The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime, Volume 8

Off Duty Zoë Sharp

The guy who’d just tried to kill me didn’t look like much. From the fleeting glimpse I’d caught of him behind the wheel of his brand new soft-top Cadillac, he was short, with less hair than he’d like on his head and more than anyone could possibly want on his chest and forearms.

That was as much as I could tell before I was throwing myself sideways. The front wheel of the Buell skittered on the loose gravel shoulder of the road, sending a vicious shimmy up through the headstock into my arms. I nearly dropped the damn bike there and then, and that was what pissed me off the most.

The Buell was less than a month old at that point, a Firebolt still with the shiny feel to it, and I’d been hoping it would take longer to acquire its first battle scar. The first cut is always the one you remember.

Although I was wearing full leathers, officially I was still signed off sick from the Kerse job and undergoing the tortures of regular physiotherapy. Adding motorcycle accident injuries, however minor, was not going to look good to anyone, least of all me.

But the bike didn’t tuck under and spit me into the weeds, as I half expected. Instead it righted itself, almost stately, and allowed me to slither to a messy stop maybe seventy metres further on. I put my feet down and tipped up my visor, aware of my heart punching behind my ribs, the adrenaline shake in my hands, the burst of anger that follows on closely after having had the shit scared out of you.

I turned, to find the guy in the Cadillac had completed his halfarsed manoeuvre, pulling out of a side road and turning left across my path. He’d slowed, though, twisting round to stare back at me with his neck extended like a meerkat. Even at this distance I could see the petulant scowl. Hell, perhaps I’d made him drop the cell phone he’d been yabbering into instead of paying attention to his driving...

Just for a second our eyes met, and I considered making an issue out of it. The guy must have sensed that. He plunked back down in his seat and rammed the car into drive, gunning it away with enough gusto to chirrup the tires on the bone-dry surface.

I rolled my shoulders, thought that was the last I’d ever see of him.

I was wrong.

Spending a few days away in the Catskill Mountains was a spur-of-the-moment decision, taken in a mood of self-pity.

Sean was in LA, heading up a high-profile protection detail for some East Coast actress who’d hit it big and was getting windy about her latest stalker. He’d just come back from the Middle East, tired, but focused, buzzing, loving every minute of it and doing his best not to rub it in.

After he’d left for California, the apartment seemed too quiet without him. Feeling the sudden urge to escape New York, and my enforced sabbatical, I’d looked at the maps and headed for the hills, ending up at a small resort and health spa, just north of the prettily named Sundown in Ulster county. The last time I’d been in Ulster the local accent had been Northern Irish, and it had not ended well.

The hotel was set back in thick trees, the accommodation provided in a series of chalets overlooking a small lake. My physio had recommended the range of massage services they offered, and I’d booked a whole raft of treatments. By the time I brought the bike to a halt, nose-in outside my designated chalet, I was about ready for my daily pummelling.

It was with no more than mild annoyance, therefore, that I recognized the soft-top Cadillac two spaces down. For a moment my hand stilled, then I shrugged, hit the engine kill-switch, and went stiffly inside to change out of my leathers.

Fifteen minutes later, fresh from the shower, I was sitting alone in the waiting area of the spa, listening to the self-consciously soothing music. The resort was quiet, not yet in season. Another reason why I’d chosen it.

“Tanya will be with you directly,” the woman on the desk told me, gracious in white, depositing a jug of iced water by my elbow before melting away again.

The only other person in the waiting area was a big blond guy who worked maintenance. He was making too much out of replacing a faulty door catch, but unless you have the practice it’s hard to loiter unobtrusively. From habit, I watched his hands, his eyes, wondered idly what he was about.

The sound of raised voices from one of the treatment rooms produced a sudden, jarring note. From my current position I could see along the line of doors, watched one burst open and the masseuse, Tanya, come storming out. Her face was scarlet with anger and embarrassment. She whirled.

“You slimy little bastard!”

I wasn’t overly surprised to see Cadillac man hurry out after her, shrugging into his robe. I’d been right about the extent of that body hair.

“Aw, come on, honey!” he protested. “I thought it was all, y’know, part of the service.”

