Saturday's Child

'And you're tracking down this Rob fella.’

‘That's right.'

'You're doing a shit job of it.'

I know. And thanks for your time.' I turn to leave. Then: 'D'you know Kev?’

‘The barman?'

'Yeah.'

'Yeah, I know him. Proper sleazy bastard, that one. Keeps trying to get me to go out with him.’

‘Anywhere nice?'

'Place called The Basement. It's a proper dive.’

‘That's his local, is it?'

'Yeah,' she says. 'They try to get him to go somewhere else, he shits it. The place is his home away from home. He told us once that he missed a night and they called his flat looking for him. Like that's something to boast about.'

I smile at her. 'What's your name?'

'Brianna,' she says. 'Why?'

'Brianna, you're a fuckin' doll.'

'And you're not my type.'

*

The Basement is a student bar, and it's as rough as the name suggests. I get past the bouncer, a skinny lad with a nice line in gold teeth, and have to duck my head as I head down the stone steps to the bar. This place looks more like a cave than a basement, all chipped walls and dim light. In one corner, a small stage with a tinsel backdrop. On it is a guy who looks about eighty. He's singing 'Golden Brown' as if it was an old- fashioned love song. Beside him, a karaoke machine blinks like it's on its last legs.

He gives me a nod as I head to the bar. I nod back, order a Coke. The place isn't busy and I could have a long wait on Kev, if he shows up at all. Get my change and a filthy look from a blonde dreadlocked barman, take my drink to a table and sit down. It's nicely shadowed here. I should be able to keep an eye on the door and not be seen.

The old guy finishes off his song with a flourish, then picks up a tumbler of whisky. He toasts us all, though most of us aren't even looking at him. Then he downs the treble. From the karaoke machine, I can hear the opening bars to 'Pea- ches'. The guy's a Stranglers fan, obviously. These days, somebody's got to be.

I smoke a cigarette. Kev might not turn up. That's a possibility.

Check my mobile again. Another message from Brenda Lang. I let it play and then save it. Laters.

I sit there most of the night, sipping Coke and smoking. Students come and go. One of them, a ruddy-faced Royal wearing a rugby shirt, starts taking the piss out of the singer. I feel like smacking his head in. Yeah, the old guy's a drunk, but at least he's not obnoxious.

The crooner launches into 'Nice 'n' Sleazy'. The rest of the Royal's group sing along but fuck up the words. I get out of my seat and order a treble as a sign of solidarity. At the bar, I catch the old guy's eye and toast him. He toasts back, beaming from ear to ear. About time someone appreciated him.

The treble turns into another, this time with a pint. A few rounds later, and I'm starting to feel tired. My bones ache. But I keep drinking. It's something to do.

At two, the place starts to get busy. A group of guys wearing dicky bows make their presence known. I shake myself awake, try to focus on the bar. I should've stuck to the Coke. Curse myself for being such a fucking drunk.

I get to my feet as I see Kev at the bar. Look around for the bouncer. Nowhere in sight. I didn't expect Kev to come here with a minder, but I couldn't be sure.

I shake the deadness out of my legs and walk over to the bar, sidle up next to him. Kev doesn't notice me until I order a pint of Stella. Then I turn towards him, punch him playfully in the arm. 'You never called me.'

His face goes white.

I'm beginning to think you don't like me much, Kev. It's almost as if you're trying to avoid me.'

He makes a move to go. I pay for my pint with one hand and grab his arm with the other. 'Where you going, mate? Me and you, we're having a chat.'

'Fuck off,' he says.

'Hey, c'mon, that's no way to behave. I'll tell you some- thing because under that hard exterior I think you're a decent human being. I'm not fucking about here, okay? I know you know something.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'I know you know something. And I will find out what you know if it takes me all fuckin' night. I'm not asking for free, either. But if you insist on playing the eel with me, Kev, I'll tell Morris Tiernan there's a barman who needs his mouth broke.'

Kev's cheek twitches. Could be a smile. Most likely, he's panicking.

'Yeah, you know that name, don't you?' I say. 'Now how's about I buy you a shot to go with that pint and we'll talk.'

'I don't know Rob Stokes,' he says.

'I don't care,' I say and get the barman's attention. 'But you're scared about something, and that's a fine place to start.'

SEVENTEEN

Kev sparks one of my cigarettes with a red disposable. He's already necked the shot, coughed his way through the burn. I'm patient. I just watch him get used to the situation. Part of me thought that being a good detective meant being a friendly guy, open, willing to help people. I thought that if people saw that, they'd be cool with me. Turns out, it's easier to bribe or threaten someone.

Whatever Kev needs to keep his conscience clean.

'Rob Stokes,' I say.

'Uh-huh. I told you, I don't know him.' He shrugs. The alcohol's made his posture loose. I hope it does the same to his mouth.

'Where'd he go?'

'You listening to me?'

'Just because you don't know him, doesn't mean you don't know where he went.'

'Then I don't know where he went,' he says.

'Okay.' I drink my pint and stare at him over the rim of the glass. Try to think what Donkey would do in this situation.

He'd probably break the guy's legs and piss in his mouth.

Not something I can do in a crowded bar, no matter how much it might help me. Besides, I went to the bog before I ordered my first pint. Starting to simmer down a little now in The Basement. The karaoke guy has just done his last cover for the night, stepped off the stage to a loud round of

applause from the pissed-up Royals. As he comes past, I catch his eye.

'Nice work,' I say.

'Thanks, son. I try me best.'

And he goes, a smile on his face. I turn back to Kev. 'So you really don't know anything.'

'I told you.’

‘Okay.' I pull out my mobile, put it on the table between us. I want you to call Mo.'

'Who?'

'Mo. Morris' son. I want you to pick up the phone, call him, tell him what you just told me.’

‘Fuck off.'

'I'm serious, Kev. If you're telling me the truth, you've got nothing to worry about. Make yourself known. Mo will believe you, I'm sure.'

'What you playing at?'

I pick up the mobile and start punching in Mo's number. Hold it out to Kev. 'There. All you need to do is connect. Just press the wee green button and tell him what you told me.'

'I'm not gonna do that.'

'Why not?'

His voice raises an octave. 'I don't know the dealers, alright? I don't hang out with them. They're fuckin' arseholes, the lot of them.'

'Then how do you know who Rob Stokes is?'

'You mentioned him.'

'But you don't know him.' I make a show of raising a finger to my temple, proper Columbo-style. 'See, now I'm confused. You know the name, but you don't know the name. Which is it?'

I don't know the name.'

'So you don't know he did a runner,' I say. 'You didn't hear anything like that.'

He pauses, looks at me. He's thinking. Course it's stupid to say he didn't hear anything about a dealer doing a bunk, especially when there was cash involved. Kev is slowly coming to that realisation. He works his mouth.

'Well?' I say.

'I heard someone left. They were pissing and moaning about the shifts they had to cover. And I was single-handed on the bar for a week.'