Free The Twain Maxim by Clem Chambers Page B

left the apartment.”
    “Yeah,” said Jim. “That’s quite a long time, isn’t it?” He felt a little told off. “But I did just make eight billion pounds.”
    “Eight billion pounds?” The butler’s grey eyebrows rose. “That’s an awful lot of money.”
    “Yes,” Jim said, smiling to himself. “It’s a fuck of a lot, isn’t it?”
    An SMS buzzed on his phone. It was Smith. “Curry?”
    “Bingo,” said Jim. “I’ve got a date.”
    “Very good, sir,” said Stafford. “On another subject, sir, if I may, I’d like to invite my two godchildren over to see me.”
    “Of course,” said Jim, and picked up his phone to call Smith. Stafford left as he listened for the dial tone.
    “Jimbo,” said Smith, by way of greeting.
    “Agent Smith,” said Jim, knowing it would be equally annoying to Smith. “What’s up, doc?”
    “Well, I could say that I find myself at a loose end, but that would sound like I’m a Billy-no-mates, so instead I’ll imply that I need to see you on a matter of some urgency.”
    “Do you?”
    “No,” said Smith, “none whatsoever. Just a catch-up.”
    “When have you got in mind?”
    “Tonight’s a goer but next week’s looking chaotic.”
    “Tonight,” said Jim.
     
    Jim looked sceptically at Smith’s phal . It was allegedly four times hotter than the wickedest vindaloo and had been responsible for people keeling over dead of a heart attack.
    “I don’t normally eat this particular delicacy in company,” said Smith, “but seeing as it’s you … Did Jane tell you about the Black Hand?” He spooned curry on to his rice.
    “Jane? The Black Hand? No,” he said. “We’re not together any more.”
    “That’s what she said, and that’s why I wanted to meet.”
    “Who are the Black Hand, and why should I need to know about them?” said Jim, thinking of how much he missed Jane.
    “They were the robbers you bumped into – or, rather, bumped off – in Paris. The Black Hand is a smallish Serbian terror organisation. They started the First World War.”
    “Bloody hell,” said Jim. “They’re a bit old, aren’t they?”
    Smith nodded and took his first forkful. As he savoured the moment, tiny beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “They are indeed, but that’s Balkan politics for you.”
    “So what does that mean for me?”
    “Well, you should avoid any trips to Serbia for a start.”
    “OK,” said Jim. “That should be easy.”
    “Otherwise, I just thought you should be aware – you know, friend to friend.”
    “How’s Jane?” said Jim, trying for nonchalance.
    “I wouldn’t know,” said Smith. “All women are a complete and utter mystery to me. When they look happy, they’re sad, and they cry when they should be laughing with joy. You buy them flowers and they think you’ve done something wrong. I’ve long since given up trying to read them.”
    “Did she talk about me?”
    “No,” said Smith. “Not in any meaningful way.”
    Jim looked at Smith’s phal and determined to commit suicide. “Can I have a mouthful of that?”
    “Are you sure, Jimbo?”
    “Yes,” he said, his fork poised over the dish.
    “Gently does it,” said Smith.
    Jim forked some into his mouth. Someone had poured molten metal on his tongue. He went bright red. His mouth puffed out and his eyes bulged. “Faaarkin’ ’ell,” he spluttered, reaching for his lager.
    Smith was catching the eye of the waiter.
    The lager extinguished the pain for as long as it was in his mouth. When he’d swallowed it, the heat came back with a vengeance. He was panting and glaring at Smith.
    “I did say.”
    Jim emptied his glass. The pain was still fierce.
    “ Raitha ,” Smith told the waiter, “and pronto.” The man smiled and scooted off. “Help is on its way.”
    Jim eyed Smith’s beer.
    “Beer’s no good,” said Smith. “The active ingredient of chilli is only fat soluble and right now it’s glued to your tongue. Only fat’ll get rid of it.”
    Jim