Читать книгу The Crooked Bullet - Rotimi Ogunjobi - Страница 8

There had been more robberies than the bank job as Frank learned from the East End Mirror. A headline read:

CAMCORDER ROBBERS STRIKE AGAIN.

Pretty small-time stuff all the robberies had been but done in the same insanely ridiculous way. A jewelry shop near Eastham got hit; they even did a pizza shop. The thought made Frank chuckle. A pizza shop getting knocked off; certainly looked very desperate to him. Somehow these stories could only be found in the East End Mirror, which Frank still dutifully read every day primarily in the hope that one day, the front page would contain a goodbye message announcing the demise of the newspaper, preferably due to the death of the proprietor, Spencer Cowley. Frank longed to be able to get rid of that dangling piece of his life – to see Spencer Cowley punished as the architect of his current unemployment situation.

But this never happened and the East End Mirror kept on. In any case, as Frank would wonder, East End Mirror was the only paper that reported these robberies, which gave the suspicion that something shady was afoot. Frank wondered whether Fernandez had at last strayed off the straight and narrow. But heck, the East End Mirror really wasn’t his responsibility anymore. He didn’t have a job with the East End Mirror anymore and therefore no business poking his nose into whatever went on there.

His payoff had dwindled very fast with bills knocking on his door daily. He had for a while swallowed his pride and tried a couple of those jobs he had previously rejected at the Jobcentre.

Frank tried the parking attendant job first, and it didn’t last two weeks. He had quickly come in contact with some of the ugliest human beings in the world.

“I know where you live,” a huge bricklayer had one afternoon told Frank as he snatched the ticket off his van, which had exceeded its time at a meter near Trinity Square Garden. The errant bricklayer’s tree trunk size arms were covered with colorful serpent tattoos, and with a finger drawn menacingly across his throat, he emphasized his threat to Frank. The threat looked serious enough, but Frank wasn’t going to make him believe that he was scared, so he flipped the man his middle finger, from twenty yards away, satisfied to see his jaw drop in both surprise and anger. Frank could feel the heat of the fellow’s anger on him till he turned a corner into another street, and off to hand in his uniform and equipment. He certainly couldn’t risk coming back here anymore.

Next, he took an easier job as a security guard at the local Tesco. It was a relatively easier beat, and Frank was stationed near the liquor shelves of the supermarket. It suggested that a lot of booze got stolen in these places, Frank would initially think. He also thought what a waste of time and money his mission was because any theft would occur between the innocent removal from the shelf and the dishonest non-payment at the check-out counter; the stolen item having disappeared in-between, into a large pocket or into an old lad lady’s bag. It was a drudge job. He thought to give the Warden job at the underground a try next; at least he would get some fresh air all day. He now had a job again and could afford not to worry about many of his regular bills, but again he had this awful feeling that his life was again definitely going down the drain.

He got a call on his phone mid-day one extremely depressing Monday.

“Is this Frank Wire?” a husky voice came to him. Frank was initially confused. Then he remembered that he had paid for a classified advertisement to run in the Loot advertisement pages, and yes he was indeed the one advertised as Frank Wire, private detective.

“That’s right sir, how may I be of help?” Frank replied with a show of importance.

“My name is Harvey Simpson; I saw your advertisement for a private investigation service.”

“Yes, that is what we do sir,” Frank told him.

“Can you meet me in about one hour; I am at the Funky Munky. Do you know the place?

“The Funky Munky at Whitechapel I presume?”

“Yes, that is the one; you know it then?” Harvey Simpson seemed happy to learn this

Frank, of course, knew the Funky Munky; together with Trevor, he’d done a few gigs there, when it was still a dancing club and before it became a bar and restaurant.

“But I can’t make it for the next two hours or so because I’m presently on a case,” Frank told him.

“Never mind; I can still wait two hours “; Harvey Simpson said.

Frank felt a surge of excitement coming into his life again. He went to his supervisor and reported sick. She didn’t look happy to hear that, but Frank wasn’t interested in her happiness. Having thus relinquished his duty at Tesco for the day; he hopped on the bus for Whitechapel.

In the afternoon much of Whitechapel Road was a market, and you had to push and shove through a mass of bodies before you could get wherever you were going. Funky Munky was located in the block of houses that flanked the entire length of the market. It was a badly lit pub, and Frank found Harvey Simpson sitting at a table near the door, but not so near the glass front that the sun could reach him. Frank didn’t know how he guessed that he would find him, Harvey Simpson, with a glass of Stout before him. Harvey didn’t offer to buy him any. Frank nevertheless took a seat in front of Harvey and orders one too.

“Do you know my wife?” Harvey asked. There was something Frank immediately found very disagreeable about this man. Not that he was a naturally evil person; far from it. Nevertheless, he had around him so miserable an aura that made him appear at least mildly schizophrenic. Indeed Harvey Simpson looked concurrently suicidal and homicidal. He certainly was not the kind of person Frank wanted to hang around having a drink with. In fact, he was not the kind of guy Frank wanted to work for. He was tempted to get up and walk away, but then remembered he’d worked for worse; he had worked for Spencer Cowley.

“Does this involve your wife them?” Frank asked needlessly.

“Yes it does, I think she’s seeing another man,” Harvey Simpson told him, his voice suddenly very weary.

“Another man such as her GP or maybe the mailman?” Frank tried to bring some laughter into his conversation, but Harvey Simpson merely scowled.

“Okay then, I think you want me to find out if he is seeing another man; like in having an affair, right?” Frank tried again.

“That’s right, Harvey said. “Is that something you could do for me?”

“Of course yes, we do it every day. I’ve got four clients presently signed on “; Frank told him.

“I want you to find out and bring me photographic evidence,” Harvey said. Harvey wasn’t interested in Frank’s business.

“My rate is a hundred pounds an hour,” Frank told him; “and this could take days you realize.”

Harvey didn’t look at him. He took out a roll of notes from his pocket, peeled off three fifties which he neatly folded and placed on the table.

“I will pay you three hundred for this job; and here is the deposit. I will pay you the balance when you deliver”, he said to Frank. This was not even near what Mandy from Eagle Detective Agency had advised, but Frank guessed three hundred pounds was a good enough start.

“Okay, I will do this for you, knowing how it feels like to have your partner cheat on you. I think we men should stick together,” Frank said. Harvey didn’t seem at all interested in Frank’s fraternal opinion either. He nodded morosely and drank from his glass. Frank stood to leave but remembered that some question needed asking.

“How am I to know what your wife looks like when I find her?” he asked.

“I thought you’d never ask”, Harvey replied with a malicious smile. He handed Frank an envelope. It contained a photograph and a slip of paper.

“That is a photograph of my wife Ida. House address is on the paper; we live in Kentish Town”.

Frank gave him a thumbs-up, disappeared the money into his coat pocket together with the envelope. He drank the rest of his beer, gave Harvey Simpson a thumbs-up, and left the Funky Munky.