“What is that? Welsh?”
“God knows, but we’re dealing with creative types—”
“Horses fer courses,” the Brick muttered, looking bewildered.
“—and now they’ve had their way with the GWH,” PA steam-rolled on, ignoring him, “we’re likely next up on the agenda.”
“Poor bloody bastard. All that handiwork is goin’ t’do serious damage to his unsullied image.” He grabbed back the cocktail shaker and partially filled a glass with the last drops of a Vesper. “When’d they find him?”
“Just before five o’clock.”
“What time’s it now?”
“Six. The last time you saw him?”
“We had a meeting at eight this morning, the one you slept through, an’ he stomped out about eight-thirty.”
“And you passed out when?”
“The kid lasted only a couple’a hours. Me? Sheesh, now I’m strugglin’. Reckon, last time I checked, it was three in the arvo. Guess I lost it after.”
“So he was butchered some time between eight-thirty and five. Daylight hours, in a very public space, while you boys were having your soirée.”
“Hey, fair crack o’ the whip, dollface — also while you was indulgin’ in mootably deserved forty winks.”
The woman looked away. “Mmm.”
“Makin’ all’a us appear incompetent, an’ the GWH the beneficiary o’ that lapse.” The Brick finished his drink in an instant. “Okay, well. Blame games aside — let’s get them facts. Any witnesses?”
“The mayor says none.”
“Is that possible?” Jack wondered.
“Dubious, if you ask me.”
“I was asking.”
Lobbing his glass over the railing, the Brick stood up. “Pity the statue can’t blab.”
PA almost smiled. “If it did, we could replace you. So. What on earth are we going to do? For all his faults, the GWH did lead us.”
“You think so?”
“I’m trying hard to be generous, since he’s dead. Anyway, we need a new leader.”
“No way I wanna be boss. You?”
“Not my style.”
Jack panicked. “Don’t dare look at me.”
“Kid — we’re not.”
Seemingly thoughtful, Pretty Amazonia stared out over the city as the sun set. “Maybe we should play it democratic for a while?”
#128
After they inspected, and then identified, the mutilated corpse on a slab at City Hall’s morgue, Jack cut loose from his cohorts under some pathetic pretext. He got changed in a public toilet upstairs and met Louise outside the Warbucks bank.
They’d made a date to go see a movie.
While Jack was tempted to suggest Bijou, the Monster from Mars!, Louise chose a musical, a monochrome number with lots of dancehall rollicking and a man in top hat and tails, spinning his partner across a landscape that looked like a cinematographer’s gaudy version of nirvana. Louise held his hand throughout, and at one stage she rested her cheek on his shoulder.
Before and after the film, Jack said less than usual.
Too much circulated through his head — most of all, he kept visualizing the Great White Hope’s empty eye sockets, along with special guest star vignettes from Marat in the bathtub and the rolling, decapitated skull of Iffy Bizness.
On top of these apparitions, he was nursing a killer hangover, and gradually the girl got it. Louise adapted to his mood, could probably smell the stale alcohol, and distanced herself.
Following on from an obligatory post-screening coffee, they said their goodbyes without so much as a hug — just an awkward, puzzled exchange.
#129
The Brick was babbling on about some motorcycle while he drove, and he promised to give Jack lessons on the thing the very next morning.
“I’m talkin’ up me Orley Ray Courtney-revamped 1930 Henderson. Rare as hen’s teeth: four-cylinders, 1300 cc — bliss on ten-inch wheels. Fer starters, picture a chassis wrapped in an elegant shell that begins with a rounded nose and grille, like a ’34 Chrysler Airflow, and finishes up on the wee backside reminiscent o’ an Auburn Speedster. Along the way, it’s a Coke-bottle-shaped, goddamned art-deco miracle.”
“You sound enamoured,” his partner mused in the passenger seat.
“With seductive curves like this, what’s not t’love?”
“Think I need to see the thing to get the affection. I’m having trouble imagining it, and looking like a Coke bottle doesn’t sound pretty.”
The Brick was chauffeuring them both across town to meet Pretty Amazonia.
The man drove his car like you probably can imagine — lead-footed — but otherwise played it remarkably safe in terms of plying traffic. The other automobiles were much slower and boxier, and the Brick slid his car between them with a good millimetre or two to spare.