Seductive Barry
“I’m not sure I want to do this.”
“You’ll do it.”
“You’re so sure.”
“Aye, son. I’m sure. You know how I’m so fuckin’ sure? A lad rents his arse for shitty money, he’d jump at the chance to do a lot less for a lot more. So how’s about you stow the negotiations and just admit I’m the best deal you’ve had in a long time?”
This kid, he was about twenty, had that jaded fucked-up quality to his eyes that meant he’d worked the streets too long. He was still pretty in a neon beer light, but come daybreak, he was the kind of renter you didn’t want to look at. The lines around his mouth, the way his lips looked cracked, I could’ve sworn he was dying of something. The ones I’d found, they were all diseased. But that didn’t matter. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. I was looking for an easy job. And I had it in Georgie.
He leaned back in his chair like he owned the place, as if he was mulling my business proposition over. When all the time, I could hear the cogs whirring, clicking into place. He was thinking about the money. He didn’t care really what he had to do for it. But five hundred was a good dose of penicillin for the lad.
“I just have to fuck him,” he said.
“There’s no just about it. He’s convinced he’s straight as a die, but my client says otherwise.”
“So, what? You don’t want me to fuck him?”
“He has to fuck you.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“You’re not cottoning on, Georgie. You have to get him to fuck you. He has to make the moves. You have to be the innocent party.”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can, flower,” I said, patting his cheek. “Else you don’t get paid.”
He pulled away from me. I grinned at him. He pulled a face like I had spinach in my teeth. I stood up, checked the creases in my trousers. I had a stain near the crotch, but my jacket covered it.
“Hang on, you don’t want this done as soon as?”
“I’ll let you know. I’ll give you a call.”
“Fine,” he said. “You let me know, Mr. De Silva.”
“Please,” I said. “Call me sir.”
I left, got into my cat-shit brown Fiesta and drove to the twenty-four hour garage for something to eat and a phone call. Of course, the guy behind the counter couldn’t hear me shouting, and even when he did get the point, he’d wander off and pick up something completely different.
“Just let me in. I know what I want. I want a king-size Snickers and one of your Ginsters pasties and a big bottle of Coke. None of your diet shit, either. I’m a bloke.”
He shook his head, made out he was trying to hear me.
“A king-size Snickers, a Ginsters— Oh, for fuck’s sake…”
British customer service. Run by a bunch of refugees. I waved my hand at him, wandered across the road to a phone box, the only one in this stretch that hadn’t had its guts ripped out. Somebody’d scrawled their name across the glass. Banko. Sounded like a wanker.
I rang my client’s number, let it ring three times, then hung up. Gave it five seconds and rang again. She picked up on four.
“Mr. De Silva.”
“Call me Barry.”
“Is it sorted?”
“As it can be. You let me know the time and place and my boy’ll be there.”
“Is he clean?”
“Is he fuck. Lad’s got more varieties of knobrot than they have names for.”
She breathed down the phone at me. It sounded like a cross between a sigh and a cough. “He’ll do.”
“I know he’ll do. I picked him.”
“You’ve done well, Mr De Silva. I’ll be in touch.”
And that was that. Phone down, no goodbyes, no sweet nothings. She had that dominatrix bit down to a tee.
I got back in my car and drove around, looking for a garage that had a white guy behind the glass.
* * *
Three nights before I was in my shit-pit local south of the Tyne. The pub stank of old age, the whiff probably from the regulars. The guys in there, they were mostly dead or dying. But apart from the odd rattling cough, they were quiet about it. That’s why I went in there. I didn’t get bothered unless it was necessary, and the beer was cheap enough to keep coming back.
I had a pint of Guinness and a vodka chaser. The vodka was no-name nail polish remover. The landlord had a deal with this gadgie who went door-to-door. Some of the stuff he’d sold had made people blind, but you pays your money. I paid mine most nights and I hadn’t had so much as a stye.
Some blokes are just born lucky.
She walked through the door and a couple of the regulars looked like they were having a stroke. She had on knee high boots and a skirt that made the world her gynaecologist. On top of all that, there was a face that could curdle milk. She wasn’t a woman to be fucked with, not unless you wanted to carry your balls in your pocket the rest of your life.
I knew she was a client. The women who came in here normally had teeth missing. But there was something odd about the way she walked. Like there was a limp in her stride trying to get out, but she wouldn’t let it. She was poised, aware. And she came straight over to me.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
“I know you?”
“You’re a private detective.”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
“I am.”
“Who are you?”
“A prospective client. We going to do business or what?”
Forthright. I liked that. “Let’s get a table, then.”
We headed over to a table towards the back. I got dirty looks from the old guys. I gave them a smile and set my drinks down. She sat opposite me, adjusted her skirt. I made out I wasn’t staring.
“What’s the job?” I said.
“My fiancé is cheating on me.”
“Stupid bastard.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“You want evidence?”
“Yeah,” she said. “But a little bit more than that. You interested?”
