Free No More Heroes by Ray Banks Page B

rustle of the newspaper at the other end. “You’ve read what they’re saying, have you?”
    “About you? I saw something.”
    “So you know what they’re doing to me,” says Plummer. “Hounding me.”
    “It’s not that bad.”
    “I can’t do business like a human being. I’m being written about.”
    “That’s very sad, Donald. But, I’ll tell you, if you want to put your tenants in firetraps, that’s your problem. Can’t expect to get away with it forever. And it’s hardly my fuckin’ fault the place caught alight, is it?”
    “It didn’t just catch alight and you know it.”
    “Whatever. Not my problem.”
    He must think I’m going to hang up on him, because he suddenly speaks quick and high. “I need your help on this, Callum.”
    “You remember who you’re talking to, right?”
    “Seriously, I need to know who did this to me.”
    “I’m sure you do. I suggest you hire a private investigator. Yellow Pages is a good start.”
    “I’ll pay good money.”
    “You don’t have good money.” I sit on the couch, stretch. Try to relax, because there’s an edge to my voice that I need to control. No sense in getting upset here. I’m the one in control. “I’ve done your jobs before, Donald. All the showers I had to take, my skin’s puckered to fuck. And, hey, I lost count of all the beatings I took on your behalf. Which is, I believe, what prompted this in the first place, am I right?”
    “Callum—”
    “I’ve walked, Donald. This is me, having walked away .”
    There’s a pause. Plummer sounds like he’s growling, but it’s probably interference on the line.
    “This is your fault. You know that.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “If you hadn’t been such a bloody hero about all this, it would’ve blown over. Just would’ve been a tragic accident, local landlord gets slap on wrist. But no, you had to go mouthing off, get your picture in the paper.”
    “To take away from the fact that someone fuckin’ died , Don.”
    “And who’s paying for that? I’m the one they’re calling—”
    “The Slumlord of Manchester.”
    “Because you can’t let go of your fifteen fucking minutes. I’m the victim here, Callum.”
    “Oh, you’re the victim? See, I must’ve been confused, because I thought the dead woman was the victim. Maybe her family, who, just in case you hadn’t noticed, are now homeless. Not that they would’ve had a place to live for very long anyway.”
    “You self-righteous—”
    “You finished?”
    “No.”
    “Yeah, you are. And you know what? You are a slumlord. And a prize cunt into the bargain.”
    I put the phone down on him. Look at it and finish my drink. Light another cigarette and get off the couch. Keep staring at the phone.
    Fifteen minutes. Fuck him.
    I pour another drink. Suck the smoke out of my Embassy and grind it out. Sparks and ash fly onto the coffee table. I batter the sparks into the table.
    I did something. Paulo’s proud of me, which is a minor fucking miracle, the way things have been going since I got out of prison. And I’m a hero PI, I’m a name , I am known. People actually know me now. And that’s not going to last, I know that, but there’s no reason I can’t enjoy it while it’s happening, is there? Fuck it, if nothing else, it’ll be a story to drink on for a while.
    I grab the newspaper again, realise I can’t focus on anything because my vision’s gone double, triple, all over the fucking shop. Doesn’t matter. I think I know most of it off by heart anyway. So I stare at the picture of myself looking all shitty and drink the vodka.
    When the phone rings again, I pick up the receiver, slam it down once, then leave it off the hook. He can shove his fifteen minutes up his arse, right along with his job. Top up my drink and propose a toast to myself.
    Here’s to living the fucking dream.

15
    Donald Plummer doesn’t think a slam-down hang up is a strong enough response. Say no till you’re blue in the gills,