Some people drank to forget. Some saved people - or so he had heard - forgot to drink. He drank to be forgotten. It was unclear whether he continued to do so as frequently as he did to maintain his cloak of anonymity, or that so far the method wasn’t working. Certainly everyone in The Loons knew who he was, or at least who he had been, or rather who it was said he had been. They did not know how close to the truth al of this was, and were probably safer for not knowing.
He sat on the stool at the end of the bar opposite to the cash register and next to the phone. It wasn’t that the stool was reserved for him, rather that any of the regulars knew that it bore an invisible plaque with his name on it. Newcomers might make the mistake once of not seeing his ownership, but someone usually took pity on them and invited them to a game of pool or a game of darts or to examine the juke box. Anything, really, at the far end of the room. He arrived early, just after the changing of the guard, and left on the dot of closing, except for the odd red days marked on the calendar when he would stay a little longer, or Thursdays when he stayed away. No one knew what he did on a Thursday, and no one really wanted to ask.
At his left hand were his Silver Bensons, a disposable lighter, a ten pound note, and a pile of change. Close observers - of whom there were none - might note that the pile of money did not noticeably diminish over the course of the evening. It wasn’t that he wasn’t charged for his drinks - he was, at least most of the time. Nor was it that he was bought drinks by the regulars - although most had been generous at some point in their drinking. And certainly, he was generous in his turn, whether you liked it or not. No one rejected an opportunity to drink with Fingers. Not if they knew what was good for them.
It was not as if he was a violent man, at least not now. He was past all that now. Indeed he was a kind of calming presence, as no one would try anything with him propping up the bar. A look from him was all it took, most of the time, and failing that an index finger, stained yellow, prodding you in the chest. Most of the barmen liked him, because he made their lives safer, and whilst they took some of their wages in the form of booze, they never would dream abusing it. Not with him watching their every move. Petty thievery would not be so petty when they reminded themselves why he was called "Fingers". Takings had gone up in fact since he had taken up residence, after a long absence, some seven years earlier.
No one quite knew where he had been, or indeed how long he had been there, and no one asked. And he certainly wasn’t volunteering anything. Prison was a possibility, of course, but surely Old Fingers was not foolish enough to let himself be caught. He didn’t have the sort of tan which might be associated with an extended stay in a country lacking an extradition treaty with Her Majesty’s Government.
A shadow fell across the bar and John found himself hurriedly vacating the stool. Jimmy took the last cigarette from the packet placed it between his lips, unwilling to meet the eyes of the newcomer. There was a stench in the room, the stench of law and order, or at least one of its lower representatives. As he inhaled on the cold, dry butt, a lighter appeared in front of him, a short flame dancing yellow. "No thanks," he said, the cigarette flapping with his speech.
"Then I’ll have one, if you don’t mind," said the newcomer, reaching across to remove it from his lips. As Jimmy turned to stare uncomprehendingly at him, he lit it and inhaled deeply. "I’d given up," he said.
"Is that right?" asked Jimmy, picturing the newcomer in his earlier days, a spot of orange in the shadow of a score of midnight warehouses. "How’s that working out for you?"
The smoker blew out a ring of smoke, and puffed a smaller one through its centre. "It’s not the only thing I’d given up. I’d given up being one step behind your associates. I’d given up late night stake outs. And, most of all -" and he gestured around with his right hand, "I’d given up talking to you in dives like this."
"No need to feel you have to on my account," said Fingers. "Just keep drawing your fucking pension, Purvis."
Purvis shook his head. "I’ll do that when you do." He turned towards Gan and yelled, "House double whisky, when you’re ready. He’s paying." He stubbed out the cigarette, half-smoked, in the ashtray to his right. "Filthy habit really. Can’t see what you get out of it. Unless you’re more of a leach than I always took you for."
"They’re not supposed to serve drunks, policemen or whores," said Fingers. "Which one are you and why the fuck are you drinking in my pub? I can’t believe you just want to gas on about old times."
Gan placed a tumbler in front of Purvis, and Purvis waited until he picked up the right money from the pile in front of Fingers before he continued. "Funny thing is, it feels like old times. There was a van found in the lay-by, on the Egford bypass, last Monday. The boys found traces of cocaine, MDH, X and half a dozen other pharmaceuticals in the back. They also found the driver." The rim of the glass suddenly became very interesting. "Don’t they ever wash these things?" A sip. "It had your fingerprints all over it, not that the lab boys could pin anything on you. Nor could they find the driver’s fingerprints. Or his fingers for that matter." He turned to face Jimmy and stabbed him with a bony index finger. "The finger’s pointing at Fingers." He let out a laugh. "Sorry to be so goddamned literal. It’s been a while since I could use that line."
Fingers stared down at the empty silver box in front of him, and when he finally spoke it was in a barely audible tone. "I’m just an old man, living out my final days as frugally as I can."
Purvis laughed again. "That’s a great one, Fingers. No, it probably wasn’t you, but it certainly smelt of you. We think the driver was in on it, but someone gave the game away before he got to the drop. Or he planned to double-cross whoever was paying him. Only the double cross went wrong. They had to make it look authentic, like the driver put up a fight, so they didn’t want to kill him. And then his employers caught up with him. They left the van as if it was driving down to the coast, when anyone would see they were trying to get the shit into the country."
"Inspector Purvis, I think you mistake me for someone who gives a shit."
"Now, now, Fingers. If it isn’t your business now, it damn well ought to be. I’m pretty sure you’re out the game, have been for years, as have I. But I’m also pretty sure that you would have passed your - uh - franchise onto somebody younger. It’s not the drugs, you know I don’t care about the drugs, but it’s the game. The game’s the thing. Not on my patch, even if it’s not my watch. So I want to know who’s involved, and where they're holding up. It’s bad for the tourists."
Fingers reached across and took Purvis’s glass in a trembling hand. He spat in the amber liquid and placed it on the towel in front of the pig.
"Well, better for my liver if I don’t drink, anyway. Yeap, my liver. That’s the point. And I think you need to make it your point. You see, I’m willing to buy this frail old man act, it suits you. And I’d be more than happy to see you rusted to this stool for another decade or more, if only..." His voice trailed away and he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger. "See, it would be a shame if I dug out some of my old notebooks. There was stuff in there that we couldn’t point a finger with, not way back. But we’ve got all the old evidence in the vaults, and it’d be ever so much fun to see the lab boys let loose on it. They love their gizmos. DNA. RNA. Blood typing. Psychofucking profiles. Just think on. Me, I don’t really have the stomach for it, not really, but you’d force my finger if I don’t get the names. And what they haven’t pissed away of the drugs. That’d be awfully useful. As quick as you like."
Fingers stared at the empty box in front of him as sharply as a magnifying glass focused on a bug. He clearly didn’t trust himself to answer, or at least, not right then.
Purvis pushed the half full glass away from him, and stood up. He left, the door banging closed behind him, but after a few seconds he was back again. "Oh, and obviously, there are copies of my notes, with my solicitor, among other places. Better hope I die in my bed. Oh, and probably better find your old brief, it’s as well to be prepared. I’ll be in touch."
Fingers sat there in silence, not reacting, quietly calculating. His eyes moved to the pile of silver and bronze, balanced on top of a crisp five pound note. Nice. "Gan," he said. "Get us some cigarettes from the machine would you?" There was exactly the right change. Or at least Gan would make sure there was before he got to the dispenser.