Working for Peanuts
Chapter 7: Reading between Blurred Lines
A bare light bulb shone harshly into my eyes as I came to with a start.
“Welcome back, Mr. Browne,” a woman’s voice said. She was either far away or whispering in my ear.
I couldn’t make out whose voice it was, but it sounded angelic. I was reminded of Sunday school images of heaven, clouds and harps. That’s how I knew I wasn’t dead, as I’m likely headed south when I go.
When I managed to focus my eyes it wasn’t a woman’s face I saw, but Cúigear’s. He was looming over me. At first I thought I was still at the Daisy Hill Hotel and that I’d only been out for a few moments. The stones digging into my back and the strong smell of livestock told me otherwise.
Cúigear looked ready to speak. I held up a hand in pre-emptive protest.
“Jaysus, Cúigear, don’t start speaking Irish at me while my head’s still banging from the wallop you gave me,” I said.
To my surprise he spoke the only two words of English I’ve ever heard him utter. The first was a short guttural verb; the second was “you.” For his kindness I decided that I might let him live, if circumstances permitted.
Cúigear turned and limped away. I had stomped his foot pretty good, but it didn’t appear that I had broken any major bones. ‘Next time,’ I thought to myself.
I sat up gingerly and noticed two things: I was lying on the floor of an old barn being used as a warehouse with large crates stacked in the animal stalls; and I was wearing only my boxers and socks. The latter was by far the odder circumstance of the two.
Pieces of the dream I’d been having floated past my memory. I felt there was something important about my client that I needed to remember, but . . . it was gone. I found myself looking around for where the dream’s images had gone. That’s when I saw the woman who had spoken my name just moments ago.
The voice belonged to a woman seated at a work bench in the far corner.
“Actually, Mr. Browne, I was the one who ‘walloped’ you.” That was Miss D’Arcy, Pat ‘The Peppermint’ Regan’s moll and personal secretary, a petite woman with mousy, shoulder-length brown hair with a fringe. Her large, thick glasses made it impossible to follow her gaze.
“I do apologize for any harm done,” Miss D’Arcy said, “but we had our instructions.”
“And what instructions were those; to just mostly kill me?”
“Sir insisted on speaking to you,” she said, “and we could not take the chance you would refuse.”
“Easier to ask forgiveness,” I muttered.
“If it makes you feel any better, your head did crack my favourite hurley.”
It actually did help a bit, but I kept it to myself. At least it wasn’t my brother-in-law, the Guard, who struck me. Although that didn’t mean Lynn wasn’t in on it. I hoped he hadn’t been the one giving orders from behind the scenes. But that’s when I remembered who else had been beaten.
“What about Róisín? Is she going to be alright?”
“Mrs. Grey is just grand,” Miss D’Arcy said. “I called for an ambulance and she was already regaining consciousness as we left.”
I heard Miss D’Arcy tinkering with something metallic on the bench in front of her. When I started to stand up for a better look she picked up a Mauser C96, one of the new select-fire models with the extended magazine, and pointed it at my head.
“Please remain seated, Mr. Browne.” The devilish menace of the pistol was counterpoint to the politeness of her tone. I believed she really was concerned for my health, even if she was the one threatening it.
“In that case,” I said, “I’ll continue to sit here in the dirt while you get back to whatever it is you were doing before I was so rude as to regain consciousness.”
“I am just about finished reassembling your pistol, Mr. Browne.”
“Tis not proper for a young lady to handle a strange man’s gun,” I quipped.
“Tis less proper still for a man to have a gun he cannot fire,” she retorted without hesitation.
“To be fair,” I said defensively, “I was ambushed and . . .”
“Yes, Mr. Browne, I was there. And you are correct: it was not a fair fight.”
It’s hard to argue with someone who keeps agreeing with you and so I had no reply.
“No,” Miss D’Arcy continued, “what I meant was that while I was just after unloading your weapon. I noticed it was in need of a thorough cleaning.”
I resisted the urge to ask how she could see all of that. Maybe they weren’t so much a pair of glasses as twin magnifying glasses.
“When I field-stripped your weapon,” she continued, “I was surprised how fouled your gun was. It is possible you would not have gotten a shot off, even if you had been slightly quicker on the draw.”
