Deal or No Deal? (The Midnight Eye Files, #0)

  Deal or No Deal?

  A Case from the Midnight Eye Files

  By William Meikle

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Deal or No Deal? (The Midnight Eye Files, #0)

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  Gryphonwood Books by William Meikle

  Three beers and a packet of crisps is a tempting offer for your soul when you don't really believe you have one. But when it comes time to pay up, suddenly it doesn't seem like such a sweet deal. You're going to need help, but who are you going to call?

  There's one man who might help, a man who knows the nature of deals with the dark side, and the ways of the old city.

  Derek Adams, the Midnight Eye, is on the case...

  Deal or No Deal? is a case from William Meikle’s gripping urban fantasy/noir detective series, The Midnight Eye Files. The mysteries continue in volume one: The Amulet.

  Deal or No Deal? A Case from the Midnight Eye Files

  Copyright © 2017 by William Meikle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Gryphonwood Press

  www.gryphonwoodpress.com

  1

  He stood on my doorstep waiting for me. If he had second thoughts, it would have been then, for I was carrying essential groceries, namely two bottles of The Famous Grouse and six cans of McEwan's Export. The fact that I'd made the journey for them in the pouring rain should have told him all he needed to know about my state of mind. But I've been in this business long enough to know that some clients are desperate by the time they have to turn to me, desperate enough to ignore my vices, and if my supply of booze caused him any concern, he didn't show it.

  He had to have been waiting for a while; he hadn't been out in the rain, and was tucked right in the corner of the doorway, sheltered from the brunt of the downpour. He looked almost dry compared to my impersonation of a drowned rat. But I had run out of booze and smokes in the middle of an afternoon when I wasn't working; what's a man to do?

  I let him in the street door and he followed me up the stairs, right at my back as if afraid I might escape. I purposefully didn't turn to get a better look at him until I shucked off my coat. It started dripping on the carpet as soon as I hung it on the hook. At least the two packs of Marlboro in the pocket had stayed dry; I'd foraged successfully. All I needed now was pizza, and that was just a phone call away.

  My visitor hadn't spoken yet. He didn't need to; as soon as I turned around for a good look I knew I didn't like him, wasn't going to like him tomorrow, wasn't going to like him in a year's time. My auld ma would have called him prissy; me, I preferred an old Glasgow term; bawbag.

  He was in his late forties at a guess, going gray at the temples, staving off baldness with a comb-over sculpted to within an inch of its life with gel. Either that, or his cologne, gave off a whiff that nearly, but not quite, masked more than a hint of stale sweat and fear. His thin mustache could have been drawn on with a dark pencil, his dark wool suit cost more than I'd made in a couple of months, his smile was too fake and his hand too clammy when he offered me a handshake.

  "Fraser McDougall the third," he said.

  I resisted the urge to ask after the other two. I didn't like him; but I liked the smell of his money well enough. I motioned him to the chair across the desk. He tried to brush it clean with his hand before sitting. I could have told him it was a lost cause; some of that dirt had been there when I bought it. Eventually he took the hint and sat. I got out a Marlboro and lit up; I didn't offer him one, guessing it wasn't his style. He proved me right by taking out a silver case and extracting a pencil thin cheroot that, when lit, made my office smell like a Turkish brothel. It was still better than my damp coat or his hair gel though.

  I resisted the urge to open one of the bottles of scotch, settled back in my chair, and waited for his spiel. It wasn't long in coming.

  "You must understand, this matter will have to be handled most discreetly," he began.

  "Discreet is my middle name. Right after Derek and right before..."

  He put up a hand to stop me, and dropped the sheen of wealth that had been covering his accent. The Glasgow lad he once had been came through strong.

  "Spare me the patter, son. I've heard it all before from tougher men than you."

  The steely glint in his eyes, and the stiffness of his bearing now had me guessing at military, and active service at that. I put some of my discretion to work and kept my mouth shut for a while. His next sentence would have kept me quiet for a bit anyway.

  "I need your assurance of complete anonymity. The lives of four men depend on it."

  I almost choked on my smoke

  "That's a wee bit melodramatic for a wet Sunday in Byres Road, is it not? I'm used to chasing lost cats, finding husbands that don't want to be found, that kind of thing."

  "Oh, I think you're used to a lot more than that, Mr. Adams. There was that thing with the Johnson Amulet for one. And the matter over in Newfoundland a few years back for another. I've done my homework on you. I need a man who won't ask stupid questions when things turn sideward."

  "I can't promise anything in that regard," I replied. "Stupid questions kinda come naturally to me."

  "Just promise me your discretion, then," he said, "and we can get to the meat of the matter. I promise I can make this worth your while."

  I nodded, and sucked some more smoke as he went on. He had to raise his voice as the lash of rain against the window went up a notch. And again, his next question wasn't one I'd been expecting.

  "Do you believe in God, Mr. Adams?"

