Manny at last gave up. “Yes, gents?” he said.
“We want a drink,” the one closest to Reeve said. The man was angry already, not used to being kept waiting. He sounded English; Reeve didn’t know which nationality he’d been expecting.
“This isn’t a chip shop,” said Manny, rising to the challenge. “Drink’s the only thing we serve.” He was smiling throughout, to let the two strangers know he wasn’t at all happy.
“I’ll have a double Scotch,” the second man said. He was also English. Reeve didn’t know whether it was done on purpose or not, but the way he spat out “Scotch” caused more than a few hackles in the bar to rise. The speaker purported not to notice, maybe he just didn’t care. He looked at the door, at the framed photos of Scottish internationals and the local rugby team-the latter signed-and the souvenir pennants and flags.
“Somebody likes rugby,” he said to no one in particular. No one in particular graced the remark with a reply.
The man closest to Reeve, the one who’d spoken first, ordered a lager and lime. There was a quiet wolf whistle from the pool table, just preceding the youth’s shot.
The man turned towards the source of the whistle. “You say something?”
The youth kept quiet and made his next shot, chalking up as he marched around the table. Reeve suddenly liked the lad.
“Leave it,” the stranger’s companion snapped. Then, as the drinks were set before them: “That a treble.” He meant the whiskey.
“A double,” Manny snapped. “You’re used to sixths; up here we have quarters.” He took the money and walked back to the register.
Reeve turned conversationally to the two men. “Cheers,” he said.
“Yeah, cheers.” They were both keen to get a good look at him close up, just as he was keen to get a look at them. The one closest to him was shorter but broader. He could’ve played a useful prop forward. He wore cheap clothes and had a cheap, greasy look to his face. If you looked like what you ate, this man was fries and lard. His companion had a dangerous face, the kind that’s been in so many scraps it simply doesn’t care anymore. He might’ve done time in the army-Reeve couldn’t see Lardface having ever been fit enough-but he’d gone to seed since. His hair stuck out over his ears and was thin above his forehead. It looked like he’d paid a lot of money for some trendy gel-spiked haircut his son might have, but then couldn’t be bothered keeping it styled. Reeve had seen coppers with haircuts like that, but not too many of them.
“So,” he said, “what brings you here, gents?”
The taller man, Spikehead, nodded, like he was thinking: Okay, we’re playing it like that. “Just passing through.”
“You must be lost.”
“How’s that?”
“To end up here. It’s not exactly on the main road.”
“Well, you know…” The man was running out of lies already, not very professional.
“We just felt like a drink, all right?” his partner snapped.
“Just making conversation,” Reeve said. The edge of his vision was growing hazy. He thought of the pills in his pocket but dismissed them instantly.
“You live locally?” Spikehead asked.
“You should know,” Reeve answered.
Spikehead tried a smile. “How’s that?”
“You’ve been following me since Oban.”
Lardface turned slowly towards him, fired up for confrontation or conflagration. A pool cue appeared between them.
“You’re up,” the youth said.
Reeve took the cue from him. “Mind my drink, will you?” he asked Lardface.
“Mind it yourself.”
“Friends of yours?” the youth asked, beer glass to his mouth as they walked to the pool table.
Reeve looked back at the two drinkers, who were watching him from behind their glasses the way men watched strippers-engrossed, but maybe a little wary. He shook his head, smiling pleasantly. “No,” he said, “just a couple of pricks. Me to break?”
“You to break,” the youth said, wiping snorted beer foam from his nose.
Reeve never really had a chance, but that wasn’t the point of the game. He stood resting his pool cue on the floor and watched a game of darts behind the pool table, while the youth sank two striped balls and left two other pockets covered.
“I hate the fuckin‘ English,” the youth said as Reeve lined up a shot. “I mean a lot of the time when you say something like that you’re having a joke, but I mean it: I really fuckin’ hate them.”
“Maybe they’re not too fond of you either, sunshine.”
The youth ignored the voice from the bar.
Reeve looked like he was still lining up his shot; but he wasn’t. He was sizing things up. This young lad was going to get into trouble. Reeve knew the way his mind was working: if they wanted to fight him, he’d tell them to meet him outside-outside where his pals were waiting. But the men at the bar wouldn’t be that thick. They’d take him in here, where the only backup worth talking about was Reeve himself. There were a couple of drunks playing darts atrociously, a few seated pensioners, Manny behind the bar, and the road sweeper with the bad leg on the other side of it. In here, the two Englishmen would surely fancy their chances.
“You see,” the youth was saying, “the way I see it the English are just keech…” He said some more, but Lardface must have understood “keech.” He slammed down his drink and came stomping towards the pool table like he was approaching a hurdle.
“Now,” Manny said loudly, “we don’t want any trouble.”
Spikehead was still at the bar, which suited Reeve fine. He spun from the table, swinging his cue, and caught Lardface across the bridge of his nose, stopping him dead. Spikehead started forward, but cautiously. Reeve’s free hand had taken a ball from the table. He threw it with all the force he had towards the bar. Spikehead ducked, and the ball smashed a whiskey bottle. Spikehead was straightening up again when Reeve snatched a dart out of one player’s frozen hand and hefted it at Spikehead’s thigh. The pink haze made it difficult to see, but the dart landed close enough. Spikehead gasped and dropped to one knee. Reeve found an empty pint glass and cracked it against a table leg, then held it on front of Lardface, who was sprawled on the floor, his smashed nose streaming blood and bubbles of mucus.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Reeve instructed. It barely registered that the rest of the bar had fallen into stunned silence. Even Manny was at a loss for words. Reeve walked over to Spikehead, who had pulled the dart from his upper thigh. He looked ready to stab it at Reeve, until Reeve swiped the glass across his face. Spikehead dropped the dart.
“Christ,” gasped Manny, “there was no need-”
But Reeve was concentrating on the man, rifling his pockets, seeking weapons and ID. “Who are you?” he shouted. “Who sent you?”
He glanced back towards Lardface, who was rising to his feet. Reeve took a couple of steps and roundhoused the man on the side of his face, maybe dislocating the jaw. He went back to Spikehead.
“I’m calling the polis,” Manny said.
Reeve pointed at him. “Don’t.”
Manny didn’t. Reeve continued his search of the moaning figure, and came up with something he had not been expecting: a card identifying the carrier as a private investigator for Charles & Charles Associates, with an address in London.
He shook the man’s lapels. “Who hired you?”
The man shook his head. Tears were coursing down his face.
“Look,” Reeve said calmly. “I didn’t do any lasting damage. The cut isn’t deep enough for stitching. It’s just a bleeder, that’s all.” He raised the glass. “Now the next slash will need stitches. It might even take out your eye. So tell me who sent you!”
“Don’t know the client,” the man blurted. Blood had dripped into his mouth. He spat it out with the words. “It’s subcontracting. We’re working on behalf of an American firm.”
“You mean a company?”
“Another lot of PIs. A big firm in Washington, DC.”