The Big O (A Screwball Noir) Read online

  Madge had been half-kidding about Anna, okay, but only half-kidding. Anna was a real handful. And the last thing Madge needed, with the menopause in the post, was a nervous breakdown from trying to cope with Anna.

  But even the idea of Anna being dependent on Rossi again made Karen want to scratch something. She wondered if he’d track Anna down this time, or if he’d even try. Anna wasn’t exactly top of Rossi’s list of priorities whenever he got out. And maybe, just maybe, with Anna out at Pheasant Valley now, Rossi’d go looking, not find her too easily, and just give up. With a bit of luck, Karen thought, stubbing the cigarette, Rossi might figure he’d done his best, tried to find Anna, and the rest was up to fate.

  Wishful thinking. Rossi’d track Anna down for spite, just to find Karen, knowing Karen wouldn’t be too far away. Rossi wanting to know where his Ducati was.

  Ray arrived a couple of minutes after nine, Karen’s hair still damp, Ray driving the beat-up Transit van. She said she thought he’d have called a cab but he said he had an early call in the morning and thought he’d lay off the sauce for one night.

  ‘Okay by me,’ Karen said.

  This one time, horny as hell and about to fly, the guy’d collapsed onto Karen’s chest, snoring. He’d dribbled too, all down her shoulder, the saliva snaking in cold along the nape of her neck.

  So Karen was all in favour of Ray staying on the wagon. He even reckoned being sober when everyone else was drunk was just a different kind of drunk. Which was peachy with Karen, so long as Ray didn’t bug her into trying it out sometime.

  On the way into town he told her, paint pots clanking in the back, how he was thinking of taking classes.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she said. ‘In, like, interior design?’

  He shook his head. ‘Architecture.’

  ‘You want to build houses?

  ‘Design. Architects don’t build, they design.’

  ‘How come? I mean, when you were a kid, were you a Lego freak?’

  ‘I just like unusual houses. I’m thinking,’ he said, glancing across, ‘of specialising in round ones.’

  ‘Round houses.’

  ‘With lots of glass. Glass all the way around.’

  ‘And there’s a demand for round glass-houses?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m thinking of designing one first, then seeing what the reaction is.’

  ‘The sack, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Except,’ he said, ‘no one sacks the boss.’

  ‘You’re going to run your own company?’

  ‘You think I couldn’t?’

  ‘Ray – I didn’t ask what you couldn’t or couldn’t do. I asked what you’re going to do.’

  Ray met her stare, its challenge, then got his eyes back on the road again, flashing a Ford out of side street. Karen’d noticed, Ray was about the politest driver she’d ever met, went out of his way to be generous. Didn’t seem to mind, either, when he didn’t get a wave in return.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m going to run my own company.’

  Karen tingling to his quiet authority, the assurance. ‘Okay be me,’ she said, only realising as she spoke that it was the second time she’d used it, Ray’s phrase, in twenty minutes.

  If he noticed he didn’t let it show. ‘So what about you,’ he said, ‘what’re you going to do?’

  Karen wasn’t so sure she liked him asking that, the way he thought he had the right to presume she wasn’t happy with the job she had right now. Although, if she was honest, he presumed fucking right.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ she said, ‘of taking classes too.’

  ‘No shit. What in?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m ready to tell you yet.’

  ‘Right, mysterious.’ He nodded, flipped his smoke out of the window. Running Scared came on the radio. ‘Alright,’ he said, turning up the volume, grinning across, tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs. ‘Roy Orbison,’ he said. ‘You a fan?’

  ‘Not really,’ Karen said. Thinking, no one’s this straight, right?

  Then realised she’d just lied to a man, had felt the need to lie, for the first time in twelve years, the night she’d forked her father.

  Karen didn’t like that too much. Except that night, later on, Ray went fourteen minutes without coming up for air.

  Friday

  Karen

  ‘So what about you?’ Karen said, hunched over the laundry hamper sorting her whites. ‘Your parents still alive?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Ray towelling his hair, another towel around his midriff. Sucking in his stomach, Karen could tell. ‘Both of them?’ she said.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘See them often?’

