Pix (Volume Book 24) (Harpur & Iles Mysteries) by Bill James

hosted some special celebration of, say, a birth or parole. Harpur thought he’d stop off there, anyway. If big upheavals in the substances scene threatened he needed to get some inklings – more than came from Iles’s tap and ‘visualizing’, more even than Jack’s lock and stain despatches.
    To guard against assassination by contracted marksmen, Ember had arranged for a thick metal shield to be fixed high on one of the club pillars, blocking any direct line of fire from just inside the Monty main door to where Ralph sometimes sat doing accounts or dreaming of his projects at a small shelf-desk behind the bar. As a way of softening its appearance and disguising the harsh function, this steel screen was covered with a collage of illustrations. Ralph had mentioned to Harpur that they came from a book called
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
, by a poet, William Blake, famous also for ‘Jerusalem’. Ember knew such things. He had started a mature student degree course at the university down the road, though he suspended it not long ago because of business demands. These included his tricky mission to get the Monty’s social standing considerably up, plus new and persistent uncertainties in the drugs game because of government legislation, and because of constant invaders, like Chandor.
    Once Harpur had passed under the shield he could see Ember was at his usual place, working on some papers. ‘In early tonight, Ralph,’ he said.
    â€˜Catching up, Mr Harpur. The Inland Revenue won’t take delays, you know.’
    â€˜But think of the extra work if you had to tell them about all the
real
money.’
    â€˜Mr Iles not with you this time?’ Ember replied. ‘Off sick? Yet it’s wonderful what they can do with just one course of pills these days. He’s still seeing that girl who works the streets around Valencia Esplanade, is he? Honorée? I’m sure he’ll be back to his usual form verysoon.’ Ember fixed Harpur a gin and cider in a half-pint glass and poured himself a Kressmann armagnac.
    â€˜I was in the area,’ Harpur replied.
    â€˜That’s the function as I see it of a club like the Monty,’ Ember said. ‘Somewhere to stop off at a whim and recoup.’
    â€˜True.’
    â€˜It might be a marginal role to the main matters of life, but a necessary and worthwhile one, I feel.’
    â€˜True, indeed.’ At the other end of the bar near the pool tables Hilaire Wilfrid Chandor and a few friends stood drinking shorts. Yes, Nordic. Harpur would have liked to stroll over and see if Chandor and/or the others smelled of cleaning fluid, and/or of incendiarized Charles Laity shoes, and/or of an incendiarized Mixtor-Hythe hand-tailored suit, and/or of incendiarized flesh. There were few other people in the club yet. Harpur had wondered whether Manse Shale would be here and available for a general chat, but Ember did not like his close, outside business connections to use the Monty. Most likely Shale
was
a member but realized he shouldn’t show up here too often. Ralph treated the club as very separate. All right, it could be regarded as a sink, but a legit sink, acknowledged fully to the Inland Revenue, and perhaps about to set off towards social eminence. Yes, very
perhaps
. Ralph might not object to Chandor and/or possibly one or more of the others having membership. After all, Chandor had not really got into the substances trade scene properly yet – which would be why he had targeted the rectory and Manse’s art. Of course, Chandor might be thinking of something comparable against the other great and enduring figure in that scene, Ralph Ember. Did Ember appreciate this? Generally he was quick to detect menace. Had he become casual, convinced he’d soon be kicking out virtually all the present membership, anyway, and replacing them with cardinals, professors and ITV board chairmen?
    â€˜Sometimes I wonder about