“Keep talking,” I said.
So she told me. Her fiancé, Carl, he was a right piece of work. She had money, he didn’t work. He didn’t have to and she didn’t mind. Said he was strictly hetero, but she caught him one afternoon nuzzling some guy’s bollocks. She threw a fit and threw the guy out, sat her fiancé down and had a heart to heart.
“I’m a very forgiving person,” she said.
“You’d have to be.”
“He said it was a mistake. He promised he wouldn’t do it again. It’s one thing having your bloke cheat on you. It’s something else when he’s cheating on you with another bloke.”
“I can imagine.”
“No, you can’t.”
“You’re right, I can’t. And I don’t want to.”
She loved him, so she kept supporting him. And every now and then she’d kiss him and taste mouthwash, but she’d brush it aside. Carl was the one for her and they were going to be married.
“I was deluded,” she said. “All the money I gave him, I think I was trying to buy myself a husband.”
“You don’t look like the type who’d have much trouble getting a bloke.”
“I have emotional issues, Mr. De Silva.”
“Uh.”
“And I couldn’t see that he was a con man. He liked the money too much to leave, until he found someone even more pathetic than me.”
“Another bloke?”
“Another woman.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“She shits in a bag,” she said.
“You’ve seen her?”
“She’s in a wheelchair. She shits in a bag. Honest to God, could you fuck someone who shat in a bag?”
“I’m not particular. But I don’t go cruising at the hospice, either.”
“He’s got a thing for cripples with low self-esteem and pots of money.”
“You’re not a cripple.”
She smiled, showed perfect white teeth. It’d been so long since I’d seen teeth like that in real life, I had to blink. Then she hitched up her skirt a little way and tapped her right thigh; it made a hollow sound.
“Bloody hell.”
“Motorbike crash. Amputated at the hip.”
“It’s a good match,” I said.
“I try. I have to keep the knee covered. It’s a dead giveaway.”
“So what do you want me to do? You already know he’s screwing someone else.”
“That’s not the point. She’s unaware. He’s a latent homosexual.”
“I’m not coming on to him,” I said.
“You don’t have to. You set it up, though. You know anybody that could do it?”
“I’m not in the habit of picking up rent boys, Miss…”
“Parrish,” she said. “And I didn’t think you were. But a man like you, you must have contacts.”
“I could arrange something,” I said. “It’ll cost you, though.”
“I told you, I have money.”
“You have enough money?”
“How much is it going to cost?”
I wrote a number on the back of a beer mat, slid it across the table to her. She picked it up, looked at it. Her lips became a red bow, then she gave me that Colgate smile again.
“That should be fine,” she said.
“Then you got yourself a deal.”
* * *
So there it was. I had Georgie in the palm of my hand, promised him five hundred out of the two and a half grand I’d already been paid. He wouldn’t get it. Thing is with rent boys, they might talk up a storm, but one swift kick to the balls and they’re puking on the ground like any other fucker.
Miss Parrish called me three hours ago. Now I was trying to find Georgie, he was nowhere to be seen. I had half a bacon sandwich dripping brown sauce on my tie, trawling Gateshead streets full of crack addicts and car thieves, looking for the little prick. I made a mental note to slap him as soon as I saw him.
And then there he was. Chatting to some pasty-legged girl with a scrunchie in her hair. I pulled up alongside him and wound down the window. He made out like he was coming over until he saw it was me.
“Mr. De Silva,” he said.
“Fuck’ve you been?”
“I been around.”
“I got the call.”
“Who’s that?” said the girl.
“Fuck off,” I said.
Her face twisted into a knot of anger. “Howeh, wanker.”
I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, balled it up and threw it at her. “Get yourself some cider. My treat.”
She made out like it wasn’t worth her time. I leaned over, opened the passenger side door. “Get in, Georgie.”
He nodded, hopped in and slammed the door too hard. As we drove off, I watched the girl pick up the twenty. I honked the horn at her. She shouted something and flipped me a finger. Fucking skank.
“When we discussed this, you said you’d be available,” I said.
Georgie muttered something.
“You what?”
“I am available.”
“Then why’ve I been cruising the town looking for you? That sound available to you?”
He muttered again. I smacked him with the hairy side of my hand. He yelped, flinched. His cheek was flaming up.
“That’s a warning. Don’t fuck me about. I’m paying a lot of cash for this, buttercup. Don’t get fuckin’ wise on me.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Now the guy’s going to be at a pub called Jackson’s. You know it?”
“That’s not a gay bar.”
“Listen with your ears, not your mouth.” I poked the side of Georgie’s head. “You don’t think, you hear me? You do what I say. You go into Jackson’s, you order a Bacardi and Coke, and you get him to pick you up. When you’re all snug, you get him to take you back to his place.”
“Wait a second, you never mentioned this.”
“What’d I just tell you?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Tough shit. You do this, Georgie. You already said yes.”
His face hardened. “It won’t be a problem.”
