Kelly was sitting opposite, on her second Marciano. She’d been asking me about my hearing aid, then moved on to the loss of my fingers, said,
“Not enough of you left to even mail, fellah.”
I was developing a deep affection for her. She had a mouth on her, kept my game up, and she was that rarity,
Interesting.
I mean in a world of Lindsay Lohans, who is interesting any more? Romney was fast-tracking toward the Republican nomination, Barack was simply looking tired, and the brief dark glitz of Newt was dissipated. I said,
“I had a night out with Reardon.”
She laughed, went,
“Whoa, now that I would have paid serious wedge to witness.”
I debated, then,
“We ran into a spot of bother.”
And she literally guffawed, echoed,
“A spot of bother. What are you, a freaking Brit suddenly?”
Ignoring that.
“A gang of wannabes tried to take us out.”
Her eyes were lit. She said,
“Right up Reardon’s block. He likes to get down and dirty.”
Her glee set off an alarm.
I asked,
“You mean, Jesus Christ, he fucking staged it?”
She was saved from replying by a large man who, without asking, sat at our table, glared at me. Kelly went,
“Seriously?”
He produced a wallet, his plainclothes ID, said,
“Thought you might prefer an informal chat rather than the barracks again.”
Jesus, did anyone still call the cop station that?
I asked,
“You have a name?”
He showed some very expensive bridgework, allowed,
“Foley.”
I waited.
“Where were you yesterday, late afternoon?”
Kelly said,
“He was with me.”
I wasn’t.
Foley gave her a look of utter disbelief, said,
“And you are?”
Now she smiled, took a sip of her coffee, went,
“I’m what’s known in the trade as an alibi, presuming you wouldn’t be asking if something hadn’t happened.”
He looked like walloping her wouldn’t be too much of a reach, said,
“You need to be very sure, miss, of what you’re telling me.”
She was delighted, cooed,
“I love it! You are so rigidly . . . anal .”
I asked,
“What happened?”
Like he was going to tell me. He stood up, turned to Kelly, warned,
“You’re a Yank, a visitor to our shores. Be in your interest to not . . .”
He paused.
His big moment.
“Not to fuck with the authorities.”
She gave a mock shiver, said,
“Show me your weapon, Foley.”
After he’d left, I said,
“Watch your back. Those guys, they remember.”
She signaled for the bill, said,
“My treat.”
Added,
“Those guys, you can see them. It’s the motherfuckers who hide in plain sight I worry about.”
I had no idea what this meant but it sounded . . . hard-core.
Thanked her for the coffee and she said,
“What do I get in return?”
I had my own question, asked,
“Why did you lie for me? You weren’t with me.”
And she gave me the gift of a full warm-to-warmest smile, said,
“Yeah, but you’re thinking, Wish she was .”
Not far off the truth. She said,
“Invite me to your apartment.”
“What, now?”
She sighed.
“Jesus, Jack. Get real, buddy. This evening, so you can prepare a meal, get ready to party. ”
Had to know, went,
“Are you fucking with me?”
A kiss on the cheek and,
“That’s what you’re hoping for later, big boy.”
An hour later, unable to get Stewart on the mobile, I found out about Brennan and that Ridge had come around. Bought some flowers and headed for the hospital. Was I sorry about Brennan?
Yes.
Sorry the fuck wasn’t dead.
Laden with white roses, box of Ferrero Rocher, I arrived in Ridge’s room to find Stewart sitting by her bed. He went,
“What kept you?”
I ignored him, put the stuff down, moved to Ridge. Her face was covered with those yellow-blue marks that are a sign of healing. You can only surmise from their ferocity how bad the beating was. Her eyes were clear but something new in there, a wariness.
Fear?
I hoped to fuck not. A frightened Ridge raised a mayhem of biblical shouts in my head. I was
“Not enough of you left to even mail, fellah.”
I was developing a deep affection for her. She had a mouth on her, kept my game up, and she was that rarity,
Interesting.
I mean in a world of Lindsay Lohans, who is interesting any more? Romney was fast-tracking toward the Republican nomination, Barack was simply looking tired, and the brief dark glitz of Newt was dissipated. I said,
“I had a night out with Reardon.”
She laughed, went,
“Whoa, now that I would have paid serious wedge to witness.”
I debated, then,
“We ran into a spot of bother.”
And she literally guffawed, echoed,
“A spot of bother. What are you, a freaking Brit suddenly?”
Ignoring that.
“A gang of wannabes tried to take us out.”
Her eyes were lit. She said,
“Right up Reardon’s block. He likes to get down and dirty.”
Her glee set off an alarm.
I asked,
“You mean, Jesus Christ, he fucking staged it?”
She was saved from replying by a large man who, without asking, sat at our table, glared at me. Kelly went,
“Seriously?”
He produced a wallet, his plainclothes ID, said,
“Thought you might prefer an informal chat rather than the barracks again.”
Jesus, did anyone still call the cop station that?
I asked,
“You have a name?”
He showed some very expensive bridgework, allowed,
“Foley.”
I waited.
“Where were you yesterday, late afternoon?”
Kelly said,
“He was with me.”
I wasn’t.
Foley gave her a look of utter disbelief, said,
“And you are?”
Now she smiled, took a sip of her coffee, went,
“I’m what’s known in the trade as an alibi, presuming you wouldn’t be asking if something hadn’t happened.”
He looked like walloping her wouldn’t be too much of a reach, said,
“You need to be very sure, miss, of what you’re telling me.”
She was delighted, cooed,
“I love it! You are so rigidly . . . anal .”
I asked,
“What happened?”
Like he was going to tell me. He stood up, turned to Kelly, warned,
“You’re a Yank, a visitor to our shores. Be in your interest to not . . .”
He paused.
His big moment.
“Not to fuck with the authorities.”
She gave a mock shiver, said,
“Show me your weapon, Foley.”
After he’d left, I said,
“Watch your back. Those guys, they remember.”
She signaled for the bill, said,
“My treat.”
Added,
“Those guys, you can see them. It’s the motherfuckers who hide in plain sight I worry about.”
I had no idea what this meant but it sounded . . . hard-core.
Thanked her for the coffee and she said,
“What do I get in return?”
I had my own question, asked,
“Why did you lie for me? You weren’t with me.”
And she gave me the gift of a full warm-to-warmest smile, said,
“Yeah, but you’re thinking, Wish she was .”
Not far off the truth. She said,
“Invite me to your apartment.”
“What, now?”
She sighed.
“Jesus, Jack. Get real, buddy. This evening, so you can prepare a meal, get ready to party. ”
Had to know, went,
“Are you fucking with me?”
A kiss on the cheek and,
“That’s what you’re hoping for later, big boy.”
An hour later, unable to get Stewart on the mobile, I found out about Brennan and that Ridge had come around. Bought some flowers and headed for the hospital. Was I sorry about Brennan?
Yes.
Sorry the fuck wasn’t dead.
Laden with white roses, box of Ferrero Rocher, I arrived in Ridge’s room to find Stewart sitting by her bed. He went,
“What kept you?”
I ignored him, put the stuff down, moved to Ridge. Her face was covered with those yellow-blue marks that are a sign of healing. You can only surmise from their ferocity how bad the beating was. Her eyes were clear but something new in there, a wariness.
Fear?
I hoped to fuck not. A frightened Ridge raised a mayhem of biblical shouts in my head. I was
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