Free The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) by Colin Bateman Page A

part of heaven I rarely venture into because of my vertigo. It gave him a perfect view of Botanic Avenue and No Alibis. It was fortunate indeed that I’d left the shop ahead of Jeff, otherwise Billy would have seen us together and our carefully thought-out plan to tape the coming exchange would have been spoiled. As it was, he was not quite alone either. A bodyguard sat at the next table. He didn’t have a badge or anything, but there was no mistaking him. Cropped hair, steroids, black suit, earpiece and watching me like a hawk. Billy himself was wearing a crumpled black suit. No tie. His shirt was pink. He was unshaven yet smelt of Calvin Klein aftershave. I recognised it because one day I spent eight hours at the corner pharmacy familiarising myself with all the different brands they had on sale and now it had paid off in spades. I heard the pharmacist committed suicide a while back. Business can be tough.
    Billy Randall didn’t stand, but he did offer me his hand. I hesitated. I don’t like shaking hands at the best of times, but I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. His fingers were damp and pudgy and I squeezed them with the enthusiasm of a vegetarian being forced to massage half a pound of pork sausages. There was a vague outline of a tattoo running across his knuckles: ‘LOVE’, it said. I glanced at his other hand. Those knuckles bore the legend: ‘HAT’. His little finger was missing. I couldn’t help but stare at it. Or not at it. At the space. The stump. And wonder what had happened. I wasn’t sure if it qualified him as disabled, or if it would have stopped him becoming a professional tennis player, or golfer, or mountain climber, but it certainly would have put a family of five finger puppets into mourning.
    ‘This is some fucking fuck-up, isn’t it?’ said Billy.
    ‘Yes,’ I said.
    ‘Here, I got you an espresso.’
    He pushed a cup and saucer across the table. I thanked him and tried not to look at it. It would interfere with my Starbucks schedule if I even inhaled. I’d have go back to the start of the menu. As I sat opposite him, I quietly moved it to one side.
    ‘Mr Randall . . .’ I began, but he immediately cut in.
    ‘Some Christmas that was, taken away from my wife and family in the dead of night. My youngest thought she could hear Santa Claus moving around downstairs, but it was the fucking Murder Squad. Took the door off its hinges. Still, I’m insured.’
    He laughed. The bodyguard laughed. I laughed too, because sometimes toadying helps. Billy continued laughing, right up to the point where he stopped abruptly and snapped out: ‘So what’re we going to do?’
    ‘We?’
    ‘Sure, we. Aren’t we in this together?’
    ‘Well, technically . . .’
    ‘Someone’s trying to stitch us up. And technically I’m still employing you.’
    ‘Well actually . . .’
    ‘Well actually I haven’t paid you, so you’re still being employed by me, and it’s up to me if I change the parameters. You should check your employment law.’ He suddenly clicked his fingers at me. ‘What’s that old saying . . . about the piper . . .?’
    ‘The . . . piper . . .?’
    ‘The piper . . .’ He clicked them again. ‘The piper . . .’
    ‘Peter Piper pilked . . .?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Peter Piper picked a pelk . . .’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of peckled . . .’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers . . .’
    ‘No . . .’
    ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Did Peter Piper pick a peck of pickled peppers? If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper—’
    ‘Will you just . . . shut the fuck . . . up ?!’ Billy Randall was staring at me: ‘Christ!’ He lowered his voice as two new customers sat down at the table immediately behind me. I caught their reflection in the window. It was Jeff. And Alison. Also I heard Jeff whisper loudly, ‘Which one is the