Page 2 of Rafferty's Rules
‘But it’s your call, mate. It looks like the choice is Anna pussy for life and many years of married bliss, or no access to Anna at all. Ev-er.’
Through the rear-view mirror, the driver’s gaze catches mines. I don’t bother with apologising. I don’t have the bandwidth right now. At least he’s only listening to half the conversation; the sensible half.Sort of.
‘But I love her!’
‘That’ll be why you’re planning to marry her, I guess.’
‘Mate, I really, really love her. An’ I love you. I’m gonna go home and tell Anna I love you.’
‘Not sure how that’s helpful.’
‘And I’m gonna tell her I’m not gonna go to no brothel—’
‘You might want to leave that out.’
‘—and that I’d nevereverfuck anyone else—’ Down the line comes the sounds of a scuffle, Joe’s next words no less earnest but now also muffled and annoyed. ‘Oi, fuckhead, that’s my phone.’
‘Rafferty,’ a ridiculously sinister voice whispers down the line.
‘Yeah? Who the hell is this?’
‘Mate, I’d tell ya to get fucked, but that’s where I’m takin’ Joe. See ya at Ruby’s.’
The line goes dead.
Well, fuck.
Tilting my head back against the leather, I rub a weary hand across my face. The buck’s party of a high school friend is hardly high on my list of favourite ways to spend a weekend in Sydney. I’d turn this car around right now and get back on a flight to anywhere but here, but I can’t. For a whole host of reasons, the most pressing of which seems to be stopping a man from making a drunken mistake. The Joe I know wouldn’t cheat on his tax return, never mind the woman he loves.
What the fuck. I must’ve been a bastard in a previous life because God knows I’m paying for it now. Sitting straighter, I turn my attention to the driver. Hair greying at the temples, a hard expression in a swarthy complexion. He looks like he’s been around—he looks like he’s seen it all, maybe heard weirder shit that what he’s undoubtably just overheard. And hopefully weirder stuff than what I’m about to ask him right now.
‘Mate, do you know a brothel called Ruby’s?’
He nods just once, then, as we pull away, I swear the fucker is humming The Police song “Roxanne.”
Chapter 2
RAFFERTY
‘Sir?’
The driver’s voice pulls me from my microsleep, and I jerk upright, my eyes springing open to the dark, wet night. ‘Ruby’s Room.’ He gestures out the passenger window to a grey building that could well be a hair salon. A discreetly lit sign above the door, the windows either side dark. On second glance, not darkened but blacked out.
Not a hair salon but a brothel, apparently.
I wouldn’t know. I’m not in the habit of paying.
‘If I may say so, sir, there are establishments nearby much more fitting your . . . ’
‘Wallet?’ I ask with a raise of my brow.
‘I merely suggest that a man of your very obvious standing may be better served somewhere a little more exclusive.’ My very obvious standing? Had he deduced that from my obvious, and crumpled, Savile Row suit after having gone direct from a meeting in Dubai to my flight. ‘Perhaps a service a little more discreet. For instance, a hotel where you might call an establishment to arrange the delivery of a girl.’
‘Just like takeaway,’ I mutter, wondering if he gets a commission. ‘Here will do just fine.’ My answer sounds more resigned than anything else. ‘Wait for me. This won’t take long.’ As I place my hand on the door handle, I don’t miss the flash of surprise on the driver’s face.
‘Take all the time you need,’ he assures me. ‘Some things should not be hurried. There is a carpark at the back of a building. I’ll wait there.’
I grit my jaw against explanations and denials, exchanging them for a terse nod as I pull myself from the car.
