The Crooked Bullet

CHAPTER 3

When Frank woke up the next morning, he found three more missed calls on his phone. They were all from the same number and certainly didn’t belong to anyone in his phone directory. Frank had a policy of not returning missed calls from unknown callers – primarily because it costs money and again you never know whom they are from. From experience, unknown callers usually spelled trouble – debt collectors, tax office, and bank calling about your un-approved overdraft.

It was a nice Tuesday morning, and Frank was just getting into the routine of preparing for work until it suddenly occurred to him that hey you got no job, man. Nevertheless, he dressed up. The unemployed always have a place to go - the Jobcentre never turned anyone away. And in any case, the Jobcentre was the logical place to start looking for another job – theoretically.

He took Spencer Cowley’s check with him, tucking it into his shirt’s pocket; and thinking to visit the bank, later in the day. The check was not for a lot, and he didn’t imagine it would take him quite far. So he definitely needed to get a job really fast, primarily because the rent needed to get paid by the first day of each month, which was just about a week away. The last thing he needed at this time was to have himself thrown in the street. Frank thought the check was mischief really because he usually got paid by bank transfer. It occurred to him that Spencer intended to make a statement with the check - like he didn’t want to have anything more to do with Frank.

Hey, here is your pay you fucker; now get the hell out of here and don’t ever come back.

Frank hated visiting the Jobcentre, primarily because as everyone knew, it was the place where you went in hopeful and came out hopeless. There, as he expected, he found himself in the company of the drunk, the druggies, and the born layabouts-, all waiting to be fed into the omnivorous mill of the unemployment benefit processing machine.

He made a quick start at the job search computer, and it confirmed because that seemed its only purpose for which it seemed to have been made, that there was no job available for journalists within 50 miles of Hackney. Not about to completely lose hope though, Frank joined the queue to see an employment officer.

“What kind of job are you looking for?” the lady asked. Frank had a feeling that she didn’t care, and was just going through the rote.

“I am a journalist,” Frank told her. She tapped some keys on her computer, and ruefully shook her head.

“No journalist job here,” she said.

“I know that; I just checked from the computer by myself and couldn’t find any listing. I thought maybe you had some other jobs that haven’t been yet listed.” Frank replied, mildly annoyed.

“Would you be willing to consider any other job?”

Frank had a fleeting thought that having a full-time job as a disc jockey would have been so cool but he didn’t think they made jobs in that model yet; at least not in London.

“Yes, depending on what you have available. I really must pay my bills somehow”, Frank replied. Humming gaily, she tapped some more on her computer.

“I have got some vacancies for truck drivers. Do you have a license?”

“No I don’t have a license to drive anything on wheels,” Frank laughed; thinking he had no desire to drive a fucking truck.

“Door security?” She again suggested.

“I have a problem standing for long,” Frank told her.

“You wouldn’t consider a street cleaning job either I guess because of your disability?” Frank imagined she was mocking him, with the way she said “your disability.” Nevertheless, he just shook his head, thinking no way was he going to be scooping dog poop for anybody.

“Traffic warden?” She asked. Again Frank laughed and shook his head. As far as he knew, nearly everyone who owned a car was looking for a traffic warden to murder.

“Okay then, could you check back next week and we might hopefully have something along your street. In the interim would you like to sign on to receive unemployment benefits?”

At this time a mail boy passed – probably sixteen years old or so.

Get off that chair and go do some work like a man you lazy motherfucker; his disgusted eyes seemed to say to Frank.

“No I don’t want to sign on for anything,” Frank told her.

“Suit yourself then,” she said.

Frank’s bank was only a hundred yards down the street, and it took him less than five minutes to get there. A small bus with BBC stenciled on the sides was parked outside the bank, but he didn’t really pay attention to that.

The bank was a little crowded which didn’t make sense, not so early in the morning.

“What’s going on?” he’d asked the door security.

“A little bit of equipment malfunction, but I am sure all will be back to normal in a few minutes. We were alerted”, the tall happy Nigerian told him. Frank seated himself near an old West Indian granny while he waited for the queue to get moving once more.

“Hello my dearie, I am Mrs. Williams. “, the granny told him. Frank shook her hand and told her his own name.

“My name is Frank. I learn the computers have gone funny, that’s odd, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Nothing odd at all dearie; the bank is full of funny business these days, aren’t they? Last year me bring me check here. You know we old citizens get some allowance for our heating equipment and stuff. Now me hand me check over to this rass teller over there you see, and next time I look back he gone. Went away with my money; old woman money. And so about an hour later he back again, and me kick a fuss and lick him on the head with me bag. Give me back me money you thief me shout at him. And his supervisor come and beg me cool doun; cool doun he say because all the man do is go for break. Cool doun, bloodclat say to me. Can you believe that, young man? Idiot boy go for break with me money”.

