03 The Golden Arcade 2

2

With a direct rail link to London, Shopworth was the kind of place you lived if you couldn’t afford the metropolis, or just wanted out of it. It was a town that was meant to be full. But it was getting fuller. Too damned full. Full to bursting. Traffic pumped into its one way systems like blood through the heart of a body builder. The place was ‘pumped’. Big square developments squeezed the edges of the pavements. Eighteenth century, half timbered houses remodelled into outlets for famous high street chains. 

In the Malton centre, coffee everywhere. Costa’s twenty metres down. A Pret. A Starbuck’s. Bart bought an Americano with milk and a chocolate muffin. It had been three weeks since Mum, aka Julia, aka Bitchface had left and she hadn’t been in touch. He pulled the beanie from his head. He sat down and sipped the coffee. He stared at the muffin. Ran his hands through his rough black hair. It wasn’t busy, not on a Thursday, but it wasn’t empty either. Yummy mummies were wheeling past the window, guiding big, baby buggies to fashionable shops. An elderly couple with comfortable shoes and modestly sized bags of shopping shuffled past like harmonised notes.

And then a woman was there. There at the window. She stood with her back to the panelled glass. Red hair draped in perfectly crafted waves. It was a nice back to look at. It was a mild day, but it was still November and she wasn’t wearing a coat. And she carried shopping bags, lots of shopping bags, the waxed paper kind with rope handles and the cursive script. She held a phone to her ear and she tilted her head to get keep hair out of the way. It looked like a nice phone. 

He stuffed the remains of the muffin into his mouth and he stood, cleaning himself with a napkin, checking for chocolate on his new Reiss chinos as he pushed out onto the pavement, trying and failing to not look nervous.

'Hi,’ he said. ‘I'm Bartholomew Crowe.'

He held out his hand but she stopped him with hers. She tapped with one thumb on the screen wearing an expression that could have been disgust or irritation or a toxic mixture of both. She turned away, made a call.

'Listen, Babe...’ 

Her voice was full estuary, London and full Essex all at the same time. 

‘... No, I don't care what the bitch says. You get her out on the next plane home. Okay? Got it Babe? You sure?’ 

She waited. 

‘...Good. Bye Babe.'

She hung up, turned and smiled. Smiled like she’d spent a day in a meadow with daisies and rainbows and unicorns. And if he hadn’t been nervous before, he was now. 

‘Bartholomew Crowe?' she said, still smiling that saccharine, serpent smile.

'Yes,' he said. And again, he offered his hand. 

She didn't take it, shake it, hold it or kiss it. What she did do was give him her shopping bags.

'Take these, Babe.'

She swivelled on her heels. She walked and he followed, stumbling as he tried to keep up. She looked really good from behind. Her jeans were tight and -  well, so what if she was old enough to be his mother? He was only looking. He straightened to show her his full height. All six foot of him. At the multi-storey she ignored the stairs. Pressed the button that called the lift. 

'Lori Cole?' he asked, again.

She didn't answer. She was texting, using every second to manage and maintain whatever complex web of friends, and virtual friends, employees and acquaintances she had spun around herself. The elevator arrived. It pinged and the doors opened and they stepped in, sharing the space with a fat, middle aged man on crutches. 

'Nice day for it,' the fat man said, to her, not him.

She smiled but didn’t reply, a short, half smile that made it clear that the man shouldn’t bother to speak again.

'Follow me, Babe.' 

And Bart followed her out of the lift and into the car park. The tightly spaced four by fours and SUVs, all crammed into spaces designed for the smaller cars of thirty years ago. He spotted hers from some distance away. It had to be hers. It had to be hers because it was beautiful.

It was a mid-engined sports-car, Audi, a lustrous, pearlescent white. Amazing styling, like an Italian car, but comfortable and smooth and very nearly practical. It was a car you’d see reviewed on TV, centre-spread in the magazines you bought on airlines.

The doors opened and she smiled a smile that said ‘Get in, Babe. This won’t take long.’

Cream and brown leather inside, brushed aluminium, all mod cons. And she looked good in it too. Better than good. Her long red fingernails slipping into the glove box, her red checked blouse unbuttoned just far enough to notice.

'I want you... to find somebody,' she said, and she looked up at him with intense, blue little eyes. She looked suddenly vulnerable. He wished he’d asked where the boot was and didn’t have six shopping bags stacked on his lap.

He told her that despite his youth, he was an actual private investigator of Crowe & Son Investigations. He had fake references. And she was Lori, a mother, a step-mother, his guess was thirty-seven, thirty-eight. She had a son, Bart's age, a heap of potential and a wild side that made sure that potential was all it ever was. She gave him two red plastic envelopes. Five thousand in cash. Fifties. More to be provided if deemed appropriate and necessary. It was more cash than he’d had ever held. He slipped the envelopes into the pocket of his jacket as casually as he could. He saw her wince as the shopping bags snagged on the cuff of his coat.

She held a photo in one hand. Her other hand slid over his knee. The physical contact surprised him. He jumped but she didn’t take the hand away. And as she held out the photo, she leaned over towards him, and she gazed into his eyes. It was as if she expected some immediate revelation or miraculous Holmes style deduction. The weight of her expectation felt strange on him. Her eyes all glitter and blue. 

The picture was of a young man, posing on a skiing trip. A good looking boy of about seventeen. He had white-blond hair - unnaturally white - and big, healthy looking teeth. A slanted smile. And he had his arm around a pretty blond girl, even bigger smile, even better teeth, big lips and a prominent nose a little like his own. He went to take the photo but she held on. She tightened her hold on his knee.

