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Great Writing - Home > Extended > The Case of the Missing Husband ch7
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Extended Work
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| The Case of the Missing Husband ch7 | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||
| 17 April 2007 | ||||||
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Haha. I got all teary-eyed writing this, and I knew it was a crock she was telling. Most embarrassing, as I'm in a hotel bar writing this. Azee Taxis operated out of a garage cum office formed by a railway arch in a back street. We parked the abomination of a car outside. “I’ll be back in five,” I told her. “We’ll be back in five,” she answered, unbuckling her belt. “No, wait here in the car.” I looked at her face. Jeez. “OK, but let me do the talking, OK? I’ve spoken to this guy over the phone, and he’s an asshole. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t wince. You’re going to hear a lot worse in there. I’ll try to reason with him. I might have to slip him a couple of bills, but you just stand there, OK?” She locked her lips and threw the key away. Oh God. I had only seen people do that in videos. The garage had a wood and glass office built into the back. Through the door I could see a thickset man sitting at the desk. That’s what we have to call fat people now: thickset. He was middle-aged, but in that anywhere-from-30-to-50 age that fa… thickset people seem to settle in. He was scowling at a screen, stabbing one-fingered at the keyboard. Mr Talkative, I presumed. He looked up as we entered his office, obviously displeased at the interruption, and grunted a question mark. “You the owner?” He grunted his affirmation. “You picked a fare up from Oakhills Monday evening, eleven-thirty. I need to know where you took him.” “You a cop?” This guy, for all his stupid look, ran a taxi firm, with all the run-in with cops that entailed. If I said ‘yes’, his next question would be to ask for my badge. “No.” “Then fuck off.” And he returned to his intermittent stabbing of the keyboard. “Look…” I began, but then a hair-raising gurgle sounded beside me. We both stopped and turned to the source of the sound. Malone was trying to breathe in, but she appeared to be in the middle of an asthma attack. Then a horrifying wail erupted, her face screwed up and deep red. “Daddy, I want him back,” she cried, grabbing my arm. “Erm…” OK, it wasn’t my wittiest of comebacks, but Jeez, give me a break. I wasn’t prepared for this. She fought for breath, trying to get enough for her next statement. “I’m sorry. Sorry. But you don’t understand, sir. My husband, well, me and him, we had a fight. I mean, it’s the first we’ve ever had, you know, and we’ve been married three months already. Our first fight, just over what we were going to do at the weekend, and he left. I mean he just drove off in a taxi and left me there.” She sobbed anew, real tears running down her cheeks. I patted her hand and looked at Mr Talkative. His face was a picture of horrified embarrassment. I was guessing my face was the same. “I gotta find him, Mister. I mean, I really gotta find him. It was my fault, all my fault over such a stupid little thing, and now the only man I ever loved has gone and it’s all my fault and I can’t live without him.” I noticed in horrified detachment that she had even got two shiny little snot trails under her nose. “I gotta find him, sir, I just got to, and I’m begging you, please, please tell me where you took him. We can patch things up, I know we can, but he’s so proud, I gotta find him first. You gotta help me, please, please.” And she buried her face in my shoulder, shoulders heaving with sobs. See? See? This is why I work alone. Jesus Christ and all His furry little animals. I was never going to be able to lean on Mr Talkative now. I turned to him, and to my amazement saw that his eyes were tearing up. He held out a stubby hand and awkwardly patted her arm. “That’s OK, lady. Don’t cry. He’ll come back, just don’t cry, OK?” He glanced out of the office window. Several drivers were stood still, staring. “Oakhill, you say? Monday?” He punched at the keys. “Yeah, yeah, here it is. Debray, the name?” I nodded. “Yeah, he got a fare to Twenty-Third and Jefferson. Got no number, but there are some apartment blocks there. He’s gonna be in one of those, I betchya.” Malone looked up from my arm and smiled through her tears. “God bless you, sir. What’s your name?” “Er… Frank. Francis.” “Francis. Thank you, Francis. I swear, we’ll name our first boy after you. You are a good man. Thank you, thank you.” Oh God. This was too much. He was going to realize she had played him. “Come on… child. We’ll go look for him right now.” We were halfway though the door when Frank called out, “Hey!” I turned, ready to run. He got up from his desk and leant close, conspiratorially. “That bastard doesn’t take her back, I got a couple of boys good with a tyre iron, you know what I mean?” I nodded, too surprised to say anything and not wanting to break the spell. Back at the Pinkmobile she pulled down the visor and dabbed at her face with a tissue. “Well, I think that went well, don’t you?” She looked at me as I worked my jaw, trying to formulate the words. “Let me do the talking!” I cried at last. “I distinctly remember telling you to let me do the talking. What was all the… “ and I mimed the lip lock and key toss “… business? And what the hell do you think you were doing with that total crock of shit? Christ and his fornicating flock, what were you thinking? I mean, what were you thinking?” “It worked, didn’t it? And I really think you should cut down on your blaspheming, Littlejohn. Really I do.” And in my stunned silence she hit the starter and asked, “Twenty-Third and Jefferson?”
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