  "There's a long answer and a short answer to that. I'm not a believer in either a God or a benign universe. I grew up Church of Scotland, R.E. at school, church and Sunday school on Sundays. It didn't take. I also have a basic scientific background that leads me to tend towards the "clockwork dolls" analogy of who we are being a complex function of genetics, biochemistry and nurture. But as you've already pointed out, I have had encounters that I can only class as supernatural that have given me a curiosity as to how everything hangs together.

  "So, short answer. No. How can I believe in God when there are so many things wrong in the world and it is obvious that he doesn't care?"

  McDougall smiled thinly.

  "The Bible says that God is love. And part of His loving nature is that He allows people to have free will. As a result, we have evil, pain and suffering, due to the choices we and others make."

  "So I was right. He doesn’t care?"

  "Of course he cares. He sent his only son to die for us. That’s how much he cares. He could intervene and control everything about our lives but then we would be just robots and not truly free."

  "That’s the bit I never got. He gives us free will. Then, when we use it, he punishes us for not doing what he wanted in the first place. That’s not free will. That’s tyranny."

  "God does not violate our wills by choosing us and redeeming us. Rather, He changes our hearts so that our wills choose Him."

  He was started to sound like the Minister at my Sunday School. I hadn't liked him much either.

  "So, if, to be saved by Christ, I
must give up my freewill, then do we truly have freewill? Is it really our choice to be saved if in the end we do not have the ability to choose salvation for ourselves?"

  "When you accept Christ as offered in the gospel, you receive salvation by your own decision. As such, salvation is your work. You must initiate the act. But it is also God's work, for it is God who offers salvation to you. Without Christ, there is no salvation."

  "So all I have to do is ask, and it shall be given?"

  "If your heart is pure. Yes."

  "There’s nothing wrong with my heart, Mr. McDougall. It's my liver I'm concerned about."

  I could tell this was going to take some time. I gave in and broke out the whisky.

  "Care for a stiffener?" I asked.

  He waved the offer away.

  "No, I’m fine."

  "Keeping away from the sins of the flesh, eh?"

  "Something like that."

  "See. That’s something else I never understood. Why give us sensual bodies, and a full range of pleasurable activities, then tell us not to enjoy ourselves?"

  "He never says not to enjoy yourself. In fact, God loves joy... when it is done with no thought of self gratification."

  "But why? Why shouldn’t we gratify ourselves? Aren’t we made in his image? Aren’t we in fact honoring him when we do something for ourselves?"

  "I think Romans says it best."

  He recited from memory, a neat trick that I couldn't have managed.

  "For they that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit the things of the Spirit. For to be carnally minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace. Because the carnal mind is enmity against God: for it is not subject to the law of God, neither indeed can be. So then they that are in the flesh cannot please God."

  "It still doesn’t answer why though."

  "There are some things you have to take on faith. And that's why I'm here."

  I had a feeling I'd just been tested, and passed, although I had no idea how I'd managed that. The pleasantries were over. It was time to get down to business. He lit a new cheroot from the butt of the last one and continued.

  "So we know you're not a God man. But how are you with the Devil?"

  He didn't wait for an answer, and this time I didn't push. He had decided to trust me, and it was time to hear what had brought him to my door.

  "I have to tell you a story," he said. "Then you can either show me the door or take my money. But first, the story."

  He sucked at the cheroot, considering where to start.

  "We all do stupid things when we're young," he began. I certainly wasn't going to argue with that, so settled for sipping at my scotch as he continued. "I was no exception. It was thirty years ago, almost to the day, I was here in Glasgow in the Officer Training Corps and spending most of my spare time just over the hill from here in the Union Bar with the other chaps. Talk turned one night, like it does when you've had a few too many, to spooks and bogles and all that meaning of life crap that seems so important before you find out that it isn't. We talked about our immortal souls; the group was a mix of Catholic, Protestants, atheists and agnostics, but I was the first one stupid enough to take up the dare that was offered. This goes back to what we were just talking about, the matter of faith. At the time, I didn't have any.

  "'There's a time limit on this,' Hugh MacMaster said when he made the offer.

  "'How long?' I asked.

  "'You'll know when you reach it. But it won't be any time soon.'

  "'Fair enough,' I replied. 'It's a deal.'

  "And so it was that I sold my immortal soul to a chap in the University bar for three pints of Guinness and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

  "Of course, when the other chaps saw the free beers on the table in front of me, the drink proved all the incentive they needed. All in all that night, wee Hughie got five souls for fifteen pints and some packets of crisps. We got drunk, had a bit of a hoot, and the next morning it was all forgotten as we took our hangovers for a yomp in a foggy wet morning in the Campsie Hills.

  "MacMaster never spoke of it again, and once our time was up we were all sent away to far flung corners; Belfast, in my case. I never saw any of the others again, although I heard of some of them in dispatches, and although I finally got some religion twenty years past, I never gave that night a moment's thought.

  "Until this last week."

