Some things go wrong for all the wrong reasons.
I’d been to West London, East London, and everywhere in between. I’d even taken a trip up North, but this old Scotsman business dealings had failed to crystallize. My redheaded client and I, braced against a wall, dared not peek out the window. The recent gunshots rang in my ear and the blood on the floor and walls was not exactly inviting. I knew it was coming to an end. I knew the job had been a set-up. My professional curiosity waned as instinct took-over: how do I get out of this mess?
We waited ten minutes, pressed against the wall, breathing through our noses as our hearts tried to jump out of our chests. Finally, when the coast was clear, we resumed our prior conversation. I did not take kindly to kidnappings in general, and even less when they involved me. She had promised answers but broke down in sobs. I lit a cigarette, waited a few minutes, and then headed for the door. She grabbed my arm and threw a fit.
I had no interest in making the light any longer or the obituary for the next day’s paper. I was resigning from this case a priori, but she finally opened her mouth and made good. And then most of the pieces came together.
She was the old Scotsmen’s niece, and she knew he was up to no good. She knew he was neck deep with the Italians, and she had been scared. They’d already tried to knock him off a couple times, so she thought it’d be a good idea for me to tail him. Of course, withholding key facts from me never entered her mind as a bad idea. It seldom did in my profession.
Not all the details made sense in her story, but I didn’t really expect them to. She told me that soon after my trip to Highbury, the Italian had made a power play against the old Scot in his own backyard. She hadn’t heard from him or me since, and got worried. Only an anonymous phone call led her to one of the Scot’s apartments, where we currently were seated. I kept eye contact and nodded when appropriate, but only one question dominated my mind.
What about all this blood?
I told her I believed her, which neither of us believed. And then we went to work inspecting the apartment. A cop siren in the distance just about gave me a stroke, but it faded into the distance. An uneasy feeling swept through the apartment. Everything was in perfect order but the chair where I had been tied and the blood on the walls and floors.
I recognized the smell. It was faint, but strong enough to bring back a flood of memories. The first time I’d seen a dead body, I’d vomited for a week. The second time and every time after, I felt my body warmth drop a few degrees. When you work around death, you don’t learn to appreciate life – you just appreciate it’s going to end.
As I turned the bedroom door handle, I already knew what awaited me. Another cop siren wailed like a banshee in the distance, but refused to dimmer. I opened the door and the dame covered her mouth and dropped to her knees. The old Scot lay on the bed, his arms by his side and his face looking up. He may as well have been taking a nap, but for the two bullet sized holes in his neck.
The sirens grew louder and that was my curtain call. I turned and headed for the door when the dame tackled me from behind. She slapped and yelled and accused and ranted and wailed. I lifted my arms to defend myself, but her attack required little to repel it. Didn’t I care, she asked. I was a private investigator, not a bodyguard. I was paid to keep tabs on an old Scots, which I did for a time.And then he got offed by an Italian. Plain and simple.
If she wanted to continue to pay me to keep tabs on him, I’d be more than happy. But I was pretty sure she could handle that job on her own. And with police involvement, my rates would be beyond her modest means. I nudged her aside, walked out of the bedroom, and glanced out the window. Still no sign flashing lights, although the wail had grown almost unbearable. I would take the back exit, just to be safe.
Some things go wrong for all the wrong reasons.