Chapter 7
We were having breakfast in the dining room, just Sayer and I, because George didn’t like to be where I was. He did the cooking, and his breakfasts were fit for royalty, but he preferred to have them in the kitchen, far from my presence.
“I have plans for you today,” Sayer pointed a finger at me, “it’s all arranged, won’t take no for an answer.”
“Oh uh...”
He produced a pair of keys from his pocket, “I know you have been eyeing the white Aston Martin in the garage.”
“I–”
“It’s yours for the day. George cleaned it up, filled the tank. You have an appointment at one of those beauty and spa salons at ten sharp.”
“A spa?”
“Thought you might like to have some time for yourself.”
“I don’t–”
He raised a hand, “I said I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Be there at ten, you’ve earned it. Then take the Aston for a ride, have coffee with friends, whatever you like. I don’t want you back until seven.”
“I don’t know what to say, really. This is too much.”
“Not enough,” he went back to his breakfast.
That was nice, he sure knew how to treat a lady. It was also very worrisome. Our relationship had developed faster than I thought. It also troubled my colleagues, mostly Ferdinand. He was the closest to me. He had been working with Cisneros for two years and, even then, they weren’t as close as Armand and I had become.
We met at a café on Portobello Road after my appointment at the salon. I got there first, the Aston rode like a cloud and it heightened the feeling of relaxation my body and mind were in after the attentions at the spa. He stared hard at me when he arrived.
“What’s with the hair?”
“Shut it. I just came out of a spa and I will not let you burst my bubble.”
“I must say you do look pretty. Took a day off?”
“Was given a day off. It was Armand’s idea.”
“Armand?” He shook his head. “Four months have gone a long way for you.”
“It’s George the one I can’t bend.”
“So you’ve got Armand in your purse already, don’t you?”
“What? Jealous?”
“Worried. You’re going to get shot between the eyes.”
“Are you ordering coffee or will you just sit there and lecture me?”
“You know I can pull you out whenever I feel like it.”
“I’m doing my job, Ferdinand. I’m sending out more information than anyone else.”
“You’re also getting yourself in some deep shit, Scarlett.”
“I’m working!”
All faces turned to shush us.
“Can we take this somewhere more… private?”
We took the Aston – I drove, of course – and headed for a pub of Ferdinand’s liking. I caught a glimpse of him caressing the leather of the seats and concealed a smile.
“Are we being followed?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Park it there.”
We parked right at the entrance.
“I don’t mean to lecture you,” he held the door for me.
“Then don’t.”
The place had 70s brit rock blasting out some beat-up speakers. He ordered a pint for each and we sat at a corner table.
“But there’s some concern about your relationship with Sayer.”
“Meaning?”
“Shit, Scarlett, don’t you see it? He’s come to trust you too much. I hear your name everywhere I go. It makes you a target.”
“We are closing in on whoever sent the gunman that night.”
“We? Aren’t you getting a bit too involved in all this? You were supposed to be a caregiver, not turn into one of his henchmen.”
“I figured if I made myself one of them, I’d get better results.”
“Collecting his money…”
“Alongside George.”
“Taking part in beatings…”
“I only gave him a couple of kicks, that’s all part of the job.”
“Shooting people… Are you doing the guy? Is that it, Scarlett? Are you fucking him?”
“I am not!”
“It sure looks like it. Sending you to a spa? Lending you that car?”
“Last week I came down with a cold, had a fever and all. He called his doctor, got me some meds–”
“Anyone would do it.”
“–and spent the night sitting next to my bed.”
“How grand.”
“That’s why we didn’t work out together, Fer. You wouldn’t have done that.”
“Don’t say that. I thought we made it very clear that you were going to keep a low profile, as a caregiver. That you were going to procure an exclusively professional relationship with Sayer. It’s clear you haven’t been able to keep to those parameters…”
“Look,” I crossed him, leaning forward, “I know very well what I’m doing. I can take care of myself. If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m calling the shots in this investigation. I’m pulling you out.”
“So sad they won’t let you because, rumor has it, I’m making the rest of you guys look bad.”
He clenched his fists but refrained from slamming the table. “Once Jimmy is in with MacGowan we are going to hit them both.”
“You mean Sayer and MacGowan?”
“Yes, Sayer and MacGowan.”
“But we weren’t going after Sayer, just MacGowan.”
“We are now.”
Fuck.
He left me there with a bitter taste in my mouth. I tried to wash it down with the beer, but that only made it worse. The benefits from the spa had been shot to hell.
I headed back to the house, my foot heavy on the gas pedal, the Aston didn’t complain anyway. Once there I parked it inside the garage, next to the bulletproof Bentley George used, and tried not to make any sound until I got to my room.
“Back so soon?” Sayer found me in the corridor.
I read the time on my watch: I was four hours early. “My friends don’t have jobs with schedules as flexible as mine.”
He was wearing his favorite robe, navy blue with red seams, and walked barefoot towards me.
“You look beautiful,” one of his hands went directly to my pampered hair, stroking it softly. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much. Thank you.”
“Fancy a drink?”
“A scotch would be nice.”
We went down to the kitchen. I sat on a chair while he grabbed a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He was slowly going back to his old habits, and now that he was off the meds he could drink again.
“You tell me when,” he poured into my glass and cocked and eyebrow when I took my time.
“Stop.”
“In time for the overflow.”
“I’m sorry. I’m still on cloud nine.”
