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.

So at this redhead’s insistence I’d followed her ex(?) husband, this Glasgow Shipping magnate, from Merseyside to West London to the Piccadilly stop. Given his acquaintances and enemies, I’d deduced he may be in shipping, but not of the legal variety. But who was I to  pass judgment? What bugged me was my client’s own motives. She sent a check a week that didn’t bounce, but what was in it for her? I didn’t see jealousy. This was one of those aristocratic marriages of convenience – she went from daddy’s checkbook to the next available bank account. Only a slight difference in age.

So what was I to do? Well, spy on my own client, that’s what. But first I had to nose around the old Highbury haunts and see an old friend.

First, for the sake of sanity, I gathered my thoughts and recalled how I got to where I was. I had followed the Scot and his lanky boys, one of’ em  “Vandy”, to a bar in Merseyside which ended in a brawl with some clowns. I recall a big Blondie doing most of the damage. The Scot also had a young dame at his arm in a stunning red dress.

I then followed the Scot to West London, where I learned he was married. To the old redhead or the young lady in red, I was unsure – but I had an inkling. I had set up a whiskey-fueled observation post in a coffee shop when some thugs tried to pound some sobriety into me. Turns out the thugs thought I was working for the Scot, so the Scot had smarter enemies than himself. Or so it seemed. Or maybe the Scot knew I was following him, but didn’t consider me a threat.

Either way, I headed to Holloway Road in the hopes of seeing the young dame in red at one of the fashionable establishments. I got drinks with the Scots’ young squeeze, who turned out to be his niece. The young lady also said my client, the old redhead, was the Scot’s sister. Seems a family member had died and was about to leave a nice little pot of pounds. But she and the Scot only wanted one little statuette, a family heirloom.

I believed her as far as I could throw her. Before we could walk to one of my favorite pay-by-the-hour accommodations, we spied my friends from West London do a real number on this uppity gang of youthful miscreants. The sirens came and she flew the coop, but I stuck around because I have a theory of the universe:

If you stick around anyplace long enough, the trouble comes to you.

And it did.

I ducked into a pub and, after an hour of drinks and chit chat with the bartender, in walked the Scot and his collection of miscreants. They strutted about like they owned the place, set up shop in a corner, and began to shoot some pool. In walked the young lady and her eyes played tricks with the Scots’. I could smell the chemistry from my side of the bar, and I counted hole number on in her “family story.”

In walked the young tikes from around these parts, but they hardly looked equipped or interested in fighting. One of them, a short pale fella, carried a briefcase. He nonchalantly set the briefcase down near a table and started to shoot some pool. The head of the tikes, this skinny guy with carefully kept dark hair, spoke a few words to the Scot, but his body language made it clear who was in charge.

The kiddos beat it after about half an hour, but conveniently forgot their suitcase.  The Scot, smiling from ear to ear, picked up the suitcase after a few minutes and stepped outside. The young dame stayed inside and talked to the henchmen, flirting and making them feel uncomfortable yet beholden. Then she cast me a glance sharper than a butcher’s knife.

Then, I was out like a light.

I came to consciousness in a scantily furnished apartment with blood stains on the wall. Prospects were dim. I was tied to a chair, in a living room, and there was an ancient old sofa a few feet in front of me. The blinds were shut, the lights off, and the sunlight fading fast. My stomach grumbled, my wrists ached, and I promised myself I’d never fall for a dark haired dame again.

I passed in and out of consciousness, but awoke to the jangling of keys and the door opening. It was pitch black in that damned apartment, and as the door opened I was temporarily blinded. But then I made out the shapely figure of my red headed client. She rushed up to me and, before I could say anything, planted a kiss to make every single hair on your neck stand on end.

She apologized and promised to explain as she untied my hands. I only cared about one thing – my hands. When she finally freed my wrists I jumped off the chair, grabbed her arm, and pinned her against the wall. I had every reason to give her an earful, when the sound of gunfire and tires screeching interrupted our budding conversation.

I let her go and stepped to the blinds, peeking but seeing nothing. Still leaning against the wall, she said “They know we’re here. They’re coming.” I let out a grunt and a laugh. “Of course they are”….

London was the kind of town you could live in your whole life and never call home. London smiles at you like a mother but only loves you like a mistress. You only got into trouble when you confused the two, and you couldn’t help but confuse the two.

The doll came off as needy, hysterical, and a compulsive liar. But I’d always been a sucker for dark haired dames.

She had certainly selected a trendy enough spot, if you ignored the closed storefronts, that is. I felt like I was in a developer’s dream, but a banker had shaken him awake once the finances dried up. The still construction cranes  loomed ominously, waiting to either work or slowly descend piece-by-piece. The high-rise condos, with their open, vacant windows, had plenty light but very little light. She was in a drinking mood, not a talking one. By coincidence, so was I.

From punch-laden pool halls in Liverpool to posh West London, this was the place where I felt the most uncomfortable. I could tell after two gin & tonics on the rocks that the lady needed professional help. It took a death stare and total silence to get her to stop fidgeting and sit goddamn still. The questions would have to come soft & easy, but my patience had grown thin.