Frank nodded miserably and agreed with Mrs. Williams that yes, all bank workers were thieves and must be put in prison. But she was not even halfway done yet. Mrs. Williams proceeded to recite her biography and especially the rather touching bit about her granddaughter Harriet, whose picture she carried around in her handbag and was pleased to show Frank.

“You know Harriet, poor girl who shouldn’t have married the goat goes by the name of Winston who can’t keep a job and all he do is play trumpet in a reggae band as if he in Jamaica. This is sad because living in London is hard man; not like back-a-yard in Jamaica.”

It made Frank guilty that this nice lonely lady Mrs. Williams actually thought she was talking to a nice young white man who had his life altogether. Nevertheless, he obediently nodded and agreed to all she said.

In an open cubicle, a dejected Antipodean was trying to convince his personal banker that he qualified for an overdraft, but from the look on his face, he was not making any progress at all. The banker punched some keys on her computer, made some busy humming noise, and came to a final verdict, or more correctly the computer came to a final verdict. She shook her head.

But Ozzie was not giving up easily His life depended on getting the overdraft, this being perfectly understandable since he had just lost his job, was living in a rented house with a pregnant wife, and his immigration status did not qualify him for unemployment benefit.

“For three years I have faithfully made this particular bank home to my salary, and if not for this unfortunate incident I wouldn’t need an overdraft,” he desperately pleaded his case; but the bank computer remained merciless.

Frank eventually had a chance to cash his check. He thought he should have just paid the check into his account, but another thought came to him to cash the check first.

In another part of the bank, a camera crew of four from BBC had been interviewing the bank supervisor, who was happily enjoying the show and describing how the bank security system worked. The camera crew from BBC was now leaving the bank. They were leaving with a box which looked full of money – and yes it was. The supervisor grinned at the camera, enjoying the show and explaining how the security system captured this sort of situation. Out went the camera crew into a van that had pulled up in front of the bank. The supervisor waved them away. The agreement appeared to have been for the van to drive around the block for five minutes or so and come back with the box of money, and then for the camera crew to see in the bank’s security office how the whole event had been faithfully recorded.

“Hey your bank has been robbed,” Frank told the supervisor who patiently paced the banking hall, waiting for the camera crew from BBC that failed to return.

“Of course not, they are from BBC,” he scolded – through a mind which was clogging up with fear.

“But you have been robbed, those blokes left with your money.”

“I know sir, but they will be back in a minute. They are doing a documentary on bank security for BBC”.

“I’ll be fucked if they come back,” Frank told him.

Now very sweaty the supervisor disappeared into his office. A couple of minutes later, two police squad cars wailed to a stop in front of the bank and three officers hasted toward the supervisor”s office.

“The bank has been robbed,” Frank told Mrs. Williams.

“Really? Praise the Lord, serve them right for a change”, Mrs. Williams was joyful. Struck with joy, the Australian loan-seeker, proudly stood from his chair in front of the personal banker and her evil computer; his face ecstatic.

“The bank has been robbed,” Ozzie joyfully muttered over and over as he left the bank. Finally outside he couldn’t contain his happiness anymore. He went leaping like he had experienced a profound miracle. And off he went, broadcasting the triumph of justice over greed straight into the path of a speeding Bus 242. And even as he breathed his last, a rapturous expression rested on his face.

“The fucking bank has been robbed,” he silently shouted.

“Who said that?” asked the supervisor who again returned to the banking hall this time in the company of the three unsmiling police.

“I did” Frank volunteered.

“Can you step this way for a minute please?” one of the policemen beckoned with his head. Frank found himself hustled into the supervisor’s office.

“How much do you know about this?” he was asked “Nothing more than I saw with my eyes while standing to cash my check,” Frank told them.

“You don’t know any of those men from BBC?”

“Of course not; any fool could have seen that heist coming” Frank chuckled.

The supervisor glared; he clearly didn’t like being called any fool. But in any case, he knew that in a matter of hours he was likely to be without a job and quite likely to need a lawyer to save his behind from prison. His wife and children were going to be angry with him for a long time. They finally let Frank go after taking his identification.

