation to throw something at her.

      ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Could you open the door and let me in? It’s raining cats and dogs out here. And I’m not wearing my waterproof head.’

      ‘Waterproof head. That’s a good one. Hold on and I’ll come down.’

      I held on, and in a short while the door opened and I was invited inside. The head I had been talking to was now attached to a shapely body. She was dressed — but only just — in a halter-neck top and a skimpy pair of shorts. These garments were also in a fetching shade of blue. I gazed about me at the large barn-like building. The walls, drapes, tables, chairs and floor were all coloured purple. I had entered into a purple world.

      We gazed at one another, the girl and me. She put a hand on her hip, then ran her tongue along her full lower lip. I shook the rain out of my hair like a wet dog, and tried to look neat, clean and well-advised.

      ‘Bertie?’ I hinted, hoping she hadn’t gone into a coma on me.

      ‘He’s out the back.’

      ‘The back?’

      ‘That’s where his office is. Through the bead curtain. Second door on the left.’

      ‘Are you Gertie?’

      ‘Who wants to know?’

      ‘I told you. The name’s John Blaine.’

      ‘And you do what?’

      ‘I sell purple paint. I thought you might be in the market for some.’

      The girl giggled, then pushed at me playfully with a hand that sported — yes, you’ve guessed it — purple nails.

      ‘You’re very tall,’ she said. ‘Where’d you get all them scars on your face?’

      ‘Sticking it into other people’s business. I’m a real Keyhole Kate.’

      This time she gave a full-throated laugh. The halter-neck top groaned with the effort of keeping in her chest. I thought about making her laugh some more, but then remembered Bertie waiting for me in his office.

      ‘I better get going,’ I told her, rolling my eyes regretfully.

      She nodded, then said, ‘Gertie is the boss’s other half. She’s spoken for. I’m Denise and I’m free, white and over 21. Come up and see me sometime.’

      ‘So that we can peel a grape together?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      Chapter Three

      The bead curtain clicked merrily as I went through it. Out of curiosity I peered into the first room on the left. It was a broom cupboard, containing brushes, and a battered-looking Hoover. Moving on, I knocked on the second door. I heard movement inside, so I turned the knob and went in.

      A very large woman was sitting on a sofa opposite me. She was wearing a tent-like robe that covered her from her neck to her feet. Her hair was drawn back tightly into a bun, giving the skin of her face a stretched look. She was eating yoghurt from a tub, spooning it greedily into the cavern of her mouth. She paused when she saw me, then glanced to her right.

      I followed her gaze and saw a tiny man sitting behind a huge desk. It was hard to judge, because he was sitting down, but he couldn’t have been more than five feet in height. He had a mass of greying hair, cruel little eyes and a curl to his mouth that said mess with me and you’ll be very sorry indeed. He was wearing a pinstripe grey suit and a dark blue shirt and tie. He had a little moustache under his nose that looked as if a centipede had crawled there and died. I took an instant dislike to him.

      ‘Who the hell are you?’ the little guy asked me, in a surprisingly deep voice.

      Deciding not to take offence at his tone, I said mildly, ‘I’m Blaine. You rang. Said you had something that might interest me.’

      ‘Blaine, Blaine …’ He looked over at the woman on the sofa. ‘You know anything about a Blaine, Gertie?’

      Gertie shovelled in another spoonful of yoghurt, then let the tub rest on her mound of stomach. ‘He’s the private dick,’ she told Tiny Tim. ‘You found him in the Yellow Pages.’

      ‘I take it you’re Bertie Boyer,’ I said, moving to stand in front of the desk. ‘Owner of the Purple Pussy nightclub and husband of Gertie here.’

      ‘Husband?’ Gertie said. ‘That’s one for the birds. When are you going to make an honest woman of me, anyway, you little squirt? We’ve been engaged now since Jesus was a lad.’

      ‘There’s a time and a place to discuss that,’ Boyer told her sourly. ‘And it’s definitely not now. Why don’t you take your fat backside out of here and go help Denise get the place ready for tonight?’

      ‘Why don’t you go and take a running jump? Preferably off the side of a cliff. And you know Denise and me are not talking. Ever since I found the two of you together in here the night before last.’

      ‘I’ve told you, we were discussing the stock market —’

      ‘With your arm around her and your tongue stuck in her ear?’

      Getting fed up with this family argument, I broke in. ‘I’d love to stand here and do referee, but I have some other business to attend to. Maybe you could continue this later and in the meantime fill me in on whatever it is you want me to do?’

      They glared at one another. Finally Gertie shoved herself off the sofa and padded out the door. A hippopotamus couldn’t have done it more gracefully.

      ‘Women,’ Boyer muttered, shaking his head. I waited hopefully to see if the centipede moustache would fall off, but it stayed attached. He waved a hand at a straight-backed chair. ‘Take the weight off your feet,’ he said. ‘I don’t like people looking down at me.’

      I did as I was bid, the chair creaking slightly as I planted myself in it. Then I sat back to listen to Bertie Boyer’s tale of woe.

      Chapter Four

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