The blond maintenance man dropped his tools and lunged for the corridor, meaty hands outstretched. The woman behind the reception desk jumped to her feet, rapped out, “Dwayne!” in a thunderous voice that made him falter in conditioned response.

I swung my legs off my lounger but didn’t rise. The woman on the desk looked like she could handle it, and she did, sending Dwayne skulking off, placating Tanya, giving Cadillac man an excruciatingly polite dressing down that flayed the skin off him nevertheless. He left a tip that must have doubled the cost of the massage he’d so nearly had.

“Ms Fox?” Tanya said a few moments later, flustered but trying for calm. “I’m real sorry about that. Would you follow me, please?”

“Are you OK, or do you need a minute?” I asked, wary of letting someone dig in with ill-tempered fingers, however skilled.

“I’m good, thanks.” She led me into the dimly lit treatment room, flashed a quick smile over her shoulder as she laid out fresh hot towels.

“Matey-boy tried it on, did he?”

She shook her head, rueful, slicked her hands with warmed oil. “Some guys hear the word masseuse but by the time it’s gotten down to their brain, it’s turned into hooker,” she said, her back to me while I slipped out of my robe and levered myself, face-down, flat on to the table. Easier than it had been, not as easy as it used to be.

“So, what’s Dwayne’s story?” I asked, feeling the first long glide of her palms up either side of my spine, the slight reactive tremor when I mentioned his name.

“He and I stepped out for a while,” she said, casual yet prim. “It wasn’t working, so we broke it off.”

I thought of his pretended busyness, his lingering gaze, his rage.

No, I thought. You broke it off.

Later that evening, unwilling to suit up again to ride into the nearest town, I ate in the hotel restaurant at a table laid for one. Other diners were scarce. Cadillac man was alone on the far side of the dining room, just visible round the edges of the silent grand piano. I could almost see the miasma of his aftershave.

He called the waitress “honey”, too, stared blatantly down her cleavage when she brought his food. Anticipating the summer crowds, the management packed the tables in close, so she had to lean across to refill his coffee cup. I heard her surprised, hurt squeak as he took advantage, and waited to see if she’d “accidentally” tip the contents of the pot into his lap, just to dampen his ardour. To my disappointment, she did not.

He chuckled as she scurried away, caught me watching and mistook my glance for admiration. He raised his cup in my direction with a meaningful little wiggle of his eyebrows. I stared him out for a moment, then looked away.

Just another oxygen thief.

As soon as I’d finished eating I took my own coffee through to the bar. The flatscreen TV above the mirrored back wall was tuned to one of the sports channels, showing highlights of the latest AMA Superbikes Championship. The only other occupant was the blond maintenance man, Dwayne, sitting hunched at the far end, pouring himself into his beer.

I took a stool where I had a good view, not just of the screen but the rest of the room as well, and shook my head when the barman asked what he could get me.

“I’ll stick to coffee,” I said, indicating my cup. The painkillers I was taking made my approach to alcohol still cautious.

In the mirror, I saw Cadillac man saunter in and take up station further along the bar. As he passed, he glanced at my back a couple of times as if sizing me up, with all the finesse of a hard-bitten hill farmer checking out a promising young ewe. I kept my attention firmly on the motorcycle racing.

After a minute or so of waiting for me to look over so he could launch into seductive dialogue, he signalled the barman. I ignored their muttered conversation until a snifter of brandy was put down in front of me with a solemn flourish.

I did look over then, received a smug salute from Cadillac man’s own glass. I smiled — at the barman. “I’m sorry,” I said to him. “But I’m teetotal at the moment.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the barman said with a twinkle, and whisked the offending glass away again.

“Hey, that’s my kind of girl,” Cadillac man called over, when the barman relayed the message. Surprise made me glance at him and he took that as invitation to slide three stools closer, so only one separated us. His hot little piggy eyes fingered their way over my body. “Beautiful and cheap to keep, huh?”

“Good coffee’s thirty bucks a pound,” I said, voice as neutral as I could manage.

His gaze cast about for another subject. “You not bored with this?” he asked, jerking his head at the TV. “I could get him to switch channels.”

I allowed a tight smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Neil Hodgson’s just lapped Daytona in under one-minute thirty-eight,” I said. “How could I be bored?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dwayne’s head lift and turn as the sound of Cadillac man’s voice finally penetrated. It was like watching a slow-waking bear.