He grinned, taking a sip of his drink before grabbing the bottle by the neck, and beckoned me to follow him. We went to his office. He sat behind his desk, I sunk on a chair, sipped some more scotch and tried to kick back.
I would’ve dozed off if Sayer hadn’t been so eager to make conversation.
“There are undercover police everywhere these days.”
That snapped me back to attention in the most abrupt manner possible.
“One can smell cop stench from miles away,” I commented.
“They’re taking down the little people, those that buy and sell on the street mostly.”
“The easy-to-get.”
He went around his desk and sat on a chair next to me.
“Not that I should worry, having someone like you around. I still remember the first time you stepped into my room. Nothing could have told me I would see you months later stabbing a bloke in the thigh.”
“You gave me the knife.”
“Told you not to have too much fun with it.”
“I’ve also managed to
make Helga hate me.”
He chuckled and tipped the bottle of scotch into my glass.
“Not a hard task to accomplish.” He stood up and straightened his robe, “George won’t be in tonight. It’ll be just the two of us for dinner.”
George did the cooking, but not having him at the table wasn’t new.
“Sure, yes, of course.”
“We’ll eat here. I don’t feel safe in public places anymore.”
“Neither do I.”
He smiled and took the glass from my hand. “You look like you need a nap. Go on. I’ll see you later.”
I tried to doze off but kept having nightmares about what Ferdinand told me. I woke up drenched in sweat to the thought of Sayer being shot to death. Good god, I was starting to understand how Helga felt. I turned my head and saw the clock on the night table. It was seven in the evening, Sayer’s dinnertime.
A knock on the door. I checked myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess, so I brushed it down before opening.
“Are you coming down to dinner?” It was George. “We need to go somewhere afterwards.”
“Weren’t you out?”
“Are you coming or not?”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
I freshened up, tried to look awake, and went down to the dining room. Sayer and I ate at the table, George in the kitchen. Sayer was all smiles, less chatty, but looking happy nonetheless.
I finished my meal quickly and George and I were off.
We drove down to Brixton to visit a pub owned by one of Sayer’s old chums called Bernard. He was a fat, white-haired man. He had a booming laughter and spoke in deep tones. He was one of the few clients I actually liked. The pub was almost empty, as was the street, when we arrived.
“Looking good, Scarlett,” he would always greet us with beers.
“You too, Bernie. How’s it going?”
“Business as usual,” he smiled and patted my back while handing George the money.
He was old fashioned, used paper bags for his money. What made it funny to me was that it wasn’t drug money. It was the rent. He had been one of Sayer’s tenants for decades.
“You’re paying early this month, why is that?”
“Taking the family to Italy by the end of the month. I didn’t want to be late.”
“Wow, Italy! Sounds exciting.”
“I’ll bring old Sayer some wine bottles.”
“He’ll appreciate it.”
“Everything’s in order, Bernard,” George held the bag in one hand, a beer in the other.
Bernard was always on time, no excuses, no fucking around.
“We’ll see you next month, Bernie,” I gulped down the beer, gave him my biggest smile and we walked out of the pub.
We were crossing the street towards the car when, out of nowhere, a punk came running at us and jumped George. I went for him, pulling him down by his sweatpants, when another one grabbed me from behind. I kept elbowing him in the stomach until he released me, giving me enough time to pull my gun from its holster and shoot him through the back of my jacket. Made a nice hole in it, and it was designer! Whatever... The punk fell backwards on the pavement, caught him right in the stomach. Then I turned to see George pinned to the ground, face down, not by one, but two guys.
Fuck! It was raining punks.
I pulled one of them back by his dreadlocks and shot him in the back of the head. The other one startled, turned, and slashed the air with his knife. I shot him in the forehead before his arm whipped back.
“Are you OK, George?”
He groaned and rolled on his back. I could see the bleeding wound on his side.
“You’ll be all right, George,” I took off my jacket, folded it and pressed it on the wound. “You’re going to be OK.”
Bernie came out of the pub followed by some patrons, “What happened?!”
“Some punks tried to rob us. He’s got a knife wound. Help me get him into the car.”
We got him into the backseat of the Bentley, where I checked on the wound and cleaned it with some brandy Bernie brought out. “There’s a first aid kit in the glove compartment,” I pointed out. George didn’t say a word, he only groaned whenever I moved him, or when the brandy stung his open skin. The wound was long but not too deep, so I pulled the edges together, put some surgical adhesive on it, bandaged it tight and helped him sit up. There were less serious cuts on his neck and chest, but those could wait. I gave him a towel moistened with brandy, Bernie gave him the bottle.
“I’ll drive, no need to worry.”
For a second, I thought he was going to growl at me, but he only made a face and said “thank you.”
That was a blow to the chest, the good kind of blow, the one that puts oxygen into your lungs instead of taking it out. I tried not to smile. He looked away so he wouldn’t see me if I did. Bernie handed me the bloodstained paper bag and I drove back to the house.
Sayer was up waiting for us. Bernie had called to tell him what happened.
“I’ve rang Dr. Hart, he’ll be here in five minutes.”
We looked pathetic: I was too short to act as a crutch and Sayer couldn’t even walk straight himself. Poor George had almost no help to get into his apartment. I had never been in there before. He had his own studio apartment outside the house. It was dry and cold, just like him. We placed him on the sofa and Sayer dismissed me.
“You go clean up, I’ll call you if we need you.”
I didn’t want to stay anyway, the place was starting to creep me out. A hot shower later, I was in my bed, out cold.