Deadly maybe, p.10
Deadly Maybe, page 10
That was the good news. The less good news was that we’d practically landed back on the main street. Back in the open.
I said, “How the fuck did someone not see this fucker get killed? The town’s the size of a tea cup.”
Our disguises long gone, the anxiety of being found remounted. True, the majority of the Little Abbotsbee PD’s resources were indisposed at the moment on Fisher’s front porch, but that was only one street over. If and when someone clocked us, we were well done.
As that sick spin came back to me, my counterpart chimed in.
“Bird tells us to smarten up and that,” said my brother. “Fucking hell, man, everyone gets critical even when you’re lamming.”
I had to think and pulled him toward the wall.
“You can fucking think and run though,” he said.
I couldn’t, and said so. Too much had happened, and I could only process so much information at one time. Too much shit, too much swamping. Killed real estate man, a disappearing guitar, the envelope of cash to Peter House.
“Plus them re-arranged goblets there,” said Our Kid.
I asked him to elaborate, like he needed an invitation.
“Them goblets in old boy’s gaff. The fine china and that, all in fucking wrong spots and that.”
“…That’s not evidence.”
“Peculiar though, innit? Not putting shit where it’s supposed to? Fucking twisty knots round here.”
“The thing I can’t figure,” I said, “is why he was spending all that money to buy my Gibson when his collection was a bunch of fakes.”
“Probably ‘cause you’re both dense fucking twats, aren’t you? And she tells us to smarten up. Tell you what, man: she’s a good one but that’s fucked, know what I mean?”
My brother’s mouth continued to run unabated, rambling on about this or that, including but not limited to critiques of the surrounding shops (a la “Can’t expect reg folks to just, like, drop ten, twenty quid on a sammie every day,” etc.). I left these insights unchallenged as I scoped out our next destination. It was getting closer to closing time and our options were becoming more and more limited.
A bus bench across the street caught my eye. It had a face on it that seemed so familiar, it made me look at the bench on our side. It had the same fucking face on it, the same face I’d seen on the drive and at the pub. That martini-sipping Tory bastard from the night before.
The ad before me read, ‘IAN WISE — AUTO DEALER.’ I squinted across the street at its sister ad, then said, “What’s that one over there say?”
My brother squinted himself, too. “One over there’s ‘REAL ESTATE.’”
I opened up my notebook, as if I needed reminding. “It’s that Tory fucker I saw at the pub last night. Another of the ones giving Fisher dagger eyes. He’s another person of interest.”
He goes, “Oh, ‘person of interest,’ then? Turning full on Holmes and Twatson, ya’ donut.”
I ignored this bit of bait and said, “We should find him and get the story out of him as well.”
“Too right,” he said, and started walking.
I held him back, “Hold on. We need strategy.”
“I got a fucking strategy.”
“You do, do you? He’s got a fucking strategy. Listen, the whole wide world, for the first time ever, my brother has a strategy.”
“I do though.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He bobbed his head a bit. “I do have.”
“I’m sure you do, and I would love for you to tell me what the fuck it is right fucking now. Go on, man. Please.”
This life had afforded so few opportunities to watch my brother truly squirm. But the ones that did appear were, to my knowledge, his own making. I might have helped, just a little; holding tight to some little thing for longer than anyone cared to. True, we were on the run, but for this? I had a couple moments for this, you better believe it.
“I do though,” he said.
I gave him his Kryptonite: fucking silence. As famous and as over-exposed as my brother is, I’ve seen a side of him you could never imagine. And it was on display, right there on the pavement.
He pointed to the bench — I’m sure, in desperation for a change of topic — and said, “Got an address right here for this get.”
Indeed it did, the address. Within a few blocks of our current location, by my mark. But I wasn’t gonna fucking tell him that.
“Is that the strategy you had?”
He dodged it, saying instead, “Same street as we’re on here, so think it’s best we scoot off, yeah? Go with your strategy again anyways, songwriter.”
A small bright spot in my shit stain of a day. Off we went.
