Or maybe she was a charity worker.
Headlamps sliced through the rain as a double-decker turned the corner. I stuck out my arm and said, ‘No thanks darling. I’m waiting for a forty nine not a sixty nine.' She swore at me. I guessed she either had no sense of humour or needed to work on her customer service skills.
I stepped aboard and handed over a mishmash of shrapnel. The bus driver, a jobs-worth with a face like a red party balloon, cursed as he sorted through the coins. I tore off my ticket and stumbled along the aisle. I didn’t bother waving goodbye to the girl.
Fifteen minutes later I opened my eyes, pulled out the bottle and took a surreptitious swig. An oldie tut-tutted loudly and whispered something to her coffin-dodging companion. I belched, rang the bell and staggered off the bus. As it pulled away I toasted the two old biddies with the Bells then stuck my last cigarette between my lips and fired it up. The damp from the pavement seeped through the worn soles of my brogues as I turned away.
In bygone days when you opened a door to a public house you were confronted with billowing cigarette smoke, men throwing arrows and nineteen seventies tunes playing on the jukebox. Nowadays it’s all polished floors, pine furniture and couples playing Scrabble.
And not a frigging domino in sight.
I ordered a light and bitter from an antipodean lady behind the jump. Between her shoulder blades a large floral tattoo was partially visible the rest of it hidden beneath her vest top.
'Light and what?’
She was a classy bint.
Whatever happened to English bar staff... I wanted to ask her: What’s with the hairy knees and sandals? In bloody February!
I waived any further questions and changed my order to a pint of Guinness. I sat at a table and gulped the black stuff down to the label. When the painted lady turned her back I topped the glass up with Bells.
By the time Kipper arrived the bottle of Bells was empty and I was finishing my third Guinness; wishing I could afford another. Kipper had woeful dress sense. He was wearing his trademark, wide and very loud, necktie. ‘You look as rough as a dog’s arse, Valentine.’
'You’re looking dapper Kipper,’ I lied.
'This is for you.’ He produced a thick roll of banknotes from his pocket. Cackling like a hyena he slipped off the elastic band and flicked it at me. ‘Put that round your rhythm and blue my old son. It’ll stop the sole from flapping.’
My client, the recently married Kipper, was a flash and sarky bugger. I pulled a manila envelope from under my raincoat. ‘A large malt first of all Kipper. Then we’ll talk business.’
Kipper was a bookie and owned a string of betting shops. He’d hired me to snoop on his staff. Somebody was dipping sticky fingers into the till and Kipper didn’t like to be taken for a fool. But hey, it was work and there was precious little of that about for a down-and-out private investigator.
Kipper returned with two malts and a couple of packets of cheese and onion. His bushy eyebrows were meeting in the middle of his forehead and he shook his head despairingly. ‘Silly cow flooded them with ice.’
I fished the cubes out of my glass and sucked on my digits. ‘Jeez! If it’s not a pint of Fosters that lot are clueless.’
'Cheers.’ Kipper raised his glass and grinned at me. His eyes were cold and dark like a shark’s. He had yellow tombstone gnashers to match.
'Up your hairy hole.’ I’d not yet been paid and was feeling a little tetchy.
'Well Valentine, what’ve you got for me?’ Kipper drank some whisky and stuffed potato chips into his north and south.
I slid the envelope across to him. ‘Why’d you pick a poncy joint like this to meet Kipper?’
He broke the seal on the envelope. ‘The missus likes it. The house Pinot Grigio is rather good…’ Kipper suddenly choked and coughed; pebble-dashing the waxed tabletop with whisky and soggy crisps. ‘What the fuck...’
I downed my malt. Kipper’s boat-race was turning several shades of red, red and amber, and green. He looked like a traffic light on the blink and seemed to be on the verge of a ferocious rage.
Or worse, tears.
'You’ve gone a funny colour Kipper.’ I slipped my hand into his sky-rocket and extracted my wages. ‘Same again squire?’
I waved a twenty and the painted lady sauntered over, chewing gum with the finesse of a camel. She said, ‘G’day,’ for the fourth time in the space of thirty minutes. I pointed to a bottle. ‘Two large Macallans. The twelve year old malt and no ice this time.’
The painted lady got busy with the drinks. ‘Is your friend all right?’ she said.
I looked over my shoulder. Some of the glossy six by four photographs had dropped to the floor. Kipper was staring at one and shaking like a dementia patient on speed.
'He’s had better days.’
The painted lady placed two glasses in front of me and plucked the twenty from my hand. ‘He’s usually in here with a young blonde. She’s partial to a dry white wine spritzer.’
'That’ll be the wife.’ I sighed, hammered down one of the malts and signalled for another. ‘And that’s not all she’s partial to.’
(c) Alan Griffiths 2010