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It's Killing Jerry: A Comedy Thriller Page 7
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“Charles Bamford-Irons.” Remi smiled, extending his hand to Pink. Pink took it, dragging a smile past the disappointment of his loss. “I like a man prepared to make a stand,” Remi went on. “I’d like to help out your consortium. Have another drink.” Remi topped him up. He didn’t want to lose him now, not yet.
“Maximus Pink.”
Remi turned over his cards, a six and a four. “Hit.” An ace. The dealer held two jacks. Another win. Pink looked from the cards to Remi and back to the cards. “Lady Luck is with you,” he coughed out.
“Lucky for me we met. It’s destiny, Pink, destiny.” Remi ramped up his enthusiasm to contagious levels and a sparkle developed in Pink’s eye. Who could resist Charles Bamford-Irons?
“You know, the orphans have already done quite well today—a big win at Caesars earlier. What do you say we put tonight’s winnings toward your cause instead?” Remi bobbed up and down with excitement, playing his part.
“That would be an excellent start.”
“An excellent start, yes.” Remi gave Pink an exuberant slap on the back, slopping a little Krug onto his trousers.
The dealer laid another pair of cards. Remi didn’t look at them and turned instead to Pink. “If we’re going to take this forward I’ll need details. See some reports, bank accounts, that sort of thing. I’m a generous man, but no fool.”
“Of course. All our investors are kept up to date.”
Remi surveyed his cards and paused to think.
The room held its breath.
“Eighteen, I’ll stand.” Remi looked to the dealer who revealed their cards. A four and a five. They took a hit. Another five. They had to take another. An eight and bust.
“Ha!” Remi jumped up and hugged Pink, who was so shocked he didn’t even try to move away.
“You are my lucky charm!” he cried. “Let’s do it. I’ll make a transfer tonight.” The dealer stacked his winnings—a hundred and seventy thousand now on the table.
Pink turned and beckoned to a man standing sentry by the door, clutching a briefcase. He came over, stood by Pink’s side and without instruction held the case level at waist height. Pink clicked the combination locks and pushed open the lid. He drew from inside the uppermost of a pile of identical plain brown envelopes, which he passed to Remi. “Details of the members of our group, our philanthropic goals and bank account details. For our investors’ eyes only. I must request your discretion.”
“Absolutely.” Remi tucked the envelope into his inside jacket pocket and passed over a business card in response. Pink took it with both hands and then put it into the briefcase. The sentry snapped it shut and returned to his post.
“One last hand to seal the deal.” Remi motioned to the dealer to continue. “Two hundred and fifty thousand would be a fitting gift to start our relationship, wouldn’t you say, Pink?” Pink nodded, greedy eyes on the chips.
The dealer laid the cards, first a queen and then a king. The dealer was showing a ten.
The room leaned in as the dealer peeled off the final card. An ace.
“Blackjack, dealer wins.” In one deft sweep the chips were gone and silence descended.
Remi swallowed hard and rubbed at his chest. Pink slumped in his seat. The room leaned away, murmuring.
“Well, what a blow.” Remi rubbed some more at his chest. “All that excitement and I’ve let you down.”
Pink pursed his lips and shrugged, disappointed but resigned. “What can you do?”
Remi leaned back, puffing and rubbing, a pained look on his face.
“Are you all right? Shall I call someone?” Pink could see his newest investor dropping dead from a heart attack. Henchman was on his feet.
“I’m fine, just heartburn, I—I’m fine.” He made to stand, but winced and dropped back to the seat.
“Water, here.” Pink beckoned to the hostess.
“I have something for it in my room. I’ll be fine in a minute. I just need the pills.” Remi wobbled to his feet. “Shan’t be long. You won’t know I’m gone.” Remi managed a weak smile and made his way to the door, hunched and puffing. An attendant pulled it open for him and he staggered to the lift, waving away offers of assistance.
