I smell the faint whiff of hypocrisy. His angle seems to be that she’s a victim in all this but she’s a more than willing participant.
‘The old man didn’t wanna cut her off and leave her penniless cos then she really would be at the mercy of every scumbag on the planet. Somebody says she needs tough love. It’s an American idea, you walk away and leave ’em to it, you just stop helpin them to fuck up. They put them all together in a rehab, fuckin Yanks again, you get a load of sleazy cunts, alkies, junkies and coke fiends and put them all together under one roof and they’re supposed to help each other kick the habit.’
Jimmy shakes his head very gently.
‘You’d think only in America but it turns out they’ve got them over here as well. He’s listenin to one of his new wife’s hoity-toity mates who’s tellin him “It’s all the fucking rage nowadays.’”
‘What’s her poison?’
‘Oh right, well, uppers, downers, laughers, screamers, you name it and she’s up for it. Whatever it is it’s got to be top quality. She likes coke to go up–’ he points up at the ceiling ‘– and brown to come down,’ he points back at the tabletop.
‘I can’t see why they just can’t stop,’ I say. ‘It’s about discipline.’
‘Exactly. Some people just ain’t got none, no backbone.’
‘Self-discipline,’ I’m saying, wagging a finger and nodding, knowing full well I’d be a great deal poorer if more people had it. I think I’ve found my range with Jimmy as well, know how to jolly him along.
‘You’re right. Anyways, Charlie’s shipped out to this place Chipton Grange, Chip-on-the-shoulder Grange my mate calls it. It’s a big old country house down in the West Country in acres of grounds, up at seven, in bed at ten, country air, loads of good old-fashioned grub to put some flesh back on her bones. Fuckin lovely!! It’s a tough regime but apparently it works.’
‘Like your old approved school.’
‘Oh yeah, very good, you’re a card, son. Well anyway, first she hates it then she likes it but she’s got webbed up with some geezer in there and that ain’t allowed. They ain’t in there to be courtin so one of them has to go.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Aha, makes sense to you but love is blind, my friend. Rather than be parted they’ve fucked off together, into the night, into the lovers’ moon, cab to the station and were last seen gettin on a train to London, arm in arm.’
‘So she’s disappeared just like her mum?’
‘Well, she’s missin, but that’s what I’m comin to.’
I’m getting warm about Jimmy’s favour. ‘When did she do the bunk outta the treatment gaff, this Chipton Grange?’
‘About three weeks ago.’
‘And this guy, who is he?’
‘Trevor Atkins, otherwise know as Kinky. Why he’s called Kinky don’t ask cos I don’t fuckin know but that’s his AKA. Trevor John Atkins to Mister Plod and Kinky to his confederates.’
‘Should I know this guy?’
‘I very much doubt it. He wouldn’t be on your beat. I think you’d only ever meet if you ran him over. I had someone get his CRO file pulled and he’s just a fuckin hound, loads of previous for petty thievin and jumpin bail, in and out of the boob and the detox, a recidivist waster. I’m not one to get all holy about these things but it’s a fuckin waste of time lockin them up and it’s a waste of time lettin them out, pure boob fodder.’
‘They make a strange couple, the lady and the bitta rough.’
‘To you and me, yes, but no surprise to the good folk who run these gaffs. In the misty, murky world of the drug scene and these facilities you get lords with whores, titled ladies with housebreakers, real posh birds with–’
‘– guys like Kinky.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And how the fuck do these guys get to be in there? How do they afford the fees?’
‘They run a kinda assisted places scheme. You know, like all those public schools. It’s part of the philosophy behind the set-up. They entertain people from all levels of society.’
‘What’s this Trevor’s, this Kinky’s particular tipple?’
‘The dear boy has a weakness for crack cocaine.’
‘I thought he might. And what part of London’s he from?’
‘Originally from over East Ham way but from the arrest sheets and the addresses he’s given he’s from all over the place, Tottenham, Kilburn, Willesden, Down South, Stockwell, Brixton, all over the place.’
‘He’s a black geezer, right?’