Missing Ian Wise’s auto dealership was never going to happen. For as upper crust as he wanted to appear the other night, the structure we found was gaudy, garish and fucking cheap looking. The chain-link fence was a giveaway, and an ugly yellow banner spread across the lot, ‘FREE TEST DRIVES — DEALS DEALS DEALS!!!’ only confirmed it. The banner ran across a brown building with a blue roof. Not being funny here; like baby blue on brown.
On top of that, none of the cars would lift an eye. By my glance, they’d all had a rough go. Our Kid summed it up like: “Place sells fucking clown cars then?”
An eager salesman came charging towards us, pitches at the fucking ready, reeking of desperation. He came in hot with, “Hello my friends. You’re very welcome here. Stay as long as you like, and if you see a price that’s too high, just let me know and we can bring it right down for you. That’s my promise to you, the customer! As my guests. My place is yours. You are Liam and Noel Gallagher, correct?”
He made that classic mistake, mixing of names. I pretended it didn’t bother me as I finally recognised him.
I said, “Are you Ian Wise?”
Recognition ran across him — I’ve seen it for thirty years. You’re in a shop or on the street or fucking anywhere, and someone sees you, and then you see them. That’s the fucking kicker, that, and those situations can go one of two ways: either the people flip out and start telling me their favourite songs and that… or they try to act like they’re too cool to let on, all the while flipping out on the inside.
This was more the second way.
He tried to be cool through the worst possible method: non-stop talking. The fucker never stoped. He pointed out how we’d walked here, and that for two blokes like us, walking wouldn’t suit for too long, no sir, on and on like that. I nearly preferred he would’ve asked me about his favourite song. When he did take a breath — which was fucking shallow as a puddle — I managed to interject.
“Actually,” I said, “we’re here to talk about some property.”
“Sure, sure, sure,” he said. “As I said before, you’re my guests, so let’s discuss this in my office where you will get the, um…” — I couldn’t believe this fucker had blown his pitch; the pause was agony for all three of us as his brain rendered, at last coming up with — “…best deals.”
He led us toward the blue-roofed building, and he was as oily as his adverts had let on. Pushy as hell, and would not slow down. I watched as his mind spider-webbed in twenty different directions. His lot was the same way; part for autos, part for real estate. As we entered the showroom, I swear I saw a poster for baked goods.
And that phrase — ‘show room’ — implies more spectacle than Wise could afford. The space was wide, I’d give it that, but inside it only held three cars, all dead shit boxes. The stink of despair clung to those cars, the drywall, the styrofoam ceiling and the fluorescents. All of it.
Fortunately, we didn’t spend much time in the showroom as Wise had us on the hook. He wound past the side wall and into an office. Like the use of ‘show room,’ this space was getting this label because I can’t be arsed to come up with something better. It was, technically, an office; it had a desk somewhere under the pile of bills and busted printers. It had a desk chair, that had to count for something. And behind that: clutter. Mounds of it. Shipping boxes, half of which opened, half not, piled on top each other, next to another open door. I tried to look in there, but that room’s clutter prohibited much vantage. Looked like a bomb had been dropped on a hoarder’s house. Fully rammed.
All the while, Wise would not stop talking, and it did nothing for my nerves (nor, I should point out, did it make me interested in buying a car). I’d been around that kind of behaviour before, but I hadn’t noticed white dust under his nose. Maybe just uppers? The notion put me ill at ease, being around a murderer who was actively high.
“Have a seat, have a seat,” he said, and we did. His eyes dashed from my face to Our Kid’s, fucking raging. “You two are new in town, correct?”
My brother said, “’s right.”
“Just arrived, what? Yesterday afternoon or so?”
“Got in round eventide,” said my brother. “Not sure ‘bout our kid here, but fucker probably got in before night. Dark driving’s scary to the elderly knob, right?”
Wise opened his own notepad, which did little to calm him down. “It is Noel and Liam, correct? And ‘Gallagher’ with two L’s and an H? Irish name, isn’t it? I believe we’ll have a few things to your liking.”
