Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. by Anne R. Allen Read Free Book Online

the table and shook Peter’s hand.
    “Good to see you again, Mr. Sherwood. I hear your Yank has flown the coop.”
    Peter gave him a dark look. The MC turned his smarmy smile on me.
    “But you’ve brought someone new. Who is this young lady? Does she sing?’
    “You’ll thank me if I don’t.” I extended my hand. “I’m Camilla Randall—just arrived from San Francisco.”
    He squeezed my hand a little too long. “Alan Greene. I like San Francisco. Visited last summer. Unfortunately, I forgot to pack me spangled dress and boa.” He put on a stagy lisp. “I was so underdressed—the only dates I could pull were with women!”
    Brenda the barmaid appeared on the little stage, her apron off. She glared at Alan and grabbed the mike, sending out a wail of feedback.
    “Duty calls!” Alan made a dramatic leap back to the stage to join Brenda in a duet of “I Got You Babe” that could have given Cher grounds to sue.
    “How long do they keep doing this?” I shouted when the noise let up a bit.
    “They’re supposed to quit at midnight,” said Liam. “But it depends how many people Alan has signed to sing. You don’t want to give that bloke too much encouragement. He’ll talk your ear off, that one. And every word a lie.”
    “He may call himself Alan, but we call him the Baron. As in Munchausen,” said Mr. Eyebrows. “He wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the arse. I doubt he’s ever been to San Francisco. Or anywhere but the East End. He’s just Brenda’s toy boy…”
    A blast of Europop silenced him as a red-faced man in a rugby jersey stumbled onto the stage. My Tinker Bell watch said it was after ten. I turned to Peter.
    “I think it’s time I got to bed. I’m sure the Maidenette Building will be lovely.”
    I had no idea what I’d find back there, but at that point even mutant zombies wouldn’t scare me as much as the prospect of two hours of off-key “Sex on the Beach.”

Chapter 12—A Two-Headed Shilling
     
    As we walked through the soggy night, huddled under the purple umbrella, I could feel tension radiating from Peter’s body. I wished I didn’t find him so attractive. I knew how badly that could cloud my judgment. Look at how stupid I’d been about Jonathan. Everybody in the business knew about his taste for street prostitutes but me.
    When we passed the spot where Barnacle Bill had been rescued by the paramedics, Peter ran to pick up something from the trash-strewn street—a coin, glinting in the light from the street lamp.
    “Ever see a shilling?” He tossed the coin to me. “That was legal tender on this island for centuries before we got decimalized by the damned Europeans.”
    The coin was delicate and silvery, not like the thick brown pound coins I’d been given when I exchanged my meager funds at Heathrow. I tried to sound interested although I was now soaked as well as exhausted.
    “I don’t believe I’ve seen a shilling before.”
    “You still haven’t. This one has two heads, see…” He flipped it over. “Her Majesty’s beloved countenance on both sides. ‘Heads I win/Heads you lose.’ Comes in handy when tossing for who pays the pub account.” He pocketed the coin. “Old Barnacle has had this as long as I’ve known him. Must have fallen from his pocket. I’ll take it to him when I pay his fine in the morning.”
    As I pondered this startling bit of kindness, Peter’s mood went dark again. He unlocked the door to the cafeteria and pushed it open with an angry shove.
    “What a bloody mess.” He pointed to the bits of ceiling plaster and rust that covered the linoleum floor. “That old pirate mucks things up wherever he goes.”
    I looked around at the stained yellow walls, overflowing ashtrays and stacks of dirty dishes. A mess, certainly, but the sailor couldn’t be blamed for it all.
    “You can tell the lads don’t pay the electric rates.” Peter turned off the television with an angry slap and led me through the cafeteria into the vast