Drake by Peter McLean Page A

didn’t know what to do with. Now I’m not too proud to have a wank, I’ll admit that, but it wasn’t really that sort of feeling. It reminded me a bit of being in primary school, and the first girl I ever fancied. Her name was Melanie and I had been absolutely obsessed with her, in a prepubescent sort of way. She made me feel funny but without a clue what to do about it, so I had spent a lot of time in my bedroom just sort of thinking about her, and feeling funny. Trixie had left me feeling a bit like that, if I’m honest about it. I sprawled on the sofa in my office with a fresh cup of coffee, and thought about Trixie, and felt ten years old all over again. At least my back had stopped hurting, that was something.
    I spent several days doing that, just sort of thinking about Trixie and not doing much of anything else. When I got hungry I’d wander down to Big Dave’s and eat something bacon-based, when I ran out of coffee I’d nip over the road to the shop and restock. Other than, I didn’t really do a whole hell of a lot. I tell you, I really wasn’t myself. I was so not myself, in fact, that I didn’t even seem to be able to muster the enthusiasm to wonder why not.
    Needless to say, I ran out of money very quickly. I was sitting on the sofa in my office, looking at my last tenner and trying to decide if it would be better spent on food or coffee, and whether it was too soon to have another crack at the fruit machine in the Rose and Crown, when the doorbell buzzed.
    The noise stirred me out of a vaguely confused miasma of thoughts about blonde braids and white auras, money and fruit machines, tight jeans and bright sapphire eyes. I got up and wandered across the room to lift the handset of the intercom from its cradle.
    â€œDon Drake,” I said.
    â€œDon baby,” said a nauseatingly familiar voice, “let me in. It’s Steevie.”
    That snapped me out of it quick enough. I winced and pushed the button. The door buzzed, and I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I had just settled behind my desk when he came in. Gold Steevie sauntered into my office like he owned the place and took the chair opposite me without waiting to be asked. His minder stayed by the door, looming in a bulky leather jacket. Compared to Connie he looked like nothing special really, but I knew damn well he’d have a shooter tucked away in that coat somewhere.
    Steevie crossed his legs and straightened the crease in the trousers of his thousand pound suit, the cuff of his shirt sliding back over the chunkiest gold bracelet I’d ever seen. There was a huge Rolex on his other wrist, solid eighteen carat and studded with real diamonds or I’m a monkey’s uncle. No fakes for Gold Steevie, not if you knew what was good for you.
    â€œDon baby, it’s good to see you,” he said.
    Steevie was in his early forties, and wore his receding hair slicked straight back with enough gel to flatten a forest. His suit was dark grey silk, his shirt a pale shade of pink and open at the throat to flash a heavy gold crucifix on a chain almost as thick as his bracelet. When he smiled at me his teeth were the artificial white of television celebrities, and his every finger glittered with sovereigns and diamond signets.
    â€œHow’s it going, Steevie?” I asked him.
    He grinned again, shrugged expansively, and straightened his crease again. “Business, you know how it is,” he said. “Ups and downs.”
    I nodded. I knew exactly how Steevie’s business was. In the shit with the Albanian mob was how it was, since he’d lost control of the docks in a brief but bloody turf war a couple of months ago. Not that he’d ever admit that to the likes of me, of course. I was just the hired help to Steevie, not someone you had to tell the truth to. That was why I had always made it my business to keep up with how my regular clients were getting on. I’m a great