Two
TWO
A torrential river of tarmac piled past the smeared windows, keeping the car afloat. The storm was coming on fast, dark blue ink spreading across a paper white sky. The thin man pushed the fedora higher up onto his forehead as he checked the clock; 12:17 PM. He was late.
His foot weighed down heavily on the accelerator, pinning it to the floor beneath his black-patent Dr. Martens boot. The car’s engine roared in protest as he wrestled with its gears with his prosthetic arm before he finally found the sweet spot and slammed the grating box into third. He had slowly grown used to the strange flesh-coloured lump of metal and plastic attached to his left shoulder, sometimes forgetting it was there at all.
A sign zipped past in the failing light; three miles remaining. The roadside buildings were slowly growing taller as he approached the city limits. How many windows had he driven past so far; hundreds, thousands? How many people lived their lives behind each double-glazed PVC window? It must be tens of thousands. And what were they all doing, scratching around in their cells, mouths agape, their hands down their pants, hypnotised by LCD displays? He shook his head at the thought. It made him itch.
A rhythmic whirring started up to his left; a plastic rumble that shook him from his waking daze. The neon blue screen demanded his attention again. With a sigh, he answered.
“Bruce Von Toose, Private Investigator.”
“Bruce! At last, you actually pick up. You are an elusive one.”
The voice was male, high and nasal. Unwelcome.
“It comes with the territory, Jack. And who might you be, my rodent-larynxed friend?”
“It’s Jimmy, Jimmy Masters. Are you still coming to see me today, Mr. von Toose? I’m a very busy man; I’m in a conference call from 12:30 and then I’m back-to-back all freaking week. Time is money in my world, Mr. von Toose!”
Jimmy’s register got higher as he got madder. Bruce had to think fast.
“Jimmy, if I were you, I’d quit running my mouth right about now and listen to two solid gold FACTS. Fact one; I’ve been delayed by circumstances beyond my control. My dear old mother has been rushed to hospital this very morning. And fact number two? I’m outside right now, trying to find a space in your shoddily equipped car park in the lunch hour rush, wasting time arguing with YOU. So, I’ll be two minutes, and it’s all your fault anyway. You got that, Jim-bob?”
Jimmy made a strange noise, halfway between a cough and splutter.
“Look Bruce, call me Jimmy or Mr. Masters please. I’m meeting the Itsy Bitsy Girls at one. Can’t we...”
“No Jimmy, we can’t. Keep the toys in the pram you big, spoilt baby, I’ll be two minutes! I don’t care if you’re having a threesome in a teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikini at one, I’m coming in. Stop your damn whining.”
He made the choking sound again, like he’d just swallowed his diary.
“Really now Mr. Von Toose, that is quite enough! I don’t even know what the hell this is about!”
“You don’t know, really, Jimmy? I’m doing you a favour here! Like I said, I need to talk to you about our mutual client, a certain Mr. Mastah Blastah. There’s been a development”
Jimmy was silent for a moment. Bruce could hear the cogs whirring. Finally, he spoke.
“Get down here in the next five minutes or you can forget it, Mr. von Toose.”
Jimmy hung up.
Bruce tossed the phone back onto his passenger seat, the screen illuminating crumbs and stains in the grey fabric like the great boulders and seas on the bright side of the moon. He caught a glimpse of himself in the cold light; it was not a pretty sight. His blue-tinged face highlighted his bulging pink eyes and he wore the stubble of several days. As if to match his mood, the storm finally broke and a hard rain began to fall, beating heavily against the car roof as he drove. He flicked the wipers on; you’ve got to love British summer time.
With one eye on the road and his prosthetic hand on the wheel, Bruce lit a cigarette and drifted back into his thoughts. Mastah Blastah was still nowhere to be found. He did have a lead. Jimmy Masters’ name had come up. He was Mastah Blastah’s agent, manager, and chief back-stabber by all accounts. One of the first rules of the detective game; look to see who stands to gain from the crime and you will find your man. Jimmy had a motive. That was enough.
The smoke traced a path through the spreading darkness; twisting back and forth, gently losing definition. Bruce had to deduce fact from the steadily diffusing cloud of fiction. Luckily, that was his forte. A fork of lightning pierced the bleak horizon, beyond the distant tower blocks. Jimmy was a slippery eel that needed putting in a pie. He’d sounded strung out on the phone, tired, his nerves were frayed. He would talk. They all talked, in the end.
The lights of the city approached and enveloped the car as he neared his destination, strobing across his face. He wound down the window; the bitter winter wind cut into the cockpit as he dispatched the spent smouldering butt road-wards. Blue light flashed far off in the distance. Realising his speed, Bruce eased up on the accelerator so that his speedometer matched the angry signs buzzing past and wound his window shut.
Paradise Records loomed before him; a hulking block of concrete and glass, all rubberised seals and 1970’s dementia. He found a space in the near empty car park almost straight away and checked the clock on his phone as he dropped it into his jacket pocket.
It was 12:22 PM. He was late, again.
Jimmy was going to be apoplectic. Bruce imagined the owner of that stupid, ferrety voice pacing around an office, cursing his name, wishing harm upon him, calling him every name under the sun and couldn’t help but laugh. This was going to be a walk in the park.