He’s not good with civilian names.
“He means the Non-Event,” Naseem said. “And he’s out of his bloody mind.”
“I agree,” I said, getting up. “Thanks for the vol-au-vents, Vessell, but fuck you very much for the rest of it. I’m not galloping into town with Rizzo Gallo on the next horse, that’s for friggin’ sure. Good luck with that.”
Vessell jumped up hastily, making calming downward movements with his hands so he looked like a chicken that was having trouble taking off. “No, listen, Davey,” he said. “I’m serious. I’ve thought it through and it’s going to be fine. Really. Just hear me out. If you don’t think it will work, then you can walk.”
“I can walk now,” I pointed out, demonstrating.
“But what do you lose by staying one more minute?” Vessell insisted, stepping into my way. He was sounding kind of whiny now, and I started to remember all over again some of the reasons I didn’t like him. “You listen, you make up your mind, if it doesn’t work for you, you’re gone. Come on, you owe me that much.”
I didn’t owe him a thing, if the truth be told, and we both knew it. He’s brought me in on a job or two, sure, and I’ve always carried my weight. But that’s the sort of fruitless argument where once you get into it you can end up ripping out each other’s teeth with pliers. I prefer to keep the moral high ground if I can help it. I shrugged, remained on my feet, but stopped heading for the door. Folding my arms, I adopted a “so convince me” stance.
And he did. He convinced me. As he explained his plan, by some fluke or intuition he met all my objections in the order they came to me. By the time he was done, I was thinking—very much to my surprise—that this thing might actually have a chance of working.
“Well, I’ll talk to Gallo,” I said, grudgingly. “No harm in that, anyway.”
Sure. No harm at all. God likes a good laugh now and again, doesn’t he? That’s what irony is for.
Gallo was living all on his own in a rat’s-ass workman’s cottage just outside Luton—the only inhabited building on a condemned row that was short but not sweet. I mean, someone would have had to drop serious money on the place to bring it up to the point where you could describe it as a slum. Right then it was just four walls and—intermittently—a roof.
Gallo didn’t mind much. His needs were modest, and he enjoyed his own company. More to the point, he was scared shitless of anybody else’s. The Extra-Normal Affairs people were talking back in the day about giving him a pension to stay away from major population centers, but then the Tories got in again and the mood swung. They left Gallo to starve on his own time.
And that gave me my in, as it were. I pointed out to him that this job would set him up for the rest of his life. He could buy a place in the country, a thousand miles from anywhere. Buy a tent and live on top of a mountain in Tibet, or out in the Kalahari, I don’t know. Anywhere except the ragged edge of fucking Luton: even a dog deserves better than that.
Gallo shook his head slowly, clearly not liking the idea. “I don’t know, Davey,” he mumbled in that singsong way of his. “I mean I really don’t know. I’m doing all right here.”
I looked around his living room, staring in turn at the two cracked teacups, the sway-backed Formica table, the ancient portable TV zebra-striped on top with cigarette burns. I didn’t need to say anything: Gallo knew what I was thinking.
“But it’s all right for me,” he said, throwing out his arms in what was either a shrug or a plea. “I don’t miss anything very much. And at least—out here—I can’t hurt anyone. That’s the most important thing. There’s nothing much to upset me, but if I do get upset, then nobody gets hurt.” Both times he said the word
hurt
he lingered on it, almost making it into two syllables. I knew where he was comingfrom, and I even agreed with him up to a
“He means the Non-Event,” Naseem said. “And he’s out of his bloody mind.”
“I agree,” I said, getting up. “Thanks for the vol-au-vents, Vessell, but fuck you very much for the rest of it. I’m not galloping into town with Rizzo Gallo on the next horse, that’s for friggin’ sure. Good luck with that.”
Vessell jumped up hastily, making calming downward movements with his hands so he looked like a chicken that was having trouble taking off. “No, listen, Davey,” he said. “I’m serious. I’ve thought it through and it’s going to be fine. Really. Just hear me out. If you don’t think it will work, then you can walk.”
“I can walk now,” I pointed out, demonstrating.
“But what do you lose by staying one more minute?” Vessell insisted, stepping into my way. He was sounding kind of whiny now, and I started to remember all over again some of the reasons I didn’t like him. “You listen, you make up your mind, if it doesn’t work for you, you’re gone. Come on, you owe me that much.”
I didn’t owe him a thing, if the truth be told, and we both knew it. He’s brought me in on a job or two, sure, and I’ve always carried my weight. But that’s the sort of fruitless argument where once you get into it you can end up ripping out each other’s teeth with pliers. I prefer to keep the moral high ground if I can help it. I shrugged, remained on my feet, but stopped heading for the door. Folding my arms, I adopted a “so convince me” stance.
And he did. He convinced me. As he explained his plan, by some fluke or intuition he met all my objections in the order they came to me. By the time he was done, I was thinking—very much to my surprise—that this thing might actually have a chance of working.
“Well, I’ll talk to Gallo,” I said, grudgingly. “No harm in that, anyway.”
Sure. No harm at all. God likes a good laugh now and again, doesn’t he? That’s what irony is for.
Gallo was living all on his own in a rat’s-ass workman’s cottage just outside Luton—the only inhabited building on a condemned row that was short but not sweet. I mean, someone would have had to drop serious money on the place to bring it up to the point where you could describe it as a slum. Right then it was just four walls and—intermittently—a roof.
Gallo didn’t mind much. His needs were modest, and he enjoyed his own company. More to the point, he was scared shitless of anybody else’s. The Extra-Normal Affairs people were talking back in the day about giving him a pension to stay away from major population centers, but then the Tories got in again and the mood swung. They left Gallo to starve on his own time.
And that gave me my in, as it were. I pointed out to him that this job would set him up for the rest of his life. He could buy a place in the country, a thousand miles from anywhere. Buy a tent and live on top of a mountain in Tibet, or out in the Kalahari, I don’t know. Anywhere except the ragged edge of fucking Luton: even a dog deserves better than that.
Gallo shook his head slowly, clearly not liking the idea. “I don’t know, Davey,” he mumbled in that singsong way of his. “I mean I really don’t know. I’m doing all right here.”
I looked around his living room, staring in turn at the two cracked teacups, the sway-backed Formica table, the ancient portable TV zebra-striped on top with cigarette burns. I didn’t need to say anything: Gallo knew what I was thinking.
“But it’s all right for me,” he said, throwing out his arms in what was either a shrug or a plea. “I don’t miss anything very much. And at least—out here—I can’t hurt anyone. That’s the most important thing. There’s nothing much to upset me, but if I do get upset, then nobody gets hurt.” Both times he said the word
hurt
he lingered on it, almost making it into two syllables. I knew where he was comingfrom, and I even agreed with him up to a
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