‘Yeah, he’s a black geezer, what of it? Listen, I don’t give a toss if he’s black, white, yellow or green. I don’t give a fuck if he’s from outta space. I’m not interested in him, he can fuck off and die. I want you–’
Here it comes.
‘– to find Charlie. It’s that fuckin simple.’
It ain’t fuckin simple at all. It’s a whole fuckin heap of aggravation, a wild goosechase into the Hades of jobbing junkies and twitchy crackheads, into a whole world I’ve always done my very best to avoid like the plague for fear of catching one.
‘What makes you think I can find her?’
‘You’re bright, you’re of the new breed.’
‘But what about the old man’s SAS johnnies? Surely they would be better equipped to find her?’
‘Those army types are far better goin native in Belfast or Kuwait than London. People sniff ’em out in London. And anyway, I want you to find her for me. Okay? Any questions? No? Good.’
So there you have it, that’s the deal pure and simple. For whatever reasons Jimmy’s got in his head, he wants me to find Charlie so he can bathe in the kudos with his pal. He’s got a hunch about my retirement plans and he could easily noorse the whole thing up. If I’m smart I play the fuckin game and wait for the love bubble to burst between Charlie and Kinky and make sure I’m around to pick up the credit. It shouldn’t take them too long to implode in on themselves.
‘It’s one of those things that can take a day or it can take forever, Jim.’
‘Find her.’
‘I’ll do my best to find her.’
‘Do your best and find her.’
‘I’ll see what I can turn up.’
‘Fuck’s sake, just fuckin find her, okay? Gene’s got more stuff for you that you might find useful. I just wanna know where they are. We’ll decide what action to take.’
‘I know it’s none of my business but –’
It was someone else talking, it wasn’t me, but the words were coming outta my mouth. Shut the fuck up will ya.
‘– he ain’t gonna disappear is he?’
Gene looks out the window and Morty looks straight down into the tablecloth. Jimmy takes a fresh cigar from the leather case in front of him. He patiently lights it, getting a good glow going.
‘You’re right, son, that ain’t none of your business. Like the old song says, “Don’t piss on your chips if they’re a pinch too hot.” One day you’re gonna be a million miles away from here and this’ll all seem like it happened on a different planet.’
His eyes lock into mine but he points out the window.
‘I’ve got as much concern about this Kinky as one of those bugs on those roses. Let me spell it out for you, I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck.’
‘I’m sorry. I was bang out of order. I’m really sorry.’
‘I know you were, son, and now you’ve apologised so it’s okay, all right?’
He reaches over quick as a rattlesnake. I jump back a bit cos I’m surprised at how fast the old bastard can move. He grabs my cheek between his thumb and first finger and shakes it.
‘Look at his little face, so serious, so told-off, look Gene, look Morty, look how serious he looks.’
We all laugh with our crazy Uncle Jimmy.
‘You report to Gene.’
I nod.
‘Details, details, things to do, things to get done but don’t bother me with details, just tell me when they’re done. You know who said that, son?’
‘I dunno. Winston Churchill? Durin World War Two?’
‘No, I did, James Lionel Price, just now.’ And with that he laughs himself bright red, fit to burst.
‘There’ll be a nice bonus in it for ya when you turn her up,’ he winks.
Jimmy’s clicking his fingers for the bill. He just signs it like he’s got an account with the place, pulls himself outta his seat and pats his stomach contentedly.
‘We’ll keep in touch, it was nice to meet ya. No, seriously, it’s nice to meet people with some savvy, and some manners too.’
‘Thanks, Mister Price, it was nice to meet you properly at last.’
We’ve all got up, left the table and started walking back up towards the entrance. Jimmy stops and silently points back at the table. I’ve left the photos of Charlie and the envelope, on the tabletop. I go and retrieve them.
The receptionist gives us back our jackets and our phones. As I’m walking into the khazi I realise that Jimmy’s tailed me in.
‘Need a good drain-off before I get in the motor. Look at all them fuckin flowers,’ he says. ‘It’s like a flower shop in here, or a fuckin funeral.’ He laughs. We both take a piss and wash our hands and as we’re about to go back out the door Jimmy puts his foot against it. He looks around but he already knows that we’re the only ones in there.
