Night's Favour (7 page)

“Ok wise guy.
 
What’s a megabyte?”

“It’s, well...”
 
John trailed off, then tried to man up to the challenge.
 
“It’s a bunch of emails.”

“How many?”

“A lot?”

“Is six hundred and fifty pounds a lot?”

“You fucker.”

Val nodded.
 
“You see, I know what a megabyte is, and I might even be able to work out what a Smurfberry is worth.
 
I know cheese comes in pounds.
 
I can maybe imagine a six fifty pile of cheese, but I don’t know.
 
Is that a lot?”

“Seriously, you’re an asshole.”
 
John turned away and started checking out the talent, looking for the next hair flick.

Val dragged him back with a pat on the shoulder.
 
“Can an ordinary dude lift six fifty pounds worth of cheese?
 
I mean, it’s not something I’ve tried.”

“Fair enough.
 
Ok.
 
You got me.”
 
John walked on a few more paces.
 
“Here we go.
 
You know a guy called Scot Mendelson?”

“Does he work with you?”

“I wish.
 
Scot holds the current world record for the raw bench.”

“Raw?”
 
It’d been a while since meals.
 
“Like, uncooked?”

“Raw, like unassisted.”

Val gave John a blank look.
 
“How can you assist a guy on the bench?
 
Are there two guys pushing up?
 
One pulling from above?”

“It’s not important.
 
Well, it’s a little bit important, because you strap on a special shirt, and you can lift more.
 
But the raw bench is where it’s at, ok?”
 
John watched a woman walk past, head tracking as she sashayed past him.
 
“Ah.
 
So Scot, he’s the world record holder.”

“I know you’re dying to tell me.
 
What’s his record?
 
A thousand?”

“Not even close.
 
You need to think much, much lower.”

“Eight hundred?
 
We can play this game all day.
 
You should just tell me, since I made you famous on YouTube today.”

“We should probably get you a beer first.
 
Make sure you’re sitting down.”
 
John patted the wad of cash in his pocket again.
 
“You’re going to need to be lubricated for this one.”

“Now you’re scaring me.
 
What’s his fucking record?”

“Seven hundred.”
 
John paused, every so slightly —
damn drama queen
.
 
“And one.
 
Seven oh one pounds.
 
Dude’s been powerlifting his whole life, he’s a real significant piece of machinery, and he benches just fifty pounds more than you.”

Val stopped so suddenly the guy behind him on the sidewalk walked right into the back of him.
 
He turned and stared at John.
 
“You’re just trying to make me feel better for hurling at the gym.”

“I’m really not.
 
I had to clean that up.”
 
John rubbed the designer stubble on his jaw.
 
“Look, you did an amazing thing today.
 
Really, truly amazing.
 
So amazing, you shouldn’t have been able to do it.
 
I’m sort of impressed, but I’m wondering when the guy from Candid Camera is going to come out and have me on.
 
What you did, well, it’s a bit like the Coyote finally catching the Road Runner.
 
It breaks all the rules.”

Val laughed, a slightly weak and hysterical sound.
 
“You know me.
 
I just keep breaking rules.”
 
He swayed a little, then leaned against a parking meter.

John slapped him on the arm.
 
“It’s ok man.
 
You did good.
 
I just — I just can’t really believe it.
 
Even now.
 
I think I need that beer more than you do.”

“There’s one thing I don’t get.”

“Just one thing?
 
What is it?”

“Your friend, the guy who was there?”

“Emilio?”

“Sure, I guess.
 
Why’d he back me to six fifty?”

“Emilio’s crazy.”

“He bet a hundred bucks — our drinking money — that I’d bench six fifty.
 
Just fifty shy of Scot Wosshisname’s record.”
 
Val stared into the sky for a second, then back to John.
 
“If I was a judge of character, I reckon Emilio’s rigged this.”

“Maybe.
 
He’s coming down to drink with us tonight, so you can ask him then.
 
Since we’re sharing though, there’s one thing that I don’t get.”

Val stood up, pushing his bulk away from the parking meter.
 
“What?
 
I’m really thirsty.
 
It’s kind of inhumane keeping me out here like this.”

“How do you know what a Smurfberry is?”

Val chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment.
 
“That can’t be what you want to know.”

“No, I really want to know.
 
You’ve got no kids —”
 
And there was that damn memory again, burning as bright as the headlight through the shattered passenger window.
 
Rebekah was looking right at him, grasping his arm.
 
She was begging him to not leave her,
What about the baby
, she’d said.
 
“— But you know what a Smurfberry is.”

Val shook off the memory.
 
Just a dead relic.
 
“Let’s get that beer.”

☽ ◇ ☾

“Now that’s something you don’t see every day.”
 
John stood with arms akimbo, surveying the scene.
 
“Tell me you weren’t here last night.”

A bright yellow line of police tape marked out the borders of the scene, commanding capital letters spelling out
Do Not Cross
.
 
Officers moved about, talking to each other, hurrying pedestrians along, shouting at reporters.
 
