The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene (58 page)

   ‘Was the car stolen?’

   ‘Not exactly.’

   ‘No it wasn’t, I have checked on that, there has been no notification to us of your vehicle having been reported stolen, so I repeat, who was driving the car?’

   ‘I don’t know. You must have pictures!’

   ‘Oh, we do.’

   ‘So you can tell it wasn’t me?’

   ‘We can’t.’

   ‘Why not?’

   Colin Rifleman opened his black leather file and pulled out a magnified and blurred picture of Gringo’s car passing beneath the radar trap. The cop smirked again and handed it to Gringo.

   ‘Bloody hell!’

   ‘Exactly. You see our problem. So who is the person driving the car wearing the black crash helmet?’

   ‘I don’t know! But it certainly isn’t me.’

   ‘Do you know something, Mister Greene; I don’t think it’s you either; because if you attempted it, I don’t think there would be enough headroom for you to sit in the car, wearing that.’

   Gringo stifled a laugh. The clever, conniving, bitch. You had to hand it to her. I wonder how she thought of that ruse, and where on earth did she get the helmet?

   ‘So,’ the PC began again, still grinning, ‘Who is the lady?’

   ‘I’m not sure.’

   ‘What do you mean, you’re not sure?’

   ‘I can’t really make out the picture.’

   ‘I’m not talking about the photo, Mister Greene; I’m talking about who you leant your car to last Saturday?’

   ‘I didn’t lend it to anyone. She must have borrowed it. Sometimes I leave it unlocked on the drive.’

   ‘With the keys in it?’

   ‘Yes, sometimes, silly thing to do, I know, but being Saturday morning and all, with so many things on my mind, you just don’t think, do you?’

   ‘Clearly, you didn’t.’

   ‘I’m sorry about that. Will the tickets be cancelled?’

   ‘That is yet to be decided. I may need to make further enquiries.’

   Yes, thought Gringo, he had pictured that development, and if PC shotgun here was to ask the neighbours about last Saturday’s little contretemps, they would be sure to fill in the missing pieces. 

   ‘I see,’ said Gringo, an actor’s puzzled look now set on his face.

   ‘Well, I think that’s all for now,’ said the copper, smiling, as he packed up his evidence and headed for the door. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said cheerily, as he let himself out.

   ‘Thank you,’ said Gringo, slightly too loud, adding, but only when he thought his visitor was out of hearing range,
not too soon I hope.

   He watched from the front window as the laughing policeman climbed into his peppermint twist car and motored off down the close. No doubt the other residents will have clocked that too, and no doubt they would make their own judgements as to why the law was interested in the decidedly odd Gringo, as he preferred to call himself.

   He grabbed the phone and dialled the nurse.

   ‘You clever little bitch!’ he said, in a surprisingly cheery tone, the moment she picked up the phone.

   ‘Excuse me?’

   ‘You know what I’m talking about, Evel Knievel.’

   She let out a girlish giggle. ‘You know about the crash hat, then.’

   ‘I do now.’

   ‘Have you seen pictures?’

   ‘I have.’

   ‘Can you tell it’s me?’

   ‘I couldn’t.’

   ‘Can the cops?’

   ‘Doubt it.’

   ‘Did you tell them it was me?’

   ‘Nope, I didn’t.’

   ‘Why not?’

   ‘I didn’t think there was anything to be gained by it.’

   ‘Thanks, Gringo.’

   ‘Don’t mention it.’

   ‘Do you want to come round later?’

   That was a hard question to answer. Did he want to go round? Did he have anything better to do? Yes and no.

   ‘Yes,’ he heard himself saying, though he could barely believe he had, such weakness it showed, he knew that well enough, and later he would blame it all on the dreaded demon, the one good thing about that evil little devil, he could take the blame for everything, and for once Gringo could live with that, and then he added: ‘I’m going to punish you – well and truly!’

   ‘Ooh! Promises, promises!’

On the morning of Glen’s departure for Argentina a card was delivered to the Martin household. It was addressed to Glenda. It had been written in longhand, a curiously large and untidy writing that she would immediately recognise.

   Her father regarded the envelope with great suspicion before passing it to his departing daughter. He stood by, waiting for her to open it, but she ran upstairs and disappeared, saying that she still had some packing to finish. She sat on the bed and ripped it open. It didn’t say a lot.

  
You take good care of yourself, Bonnie Lass,

   All my love,

   Gringo

   XXX
   

   Ah!!! The soft man. Not so many words, but tender ones. No one else would send her a Bon Voyage card. In a strange way she would miss him, their chats, and his care, and the hot-cold, hot-cold dates they enjoyed and endured. She knew he felt something for her, that much was obvious, but it couldn’t be helped for her heart lay elsewhere, and there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do about that. She grabbed her mobile and dialled his number at work.

   Julian Smeaton had been on his way to Gringo’s office. There were things he needed to see Gringo about. He heard the telephone ringing and walked into the office. Gringo was missing; no doubt preening himself in the Men’s room, as he was wont to do. Julian stooped and grabbed the phone.

   ‘Good morning, Gringo Greene’s office, Julian Smeaton speaking, Gringo’s away from his desk at present. May I help?’

   Glenda listened to Julian’s oddly whining voice. For a moment she pondered on whether to speak.

   ‘Hello!’ shouted Julian again. ‘Is anyone there?’

   She didn’t say a word. If she couldn’t speak to Gringo she didn’t want to speak to anyone. She cut the line and set down the phone and read the card once more. She grinned to herself and returned it to the envelope and slipped it in the drawer of the bedside table and forgot all about it. At that moment Gringo returned, just as Julian was setting down the phone.

   ‘Who was that?’