When the doors slid open on the ground floor Remi scanned the foyer before striding out across the cool marble toward the exit. Back straight and head held aloft, he rested one nonchalant hand in his trouser pocket and winked at the receptionist, who giggled and blushed anew.
Under the Bellagio’s canopy, he slid into the back of his waiting limo, patted the envelope in his pocket and caught the driver’s eye in the mirror. “Take me to the airport and don’t hang about, I want to get back to my yacht.”
SIXTEEN
“YOUR MUM CALLED.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Said she was wondering why Peanut and I hadn’t gone round on Sunday too. You know when you went round. And had lunch. A lovely Sunday roast.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Said she couldn’t understand it. I said, obviously, Jerry’s very busy at the moment. Obviously, it slipped Jerry’s mind that I was available, with our infant, stuck at home, badly in need of a break.”
“Uh huh.”
“Yeah. Why would you say that was, exactly, Jerry?”
Jerry pulled his lips in and bit them together for a moment. “Hey, well, you know, I was just popping round to help out with the computer. I did try to tell you about it, Rach, but you seemed kind of tired.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah. Well you know mothers: always trying to feed their kids.” He squeaked out a laugh, “I was just going to pop round for a bit, fix the computer and come home.”
“Mm.”
“And then she produced this plate of food and it seemed a bit rude not to eat it.”
“Rude. Uh-huh.”
Rachel struggled to manhandle the lawnmower over to the left. If she could get it to go under the bottom shelf there’d be room for the sun loungers to squeeze in down the side. The shed was too small, stuffed with all those things they’d kept just in case. Evaporated pots of paint, bits of curtain fittings and neglected tools skulked on shelves, just out of reach. An enormous chest of drawers, evicted from the kitchen last year, took up far too much space under the tiny plastic window, its contents a mystery. No-one ever dared to open the drawers for fear of poisonous arachnids, or other such unlikely creatures, waiting within. No-one wanted to risk such an encounter in the name of DIY.
Jerry shuffled from side to side behind her in the doorway and pointed past her to the floor. “You’ll have to move those boxes or it’ll never go.”
“I tell you what, why don’t you do it?” Rachel backed out of the tiny space and pushed Jerry in. He was becoming a bit too good at giving out instructions. He concertinaed down to reach around the old mower, pulled out the box and swivelled back to place it on top of the drawers next to her. Rat poison. She picked it up, sniffed it and put it thoughtfully back down.
“Your mum said you left some paperwork there.”
“Did I?” said Jerry before adding, “Crap,” under his breath.
“Said she was really surprised we could afford to give Isabell so much on a direct debit. Monthly, Isabell’s direct debit, isn’t it, Jerry?”
“Mm.”
“Yeah, thought so.”
Jerry wiggled the lawnmower into position. “Pass me a lounger then, would you?” he said, looking sheepishly up into Rachel’s pissed-off face. Rachel grabbed a folded lounger from just outside the door and clattered it through the frame. Jerry took it and they both held on for a moment, Rachel waiting for him to meet her eyes.
“It’s just until she gets on her feet.” Jerry looked down to the gap by the mower and Rachel let go.
“What about our feet, Jerry? Your mum said the account was overdrawn.”
“Was it? Oh, maybe just a little. Just waiting on a cheque. Nothing to worry about.” Jerry’s bobbed unnecessarily up and down as he forced the lounger in.
She could see he didn’t want to look at her, undoubtedly hiding something.
“Do you still love her, Jerry?”
“What? No, God no.”
“I don’t understand why you keep trying to protect her. It’s over with her, isn’t it? You’ve got us now, me and Peanut.”
Jerry straightened up and pulled her into him, smoothing her head against his chest. “Hey, don’t be silly, Rach. Isabell’s history. It’s just going to take me a while to get her off my back, that’s all.”
Cheek pressed against Jerry’s cotton work shirt, Rachel was aware that she could no longer see his face. “She’s just so demanding and it’s like you’ll do whatever she says, like she’s got some hold over you.” Jerry’s sleeve was getting in her mouth.
