It was late, cold. Through the Venetian blind I watched the cars crawl the boulevard. I licked my lips; thirsty time again. The faded pictures grinned down at me. Imprisoned behind dusty glass. Red shirts and white crew necks; Denis Law, Bobby Charlton, Georgie Best, Ralph Milne, Pat Crera- whoa, what the heck? Somethin’ definitely wasn’t right here so I figured I’d put it right the old fashioned way. I went to the mahogany liquor cabinet. Poured me a big stiff one. Blue neon winkin’ through the window an’ the mad reek of insanity. That’s when she walked in, large as life. Eyes like a monitor lizard, tits like a prehistoric kangaroo’s balls.

“Are you the private dick?” she gasped.

“I’m a dick, but that’s not so private in this town,” I told her. She sounded foreign to these parts. Irish, maybe. A looker. The kinda gal that could fall out of bed in Bumfuck, Idaho and be a millionaire in Beverly Hills by noon. Maybe from marryin’ some rich ogre or writing a book about wizards. Maybe not. The traffic was dying down and she sat on the leather couch without asking. I stood in shadow admiring the blue light playing over her facial contours; I’m a sucker for cheesy effects, and this was pure Mr. Spock-when-looking-into-his-viewfinder-on-the-bridge-of-the-Enterprise material.

“It’s my husband,” she gasped. Gasped a lot, this one. Face ablaze with metallic color. Then I noticed the belly on her. She was eatin’ for two. Another myth shattered, like acid flashbacks and wet dreams.

“Yeah? Doin’ what? Cheatin’? Divin’? Fowlin’? Time wastin’?” I hissed that last one out. Time wastin’, like I was accusin’ her of same. The tumbler was empty so I poured me another. Poured her one too, then remembered Junior. The Surgeon General wouldn’t approve. That gutless fuck.

“I dunno…he’s….acting all different.”

“Different how? Different I’m gonna come good this season, or different I wanna take off to Madrid and live happy ever after?”

“Why you! He’d never-!” She gasped again, or maybe panted under the weight of the ogre she was carryin’ inside.

“Oh, he kisses the badge, huh?” I asked her straight, gave her a wink.

She looked disgusted.

“That wasn’t no metaphor, lady. Is this guy loyal, or is he playin’ away?” I’d seen plenty of badge kissers come through this place. Always pledgin’ their lives, always leavin’ for Madrid when the fancy took ‘em. Broken hearted dames like this one in their wake. It was the way things were and not a damn thing you or me or Garry Birtles could do about it.

“No!” she said, “That’s not it at all!” That accent. It wasn’t Irish, it was somethin’ else. Sounded like John Lennon on coke. Good coke, the kind transsexuals sell to Nicaraguan ufologists at the Rio Carnival.

“So what is it, Dollface? C’mon, quit wastin’ my time here. I ain’t waitin’ till the ninety-seventh minute for a result. Spit it out.”

She chewed that over some and then said, “Well, he’s been sayin’ queer stuff. Like, he’s been sayin’ he’ll miss the-” She broke down, a mess, a big, sad, sexy Komodo dragon-eyed-with-massive-kangaroo-nuts mess. I poured some more medicine. Handed her a tumbler full. Loosen her up. She was startin’ to look and sound familiar, but I hoped I was wrong.

“He’s been sayin’ he’ll miss what, darlin’?” I asked, fightin’ to disguise the panic that was rising inside me. This whole thing stank of fish. And chips. Then the penny dropped. It was Wayne’s girl. It was Coleen. I grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Miss what, Coleen?!? What’s he bin sayin’?!”

“He’s sayin’ he’ll miss the vermin game to be with me if I go into labor!” she shrieked, disgusted and terrified by the game of life.

I sank to my knees and took a good hit of that cheap whiskey. These dames were like diamonds. They were hard but they always proved their value when the chips were down. And boy were they down. The color drained from my leathery mug and I held her some. Till the crying stopped. She was crying too. I hadn’t felt betrayed like this since my visit to the Doc last week. It was for a private matter so I won’t bore ya with details. The Doc didn’t like what he found, I can tell ya that. Gave me a thorough going over while I focused on his framed 1977 FA Cup Final photos to block out the pain. As I straightened up from off of the examination table he schlocked off his rubber glove and tossed me a box of Kleenex. “Here,” he said, “wipe the KY off with these and pull your pants back up. Don’t use too many. That’s all I got.” I could see he was appalled. I gave my cornhole a good wipe. Jeez, the Doc goes heavy on the jelly.

