“Just talk Bill, no substance.”
“Yeah, well, you mind how you go.”
“That’s why I asked to see you. Do you know two nasty pieces of work named Danny and George.”
He finished his drink and I called for refills, he answered, “Steer clear of ’em, bad news.”
“Not that simple. I need to ask you a biggie.”
“You want cash... how much and how soon?”
“No, no jeez, I appreciate that.”
Then I told him. He was surprised, near shocked but went with it, said, “That’s heavy merchandise, it’s gonna cost.”
“I’m good for it.”
“When?”
“As soon as.”
“OK, gimme two days, then come round my gaff. I’m not going to stick my oar in but this is serious business.”
“It’s only for demonstration purposes.”
“Do us a favour Nick, alright... leave it out.”
He got up, said, “So come round in two days, meet my missis and our little girl.”
“Yeah, sure I’d love to. Yer little girl, can I bring her something?”
“Sure... Alf videos.”
“Wot?”
“A cartoon character, she adores him.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
He considered a moment, then leant back, said, “We called her Chelsea, give ’er a bit o’ class.”
“I like it.”
“She has Down’s Syndrome. Near fuckin’ killed me at the time.”
I didn’t know wot to say, so I said nowt and he continued, more to himself, “Couldn’t ask for a spunkier kid. She has more spirit than anyone I ever met. Ain’t nuffink she won’t try, and a wicked sense of humour. I think I’m the one with the handicap. Anyway, sorry for ranting on. I’ll be showing you bleedin’ photos next like those sorry fucks you meet on trains. Okey-dokey, I hope you know wot yer playing at.”
“Sure I do. Can you locate Danny’s home too... thanks.”
I sat on for another half hour nursing the Scotch. The story about Chelsea really got to me. I dunno why and I sure as hell couldn’t afford any extra emotion.
There wasn’t music in the pub but these days I was tuned to a continuous internal soundtrack. Iris de Ment lyrics. A song of such loss as most times I skipped it on the album. It’s called “Easy” and, of all the things it might be, easy sure wasn’t one of them. As I left, I mouthed the hook line... “and easy’s getting harder every day.”
Amen to that.
Next day, I was wound tighter than a Tory, fit to detonate. Had to do something, get laid mebbe. Decided it might help and took a wedge from the ransom. Fuck, it seemed a mountain of cash. No matter how many times I dipped, it didn’t care. I wasn’t complaining.
Headed for Covent Garden. You’re surprised, right! You figured I’d be a Kings Cross punter and sure, I’d been there, been there lots. But, what’s the point of heavy cash if you ain’t going to get heavy action. Same system though. Go in a phone box and select a card. I was just off Long Acre and selected this one:
Trina, South American beauty
will give you the trip of a lifetime.
Rang the number, got the address and walked round. The building was flash and I guess I’d be helping with the rates. An intercom buzzed me through and then I met the bouncer or pimp or wotever. He was, as Daniel Woodrell put it, sixty stitches past good looking. I was going to share my bouncing credentials but then thought, mebbe not. There isn’t really a brotherhood of bouncers. Most aspire to be wrestlers on Sky Sports. He said, “Not the filth, are you pal.”
“No.”
“Yer big enough.”
“But not in the places it matters.”
Gave him the money. Enough to fly to Hollywood and collect Alf. Then in to meet Trina. A luxurious pad and “Vienna” playing. She was a beauty and jailbait. Oh yeah, looked about sixteen if you didn’t look close. I asked, “You like Ultravox?”
“Excuse please?”
“The group, them singing ‘Vienna’.”
“Oh I don’t know, is spool tape, plays all day. Come in please... a drink?”
“Cup of tea, two sugars.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just kidding, any watered concoction will do.”
“Whisky.”
“Sure.”
Handed me that and I took a sip. Yeah... tea.
“How can I please you?”
For all the punters, just once to roll it, I said, “No kissing on the mouth, no touching of the hair.”
She was lost, so I added, “Look, I’m leaving Old Blighty soon. I’d like one truly memorable fuck before I go.”
It was memorable. She put a condom on with her mouth and led me to almost roar YAHOO! But, I’d save that for the States.
Came out into Covent Garden and I was full and proper shagged. The nearest thing to contentment I’d get. A wino asked me for a pound and I gave him a tenner. He shouted after me, “What’s the catch?”
Indeed.
Put the house on the market. Told the estate agent I was going abroad and would take a low, low price for rapid sale. I met him at Clapham, showed him over and gave him a spare set of keys. If I could just hold it together, I might make a clean sweep.
The doorbell went. I was wearing the blue suit to blind the estate agent. Opened the door to a near identical one, except the body language shouted COP. He was in his fifties, what they called grizzled. Tufts of steel brillo hair, hard grey eyes. About six foot, he was running to fat but not there yet. Flashed the card.
“Good morning Sir, I’m Detective Brant from the Met, might I have a word?”
“Sure, care to step in.”
He did and gave the house a more thorough scan than the property guy.
“Tea, coffee?”
“Coffee — I shouldn’t but, my gut is hell and gone anyway. Black with two sugars please.”
I got the coffee and motioned him to sit. He glanced round again, said, “Comfortable! And they say Clapham’s on the way back.”
I often wondered where those areas went in the mean-time. The same place as Brant’s gut, presumably. Kept these observations mute and waited.
“You are familiar with one Dexter Cole and, lemme check my notebook here — Elizabeth Reed and, yes, Bonny Mellor.”
“Did I know them you mean — yes, of course I did. Dex is my neighbour — right opposite in fact, Lisa was his girlfriend and Bonny was my friend.”
He gave the procedural puzzled look. I didn’t help.
“See, that’s my dilemma. Both Cole and Reed have disappeared. Ms Mellor alas was killed in a tragic fire. Your friend you said — but you didn’t go to her funeral?”
“I couldn’t — too stressful.”
“Yes, yes, it would be. In fact, we thought you’d vanished yourself. Bit of a holiday perhaps?”
“Not exactly. I stayed with a friend — a lady.”
“And she is? — her address, just for my records you understand. I was led to believe you and the Reed woman were close.”
“Naw, she was Dex’s piece of skirt. Me, I’m not into black — know wot I mean?”
“I see.”
He pondered, then held up his cup. “Might I?”
I was boiling the water when I heard him behind me. Gave me a turn — shades of Dex — but I looked down. He said, “I’m going to level with you Nick.”
As no name had been given by me, I was to shake in my boots here. Police psychology one.
“I shouldn’t really be divulging this but, perhaps you can help me.”
“I’ll try.”
“A black businessman was kidnapped and we have reason to believe a ransom of over two million has been paid.”
The bitch! Upping the ante for the insurance. She’d be lucky.
I gave a low whistle. He said, “Yes, quite a tidy figure, but the man hasn’t been released. Our inquiries lead us to believe Cole and Reed might be implicated.”