   ‘I don’t know. They didn’t say anything. Just put the phone down.’

   Gringo instinctively knew who it was.

   ‘Can’t you use call-back?’ suggested Julian.

   ‘Doesn’t work on this system.’

   So, Gringo imagined, she’d received his card and she’d rung him, but on hearing someone else’s voice, she’d baled out. Yep, that made perfect sense. But what did it tell him? He was more confused then ever. Gringo sat down as Julian closed the door and sat in the guest chair.

   ‘I suppose you’ve heard?’ said the old guy.

   ‘Yeah, I’m so sorry, Julian.’

   ‘Don’t be. I’m ready to pack it in. The closure terms are not so bad. I’m really looking forward to stepping out of this mad house. I’ve plenty to do. You can take over my responsibilities and good luck to you.’

   ‘I don’t think it will be me,’ said Gringo, taking the small blue envelope that Julian was offering: ‘This came for you this morning.’

   ‘Ta,’ he said, leaving it sealed and sliding it into his desk drawer.

   ‘Melanie’s going too, you know,’ said Julian.

   ‘Yes, so I believe, to have a baby.’

   ‘Yes, well, there’s nothing we can say about that, is there?’

   Gringo thought that an odd thing to say, but Julian often used that phrase when he didn’t have an answer, or something sensible to contribute.

   ‘You’re going to have your hands full,’ Julian continued.

   Yeah, in more ways than one, thought Gringo, but he simply rolled his eyebrows and murmured, ‘Looks that way.’

   ‘Oh well, can’t stop. Loose ends to bury, problems to shelve, sabotage to complete,’ he joked, or at least Gringo hoped he was joking.

   When he’d gone Gringo took out the envelope and opened it. From head office, those prats Soloman and Streeter. He scanned through it. A modest salary increase except the typist had written
sallery,
the complete wazzock; and a big increase in responsibility and workload. No surprise there, then. It ended with hearty congratulations.

   He was beginning to get peed off with everything to do with Dryden Engineering. He’d noticed a position or two being advertised in the Thursday night papers, Japanese and Yanks of course, but everyone else did it, so why shouldn’t he? He couldn’t wear Union Jack underpants forever, and when did patriotism ever pay the bills? He probably wouldn’t do anything about it, he didn’t possess the courage to leave, and he liked to think his being interviewed days were far behind him, but it was a possibility, and if they pushed him still further, then he would jump over the cliff, metaphorically speaking, he reassured himself.

   By the time he arrived home Glenda was half way to Argentina. Her eyes were closed and she was dreaming of a better life ahead, hoping that Harry would be in a good mood. She was excited at the prospect of seeing him again; of sleeping with him again, for Harry Wildenstein was a real man, a man who most certainly knew how to give a woman a good time. She wouldn’t have admitted it to a living soul, but it was the main reason why she was there, as she leant back and began daydreaming of her life ahead. Recently, for a short while, she’d been saving herself. She was ready for him now, and it couldn’t come soon enough.

Three weeks later on arriving home from work, Gringo discovered an airmail letter on his doormat. He seized it, his heart already running fast. Argentina of course, who else would be writing to him from overseas? Pretty colourful stamps, three of them untidily arranged, perhaps hastily so, postmarked Buenos Aires, some civilised people still employed stamps and postmarks. Unmistakeable green handwriting, green especially for him, Greene, he fancifully imagined, the king of colours, the colour of nature and life itself.

   He rushed to the kitchen table and sat down and tore it open. There was no address and no telephone number, a deliberate ploy, they both knew that, in case he should be tempted to try and reply. She clearly didn’t want anyone interfering at her stab at happiness with the American wonder boy, Harry Wildenstein, newly appointed Vice President of the bank; Argentina Division.

Dear Gringo,

I thought you’d like to hear all my news. Three days ago we were married. I am now Mrs Glenda Wildenstein, wife of the Vice President of the First American Trust Bank, Argentina Division. I can hardly believe it. I am so happy, Gringo. Harry is a very attentive and loving husband. I couldn’t wish for a better man. I love him so very much.

   The bank provides us with a beautiful three bedroom apartment in the best area of the city, though we are looking to buy a nice house somewhere in the country.
Property prices here are much cheaper than New York, but not as cheap as you might think. Anyway, Harry says that we can splash out a little and we are looking for a big detached house. He’s told me to pick whatever I like! Lucky me!!

   Argentina is a pretty country but many of the people don’t speak English so I am looking at taking Spanish lessons, though I was always hopeless at languages at school. Wish me luck with that. I’ll need it. Are you missing me? I hope not too much.

   You really must find someone nice, Gringo, and settle down and have that family I know you crave. Time is slipping away; you need to get a move on. You are normally such a decisive guy.

   I think that’s all my news, Gringo. I don’t suppose I shall write again, Harry wouldn’t like it. You take good care of yourself,

Your good friend,

Glen, XXX

P.S. Thank you for the Bon Voyage card. It was a nice touch.

P.P.S. Give my love to your dad.

   He set the letter down and pictured her at the wedding. She hadn’t said where they had married, but as they were of different religions, he guessed it must have been at some local registrar’s office. He wondered how many people had attended. Just office staff, he rightly assumed, unless Harry had air-bussed in his entire family. One thing Gringo knew for certain, she would have looked stunning; she couldn’t have looked anything else.

   He scratched his seven o’clock shadow chin. He wondered what she was doing now. He wondered if directory enquiries in Buenos Aires would have a number for the Harry Wildenstein apartment. He could always write to her, care of the bank, but wonder boy would no doubt intercept and destroy his missive, and anyway, was it right to be writing to a newly married woman? Probably not. It wouldn’t stop him considering it though.