“You have ball cancer,” he said. “I’ll give you two, three weeks, tops.” The Doc tells it like it is.

“Christ, Doc, you serious?! I wanna second opinion,” I insisted, feelin’ plenty sore.

“OK. That’s one hairy asshole ya got there,” he said, pouting.

“I’m gonna be a goner before the Liverpool game, Doc?” I couldn’t believe this.

“It’s all that lead-based paint they used back in the 70s. Those railings you used to sit on in the Stretford End? Ball cancer.”

But that was yesterday and I had a job to do here. Wayne’s girl was in deep shit; I wasn’t the only one gonna miss the big showdown with the snakes. I had to save the day before I shuffled off this mortal coil. Maybe induce labor myself if I had to. I looked to my heroes for inspiration. Crerand smiled bitterly. Those sad lips and cheekbones silent and distracted. Charlton stared with goat eyes, taunting me. Law frowned like a polecat stalking a damn rat. Best…well, what can you say? Everything was a joke to that guy, even ball cancer. I looked at Coleen. She looked at me.

“What are we gonna do?!” Again with the gasping. She was scared. I was scared. Should I phone the Doc? Nah, better keep this in-house. Plus he’d want a cut of the action and a man dying of ball cancer needs all the dough he can get.

“Ya really would prefer Wayne plays at Anfield an’ him not bein’ there when you drop the rugrat?” It was a delicate question that needed asking. Women set these tests for guys and you can never be too careful.

“Those people are animals,” she gasped. “They’ve vandalized our families’ homes. That Peter Hooton is a complete wankeh! And they’ve used weapons of mass destruction on their own peop-!” I held up my hand to silence her.

“That’s goin’ too far Dollface. It was Saddam did that, not Hooton’s mob. Though the choice of box-cutters as weapons in the 9/11 business did make me wonder.”

This mixed-up scall gal was lookin’ for a white knight. All I had to offer was black turds from last night’s Guinness and a dose of Big C eatin’ away at my family jewels. I could split from this trip any minute and had to save the day before I went. If he’d been galavantin’ with loose dames that would have been easier to sort out. A slip of bromide in his half-time tea – but no, he’d lose his edge. Waste even more chances than usual. Plus, Fergie might launch the trolley at the whole team. That would be disastrous; a limp-dicked menagerie of gimps for the second half. My mind was wandering. This was going nowhere.

That’s when the door was smashed to smithereens and the man in question appeared, his moon head gleamin’ white like a peeled spud.

“Coleen! What’s goin’ on?!” He was blinded by rage.

“Siddown son, it’s like this,” I told him, passing a cracked mug of whiskey his way. “We’re concerned. You been talkin’ crazy talk. Sayin’ you’re gonna miss this big game…it’s a helluva thing, son, but Coleen here wants ya to play. What a gal, huh?”

“Bollocks! Scouse Mike can fill in for me. He’ll do the business like he did against the Bittermen. We’ll get fourteen minutes of injury time an’ one of the subsequent twenty eight corners we’re awarded will go in, deflected off Carragher’s napper!”

“This one’s at Anfield, son,” I reminded him. “And they get even more injury time there than we do at OT, but don’t be countin’ on a single decision goin’ our way this time. Not only that. Mike’s got a groin strain, but he makes it look like ball cancer. He’s fallin’ apart like a fake Rolex from a Bangkok market.”

His eyes rolled about like Ken Dodd on speed. “Whe- where’s Coleen, wharrave yer done wit’ ‘er?!” he demanded. I turned to look at her but there was only winkin’ blue neon on a cold leather couch. She’d vanished. And then we heard it…a wailing, coughing screeching bawl that only an ogre can produce. I looked out the window and I saw a huge bright star overhead. There were three men down on the sidewalk buzzin’ to be let in. I hit the button and resumed the search for the missin’ gal. The cry came again an’ then we saw it. Raised up in slime covered hands, dripping with the broth of life, gurgling and screamin’ like a banshee in the night. Coleen had startled when that door had gone in and pumped out the little milksucker through shock.

“Happy birthday, kid,” I said, through teeth clenched round a cigar and workin’ on a tumbler of whiskey. There was a knock at the door, well, what was left of it, anyway. It was the three men. They were bearing gifts and they looked familiar. One, a bit distracted by his private concerns, the other daring me to challenge his authority, the third amused but coiled like a predator. I sensed a fourth man had been with them, but he’d gone off for a drink. A wise move in my book. The little ‘un was screamin’ the joint down. Life is too short and a pain in the balls sometimes but it’s nice when things work out.

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