  ‘I get home, yeah, a couple of times a year. Christmas, that kind of thing.’

  ‘You have brothers? Sisters?’

  ‘Yep.’

  He towelled on. Karen said: ‘You don’t give much away, do you?’

  ‘What’s your hurry? You’ll meet them or you won’t.’

  Leaving it up to Karen whether she wanted to meet them or not.

  ‘Hey, Ray?’ she said. ‘You should know, I don’t tell everyone the shit I’ve told you.’

  ‘What’re you trying to do?’ Ray said, dragging on his faded denims. ‘Freak me out?’

  ‘Why, are you freaked?’

  Ray struggled into his t-shirt, popped his head through the hole. ‘A bit, yeah. All this about your father, Rossi, Anna ….’ He tucked in his t-shirt, buckled his belt, started humming the opening bars to Running Scared. ‘I wasn’t the gorgeous type,’ he said, ‘I might think you were trying to get rid of me.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’ Karen, bagging her whites, found it hard to believe how normal it felt, doing her laundry with a guy she hardly knew lacing his boots in her bedroom. ‘Maybe I don’t go for the gorgeous types.’

  ‘Pity for you. Want another coffee?’

  Karen wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m already running late.’ She indicated the bag of whites. ‘And I need to get these in this morning.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘You’re heading for town?’

  ‘Can do.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  Ray walked out into the hall, then popped his head back around the doorframe. ‘So what’s happening with that coffee? Yes or no?’

  Karen thought about Frank, heard him whining that Karen was late again.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

  Ray grinned, preening. ‘The gorgeous type, yeah?’

  ‘Being honest? I’d rather you could make decent coffee.’

  ‘All I can do is my best.’

  ‘A little home truth, Ray. If you’re here making coffee for me, then your best hasn’t been good enough so far. Am I right?’

  ‘Tetchy.’ Ray pretended to scribble on his hand. ‘Must try harder, is that it?’

  ‘Or maybe stop trying so hard. Confusing, no?’

  ‘Remind me again. What’re the options?’

  Karen threw a pair of balled socks.

  Rossi

  Rossi woke feeling the whole world tilt, then somersault, Rossi going with it, nothing to hold onto, no way to stop the whirl – then hit something hard, head-first.

  He collapsed to the floor, stunned. Rossi prone but the world still spinning.

  ‘Out,’ he heard.

  He opened his eyes, tried to focus. Realising, shit, orang-utans were turning cartwheels across the room.

  Then, his vision blurring, coming back into line, Rossi realised there was only one orang-utan, the guy dressed by now but with his shirt-sleeves rolled up. The thick forearms were matted with what looked to Rossi like damp candy-floss.

  ‘Who the fuck’re ––’ he began, and got a boot in the busters for his trouble. Rossi folded up, groaning.

  ‘Pick a window,’ the orang-utan growled, ‘you’re leaving. Shirley’s with me now.’

  ‘But Shirley’s my ––’

  This time the orang-utan hoisted Rossi aloft, turned
him around mid-air, then dropped him on the crown of his head.

  ‘One more word,’ the orang-utan growled, ‘and I’ll run you a bath. Want me to run you a bath?’

  Rossi shook his head fast, no idea of what running a bath meant but guessing it wouldn’t mean bubbles, some Radox.

  ‘I’m giving you five minutes,’ the orang-utan went on, ‘to rev up and fuck off. I see you around here again, I’ll break both your legs.’

  Three minutes later Rossi went tumbling down the steps outside Shirley’s flat, sent on his way with a kick in the pants. He sprawled across the pavement, barking his knees and grazing his chin, lying doggo until he heard the door slam, the orang-utan bellow, Shirley shriek.

  Rossi hauled himself vertical with the aid of a coupé parked at the kerb. Picked up the briefcase, checked the pills were still inside, the grass, then limped away down the street, one thought on his mind.

  The Magnum .44.

  Doyle

  ‘The Dolan residence, Doctor Dolan speaking.’

  ‘This is Detective Doyle, Doctor. We spoke yesterday, in the police station?’

