Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [75]
The tramp gave no indication of noticing the policeman’s return. Trying once again to ignore the smell, Carlyle stepped towards him. ‘Dog,’ he asked, when he thought he might finally have gained the tramp’s attention, ‘do you come here often?’
Walter didn’t even look up, but took his lips far enough from the bottle to mumble, ‘Sometimes.’
‘At night?’
Nodding, Dog stuck his lips back on the bottle and sucked out the remaining dregs.
‘Were you here a couple of weeks ago?’ Carlyle persisted.
Dog scratched himself behind his left ear, like a man trying to come to terms with the concept of time. Finding it too much though, he gave Carlyle a look of infinite weariness. ‘Dunno.’
‘The last few times you were here,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘did you see anyone else?’
Dog did another excellent impersonation of a man thinking for a long time. ‘No,’ he said finally.
Damn! Carlyle thought. ‘No one?’
Another pause.
‘Just the man with the beard.’
‘The man with the beard?’
Dog tossed the bottle over his shoulder and stood up. He looked at Carlyle. ‘You don’t have to repeat everything I say,’ he grumbled. Reaching into an inside pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out what looked like a slice of beef. Tilting his head back, he dropped the morsel into his mouth. Resisting the urge to gag, Carlyle waited for the man to chew his food, swallow and then let out a satisfied burp. He willed himself to show some patience. After all, he had caught Dog on one of his more lucid days – maybe coming back from the dead had helped sharpen up his thought processes – and knew that he should now be prepared to wait it out.
Finally, Dog wiped his hand on his belly. ‘Came down the stairs back there, just like you. I asked him for some money. He said somethin’ foreign.’
‘In Spanish?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Mebbe.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Had a beard,’ said Dog, his eyes returning to the piles of rubbish; his mind doubtless wondering where he was most likely to find something else to drink.
‘Okay,’ said Carlyle, realising that the wino’s mind was beginning to wander and that he wasn’t going to get anything else from him right now. ‘Thanks.’ He fished a ten-pound note out of his trouser pocket and offered it to Dog. ‘Here, get yourself some Diamond White or something.’
Mention of the demon drink instantly got Dog’s attention, but he eyed the money suspiciously. ‘Will it work?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Carlyle, ‘if you drink enough of it.’
‘No,’ said Dog, still not accepting the banknote. ‘The money, will it work? They wouldn’t take the other one.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ said Carlyle, instinctively asking the wrong question.
‘The bloke in the newsagent’s,’ Dog said, as if that was obvious. ‘He said my money was no good.’
‘What money?’
Dog started rooting around in his pockets. ‘The money the man with the beard gave me.’
Carlyle watched as Dog pulled out various crumpled pieces of paper from different pockets, looking at each one carefully, before slowly returning it to its original hiding place.
The fourth or fifth scrap that Dog extracted looked a bit like an old one-pound note. He waved it at Carlyle. ‘This.’
‘I tell you what,’ Carlyle said, still holding out the tenner. ‘I’ll swap with you. My one here will work.’
‘It better had,’ said Dog, pulling himself to his feet and exchanging the notes. After carefully considering both sides of the ten-pound note, he reached a decision and quickly shuffled out of the alley, in search of suitable refreshment.
When the wino had gone, Carlyle stood there examining the piece of paper Dog had given him. It was a worn, thousand-peso note in a colour he could only describe as aquamarine, with the legend Banco Central de Chile printed on both sides. On one side was a picture of a statue, on the other a Victorian-looking military gentleman, with a battleship behind him. After much squinting, Carlyle made out the man’s name: Agustín Arturo Prat Chacón.
Smiling,