In my mind I reviewed the facts. An old redhead had hired me to tail some old Scot. The Scot got around a lot and allegedly was a shipping magnate. He also knew this young lady sitting before and my older client. I smelled a divorce somewhere. Was it a conflict of interest that I had arranged lunch with the Scot’s alleged mistress? Conflict, to me, is what you make of it.

I was not one to frequent the Holloway road tube stop. The young professionals, the expensive leather handbags, everything filled me with jealous. In another life I completed uni and had a respectably profession as a pediatrician or an estate barrister. But not in this one.

When the dame finally opened her mouth, her eyes fidgeted form side-to-side. She tried to flirt but met a cold gaze. I can be as welcoming as a statute of Medusa when need be. I wanted answers first. Pleasure comes later. But when she told me that the Scot was her Uncle, my ears perked up. I glanced around the restaurant and felt a bad vibe. We needed the privacy that only a trot could afford.

Once outside, the fog and coldness filled my lungs like a cigar. But the taste was too familiar to complain. We strolled about the Highbury development in its disheveled glory. So the Scot was her uncle, and my client? She had an answer for that too: his sister. This was either an intricate web of lies, or all my assumptions had been just that – assumptions. Probably both.

And then, as we strolled along, she started to talk about her great uncles. Seems the Scot and my client had some wealthy parents, some trust funds about to be unfreezed ’cause somebody related to somebody croaked. But only she cared about the money. The Scot and the old redhead wanted a family heirloom, a statuette, a glorified block of wood with some historical significance. I feigned interest.

As we turned a corner, I saw some young kids with matching kits holding court on a corner. One of them, short dark hair and enough eyebrow to warm his entire face, was obviously the ringleader. A couple black kids, not older than 25, ran up and down the street. This scrawny fellow with an Adam’s apple like a cantaloupe was the lookout, and a short, stout man with a baby face and Eastern European eyes gave us a glare to go away. But we didn’t.

And then my old friends from West London showed up.

I tugged the dame around a corner and caught my breath. After a few minutes, with no sound of gunshots, I knew this would be a feast of flesh pounding flesh. I glanced around the corner and, while the kids started strong, the old guys’ size and sheer strength wore’ em out. In boxing speak, the kids looked ready for the 9th round while the old timers had just heard the second round bell.

Sirens shrieked and both gangs dispersed, but not before one of the black old-timers got in one last vicious sucker punch. I chuckled and ducked back around the corner, but my company had decided to part ways without so much as a goodbye. I was not surprised, but a little disappointed in myself. Some children never outgrow babysitters.

Still, I thought of the Scot, the young black-haired woman, my old red head client, and the turf wars I’d seen in Liverpool and London. It all had to add up, but I was in no mood for arithmetic. And this statuette, this Maltese falcon, did it really exist? Could it really tear apart a brother and sister?

I saw Mr. Eastern European eyes duck into a pub, and I subtly followed suit. I would stick around in these parts for a spell – too high class, but plenty of action. Could I trust this dame? My instincts said divorce, but what she told me painted a different picture. For now….for now I’d trust her. But I let out a laugh and strolled into the pub.

I’d always been a sucker for dark haired dames.

It was one of those soggy afternoons when bourbon and Coltrane blended into one sweet beat.

I´d been to West London once before and never cared to return. The night of my only visit, I´d gotten lost out of my mind in North Kensington looking for the West London Hospital after a buddy had got shot. By the time I arrived, a sheet covered his face. It was not a land of fond memories.

That Scot got around is all I could say. From the skank alleys of Liverpool to the posh enclave of London, he was a man of many acquintances. I´d followed him most of the day, with a pistol in one pocket and my trusted ally Jim Beam in the other. One would get me killed someday. But not today.

The buildings in West London creeped me out. Sure, they were an architect´s delight, but I only saw remnants from when the plague gripped the city with an iron fist. And the rats….the rats were everywhere. I sat in a cafe across the street from the palace where Mr. Ferguson had decided to spend his day. “Softly As in a Morning Sunrise” filled my ear and I ordered coffee after coffee; which I promptly filled with whiskey.

I closed my eyes and thought of the two dames, the old redhead and the younger model, who had come to dominate my affairs. I´d heard from a little bird that the Scot, Mr. Ferguson, was a Scottish shipping magnate who stalked England searching for business deals and beautiful women. He was happily married, of course.

But to whom?

The motives, the actors, nothing was clear except the checks for $1,000 that arrived every Monday morning like clockwork from the old redhead. As long as they kept from bouncing, I would hop around town on Mr. Ferguson´s tail. But I do like to know what exactly it is I’m doing. At least from time-to-time.

The coffee and music made for a wonderful buzz and I hardly noticed the group of elderly gentlemen enter the cafe. Elderly is probably not the right word – they were mid30′s probably, but looked mid40′s. All of them were tall as a skyscraper and thick as a forest. But one of them, the thin man, had a buzz cut and the adam’s apple of a skeleton. Before they even made eye contact, I knew I was in for it.

