The Godking was getting out of his Uber in a neighborhood in Blackpool that I only knew from meeting a number of extralegal types there. It wasn’t the roughest part of town - not even close - but it was filled with the kinds of bars and pubs where the clientele listed “drinking to forget” as their employment, and “bad ideas” as their favorite hobby.
“Keep following. Don’t get beaten up,” I sent back.
The workers were on a tea break, most of the media and all of the politicians were gone, as were the crowd and the less silly protestors. For the merest moment, it was quiet and I could see the beauty that had been in the area left undeveloped by the council estate that had stood there before, that could be the whole area again with a little time, and a lot less concrete.
A soft breeze carried the scent of fresh, wet earth, along with the faintly vanilla and wintergreen of the bee orchid, a flower that always made me a little sad, and the sweet, high call of the poor Willow Tit, who deserved more and better than what for Davies amounted to couch change.
I could all but see how it would look if only it could be left alone for a little while, and it made me sick to know we’d lost this one.Never mind, new battles to fight.
“Me, too, I have a headache, too,” the other twin whinged.
I turned towards them and the rest of the protestors and turned the nozzle on the garden hose.
Having been covered in mud rather than glory, the drunken mass submitted to my giving them a rough hosing down, splattering my suit jacket as theyflailed about.
Over the roar of the water and the sputtering cries of the now dripping crowd, I shouted, “You need to be careful about who you accept a drink from.”
Chapter Three
In which there is one woman in all of Blackpool who is definitely worth a second look.
Alec…
The relentless diet of generic pop-rock on the jukebox had faded into a pleasant blur by my fifth scotch. This was fortunate, because if I had to hear fucking ‘Come On, Eileen’ or ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’one more time I was going to shoot that jukebox with every bullet in my gun, and my Heckler & Koch held a lot of bullets.
This wasn’t the sort of bar to carry a top-shelf Scotch, like Macallan, but lately, I found that quality wasn’t as important as a bartender who knew to keep them coming after I threw a wad of cash his way.
I ended up in this shitty little pub after losing my security detail hours before. A grimy carpet underfoot had been there since 1970, based on the orange color and design. There were low wooden beams on the ceiling and hanging lamps gave out a golden glow that softened the shabby surroundings.
Over at the inevitable dartboard, five rough-looking gents were finding their aim was not improving over the course of eight rounds of beer. If one of those darts ended up in my arm, I’d have an excellent excuse to start a fight and beat the shit out of all five of them.
Finishing off my glass of scotch, I wondered if that’s what I needed; a good fight, a black eye, and some bloody knuckles toblow away all the cobwebs and help me think clearly again.
“Another round.” I tapped two fingers on the bar.
“Am I going to need to take your keys, Chief?” He eyed me dubiously but poured me another.
“I can hold my drink.” This was true. I’d consumed enough alcohol in the last month or two to murder a dozen livers, and here I was, still standing.
My phone buzzed angrily every thirty seconds until I put it on silent, but a new name lit up the screen as I glanced down.
Fucking Alastair Taylor.
Sliding off the stool with some sense of balance and dignity left, I meandered toward the men’s room. My jaw tightened as I hit the button on my phone for the messages.
Hey, Silk Tie McAsshole. You’re going to have to pick up eventually. I’d prefer sooner than later. I know you’d rather get a Brazilian wax than talk to me, but we’ve been friends for twenty years.
Call me.
“Silk Tie McAsshole? That one’s new,” I mumbled.
A woman was sitting next to my empty stool at the bar.
“Hi!” She gave a little shimmy of her shoulders. “I saved your spot.” Her hair was sprayed to impressive heights and dyed pink to match her shiny tank top.
The bartender I considered my new best friend had a fresh drink ready for me.
“I’m Bella. What’s your name?”
