Read Online Beyond the Rage by Michael J. Malone - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael J. Malone
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over.
Strangely, these new owners managed to make a success of the business without increasing the footfall.
• • •
Kenny was on his third Glenmorangie – ice and water – when McBain turned up. Reading what Kenny was nursing before him, he ordered the same. The barmaid took enough time from her dedicated reading of Real Lives, Real Loves magazine to pour him a measure.
While she was temporarily busy, Ray looked around himself. He took in the low ceilings, the soft lighting, the giant saxophone over the bar and the two other customers, who were tucked away in far corner. By the way they were sucking the face of each other he guessed they were in love.
‘Right, buddy,’ the barmaid said, sliding the glass towards him. She was tall and stringy, with cropped packet-blonde hair and wearing a black blouse and skirt. Her expression was as devoid of personal expression as her clothing. Bored to distraction, she named the price.
‘Charmed,’ said Ray, holding his glass towards her and toasting her complete lack of it. She threw him a twisted smile and went back to her tale of the man with two heads who married the woman with three hands.
He placed his glass on the table, sat on the chair across from Kenny and exhaled long and deep. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Ray said. ‘Crime never rests.’
‘ Au contraire , my friend, yes it does.’ Kenny held his glass up, mimicking Ray’s interaction with the barmaid. ‘So,’ – he assessed his friend – ‘which part of the Luther Vandross weight yo-yo are you currently on?’ He was of course referring to the now-deceased soul singer who was just as famous for his agonised deliberations about weight on the sofa with Oprah as he was for the numerous albums he produced.
‘Rushing back up to being a fat bastard.’ Ray lost and gained the same twenty pounds on a regular basis.
‘You should get yourself to the gym, man.’
‘What, and deprive the ladies of all this loving?’ Ray grinned. ‘It’s not the size of the nail that counts, it’s the fifteen stone knocking it in.’
‘Right. Fifteen stone.’ Kenny had the good manners not to snort. ‘Talking about which, you getting any?’ He delicately enquired about the state of his friend’s love life.
‘Yup,’ said Ray. ‘I had sex with an actual person the other night.’
‘Was she blind or drunk?’
‘Blind drunk,’ Ray answered with a laugh. ‘She expressed her gratitude by leaving her phone number on the bathroom mirror and a pair of panties in my fridge.’ He took a sip.
‘You’ll have to have a shower and steam up the mirror before you can call her. Perhaps there’s a message there.’
‘At least I don’t have to pay for it.’
‘I don’t have to do anything, buddy. I chose to. An important distinction. I am taking part in an act of commerce. Helping to keep the economy afloat in these troubled times.’
‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer should send you a wee note of thanks.’
‘Or at the very least a tax rebate.’
‘You pay tax?’
Kenny held his hand up. The pad of his thumb and his index finger barely touching.
Ray drained his glass and returned to the bar. The barmaid actually sighed.
‘Customers get in the way of a hard day’s work, don’t you think?’ Ray asked her.
She smiled an apology as if feeling a pang of conscience. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. ‘Same again?’
‘You can read me like a book, sweetheart.’
She leaned over the bar, giving him a look down her cleavage. Her breasts were so far apart and her top so low and loose he could almost see down to her navel.
‘Can I get you anything else...?’ she asked. The space she left at the end of her sentence a request for his name.
‘A pair of dark glasses?’ he said.
She completely misread him and gave a little toss of her hair as if to say, You’ll have to try harder than that, mister .
She served the drinks. He paid and carried them over to the table.
‘I think I preferred it when she
Strangely, these new owners managed to make a success of the business without increasing the footfall.
• • •
Kenny was on his third Glenmorangie – ice and water – when McBain turned up. Reading what Kenny was nursing before him, he ordered the same. The barmaid took enough time from her dedicated reading of Real Lives, Real Loves magazine to pour him a measure.
While she was temporarily busy, Ray looked around himself. He took in the low ceilings, the soft lighting, the giant saxophone over the bar and the two other customers, who were tucked away in far corner. By the way they were sucking the face of each other he guessed they were in love.
‘Right, buddy,’ the barmaid said, sliding the glass towards him. She was tall and stringy, with cropped packet-blonde hair and wearing a black blouse and skirt. Her expression was as devoid of personal expression as her clothing. Bored to distraction, she named the price.
‘Charmed,’ said Ray, holding his glass towards her and toasting her complete lack of it. She threw him a twisted smile and went back to her tale of the man with two heads who married the woman with three hands.
He placed his glass on the table, sat on the chair across from Kenny and exhaled long and deep. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Ray said. ‘Crime never rests.’
‘ Au contraire , my friend, yes it does.’ Kenny held his glass up, mimicking Ray’s interaction with the barmaid. ‘So,’ – he assessed his friend – ‘which part of the Luther Vandross weight yo-yo are you currently on?’ He was of course referring to the now-deceased soul singer who was just as famous for his agonised deliberations about weight on the sofa with Oprah as he was for the numerous albums he produced.
‘Rushing back up to being a fat bastard.’ Ray lost and gained the same twenty pounds on a regular basis.
‘You should get yourself to the gym, man.’
‘What, and deprive the ladies of all this loving?’ Ray grinned. ‘It’s not the size of the nail that counts, it’s the fifteen stone knocking it in.’
‘Right. Fifteen stone.’ Kenny had the good manners not to snort. ‘Talking about which, you getting any?’ He delicately enquired about the state of his friend’s love life.
‘Yup,’ said Ray. ‘I had sex with an actual person the other night.’
‘Was she blind or drunk?’
‘Blind drunk,’ Ray answered with a laugh. ‘She expressed her gratitude by leaving her phone number on the bathroom mirror and a pair of panties in my fridge.’ He took a sip.
‘You’ll have to have a shower and steam up the mirror before you can call her. Perhaps there’s a message there.’
‘At least I don’t have to pay for it.’
‘I don’t have to do anything, buddy. I chose to. An important distinction. I am taking part in an act of commerce. Helping to keep the economy afloat in these troubled times.’
‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer should send you a wee note of thanks.’
‘Or at the very least a tax rebate.’
‘You pay tax?’
Kenny held his hand up. The pad of his thumb and his index finger barely touching.
Ray drained his glass and returned to the bar. The barmaid actually sighed.
‘Customers get in the way of a hard day’s work, don’t you think?’ Ray asked her.
She smiled an apology as if feeling a pang of conscience. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. ‘Same again?’
‘You can read me like a book, sweetheart.’
She leaned over the bar, giving him a look down her cleavage. Her breasts were so far apart and her top so low and loose he could almost see down to her navel.
‘Can I get you anything else...?’ she asked. The space she left at the end of her sentence a request for his name.
‘A pair of dark glasses?’ he said.
She completely misread him and gave a little toss of her hair as if to say, You’ll have to try harder than that, mister .
She served the drinks. He paid and carried them over to the table.
‘I think I preferred it when she
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