‘You didn’t know Americans were shoplifters.’
‘Not that, what I didn’t know was Americans were bad shoplifters.’
And she laughed. The kind you never expect a woman to have, deep and downright bawdy. Where she goes all the way with it and doesn’t give a toss how she appears. A real whack-it-for-all-its-worth job. I liked that a whole lot. She asked, ‘So… my hero, my saviour, you got a name, we’ve already established you’ve got balls, yeah, ask Bert… See if I’m wrong?’
A woman uses words like that to you… you’re usually paying for the service. I said, ‘It’s Cooper.’
‘That’s it… you were born at High Noon?’
‘Very snappy… with wit like that, you’re wasted in Marks and Spencers… and what’s your name?’
‘Cassie.’
‘Short for Cassandra… yeah? So, they call you Cass.’
She rummaged in her coat, took out a crumpled soft pack of Camel Lights, shook one free and using a matchbook, lit up, dragged deep… said, ‘You’re hard of hearing? Or is it an English thing? My name is Cassie, you got that?’
‘Jeez, over and out, bit testy are you. You’d love my mate, the Doc.’
‘He’s a doctor?’
‘Doc Marten… he’s a villain, thing is… he wears Docs, always did and long before they became a fashion accessory. The traditional black-laced jobs, with steel hubs and tops. Built for kicking… and hard.’
The coffee came, it looked a little like the ketchup and Bert slapped a bill down. I said, ‘Hope you included service.’
He grunted.
She said, ‘Louis MacNeice’s mother died when he was seven.’
I didn’t know how much grief she’d anticipated.
‘Jeez, tough break. I guess I’d be more broke up if I knew who he was.’
‘Don’t look now but Bert is shooting the bird.’
‘He’s what?’
‘It’s an obscene gesture, don’t you guys speak English?’
‘Sure… and if you stick around you’ll learn some.’
‘My mother died when I was seven, so Louis and I are spiritually connected. Wanna drink?’
I looked at the bill, said, ‘Five friggin’ quid, dream on sucker.’
I left a pound on the table and we went outside. I could see Bert through the plate glass window reading the writing on the table. Time he read the writing on the wall. Cassie asked, ‘Can you run?’
‘Wot?’
And she took the ketchup bottle from the coat, shouted, ‘It’s a goddamn homer.’
I could hear the glass shatter as we tore across the road. We reached my car, she asked, ‘This is yours.’
‘Sure is.’
‘Can I drive?’
I gave her the look, said in what I considered a passable twang, ‘In your language… Get real.’
We got in and she sank in her seat, she gave a low whistle, said, ‘Way to go.’
It’s an impressive car, least I think so. A Subaru Impreza, its cousin won the Monte Carlo rally. Yeah, like that. Lemme break it down, it’s turbo charged, two litre, four wheel drive. It’s got bonnet scoop, vents, bumper air intakes, and these mother driving lamps. On the up and up, it goes for near twenty grand. As I hit the ignition, she asked, ‘It looks like it’s cookin’, but is it all flash?’
‘Listen lady, how many cars will hit 30 mph from go in two seconds and show 60 in six before rushing on past 140.’
She gave a low chuckle, mean and nasty.
‘And go right to sleep after.’
I ignored her, manoeuvred past the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle, headed for the Oval. Cassie turned her head, listening attentively.
She said, ‘I hear Morocco, the wail of the minaret, the call to prayer.’
I wondered had I taken a wrong turn in the conversation. Between passing into third gear had I missed something. Asked, ‘Did I miss something?’
‘An automobile like this, with a sexy name, seems a goddamn waste in the city, I mean do you get to hit 100-plus often?’
She had a point, a fairly irritating one but nonetheless… I said, ‘It does the job.’
‘So would a pushbike.’
Before I could sulk she asked, ‘What’s a gal gotta do to get a drink?’
‘We’re near my place, want to go there?’
‘Gets my vote.’
I live in Meadow Road. About an umpire from the Oval Cricket Ground. On the outside, it looks ordinary, one up, one down.
Like that.
The money was spent inside. It’s a little flash but hey, I liked to think I had some moves. I turned the engine off, got out and went round to hold her door. She went Southern belle, drawled, ‘My, my, my… y’all a gentleman Ashley.’
‘Whatever.’
Inside, I led her down the hall and stood back. Let the house do its number. Remote control panels to do near all save shout hello. Cost me a fortune and half that again. She stood in the living room, said, ‘Holy shit, who lives here.’
I hit the remote and the bar glided up.
‘A drink?’
‘Got any Bourbon?’
‘I got Scotch.’
‘Scotch’s good, on the rocks, beer chaser.’
I did that, handed them to her, took a large hit of my own. Yeah, that was it, said, ‘Sit down.’
She did, unlaced her Reeboks, kicked ’em off, curled her feet under her. How do women do that or, more’s the point, why. It looks uncomfortable but she seemed happy with it, asked, ‘So who’d you kill for this?’
I thought I’d let that slide for a bit, see how it shaped, so I asked her, ‘What’s a Yank doing shoplifting in South-East London? I mean, wouldn’t Harrods or Selfridges be more appropriate.’
‘I’m hoping to take my Ph.D. in Metaphysics.’
‘What shop does them?’
She gave a toss of her head.
‘Don’t be a horse’s ass. Ontology is the primary element in metaphysics, you know that I guess.’
‘On… wot?’
‘It’s the ontological dilemma. What really exists as opposed to that which appears to exist but does not.’
‘I appear to have lost you.’
‘Gimme another shot of that Scotch.’
I did and asked,
‘OK, so let’s say you grab this Ph.D. – it qualifies you to do what?’
She shrugged, it caused her breasts to move forward and I felt something move myself.
‘Oh I guess I’ll probably still be stealing but at least I’ll be able to look into the soul of the store detective.’
‘Shit, don’t bother. I already did and it’s a wilderness. Not a place you’d want to visit.’
‘Very deep Cooper. Tell me, are you a winner?’
‘Fuck knows, depends who’s keeping score.’
‘I’m serious here guy. I don’t want to know from losers, you gettin’ this. I’ve been nickled and dimed to death.’
‘Hey… lady, get a grip, look around you, am I hurting here?’
‘What… this proves what exactly. That your taste is way up your ass… and an automobile that ain’t worth shit in the city.’
That was about it, I’d had it. Put down my glass, time to fold her tent. But she stood, came to me, said, ‘Fuck me rough.’
Before I could reply, she put her hand on my crotch, pulled the zip down, took a grip of the action. She purred, ‘Oh you’re ready to pop.’
I was… and in a little while, I did. She was sitting astride me and gave a slow smile, said, ‘I’ve a piece of you now, you’ll never ball any other broad… you hear me?’
‘What’s this… post-coital aggression?’
‘It’s the truth, remember you’ve been warned.’
I didn’t know how to answer this so I didn’t. She rolled offa me, said, ‘You grab some Zzzzz’s and I’ll wake you with a blow job. You’ll come to, so to speak. Sound good?’
Yeah, well it didn’t sound too bad so I grabbed the shut-eye. Dreamt too, of pigeons and breaking glass and store detectives shouting ‘It’s a fair cop.’ Bert was there too but I don’t really recall what he was doing, save sweating.
When I woke, she was gone. Was I disappointed. Well, my body wanted her but my head roared THANK FUCK FOR THAT.