  Doyle heard the groan, had been expecting it. She said, apropos the latest regulations: ‘I hope you’re feeling better today, sir. A mugging can be a traumatic experience.’

  ‘You know that.’ The surgeon’s voice contemptuous. ‘I mean, you’ve been through it yourself.’

  No, Doyle thought, I haven’t. But then I’m not the kind of muppet who’d wander through the financial district drunk and waving an expensive briefcase around.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘the reason I’m calling is, we have some more mug shots we’d like you to take a look at.’

  ‘You mean now?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be now, sir, no. But the sooner the better, so the details are still fresh in your mind. How would this afternoon suit you?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be good for me at all. I’ve a full diary today. Very important, all of it. Consultations that simply cannot wait.’

  ‘Okay,’ Doyle said in a reasonable tone she didn’t like the taste of, ‘then how about tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Saturday morning? You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Assault and robbery isn’t exactly a joking matter, sir.’ Down at the station they called it the bash-‘n’-cash.

  ‘Well, yes, of course it’s not. But Saturday?’

  ‘Can I remind you, sir, that we’re trying to help you here? By which I mean, the sooner you can look at those mug shots, the quicker we can get out there and start finding the mugger.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s long gone by now.’

  ‘Perhaps he is, sir. But your assistance might help to ensure he doesn’t strike again.’

  The disbelieving snort set her teeth on edge. ‘Sir,’ she persevered, ‘we would greatly appreciate the civic gesture if you came down to the station to look through those mug shots.’

  ‘Saturday’s out. No chance.’

  ‘And I’m guessing the same applies to Sunday. How about Monday, sir? Do you think you could see your way clear to helping us out then?’

  A pause, then: ‘Yeah, okay. I’ll give you a buzz on Monday, make an appointment.’

  ‘Feel free to just drop by, sir. There’s no need to ring ahead.’

  ‘Alright then, I’ll do that. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Doyle. Detective Doyle.’

  ‘Okay. Good work, Boyle. Keep it up.’

  ‘That’s ––’

  The line clicked dead. Doyle hung up, wondering why she even bothered.

  Frank

  ‘Who was that?’ Genevieve said, sweeping into the kitchen like some weird half-bat, half-geisha.

  ‘Who was who?’ Frank said, a hangover like a bell-ringers’ convention going off in the back of his head.

  ‘On the phone,’ Genevieve said. ‘Just now. Who was it?’

  ‘Oh,’ Frank said, aiming for airy, ‘that was just Bryan. Confirming for this afternoon.’

  ‘You’re playing golf? Again?’

  ‘It’s more of a business meeting.’

  ‘Except on the golf course.’

  ‘Yeah. Listen, Gen? If any cops ring, tell them ––’

  ‘Cops?’ Genevieve spilt the coffee she was pouring. ‘What cops?’

  ‘It’s some fund-raising crap,’ Frank grumbled. ‘For their retirement fund. We’re running a scramble out at Oakwood.’

  ‘And they put you in charge?’

  ‘Actually, Bryan’s looking after it.’ Frank ducked in behind the Times, making a mental note to bring Bryan up to speed later on. Besides, Bryan would need to know that Doug had agreed to sign off on the insurance forms out at Oakwood, before their four-ball got underway. ‘I’m just helping Bryan out. That’s what the meeting’s about later on. And why,’ he said triumphantly, realising how he could tie it all in, ‘it’s taking place on the golf course.’

  ‘Bullshit. The reason it’s taking place on the ––’

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it!’

  ‘What now?’ Genevieve said, buffing her index fingernail.

  ‘Some guy, it says here,’ Frank said, rereading the intro paragraph, ‘held up an Oxfam shop yesterday.’

  ‘Big timer,’ Genevieve sneered.

  ‘But you get it, right? I mean, the guy stuck up a fucking charity. Walks in waving his gun around, just takes the stuff.’

  ‘He used a gun? To stick up Oxfam?’

  Frank nodded. ‘How fucked up is that?’

  ‘Pretty fucked up. A complete waste of resources.’

  ‘Resources?’

  ‘For the same effort, with the same tools, he could’ve held up a bank.’

