Heroin Annie

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You’re cold, Cliff!’ Cyn banged her fist on my desk. ‘That’s your bloody trouble, you’re cold!’ She was close to tears the way she always got when we argued. They weren’t tactical tears, but they were part of the reason that I nearly always lost the arguments.

‘I’m not cold’, I said. ‘I’m warm-hearted, a loving man. I’ll take you out tonight.’

‘I don’t want to go out.’

‘Okay, we’ll stay home. I’ll cook.’ The telephone rang. We were in my office where I answer the telephone, open the door and type the letters myself, because there’s no-one else to do it.

‘Hardy Investigations. Warm-hearted Hardy speaking.’

‘Your heart’s as warm as Bob Askin’s. Cut out the bullshit, Cliff, I’ve got a job for you.’ It was Athol Groom, who works in advertising and agenting; he sometimes drinks where I sometimes drink.

‘Terrific, Athol’, I said. Athol deals in people with soft jobs; Cyn calls him a pimp, and she made a face when I said his name. ‘What sort of job?’

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