An Accident Waiting to Happen. Vincent Banville

eyes and tried not to look sly.

      ‘They’re a new breed of tough guys. Russkies or Bosnians or something like that. They don’t talk the King’s English.’

      ‘You’re telling me that some people from Eastern Europe are threatening to burn down your nightclub if you don’t give them money?’

      ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. It’s bad enough having to deal with the local hoodlums, but this new breed. I ask you …’

      ‘And you want me to go and talk them out of their plans?’

      ‘I’ll pay you well. Two hundred now, and another three hundred if you get them off my back. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

      ‘I keep the two hundred whether I succeed or not?’

      ‘You’ll have to bring back some proof that you went. Maybe a finger or a toe. Or you could scalp one of them. They’re into long hair.’

      I rubbed my face and thought about it. I had nothing to lose by going to see these people, and I badly needed the two hundred quid. There wasn’t much chance that I’d get them to back off, but one never knew.

      ‘Okay,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘Tell me where these guys live and I’ll pay them a visit. But I can’t promise anything.’

      ‘That’s all I ask,’ Bertie said, doing his best to look sincere.

      He opened a drawer in the desk and fumbled about in it. He finally took out a wad of money held together by a rubber band. Snapping off four fifties, he slid them across to me. He also gave me a sheet of paper with a name and address on it. That finished our little family gathering for the moment, so I got up and left. There was no sign of either of the girls as I moved across the dance floor towards the door.

      Chapter Five

      I went back out into the rain. Knitting needles of it were dancing on the pavement. At two I would have to collect Emily from the crèche. It was now twelve-thirty. Sheltering in a shop doorway, I examined the note Bertie Boyer had given me. The name on it was Polonski. The address was down in Parnell Street.

      My car, a very old Renault, was once again in the garage. A taxi? A bus? I decided to walk. A guy in a plastic raincoat, carrying a large golf umbrella gave me shelter as far as Eason’s bookshop. From there on it was water, water everywhere. By the time I got to the Polonski address, I was wet through.