“She hasn’t. It’s just Isabell, you know how she is. It’s better to put a stop to her drama before it takes hold.” Jerry stroked randomly at Rachel’s hair, pushing it into her eyes.
She pulled back, away from him. “Look I don’t mind if we have to save up for stuff, money isn’t everything, but I don’t want to be taken for a fool. If you’re still carrying on with her, Jerry, I’ll lose it. I will. You can’t do that to me.” Her voice wavered, betraying the emotion she was trying to control. If Jerry was seeing Isabell behind her back it would tip her over the edge. The daily battle with Peanut was only bearable if they were a team beneath it all.
“I’m not!” Jerry stared down into her eyes, widening his own. “Cross my heart.” He made great sweeps across his chest to emphasize it. “Now give me the other lounger.”
She passed it to him, a little more carefully this time, and he turned away to try to jiggle it into place. Garden shears rattled on their hook. Blades, pristine from lack of use, glinted high above Jerry’s oblivious back. Rachel reached up to touch the steel, to keep the shears from jumping off their hook and remembered her dream. Remembered how she’d felt ownership of that surprising glinting knife, like it was a part of her, lain dormant.
“I’m not going to find out about anything else, am I, Jerry? Nothing else that you’re not telling me?” Jerry turned to her and crossed his chest again. “And hope to die,” he said, childish grin spreading across his face and irritating Rachel further.
He gave her arm a squeeze and pushed past, stooping slightly to get out through the low doorway and hurried up the garden.
Rachel pressed a finger to her lips and watched him scurry into the house. He wasn’t telling the truth, of course. He was shifty, avoiding her eyes and running away when she brought up the subject of Isabell. Isabell, the bloody bane of her life. Curvaceous, vivacious, sexy Isabell, who had nothing to spend her money on but expensive clothes and manicures, but still managed to take vast sums from their family every month. No demands on her time, but trips to the hair dresser and applying that pout. No screaming infant to wear her down. Isabell, who Jerry couldn’t seem to let go.
Rachel pushed the conjured images of them together out of her imagination. ‘No proof, Rachel. No proof,’ she told herself, but her gut still twisted enough to close her eyes.
And who could blame him? Look at the state of her. Most of the time she was spattered with baby vomit, wearing knackered old leggings with the knees stretched out. Her hair was a mess and there was rarely any time, nor inclination for that matter, to apply make-up. And she was tired, so tired. And miserable. Fuck, it was no wonder Jerry was off with another woman.
She pushed the shed door closed and snapped on the padlock. “Good,” she said out loud. “I’m glad we’ve managed to get them in. I’m pretty sure we’ve seen the last of the good weather.” She looked up to the grey sky and shivered a little. “The telly said there’s a storm on the way.”
SEVENTEEN
JERRY RAN FRANTIC EYES OVER THE SCREEN: Spink had plundered his account base, stolen the best for himself and Jerry couldn’t do a thing about it. Only members of the board had that kind of access and Spink knew it.
Jerry was going to have to win some new customers, a lot of new customers.
He flailed around his throbbing brain for inspiration. What about beefing up the spend on what was left? For a starter, that was good. He’d have to make house calls. He scanned the screen for a good prospect. Abbott & Gunn could be worth some investment: he’d heard they were developing a new range of consumables and new ranges always got a big hit of PR. He pulled their file from his cabinet and leafed through the contact history.
Jerry rubbed his cold hands together then pulled a tissue from the box on his desk to dab at his running nose. His contact picked up on the second ring.
“Jerry, it’s been a while. How are things?”
He was happy to speak to him. Thank God. “Great, Simon, really great.” Jerry cranked up the enthusiasm. “We’ve been running some exciting new schemes. I’d love to come over and talk to you about them.”
“Jerry (BEEP You have a call waiting) crazy busy right now. Why don’t you give me a (BEEP You have a call waiting) OK?”
Jerry strained to fill in the gaps. “Sorry, Simon, I didn’t quite catch that.”