. Outside Frank found the building cordoned off behind police tape. The bank was now a crime scene. A large crowd had gathered to learn what had happened. Mrs. William was there right before them all; basking in the spotlight as a witness to the crime. A smaller and now dispersing crowd had gathered to see the remains of Ozzie being taken away by an ambulance.

Frank usually went to the Hard Luck Café on Lower Clapton Road to catch up on the latest news and stuff. Usually never before sundown, but today he needed somewhere to go, was short of ideas, so he ended up at the Hard Luck Café for an early lunch.

“What is the matter Frank, you’re not at work?” Lester Bowie asked. Lester was the waiter at the Hard Luck Café – once a temporary draft from the Dinosaurs Over-50s Employment Network. Lester always kept the customers irritated or amused but never alone, so Maureen Smith the owner of the café had retained him now for more than two years. At fifty-two Lester still didn’t really know what his life was about and appeared not to care anymore.

“None of your businesses, Frank told him.

“Well, since when have you ever come into here at a quarter past noon to order Bubble and Squeak and a Guinness? So I say what ales you” Lester chuckled, putting a pun on the “ale.”

“Fuck off and do your job Lester,” Frank told him.

He had picked up a copy of the Sun at a newsstand near Hackney Central, and he dived lustfully into the page three half taken up by a topless model.

“Nekkid girl, what she selling den,” Maureen laughed behind him.

“Hi Maureen,” Frank flashed her smile. Maureen was the owner of Hard Luck Cafe, forty-something full-breasted beauty with a motherly smile. Maureen always minded her business and didn’t hassle you with questions. Lester came back with Frank’s food at last and set it on the table with a wink.

“Dirty newspaper pictures make you go blind you know?” he said.

“Fuck off,” Frank waved him away, and silently ate his food while reading the paper.

Become a Private Investigator.

Somewhere in the last pages of the paper Frank again saw a small advertisement that he had noticed the previous day. It was about a private detective course or something like that. There was a phone number at the bottom of the advertisement, and having nothing else to do after his meal, he called the number.

The call was taken by a giggly girl who answered, “Hi my name is Mandy, and how may I help you?” .Frank extracted the address of Eagle Detective Training Institute from Mandy. It was somewhere near Elephant and Castle, and since it was the right day for time-wasting, Frank thought why not check it out.

While making the call to Eagle Detective Institute, Frank found that he had a missed call, and so he called his voicemail. Nancy had left another message.

Nancy. He hadn’t seen her in years and wondered what it was she wanted. Frank and Nancy had together kept a single-bedroom apartment together for almost a year. It had been so wonderful initially, two kids just having fun in all possible ways. Then Nancy had started to want more, hinting at marriage. For a guy without a steady job getting hitched wasn’t a thought that Frank thought he wanted to mess with, so he had persistently navigated away off the topic as well as he could.

But Nancy had also remained persistent, and it soon became that the only way to avoid talking about getting married was to avoid speaking with Nancy and eventually to avoid seeing Nancy, which was pretty difficult, for two people living together in a single bedroom flat.

Then Thomas had appeared on the scene. Frank had initially become sure that Nancy was seeing someone else. How else to explain that some weirdo kept sending in flowers every day

“Hey, what’s with all these flowers; the flat’s like a fucking undertaker’s,” Frank complained to Nancy.

“None of your business,” she had tersely replied; which was partly correct because even though they shared the rent, the lease of the flat was in her name. And even though Frank was relieved that Nancy was no more discussing marriage, the flowers still kept him freaked; like they forebode someone’s funeral.

Frank came in one night to hear moaning noises from the room which he used to share with Nancy before the living room couch became more comfortable for him.

The bedroom door was open, and on the bed, he found Nancy with one of his friends, Thomas Pawney; both of them naked. Angry from both the effrontery and the betrayals, Frank hauled Thomas naked out of the flat. Nancy had also done the expected and thrown Frank’s stuff out of her flat that very night.

Looking back, Frank thought that was the best thing that happened to him and Nancy. He remembered sleeping on the buses that night. Well, there wasn’t really much sleep. He just got himself on whichever bus was going the furthest distance and tried to get some sleep during the journeys. And at the terminus, he changed into another going the other way and got a bit more sleep on the way. That was how that night had passed.

Jay Winch had been a lucky find the next day. Jay, a software guy, was going off to do some better-paying gig in Chicago or wherever and needed someone to mind his flat for a couple of years. So with no reference and without a deposit, Frank had quite impossibly found himself the proud tenant of a two-bedroom flat in Hackney. The next day he called Nancy and quite maliciously told her how much he wished her and Thomas Pawney a miserable lifetime and a house full of retarded children together.

