The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series) (8 page)

Bosley's name rang a bell though. He’d been less than courteous. Policeman’s scepticism. Look to the family first. When I’d finished she asked me.

‘
Do you have any idea who that guy was?’

‘
No,’ I replied.

‘
You’re going to find out.’ It was less a question and more a statement; a command. ‘And when you do, you’re going to tell me.’ There was no emotion in her voice. No sign in her tone of what she was thinking. But it was blazoned across her eyes. She was a Mediterranean woman, and there was fire in her heart and vengeance in her soul. Someone had taken her dearest kin, and she’d level the kingdoms of Heaven and Hell to get revenge.

And she'd decided then and there that I was going to help her. The fact I'd already decided to dig around was neither here nor there. If I hadn't been before, Marisol had decided that I was now.

I understood her need for vengeance. Understood the way revenge can give you strength, give you drive.

Looking at Marisol I knew what she had planned; not the details, but certainly the outcome, the result she wanted … which was why I had no intention of telling her if I ever found out who he was, although I nodded to say I would. I’d lost one friend to that guy and I had no intention of losing another. I wasn’t willing to see Marisol go to jail for that piece of shit, especially if I could find another way to get him.

‘
Good. As soon as you find out, you tell me, hey Wolfy.’ She uttered in a matter of fact way rising up from the sofa. I nodded in compliance.

‘
Time to get up and open the shop. The bills need paying and I have things to do.’ The knowledge that there was someone to get revenge upon had reinvigorated Marisol.

‘
There's always bills to pay,’ I replied. ‘They can wait till tomorrow. Take the day off.’

‘
There's no rest in this town. No time to grieve. Just have to keep going, keep fighting.’

‘
True.’ I sighed. Rising up, preparing to return to the world, into the merciless city that was both friend and foe to those that resided in her.

‘
You make sure you tell me. Okay, Wolfy?’

‘
No worries,’ I lied.

I left the revitalised Marisol to open the shop and headed towards Betsy, I wanted to visit my lock-up. I’d planned to go there from the start, before I'd even seen Marisol. It was one of those
two-birds-with-one-stone
situations.

Before Longy had left on his supposed travels, he'd left me a big old trunk with his prized possessions to hold for him. At the time, it hadn’t seemed important and I'd just dumped it in the lock-up. But now I was curious to find out what was in it. See if it had any connection to what happened, his reaction when I mentioned it made me suspicious.

I heaved open the heavy metal door that guarded my lock-up. It was full to the brim of all manner of stuff, which made finding Longy’s trunk something of an arduous task. It had been a while since I'd had a good clear-out, plus things had been extremely slow. So what should have been shifted was now piling up. I was turning into a bit of a hoarder.

I finally found the trunk buried under fifteen crowbars, a large elephant foot umbrella stand, and a collection of Morris Minor car manuals (don't ask).

The trunk was a little bit smaller than a suitcase. It was made out of cheap wood, and had a large padlock on the front. I picked up one of the crowbars and forced the lock. The lock stayed solid but the trunk broke instead. Either way it was open. I lifted the lid. For such a large trunk there wasn’t a lot in it: a small velvet bag with some jewellery; a couple of boxes of Havana cigars; a shoebox with some paperwork; and a photo album. I flicked through the photos. It was Longy’s life: I was in a few as was Tabatha; there were loads of his family … his entire history. I placed the album back in the trunk and continued to rummage. I’d seen it initially when I’d lifted the lid; instinctively it had caught my eye. It was a small intricately carved wooden box with a varnished finish. The pattern was mostly swirls and raised asymmetric patterns; no real discernable shapes just grooves on the wood. It looked like quality workmanship, handmade at the very least. It had a few stains and an odd scratch, but other than that was in perfect condition. There was a small brass hook that kept the lid closed. I flicked the catch and opened the lid.

Staring out from inside the box, which was lined with padded red silk, was a scaled model of Tom Jones, the Welsh pop singer. It was dressed in a white PVC jumpsuit, had a small gold medallion around its neck and a hairy chest. It was an action figure; a Tom Jones action figure. To say I was surprised is probably an understatement.

‘
What the hell were you up to, Longy?’ I proclaimed, as I pulled the little Tom Jones out of the box.

The thing started singing. The minute the figure came out of the box the music blared out of it, it was singing ‘Kiss’ by Tom Jones

I twirled it in my hands as the music continued to play. I checked through the box. Empty. Nothing.

‘
Okay, this is odd,’ I said to myself.

I put little Tom back in his box and the music stopped, which was a relief. Don't get me wrong I don't mind a bit of Tom Jones, but there's a time and a place, and that wasn't it. I closed the lock-up and jumped into Betsy, flinging the box in the back.

I started Betsy, put her into gear, and then just sat there. I didn't know what to do. Truthfully, I had been expecting something more helpful in the box. I revved Betsy and pumped the pedal a bit. The revs helped me think. I pulled out the phone and told Tommy-Two-Tooth I was coming to see him and then headed off to The Hanging Man. I had no idea what I was doing and this seemed as good an idea as any. Maybe he knew what the box and Tom Jones were about. I drove back through the city. The traffic had started to pick up and the going was slow.

I parked up round the corner from The Hanging Man. I needed to take some pictures of the box and Tom Jones to show Tommy-Two-Tooth.

