Page 41 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes
“Actually, I think the issue was more my dad’s and my brothers’”—he breathes heavily—“and to be fair, it was only our middle names. It could’ve been worse.”
We finally reach the backstage door to find Chan patiently propping it open by leaning against it. She lets the door swing shut behind us as we step through, and it mutes the noise of the club.
“So, Ari is Benny’s father?” Danny asks Chan, not wanting to continue the conversation about his own family. Not that I can blame him; I know it’s still a tender subject for him.
“Yeah.” Chan starts walking down the corridor with Sam, and I quickly check behind me to see Dusty following, her hand laced with Bruce’s. “He had this friend. She was older, into her forties, and having a mid-life crisis about her biological clock even though she’d lived most of her life happily child-free. She suddenly decided she wanted a baby, so she asked Ari to donate his sperm.”
“Ew.” Dusty gags behind me, despite the fact I’m sure she’s already well aware of this story. There wasn’t much that went on in The Rainbow Room that Dusty didn’t know about.
“They made an agreement that he wouldn’t have anything to do with the baby, which was the way she wanted it,” Chan continues. “Just the DNA, nothing else. So, he agrees—says he’d never really wanted a kid anyway. He makes a deposit, she gets inseminated or whatever, I try not to dwell on that part too much. Nine months later, Benny pops out and the shit hits the fan.”
“What happened?” I ask and Chan stops, turning to face us as she lowers her voice.
“She decided she didn’t really want to be a mum after all. I don’t know how much the fact Benny has Down Syndrome played into that decision, but she tells Ari she doesn’t want the kid and that Ari can either take him or put him up for adoption.”
“What a bitch,” I hiss angrily.
Chan shrugs. “Some people just aren’t maternal.”
“And some people are just selfish arseholes,” Dusty mutters darkly behind me.
“So, credit where credit’s due,” Chan says. “Ari stepped up, didn’t so much as know how to make a bottle or change a nappy, but he learned, and he took such good care of that boy.”
“I’m glad,” I reply. “I don’t really know Ari, but I suppose he doesn’t really seem…” I don’t really know how to finish that sentence.
“Ari is a man of many layers.” Chan giggles. “He may have a mouth like a sewer, but under the gold chains, medallions, and gorilla chest hair, there actually beats a heart. I mean, trying to cut your way through to it is like hacking your way through Jumanji Level Six, but it’s there all the same. Ari loves that boy, it’s one of his more redeeming features. That and his love of Dolly Parton.”
“Who doesn’t love a bit of Dolly?” Sam pipes up as we approach a closed door.
“Exactly.” Chan smiles at him as she knocks on the door. “This is where I leave you, everyone. Come find me when you’re done.”
“Come in,” a gruff voice shouts from the other side of the door. “I ain’t got all fuckin’ day. And I swear to god, Ginger, if you’ve lost another one of those wigs, it’s comin’ out of your fuckin’ wages.”
“Just remember, his bark is worse than his bite.” Chan winks and spins on her heel to sashay back down the corridor.
“Either come in or fuck off, I’m busy!” Ari shouts again.
I open the door and Dusty sails into the room like the QE2 coming into dock, pulling a reluctant-looking Bruce along with her. She settles herself on the edge of the desk.
“Gracious as always, Ari.” Dusty rolls her eyes at him.
With an amused chuckle, I let Danny hobble through first, followed by Sam, and as I step into the room, I close the door behind me.
Ari glances up from his cluttered desk and does a double take, realising we’re clearly not Ginger. He looks much the same as he did last year. His thick black hair is streaked liberally with white, as is the chest hair currently on full display due to the lurid lime-green shirt with a diamond harlequin pattern that is unbuttoned almost to his nipples, revealing a heavy gold chain and sovereign medallion. The moustache he’s sporting, however, is such a pristine black, it looks like it’s been painted on—or, more likely, he’s been at theJust for Menand dyed it.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr Caligliari,” Danny says pleasantly. “I was the detective in charge of Dusty Le Frey’s murder.”
“Oh, yeah.” Ari looks Danny up and down suspiciously. “Chan said you was lookin’ for me, didn’t say what for.”
“This is my associate, Sam Stone—he’s a PI—and my partner, Tristan Everett, a pathologist at the Hackney Public Mortuary,” Danny says, nodding to each of us in turn as he introduces us.
Ari’s eyes narrow as they lock on me. “I remember you from Dusty’s funeral,” he mutters. “Funny little thing in a sugar-skull shirt, kept talking to yourself.”
“Er… I do that when I’m nervous or uncomfortable,” I mumble. I’m not very good at lying.
His gaze flicks back to Danny taking in the crutches and broken leg. “You wanna take a fuckin’ seat before you fall over, son?”
“Thank you.” Danny settles into the chair in front of the desk, and I take the one next to him. Sam comfortably hovers behind us as there are only two seats in the small office.