Free DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) by Helen Zahavi Page B

other.
    ‘Fancy a new motor?’
    ‘I’d like that one,’ she announced, pointing at the Austin-Healey.
    Joe grinned and punched the man lightly on the shoulder.
    ‘Don’t go winding up my lady.’
    Phil grinned back at him.
    ‘Can’t help it, squire.’ The grin went stiff. ‘But you need some wheels, right?’
    ‘Might do.’
    ‘I mean you need them bad, right?’
    ‘You making an offer?’
    The man fiddled with his nose again.
    ‘Just a suggestion.’
    ‘So what you got, then?’
    ‘Mark Two Capri.’
    Joey nodded, thinking it over.
    ‘Runner, is it?’
    ‘Like a rocket. It’s a wideboy motor, if you know what I mean.’
    He led them round to the back of the shed and there it was, in shades of blue: a two-tone Ford Capri. Joe lifted the bonnet and peered at the engine.
    ‘Bit clean,’ he muttered.
    ‘It’s for the punters. You know they’re fussy.’
    Joe started walking slowly round, kicking the tyres, running his fingers over the body. He squatted down in front of the radiator and squinted along the wing.
    ‘Got a new door,’ he noted.
    Phil chewed the matchstick.
    ‘I’m not saying it hasn’t had work.’
    Joe hauled himself to his feet.
    ‘Can we get it on the ramp?’
    ‘Bit late for that. Have to think of the neighbours.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Joe grunted. ‘Sure.’
    He glanced at Donna and raised his eyebrows. She shrugged and nodded.
    ‘I’ll give you eight hundred,’ he said.
    Phil snorted. He pulled out the rod and banged the hood closed.
    ‘You don’t get it, do you?’
    ‘Get what?’
    ‘Punters like you get special prices.’
    ‘A grand,’ Joe said, ‘and we drive away.’
    ‘Three and a half,’ Phil countered, ‘and I’ll fill the tank.’
    Joe gazed at him.
    ‘You know what you are?’
    ‘I’m a dealer, son.’
    ‘You’re a nine-carat cunt.’
    Phil shrugged.
    ‘Same thing.’
     
    * * *
     

CHAPTER 9
     
     
    ‘We could always go abroad.’ she said
    It was only a suggestion, her way of being helpful, her modest contribution for the evening. They’d found a room in Finsbury, a quite appalling room, but she’d blocked it out, she’s not complaining. Small double bed, an unshaded bulb, and it’s twenty-three pounds, all charges included. There wasn’t a telly, though you had your own shower. But it’s got a smell, and she knows that smell, a syrupy compound of damp and decay, like a place she’d stayed in Camden. For Donna’s been around a bit, been shifting herself around.
    ‘Just shoot off abroad, just the two of us.’
    She looked at herself in the mirror.
    ‘Be quite romantic. Like a honeymoon.’
    ‘You mean somewhere foreign?’
    ‘Somewhere like that.’
    She put a finger on the shadowed skin beneath her eyes and pulled it gently down. Inflamed, she thought. I’m dying.
    ‘Where they do pasta,’ she added.
    ‘I don’t like pasta.’
    ‘Where they do burgers, then.’
    He was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had his shoes on, which bothered her, but only slightly. She leaned towards the glass and scrutinized her reflection. A small, pink lump had formed on her chin.
    ‘I’ve got a spot, Joe.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Maybe it’s a guilt-spot, because I took an old man’s money.’
    She peered closer.
    ‘My conscience must be troubling me.’
    ‘You haven’t got a conscience,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve got a spot.’
    ‘Do you think that bloke downstairs noticed?’
    ‘I think he did.’
    ‘Is it very noticeable?’
    ‘What do you want me to say?’
    ‘Say no.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I’ll put some stuff on it tomorrow.’
    ‘Why don’t you just squeeze it?’
    ‘Makes them spread, if you do that.’
    ‘They’re spreading already.’
    ‘That supposed to mean something, is it?’
    ‘It means you had one the other night.’
    ‘Which night?’
    ‘The night we met,’ he said. ‘Round at Carlo’s.’
    ‘That was a period spot.’
    ‘A what spot?’
    ‘You remember, sweetie: off our food, and blood everywhere . .