Free No More Heroes by Ray Banks Page A

leave, “you’ve not half put on the beef since they took this, eh?”
    I don’t say anything. Just push outside and shove an Embassy into my mouth. Turns out celebrity means politeness goes out of the fucking window. I’ll have to get used to that. Or else develop selective deafness. Either way, I can only hope that with celebrity comes paying work.
    Once I get home, I find it does. It just happens to be the last person I want as a client.

14
    Plummer’s read the same paper I have. I know that because he’s been leaving me messages all afternoon.
    “Callum, it’s Don. Give me a ring back.”
    “Callum, Don. Call me.”
    “Hey, come on, I know you’re there, alright? Ring me, will you?”
    Variations on a theme. Now I’ve turned the ringer off, all I need to hear is the click of the machine every hour on the hour. I don’t need to hear the message to know it’s Plummer, and I don’t need to listen to it in order to know he’s no longer the suave Cary Grant wannabe. The early messages showed the strain in his voice. The last one I heard, he was beginning to sound more like Jimmy Stewart.
    “Callum, this … This is important. You better — I’m warning you right now — you better call me back, okay? It’s really urgent that you call me. Right? Call. Me.”
    Desperation will do that to a bloke. And this kind of mithering’s enough to drive someone like me to the bottle. Course, my local offy just had its shutters pulled because of rats and green lager, so I have to make do with the rest of the Vladivar.
    So by the time Plummer calls back, I’ve had enough booze to feel like I’ve got something to say to him.
    I blow smoke as I answer: “Good evening, Callum Innes, private investigator, speaking. How can I help you?”
    “Oh, you’re a PI again, are you, Callum?” says Plummer.
    “Maybe.”
    “Where’ve you been?”
    “About. You know me.”
    “I know you’re not picking up your phone.”
    “What’s this, then? ESP?”
    A sigh. “You were supposed to come by the office and pick up work today. I’ve got a backlog for you and Frank.”
    “Ah, I thought we talked last night, Donald.”
    “Right—”
    “And I thought I told you then that if I got hurt one more time, I’d walk.” I clear my throat. “So guess what fuckin’ happened.”
    “You didn’t get hurt. I’ve got the paper in front of me right now. You look fine.”
    “The pain’s internal, Don.”
    I cough dramatically. Reckon if it’s good enough for Frank, it’s good enough for me.
    “Don’t be cheeky about this, Callum. My office, tomorrow morning.”
    That’s supposed to be the end of it, a direct order. No ifs, buts or questions. I have been told.
    Except I catch him before he hangs up. “No, I don’t think so.”
    “You what?”
    “I’d love to be able to help you out, Donald, but I’m afraid I think my cup runneth over.”
    “What’re you talking about?”
    “Let me just check my availability for the thing you just mentioned. One moment, please.”
    “Your availability ?”
    I put the phone in the crook of my neck, choke back a giggle with some more vodka and pour another glass. Leave Plummer hanging for a slow count of fifteen before I put the phone to my ear and clear my throat. “Donald. Hi. Thanks for holding there. I appreciate it. Thing is, though, I checked my diary, and what d’you know, I’m all booked up for the foreseeable. Maybe some other time, eh?”
    “You’re pissed,” he says.
    “You’re quick.”
    “And you’re not serious.”
    “As fuckin’ cancer, Donald.” I tap ash, talk with the cigarette in my mouth. “I’ve had enough of this shit to last me a lifetime.”
    “Come round, see me tomorrow morning, we’ll talk about it.”
    “Nothing to talk about. I’m through. I’m finished. I’ve decided, the decision has been made, I’m no longer going to be responsible for chucking people out of their homes.”
    Plummer exhales loud and long into the phone. There’s the