Fool's Mate

by John Bayliss

There are certain things that a person is well advised not to pick an argument with: guns, iron bars and dogs with sharp teeth being three that immediately spring to mind. To that list, I would humbly like to add a fourth item: knives - and most specifically the seven inch blade that is currently glinting in the moonlight no more than a few inches away from my throat. This would be distressing state of affairs under any circumstances, but what makes it particularly upsetting is the fact that I am currently wearing my pyjamas and lying in my own little bed. A few moments ago I was fast asleep, contentedly voyaging upon the broad oceans of slumber; now I am wide awake and staring into the face of the knife's handler, some individual I have never seen in my life before, who is demanding that I confirm my identity.

'Are you Stringer?' he said.

A combination of extreme urgency and hoarse whispering turned the voice into a vehement hiss.

'What?'

Now, I'm never at my best during those first few seconds of consciousness; and even the close proximity of a very sharp blade had failed to do much to improve matters. The man with the knife, however, was in no mood to make any allowances for lingering sleepiness. 'You heard. Are you Stringer?'

There was less of a whisper in the voice this time, but the tone was equally as vehement. I might still be half asleep but at least I had enough sense not to admit to anything that might prove potentially fatal.

'Um, so what if I am?'

'Don't play games!'

'I mean, I think it rather depends on what you intend to do to Stringer when you find him.'

I look at the knife. He looks at the knife. Said knife retreated to a slightly safer distance - although, I was quick to notice, it did not retire from the arena altogether.

'I want to ask him some questions.'

'Not cut his throat?'

'Are you Stringer?'

The knife edged a few millimetres closer.

'If you promise not to cut me, then I'll tell you.'

He didn't say anything. The knife even crept a fraction closer.

'All right, I'm Stringer.'

'Are you a private detective?'

'Yes. Why?'

'Then I have a job for you, Mr. Detective.'

'Look: I know this might seem a bit of a nuisance, but I did have this rule about only talking to clients during normal business hours.'

Knife caught a beam of stray moonlight.

'What do you want me to do?'

'Find out who murdered my son.'

'Um, okay. If I agree to take on the case, will you agree to go away now and come back in the morning?'

'No.'

'It would be more convenient.'

'Never go out in daylight. Someone might see me.'

'Fine-' Yes, I could see how that could be rather a difficult problem for someone.

I've never been entirely sure of the best way of dealing with the paranoid, but, considering that the knife was still very conspicuous by its presence, I decided that humouring him was going to be the healthiest course of action.

'Murder, you say?'

He nodded. We were carrying on this conversation by moonlight, and combined with the fact that I was still only just awake, only now did I notice that this guy was at least in his fifties and possibly much older than that. He'd obviously not shaved for two or three days, either, and just from the look of him I'd guess he'd been sleeping rough. All other things being equal, I might possibly taken a chance on overpowering him; but things weren't equal. He had the knife.

'Wouldn't it be much better to go to the police?' I asked.

He made a face that suggested that his opinion of the police force was not exactly one of boundless respect and adoration. 'Police don't care a monkey's dick about my boy. They already fitted him up for a job he didn't do. Wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't them that done him in, too.'

Maybe, like me, you've noticed a slightly archaic tone to the slang that this character was using. It seemed quite reasonable, then, to presume that he really didn't get out very much.

'Well,' I said, trying to plump up my pillow in an attempt to get a little more comfortable. 'I suppose you better tell me what happened.'

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