Free Maxwell’s Ride by M. J. Trow Page B

wandered the parks. He was an easy mark for Micky Lloyd, always on the hustle and not particularly fussy how he made his money. They’d met one sunny Sunday in February, in the public toilets under the giant shadow of Portchester castle. A quick bit of business in one of the cubicles and then it was a nice Peugeot ride to a snobby building along Queen’s Crescent. Some frosty old cow of a housekeeper had looked down her nose at Lloyd, but there was nothing she could do. The boy ate well there, drank, watched videos, mostly imported Dutch stuff and went off to college with a wad of cash in his jeans. He was happy, the old poof was happy. What could be wrong with any of that?
    ‘But he wasn’t the only one,’ Maxwell was thinking out loud as Chris Logan dropped him outside 38 Columbine at the witching hour.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Micky Lloyd. Not the only toy boy of the late Mr Warner.’
    ‘It’s the gun thing,’ Logan was tapping his steering wheel, frowning at the empty street ahead.
    ‘I know,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘Disgruntled AC/DC – or just plain DC – boys might go for a punter with a knife or a hammer or their boots. But a high-powered rifle … Was the Echo right, by the way?’
    ‘Ha, ha,’ Logan laughed. ‘There’s an unwritten law in the newspaper game, Max – never admit the other guy’s right. I didn’t get that from the police press conference the other day. They must have inside info.’
    ‘Who would that be from? Hall? Bartholomew?’
    Logan shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know anybody on the force? Somebody we can trust?’
    ‘No,’ Maxwell shook his head, a vision of a girl scowling at him, tears welling in her quiet, grey eyes. ‘No. Nobody. Anyway,’ he turned to Logan, ‘What’s this “we”, white man?’
    The newspaperman laughed. ‘Max, I must admit – old teacher and all – when I took you along this afternoon, I was a bit, well …’
    ‘Pissed off?’
    ‘Well pissed off,’ Logan agreed, phrasemaker that he was. ‘But, well, watching you work …’
    ‘It was a joy to behold, yes, I know. Thank you, Chris. Now, to save my blushes, I must away. It’s long past my bedtime.’
    ‘What happens tomorrow?’ Logan leaned across as Maxwell was about to close the door.
    ‘Well,’ Maxwell pondered it, ‘the sun comes up, assuming we can see it, about five …’
    ‘I’m serious, Max. This morning the Larry Warner thing was just a story. Now …’
    ‘Now it’s a crusade,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Watch it, Chris. You’re starting to care. That’s fatal, believe me.’
    ‘I’m in,’ Logan insisted. ‘Ring me.’
    ‘All right,’ Maxwell said. Perhaps the geek had grown up after all. And he watched the dark Rover snarl away into the night.
    Softly, softly, he put his key into the lock, treading over Metternich lying like a draught excluder inside the door. The flick of the tail was the furry bastard’s shorthand for ‘And what time do you call this?’ He crept up the stairs to the half light of his lounge and all three of them were lying there, fast asleep, Tiffany curled tightly on the armchair, dreaming of Brad Pitt or, God forbid, Leonardo di Caprio; Lucy snuggled into the safe, enveloping arms of Sylvia Matthews, whom Maxwell had asked to babysit again. And Sylvia? Maxwell could never guess what she dreamed of. He poured himself a Southern Comfort and sat down on the floor, his knees under his chin, his glass against his nose. He’d wake them presently, tell them all was well. There was no sign tonight of Robert de Niro. And he blew a kiss to them. His girls.
    Later, he couldn’t remember how it fitted into his dreams, but it was probably the school bell, tolling the knell of yet another god-awful day. Then he realized it wasn’t the end of a day, but the start of one and it was as black as pitch in the tip he called a bedroom.
    ‘War Office.’ Even at an impossible time in the morning, Max was quite Mad.
    ‘Max, it’s