The Furtive Glance Part 2

This is part 2 of the Furtive Glance, for part one click here
Once again apologies for the terrible accent on this recording, I felt the story needed a certain accent but I think I’ve become the British Dick van Dyke.

He was easy to spot, a large man, big on stomach but small of brain. He looked more suited to a job as Santa Claus than as a sleuth. You could tell by the way he followed the dame that he was an amateur, there was no subtlety, no guile, he just literally followed her. It was no wonder the dame knew she was being tailed, it'd be hard not to notice having at 260 pound man lumbering behind you. I followed him following her. It was a foul night, the rain was getting harder, and the wind blowing it into my face. I turned up the collar on my coat and put my head down. Following someone is about timing, when to turn a corner, when to over take and then pull off the throttle, when to cross to the other sidewalk etc. But to be honest I didn't need my tactics because the lump in front of me was too dumb to notice and I was far enough behind the dame not to arouse suspicions.
She led us to the town houses in  the posh end of town, the expensive ones. Judging by the envelope she'd given me and the place she lived, she didn't want for a cent or two. I saw her go in to one of them, I took a note of the number then watched Santa Claus watch the house. Lights went on, curtains were drawn the evidence told me the broad was at home, and probably lived alone. Santa had seen enough, he turned on his heel and walked back to towards town walking passed me as he did so but he still didn’t notice me. I gave him a head start then followed wondering why he’d given up so easily, what if she went out again?

I didn't mind though. I was more interested in the hound than the fox right now so not hanging around outside the broad's house suited me just fine. Santa was oblivious to my presence, he took no precautions; if he worked for me, I’d give him a stern talking to but he didn’t so it was none of my business. The rain had eased a little  as we turned into Turnbell street. The bars here were so sleazy they could have appeared on 1970's children's television.
It was an open secret that these places were glorified brothels. For the right price you could get anything you wanted in the infamous back rooms; it should have been illegal but the cops turned a blind eye, they had bigger fish to fry.

Santa turned into one of the bars imaginatively called Cupcakes; there was no mistaking from the sign that these were DD cups.
I lingered around outside for a moment before following Santa in. The bar looked like a sleazy version of Parker's, similar faces having a last 'meeting' before heading home to their wives but there was more flesh on show than the butcher's window.  It was a depressing place, threadbare carpets and tired furniture. The contrast between the boredom in the eyes of the staff and the excitement on the face of the clientele was striking. I looked around, there was no sign of Santa suggesting he was here on work not pleasure, unless he was in one of those back rooms. I sat at the bar and ordered, the barman mixed drink watching me carefully. He then asked if I wanted anything else. We both knew he didn't mean peanuts. I shook my head, he wasn’t pleased it wasn't the done thing to just come and look, customers were expected to sample the wares. 
I looked him in the eye.

   ‘Hey John, who owns this joint?’ I asked more in hope then expectation. 

I put my money on the counter, there was far more than just for the drink.
He looked at me, looked at the money and then spoke.

               ‘It's on the house, now drink up and leave.’
He turned away leaving the money on the bar. I took the money, left the drink untouched and made my way back out into the rain.

Andrews was exactly where I expected him to be, propping up the bar in Copeland’s having just one more, one more time. That man didn’t just have one for the road, he had one for all the roads in the land. He was an old school cop, one of the best back in the day, now lsightly washed up, slightly bitter but still a mine of information, a mine that could be tapped for the right price. I put a note down on the bar, enough to pay for all his last drinks and sat on the stool next to him.

               ‘Who owns Cupcakes?’ I said.

               ‘You never even say hello?’ He slurred back. I looked at him waiting for an answer, not willing to play games..

               ‘Bulgarians’ he said eventually. ‘The Georgievs, the father is Plamen but the son is running the place, Hristo.’

I showed him the picture the broad had given me. Andrews nodded,

               ‘That’s him’ he said. ‘Nasty piece of work, want my advice? You keep away from the whole family.’

It was beginning to make sense now. That nagging feeling the dame was not telling me something. Well I just worked out what it was. The father of the child was one of the most dangerous men in town.

For Part three click here