Читать книгу Execution Plan - Patrick Thompson - Страница 12

Dermot looked at the interior of the restaurant.

‘Look at the state of this place. Is this tacky or fucking what?’

A barman in an anonymous black suit watched us nervously. He looked too young to be behind a bar. He looked much too young to deal with Dermot.

‘We want beer,’ Dermot told him. ‘We need beer. We’ve been having a hard old time. I’ve been shifting commodities all morning and I’m thirsty. What have you got?’

The barman listed drinks; designer lagers made up most of the options.

‘Two pints of lager then,’ Dermot said. ‘Fizzy piss but you haven’t got anything else. You want to talk to the brewery about it. I have friends in catering. I could put a word in. Would you like me to do that? Would you like me to see what I can do?’

‘It’s not up to me,’ said the barman.

‘No, I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Dermot. ‘I’d imagine not. We’ll have two whiskies to go with them.’

‘I’m driving,’ I said.

‘I’ll drink them then. That’s two lagers, two whiskies, and have one yourself.’

‘I’m not really allowed to drink.’

‘But I want you to have one. I’ll be offended. I’d take it as a rebuff. Who says you can’t have one?’

‘It’s how it works.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t try. Don’t say I didn’t offer. Just the lagers and whiskies then, thanks. He’s paying.’

I checked my wallet. I didn’t know what the prices were like. The training people had paid for all of the meals until then. Which was fair enough as the training was costing thousands of pounds. I checked the room for clues about costs. There was a lot of flimsy wood panelling and acres of flat red cloth. Glass ashtrays the size of dustbin lids held mounds of smouldering butts. The waitresses were teenage girls with the facial expressions of expiring fish apart from one older woman who, on first inspection, appeared to be dead. They wore unmarked uniforms, somewhere between French maids and policewomen. Someone in procurements had overlapping fetishes.

Clusters of men wearing Armani suits they couldn’t quite afford or carry off talked about deals they were involved in. Dermot and I were easily the oldest people in the room if you discounted the older waitress. Which, as she seemed to be dead, you could.

‘School holidays, is it?’ asked Dermot. ‘Didn’t tell you, did I? The name’s Dermot. My mother was from Cork, so she used to say. Course she was off her head, she could have been from Mars for all I know. Didn’t know my father, he fucked off to Belgium before I turned up. Belgium! Who goes to Belgium?’ He had a drink and thought about it. ‘That’s my family history done. Who are you then?’

‘Mick Aston.’

‘Mick? That’s what you’d call a sheepdog. We can work with it though. Could be Mickey, could be Michael, could be Mike. You’re stuck with Aston, though. You not drinking that?’

He pointed at my whisky and I shook my head. He downed the drink.

‘Tell you what, tell you what I think. I think we need to get out of here. Out of this fucking business park. You up for it? We can go into town and have a real drink.’

‘I have a course to finish.’

‘Well finish it then. Finish it now. You can always do another course. You might not see me again. What have you got to lose?’

‘My job. My liver.’

‘There are other jobs out there. I can get you a job.’

‘Selling burgers?’

‘Not fucking likely. You don’t have the skill set. You don’t have the aptitude. We can use the van to get to town.’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘I’ve had a drink. There’s a difference. Having a drink is sociable. Getting drunk is disgraceful. I don’t get drunk.’

The barman eyed him warily.

‘I get rat-arsed,’ Dermot told him. I get arrested. Nice place, hope it takes off. You’re fucked if it doesn’t. You coming?’

Of course I was. I didn’t know what to make of him but it’d be an interesting night. You’d have thought that after Dr Morrison I’d know better, but after Dr Morrison I really didn’t know what I knew.

‘Good man. Fair play. We’ll take the van. You’ll need to be careful in there.’

‘Why? The fat fryer?’

‘No, fuck that. We can dump that. You’ll have to watch out for the mirrors. There are the wing mirrors, the driving mirror, might even be some shiny surfaces in there somewhere. I doubt it, it’s filthy. I honestly doubt it. But there might be some chrome or something.’

‘I don’t mind mirrors,’ I said. Dermot smiled evilly at the barman.

‘Oh yes he does,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like them at all. And now he doesn’t know whether he likes me or not, either. Confusing old world isn’t it? Come on then.’

I followed him.