Heartman: A Missing Girl, A Broken Man, A Race Against Time by M.P. Wright Page B

four one-pound notes into small squares while Vic tapped his foot to the music as he watched the comings and goings in the bar. He was biting at a hard piece of skin at the edge of his thumb. He pulled at the calloused flesh, breaking it off with his teeth and spitting it out onto the floor before speaking. Clown girl had just caught Vic’s attention and signalled the hooker’s arrival.
    “Say, brother . . . looks like your cock-rat’s arrived.” Vic leant forward from his seat and gave a hard stare at the Speed Bird club’s new arrival. “Shit . . . Man, she’s looking plain nasty. You need to keep your dick well clear of her, JT, I’m telling you straight!”
    Jocelyn Charles stood at the bar. She was wearing a multicoloured mini-dress and black high-heeled platform knee-high boots. Three large, fake golden sovereign rings adorned her small fingers, which had poorly manicured nails. She had no coat on despite the freezing temperature outside. The hideous fox-fur stole hung around her neck like a grisly trophy. She bought herself a large glass of Navy rum and strutted over to a secluded snug on the edge of the room. I got up and winked at Vic. He grinned at me and went on biting at his thumb as I walked back over to the bar.
    I bought myself another shot of Red Heart and took myself over to where Jocelyn was sitting. I guessed she was around thirty-five, and she had way too much make up on her dark black skin, which piled the years on her, giving her face a real lived-in feel. She and clown girl made a good pair. I put my drink down on the table and smiled at her.
    “What the fuck you lookin’ at, mister? If you wantin’ pussy, you shit outta luck cos I’m off the clock.”
    I moved around the circular table and sat down next to her, squeezing myself in closer towards her and making the fabric of her dress ride up over her crossed leg, exposing her stocking top. I picked up my drink, took a sip of the spicy spirit and looked into her tired, rum-soaked eyes.
    “Git your fuckin’ face outta mine befo’ I stick my glass in it!”
    “Hey, be cool, sugar. I just want ask you a couple o’ questions, that’s all.”
    “Questions? What do I look like to you, monkey ass, some kinda public-info’mation service?”
    The rum running round her blood was starting to get her mean. I cut to the chase.
    “You know of a girl called Stella Hopkins?” I asked.
    “Never heard of the bitch. Now fuck off!”
    I dropped a folded pound note into her lap and waited. She looked down at the money, returned her gaze to me and sneered a look of disapproval. I put another note on top of the one I’d already dropped. She lost the sneer and replaced it with a scowl.
    “You talkin’ ’bout that dummy from round here that’s gone missing?” she asked as she snatched up the cash and stuffed it into her purse.
    “Yeah . . . That’s the girl. Let’s just say I heard you saw Stella at a party not so long back. Where was it you seen her?”
    “It’s over in Montpelier, a big white place on the corner o’ Richmond Road. They used it as a shebeen.”
    She clammed up again and looked out vacantly across the dance floor towards Vic. I dropped another pound note on to her rainbow-coloured dress to get her attention again, and then fired another question at her.
    “Who was she there with, Jocelyn? A girlfriend perhaps, some guy?”
    I pressed away at her, but she remained silent again. I watched her as she bit at her waxy red-painted bottom lip, her brain ticking over the risks of telling me more.
    I let my last note fall, hoping she’d go for it. Jocelyn hesitated, looking down at the money, weighing up in her head how bad business had been lately. She was unsure whether to continue blabbermouthing to me. Thankfully, she did.
    “Papa Anansi brought her with him one night ’bout a two month ago. He had her stuck to his side like she was made o’ gold. The only time he let her outta his sight was when some white guy who looked like