“Ale-rite real fuckin A! Jeez, those old hippies got it right.”
Harvest Moon.
Right... yea.
The first gun in the catalogue, a.38 Arminius Titan Revolver attracted him instantly. Next up, a Colt Python got equal attention, he flipped back to see who supplied these babies. An address in Waco, Texas. The irony went right over his head.
Mrs. Dalton’s face suddenly appeared at desk level. Arms waving to get his attention. He reluctantly removed the earphones.
“Better be good Dalton, I’m very busy here, this is a top priority tape here.”
“Really Mr. Colbert, could you try lowering your voice. You could be heard down the street with your roaring... what on earth is a harvest moon?”
“Don’t get shitty with me Dalton. Remember who pays the wages.”
“Actually Mr. Colbert you haven’t paid me...”
“Can it Dalton, was there something of special urgency?”
A man appeared behind her, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a briefcase.
“This gentleman insisted on seeing you. I said you were busy but alas he could hear your... singing.”
Robbie stood up, all business now.
“Off you go Dalton, I’ll handle this... and you are, sir?”
“Naylor... I’m the bailiff.”
Robbie momentarily lost it then rallied.
“All the more easy for you to nail ’em eh?”
“Very humorous I’m sure Mr. Colbert, first time I ever heard that little pun. Very first time. You’ve landed yourself in some serious financial waters.”
“Which I’m just about to solve... no worries, everyone gets paid.”
“And when might we expect this joyous event.”
“Now see here Naylor, I’m not altogether sure I care for your tone. Might I remind you who pays the piper calls the proverbial... eh.”
Naylor gave a deep sigh.
“In fact, you pay no-one... that’s why I’m here... You do seem inordinately fond of a tune Mr. Colbert. In exactly one week, all properties and goods pertaining to you shall be seized. The jig is up... shall we say.”
With that, he left, leaving a raging Robbie. He wondered if the “bone breakers” might be set on Naylor. Would a bailiff be missed?
“Not friggin likely” he guffawed, and delighted by his own resurgence quoted a line from Oscar Wilde,
Murder is always a mistake; one should never do anything that one can not talk about after dinner.
He slapped the earphones on, debated another line or so of coke and shouted,
“Do it to me Neil... way to go buddy.”
Outside, Mrs. Dalton covered her ears.
Liz tried three times to get Tom on the phone. The phone rang unanswered. She said, “Bloody man, never there when it’s important!”
In Tom’s flat as the phone rang each successive time, Rusty lifted his head and tensed. Then he settled down to wait for his master’s return.
That evening, Tom stopped at a pet shop and bought a batch of edible dog toys. At the butchers, he had them give him two huge bones. He couldn’t believe how much he was looking forward to seeing the dog. Now that his heart had thawed a little, he felt he’d go with it.
The door to his flat was ajar and he felt a coldness. It wasn’t lost on him that that’s exactly what his “customers” experienced. Inside was a total mess.
“Rusty,” he called “here boy.”
Everything breakable was broken. A pile of excrement sat in the middle of the room. All his opera records were smashed.
With a sense of dread, he entered the bedroom. Rusty looked asleep, the blanket pulled up to his neck, his head resting on the pillow. Tom pulled the blanket back and let out a soft sob.
The dog had been gutted from end to neck. Tom sank to his knees and began to wail. As the anguish ripped him, it registered slowly that Rusty’s tail had been removed. His eyes could see that his mind couldn’t decipher the message.
He got shakily to his feet and stumbled to the wardrobe. The Armani suits were shredded, he tore them aside, the shotgun was gone. That this was near exactly what he did himself only added to his frustration.
Going to the shop, he tried to stop the tears that kept blinding him. He bought a bottle of brandy and a half dozen bin liners. Rusty he wrapped in a clean sheet and buried him in garden. All the time he swigged from the brandy. The third cross he placed on the mound of clay. Slowly, he packed the debris into the bin liners and used the work to freeze his heart.
The phone rang.
“Yea.”
“Tom.”
“Yea, who is this?”
“We were so sorry to miss you, we called but you were out.”
“Did you have to gut the dog?”
“Thing is me old china, though he entertained us hugely in your absence, alas — he took a piece outa my colleague.”
“What did you cut his tail off for?”
“Ah tut-tut, we were too subtle for you... and a man of your learning. You’re familiar with the expression ‘hair of the dog’.”
“You fuck.”
“Now, now, sticks and stones. We confiscated your shooter in the interest of your own safety. I trust we won’t need to trouble you further — you got our message.”
“Yea, that you’re a sick psychotic bastard.”
“Stay away from Mr Colbert, you wouldn’t want to meet us. Must rush, tootle-pip.”
And the phone went down.
It rang immediately.
“Yea.”
“Tom, this is Liz, are you alright?”
“Yes.”
“Tom don’t stay there, a couple of thugs are on their way.”
“They’ve been. I was out but they left their calling card. You know them?”
“Oh yes, I know them, Terry and Bill, two bogus cockneys with a sadistic streak. Are you all right, would you like me to come over?”
“No Liz... and thanks a lot, I gather those cowboys have some connection with your husband.”
“My husband! Well, yes, he’s that... it’s so weird to hear you call him that... they’re his errand boys,”
“I see, okay, thanks again, Liz.”
He rang a major league villain he’d met in prison. A man he’d helped out once. Now he asked if the addresses of Terry and Bill might be provided.
They could, but it would take twenty-four hours.
Tom looked round his broken home. It seemed totally altered, he knew he’d never play his beloved opera in this place any more and decided then he’d look for a new address.
Back out to the garden, he stood over Rusty’s plot and thought, “I’ll grieve now... for this and all the other losses. Then I’ll move on to the business at hand.”
He thought if pain is some yardstick for growth, then he’d done all the growing he was going to do.
Robbie was drinking Pernod. The way it clouded over when the water hit was a source of endless interest. Didn’t taste too bad either, bit sweet, but wow, did it kick or what. He thought he might hang out in Paris when the deal came through.
In his mind, he was cruising along Boulevard St Michel when the “bone breakers” arrived. They looked decidedly pleased with themselves.
He switched off Paris.
“How’s the nose Mr C?”
“Never mind my friggin nose. How did it go? Did you put the fear of God in the bastard?”
Terry shouted to the barman.
Two pints of best landlord, and another Canary’s Abortion for my friend.
“So how did it go dammit?”
“Tut, tut Mr C, impatient boys don’t get dessert. You didn’t quite put us in the picture, did he Bill, didn’t play honest John, did he?”
Bill lifted a heavily bandaged hand to his pint, couldn’t manage and used the other hand. The merry eyes were far from merry. He mouthed as he wiped foam from his upper lip.