“Good. You keep saying things I like to hear, I might just fuck you myself.”
He looked at me. His eyes were wide. I held his stare, then burst out laughing. “You got nothing to worry from me, kidda. I like tits too much.”
“Where will you be?” he said.
I choked the laugh in my throat. Time to be serious. “I’ll be tailing you. You know this car, you see this car, that’s where I am.” I waved at him. “I’ll be snapping the whole thing. You get in trouble, all you have to do is scream.”
“Why would I get in trouble?”
“I’m just saying is all. You feel the need to get out of there when the dirty deed is done and he gets nasty, starts following, you come running to the car. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“He’s going to get nasty?”
“You never had a bad trick?”
He shook his head, ran a hand over his face. “Mr. De Silva, I’m not sure—”
“He’ll be fine. He’ll be a pussycat. You do your job and you’ll get paid. Don’t worry about it.”
Georgie took a deep breath and stared out the windscreen. I couldn’t resist a smirk.
* * *
Georgie entered Jackson’s at nine o’clock. I parked across the street and struggled with my thermos. Irish coffee, plenty of sugar. I pulled a big bag of mini Rolos from the glove compartment and watched the place.
Jackson’s looked like an average pub, but it charged through the nose because it was near the Quayside. Once the council had it in their heads that Newcastle and Gateshead were prime candidates for City Of Culture 2003, they set about throwing money at the riverside. Trouble is, they threw too hard. All that cash fucked off out to sea and the scousers got the prize.
I didn’t care really. It just meant I was getting a better class of lowlife come my way. Messed up people with more money than sense. Miss Parrish was a prime example.
At ten past ten, I saw Carl and Georgie come out together. He’d done well; Carl looked suitably excited. I set up my camera, took a couple of pictures. Sweet couple.
When they started walking towards my car, I pretend to fiddle with the radio. Carl didn’t look my way, but I caught Georgie’s eye; he winked at me.
Cheeky bastard.
They headed for the Metro. He was a class act, this Carl, taking his rough trade home on public transport. I almost admired the bugger, bringing him out in public like that. I checked my watch, decided I’d give them ten minutes head start, then set up camp outside the flat. I emptied the rest of the Rolos into my mouth and chucked the bag into the back seat.
So far, so good. Georgie had set himself up beautifully. I had snaps of him with Carl, nice clear ones. The Metro stations had CCTV all over the shop. More evidence if it was needed. They left the pub together, they went home together. And then…
Miss Parrish was going to love it.
* * *
After I got back from Carl’s flat, I spent the rest of the night in my local, sat in the corner so I could see the door. I drank. I drank some more. I smoked Park Lanes until I got a liquid cough. I knew I’d feel like shit in the morning, but it felt good at the time.
I pictured Georgie fumbling for his clothes, running for my car. Finding me long gone. Panicking.
I was still smiling when Miss Parrish walked in. She hip-swayed over to me and dropped the rest of my money on the table.
“Everything go all right, love?” I said.
She nodded. Miss Hell Hath No Fury, she didn’t look shaken or stirred, had that glacier quality still firmly intact. A man’s ring hung on her thumb. She pushed it back.
“You want a drink? I’m buying.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Sure? It’s a rare day when I buy a round.”
“I hope I won’t have to see you again, Mr. De Silva.”
“You’re not going, are you?”
“Yeah.”
“Not until I’ve counted this, surely.”
Her eyebrow twitched. “Count it, and count it quick.”
I took a large mouthful from my pint of the black stuff, swilled it around my cheeks and started leafing through the fifties in front of me. When I swallowed, I winked at her. Her other eyebrow twitched.
“Looks like it’s all here,” I said. “You change your mind?”
“About what?”
“About the drink.”
“You don’t want to drink with me, Mr. De Silva. You know what I’m like.”
“You have emotional issues.”
“That’s right.”
She turned and walked towards the pub door. I watched her arse move. Her skirt rode up a little with her limp. The top of her right thigh was dotted brown. Rusted blood. Aye, she was probably right. I didn’t want to drink with her. She was an arranged accident waiting to happen.
* * *
The busies found Carl when the smell became too much for the students upstairs. He was naked, sprawled out with his jewels in the breeze. He’d also had his skull bashed in. But no sign of a weapon.
I picked up some fish and chips and read the paper in my car. Apparently there was a witness, but that guy only saw a young man screaming off down the road, covered in blood, a bundle of clothes in his hand. I’d hoped Georgie would be able to nab something when he got the chance. Turned out he’d left pretty much empty-handed. His loss.
If the police caught up with Georgie, he’d have to keep it shut. If he didn’t, they wouldn’t believe him anyway. Nah, it was an open and shut case. The rent boy did it. Anything more complex than that, and your average copper would have an embolism.
Miss Parrish, she was a layered lady, but then most mentalists are. She could have had any number of reasons for battering Carl, but I wasn’t about to drop twenty pence in the slot to find out.
At the end of the day, it was all about the cash. And that’s all I really cared about.