Two Men in a Car

by Digby Beaumont © 2006

 

 

Where did you meet this woman? says Mikey.

In the Babylon Lounge, says Walter.

The two men are in a black Mercedes saloon parked opposite the entrance to the underground car park of the Miramar Hotel in London's Paddington district. It's a little after 1.00am. Mikey is sitting behind the wheel. So what happened? he says. He likes a good story.

Walter lights a cigarette before he begins. It was last Friday night, he says. I got in there around 8.30, I suppose. The place was empty, except for a group of three women sitting up at the bar. I'd started to look at the evening paper when one of them came over to my booth.

Hi, she said. What are you reading?

She had the ugliest face. She was bulky, too. She wore a tank top, the kind with the midriff showing. Fat hung over her belt.

Gross, says Mikey and he wrinkles his nose.

She noticed I had the paper open at the day's FTSE report, says Walter. Asked me if I played the markets. I dabble, I told her.

So, how did you fare today? she said.

Walter draws on his cigarette. I liked that ‘how did you fare', he says. It sounded quaint. Not so good, I told her. There was a big sell-off. Blood on the streets.

Sorry to hear that, she said. Why don't you let me buy you a drink?

Walter's mobile rings. Hang on, he tells Mikey and he takes the call. Jamal? he says. We're all set. What? Right, okay. Bye.

He checks his watch. He'll be here in fifteen, he tells Mikey.

There's silence then Mikey says, So, this woman, she bought you a drink?

Walter rubs the back of his neck. Yeah, he says, and we got talking. She could rabbit, that one. Said her name was Sheri and she worked in a call centre in the Mile End Road. A furniture supply company. Flat packs. She told me she was thirty, though she looked a lot older to me. I asked if she'd ever been married.

She said, No, but I've come close more than once.

She was a big football fan. An Arsenal supporter. Said she went to her first game with her granddad when she was 6 years old.

He stops talking and looks out at the car park entrance then turns back. The thing was, he says, once you got beyond the looks, she was quite a woman.

Yeah? says Mikey. There's doubt in his voice.

Yeah, says Walter. A character. He takes a last drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. I asked her what had made her come over and talk to me, he says. She was coy at first.

I'm embarrassed, she said. It was stupid of me.

Come on, I said. I'm intrigued. And you know what she told me? Said she'd done it for a bet. With her friends — the ones at the bar.

They bet me I couldn't have sex with you tonight, she said.

Fuck, says Mikey.

I asked her, says Walter, How much was this bet?

A hundred pounds, she said, and she hid her face in her hands.

I laughed out loud.

Don't, she said. I feel terrible.

I said, Why? It's the funniest thing I've heard in a long while. I glanced over at her friends. They were grinning at us. I turned back and saw she was blushing to her roots. Then, as I kept looking at her, I thought, Well, why not? So, I touched her arm and said, are we going to disappoint them? She gave me a wicked grin.

Walter looks at his watch. Five minutes, he says.

Mikey opens the glove compartment and takes out a handgun, a Baretta 92. He checks the magazine then pulls back the slide. So, he says and he grins, did she win the bet?

We went back to my place, says Walter. She stayed the night. It was amazing. The wildest sex.

Yeah? says Mikey and he chuckles.

Yeah, says Walter. But then, when I woke up in the morning, she was gone. No note. No phone number. Nothing. I went back to the Babylon that night, but she wasn't there. Though I did meet one of the women I'd seen her with.

You two really hit it off last night? she said, and she gave me a little smile.

I told her it was okay, I knew all about the bet. Sheri told me, I said.

What bet? she said.

That she couldn't get me into the sack, I said.

She laughed and said, Is that what she told you? No, there was no bet. Then she asked if that was her name — Sheri.

I said, I thought you were friends?

No, she said, we'd never seen her before.

Shit, says Mikey.

Walter says nothing. There isn't time. A set of headlights have appeared at the end of the street. As they come closer, Walter can see they belong to a silver Land Rover Explorer. It turns into the Miramar's underground car park. That's our man, says Walter, and they get out of the car.

Not long after, two shots ring out. Seconds later Walter and Mikey re-appear and jump back into the Mercedes. Walter is holding a briefcase.

While Mikey turns the key in the ignition and pulls away, Walter opens the case and starts checking through the sealed wads of banknotes it contains. When he's finished, he makes a call on his mobile. Jamal, he says. Walter. We've recovered your case. Yes, he won't be bothering you again.

He rings off then turns and stares out at the shop fronts streaming past. Mikey checks in the rearview. The car picks up speed.

They disappear into the night.

The End

 

Digby Beaumont has worked as a professional writer for more than 20 years, with numerous nonfiction publications. His short stories have appeared in Leafing Through, Slingink Magazine, Barfing Frog Press and The Shaggy Dog Review, among others; more is forthcoming in Zygote in my Coffee and Small Voices, Big Confessions, the 2006 Spoiled Ink print anthology. He lives in Brighton on the south coast of England with his partner, Shirley, and their three cats.

 

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