  He paused and took out his wallet. He unfolded a sheet of neatly cut paper, a newspaper clipping, that he read from.

  "'Senior Diplomat dies in strange circumstances.

  "'Screams heard from inside locked room.'

  He mentioned the man's name. It meant nothing to me, but I saw where this was headed.

  "Let me guess. He was one of the five who took the deal. And you think this has something to do with that night back in the Union Bar?"

  He nodded, glumly.

  "This is just a coincidence," I said. "You're a grown man. You know all that devil making pacts for souls stuff is just so much bollocks."

  "Is it, Mr. Adams? Is it really? You see, it's not just this clipping." He paused, wondering whether to tell me. "I've been seeing things."

  I showed him the whisky glass.

  "A few more of these and so will I. It's all pharmacology and brain chemistry. You know that too."

  "That's rich, coming from a man who's seen what you've seen."

  "Seen, yes. Believed? Not always."

  "And what if I told you I've seen the Devil? Not just once, but these past three nights?"

  "Big Tandoori chap with horns and cloven hooves? I'd say you were havering."

  "Nevertheless, I have seen him. But really, that is beside the point. I came to offer you a job. I want you to find the other chaps from that night, find them for me, and tell them to meet me at my home on Wednesday night."

  "Why then?"

  "Because it's the thirtieth anniversary of our deal... and I'm starting to think it was more in the way of a pact."

  He left me with four names. Hugh MacMaster was the one I had already heard from him, and the other three made no impression.

  "How do you know they're in Scotland?"

  "I don't," he replied. "I don't even know if they're alive. But they're all soldiers, and old soldiers tend to come home when we retire. I'm hoping that's the case with the other chaps. And I have a feeling that we are close, come together near the end; melodrama again, I'm afraid. But call it a hunch if you prefer."

  Along with the names I got a card with his address; somewhere out near Balloch, and a wad of notes that I tried not to drool over.

  "Call me if you find any of them, or if you need more money. I'll be home between now and your deadline."

  "And if I don't find them?"

  "The money's yours anyway. I have a feeling I won't have much use for it, where I'm going."

  2

  By the time I showed McDougall out it was too late for me to hit the streets, especially on a wet Sunday night. I made some phone calls, birdseed to see if anything came pecking, and a longer call to George at The Twa Dugs to see what the jungle drums had to say. He knew of McDougall, but their spheres of influence had never converged. That told me that my client was probably a straight arrow, or as straight as a well off man can be in this city.

  Old Joe in the newsagents downstairs confirmed as much when I went in for my paper and backup smokes in the morning.

  "Fraser McDougall? Aye, I ken the family. They were big in coal and timber back in the '40s and '50s. Your man bucked the trend by joining the Army, but he's back in the saddle in the family business now as far as I ken. He's a bit above your usual class of business, I'll tell you that much. I hope you stiffed him for a big wad."

  I knew Joe's game. At the slightest hint that I was solvent, he'd want me to settle up my bill. I wasn't feeling that generous just yet, so I smiled and left before he got on to his overheads, his sick wife, and his starving kids.

&
nbsp; I got my first lead as I was walking out the shop. My phone rang; one of my birds had taken a seed, and gave me a phone number in return. It belonged to the second man on my client's list, George Brown. When I tried, the number rang out, not even going to voicemail, but my reverse address finder worked well enough, and gave me somewhere to start. And at least it was in the city, albeit right on the outer edges over in Bearsden.

  I started to look for a cab willing to take me out that far.

  The rain had eased off overnight to that fine misty drizzle that's peculiar to the West Coast here; not too warm, not too cold, just bloody irritating and relentless. It also meant I wasn't the only one in search of a ride and I was beaten to the punch twice before I managed to fight off a shopper and her two kids for the third.

  At least my driver wasn't the talkative kind, making up for it in speed, reckless abandon and a sneering disregard for traffic lights. He got me to my destination, took my money and roared off again before I had time to compliment him on breaking the record.

  Brown's house sat in the middle of a crescent of suburban bungalows only distinguishable by the amount of time and money that had been spent on their front gardens. Brown's patch hadn't had as much cash spent on it as others, but his box hedge was trimmed to within an inch of its life. There wasn't a single weed daring to poke its head above ground and the edging between lawn and path was as straight as if it had been measured out with a ruler. The house itself was as quiet as the others in the street, it being working hours and this being the suburbs.

  Having failed to get through on the phone, I reckoned I only had a fifty-fifty chance of finding the man at home, so I was surprised when the door was answered almost immediately. It wasn't my quarry though, but a flustered looking woman with dark shadows under her eyes and high color on her otherwise pale cheeks.

  "You're not the doctor," she said.

  "Right first time," I replied, then immediately regretted my flippancy; she was close to tears, on an edge that would be easy to push her over. I went on quickly, before she slammed the door in my face.

  "I’m here to see George," I said. "It's about an old friend of his."