He kept quiet, only wetting his dry lips with a grey tongue.
‘And so you come to me, as a man well-known for sticking his face in the fan.’ I paused, my lungs still seemed to call for tobacco, so I sparked up again. ‘Which makes me think this loss of yours would be far from above board, possibly verging on the illegal, am I right?’
‘I don’t think illegal is the correct term.’ He flustered, running the back of his hand over his mouth as he gazed out the dirty window at the contents of his dodgy car lot. ‘But I would be keen to avoid entanglements with the law, that is fair to say.’
I drew on my tab, the small room was filling with smoke. He fidgeted before me and then retreated behind his desk to withdraw a battered, oily fingerprinted cheque-book from the drawer.
‘I could pay you, Mr D—’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What? Are you turning down good money?’
‘Turning down this job of yours.’
‘But…’
‘No buts, bud.’ I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward, the plastic chair let out a loud creak. ‘You see, I might not be the best detective in the world, or even Leith for that matter, but I think I have just about enough savvy to suss when someone is feeding me a line. And right now, I’d say you were full of more bullshit than a farmer’s foreskin.’
Beer-gut recoiled. Stupefaction replacing every other hint of an expression on his face. There was a moment, a millisecond or so, when I thought I might be prepared to go to the mat with him over his proposition, perhaps even tease the proper facts from him, but it passed. Truth was, I couldn’t summon the interest to give a shit about what was really going on inside his mind—my guess was a gerbil on a treadmill was turning the cogs.
The cheque-book was raised again, like a limp white flag he hoped would come to his rescue. ‘I could pay you. I could pay you a decent sum.’
It got my goat to think of him offering me a cheque when I knew he was holding a wedge as thick as War and Peace, Parts I & II, in his pocket. I got up and opened the door. ‘Thanks for the offer, but, as tempting as you make your bullshit sound, I’ve moved on from this kind of thing.’
I walked out. The portacabin rocked on its pins as he bolted, fatboy-fashion, behind me. ‘What about my…loss?’ He stayed in the doorway, a spit of rain had started to fall.
‘Looks like more on the way…rain I mean.’
‘But, Gus, can you come back and talk. At least hear me out. Please.’
I gazed at the sky, black clouds rumbling in signalled a heavier downpour—it’d be falling in stair-rods in no time. ‘When can I come back for the Golf? The sooner being the better.’
‘Tomorrow. I’ll have it ready for you then if you like. Will we say about noon?’
A cold easterly bit, I looked about, confident a courtesy car wasn’t going to be an option. ‘That’ll do.’
‘It’ll be ready, I promise.’ He stuck out his hand, I thought at first it was to shake but he grabbed my sleeve and patted my arm. ‘Just have a think about my offer, will you do that, please?’
I didn’t like to see a man pleading, so I just left him hanging there, a dick in the wind, so to speak. I dowped the red-top and put the collar up on my Crombie as I headed into the smirry rain. The brisk wind was chasing empty take-away boxes down Fort Street and onto Ferry Road. I was pissed off at the walk ahead to my Easter Road flat but at least my car was coming back to me, hopefully minus the slug’s trail.
Click here to learn more about Wrecked by Tony Black.
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Here is a preview from Suicide Squeeze, the second Diamond mystery by TG Wolff.
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Much To Do About Nothing
Today was a good day to die. I should know—I picked it. Of all the days in all the years, this was the one when everything would come full circle and I would see my husband again.
If you believe in that sort of thing.
Which it turns out…I do.
My name is Diamond, and I’m a list maker. If it makes me a nerd, well, it’s not the worst I’ve been called. For all you list makers out there, I did the impossible. I finished my list.
Sound like I’m bragging? I’m not.
Do you know what a list maker does when the list is finished?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
There was no point to me anymore.
There were no details left to do. The house was clean, garbage taken out. My accounts were settled, and the letter turning over my shell company was easy to find. Donations were made of everything extra I had. I was done.
In my bedroom, I sat on my bed and took off my boots. Spring was edging toward summer in this not-so-trendy part of Washington D.C., but the hardwood floors were cold on my feet. My wedding picture sat on my nightstand. The silver-plated frame was a wedding gift. I don’t remember from whom. The face I loved to wake up to smiled out at me. I touched his cheek, remembering how his whiskers scratched, missing the way he buried his face into my neck just to make me squeal.
I picked up my gun.
The three of us went into the bathroom and climbed into the tub.
This time, death would be simple. It was just me and a bullet. Diamond and lead.
The man who would find me, Ian Black, knew how to take care of a body. The plot where my husband was buried had a “hers” side. There was a coffin in it and a body that wasn’t mine. A necessary part of burying my past life. Now, I wished I had figured out a way to get into my coffin. I wanted to be buried next to Gavriil Rubchinsky. I knew it didn’t matter where my body was. Six feet deep, bottom of the river, burned to ash, it was all the same. I was going to meet him where bodies didn’t matter.
Still, it would have been nice.
A bullet for my heart. Broken as it was, it would still bleed. Hence the tub and my uncomfortable position over the drain. The classic is the headshot, which is fine if you don’t give a shit about whoever is going to be cleaning the mess. I had a seventeen-year-old kid squatting across the hall. Andrew Dixon. I didn’t want him to see me like that.
I touched my husband’s face, feeling his warmth instead of the cold glass. “I hope you put a good word in for me.” My voice broke. “I’ll need—”
The back-gate buzzer sounded like a National Weather Service warning. I jumped, smacking my head on the spigot. Fuckin’ A, that hurt. The buzzer sounded again, and I fumbled Gavriil’s picture. He fell out of the tub and landed with a smash on the white hexagon tiles.
“What kind of world is this coming to when a person can’t get fifteen minutes of peace and quiet!” I climbed out of the bathtub and shoved the narrow window as high as it would go. “What! What could possibly be important enough to lay on that buzzer like a whore on a broken mattress?”