‘Listen, son, you do this thing for me and you can walk away and nobody, but nobody, is gonna give any grief, okay?’
He’s giving me the pointy finger. I nod. There’s someone trying to open the door Jimmy’s holding shut.
‘You’ll be out, if that’s what you want, history, yeah?’
They’re banging a bit and pushing a touch harder. I can hear them cursing on the other side of the door.
‘I’ll make sure no cunt says anything. You have my word.’
The person on the other side of the door now knocks like they’re room service knocking on a hotel-room door. He pats me on the shoulder and winks. Jimmy takes his foot away and swings the door open wide in one swift movement. The Major Dee is standing there.
‘Is everything all right, Mister Price?’ he says with a bit of alarm, looking past us into the khazi.
‘No problem, Angelo. This door’s a little tight at the top here. It must be all this rain we’ve been havin.’
He winks on Angelo’s blind side. It hasn’t rained in weeks.
‘Next time I’m in for dinner I’ll bring my tool kit and we’ll have a bit off. It only needs a smidgen,’ he says, running his fingers down the side of the door and eyeing it up.
‘Yes, Mister Price. And thank you, Mister Price.’
We walk out the khazi.
‘They fuckin love me here, son,’ says Jimmy.
I see that Gene and Mort are waiting outside on the gravel. Jimmy’s a bit pissed so the sun and the fresh air give him a kick up the arse. He’s slightly unsteady on his feet. His driver pulls up in his Jag and holds the door open for him.
‘We’ll talk,’ he says to Gene, holding a hand to his ear. As he climbs in he gives me a little wink.
‘He likes you,’ says Gene as the motor speeds up the drive. ‘You’re like the son he never had.’ He’s laughing. ‘We’ll have to call you “Son of Jimmy” from now on, won’t we, Mister Mortimer?’
‘Call you Jimmy? Only if you insist, Mister Price, sorry, Jimmy,’ says Morty.
‘You two can fuck right off.’
‘He’ll be arrangin for you to be meetin his daughters, a bittov an arranged marriage,’ says Gene.
‘They nice?’
‘They’re more superlager than supermodel but you’ll be okay. They’re a bit rough around the edges. Mister Mortimer told me you like fat girls. Two at a time. Is that right?’
‘Sorry mate, it just slipped out,’ says Morty. ‘Anyway, fat birds have tight pussies, mate.’
‘I’ve got some bit and pieces for you,’ Gene says, turning to go. ‘I’ll ring you first thing in the mornin. Adios, amigos.’
Back to the Hacienda
Driving back into town, busy thinking. We drive in silence for a while. There are a lot of guys who after spending an afternoon with Jimmy Price, after being courted by him, after being bought dinner or lunch in a gaff that he obviously used to impress people he wanted to impress, would be delighted, over the moon, like some old-school footballers who had scored the winning goal in the last few minutes of the Cup Final, the rest of their lives would be an anticlimax, downhill all the way. Their lives would have peaked and no amount of booze, birds or Chas up the hooter would ever match that moment of pure exhilaration. So they were on a loser all the way down. They would retell the story, blow by blow, be forever telling the other toe-rags down the boozer about how they and Jimbo were ‘Like Fuckin That’, fingers crossed. They’d boast about how their good pal James took them out for a spot of lunch, to ask a favour. Ask away, Jimmy Boy, very civilised it was too, don’t you know.
It’s like that old pop once wrote about it being the best of times and the worst of times at the very same time. On one hand Jimmy has endorsed my walking away from the business so if anyone has a problem with that I can simply tell them to take it up with Mister Price. Walking out and staying intact can be a problem. I only have to find this genetic time-bomb misfit with the crackhead boyfriend but I consider it real progress. I realise that the whole thing smells a little bit fish, like I’ve been watching a film at the pictures and at a very crucial point in the plot I’ve popped out for a hot dog. When I’ve come back I’m missing something, so the story don’t hang together like it should. Why should ruthless Mister Price cut anyone a deal? Why should I be any different? Could I have turned him down even if I wanted to? Would he have just leaned over the table, poked his finger in my chest and simply told me to do the finding or else? That would mean moving abruptly away from everything, most importantly my paper-pot, my assets, that’re hovering up around the million-pound mark. Remember at all times: He’s one slippery cunt, likes to spin a yarn. Give him credit, he can tell a tale, but strictly speaking he’s telling me stuff I don’t really need to know. If we were working on a need-to-know basis, he could have sat me down in the café by the market, ordered me a ham sandwich and a cuppa milky tea and told me to crack on and find the bird. Should I feel privileged, blackmailed or both? The answer is probably the last one, bitter-sweet, sweet and sour.
