Toot, Toot, Tootsie, Goodbye

"Doncha just love that song?"

I went back to the main bar and ordered a daiquiri. Cocktails are a great invention; what you put on the bar in front of you says a lot to anyone who cares to look. A 300-pound African-American with a Saturday-night special in his pocket isn't half as scary with a mimosa in a stem-glass in his hand. Fact. The pinkish cocktail " yep strawberry daiquiri " said that I wasn't in the bar for the girly show. The guys behind the bar looked as tough as the owner's gorillas, if a little more refined, in as much as they maybe wouldn't knife you if you forgot the tip. I just wanted to wait for Buckfast to turn up.

When he did, Gorilla #3 appeared at my elbow.

'Boss, wants me to keep an eye,' he bit each word off as though he was eating a jemmy.

Buckfast came in. No entourage at all. Not one intern or secret service type whatsoever. He'd come for an illegal smoke, a drink and to look at some girls. Well he could do that later. The clock behind the bar showed a couple of minutes after 12.

'Good afternoon, Senator. I thought I'd look you up.'

To his credit, Buckfast didn't pretend not to recognise me.

'Angel, something, isn't it?'

'Gabriel Chandler, P.I.'

'Whatever. You won't be seeing the First Lady any time soon.'

But I do hate it when people pretend not to remember your name. My mouth was just opening when Gorilla #3 grabbed the Senator's arm and twisted it discreetly behind his Brooks Brothers suit-coat.

'Let's take it out the back, Senator.' #3 winked at me and I almost forgave him for squeezing my balls.

We went through a door in the back of a cupboard and into a warehousing space as cold as winter. The Boss was wearing a camel-hair coat and the smile of a used-car salesman.

'Ahhh, Senator, such a long time! You don't like our new girls?'

The Boss turned his eyes to me, 'the Senator liked this place under the old management.'

'Oh, the Russians', I said.

Gorilla #3 spat on the floor, narrowly missing the Senator's wingtip.

The Senator looked nervous. Perhaps he had just come for a smoke and a drink.

A smile moved the Boss's lips but didn't touch his eyes,

'Mr Buckfast was one of the Russians' best customers. He liked all the fresh chicken on offer. I don't like that kind of business, what family man does, hey Goombah?'

'Ah... I don't have any children, Mr...?'

'Call me Salvatore, Mr Chandler. You're not really with the Virginia State Police are you?'

'N-no, Salvatore.' I was asking myself how he knew that, but he wasn't looking at me by that time. The Boss was watching Gorillas #2 and #3 tying a US Senator into a chair. Then they took his shoes and argyles off.

'Now, Senator,' by this time Salvatore's smile had reached his eyes, but it was still making me feel queasy, 'you promised Mr Chandler here a favour.'

Senator Buckfast opted for bluster, which I would have advised him against, had he asked my opinion. By the time the wire-cutters came out, his bare feet were in a hot stinking puddle of his own urine.

'It's not... no! Do you realise..?' His scream lasted much longer than it took to sever the pinkie toe on his left foot.

Personally, I would never vote for a man who couldn't maintain his dignity even though he was losing pedal digits at the time. Salvatore was whistling an old Al Jolson tune. Maybe this is what finally made Buckfast hand over a stiff piece of white card to Gorilla #3.

'That's much better, Senator,' Salvatore said and whistled a few more bars. #3 handed me the card. It was a gilt-edged invite to a literary prize-giving where Lila Radziwill would be handing out the statuettes. Like a bearer bond, there was no name on it.

Salvatore put a hand on my back and showed me out of the warehouse.

'Dontcha just love that song. “Toot, Toot, Tootsie, Goodbye?”'

I didn't look back at him as I walked through the club, even though he called out a cheery 'Seeya round, Chandler!' Red was back on stage and she raised one of those tight-calved legs in salute, but I ignored that too.