A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) by Frank Westworth Page A

ignore it. The dirty blonde glares a little. She rarely answers her own cell but thinks that I am being rude and awkward when I decline to answer mine.
    ‘It’s that twat, isn’t it? Go on; answer the thing. Tell him that you’re on your way.’
    She manages to make it sound as though it’s my fault that she has a need to go to work, to accompany some rich sack to some rich sacks’ club where she will no doubt party the night away and pick up a handsome shilling at the end of it. Whatever ‘it’ is. A question I most carefully never ask. Usually never ask.
    I pull out the phone. Flip it open. It is the Hard Man indeed. Who else? I share the intelligence. She beams again, unpredictably.
    ‘Give him one for me!’
    Then she’s up, on her toes and gone. Just like that. I get the bill. We take it in turns . . .

 
     
     
     
    5
    LIE IN THE DARK
    The stars themselves spat at Stoner. On good nights, they sparkled and they smiled. On sad nights, they gently wept and hid themselves away in silent safety behind the hazy gauze of heaven. But not tonight. Tonight, the stars spat at Stoner.
    At least, that’s how it felt. Darkness should always be an old friend, to lover, loser and the taker of life. The skies provide mood music for all. How that music is understood, how it is heard, how it is interpreted . . . that’s where the mood can deepen with the darkness, lighten with the light. Or none of those things. Because the darkness is deepest when in shadow, and the darkest, deepest shadow comes hand-in-hand with the brightest light.
    Stoner felt that he was safe from sudden unwelcome lightness at the Blue Cube. When times are tough and the darkness is falling, the only answer is to make deep, dark music.
    Actually, that is arrant nonsense, he decided, but it would have to do, because he was entirely out of uplifting philosophical japes. He wanted a little escape from his understanding of the most probable current whereabouts, most probable current activities, of the dirty blonde. Enough dwelling upon an unacceptable reality, then; time for something absorbing. The Blue Cube.
    The quiet door. The familiar muffled rumble. The sense of home for a man with no home. And my, aren’t we feeling sorry for ourselves? Stoner keyed himself into the back door, entered by the fire door, a life-saving exit in reverse. Life is like that. The man Stretch was active on the ivories, but apart from the general clubsound background, that was it for the evening in a musical sense. Late evening; night yet to come. Plenty of empty tables, plenty of dark corners, although more of those corners were occupied than he’d expected.
    Stretch and the piano played together over at stage right, so Stoner chose a table facing them. Dropped the weighty coat, gazed across the small stage, poured the first of a few from the new bottle and raised the glass to the player. An eyebrow in acknowledgement. No need for more. The first glass is just the first glass; no mystery, no pretence that it will be the only glass or the best glass. The first note is just the first note; no pretence that it will be the only note. Unless a chap is a more adventurous player than any before him. The one-note solo? Stoner almost smiled. Only sax players could do that. And he couldn’t work the saxophone; neither point nor need, as so many can already boast this fine skill. Maybe the world awaits the one-note solo? Is this why the triangle is a rarely-heard instrument in the world of club jazz?
    The Chimp, occasional and always competent barkeep, eased into the next seat, carefully leaving open Stoner’s view of the entrance. Habit. No one talked too much about the ways Stoner might or might not make a living, but over time it had become clear that he always liked to keep an eye on the doorway. Many things are best left unsaid; this is one of them.
    Stoner leaned over, looking into his companion’s eyes while pouring two more glasses. A neat trick, and scary for an