“You’re with City then?” said my brother.
Ian Wise’s rehearsed salesman smile dipped its wattage as he tried to process what the fuck Our Kid was talking about. To be honest, in that moment, I was as clueless as anyone.
“The kit,” said my brother. “In the back there. Rasta’s got the Blue up, hasn’t he?”
Ian and I finally caught on, following my brother’s gaze to the clutter room in back: a light blue Manchester City jersey. This is how you can tell I was stressed, because normally I, too, would’ve spotted that colour across an ocean.
Wise says, “Oh, that’s a steal for only fifty pounds.”
“You’re selling that?” says my brother.
And Ian Wise says, “Unless you want another,” and stands up to pull out more jerseys. He had all kinds, for all sports — basketball, American football, on and on — even had the gall to pull an L.A. Galaxy jersey on us. “And all legit, I assure you. I have backing from the Historical Society as a registered—”
“Look, mate.” I was having none of it. “We’re not really buying anything here. We got a couple questions about the other night and that’ll do us.”
“Certainly, certainly,” he said, then stood up. “Would you excuse me for half a moment?” He said these last words not waiting for acknowledgment. Just up and out with him, to his back room of wonders and disarray.
“He’s going off for another toot,” I said to my brother.
“None for me, mate. Straight a while now.”
“I meant him, you thick get. He’s clearly zonked.”
“Who’s that?”
“Who the fuck else we talking to? Wise.” I said. “He can’t hold still for fuck all.”
Our Kid shook his head. “Ain’t seeing it, man.”
“He’s clear-as-fuck leatherd? He can’t hold eye contact for a split second, he’s bouncing off the walls like they’re made of rubber.”
“That’s just stereotyping though, innit?” said my brother. “Someone uses the sniff, but it don’t do them all the same way. Different sniff, different folks. All different man. So, getting cabbaged the same? Doesn’t happen, man.”
Wise did something helpful for once by arriving before our inane discussion could advance any further. Whatever he’d taken back there, it seemed to have settled him. The guy sat down and stayed in one place. If I hadn’t gone sober, I could’ve used some of whatever he’d taken for myself.
“Now,” he said, a relaxed lilt to his voice. “You gentlemen said you had some questions for yours truly?”
I never look a gift horse in the mouth, so I charged ahead. “The other night, at the pub. The Shining Star.”
“Is that a question?”
“You were there with some other friends, weren’t you?”
“I believe you saw me there, did you not?”
“One of those people was Gregory Fisher.”
“Correction,” said Wise. “The late Gregory Fisher, I’m sure. Additional correction, dear boy: we were hardly what you might refer to as friends.”
I jotted down some notes, with the big ones being ‘He knows Fisher’s dead’ and ‘Total dick.’ I said, “What would you call yourselves then?”
“Mutual acquaintances, perhaps? Business associates. I also rent this space from him. Well, rented.”
“Fisher sold real estate, and so do you, so I’m guessing more rivals than anything else.”
“Always in the spirit of a free and flourishing economy, I assure you. I won some, he’d win others.”
“Lost a fucking big one recently, didn’t he?” said my brother.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Wise, adding, “I’ve only heard the terrible news myself. Poor Gregory. Such promise.”
I said, “You said you did business together? Like what?”
“Bits and bobs, really,” he said. “As you can see, I’m an entrepreneur. I believe it’s every good, responsible Brit’s duty and honour to support the Empire’s legacy by building a thriving economy. Strong banks, strong people.”
I kept my pro-Labour opinions to myself, and somehow my brother did the same.
Wise continued with, “Gregory and I, our businesses only crossed paths a handful of times, when they fit both our needs. Sure, we locked horns occasionally. He bested me on a few bids, one of personal concern to you, I’m sure, Mr. Gallagher.” He said this to my brother, who looked as confused as ever. More so.