  Frank sighed. ‘The point,’ he said, ‘is the guy held up a charity. I mean, terrorises this old woman, could do with some eye work from her picture, for a second-hand suit.’

  ‘Frank? Listen to yourself. You’re telling me you’re not ripping off all these old women? Selling them bullshit, how beautiful they’ll look after the nip and tuck?’

  Frank couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re comparing me to some scumbag sticks up a charity?’ Frank thinking about the mugging, the way the lowlife just strolled up and swiped his case, the phone. ‘You’re putting me in the same ––’

  ‘Christ.’ Genevieve looked up from her magazine. ‘You’re conning them, Frank. And I’m conning you. Oakwood, later on, they’ll be charging you actual money to walk around a big field carrying sticks.’ She snorted. ‘Everyone’s on the take, Frank. Grow the fuck up.’

  Frank, sitting there open-mouthed, was pretty sure it was a female bell-ringers’ convention going off in his head.

  Karen

  Ray toted out the laundry, lobbed it into the back of the van, climbed in. Karen feeling a little giddy, a couple of strong coffees on board earlier than usual. So she wasn’t really paying attention when Ray said, turning out of the parking lot: ‘So how’s it work?’

  ‘How’s what work?’

  ‘The jobs. I’m guessing, if you haven’t been caught yet, there’s a system involved.’

  ‘I thought I told you.’

  Ray shook his head, sparked up the half-joint he’d blocked the night before, when Karen started getting frisky on the couch. ‘All I know,’ he said, ‘is you rob gas stations and the last time was a bust.’

  Karen, remembering Ray humming Roy Orbison while she sorted her whites, said: ‘First I pick the day.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Keeping it random. So there’s no pattern. Except, no Fridays or Sundays.’

  ‘You’re superstitious?’

  ‘Friday’s your main day for lodgements, pick-ups, deliveries, your heavy cash movements. Everyone’s a bit sharper on Fridays.’

  ‘And Sunday everywhere’s closed.’

  ‘Sunday’s Sunday. Nothing fucks with my Sunday.’

  ‘So when’s the best time?’

  ‘Wednesday morning. No one ever expects anything to happen on Wednesday morning.’


  ‘You hit gas stations exclusively?’

  Karen shook her head. ‘You have your supermarkets in small villages. Post offices. Maybe a bookies once in a while.’

  ‘Keeping it small.’

  ‘Most I ever hit was seven grand. A complete fluke.’ Karen wasn’t greedy. ‘Usually it’s either side of a grand, give or take.’

  ‘Being curious,’ Ray said, ‘and no offence, but you don’t strike me as someone who grew up in the life.’

  ‘Mostly I was trying to piss off my father.’

  ‘Then armed robbery was definitely the way to go. You couldn’t just get a tattoo?’

  ‘Back then, Rossi was the one pulling the jobs. When I met him he had the bike, the leathers. Was into all sorts of drugs.’

  ‘And this is what pisses off your father.’

  ‘I was fifteen. Rossi was eighteen, nineteen. Even without the drugs he’d have been pissed off.’

  Ray flipped the butt of the joint out the window.

  ‘After he went down,’ Karen said, ‘I mean my father, and the crap in the prison, me screaming about him fucking me up the ass, they got this counsellor in. According to him, what I was doing with Rossi was what they call transference. Yeah? I can’t control my father’s actions, so I’m looking to tame Rossi.’

  ‘Neat.’

  ‘Except where they’re going wrong is, Rossi’s fucked up all the way through.’

  ‘And your father wasn’t?’

  ‘This is the problem,’ Karen conceded. ‘I can still remember going through photo-albums with my mother. Y’know, weddings and shit. And she’s telling me, one time with her eye all swollen, that he was a nice guy. I mean originally, before she married him. Even after she married him.’

  ‘He’s a boozer? Turns mean on the sauce?’

  Karen shook her head. ‘He just hit her one day. It came out of nowhere, she’d spilled paint in the garage, some shit like that. Then it’s done and he’s the sorriest man that ever walked, he’s crying, all this. So she doesn’t report it. Back then, you didn’t.’