‘What kind of problem?’
I drank some beer... ah... cold and bitter, said:
‘Leon... he’s a black guy with juice who’s protecting her.’
Jack lost it.
‘You’re afraid of some jumped-up nigger!’ And realised... He looked at Reed, said, ‘No offence. I mean, normally I’m not a racialist but...’
Reed indicated his drink, said, ‘I’s could go one mo’ of dese black drinks, boss.’
Jack waved to the bar... ‘Please, help yourself... okay...? So Brady, you’re telling me you can’t do it?’
‘No, I’m not telling you that. I’m telling you it won’t be easy.’
‘What I just offered you... I’ll double it. Now, is there still a problem?’
‘No, sir.’
And then it struck me about the room. Mr Family Man, right? Not a single photograph, no family frame whatsoever. Nowt, nada.
You ever see those movies about the missing person, the hero always asks to see the girl’s room, for clues.
I asked, ‘Can I use the bathroom?’
Jack was seething, said, ‘What! NOW you need to go, now?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Upstairs, second on the right.’
He didn’t say stay out of the bedrooms but it was there. Oh yeah.
As I left, Reed was saying, ‘I liked Gene in dem Batman movies.’
I checked the other rooms but they were locked. I was going to be clueless in Dulwich. In the bathroom I had a good wash, tried on some Joop aftershave. Nice. Then I opened the medicine cabinet. The usual crap at the front but I reached in behind and bingo... a thick bottle. Took it out and read the label — Temazepam. Uh-uh. The new name of oblivion for the housewives of London. No wonder his missus wasn’t in attendance. I put the bottle back. All the towels bore Jack’s initials and you have to be a special breed of asshole for that.
As I walked back into the room, Jack’s voice was raised, ‘I’m telling you it was the bloody Superman movies. Plus, it’s not a period of his career I dwell on... okay?’
I gathered up the envelopes, stuffed them in my suit pockets, said, We’ll be off then.’
‘How soon can I expect a result?’
As Jack was closing the door, Reed leant back, asked, ‘Yo’ sure it was Superman?’
I drove, as Reed had laid into the Guinness. I counted six empties on the bar alone. Like I said before, I count. The shrinks say it’s an outward sign of internal conflict. And I’d thought it solely an observation.
Reed said, ‘We gonna need another dude.’
‘Danny?’
‘Mo’ mon... Danny be good. What cho’ wearing... yo’ smell fine?’
I hit the radio for the country station. What a slice of luck, Iris DeMent but Reed moved the band, said, ‘Sorry mon but I gots to hear de blues.’
‘I thought you liked that rap shit?’
‘No’ me bro’, I am de blues.’
Danny. The villain’s villain. If there was a poll, he’d top it. Me, I didn’t much like the bastard and he detested ‘shirt-lifters.’ But... if you had to pick a guy, you’d be smart to go for Danny. Him and Reed went way back, so there was that. Danny was a burglar and a good one. He had only been caught once and that was down to a mate grassing him.
I fucking hate burglars. My own activities are far from legal but I hang on to the old dictum, An Englishman’s home is his castle — or at least it’s the building society’s. I ever catch a guy doing my gaff over, I’ll do him.
Danny was into a new caper. Literally an off-the-rails venture. Derailment. Once, twice a month a heavy goods train was knobbled. He got the call and as the looters went for the surface stuff, he’d select choice items with high street return. The month before, there’d been three derailments. One hit the front pages, because the cargo was wine. Bottles of plonk littered all over the tracks. There wasn’t a home in south-east London without a nice Riesling to go with the fish fingers. As a burglar, Danny had access to the good things in life. You want passports, credit cards, driving licences, weapons... Give him a bell.
We’d need weapons. It wasn’t as if Leon was going to hand over Roz if all I had was attitude. Yeah...
I said to Reed, ‘No frills, no major strategy. We go in, we grab the girl, and we’re outa there.’
‘Leon’s gonna know it be us.’
‘Sure.’
‘He gonna come after my black ass first.’
‘I hope so.’
I had a plan for after. To fly to San Francisco and meet Armistead Maupin.
‘Tales of The City’ was my literary lithium. Calmed me down when the meter was pumping overload. Madrigal says in these: ‘When I retire I’m going to buy a small Greek island.’ Then she thinks a bit and adds: ‘Well, maybe a small Greek.’
I had it all down in my head. I’d be sitting in Fisherman’s Wharf, my face lightly sun burnt after the day trip to Alcatraz. A margarita in my hand and weejuns on my feet. Very soft battered ones. Armistead would stroll in and I’d take off my aviator sun-glasses, give a lazy smile and say, ‘My Man!’ Now... there’s cool.
The phone crashed into my reverie.
I was not best pleased, snapped into the receiver, This better be good.’
‘Tone... that you... it’s Jack?’
Fuck.
‘Wotcha want, Jack?’
‘An explanation, very possibly an apology.’
‘For what?’
‘You bring a nigger into my home, you want to comment on that fella?’
‘Yeah, I can comment, he’s my friend, how would that be?’
‘You couldn’t find any white friends.’
‘Nah, they were all like you.’
Silence, then...
‘Look... Tone, I’ve got off on the wrong foot here. Let me make it up to you.’
‘How would you do that, Jack?’
‘You like Cliff Richard?’
‘What?’
‘I thought you might, well... when this is all over, I’m treating you to the best seats at the Hammersmith Odeon. A one-off reunion of Cliff and the Shadows, what do you say now, Mister... eh?’
‘The Shadows!’
‘We’ll make a night of it, have a late supper at The Savoy.’
‘Wow.’
‘The sooner this is over, the sooner we start partying.’ He said that in the American way.
‘I’m humming “Summer Holiday” already.’
‘You like that? Me, I love “Miss You Nights”.’
‘Well Jack, much as I’d love to stay swappin’ classics from Cliff...’
‘Of course... no hard feelings on the nigger then?’
‘Jeez... bye Jack.’
8
Reed left a message.
‘We be toolin’ up, bro’. Danny’s at Seven. Yo’ all gonna need mo’ than a bat and an attitude.’
I was going to wear the suit but you can have too much of a good thing. Plus, I didn’t want to piss Danny off from the out. I resolved not to needle him.
Took my medication. My past was littered with the baggage of manic-depression. See the highlights...
hospitals
insanity
psychotic irritationality
the compulsive spending
and the part I dwell on least,
the suicide attempts
and yet...
When the elation hits, Jesus, it’s like nothing on earth. Fireworks not only go off, you are the bloody fuse. A doctor reprimanded me on lust one time. It doesn’t seem that it’s a sensuality of white intensity razor cut to the soul of sex itself. Junkies say heroin is like kissing God. When elated, I am God and want to kiss the world.
You feel so fucking marvellous. You think you’ll explode...
... and you do.
Cos there’s no slowing down. That song...