Usually, whenever the occasion’s occurred that I’ve come into possession of something that I didn’t know how to sell, I’d take photos of it and then show them to Tommy-Two-Tooth. Tommy always requested photos. He never asked to see the actual merchandise; never wanted to get his fingers near enough to become imprinted.

I took out my phone and started snapping away, shooting the box inside and out, as well as various angles of the Tom Jones action figure, which started singing the second it was released from its confines. God knows what anybody passing would have thought. Once I'd finished making sure to get all the sides and angles, as Tommy is a fussy bugger, I went to The Hanging Man.

Thursday 4:00 p.m. (The Hanging Man)

Geronimo was behind the bar, and the few early entrants were well on the road to oblivion. I nodded to Geronimo and went over to Tommy’s booth. Tommy was alone reading the paper and nursing a cognac.

‘
Good evening, Wolfy,’ he said not even raising his eyes.

‘
Tommy,’ I sighed, slumping into the chair opposite.

Tommy’s definitely the other side of sixty, maybe even on the pension. He had a natural elegance; a debonair and slightly haughty air about him, like a Victorian colonel. He even had the moustache; an upturned handlebar.

He was dressed as always in one of those Victorian style suits he always wore. The only part of Tommy that was out of place with his Victorian gent persona were the two gold-tipped alligator teeth that he wore round his neck on a thin gold chain … which was how he got his name, not as may have been presumed, due to a lack of dental requirements.

‘
So what can I do for you this evening?’ he enquired.

‘
I need some info on this stuff.’ I flipped out the phone and showed him the pictures.

‘
It would appear to be a hand-carved wooden box and a replica of the Welsh singer Tom Jones.’

‘
Yes, Tommy, I know that. I'm trying to find out something else.’

‘
Such as?’

‘
Longy told me to look after these things before he left. I think it might be connected to his death. Well, I'm hoping it is.’

‘
Ah. Can't help you there, old bean, although Patrice Laussant will buy the box.’

‘
I don’t want to sell it I just want to know what these things are, and whether Longy was killed because of them.’

‘
Like I said, I can’t help you there, but go see him, you may find it interesting.’

‘
Yeah?’ I replied in exasperation.

‘
Yes.’

‘
Fine, I’ll go. Gimme the address.’

Tommy gave me the address and told me that Patrice Laussant wouldn’t be there until Saturday. The box and Tom Jones were a key and this Patrice Laussant connection would tell me what they meant. Tommy was still bound by confidentiality to Longy, but that’s why I had to see this guy. It was my only lead.

Leaving Tommy in his booth I went back to the bar.

‘
How's tricks?’ I said addressing Geronimo.

‘
Not bad. How was Marisol?’

‘
What? How did you …?’

‘
Charlotte.’ He said, cutting me off.

‘
Oh yeah.’ Charlotte, Geronimo's girlfriend and Marisol's best friend; the gossip grapevine was in full force.

‘
I don't know what you said to Marisol, but Charlotte was very impressed. She said Marisol is up and about and running the shop.’

‘
What can I say? Wolfy magic. Any chance of a Leffe?’ I was clucking for a beer.

‘
Here ... on the house.’ Geronimo said placing a cold one on the bar.

‘
Wow .... To what do I owe the privilege?’

‘
Thank Charlotte.’

‘
I always said she was a good woman. Have one for yourself if you’re paying. ‘

‘
Most generous.’

He put a second one on the table.

‘
This one's from me. You look like you need it.’

‘
Cheers, Mo. Most required.’

I stayed drinking in The Hanging Man till far later than I intended. The idle small talk and large number of beers were a welcome respite from the present which I was reluctant to rejoin. I had found an answer. Now I had to know the question.

Friday 1:00 p.m.

I had one more day before Patrice Laussant would reappear and, hopefully, explain the lunacy that Longy had left me in a box. My evening was already planned. Leon was hosting one of his infamous fancy-dress dos. I think being a drag queen he enjoyed seeing the rest of us dress up.

Whatever his reasons, it was always worth attending, even more so on this occasion, as Tabatha still hadn’t explained her business proposition; a mystery that wouldn’t be revealed till nightfall. All I knew was she was keen. She phoned me bright and early to make sure I was definitely attending. My confirmation pleased her, but I still had the day free.

With nothing to do but wait, I decided to carry on like nothing had happened. Like Marisol said, this town doesn’t wait. I had a few errands that had existed prior to Longy’s death. I was still meant to be helping out Puglia and his daughter’s wedding. I would have ditched him if he hadn’t already paid me. I was obligated and had no choice but to do the tasks.

I flew round the city organising food and alcohol, and all the other little bits that needed doing, including dropping Puglia and Mama round to a tailor friend of mine called Nat the Needle; a truly wondrous master of the art of stitching, a Rembrandt of thread and silk … a man that, in better times, I’d visited often, but now was more friend than tailor.

I only really mention Nat the Needle because of something he told me while I was standing in the shop passing the time, waiting on Puglia and Mama. Nat informed me that he’d seen my cousin Jeremiah; my Interpol-employed cousin Jeremiah. A man who I must admit, I am
not
on the most friendly of terms with, but that has more to do with career choices than any real animosity. He works for the police and I generally avoid the police. C
’est la vie.