But somehow and quite impossibly Nancy Hughes had shown up at a rave party at Dalston a few weeks back, without her Thomas Pawney. Nancy had come along with two plump Scottish girls on a suicide mission from Glasgow, and who had spent the entire night knocking down Vodka shots, and the rest of the early morning vomiting them up on the sidewalk.

“What happened to Thomas Pawney?” Frank found a minute to ask Nancy during the night.

“Not my type, he wanted to marry me,” Nancy told Frank; leaving him with the conviction that most women are mad?

“Thought that was what you wanted,” Frank reminded her.

“Yes with you maybe; not with Thomas Pawney. I don’t love him”, she ruefully smiled. Being afraid of what was coming up Frank took off but not quickly enough to prevent Nancy from getting his phone number. He now ruefully regretted he had not given her a wrong number.

And so, there on my phone was Nancy for the umpteenth time in a month asking him to return her call.

Lester was watching the television with Maureen since no other customer was yet about. They were watching a football match between Liverpool FC and Arsenal. Lester normally looked to Frank as a hopeless case in his plaid apron, but today Lester really did strike him differently and invoked respect. At least Lester had a job going for him.

“You done guv?” Lester asked. Frank gave him the OK sign, took out the money from his wallet, and bailed himself from the Hard Luck Cafe.

CHAPTER 4

Frank found Eagle Detective Training Institute on the second floor of the mall at Elephant and Castle. It was a sparsely furnished small office, with only one desk, behind which he found Mandy seated, quite engrossed with her OK magazine. An ornately framed black and white portrait of a distinguished-looking gentleman with handlebar mustache supervised his discussion with the giggly Mandy, who was the o.

“I called you about one hour ago about the detective course,” Frank explained to her.

“Yes, you did. It is, of course, a home study course, and it normally costs four hundred pounds, but you can buy for only two hundred and forty-nine pounds and ninety-nine pence at the discount price if you buy today. “, Mandy went straight to business.

“That’s a lot of money, is there an installment payment option?” Frank asked.

“No, unfortunately. It’s a bargain though, and there is a certificate inside the package. After you are done with your studying you just print your name on the certificate put it in a frame and hang it in your office to prove that you are a real detective”, Mandy actually failed to see how ridiculous she sounded. She went into a store behind the office, came out with a box which she placed on the table in front of Frank.

“Heck, I can’t read all this,” Frank told her. Mandy shrugged her shoulder.

“In any case for ninety-nine pounds extra you could purchase the entire courses recorded on CDs and listen to be trained as a detective,” she advised.

“That sounds better. Okay, I will just have the CDs then.” Frank happily offered. Mandy firmly shook her head.

“No, the CDs must be bought together with the books, not alone. Don’t be lazy with your studies; it is not easy to become a detective you know.” she playfully scolded.

“That’s a lot of money,” Frank scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Well, the advertisement did say that you could actually earn a hundred quid per hour as a private detective so this is cheap. You get all your money back in four hours.” Mandy shrugged and giggled some more.

The man in the portrait appeared to glare at him with much disapproval. Frank handed his bank card to Mandy for payment. Mandy was glad to pass Frank’s card through a processing machine which dutifully deducted three hundred and forty pounds from his bank account. Mandy cheerfully wrote him a receipt.

“Who is the bloke in the picture? Is that the owner of this business? Out of curiosity, he pointed to the portrait.

“I don’t know; I met him here,” Mandy replied, returning to reading her OK Magazine.

Frank left Eagle Detective Training. He checked his phone again and found that he had another missed call. He called his voicemail; Nancy had left another message. Frank grimaced.

Lugging the parcel home took all the energy out of him. Nevertheless, back at home, he ripped open the seal of one of the boxes. He popped one of the CDs into a portable player. It was topic number two of the detective course and the title from the cover said: Tracing Missing Persons. Frank thought this could be the most interesting part of the entire course. He grimaced at the badly recorded voice of the instructor, who had obviously been reading from the course notes. He sat on the couch to listen nonetheless and was soon lulled to sleep.

When he woke up, it was around six o’clock in the evening. Taking a quick shower, he decided to visit his girlfriend. He took a bus for Stratford Station, and at the station, exit bought a bunch of flowers, and walked up to a nearby block of flats. He took the lift to the second floor and pressed the bell at the second door to the right of the lift, which was where Sade Leigh lived Hers was a two-room job, a room of which she had converted into a garment design studio. Sade was a vivacious Nigerian dressmaker, with a very colorful taste, in clothes. Frank would often wonder what she admired in him since they seemed exactly opposite in almost every way.

