permission to leave.
âWhatâs your name?â I said.
âBilly,â he said. âBilly Watson.â
âWell, Billy Watson,â I said, âI donât want to know what you do for a living that means you can afford that fancy Italian suit, but Iâm willing to bet it isnât working as a hod-carrier on a building site. And I bet it isnât legal. I just hope it isnât quite as illegal and ugly as I suspect it is.â
He looked down at the floor and flushed an angry red. âYou canât talk to me like that,â he said.
âListen, son,â I said in my best avuncular manner, âa word of advice. Forget the tough-guy stuff. Youâre not cut out for it.â I shook my head. âYouâre not hard just because youâve got a sock full of sand in your pocket and youâre happy to hit someone with it from behind. Thatâs just sneaky. So, as long as youâre just sneaky, I reckon I can talk to you like that.â I shrugged. âI hope that you donât grow up to be vicious with it. Thatâll get you into all kinds of trouble.â
Some more gagging and hoarse coughing and a little shuffling suggested that Ricky Mountjoy was stirring behind me. Now, he was already vicious and I was in no doubt about how cheesed off with me heâd be. Not only had I hurt him but Iâd also humiliated him in front of a subordinate â Billy Watson was just a runner, and Ricky was something more than that â and heâd be after revenge. Ah well, it couldnât be helped.
I turned around and made my way over to him. âRicky,â I said, âIâm sorry that I had to hit you, but you didnât give me any alternative.â
He looked up at me with real malice. âYouâve made a bad enemy,â he said. âIâll get you for that.â
I shrugged. âIâm sure youâll try, Ricky,â I said.
âYou bastards,â he said. âYouâre all the same. Just because youâve got a few medals, you think youâre heroes. Better than the rest of us.â
âNo one I know thinks that,â I said. I shook my head and stared down at him. âIâm trying to find someone,â I said. âThere was an American in here last night, looking to be  . . . accommodated. Heâs gone missing. I assume you arrange for people to be accommodated here, so I wondered what you know.â
âI wasnât in here last night,â he said. âI donât know nothing.â
Mrs Wilson, my white-haired old teacher at Church Road School, would have tutted over his grammar there, but I let it go. I was more bothered by the fact that he was lying, but I decided to let that go too.
âFair enough,â I said. âIf you hear anything, let me know.â I started to walk out and then turned back. âYou donât know where I might find Del, do you? I fancy a chat with him.â
He ignored me, and, after a few seconds of uneasy silence, I walked out of the room and down the stairs.
I hoped that Lee had stumbled back into Peteâs Place during my absence, but one glance at Peter Baxterâs gloomy face as I was waved back in by Bill was enough to confirm that he was still resolutely AWOL. There were a lot more people standing around now than there had been before, and the other three members of Peterâs quartet were shuffling around on stage as if preparing to play.
I joined Baxter and Jerry, who was cheerily slurping a pint, by the bar and admitted that all I had to show for my efforts was a lump on the head, the lasting enmity of a member of one of the nastiest families in my neck of the woods and the knowledge that Lee had been in the Frighted Horse the night before. Actually, I left out the stuff about the bash on the bonce and the sworn enmity of Ricky Mountjoy as being of no interest to him, but I told him everything else.
Peter Baxter looked even
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