Death & the City Book Two (13 page)

"Pssst," he adds discouragingly, to get the point across.

"Not yet," I joke, taking another gulp of my drink. It feels really strange being in a bar, out of uniform, knowing that a job is in progress but it's not mine, and I'm merely the passenger. Like being at work without a radio to communicate with my colleagues. Not having the inside information.

"Have you got any coins?" I ask him, seeing something I can get distracted with behind him. "I think I'll go and see if there's anything good on the jukebox."

"Course." He pulls a handful of change from his pocket and puts it on the table, as I slip my jacket off to leave it on the back of the chair.

I get to my feet, sweep the coins off the table into my hand, and move quickly around out of his line of sight, towards the jukebox in the corner. I see him turn slightly and fidget in distraction out of the corner of my eye. I start feeling a bit guilty, immediately hoping I did the right thing - because now he's trying not to watch me as well.

I flip through the album menu. Lots of Country, lots of Blues, some Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone. Sheryl Crow. Tom Waits. Skip James. Stevie Ray Vaughn…

"That's good," Connor's voice says next to my ear, reaching past and tapping
Little Wing
on the list of titles.

"Thought you were busy," I say, glad he's standing close behind me, because I've just visibly jumped at the interruption.

"Nothing to worry about yet." His fingertips brush my upper arms lightly. I know it's meant to be casual, but it feels like electricity coursing across my skin. "Keane. That's a good album."

"Yeah, I like it," I remark, wondering where I've heard Keane recently. I remember it was in Joel's car when we went for coffee at Casanegra the other night, and feel exposed, as if Connor was eavesdropping at the time. Reminding me of his jealousy game about
competition
. I recognise a warning light coming on in my head about possible psychosis, if I let myself worry about that too much. "I heard it the other day. One of the guys had it in his car."

"Glad to hear at least some of your workmates have also got good taste," he concedes evenly. "Was that the same Joel guy sending you group texts after work a couple of nights ago?"

"Yeah." I recall that was the night Connor turned up at my house when he finished, and I was awake thinking about random stuff. "Were you checking up on me, then?"

"Maybe." He loops his arm around my waist so that he can lower his voice. "Wouldn't want anyone else following you home, would I? Anyway, I know you don't like public confrontations, so drop it. I just happen to like Keane too. I can always go round and find some excuse to nick him, if I think he's trying to play you away. Never mind about that."

"I thought you said music was too much like brainwashing," I remind him, putting the money in and picking
Little Wing
as the first track. "Your turn."

"Depends on what words it's trying to put in my mouth," he says, typing in the numbers for a couple of tracks, by Keane, and Skip James. "Some women can read far too much into what men listen to."

"Ah, I get it," I nod. "Optional extra delusions."

"You pick the last one."

"Okay." I add Sheryl Crow's
If It Makes You Happy
. "That's for the rest of the customers. To keep them happy."

"If you say so," Connor teases, squeezes my waist and leads the way back to where we were sitting. "Do you want another? Stay there, I'll go."

I sit back down and sip the last of my first drink, watching him as he returns to the bar. He exchanges a few quips with the barman as he orders, and I get the impression he's not unfamiliar with the venue. So he does socialize, I think. Or he's just good at setting up the groundwork, and has been here recently with that purpose. Either way, he looks more comfortable than I feel.

I only have my door supervisor confidence, which is to know that bars come with Fire Exits, cellars, toilets and glass-wash rooms, with the occasional kitchen for good measure. I usually make a map of the floor plan of any new venue in my head early on, so that I know my way around should the worst ever happen, remembering where the notices are, and things like fire extinguishers, CCTV and alarms. I'm still amazed how many customers ask for directions to toilets, while they're facing the big sign on the wall with the arrow pointing the way for them. I guess it livens things up going to the loo, to have a conversation about it on the way, instead of to mooch around silently until it becomes obvious to them where it is. By process of elimination, quite often.

"Davy Crockett at the bar recommends nachos," Connor announces, returning with new drinks. I look over at the middle-aged guy with glasses, a grey beard and ponytail in the raccoon-molested cowboy hat, who nods and smiles, raising his glass in greeting. More customers are still entering the bar. Looks like it's a popular night around here. "Mind you, he also recommends naked meditation on the beaches of Goa. You hungry?"

I shake my head.

"Had Chinese earlier with Junior. I guessed there might be some alcohol later to displace in my stomach." I raise an eyebrow, as he grins and puts a shot glass next to my second Pimm's, which he'd kept out of sight in his other hand. "You'll regret wanting to see me drunk later. You go ahead if you want food though. That better not be tequila. The only shot I can do is lager shandy."

"I know," he chuckles, putting down his own shot glass on the table as well, as the barman comes over and places the salt shaker and a lime wedge between us, on a little silver dish. Connor pulls my hand across towards him, squeezes a drop of lime on the back of it, and adds a dash of salt. "I'll race you. First to get the lime wins."

He salts his own hand and replaces the lime segment back on the dish, putting his prepared hand flat on the table opposite mine, fingertips touching.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No," I say, truthfully. He winks, reminding me that we're play-acting. I'm not meant to be being myself. I'm supposed to be in character.

"Go." He snatches his hand away.

The first thing I register is, yuck, salt, then grab my shot glass, and think, double yuck - tequila. I'm just putting the glass back when Connor slams his down, the energy of hitting the table flipping the edge of the silver dish, and the lime wedge jumps into the air before I reach it. When I look up, he's holding it in his teeth, tauntingly.