“So, honey, if I can’t buy you a drink,” Cadillac man said with his most sophisticated leer, “can I buy you breakfast?”

I flicked my eyes towards the barman in the universal distress signal. By the promptness of his arrival, he’d been expecting my call.

“Is this guy bothering you?” he asked, flexing his muscles.

“Yes,” I said cheerfully. “He is.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

Cadillac man gaped between us for a moment, then flounced out, muttering what sounded like “frigid bitch” under his breath.

After very little delay, Dwayne staggered to his feet and went determinedly after him.

Without haste, I finished my coffee. The racing reached an ad break. I checked my watch, left a tip, and headed back out into the mild evening air towards my chalet. My left leg ached equally from the day’s activity and the evening’s rest.

I heard the raised voices before I saw them in the gathering gloom, caught the familiar echoing smack of bone on muscle.

Dwayne had run his quarry to ground in the space between the soft-top Cadillac and my Buell, and was venting his alcohol-fuelled anger in traditional style, with his fists. Judging by the state of him, Cadillac man was only lethal behind the wheel of a car.

On his knees, one eye already closing, he caught sight of me and yelled, “Help, for Chrissake!”

I unlocked the door to my chalet, crossed to the phone by the bed.

“Your maintenance man is beating seven bells out of one of your guests down here,” I said sedately, when front desk answered. “You might want to send someone.”

Outside again, Cadillac man was going down for the third time, nose streaming blood. I noted with alarm that he’d dropped seriously close to my sparkling new Buell.

I started forwards, just as Dwayne loosed a mighty roundhouse that glanced off Cadillac man’s cheekbone and deflected into the Buell’s left-hand mirror. The bike swayed perilously on its stand and I heard the musical note of splintered glass dropping.

“Hey!” I shouted.

Dwayne glanced up and instantly dismissed me as a threat, moved in for the kill.

OK. Now I’m pissed off.

Heedless of my bad leg, I reached them in three fast strides and stamped down on to the outside of Dwayne’s right knee, hearing the cartilage and the anterior cruciate ligament pop as the joint dislocated. Regardless of how much muscle you’re carrying, the knee is always vulnerable.

Dwayne crashed, bellowing, but was too drunk or too stupid to know it was all over. He swung for me. I reached under my jacket and took the SIG 9mm off my hip and pointed it at him, so the muzzle loomed large near the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t,” I murmured.

And that was how, a few moments later, we were found by Tanya, and the woman from reception, and the barman.

“You a cop?” Cadillac man asked, voice thick because of the stuffed nose.

“No,” I said. “I work in close protection. I’m a bodyguard.”

He absorbed that in puzzled silence. We were back in the bar until the police arrived. Out in the lobby I could hear Dwayne still shouting at the pain, and Tanya shouting at what she thought of his stupid jealous temper. He was having a thoroughly bad night.

“A bodyguard,” Cadillac man mumbled blankly. “So why the fuck did you let him beat the crap out of me back there?”

“Because you deserved it,” I said, rubbing my leg and wishing I’d gone for my Vicodin before I’d broken up the fight. “I thought it would be a valuable life lesson — thou shalt not be a total dickhead.”

“Jesus, honey! And all the time, you had a gun? I can’t believe you just let him—”

I sighed. “What do you do?”

“Do?”

“Yeah. For a living.”

He shrugged gingerly, as much as the cracked ribs would let him. “I sell Cadillacs,” he said. “The finest motorcar money can buy.”

“Spare me,” I said. “So, if you saw a guy broken down by the side of the road, you’d just stop and give him a car, would you?”

“Well,” Cadillac man said, frowning, “I guess, if he was a pal—”

“What if he was a complete stranger who’d behaved like a prat from the moment you set eyes on him?” I queried. He didn’t answer. I stood, flipped my jacket to make sure it covered the gun. “I don’t expect you to work for free. Don’t expect me to, either.”

His glance was sickly cynical. “Some bodyguard, huh?”

“Yeah, well,” I tossed back, thinking of the Buell with its smashed mirror and wondering who was in for seven years of bad luck. “I’m off duty.”