Free Blood Tears by Michael J. Malone Page A

rubbing at a stain on the table-cover with a napkin. Then she meets my eyes. I present a calm, but expectant demeanour. I am telling her I expect her cooperation and I will brook no arguments.
    ‘Not much, as yet, sir. A few names to look into.’
    ‘Anyone we know of?’
    She shakes her head in response. Her eyes back on the stain.
    ‘Was it that bad, sir?’ Allessandra asks, then makes a face as if she regrets the words as soon as they spill from her mouth.
    ‘It was a fucking picnic.’ I pause on the edge of a threat and force some calm into my mind. I’m making life difficult enough for her. She doesn’t deserve what I was about to say.
    ‘Sorry,’ I offer. ‘Could’ve been worse.’
    Allessandra’s mouth opens as if she is about to speak. Then she thinks better of it. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth opens again.
    ‘With all due respect, sir,’ she begins, her face red and her hands under the table. ‘We’ll play it your way for now. But if this knowledge compromises the case, I’m going straight to the Super.’
    ‘Allessandra. Do you really think I’m a suspect?’ My arms are wide, my expression full of apology.
    ‘No.’
    ‘No harm done then. Eh?’ Our food arrives. Fish and chips for Allessandra and a ham and pineapple salad for me. Allessandra looks at my plate with a grimace.
    ‘Starving yourself then?’
    It is an insult to call what is on my plate a salad. Two baby tomatoes, a large lettuce leaf, browning around the edges like a warning of autumn, a strip of celery and four slices of ham so thin you can see the plate’s pattern through them.
    ‘Waiter,’ I say and look around. Other diners study their plates.
    ‘Ray, you have mine.’ Allessandra pushes her plate towards me.
    ‘No thanks, Allessandra. Waiter.’ Even louder. The kitchen door opens and a young man walks towards us. A resigned expression on his face. He stands at the table, holding his hands in front of his swollen belly.
    ‘Is there something wrong?’ His face is a curious mix of masculine and feminine. Cropped hair, finely arched eyebrows, long lashes, a nose that looks as if it has taken a punch or two and lips straining not to explode. His voice is also ambiguous. The sound is deep bass, but the rise in tone at the end of the question purely female.  I wonder if he is a transvestite out of hours. It must take dedication to get eyebrows as neatly curved as that.
    ‘What the hell do you call this?’ I ask.
    ‘It’s a ham and pineapple salad. Just as you ordered.’ The waiter’s expression doesn’t register the use of language or the aggressive tone. I could be commenting on the state of the traffic for all the reaction he allows.
    ‘Where’s the pineapple, then?’
    ‘It’s heavily disguised. As a stick of celery.’ A half-smile. He is so outrageous, I can’t help but laugh, the raw edge of my anger burned off by the waiter’s complete lack of response.
    He nods at the kitchen and lowers his voice. ‘The chef’s on the sick. Chronic depression. We got a wee lassie in off the brew. Chef sans papiers , you might say. Doesn’t know her tits fae her elbows. Still, we’ve kept her off the streets for a few hours.’ He smiles, showing a set of fabulously white teeth. ‘Can we tempt you with something else? Amuse bouche ? Coq au vin ? Steak au poivre ? Egg and chips?’
    ‘What the hell. I’ve had a long day. I deserve it.’ I join in with his attempt at levity and shrug at Allessandra in a sometimes it’s better to just laugh it off kind of way. ‘Egg and chips.’
    ‘How would Sir like his eggs?’ he bows.
    ‘Medium-rare. Hold the sauce.’ A McBain smile.
    The waiter retreats. We sit in silence, both lost in our own thoughts until…
    ‘Ray?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘What do you make of Peters?’ She pushes a couple of chips around on her plate, hitting them against some peas.
    ‘Em… all right, if you like that sort of thing. How do you mean?’
    ‘Well. As a policeman. I mean. I don’t fancy him