‘Loyal, is he?’
‘Loyal, Jackie? Who the hell is loyal? He does what he’s told, and he knows the rules. He’s been down twice and never grassed.’
‘No danger then?’
‘You’d like him to be, wouldn’t you? It’s like watching a bull on heat. Have you always had this urge to destroy things?’
Green grinned. ‘Just people, Mr Reardon. Certain people.’
‘Well Bimbo’s no danger. How old are you, Jackie?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘You should have been British champion. Ever thought of fighting again?’
‘Course I have. But I can’t get me licence back, and if I did, no manager would have the guts to take me on.’
‘It’s not guts, Jackie. Don’t feed yourself bullshit. They wouldn’t take you on because you’re trouble. Birds, booze, gambling. No discipline. But you stick by me, son, and you might just get your chance. You still training?’
‘Five miles a day and two hours in the gym.’
‘Keep it up. You do well by me and in three months we’ll stage a comeback. Maybe even a stab at Frank Bruno.’
‘Whatever you want you get,’ whispered Green. ‘I’d bleedin’ kill for a chance to get back in the ring. And I could handle Bruno. No sweat.’
Reardon smiled and moved back to his guests.
The party broke up at around 8 p.m. and Reardon saw the last of his guests to the wrought iron gates, waving as the red Ferrari containing Peter and his boyfriend roared off towards Chelsea. The electronically operated gates were swinging shut when a lumbering figure in an old track suit appeared from the shadows.
‘Mr Reardon. It’s me. Bimbo.’
‘Mac said you were on your way hours ago.’
‘I saw you ’ad guests. So I waited. Sorry to bovver you at ’ome.’
‘Open the gates, Jackie! Come in Bimbo. What’s on your mind?’
‘Well, there’s bin a bit of a cock up over this Shepherd’s Bush business. I don’t know how to explain it really …’ Bimbo stumbled to a halt as Jackie Green appeared from the gate tower. The man was powerfully built, weighing in at around seventeen stone. His head was close cropped and his chin, powerful and square, masked the sensitive nerve ends under the jaw. Almost impossible to knock out. He was wearing a white tuxedo which showed off his massive frame to great advantage.
‘Go on, Bimbo. I haven’t got all night. You can talk in front of him.’
‘Well, there was this geezer wot threatened a friend of mine. And some heavies done him over. So …’
‘Get to the point.’
‘I’m doin’ me best. Like I said this friend got turned over. So I sorted the other bastards out.’
‘How does this affect me?’
‘It was Reilly, weren’t it?’
‘Reilly?’
‘Yeah. I broke his fingers.’
‘Who did you have with you?’
‘Wiv me? Nobody. They was a gutless bunch. I just turned over his two collectors and went down the club and sorted him.’
‘Reilly says there were five men.’
‘He’s bullshittin’. It was only me. You can check with the cabbie. He took me there with this other geezer. He ’ad a nosebleed.’
‘The cabbie had a nosebleed?’
‘No, the other geezer. He was one of Reilly’s collectors. I broke his nose. John, I think ’is name was.’
‘You expect me to believe this crap?’ But he did believe it. There was no cunning in Bimbo Jardine, no side. If he said he went alone, then that’s just what happened.
‘It’s straight up, Mr Reardon. No ’arm done, though, eh?’
Anger flared in Reardon then. ‘No harm done? You think the word won’t get out? Reardon turns over his own pigging operation? Left hand doesn’t know what the right’s doing? I could be a laughing stock, Bimbo. You think I should just let you get away with that?’
‘I never knew you was behind Reilly.’
‘Get out, Bimbo. You don’t work for me any more. You don’t work for anyone any more.’
‘Hold on, Mr Reardon …’
‘You hard of hearing, pig-brain?’ said Jackie Green, moving forward. Their eyes met and Reardon saw the malice lurking in Green’s gaze.
‘I hear all right,’ said Bimbo, backing away. The malice was replaced by triumph as Bimbo ambled away into the night.
‘You want me to turn him over, Mr Reardon?’