“And you think you’re up to the task of cleaning my gun?” I quipped with a wink and immediately regretted it.
“In my position working for Sir, I have had plenty of practice in just this sort of task.”
“I guess I’ve been remiss in my gun maintenance and should thank you,” I said. “I haven’t had much call to shoot my gun lately.”
Having completed the reassembly, she looked up and said, “I also have not been doing a lot of . . . shooting . . . lately myself, Mr. Browne.”
With that, Miss D’Arcy stood up and cradled the Colt in her left hand. With her right hand, she picked up the Mauser and let it hang by her side. She walked around the work bench and half the distance to me.
Holding up my pistol and reading the name engraved on the slide she said, “Here you go, Mr. Browne. ‘Snuppa’ returned in clean and working order to its proper owner.”
She tossed me my piece and I caught Snuppa in my lap. I felt the weight of him in my hands and gave her a look.
“He feels a wee bit light,” I said as I checked the magazine and saw that it was empty.
“The return of your property is a courtesy, Mr. Browne. You will not be the one doing any shooting in the task at ahead.”
“When this is all done, and if we’re still both alive, maybe we could take in some . . . target practice,” I said, “just the two of us.”
“Are ya chatting up my woman, Chuck?”
Pat Regan burst into the barn, as loud as ever and with Cúigear in tow. Regan was dressed in a wide striped, double breasted suit with a large pocket square to match the brightly coloured tie. A roguishly tilted fedora obscured one eye and gave a menacing shadow to Regan’s face. Some say Regan’s flamboyant style is a tad feminine, but only to themselves as everyone knows the rumour that Regan beat a man to death for saying less.
“Sir,” Miss D’Arcy said as she stepped back immediately and raised the Mauser so it was pointed unwaveringly at my head. I was encouraged to see her finger was not on the trigger.
Cúigear, holding what looked like a pile of my clothes, smirked over Regan’s shoulder at me.
“Why am I not dead, yet? And why is he holding my clothes?”
“Because,” Regan said, “you have the good fortune to be back in my employ.”
“I work for myself,” I said getting to my feet and mentally noting that Regan had only answered the first of my questions. “And I’ve already got a client.”
“Ya ain’t working for that thieving musician and his blackmailing dame no more!”
Who was I to interrupt someone filling in the blanks for me?
“Schrödinger’s out of the picture,” Regan continued in a roar, “but we’ve got a lead on that . . . that Jezebel.” Cúigear spat on the ground in disgust. “Either ya help me or I let Cúigear here kill ya, slow. What do ya say, Chuck? One last caper, for ole time sake? Ya help me get back what was stole from me before it goes public and we’re square over that shipment you dumped. Are ya in, Chuck, or are ya dead?”
What else could I say at the moment except, “I’ll need my clothes back first.”
Regan smiled and D’Arcy lowered her pistol.
“Fair play to ya,” Regan said to me and to Cúigear, “Now that we don’t have to worry about him running away, you can give the man his clothes back. Ye got a job to finish.”
“Why don’t you begin by catching me up on what your Guard source is telling ya,” I said fishing for information as I began to dress.
“What ‘Guard source’ are ya banging on about?” Regan asked. “I don’t work with them traitors. I’ve got more reliable sources, usually.”
Regan gave an accusative glare at Miss D’Arcy and Cúigear before turning back to face me.
“So where do we start?” I asked.
“Like I said, Schrödinger’s no longer in play . . .”
“Rubbed out?” I asked, turning to Cúigear.
Regan pressed on, ignoring my accusation. “We got a tip that ‘your client’ is staying at the Great Southern Hotel under the name ‘Miss Regan,’ of all things.”
“Too clever by half,” D’Arcy said as I dressed.
“So why involve me?”
“I don’t want to spook her,” Regan said. “The most important thing is to get back what belongs to me. Your job is to find out if Schrödinger gave her what he took and if anyone else is in on it. I need to know who knows what before I make my next move.”
“But I’m not allowed to know what’s going on?”
“I’d’ve thought ya’d be used to living with disappointment by now, ole friend.”
It was a lousy plan born of desperation. However, I had little choice but to go along with it and wait for a chance to turn the tables back in my favour. I didn’t like my odds.