Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre Read Online Free PDF Page A

with a splash of Coke and made himself comfortable at the bar beside a slim redheaded woman in her early thirties. He nodded a greeting to her and was unable to help himself from eying the curves of her generous (cosmetically enhanced) breasts. Her slender hands were both wrapped around the stem of a glass of chardonnay, and Whitman noticed immediately, to his initial disappointment, a platinum wedding band.
    “Janet, have yae met our new resident writer, Mister Whitman?” Big Joe’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
    “Nice to meet you, Mister Whitman,” she said, offering him a hand and a glimpse at a perfect set of Da Vinci veneers.
    “Hannibal, please.” He took her hand and returned the smile.
    “Hannibal, hmm? I hope you don’t bite.”
    They laughed as Big Joe said, “Watch out fae this one, laddie. She’s like one of them femme fatales from a Sam Spade novel. She also happens tae be married tae the only quack in the area.”
    “I take offence at that,” Janet replied, smiling.
    “What, being married tae Larry or being a femme fatale?”
    “Don’t come to my Larry when you next have those haemorrhoid problems.”
    Whitman observed the friendly banter with a detached amusement as the door opened to admit a tall, tanned man in his thirties. He strode up to the bar with the confidence of a cock in a henhouse. Gap jeans and sweater, dark tussled hair; he was a postcard for the pseudo-stylish and wannabe-famous. In his youth, probably captain of the football team too. Whitman disliked him instantly.
    “A’right, Steve?” Big Joe said. “Usual?”
    “Aye, BJ. Hi, Janet, fancy meeting you here.” He smiled and there was something rather predatory about it.
    “Steve,” she replied a little sternly. “We have a new resident. This is Hannibal Whitman; he’s a writer.”
    There was a brief flicker of annoyance in his face, but then it was replaced with a pretty good attempt at a sincere ‘damn glad to meet ya’ face. “Hey, Han. Steve Belmont of Belmont Motors; good to meet you.”
    “Likewise.” They shook hands and his powerful grip said one thing; this is MY henhouse. Whitman kept his grip casual, not wanting to damage the man’s fragile ego. Bless him.
    Steve angled himself between Whitman and the femme fatale, and started a conversation, so Whitman took the hint and went back to nursing his JD . He was quickly rewarded with the skinny bum belonging to Lisa bent over in his general direction as she stooped to pick up a bottle of Bacardi Breezer from a lower shelf. The movement briefly revealed a Celtic tattoo on the small of her back and a healthy portion of black thong.
    “Ah, shite,” Big Joe muttered under his breath, drawing Whitman’s attention to the door.
    A blonde had walked in. There was a hint of a previously very pretty woman, but now her face was puffy with blotchy skin, and dark bruised circles around bloodshot eyes. Her jeans and top were cheap, but precisely in reverse from the mighty Charioteer, Chris, she actually managed to make them look better on.
    Steve and Janet both turned to look at the new arrival. Steve turned away quickly in disgust, but Janet’s eyes lingered a moment longer.
    “I dunae want nae trouble, Carol,” Big Joe said, with a sincere mix of warning and compassion.
    Seeming to hover in the doorway, a picture of nerves, she took the hesitation as an opportunity to light up a Lambert & Butler with a trembling hand. After a couple of deep draws, the nicotine seemed to calm her and boost her confidence. “Vodka and orange, Joe,” she said with a passable attempt at nonchalance, thrusting the disposable lighter and crumpled pack back into a George shoulder bag.
    Big Joe relaxed and did as she asked.
    She moved hesitantly to the bar and stood by Whitman. He did not feel overly happy at suddenly being thrust into a Checkpoint Charlie role between the obviously warring factions.
    Taking another shaky draw on her L&B , she turned to Whitman and offered a somewhat