‘No. That would be like sending the SAS out to punish a schoolboy. Roache and Taggart can do it. If he takes his punishment well I’ll let him back in a month or two. Good bruisers are hard to come by. And Bimbo’s the best.’
‘You sound like you like him.’
‘Everybody likes him. But that’s not the point, Jackie. You ever study Machiavelli?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He once asked Cesare Borgia, Is it better to rule by love or fear? Borgia said both were good, but love is bestowed on a ruler at the whim of the people, and can therefore be lost, whereas fear is bestowed on the people by the ruler. You understand?’
‘Sure,’ said Green, but Reardon knew the man was humouring him.
‘What it comes down to, Jackie, is that people will need to see Bimbo pay. Then everything will get back to normal.’
‘I’d really like to do it, Mr Reardon.’
‘Save your energy for Mr Bruno. Now let’s have a drink.’
Bimbo walked out of the cinema with the film only half finished. He’d seen enough. Bodies everywhere and enough blood to sink a bleedin’ tanker. What was the point of it? And who the bloody hell was the hero? Jackie Green’s face came unbidden to his mind. Now he would enjoy that movie. The look in the boxer’s eyes that day had remained with Bimbo long after he walked home from Richmond. It was like looking into the eyes of a man-killing animal. It was now a week since Bimbo had tried to apologise – and there was no sign of work. Even Mac wouldn’t see him.
Bimbo stopped in the foyer and bought a carton of orange juice. It was dripping with sugar and he left it on the counter.
‘Not enjoying the movie?’ asked the blonde receptionist behind the confectionery counter.
‘Nab. It’s all violence and killin’.’
‘That’s what people want.’
‘You ever see Shane?’
‘Western wasn’t it? With Alan Ladd?’
‘Yeah. Now that was a film. A proper film.’
She grinned. ‘Where the hero always had the white hat.’
‘Yeah. At least you could tell who the flamin’ hero was.’
‘Wasn’t like real life though,’ she said.
‘And that is?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s pulling in the crowds, which makes my job safer. It’s done great business. And they’re making a follow-up. You going to finish that drink?’
‘Nah. Nice talkin’ to ya.’
He wandered out into the night and turned up the collar of his donkey jacket. The wind was cold and autumn was fast encroaching on the last days of summer. So many people in there, watching that filth. He tried to remember where he’d seen the actor before. But the memory slid around and he was unable to get a hook into it. He shivered and began to jog along the High Street. A clap of thunder heralded a sudden downpour and he ducked into a hamburger bar fronting the arcade.
The place was empty and Bimbo sat by the window watching the rippling rain melting the illuminated Barclay’s sign across the street. The film kept coming back at him. How could they sit there and enjoy that crap? Did they really think life was like that? All that hatred and death? And the actor … Bronson! That was it! He was in that western with Yul Brynner about gunfighters what went to Mexico to save a village. He ought to be ashamed of himself, thought Bimbo. Mind you, he probably had about ten ex-wives and needed the mon
ey. And he was gettin’ on a bit.
‘What can I get you?’ asked a sallow-faced young man in a stained apron.
‘Cuppa tea.’
‘After 10 p.m. you have to spend £1.50.’
‘Just a cuppa tea, son, seein’ as how you’re so busy.’
The man thought about it for a moment then shrugged. ‘Comin’ up,’ he said.
A cold draught touched Bimbo’s back. He turned to see a young girl stepping in out of the rain, her imitation leather coat drenched, her bleached-blonde hair plastered to her face. She sat two tables from Bimbo. The manager approached her.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Just coffee?’
‘Yes.’
‘My night for getting rich,’ he said, as he walked back past Bimbo. The girl opened a narrow black handbag and produced a purse. Bimbo watched as she tipped the contents into her hand.
‘Can you make that a tea?’ she called.
‘I’ve already poured it out.’
‘I haven’t got enough for a coffee.’
‘The evening gets better and better,’ said the manager.
‘I’ll have the coffee,’ said Bimbo. ‘She can have my tea.’