Looking out over the top of the motorway coming back into central London, the sun’s going down across row upon row of uniform roofs. I start tripping out. I’m imagining mile upon mile, street upon street of houses, like they go on for ever and ever, all the way to the sea, all the way to Scotland in one direction and to Cornwall in the other, like the whole of mainland Britain is just row after row after row of two-up, two-down, terraced houses and all the fields and farms and forests are buried somewhere underneath. In one of those houses, in one of those rooms, Charlie and Kinky are plotted up, either safe and sound, loved up, pet names for private parts, lazy sex in the late afternoon with an orange sun pouring through a tiny chink in the curtains, or in a mutual hostage situation, lick some rock, boot some brown, boost two brew. Kiss and cuddle, sleaze or kamikaze, what’s your mission?
Morty’s waiting for me to talk. I’m quite content looking across the skyline and watching the sun go down. It brings up a smidgen of melancholy in me cos I’ve always fought like fuckery, put my liberty on the line daily, to avoid ending up in one of those houses down there, sitting down with child-like naiveté to tick off the lottery numbers, eating the defrosted, microwaved chicken Kiev, soggy oven chips that never look like they do on the box, living in hope and not the real world, maybe next week, maybe next year, maybe next lifetime, maybe never, maybe fuckin maybe. I say avoid ending up in, but what I mean is avoid ending up back in one of those little gaffs, eating sausage, egg and chips for me Saturday tea, the old man checking the pools coupon he kept behind the clock he inherited from his old man and the best he ever got was the free credit for the next week. He
never got close. He could never go to work and tell his pals, the other straight-goers, that he’d almost hit the jackpot but Halifax Town or Alloa City had let him down badly, cos the most he ever got was about ten points and you needed double that to even win a four-figure sum. It kept his hopes up I suppose. I’m like that geezer, the apprentice gunslinger, in that movie the Magnificent Seven. He hates the townsfolk, he’s got contempt for them, he calls them gutless because he’s from a little spit of a town just like it and it scares the shit outta him that one day he may end up back in a place just like it if he ain’t too careful. And where does he fuckin end up? Back in Ba-loo-ga-ville.
‘Can I change this tape, Mort?’
You gotta be in the right frame of mind for Marvin Gaye.
‘Turn it off altogether,’ he says.
I turn it off.
‘You find her and you’re in,’ he continues. ‘He likes you, seriously, no fuckin about, I ain’t takin the piss like back there. He needs sensible people around him.’
‘But he put it like an ultimatum.’
‘As is his right, brother. Look at it this way, we’ve come a long way with him lookin out for us, five years, not a bitta grief. He’s callin in a debt. It’s the business you’re in.’
‘I better give it a try.’
‘Like the old song says, “One day we’ll look back on this and chuckle.” Son –’ Morty does a very passable impression of Jimmy Price complete with pretend cigar – ‘Soooon, don’t take yourself so ‘kin seriously, son.’
He reaches over to grab my cheek just like Jimmy.
‘Fuck off, Morty.’
‘Don’t become too fond of tellin me to fuck off. Get those photocopied,’ he says, pointing at the photos.
‘Good thinkin. It’s a shame we don’t have a smudge of Kinky.’
‘I know exacly what he looks like–’
‘How?’
‘Like a million other pipin niggers.’
‘Now if I said that you’d be all–’
‘Shut the fuck up, will ya. In case you ain’t noticed I’m black. I can say that shit, white person say it, they get boxed, okay? Black person can talk all that nigger shit.’
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