“He bested me,” said Wise, “despite the success we enjoyed in a shared business endeavour. Gregory has— had a nose for socializing with even low class folks. My mind is more along acquisitions and finances. I’m an antiques broker as well.”
Yeah, fucking eBay broker, judging from his dusty old PC piled next to the boxes. Listening to him recite his fucking CV got me restless, so I stood up. “Thanks so much for all this, Mr. Wise.”
Soon as I said that, Wise got that twitchy look back on his face. “Where are you off to?” he says. And before I could make up an excuse, he said, “If you have more questions, feel free to ask them. I’ll do my best to answer.”
Our Kid said, “Nah, mate, we’re good though.”
“Please, Noel,” he said to my brother. It charmed us both the same amount. Fuck this fucking fucker. We moved to exit.
“Do you want to know what Gregory and I acquired? Antiques belonging to legacy families….” He went on like this a bit more. I couldn’t give less of a shit about his successes at online searches. Congrats on mastering Google, mate. Top marks, shit head.
“We’re out,” said my brother. “And for the record: he’s Noel, I’m fucking Liam.”
“Oh.” Then he said direct to me: “So it was yours?”
The words merged with the rest of Wise’s prattling nonsense, almost enough to get me to pay attention. I was about to finally put it straight and ask him what the fuck he was talking about when I got a good look at his jittery eyes.
“Your pupils ain’t dilated,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Chief here thinks you’re high, mate,” said my brother.
“What?” he said with absolute horror, and I’m sure he’d have added, ‘the nerve.’ He stepped toward us, finger at the ready to point us into childhood. At that, my brother snapped. By which I mean, he snapped into action and he fucking snapped, like went mad. He fucking clocked Wise with his free hand, right in the shoulder.
“I say,” said Ian Wise, perhaps the most twat response to the start of a fight I’ve ever seen.
My brother wasn’t having nothing from him. He’d become fully switched on. “This fucker here, right?” he said. “You got it and you’re… I’ll have you right here or out in your fucking circus yard there, mate, whichever you prefer.”
Faced with an actual human challenger, he crumbled like the rest, fear all over his face. Being a good Neo Thatcherite, he yanked his mobile from his pocket. But my brother was too keyed up to allow that, swatting it to the floor.
Now, I don’t personally use the voice memo feature on my own phone. I know a lot of songwriters do, and it seems handy, yeah, yeah, fuck off already, I just don’t do it. I have other resources. I’ve been writing since before those things existed, and if I can’t remember a song for more than a few minutes, then it probably isn’t worth remembering let alone recording. I tried it once, though. Marr showed me, and when Marr shows you, you give it a fucking go.
Still, I can recognise that screen right away (as can you, probably; what a fucking twat thing to say, making it seem like I posses some unique super power to recognise popular, standard-issue apps. Not apologizing though; It’s the truth, first, and second, you got a charming bit of insight into my life for nothing, didn’t you? Books are supposed to entertain and inform, so there you are) …and I recognised it on the floor, at my feet, and on Wise’s phone.
I said, “Are you fucking taping us?” with an energy I had always wanted to use with the red tops but for those last glimmers of refinement holding me back. I snatched the phone quick. My brother continued to gas him, but my training in ignoring his voice drowned it out.
I stopped the recording, scrolled back and played it back from the start. Out came voices — our voices — distorted yet clear, repeating the whole exchange.
“I… I had to,” said Wise. “I had to do it. For the Empire.”
“‘The fucking Empire?’” Our Kid said. “Tosser’s got the Crown ringing him up, having tea and told him to play ‘Wire’ on us.”
A hunch moved my thumbs to the phone’s phone app. I didn’t recognise many of his favourites (though he did have a listing for ‘Boris J’ which I didn’t feel like exploring), so I went to his recent calls.
“The fuck you doing?” said my brother, this time to me. “Got this cunt here, nicking our shit and you’re gonna hack his Twitter or something?”
I didn’t explain myself to him, but I’ll do a little for you: I was looking to see if he’d called Peter House, or if he had any recent contact with Fisher, or anything.