‘Sorry to cause you trouble,’ the girl told the manager. He ignored her. Bimbo transferred his gaze to the street. The rain shone like oil on the brickwork of the buildings opposite. He heard the rustle of the girl’s coat and looked up as she slid in opposite him. She was tall and slim with large blue eyes and a staggeringly pale complexion.
She forced a smile. ‘Can you lend me a few quid?’
‘You want somethin’ to eat?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘It aint necessary. Order what you fancy.’
‘Can I have a double cheeseburger. No onions,’ she called.
‘Oh happy days,’ said the manager, bringing their drinks to the table.
‘Bin out in the rain long?’ asked Bimbo.
‘About two hours.’
Bimbo drained his coffee. It was stewed and bitter.
‘Do you live around here?’ asked the girl.
‘Yeah. Just off the estate.’
‘You couldn’t put me up for the night, could ya?’ The manager placed the cheeseburger in front of her, but her eyes remained fixed on Bimbo
‘You aint very bright, kid, are yer? Didn’t your dad warn you about strange men?’
‘Me dad was a strange man,’ she said, picking up the cheeseburger and biting into it. Bimbo sat quietly, watching her eat. She was young, not yet twenty, maybe not even eighteen. Yet her eyes were world weary. She finished the burger and leaned back.
‘All right?’ he asked.
‘Vile. But it filled a hole. Thanks. Can I spend the night? I don’t mind if we … you know … make out.’
‘Make out? I don’t make out. I wouldn’t even know how.’
‘Gay, are ya? I don’t mind.’
‘I aint gay,’ he said, without rancour. ‘It don’t matter. Sure you can stay. How come you got nowhere else?’
‘l had a row with me boyfriend.’
‘He’s probably regrettin’ it now. You want me to walk you back?’
She grinned. ‘You’re a weird one, aint ya? He aint forgotten. If he sees me again he’ll punch my teeth out. He wanted me to sleep with a mate of his. A right toe-rag called Bobby. Never bleedin’ washes. I said I wouldn’t. He said Bobby had already paid. Then he hit me. So I walked out.’
‘Sounds like you’re better off out of it.’
‘Yeah. Aint that the truth.’
‘How old are ya?’
‘Old enough to tell the time. Me name’s Sharon. You?’
‘Bimbo.’
‘Bimbo Jardine?’
‘Yeah. Do I know ya?’
‘You broke my boyfriend’s arm. Tony. Remember?’
‘It was an accident.’
‘I don’t give a toss. If you hadn’t done that I’d never have been able to get away. He’d a bleedin’ tied me to the bed. He’s done that before.’
‘How come you took it?’
‘Dunno. Thought he loved me. Stupid innit? Love. No such bleedin’ thing. All a man wants is somewhere warm to put his willie.’ Bimbo chuckled.
‘You think that’s funny?’ she snapped. ‘It aint so bleedin’ funny when you have to live with it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Bimbo, ‘I guess it aint. But the world aint full of scumbags like Tony. It just seems like it sometimes.’
‘You got a girlfriend?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘What does “not really” mean?’
‘She’s goin’ out with someone else. But we’re still friends.’
‘How come you didn’t see him off, this other geezer?’
‘Why should I?’
‘You are weird. Can we go? This place aint too friendly.’
‘Sure.’ Bimbo rose and walked to the till.
‘Two pounds nine pence,’ said the manager. ‘My cup runneth over.’
Outside the rain had eased to a fine drizzle and they wandered west.
‘Is it far to your place?’
‘Nah. Fifteen minutes.’
‘Couldn’t we get a cab then? My feet are killing me.’
‘Walkin’s good for you.’
‘Well, at least a drink then.’
Bimbo chuckled and took her arm, steering her towards the Railway Tavern. The pub was old fashioned, which meant it had only one fruit machine and no juke-box and was packed with regulars. Bimbo eased his way to the bar.
‘What do ya drink?’
‘Brandy,’ she told him. The barman approached, licking his lips.
