Read Online Maid of the Mist by Colin Bateman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Colin Bateman
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going to walk around with syringes hanging out of their pockets. They're going to look like businessmen. Like him.'
There was a clean-cut guy in a grey suit reading a convention programme. He was middle-aged, he had wire glasses. He had a little yellow convention badge. Corrigan looked at Stirling, Stirling shrugged, they walked across. They identified themselves.
He blinked up at them, his face pink, his smile cagey. 'Yes, officers, what can I do for you?'
'You have any identification, sir?' Stirling said.
'Certainly.' He produced a leather wallet. He offered his driving licence. 'I done anything wrong?'
'No, sir,' said Corrigan, 'just routine.'
'Walter J. Golden,' Stirling said.
'That's me,' said Walter.
'Texas,' said Stirling.
'Lone Star state,' said Walter.
'So,' said Stirling, 'I gotta lotta weeds at the bottom of my garden. What you recommend?'
Walter looked at him, confused for a moment. 'Well,' he said.
'Don't you know?' Stirling asked.
'Well, I'd be thinking you need to talk to a gardener.'
'You mean you really don't know? What kind of a horticulturalist doesn't know how to . . .'
'The kind lives in a five-million-dollar penthouse apartment in Dallas.' He was a bit red about the gills now. 'The kind imports five million tulips from Amsterdam every month and distributes them throughout the country, but who doesn't have any goddamn weeds in his garden because he doesn't have any goddamn garden. Honestly.' Walter zipped the licence out of Stirling's hand. 'Now if I can be of any further assistance, don't hesitate to ask.' He turned, pressing the licence back into his wallet, and in a few moments had disappeared back into the throng.
'Well?' said Corrigan.
'Well?' said Stirling.
'Have you got weeds at the bottom of your garden?'
Stirling shook his head. 'I haven't got a garden either. Walter and I have so much in common.'
'What do you think?' Corrigan asked.
Stirling shrugged. 'Tulips from Amsterdam. Amsterdam being the drugs capital of Europe, of course. Laxest laws on the continent. You know they can smoke dope in public? They have dope cafes. You can order it off a menu. And hookers who sit in windows showing their . . .'
'I take your point,' Corrigan said.
15
Stirling returned to the station; Corrigan went looking for Barry Lightfoot. He had to tour the building three times before he spotted him. Lightfoot saw Corrigan about the same time and ducked down behind a machine. He peeked around the corner only when he was sure Corrigan had missed him, but he hadn't, he was standing staring at him peeking around the corner. 'Do you ever sleep, Barry?' Corrigan asked.
Barry shook his head. 'What you want now, man?'
'I'm trying to track Tarriha down. I owe him some money.'
'You're chasing Tarriha to give him money? Man, you got your life back to front.'
'You know where to find him?'
Lightfoot's eyes flitted up to the security cameras. Then he pointed along the rows of gaming machines. Just for show. 'Reservation, across the border,' Lightfoot said. Corrigan gave him a look. 'OK, and he rents a room on Bridge Street too. But most of the time you can find him in Whiskey Nick's. On Drummond.'
'What's he do there?'
'Drinks,' said Lightfoot.
'Figures.' Corrigan smiled. 'I thought he might have another job.'
'No,' said Lightfoot, 'menial employment, drinks too much. He's pretty much your stereotypical Indian.'
'Cheers,' Corrigan said, 'I owe you one.' He turned to leave, then stopped and said: 'Incidentally, you haven't come across any international drug dealers on your travels, have you?'
'What?' said Lightfoot.
Corrigan shook his head. 'Nothing,' he said.
Madeline Hume was just trying the door of Tarriha's room in a collapsing boarding house on Bridge Street when Corrigan appeared at the end of the corridor. She looked round suddenly and said: 'Oh.'
'It's probably locked,' Corrigan said. 'Most people do these days.'
'I wasn't. . .' Madeline began. 'In case he didn't hear me.'
'Uhuh,'
There was a clean-cut guy in a grey suit reading a convention programme. He was middle-aged, he had wire glasses. He had a little yellow convention badge. Corrigan looked at Stirling, Stirling shrugged, they walked across. They identified themselves.
He blinked up at them, his face pink, his smile cagey. 'Yes, officers, what can I do for you?'
'You have any identification, sir?' Stirling said.
'Certainly.' He produced a leather wallet. He offered his driving licence. 'I done anything wrong?'
'No, sir,' said Corrigan, 'just routine.'
'Walter J. Golden,' Stirling said.
'That's me,' said Walter.
'Texas,' said Stirling.
'Lone Star state,' said Walter.
'So,' said Stirling, 'I gotta lotta weeds at the bottom of my garden. What you recommend?'
Walter looked at him, confused for a moment. 'Well,' he said.
'Don't you know?' Stirling asked.
'Well, I'd be thinking you need to talk to a gardener.'
'You mean you really don't know? What kind of a horticulturalist doesn't know how to . . .'
'The kind lives in a five-million-dollar penthouse apartment in Dallas.' He was a bit red about the gills now. 'The kind imports five million tulips from Amsterdam every month and distributes them throughout the country, but who doesn't have any goddamn weeds in his garden because he doesn't have any goddamn garden. Honestly.' Walter zipped the licence out of Stirling's hand. 'Now if I can be of any further assistance, don't hesitate to ask.' He turned, pressing the licence back into his wallet, and in a few moments had disappeared back into the throng.
'Well?' said Corrigan.
'Well?' said Stirling.
'Have you got weeds at the bottom of your garden?'
Stirling shook his head. 'I haven't got a garden either. Walter and I have so much in common.'
'What do you think?' Corrigan asked.
Stirling shrugged. 'Tulips from Amsterdam. Amsterdam being the drugs capital of Europe, of course. Laxest laws on the continent. You know they can smoke dope in public? They have dope cafes. You can order it off a menu. And hookers who sit in windows showing their . . .'
'I take your point,' Corrigan said.
15
Stirling returned to the station; Corrigan went looking for Barry Lightfoot. He had to tour the building three times before he spotted him. Lightfoot saw Corrigan about the same time and ducked down behind a machine. He peeked around the corner only when he was sure Corrigan had missed him, but he hadn't, he was standing staring at him peeking around the corner. 'Do you ever sleep, Barry?' Corrigan asked.
Barry shook his head. 'What you want now, man?'
'I'm trying to track Tarriha down. I owe him some money.'
'You're chasing Tarriha to give him money? Man, you got your life back to front.'
'You know where to find him?'
Lightfoot's eyes flitted up to the security cameras. Then he pointed along the rows of gaming machines. Just for show. 'Reservation, across the border,' Lightfoot said. Corrigan gave him a look. 'OK, and he rents a room on Bridge Street too. But most of the time you can find him in Whiskey Nick's. On Drummond.'
'What's he do there?'
'Drinks,' said Lightfoot.
'Figures.' Corrigan smiled. 'I thought he might have another job.'
'No,' said Lightfoot, 'menial employment, drinks too much. He's pretty much your stereotypical Indian.'
'Cheers,' Corrigan said, 'I owe you one.' He turned to leave, then stopped and said: 'Incidentally, you haven't come across any international drug dealers on your travels, have you?'
'What?' said Lightfoot.
Corrigan shook his head. 'Nothing,' he said.
Madeline Hume was just trying the door of Tarriha's room in a collapsing boarding house on Bridge Street when Corrigan appeared at the end of the corridor. She looked round suddenly and said: 'Oh.'
'It's probably locked,' Corrigan said. 'Most people do these days.'
'I wasn't. . .' Madeline began. 'In case he didn't hear me.'
'Uhuh,'
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