'That boy is my son, Zack Richards.'

He looked at her. She twitched.

'… My stepson, Zack. He disappeared, from his school, four days ago.'

‘Who’s the girl?’

She put her hand on her chest and her long fingernails danced.

‘Oh, a girlfriend. Lilly or Lola I think. He has so many. I just lose track. I can’t tell you anything about her really. I think she is from the school though.’

'Are the police involved, Lori?'

'No, Babe. No, I told the school he’d had gone to the States with his dad. Made out Zack hadn’t given them the note.' Her grip on his knee tightened. 'Look Bart,' she said. 'We do have reasons for keeping the police out of this, okay Babe? It’s important. No police. No media. No paps. Yes?'

'I’ll do my best.'

Lori released the photo and he took a closer look. The girl was really good-looking. Lori had moved away from him. She was looking out through the side window.

'I’m sorry Babe,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to do better than that. My husband is a star, Babe. A proper one. You know? Like famous? A-lister. And well, Zack - he aint no saint at all. And we don’t want any, well -'

'What have I got to go on Mrs... Miss... Cole? You know, if I’m -’

She interrupted him. 

'I’m just Lori. Okay Babe? Lori. The boy’s Zack Richards. And my husband is Mickey Richards…'
She smiled her bright smile, healthy, tight, dentally perfect. She waited. Bart said nothing. She sighed and shook her head. 

'Mickey Richards…’ she continued her tone rising at the end of each phrase. ‘The singer? The Bullfighters – you know, the band? – music? - The Bullfighters? The Frozen North? Are you laughing at me, Babe? You’re laughing aren’t you.'

And she smiled, and play tapped his knee and it was like she was flirting with him.

'No. No, Mrs. Richards,’ he said, adjusting himself in the seat. ‘I know Mickey Richards, Lori. I like him. His stuff I mean. His music. So what can you give me on Zack?'

'Well I’ll do my best Babe. Okay, Zack is supposed to be at school down in Ramsgate? East Kent coast? The school’s called St Stephen’s. It aint all that, but it’s better than state. Anyway, Thursday, about two in the afternoon, I get a call from the office asking why Zack's not in school? And, well, that’s when I say about his dad and the States and that.'

'Are you guys close?'

No response.

'You and Zack, are you close?'

'Close enough.' She sat back in her chair. She pulled a sivler cigarette case from a small red clasp bag. She lit it. Lowered the electric window, breathing the blue grey smoke into the damp, cool car park. She looked back at him.

'Look,’ she said, ‘stepmothers and stepsons. Things can be... difficult.'

And he knew that they were difficult and that sometimes you didn’t even know that they were until it was too late. The words stung. Made him remember. Julia. Mum. Bitch. And at least Lori wanted Zack back again. At least she wanted to help her son, biological or not.

'Look. Babycakes.' She tapped the ash from her cigarette. 'This fame – privacy thing. It's a balancing act. And it’s one that we, that I do very well. I spend a lot of time and a lot of energy getting my life just the way I like it, Babe.’

She blew smoke through the open window. 

'Have you been in contact with his friends, at the school, I mean?'

She sighed.

‘I kind of thought that’s what you would be doing,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any screw ups, Babe.'

'Screw ups by Zack?'

'No screw ups. By you. By Zack. By anyone. '

'You don’t seem that keen on the school, Lori.'

She ignored him.

'Mrs. Richards, why is Zack at a school you don’t think is any good. I’m sure you can afford better –

What I mean is, Zack, he’s been in trouble before, hasn’t he?'

When she turned to face him she wore a pained expression.

'Very smart,’ she said. She looked pleased. ‘Yeah, he has been in trouble. He’s always in bloody trouble.'

Her hand was back on his knee.

'What kind of trouble?'

'All right. Listen. Bart. Babe. St. Stephens is Zack's third school in three years. The first was Honours. In Year 9 he was caught brewing and selling beer. Anyway he got caught. We make a donation. All smiles. Then he does it again and this time they expel him. So second time we sent him somewhere more remote, and at Redhill he was caught smoking. And they were good about it though. They let him come back to take his exams. But they didn’t want him to come back for sixth form. When St. Stephens took him in Year 12, nobody else would.'

'You said ‘smoking’. You really get expelled for that – one offence?'

'That, Babe, depends on what it is you smoke.'

'You -'

'Don’t make me spell it out, Babe.'

'Dealing too?'

'They couldn’t prove anything.'

'Or didn’t want to.'

She leaned across him, slipping a hand around his neck. He tried not to look down her blouse when she whispered into his ear. 

'I just want you to get down there and find him for me, Babe. Wherever he’s hiding, whatever he’s mixed up in, find him and get him back, in school, by the end of the month. You think you can do that for me, Hun? You’ve already taken my money.'

Bart tried to think straight. Five thousand was a lot of cash. And the job didn’t sound too tough. He felt nervous, but then, anyone would. The private investigator idea had been a fantasy. An obscure sort of revenge. Taking the job would make it real. Not taking it would make him a fraud.  And there was irony of to it. Himself, a drop out, or soon-to-be drop out, playing at private detective, hired to find some other drop out, the same age as himself, playing at being a gangster. Being hired get this kid to be a good boy and conform, just like he himself was not doing. But Lori’s eyes were candy blue and her voice tingled with sugar. Her hand was on his leg. It slid an inch further up his thigh. His mind started to wander to places it didn’t want to go and had no right to be. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and the waxed shopping bags bustled on is lap.

‘Okay.’ he said. ‘I can do it. I’ll find him.’