It had started to rain again, heavy cold drops promising a downpour.
 
Val shivered, tugging an arm through a sleeve of his jacket.
 
At least he’d stopped sweating.
 
“Fuck it’s cold.”

John nodded.
 
He wasn’t really paying attention, focused on the scene outside Elephant Blues.
 
“What do you reckon went down?”

“Went down?
 
What, like a mob hit?”
 
Val hunched his shoulders against the rain, shuffling his feet a little.
 
He needed to get inside with a beer.
 
Preferably more than one beer.

“Look.”
 
John’s arm pointed to each item.
 
“Six ambulances.
 
But the lights aren’t on, no one’s rushing.
 
Medics are just wandering about, comparing notes.
 
No hurry there.
 
Whatever they came for, it’s happened and moved on.
 
There’s a billion cops but they don’t look worried — see those two?
 
Talking like they’re out for a Sunday stroll.
 
There’s reporters everywhere.
 
It’s like Al Capone stopped by for a whiskey.”

“I’ve got it.”
 
Val slapped his hands together.
 
“Al Capone came down here with a friend for a beer.
 
But they spent all this time fucking about on the sidewalk talking about the weather, he went nuts, shot his friend in the face, then killed all witnesses.
 
Seriously.
 
You never want to get between a man and his beer.”

John snorted.
 
“Yeah alright.
 
I get it.
 
Let’s go.”
 
He was about to lead them off when a couple of guys,
CORONER
stencilled big and yellow on the back of their jackets, came back out.
 
They had a gurney, stark steel rails a contrast to the black zippered bag on top.
 
They were having some trouble wrestling the gurney up the steps of the Blues.
 
The black bag jostled unevenly.
 
“Shit, is that a body bag?”

“You watch TV, not me.
 
But I’d say so.”
 
Val held thumb and forefinger of each hand touching in front of his eyes, framing the scene.
 
“Say.
 
If that’s a body bag, there should be a body.
 
But that bag isn’t full of a body.”

“How can you tell?”

“Lumpy.”
 
Val lowered his hands.
 
“Look, it’s all wrong.
 
Too fat in some places.
 
Too thin in others.
 
Bits sticking out.
 
I mean, you ever seen a guy with an elbow where his stomach should be?
 
Seriously though, I don’t care.
 
I care about beer.
 
We can actually find out when some helpful journo puts this on the news tonight.”

Leading them off, Val let his feet wander away from the crime scene, the chaos and lights falling further behind them.
 
The rain was getting heavier, the drops becoming a shower.
 
Sensible people were pulling up hoods, raising umbrellas, bowing their heads against the rising torrent.
 
It felt… familiar.
 
Val rubbed his left forearm.
 
It had begun to ache, adding voice to the chorus of other twinges and pains in his chest and shoulders.
 
They walked a couple of blocks before he stopped, wiping some of the rain from his face.

John pulled up beside him.
 
“Where we going?”

“Hm?
 
Oh, I dunno.
 
How about in here?”
 
The faded wooden sign above the door read
Presence Unlisted
.

“You been here before?
 
It looks too classy for you.”

“It’s a bar.
 
I’ll fit right in.”
 
Val opened the front door, the brass handle fitting comfortably in his hand.
 
The inside came out to greet them as he pulled the door back, air smelling of warm food and good conversation.
 
They hurried in, shaking drops from their jackets.
 
A couple of stools were still free at the back of the bar.
 
Val moved through the crowd, a practised conductor through an orchestra of close bodies.

Her name tag said
Danny
.
 
“Get you boys something?”
 
Despite the busyness of the hour, she still had a spring in her step and gave them a genuine smile.

“Oh God yes.
 
Peroni.”
 
Val looked to John.

“Sure.
 
Make it two.”
 
Settling into the stool beside him, John took out the roll of notes from his pocket, peeling off one and handing it over.

“Thanks man.”
 
Val started to peel off his jacket, trying not to elbow anyone in the face as he wrestled with the —
God dammit
— clingy thing.

“Ok, so what’s on your mind?”
 
John played with a coaster on the bar

“What?
 
Nothing.
 
What makes you say that?”

“Since the Blues you’ve been pushing through the crowd like a man possessed.”

“Thirsty.”
 
On cue, Danny arrived back with two bottles, the green glass perspiring.
 
She dropped them on the bar with their change, and headed back down to another customer.
 
Val reached for one and took a strong pull.
 
“Oh man.
 
That’s good.”

“So you don’t know what happened at the Blues?
 
I’m surprised you weren’t there.”
 
John took a more measured sip from his beer.
 
“You’re right.
 
That is good.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You were there?
 
What the fuck happened?”

Val rubbed his left forearm again.
 
“Shit man.
 
I don’t know if I was there.”

“How can you not know?”

“I had a few last night.”
 
Val’s forearm was really aching now.
 
“Christ.
 
This exercise thing will never catch on if it hurts like this after every session.”

“Harden up, Tinkerbell.
 
You got so wrecked last night that you can’t remember where you were?”