Some fights you win, some fights you just try not to lose. I was in a cafe in West London, not some dive poolhall in Liverpool. Surely things could not spiral too far out of control, I thought. I was wrong. This dark-skinned guy made a gesture and the apparent owner just looked down and started to polish a mug. The regulars buried their faces in their newspapers. I stood up and had one goal: do not lose my footing. And definitely do not pass out.

I did used my fists and elbows to bruise my head, but at the cost of exposing my ribs. The first blows stung but the adrenaline kicked in, and I held off two of them for seconds that seemed like minutes that seemed like days. The others didn’t want to get their elbows dirty. I saw an opening and cleanly landed a right jab. I swore I could feel the guy’s nose break, but it was a hollow victory. The rest swarmed.

In the blink of an eye, I was wrestled to the ground. This tall guy with skin whiter than Casper gave me a wallop to the head and I was out cold. When I came to hours later, I found myself in some alleyway with the company of a few homeless men. Of course, my wallet had disappeared.

However, in my right pocket I found a crumpled up note that appeared handwritten by the fine fist of a grade – schooler. “Tell Alex to Stay out of West London.” So those clowns saw me tail the Scot & assumed I was one of the posse. Interesting. I reached into my vest and felt an old friend – the bottle had survived the altercation and screamed for attention.

My head ached and I hobbled to the nearest tube entrance. I had a hunch. Holloway Road was a fashionable place nowadays, and I was sure I would spot the fiery redhead around those parts. I kissed West London goodbye with a quick swig of Jim Beam. The rain caressed my face like a scorned lover and I descended into the dark Underground.

It was one of those soggy afternoons when bourbon and Coltrane blended into one sweet beat.

The dame wore red.

I sat at my desk, sorting through collections bills, light bills, water bills, and every kind of bill but the kind I like to see – green. It was one of those days you would throw away if the trashcan was big enough. But it wasn´t. And I didn´t.

And then she appeared, a shallow shadow of her former beauty. The burnt red hair had faded and showed shades of gray hidden by dollar store cosmetics. Her smile charmed, if you could get over the yellow stains from a lifetime of smoking and a half-assed bleach job. But who was I to say no to a client.

She wanted to do a little spy on this guy, this Scot. An old man, maybe a hubbie, maybe a divorce in the works. She said little, but the envelope of cash said enough. Saturday afternoon I would see him at a pool hall. But was I being paid not to see him? As she walked out the door I counted the bills, sat back in my chair, and reclined. This could be interesting.

I took a drive north to the little town of my client´s address. Alleged address. It was an industrial port city, haunted by a glorious past of steel which in reality had not been so glorious. I couldn´t understand the locals for the life of me, so I kept my mouth shut. Best to be seen and not heard.

I entered the pool hall and sure enough, grandpa Scottie was there with a bunch of cronies. One of them, tall as a pole and thin as a stick, was called by the bartender Vandie. Vandie walked like a daddy longlegs, sans the grace. He eyed me over and over and over. I sent him a little smile, just to ruin his day.

Not much happened and I ordered a local beer, grunting to cover my foreign accent. The bartender gave me the eye but the clean, crisp bills told him to mind  his own business. And then in walked the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. This dame had the curves of a railroad track in a mountain range. Her black hair hid in the obscurity, but her clothes, the clothes…

The dame wore red.

She gave the scot a kiss on the cheek and I thought the old man would die from a heart attack and go straight to heaven. And then they entered. I buried my nose in a local paper but I could smell the trouble, oozing from everyone´s pours. The scot had invited himself to somebody else´s playground, it seemed.

Blondie, the skeleton, and the wretch. The three of them would hardly strike fear with physical presence, and neither looked likely to win any beauty contests. The blondie was toll, but had a woman´s face. Still, I knew the fireworks would start soon, although not immediately.

About an hour passed, and then, to my surprise, they started to come out of the woodworks, the shadows, the corners. Seems blondie and his two pals were not alone. This short guy stood eye to with daddy longlegs and took a swing – daddy parried it but fell to the ground. When wretch went to kick, daddy still held his ground. And then the two sides stepped back, eyed one another, and things got really ugly.

Blondie may use mascara, but the kid can throw a punch. This little Russian-Croatian-Serbian-whatever latched onto him like a pitbull, but Blondie laughed as the punches landed. He then landed the sweetest of uppercuts to send old daddy long legs sprawling. But Blondie had a hobble I hadn´t seen before, and took a step back before things got really messy.

The little Serbian-whatever kept clawing and clawing, but in stepped this broad-chested Italian. The two clawed away at each other and anyone, and the sides backed off for a spell. The scot, incensed and infuriated, had to deal with another blow, psychological – the dame in red left at the hint of trouble. Beatings were not her alley. Soon the police arrived to take off the Serb-whatever and the Italian in cuffs.

The scot looked beat even though not a single hand had touched him. A little scrum started after the police left, but nothing major. I´d already seen enough. I waited for the scot to leave before tipping the bartender generously. Things had gotten a bit too interesting for my taste…