The Wreckage

8

Bernie Levinson isn’t at the pawnshop. One of the machinists from the factory downstairs says Bernie lunches at his club every day-an all-hours drinking hole in the shadows of Spitalfields Market. “Hole” being the optimum word. Darker than a cave, the only light comes from a neon advertising sign above the bar and the copper lamps on the tables. No windows. No clocks. Time doesn’t matter in a place like this. Life is put in abeyance, chemically or alcoholically.

The barman is young, good-looking, dressed in a black T-shirt and Levi’s. Eyes only for Holly. “What can I get you?”

“Mineral water.”

“That’s not a real drink.”

“Alcohol goes straight to my head. Makes me do dangerous things.”

She’s flirting. He’s hooked.

“Is Bernie about?”

“Why do you want Bernie?”

“He promised to look after me.”

“I could do that.”

“Maybe later.”

The barman points across the warped wooden floor that is dotted with old cigarette burns. Up a handful of stairs there is a raised restaurant area with private booths. Only one of them is occupied. Bernie Levinson is sitting by himself, a serviette tucked into his collar, dipping bread into a broken piecrust.

Holly takes her glass of water to a table near the fire doors where Joe O’Loughlin is waiting.

“He’s here. Maybe I should talk to him first,” she says. “You might make him nervous.”

“You’re mistaking me for Ruiz.”

“OK then.”

They cross the floor and climb the stairs, slipping into the bench seat opposite Bernie. The pawnbroker grimaces at the sight of Holly as though something has given him heartburn or blocked his colon. Then he looks at the professor. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Joe O’Loughlin. I’m a friend of Holly.”

Bernie ignores his outstretched hand and goes back to eating, keeping both elbows on the table.

“That stuff I brought you, Bernie. I need it back,” says Holly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The nice leather briefcase and the laptop.”

“Huh?”

“This isn’t a set-up, Bernie. I’m not wearing a wire. See?” Holly lifts her top, showing her pale stomach and light blue bra. She turns left and right, showing her back. Bernie waves his hand dismissively.

“How do I know you’re not wearing a wire down there?” He points to her jeans.

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“ Your word!” He laughs.

“I just want the stuff. I know you haven’t sold it.”

Bernie covers his ears. “I’m not listening.”

Joe notices the enlarged tips of his fingers and nail clubbing, which suggest low oxygen levels in his blood and congenital heart disease. Mid-fifties, overweight, a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, a plain wedding band on his left; married, children most likely. Bernie puts down his knife and fork and pats the breast pocket of his coat. There’s something important inside. Not a weapon. Not a mobile phone. Medication.

“Someone killed Zac,” says Holly.

Bernie searches her face, looking for a lie. He shakes his head, wobbling his chins. “Oh, no, no, no, I’m not involved in this shit. I’m just a businessman. I buy things. I sell things.” He’s addressing Joe now, trying to convince him. “I run a family business. My grandfather. My father…”

Bernie has taken a phone from his pocket and placed it on the seat beside him. The screen is lit up. He’s calling someone… sending a message.

“We just want the stuff back,” says Holly. “We’ll pay you the money.”

Bernie’s lips peel away from his teeth. “Let me get this straight. You came to me with certain items-which, by the way, I had no idea were stolen-and you sold me these items in good faith, but now you want them back?”

Holly nods.

“That suggests to me that someone has made you a better offer. Maybe I should negotiate with them directly.”

“It’s not a question of money.”

“In my experience, it’s always a question of money. What’s this item that’s so valuable?”

“We’re not sure,” says Joe.

“You’re not sure?”

“Holly is hoping she’ll know it when she sees it.”

Bernie laughs but it turns into a coughing fit. Tugging his serviette from his collar, he tosses it on his plate and calls for the bill. Beneath the table, Holly’s hand touches Joe’s thigh. She leans closer, cupping his ear.

“Something isn’t right,” she whispers.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s lying.”

Joe glances at Bernie, who is peeling off two ten-pound notes.

Holly confronts him outright. “You’re lying.”

Bernie looks offended. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think you have the gear anymore.”

“Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt,” says Joe.

Holly looks at him angrily. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

She needs the bathroom. She makes her way across the dance floor to the ladies. Joe follows Bernie outside into the whiteness of the afternoon. The pawnbroker holds open the heavy door.

Two paces into the alley, Joe is shoved from behind, driven hard into the wall. Bouncing back, he meets a man who delivers a short sharp punch to his stomach, enough to deny him air and double him over.

Bernie puts his face close. His breath smells of steak-and-kidney pie.

“This is my employee, Mr. Tommy Boyle. He used to box. Now he breaks things for a living. He works in a wrecker’s yard. Bones break easier.”

Bernie takes Joe’s wallet from his coat pocket and checks his driver’s license.

“So tell me, Professor Joseph O’Loughlin of Station Road, Wellow, near Bath, what are you doing with that moist little bint and why is someone so interested in what she stole?”

“What do you mean?”

“Other parties are looking for her-one man in particular. You’re going to tell me why.”

The door opens. Holly emerges, holding something behind her back. She doesn’t seem particularly surprised to see Tommy Boyle.

“Ah, here she is, my little princess,” says Bernie.

Holly raises a short crowbar above her head and brings it down on Tommy’s shoulder, raking down his arm. In a blur of movement, she swings it again, this time connecting just below his right knee. Tommy goes down like a felled tree, groaning and clutching his leg.

“Get up and fight,” says Bernie.

Holly raises it again, aiming at the pawnbroker, but he reels away with his hands in the air like a mime artist in a glass room.

“OK, OK, settle down.”

“She broke my fucking leg,” moans Tommy.

Holly looks at Joe. “Did I hit him too hard?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it’s her fault!” says Bernie.

“You started it,” says Holly, sounding like a petulant child. “You shouldn’t have lied.”

“You’re a freak!” Bernie spits the words. “I haven’t got your stuff, OK? A guy came and took it. Cleaned me out.”

“What guy?”

“A total nutjob-he didn’t like Jews or women or porn or golf.”

“Golf?”

“That’s not the point. This complete psycho came to see me last Friday; grinning at me like every sentence was a punchline. He wanted to see everything I’d bought from that evil bint.” He points his chin at Holly. “I was six hours locked in a storeroom. I’m lucky the guy didn’t kill me.”

“What was he looking for?” asks Joe.

“Some notebook.”

“Did you report the robbery?”

Bernie hoots sarcastically. “Rozzers would have laughed me out of the station.”

Joe looks at Holly for confirmation.

“He’s telling the truth.”

Bernie lowers his hands and jabs a finger at her, spitting the words. “What have you got me mixed up in?”

Adjusting the side mirror, the Courier keeps Holly Knight in view, marveling at how much anger and energy are contained in her small frame. How brittle she seems, yet strong. How fragile, yet unbreakable. He wants to take this girl in his arms, to feel her ribs against his chest, to cup her delicate throat in his palm and taste the salty ichor of her fear.

Screwing up his eyes to see her better, he congratulates himself. He knew if he waited long enough she’d visit Bernie.

“You shouldn’t park there,” says a voice. An office worker has stepped outside for a cigarette. “The weasels will get you.”

“Weasels?”

“Wardens.”

Short and rather plump, she touches the corners of her mouth as though checking to see that she’s smiling.

“I won’t be staying, but thanks for the tip.”

The woman continues puffing and talking, telling him how many times the wardens have given her parking tickets. Maybe she’s flirting with him. Is she batting her eyelids or blinking away smoke?

“Do you know what you tell a woman with two black eyes?” he asks.

“What?”

“Nothing. She’s already been told twice.”