The Big Ask by Shane Maloney Read Free Book Online Page A

retreated to a glassed-in area with a bar along one wall and a half-dozen pool tables covered in blue baize. It was less crowded and marginally quieter.
    I took a stool at the bar, ordered another Wild Turkey and pondered my instructions from Agnelli. Any attempt to find a proxy challenger to the Hauler incumbents was bound to be noticed, further aggravating existing antagonisms. And if I persuaded some sucker to stick his head in the lion’s mouth and he got hurt, I wouldn’t feel very comfortable, ethics-wise.
    In this sort of situation, the best way of handling Agnelli was the go-slow. His attention would soon turn elsewhere. First thing Monday morning, I would begin to drag my feet. Meanwhile, I’d clock off, loosen up and try to make the most of the weekend. The hooch was a good start. A bit of female companionship would be even better.
    At the nearest pool table, three guys were putting their moves on a trio of girls. All six were in their mid-twenties, well oiled and kicking on. One of the girls was bent over a cue, poised on the toes of one foot. She was slender, fine-boned and wide-eyed, her dark hair cut short. An Audrey Hepburn lookalike, I decided.
    The notion amused me. I began to think of screen equivalents for the other players. Nobody too recent, that was the rule. It had to be someone I might conceivably have seen in this very theatre.
    The tallest of the girls had long, straight hair and a wide mouth full of perfectly even teeth. Seen from a distance of several miles by a man with glaucoma, she might have passed for Ali McGraw. The fleshy one with the sultry lips was definitely Maria Schneider. Last Tango in Paris . Butter on that popcorn, please.
    The short dark guy was playing to type, doing a Jean-Paul Belmondo. Cigarette at the corner of his mouth, up-fromunder smoulder as he bent over his cue. Maria Schneider was buying it. Give them a couple of hours and they’d be propped on post-coital pillows, swapping subtitles. The tall thin bloke was a limp-limbed Montgomery Clift. He was doing a line for Ali McGraw.
    Male number three was a stocky, cocky, corn-fed Steve McQueen. Whenever Audrey Hepburn potted a ball, he grabbed her hand and hoisted it aloft, referee-style. If she bent to take a shot, he draped himself across her, the better to deliver a coaching tip. Any excuse to touch her. She didn’t like it and kept skipping free. Bullitt persisted, convinced of his irresistibility.
    The others were too busy pairing off to notice. Lover boy caught me watching and tried to stare me out. I let my eyes drift elsewhere. The last thing I needed was amateur aggravation. One more drink, I decided, then bye-byes for Murray boy.
    The crowd was thickening by the minute. I found myself doing the arithmetic. Fifteen hundred people, say. Five bars, all working flat out. Three drinks per person per hour, absolute minimum. Spirits at six bucks a pop, champagne at five a glass, imported beers at top dollar.
    For three generations, Whelans had owned and operated licensed premises. Nothing in this league, of course. Country and suburban pubs, no smoke machines or six-foot door-blondes. Fifteen years since my father sold up, retired to Stradbroke Island, the last of the publican line. Hard to guess the margins, joint like this. Any way you figured it, somebody was doing nicely.
    Unlike Steve McQueen. The more Audrey eluded him, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more pissedoff he got. You could read his growing frustration in the curl of his lips and the way he held his bottle by the neck when he drank. His mates were well on the way to scoring. He was starting to look like a loser. What was wrong with this bitch?
    An ugly drunk is an arid source of amusement, even if he’s playing pool with a goddess. When he caught me looking again, I held his hostile stare. Same to you, I thought. Not my problem if you flunked out of charm school.
    Madonna vogued across the video wall, dividing and