Read Online Written in Dead Wax by Andrew Cartmel - Free Book Online Page A

“What sort of business?”
    “None of your damned,” said Nevada.
    “What? Oh, very clever,” said Stinky, catching up. “So how do you guys know each other?” It was obviously this question that had impelled him to make today’s latest uninvited visit. He couldn’t imagine what someone like Nevada was doing with someone like me. And in some sense his universe was threatened. So he just wasn’t going to let it go.
    He was smiling at Nevada politely, or with what passed for politeness in Stinkyland. He made a vague hand gesture, waggling a finger back and forth between us, “You know each other, how?”
    “We met at Lord Rudolph’s fifteenth annual zeppelin race,” said Nevada.
    “Okay,” said Stinky. He evidently decided he wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. “Well, I’ll be shoving along then.” He picked up his coat.
    “Would you?” said Nevada. We accompanied Stinky to the door and saw him off the premises. The cats didn’t stir. As soon as he was gone Nevada turned to me and I was startled to realise she was boiling with anger. “How could you?” she said.
    “What?”
    “Leave your key outside, unprotected.”
    “It’s hidden.”
    “Hidden. It’s under a plant pot! Show me this plant pot.” I took her outside and showed her. She was still furious. “How could you? Just anyone could walk in off the street. And be waiting for you.”
    “Hard to believe they could be worse than Stinky.”
    She ignored the joke and stood glaring at me. “Are you simple-minded?” she said.
    “Look, I have to have a spare set of keys. In case I lock myself out.”
    “They don’t have to be under your plant pot.” We went back inside and shut the door.
    “They have to be where I can get at them,” I said.
    “I’ll look after them,” she said.
    “What?”
    “I’ll look after your keys.” She put them in her handbag.
    “Are you sure?” I didn’t argue with her. In fact, to be candid, I found the notion strangely appealing.
    She nodded. “If you need them, if you lock yourself out, you’ve got my number. Just ring me and I’ll bring them round.” She paused thoughtfully. “Oh, one more thing to do.” She took out her little red notebook and a pen and went back outside. I followed her. She opened her notebook and wrote in large, bold letters, FUCK OFF STINKY . She tore the page out of her notebook, folded it up and put it under the plant pot where the key used to reside.
    “There,” she said happily. “That’s that.”
    * * *
    “Of course, what she’s going to do,” said Tinkler, “is let herself into your house, sneaking in one night while you’re asleep, glide through the darkness, shedding her clothes, stub her toe on a crate of records that should have been properly shelved years ago and then, cursing, hop under the duvet with you and bang your brains out.”
    “You’re saying that as though it could never happen.”
    “Yes,” said Tinkler. “What other possible reason could there be for her wanting to hold onto your keys?” He shook his head despairingly. “You always go for the gorgeous ones and you always get kicked in the teeth. When are you going to learn?”
    “Learn what?”
    “That they don’t go for insolvent, failed DJs who are record-collecting nuts.” He added politely, “Not that I’m saying I’m any better off. They don’t go for solvent database managers who are record-collecting nuts, either. Would you like something to eat?”
    “I’ll fetch it,” I said. “I don’t want you falling down the stairs.” I brought a selection of snack foods back and found that—surprise—Tinkler was building a joint. He looked up at me happily.
    “I got a new shipment from Hughie.”
    Hughie Mackinaw, known affectionately to us as the Scottish Welshman, had a business manufacturing and restoring turntables in his own factory near Llandrindod Wells in rural Wales. He had rebuilt Tinkler’s Thorens TD 124 and done a nice job. Hughie’s work was