Romeo's Tune (1990) Read Online Free PDF Page A

reached the old lady and me before it clicked that he was about to try and do me an injury. Try, Christ, the nearer he got, the bigger he got. It was like being charged by a rhino. He was going to do me an injury, period, and probably keep going and demolish the fucking gate, wall and all. The old lady saved my skin and probably my bones too. She stepped into his path and held up her hand. I felt like asking if she was a policeman. The giant slowed down and stopped. He wasn’t the slightest out of breath. The look he gave me over her head could have slaughtered a horse.
    ‘Who’s he?’ he demanded.
    ‘Algy,’ she said, as if addressing her favourite teddy bear. ‘I’d like you to meet Nicholas, Nicholas, Algy.’
    ‘Who is he Missis Mac?’ asked Algy wearily.
    ‘It’s all right dear,’ she said. ‘He’s a friend, he told me so. He was waiting outside the gate and he looked so cold I asked him in for a cup of tea.’
    The big man sighed. ‘Missis Mac, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. No visitors without my say-so.’ He looked at me again. ‘So, out you, before I knock you out.’ Usually in books and shit this is the moment when the rugged hero crinkles his firm brow and makes his move so that he can take the heavy who is facing him down out of the game. Not this kiddy, he’d fucking murder me. I don’t mind a fight, but only when the odds are on my side. For the second time the old lady saved the day.
    ‘I was perfectly safe, Algy,’ she said. ‘You worry too much. He wasn’t going to hurt me, I had this.’ She stuck her hand into the basket again, and stone me if she didn’t pull out a pistol. A sodding Beretta, I swear. She handled it as if she knew what she was doing, too. She held it like it was just another tool, another trowel or fork in her gardener’s trug.
    ‘Sweet Jesus,’ I whispered. She slid the gun into the pocket of her duffel coat and walked up to the house, leaving Algy and me to have a nice chat. Mano a mano, buddy to buddy, heart to heart, you get the picture.
    Close up he was nearly seven feet tall, built like the proverbial brick shithouse and dressed in a blue work-shirt and the biggest pair of Levis in the world. This guy made ‘The Refrigerator’ look like an ice bucket.
    ‘So who the fuck are you?’ he asked.
    ‘My name’s Nick Sharman,’ I replied politely.
    ‘A friend you say?’
    ‘Well not exactly a friend,’ I explained. I was on extremely thin ice. ‘More of a business acquaintance of a mutual business acquaintance.’
    ‘Say what?’
    I explained again slowly.
    ‘Who?’ he asked.
    ‘Ted Dallas.’
    ‘Who the fuck’s he?’
    ‘Dallas Autos, remember? A Bentley Turbo.’ I held up my hand. ‘I’m going to get a piece of paper out of my inside pocket. Don’t get any ideas,’ I said. If the mum, who must have been seventy if she was a day, packed iron, what the fuck did this big sucker have up his jumper? I fumbled around with sweaty fingers and found the invoice from J.R.’s garage, and after unfolding it, passed it over to Algy.
    ‘Oh that prat, I remember,’ he said. ‘Are you the fucking bailiff?’
    ‘Enquiry agent,’ I said.
    He didn’t like that much. ‘Enquiry agent, you snooping bastard, I’m going to kick your skinny arse right out of here, you son of a bitch.’ And remember, I was taking all this. ‘I mean, fancy conning the old girl,’ he went on. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ He seemed genuinely upset.
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I hate this kind of work.’
    ‘Why do it then?’
    ‘Favour for a favour.’ I shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’
    He wasn’t impressed. ‘Well you can just take a hike. You’ll get nothing here, you cheap shit liar.’
    Now it was my turn to get aggrieved. ‘I didn’t lie, not exactly,’ I explained. ‘I said I wanted to see Mark McBain and that I wasn’t an enemy, and I’m not. I’ve just come to collect some cash that’s owed. No big deal.