Chapter Thirteen - Klempner
812 Words
Chapter Thirteen - Klempner
The barkeep looks up from where he’s wiping down the bar. “Yes, sir. What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a beer…”
“Coming right up.”
“… and another for the little one over by the TV.”
His eyes slide sidelong, then he smiles. “I’m sure Mickey won’t say no to a free beer.”
“I’m sure he won’t… ?” I insert the question mark at the end of my sentence.
“Caleb, sir.”
“Thank you, Caleb. Have one for yourself too.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”
The smiling Caleb serves my drink, takes my money, depositing some of the change in a jar, then moves to the end of the bar where Mickey Miller stands, bottle in hand, expounding some piece of wisdom to a group of three others.
Tipping his head back, he sucks from the neck, then carries on talking, punctuating his speech with flourishes of the bottle. One of his companions disagrees, making some point himself with a similar bottle. Judging by the game on the TV above them, I’d say the four experts are jointly condemning the referee, rewriting footballing history with the correct strategy for play.
Caleb taps him on the shoulder, saying something quiet as he pushes a bottle across the bar. Mickey spins, following the pointing finger. As he sees me, he gawps.
For a moment, his jaw hangs, then he breaks into a beaming smile. Snatching up the beer, he barges toward me. “Hey, great to see you… er…” He pulls up short… “… er… Mr…?”
“Waterman,” I say quietly. “Lars Waterman.”
His eyes widen, and he nods with a touch of Well, how about that…
“Would your friends like another beer too?”
The smile returns. “Sure they would.”
I nod to Caleb who is standing by in time-honoured barman style, polishing glasses and pretending not to hear what’s being said around him.
Mickey’s three goons grin and wave as they get their beer.
“No girlfriend this time, Mickey?”
He grimaces. “No. I'm kinda off women after the last one.”
“I can understand that. Have you fully recovered?”
“Yeah, they fixed me up in the hospital. I’m fine now.” He blinks hard a couple of times. “I heard… They said… Juliana had got you. That you wuz dead, Mr Waterman. They told me after I got out of the hospital.”
“Is this the same They as in They say ‘That horse can’t lose’. Or They say ‘My dog never bites’?”
He grins. “It could have been them, but no. It was the police commissioner. He came to see me again, to ask me some questions while you wuzn’t around.”
“Is that right? What did he want to know?”
“Mainly he wanted to be sure that I wuzn’t lying. That well… that you’d not put the scarers on me not to say anything. And how did I know you?”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you’d always been fair with me and I just do gofer jobs for you sometimes. Then he said that Juliana had gone to Brazil and you’d followed her.” His eyes drop. “Some people said she’d snuffed you. I said I didn’t believe that. Juliana was a nutter, but it’d take more than a nutcase to bring you down.”
“The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated, Mickey.”
“Yeah… I can see that.” He nods slowly, sucks at his bottle again, then his head jerks up. He spins on the spot, looking wild. “Juliana…”
“Will trouble you no more.”
“That so?” He calms, then grimacing, presses a hand to his side. “Still aches where she stuck me.”
“It happens that way sometimes.”
He looks me up and down. “You okay, Mr… Waterman? You’ve lost some weight.”
“I’ve been dieting. Healthier that way, isn’t it. And call me Larry. That’s easier, I think.”
“Mmmm… I suppose… S’there something I can do for you… Larry?” Speculation glitters in his eye as he finishes his beer.
“There is. Mickey, where would you go to buy cheap builder’s equipment? Secondhand.”
His mouth opens and shuts a couple of times.
Different from what I normally ask him…
He scratches at his scalp. “Um, I dunno, Mr Kle... Larry. Not my thing, building work. What sort of equipment?”
“A friend of mine has had a large amount of equipment and tools stolen. Kangos, air compressor, generator. That kind of thing. And a lot of smaller equipment too. I'd like to retrieve it for him. Think you could ask around? Garage sales. Secondhand markets. A man in a bar offering to sell stuff cheap. There's something in it for you if you come up with anything.”
He brightens. “Yes, sure I can. Where can I get hold of you if I find something?”
I jot onto a beermat. “Here’s a number where you can reach me. If I don’t answer, leave a message.”
He grins again. “You’ve never given me a phone number before.”
“No, but I think you earned it earlier this year.”
His grin grows wider.
*****
My phone tings…
James looks briefly up from his laptop, brows raised, but makes no comment as I check the message. It’s Mickey.
*****
- Writer