“(BEEP You have a call waiting).” Jerry’s fists clenched with frustration. “But, listen, I’m here until five if you swing by today.”
“Great. Perfect. I’ll see you later (BEEP…)” Jerry hung up, relieved and his phone rang immediately.
“Adler.”
“Jerry. I need you to coming to the house.” Isabell.
“What now? Cat flap stuck? Light bulb popped?”
“No be silly, Jerry, you know I hate cats. Is very important. You will no want to delay.”
“I really can’t right now, Isabell, I’m working. I’ll call later, OK?”
“OK. No forget.” She hung up.
Yeah, right. He’d call right after he’d made these other two hundred phone calls. He checked the wall clock: twenty to five. If he got a wiggle on he could catch Simon tonight.
He jabbed the PC power button, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and swept out of the room, leaving the chair in a spin.
Spink was in reception, signing out. Jerry nodded at him deadpan, playing it unconvincingly cool. His sky-high eyebrows and wobbly head got Spink’s full attention and he watched him back out of the door through a distrustful squint. With hindsight, perhaps spinning round and running for it wasn’t the smartest thing he could have done. He wasn’t even halfway across the car park before Spink was out the door after him, in pursuit of whatever he was obviously hiding.
Jerry jumped into the Fiat and cranked her over.
“Come on, come on.”
She didn’t bite.
He cranked her over again and rammed his foot to the floor.
She spluttered into life and Jerry bucked out of the car park, just ahead of Spink in his Jaguar.
He pulled out into a clear Elmgate Road and raced down to Hale Avenue.
Spink rolled along behind and Jerry grimaced at his smug face in his rear view mirror. Just one client, he wanted to save a least one decent client.
The Jolly Badger roundabout put a spanner in Spink’s works and he got stuck for a good twelve cars while Jerry screamed the Fiat’s engine toward the M1.
“Eat my dust, Dinky!” Jerry wiggled in his seat, revelling the growing gap between them: Abbott & Gunn was only ten minutes away.
The red light at Sunbury Way was backed up with a line of eight cars. Jerry drummed on his steering wheel, willing it to change. He watched his mirror for Spink, who came into view, but then made a left before the end of the queue. Spink was cutting the corner, taking a gamble on where Jerry was heading.
“No, no, no!”
Jerry slammed the Fiat into gear and coerced it to the lights and left. Spink pulled out five cars ahead and Jerry gritted his teeth. It was all down to the parking. He scanned the road ahead for spaces.
His phone started to ring and he snatched it up.
“It’s just so busy around here, this time of night. You looking for a space?” Spink.
>
Jerry growled.
“Just by the Spar there’s a space. Oh, no, hang on. I’m in it.” He disconnected.
Jerry sailed by and Spink gave him the finger. He wheeled into a side road and abandoned his car on the pavement. As he jumped out, his phone rang again.
“Piss off, Spink.”
“Why have you no called me, Jerry?” Isabell.
Jerry fumbled his client file and it dropped to the floor. He fell onto it, scrabbling at the loose papers. “Isabell. What is it?”
“I wait, but no call,” Isabell huffed into the phone.
“I’m working, Isabell. Not now eh?”
“Always not now. I think you don’t care.”
“We are divorced.”
She sobbed, “You no care. I have all this worry. I need help, Jerry.”
Jerry grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck.
“I’ll call later, OK? I have to go now.”
“OK.”
“OK.”
Jerry ran from the Fiat, diced with death across Sunbury Way and barrelled into the reception of Abbott & Gunn.
Spink was shaking hands with Simon.
“Donald’s just been telling me about our account getting upgraded,” Simon beamed. “Getting looked after by the Sales Director himself. We are honoured.”
Spink patted Simon on the back and gave Jerry a benign grin.
“Only the best,” Jerry wheezed.
“I’ve got this covered, Jerry,” Spink drawled, “Why don’t you call it a day?”
EIGHTEEN