Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [6]
Smith laughed.
Tommy sat down at his desk and stared at the computer screen, randomly clicking on various properties he'd been looking at on the ESPC website. Smith carried on laughing. After an age, he stopped and Tommy closed his web browser and said, "I don't want to meet you. I have nothing to say to you."
"But I have quite a bit to say to you," Smith said.
***
A FRENCH CAFÉ off Princes Street. Tommy breathed in the smell of coffee and steamed mussels while he waited for Smith.
Tommy ordered an espresso, wanted to be wide awake. Smith was going to get his full attention.
A diner arrived, a small bald guy. Maybe this was his lunch guest. Or host. Although he doubted they'd be eating much, let alone squabbling over who was going to pay the bill. But the bald guy waved to a woman at a nearby table and went to join her.
Smith arrived ten minutes late. He didn't look at all like Tommy had imagined. The man who gangled towards Tommy's table, slight swagger to his walk, was as tall as Tommy, maybe had an inch on him, which made him well over six foot. Skinny, clothes hanging off him. But the thing that made him stand out was that he was wearing a black ski mask. He'd caused a visible tremor as he walked through the restaurant. Diners stopped eating to stare. A couple of waiters paused to look at him.
Tommy wondered what the protocol was for dealing with a patron in a ski mask. Especially one who wasn't armed, or causing any trouble. At least, no trouble as yet.
Wasn't against the law to wear a ski mask, was it?
Smith shoved his tongue out through the mouthhole, let it stay there as he stared down at Tommy. He wasn't being rude, just seemed to be his habit to stick his tongue out while he was thinking. Couple of seconds later, he held out his hand, uncovering a bracelet of barbed wire tattooed on his wrist. Looked like a prison job.
Tommy ignored the outstretched hand, noticed that in the other one Smith clutched a large Poundstretcher carrier bag.
"Glad you could make it," Smith said, his tongue finally sliding back home and his tattooed hand tucking back into his pocket.
Tommy tilted his head.
Smith said, "Nobody eating rare steak, is there?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Look around. Tell me if anybody's eating rare steak."
Tommy did as requested. Faced Smith again. Shook his head.
"Okay, then." Smith sat down opposite Tommy, bent to take something out of his carrier bag. A book. A large one. He shunted a sturdy green-and-white-dotted vase housing a single dried flower out of the way, and dumped the book on the table hard enough to make Tommy's teaspoon rattle.
A waiter approached the table. A couple of other waiters stood behind their colleague, a few feet away. The waiter looked at Tommy. Tommy gave him nothing.
"Sir," the waiter said to Smith.
Smith said, "Give me a minute."
The waiter didn't move. He cleared his throat. "Sir."
"I said, give me a minute. I'm not ready to order."
The waiter said, "Can I ask you to remove your … hat?"
"You can ask," Smith said, dark brown eyes staring at Tommy through the peepholes in the ski mask. "But if I did, you wouldn't like what you'd see."
"I'm sure, sir, it'll be fine."
"I'm sure that it won't. Come here." Smith beckoned the waiter closer. Whispered something in his ear.
The waiter chewed his lower lip, then said, "Certainly, sir. I understand."
"And, son, anybody orders a rare steak, let me know."
The waiter looked at him, nodded.
Smith reached into his pocket, gave the waiter a couple of coins.
"Thank you, sir." The waiter walked off, indicating by a subtle blend of gestures and whispers to his colleagues that they should get back to work, leave Smith alone, he was harmless. Tommy wondered why Smith was so interested in steak.
One by one, the other guests returned to their food, occasionally sneaking glances over at Smith and Tommy. But now they seemed reassured that Smith didn't carry a threat. The waiter had checked him out. The new arrival was an eccentric, a man who felt the cold more than most. Tommy didn't know what