The Death of Ronnie Sweets (and Other Stories) by McLean Russel D

Author:McLean, Russel D [McLean, Russel D]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2011-08-17T16:00:00+00:00

LIKE A MATTER OF HONOUR

(Thrilling Detective Magazine, Summer 2006)

“Aw, c’moan, man,” said Jimmy. He pushed the package across the desk, back towards me. “Just for a wee while.”

I looked at the package – a nondescript square box wrapped with brown paper – and then I looked at Jimmy. On anyone else, the moustache might have had the air of a twenties sophisticate. On Jimmy it looked as if he’d forgotten to wash his upper lip. His greasy black hair was combed forward in a horrendous parody of a Beatles mop-top. His skin was flared up. He was twenty-five years old. On the inside he was probably going on sixty.

“I think you have to tell me what’s in the box,” I said.

“C’moan! After all the shite I’ve done for you. Goin' places you can't go. Chattin' up people won't even look at you. I'm like Fozzie Bear.”

“You mean Huggy Bear.” The same conversation we always had. Jimmy on repeat like a messed up Dictaphone.

“What?”

Except Jimmy's neither black nor cool, nor down with the ho’s. At least none as gorgeous as Huggy's.

“Just tell me what’s in the package.” I could feel the sun coming through the window, toasting the bare skin just above my shirt collar. It was a heatwave outside, a Scottish heatwave at any rate.

Jimmy leaned back in his chair. His eyes screwed up against the sunlight coming in behind me. “It’s personal. Just need someplace tae hold it fer a while.”

“What’s wrong with your place?”

He laughed. “You ever seen ma place?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t thought about where Jimmy lived, whether he had friends or family. Hard for a man like him to have anything but associates. Like me.

“Fine,” I said. I pulled the package over. It was light. But I could feel the shape. A lockable box, same kind as you could pick up in any stationery store. “Just tell me there’s nothing illegal in here.”

He held up three fingers on his right hand. “Scout’s honour. Dib dib dib and aw that crap.” He smiled at me lopsidedly. He’d never been in the scouts. They’d have thrown him straight out on his arse.

***

At lunch, my girlfriend Ros popped by the office with some sandwiches and a couple of cans of Coke.

“I have an hour,” she said, “before my next class.”

Ros moved from the U.S. to lecture in post-modern feminist philosophy at the University of Dundee. She still maintained an accent, although there was a hint of Scots creeping into her Southern twang.

We chatted as we ate. She was excited about an upcoming conference: Transcendence and the Self. She talked about things I didn’t understand. They say that opposites attract.

When she left I looked over at the iron safe I kept in one corner of the room. I could almost see the wrapped parcel in there, tempting me with its secret. You don’t fall into my line of work without an inquisitive mind. And where Jimmy was concerned, my instincts acted overtime. I could have opened the package.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.