Handy Andy Miller

Handy Andy Miller could find you anyone you wanted to find. He drank every night at the Orange Tree, the pub opposite the depot, where all the postmen went after worked. If he was after someone, he’d simply ask around until he found the right postman.

When Fat Harry came round asking Andy to locate a Mr Le Boeuf for him, Andy was worried. Fat Harry was, by all accounts, a nasty piece of work, a notorious local criminal with a reputation for embodying the nastier side of crime. Andy didn’t want to think what would happen to Le Boeuf when Harry found him, and if he passed on his address he’d be ultimately responsible.

On the other hand, if he did nothing, Harry was known to lose it for the slightest reason, and he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Harry’s rage for not supplying the address.

So, Andy decided on a third option. He’d find the address and pass it to Harry, but he’d warn Le Boeuf that Harry was after him. He asked around his postman friends and soon came up with an address on the other side of town.

Before passing the address on to Fat Harry, he called round, to warn the guy.

“Come in,” a voice said when he rang the bell, and he stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him, and he saw Fat Harry standing there, blocking the exit.

“You found Le Boeuf?” he said, surprised.

“I am Le Boeuf, you twat,” Fat Harry said. “Harold Le Boeuf, not many people know that. It was a test you see, a double test, whether you’re as good as people say at finding people and whether you’re trustworthy.”

Andy said nothing.

“You failed the second part of the test, in case you’re wondering.”

“So what happens now?”

“What happens now?” Harry mulled over the words. “I suppose you’re expecting me to break your legs or something, as revenge?”

Andy again said nothing. With Harry’s reputation, a couple of broken legs would be a considered a bit of a let off.

“No my son, the situation is much better than that, I don’t need to extract revenge.”

“You don’t?”

“No, because you are now in my debt, to the tune of one fucking big amount, and I am going to make sure that you pay.”

“Pay how? I don’t have any money.”

“It’s not about money, my son. It’s a little favour I need you to do for me.”

“Little favour?”

“And if you do it, we’re square, your little misdeed is written off.”

“A little favour, right,” said Andy, though he couldn’t help thinking that it sounded like it was going to be a very big favour. A very big favour indeed.