‘Evening, Andy,’ said Bimbo. ‘Brandy for the lady and a pineapple juice for me.’
Andy leaned across the bar. ‘I’m sorry, Bim, but we can’t serve you.’
‘I ’ope this is a joke,’ said Bimbo. The man’s face reddened.
‘It aint me, mate. The boss told me.’
‘Well get ’im over ’ere.’
‘It won’t do no good, Bim. It’s come from Reardon, innit? Sorry.’ Andy moved away to take another order. Bimbo turned from the bar, looking around the packed lounge. There were several people he knew, but none of them were looking his way. He waited, but their eyes remained fixed.
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ he told Sharon.
‘What you done then?’
‘Aint got a clue. We’ll go down the Barley. It’s only about a hundred yards.’
The Barley was a bikers’ pub, which meant it was either full or empty. No half-way measures. Tonight it was near empty. Bimbo saw the look on the middle-aged barmaid’s face as he entered, and guessed the response.
‘Sorry, Bim, love. But you’re barred. It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Thass all right, Doreen. Aint your fault.’
‘Look, my brother runs a pub in Chelsea. He’s always looking for help. Why don’t you go over there for a while? Nice area. And it aint Reardon’s patch – not yet anyway.’
‘I like it here.’
‘I don’t think you are going to like it here, Bim. Derek told us tonight there isn’t a pub that’ll serve you. And Taggart and Roache have been asking after you. There’s going to be trouble.’
‘Nah. It’ll blow over. I aint done nothin’.’
‘Taggart and Roache, Bim. Don’t forget them. They aint nice people.’
‘l know.’
Bimbo stood for a moment, uncertain. Sharon touched his arm.
‘Can you lend me ten quid?’
‘Sure. Why?’
‘I got a friend in Fulham. She can put me up for the night. I’ll get a cab over.’
‘You’re welcome
to stay at my place.’
‘Thanks anyway … but I think you’re trouble. I don’t need any more trouble.’
‘Yeah.’ Bimbo peeled two £5 notes from his shrinking roll. ‘Good luck, anyway.’
‘I don’t think it’s me that needs the luck.’
Bimbo shrugged and moved to the door. Sharon ordered a brandy and sat quietly at the bar. Doreen wiped the bar top clear of beer rings.
‘Known him long?’ asked the barmaid.
‘Just met him tonight.’
‘Nice bloke, Bimbo.’
‘What’s he done?’
Doreen shrugged. ‘It don’t matter what he’s done. It’s enough that Taggart and Roache are looking for him. Evil pair. I watched them grow up. From tiny tots who liked pulling wings off butterflies, know what I mean?’
‘Yeah. But he’s no different, is he? He’s a collector. He broke my boyfriend’s arm.’
‘Oh he’s different, love. Otherwise why give you ten quid?’
‘It’s a loan.’
‘Yeah? You don’t even know where he lives, do you? How you going to pay him back? But he knew that. And don’t care. Soft touch is Bimbo. Everybody knows that.’
Bimbo crossed the road and moved on to the estate. It was dark here, several of the street lights having been shot out with air rifles. The rain had stopped and thoughts of Taggart and Roache flickered in his mind. He had known both men for some years, and liked neither of them. Taggart was a huge man of Irish descent, with a mop of dark, curly hair and a handsome face. He was known to carry a ten-inch piece of lead pipe which he used with lightning speed, rendering any opponent unconscious. Roache was smaller and slimmer, six feet tall and weighing around fourteen stone. His preferred weapon was a brass knuckleduster that fitted neatly over the fingers of his right hand, adding weight and bone-crunching power to his blows.
Why were they looking for him? He knew the answer. Reardon had decided to punish him for something he had done in all innocence. He had helped a friend. And for that he must pay.
It wasn’t right.
His instincts warned him to leave the area for a while, but something deeper inside snarled at such an action. He turned up his collar against the biting wind and moved on. Nothing stirred on the estate, and Bimbo’s eyes took in all the shadows, wary of any sign of movement.
White Knight/Black Swan Page 8
