Read Online The Greenwich Apartments by Peter Corris - Free Book Online Page B

onto the stage.
    â€˜Ladies and gentlemen, the Champagne Cabaret is delighted to present—Ricky Gay!’
    A tall person with cleavage and curves and a blonde wig wriggled onto the stage, adjusted a silver lamé shoulder-strap and began to sing ‘Big Spender’. About half the people were interested in the singer, the other half were interested in each other and the booze. Three topless waitresses and the drinkers at the bar kept two barmen in red waistcoats busy. The place was hot and the barmen were sweating; I waited until I caught one of them taking a break to mop his face.
    â€˜I’d like to see Mr Darcy,’ I said. ‘Is he here?’
    â€˜I serve drinks,’ he said.
    â€˜Then I’ll take a Scotch and ice and could you tell me where to find Darcy?’
    He put away the handkerchief and made the drink. His hands were fast and if they were sweaty it didn’t seem to inconvenience him. He put the drink in front of me. His red face glowed under the light coming from behind the bar where there was also a long mirror edged with silver dollars.
    â€˜Here’s your drink.’
    I gave him five dollars. ‘Darcy?’
    He gave me two dollars change and served someone else.
    Ricky Gay finished singing ‘Big Spender’ and started to tell jokes. Another 10 per cent of the audience transferred their interest to companions and drinks. There was no music now but a few couples were dancing anyway. If the customer was always right the music would be starting up again pretty soon. I sipped the drink and considered my options: the barman I’d spoken to hadn’t stopped working since. He hadn’t winked or nodded at anyone to let them know about the snooper. He just wasn’t interested. The other barmen and the waitresses looked the same—too busy to care one way or the other. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d get much cooperation from Ricky Gay.
    A sign under a pair of buffalo horns over a doorway said ‘Toilet’. I went through into a passageway that led to a door with a top-hatted silhouette on it at one end and to well-lit, imitation marble stairway at the other. I walked to the stairs; I still had the drink in my hand and when the man sitting at the top of the first flight stood up I raised my glass.
    â€˜Cheers,’ I said.
    He was a thickset character wearing a black T-shirt, jeans with a wide belt and basketball boots. He had a big bunch of keys swinging from the belt, too big to be anyone’s actual set of keys.
    â€˜Other way, chum.’ The voice was thick North Country British.
    I leaned against the wall. ‘What? What?’
    â€˜The pisser’s at the other end of the passage. This’s private up here.’
    I swung around unsteadily, blinking. ‘Doesn’t say so.’
    He came down the stairs confidently, unfastening the keys which were on a snap lock. The bunch was on several rings and looked as if it could be easilyconverted into a knuckle-duster or a mini-battleaxe. He was only about 30; too much fat bulged out above the belt, but he moved all right. He swung the keys lazily just below my nose. ‘Piss off, chum.’
    â€˜Darcy here?’ I spoke sharply and soberly and he was taken by surprise. He should have loaded his fist with the metal and punched but he went for another swing, intending to cut, and was too slow. I dropped the glass, whipped out the .38 and dug it into the midriff bulge. ‘Drop the keys!’ I dug hard as I spoke and he let the keys fall.
    â€˜A shooter. Come on …’ He was going to get brave any minute. I brought my knee up hard and slammed it into his crotch. He groaned and sagged; I pushed with the gun and he sank down onto the stairs. He sat on broken glass and swore. He tried to move but I pinned him by putting the gun under his nose.
    â€˜Now look what you’ve done,’ I said. ‘You’ve cut yourself. You’re going to have to be more