“Vegetables again,” Sade groaned, taking the bouquet Frank had brought and putting it in a vase.

“They aren’t vegetables honey, they are the best. They cost me a bunch at the station”. Frank laughed.

“Pity you can’t eat them, which is even worse than paying so much of good money for a bunch of vegetables, Sade playfully nagged.

“Oh, you impossible witch,” Frank contrived an agonized groan.

“Yes, I’m now going to cast a spell on you and make you take me to dinner,” Sade purred.

“Yes, yes o wicked witch, I am under your evil spell. I will take you to dinner.” Frank agreed with her.

A great film was showing that night at the Stratford cinema, and they decided to watch the film first, after which they went to Nando’s; just a stone throw away. Sitting at a feast of flame-grilled chicken and baked potatoes, Frank had more than a bit of update for Sade.

“You mean you were arrested for a bank robbery?” Sade was incredulous.

“Yes, my dear,” I knocked off a high street bank all by myself and the police let me off on good behavior,” Frank told her.

“And before that, you lost your job; so how are you going to survive Frank? Not by weekend party gigs obviously.”

“Not enough to sustain me honey; and I couldn’t certainly afford you by doing weekend party gigs.” he laughed

“So what are your plans, Frank?” Sade sounded genuinely worried for him.

“I was coming to that. Today I bought a detective course. I found that working as a detective isn’t quite different from what I did as a journalist and it certainly looks like you could make a lot more in that business. Do you know that people actually fork out as much as a hundred and fifty pounds an hour to get a private detective?” Frank told her.

“Wow!” Sade sounded full of suspicion. “A hundred pounds an hour? I don’t believe that.”

“Better believe, because it’s true. So I am going to start building myself a new and enduring profession honey”.

“So what are you going to call yourself? What is your...erm.... handle going to be like”?

“Handle? I am not a mug, sister”

“You are a really smart dummy you know; what are you going to call yourself? Under what handle will you be working ...Sam Spade…Colin Fetchit..? What is it going to be like? I personally am not going to employ Frank O’Dwyer to find even a lost cat.”, Sade was sincere.

“Yeah, you’ve got a point there. I was thinking something like Frank Xero”.

“Xero? That sounds awful”

“No, it doesn’t. Like a private investigator zeroes in on a crime and gets it solved real quick; Gerrit?”

“Well, it’s your business, not mine. It still sounds like a photocopy shop to me, like Xerox. Are you sure you aren’t going to get sued by some of these business creeps in black suits?”

“Never worry Sade. On the positive side, it is going to make me easy to remember”.

“No it’s crappy, and I don’t like it” Sade confessed “Try something more sensible like Frank Wire. It is also easy to remember I think. And it sounds rather cool. Like you are the new British werewolf – Frank Wire by day, MC Wire by night”, she giggled.

“Hey what will I do without you, o witch” Frank nipped her ear with his teeth.

“Don’t Snoop Dog me dude; not here” Sade pushed him away. “I think you are forgetting something though. Don’t you need a license for this? “

“Not as far as I know, “Frank told her. He had indeed checked earlier on his computer. Anyone with the wish could become a private detective.

Sade had updates of her own.

“I am happy for you then, and I hope you make a lot of money. I am participating in a fashion exhibition at the Barbican in a couple of weeks. It is an ethnic fashion show; I am so excited about the opportunity, Frank. It would be nice to have my designs break the ethnic barrier though. I am wishing for good contacts at the event”, she told him.

“I love your designs SADE, especially the Dashiki tops. Trevor absolutely loves them too. I hope you are going to have a lot of them on display. Very nice to wear in summer.” Frank encouraged.

“Yes, you both put a lot of business my way. I think it is time for me to break the ethnic barrier and something tells me the Barbican exhibition is going to be it, for me. “, Sade was full of hopes.

“Go for it then, girl. You’ve got awesome talent in that lovely head of yours, and it is time for you to really make it big.” Frank kissed her on the cheek. Sade put her arms around him.

“It’s not only about the money though. I am proud of where I came from, and I would wish to change some unfortunate mindsets along the way. I aim to have elegant girls black and white, modeling exquisite Yoruba fashion as you’ve never seen before. For me, this will not be just another clothing exhibition; I want it to be a major cultural statement.” Sade said.

“I believe you, honey. I am sure one day; you will make a statement that will be heard and remembered all over the world.” Frank said to her.

Together they went to the Sainsbury’s supermarket for a couple of bottles of wine for the night..