Read Online Finished Business by David Wishart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Wishart
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item?’
‘Again, that I can’t tell you. Like I say, I haven’t seen her around for almost a year. Otillius drops in sometimes, but it’s not a subject I’d risk raising with him, and he doesn’t volunteer.’
‘So where
can
I find him?’
Another shrug. ‘Well, sir, it’s your funeral,’ he said. ‘Don’t come back and say you weren’t warned. Your best bet’s the market. Any of the porters’ll be able to point him out to you. And there’re plenty of people around in case he does decide to get nasty.’
Shit. Still, it had to be done.
Things were getting complicated. And I was rapidly beginning to revise my opinion of sweet little Tarquitia.
NINE
A s a matter of fact, the market was pretty quiet. Unsurprisingly so, really: we were halfway through the afternoon, the morning rush was long over, most of the stalls were tenantless and clear of produce, and there was only a scattering of both stallholders and customers. I couldn’t see any porters in evidence, either, so the chances of Otillius still being around were pretty slim. Even so, it was worth asking rather than putting it off and having to take the long hike back here another day.
I tried a couple of the remaining stallholders first with no result, before an old woman selling eggs pointed me towards the edge of the square.
‘You might find him over there, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s where a lot of the men go when they’ve finished for the day.’
I looked. Sure enough, there were some tables and benches with people sitting at them.
‘Thanks, grandma, much obliged,’ I said, and walked over. It wasn’t an actual wine shop, just a drinking area with a canvas booth and a makeshift bar counter. But it was popular enough, and filled entirely, as the old woman had said, with the male element of the market’s sellers and porters. I got a few glances as I went up to the counter, but they were curious rather than unfriendly ones.
The guy behind the bar was already pouring me an earthenware cup of wine from the single jug on the counter – basic was right; evidently you took what you got – and I pulled out my purse.
‘You happen to know a porter by the name of Otillius, pal?’ I said as I paid.
‘Titus Otillius?’ The man gave me my change. Well, the price couldn’t’ve been lower, anyway. ‘That’s him.’ He nodded. ‘The big guy over there in the corner, with the red tunic.’
I took a sip of the wine, decided I’d been grossly overcharged after all, and followed the direction of the nod. ‘Red’ was an exaggeration, but from the looks of the tunic in question I’d guess it was more or less a permanent fixture that had never seen the inside of a fuller’s shop. Maybe our barman here just had a very good memory.
‘Big’, however, was a gross understatement: Naevius’s garden slave, Cilix, came to mind. With added extras. And a head-banger into the bargain, right?
Thank you, thank you, Vulpis. Most appreciated. Still, I had been warned.
Shit.
Ah, well, such are the sacrifices I make in the service of honesty, truth and justice. I sighed inwardly and carried my cup over.
‘Titus Otillius?’ I said. He looked up but didn’t answer. ‘Name’s Corvinus. Marcus Corvinus.’ Still no response. There was another stool at the table opposite him. I pulled it out and sat. ‘I understand you’re Tarquitia’s husband.’
‘So they tell me,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen the little bitch for almost a year.’ His eyes went to the stripe on my tunic. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I said. Marcus Corvinus.’
A hand the size of a ham reached out and grabbed my tunic just below the neck. I jerked forwards, spilling my wine.
‘You one of the bastard’s relatives?’
I temporized. ‘Ah … which particular bastard would that be, now?’
‘Who do you think? Naevius fucking Surdinus.’
‘Uh-uh.’ I reached up and slowly, gently, unprised the grip, finger by sausage-sized finger. ‘Not me, pal, no way. Perish
‘Again, that I can’t tell you. Like I say, I haven’t seen her around for almost a year. Otillius drops in sometimes, but it’s not a subject I’d risk raising with him, and he doesn’t volunteer.’
‘So where
can
I find him?’
Another shrug. ‘Well, sir, it’s your funeral,’ he said. ‘Don’t come back and say you weren’t warned. Your best bet’s the market. Any of the porters’ll be able to point him out to you. And there’re plenty of people around in case he does decide to get nasty.’
Shit. Still, it had to be done.
Things were getting complicated. And I was rapidly beginning to revise my opinion of sweet little Tarquitia.
NINE
A s a matter of fact, the market was pretty quiet. Unsurprisingly so, really: we were halfway through the afternoon, the morning rush was long over, most of the stalls were tenantless and clear of produce, and there was only a scattering of both stallholders and customers. I couldn’t see any porters in evidence, either, so the chances of Otillius still being around were pretty slim. Even so, it was worth asking rather than putting it off and having to take the long hike back here another day.
I tried a couple of the remaining stallholders first with no result, before an old woman selling eggs pointed me towards the edge of the square.
‘You might find him over there, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s where a lot of the men go when they’ve finished for the day.’
I looked. Sure enough, there were some tables and benches with people sitting at them.
‘Thanks, grandma, much obliged,’ I said, and walked over. It wasn’t an actual wine shop, just a drinking area with a canvas booth and a makeshift bar counter. But it was popular enough, and filled entirely, as the old woman had said, with the male element of the market’s sellers and porters. I got a few glances as I went up to the counter, but they were curious rather than unfriendly ones.
The guy behind the bar was already pouring me an earthenware cup of wine from the single jug on the counter – basic was right; evidently you took what you got – and I pulled out my purse.
‘You happen to know a porter by the name of Otillius, pal?’ I said as I paid.
‘Titus Otillius?’ The man gave me my change. Well, the price couldn’t’ve been lower, anyway. ‘That’s him.’ He nodded. ‘The big guy over there in the corner, with the red tunic.’
I took a sip of the wine, decided I’d been grossly overcharged after all, and followed the direction of the nod. ‘Red’ was an exaggeration, but from the looks of the tunic in question I’d guess it was more or less a permanent fixture that had never seen the inside of a fuller’s shop. Maybe our barman here just had a very good memory.
‘Big’, however, was a gross understatement: Naevius’s garden slave, Cilix, came to mind. With added extras. And a head-banger into the bargain, right?
Thank you, thank you, Vulpis. Most appreciated. Still, I had been warned.
Shit.
Ah, well, such are the sacrifices I make in the service of honesty, truth and justice. I sighed inwardly and carried my cup over.
‘Titus Otillius?’ I said. He looked up but didn’t answer. ‘Name’s Corvinus. Marcus Corvinus.’ Still no response. There was another stool at the table opposite him. I pulled it out and sat. ‘I understand you’re Tarquitia’s husband.’
‘So they tell me,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen the little bitch for almost a year.’ His eyes went to the stripe on my tunic. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I said. Marcus Corvinus.’
A hand the size of a ham reached out and grabbed my tunic just below the neck. I jerked forwards, spilling my wine.
‘You one of the bastard’s relatives?’
I temporized. ‘Ah … which particular bastard would that be, now?’
‘Who do you think? Naevius fucking Surdinus.’
‘Uh-uh.’ I reached up and slowly, gently, unprised the grip, finger by sausage-sized finger. ‘Not me, pal, no way. Perish
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