On the spur of the moment I lean across the table and kiss him, biting the lime in half in the process. I don't quite catch him by surprise, but I back away into my seat again quickly as he tries to snag hold of a belt loop on my skirt. My hand covers my mouth to check the piece of lime I've retrieved, sucking it to drain the juice out and get rid of the aftertaste of salt and tequila. At least the citrus sourness is a relief.

"You cheated," I blurt out, once I've finished with the peel, dropping it back on the righted dish.

"You didn't play fair either," he points out, after swallowing his. "Fancy a re-match?"

I shake my head, feeling my brain treading water already, above very slowly rising alcohol. He leans over to kiss me back, properly this time, and stops with a groan as his phone rings in his pocket. He takes it out and shows me the caller's I.D:
Head Office
.

"Yeah," he answers it, sitting back down and picking up his vodka & cola. "No, we're all good. Just killing time."

My phone vibrates for attention in my jacket pocket with a text. Head office as well.
Canem's girl on site, gingham & pigtails Wiz of Oz stylee
.
Check out her Scarecrow
.
No action required
.
Stand by only
.

I show it to Connor, who nods, still listening on his own phone. I make a 'T' sign with my hands, and get up to explore the bar, with the excuse of looking for the toilets.

I navigate my way around the pool tables, finding they're flanked by French windows leading onto a beer garden, lit with solar lamps. And in passing the doorway, I spot
Dorothy From Kansas,
lighting a cigarette outside.

She's with a young man, who certainly does resemble a scarecrow. Straggly blond hair, a grey trench coat, and quite a bad case of eczema or post-adolescent acne under his stubble. Otherwise there's little remarkable about him, although I do scope his posture and clothing quickly for any hint of concealed weapon. Visibly it's non-conclusive, but I don't think his attitude suggests it to be the case.

'Dorothy' however, is a tall and slightly anorexic-looking, pale, freckled Caucasian girl, with curly chestnut braids, whose
Wizard of Oz
look appears consciously deliberate. Her height is enhanced even more by patent red high-heeled pumps, and frilled white ankle socks, with her tight gingham blouse and denim hot-pants. Her look says more eccentric than slut. As she poses
Vogue
-like with her cigarette, I notice a rock on her finger, which if it's real would probably buy her quite a chunk of Kansas, never mind more than just question what she'd have been doing with a piece of work like Kaavey Canem.

With that thought, I continue scouting past the exit, avoiding the paved beer garden where the subjects of observation are hanging out. I pass the cigarette machine, and find the toilets in a small corridor. They're nothing flashy, fully-functional pub-style, with very tiny old-school, metal-barred, wired-glass frosted windows, which I recall were to keep out underage drinkers, burglars and bathroom pests. Brings back memories. Of the kind when you could chase away unwanted visitors to a venue with a baseball bat.

I wash my hands and check my reflection in the mirror to see if I look drunk yet. Instead I see a reflection of a girl wondering how long she can be gone, before her boyfriend starts worrying. It's alien to me, but even more alien knowing it's exactly what's going on, and I'm one half of that same scenario. The play-acting just being a snapshot of the reality.

What's strange is it feels more real to be only a performer in the situation, as my cover story working in public tonight, than it does to be living and experiencing it. Maybe it's force of habit. The inventive portion of my brain that lives by cover stories, and excuses about artificial relationships - to avoid involvement with customers at work. Used to getting more exercise and having a stronger sense of identity than any other part of my conscious mind, that's never experienced anything of the sort.

I try to shut out the thoughts as they confuse me. It's all a matter of perception, I think. People see what they want to see. Or more accurately, what they've learned to recognise.

I wonder if there's anything particular I'd read into the appearance of, or recognise in Canem's final free-ranging hooker, which means they've sent me to have a look at her and her
compadre
. Before using Intervention to get her into hospital, for potential dingo rabies treatment.

I return from the toilets and pass the exit to the garden again, where a few more customers have gathered outside to smoke, and Dorothy is chatting to the much older
Davy Crockett
. I get the distinct impression that she has a bit of a superiority complex. Not just that she's charming and entertaining a man that she's clearly not interested in, just flexing her flirting muscles for a bit of sport - and he doesn't mind, because the rest of the pub clientele see him chilling out comfortably with a younger woman who's not wearing very much - but that her attitude to the place as a whole seems to be that she looks down on it. That it's an easy base from which to be a Queen Bee, as she doesn't consider that she has any serious competition here. I don't mean just for male attention either. I detect a class arrogance about her, that disregarding her background job-description information, she considers coming here to hang out is 'slumming it' for fun. Which is kind of weird, because among the other customers I can sense some perfectly well-to-do people, who happen to like fringed suede and southern to mid-west Stateside music.

Which suggests it is a real diamond on her hand, and perhaps it's her own agenda that isn't exactly as transparent as the genuine article.

I give her more silent Scarecrow companion a glance. Doesn't appear to be an armed threat, still. But I recognise something about HIS attitude quite clearly. He's got the demeanor of a guy who now knows the background story of his lady-friend, and is hinting with his body-language slightly that he was also initially taken in, by the performance she's currently sharing with Davy Crockett and the venue generally. But somehow being powerless to expose her deception. Meaning she maintains control.

I withdraw from the exit leading onto the garden, where it was easy to act as though I was looking for someone quickly, and return to the bar. The band are tuning up on the stage, keeping time with Skip James on the jukebox, still playing
Hard Time Killing Floor
from Connor's selection. They
respond to jocular heckling from the regulars with their own jolly personal digs, emerging from friendly familiarity with the place. Connor and the barman are standing by our table, talking, the barman evidently having returned to retrieve the salt shaker and dish. As I approach, Connor shows him something on his mobile phone, and the barman grins, catching my eye as I join them.