‘You can have this for another fifty,’ said Jill, and flipped the covers off her body. She was like something out of Belsen. Emaciated. With tracks up her arms and legs and even in her crotch.
Fifty what? I thought. Pence?
‘No thanks love,’ I said. ‘Another time maybe.’ And I left the room quickly. Closing the door behind me. I didn’t wait to hear her reply. I’ve discovered in my little life that saying no to a woman’s offer of sex is like asking for credit in a pub. A refusal often offends. I’d leave Matt to catch the flak. I’m sure he was used to that too.
* * * *
I climbed the stairs to the first floor and found the door of the room at the front and knocked hard. There was no answer, so I tried again and heard a male voice call out, ‘Who is it?’
‘Jimmy sent me,’ I called back.
There was silence again and then from just the other side of the door the voice said, ‘Jimmy who?’
‘Jimmy Himes.’
‘Whaddya want?’
‘Guess.’
There was a further pause before I heard the sounds of locks disengaging, and the door opened six inches on a security chain and a white face half hidden by lank blond curls appeared in the gap. ‘Who are you?’ The face asked.
‘Nick. Are you Derek?’
‘Whaddya want?’ He said again.
‘Can I come in. It’s a bit public out here.’
‘Bollocks. Whaddya want?’
‘I’m looking for Jimmy.’
‘He ain’t here.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘You Old Bill?’ That question again.
‘No.’
‘Then fuck off.’ And the door began to close.
I lashed out with my right foot and the steel toe of my DM slammed into the door pushing it back to the full extent of the chain, and the face vanished. I slammed my left shoulder against the door, the chain snapped and I was inside. The owner of the voice was on the other side of the room. He turned and I saw he was holding a small baseball bat. A miniature version of a Louisville Slugger, but still plenty weapon enough to crush my skull if he got a good shot in.
I stood inside the doorway as he came at me. He was of medium height and build, but his arms were thick and muscular. He pulled back the bat to give me a good whack and I moved inside his arm and took the blow on my left shoulder, and let him have a good whack of my own with my clenched fist into his solar plexus. He let out his breath with a gasp, all the strength seemed to go out of his body, the baseball bat fell to the uncarpeted floorboards with a clatter and he doubled up. That sort of punch hurts and disorientates. I allowed him to drop to his knees, took hold of his left hand and bent the little finger back until I felt the ligaments at breaking-point and the boy screamed a high pitched scream. That hurts too. Much worse than a punch in the stomach. A bladder-emptying kind of hurt that fills your whole head with pain.
‘You going to be good?’ I hissed.
He nodded and looked at me through eyes dulled with agony and I eased the pressure, pulled him to his feet and propelled him across to an unmade bed. I threw him on top, rescued the Slugger and stood over him slapping it into my palm.
‘Are you Derek?’ I asked.
‘What of it?’
‘Jimmy Himes,’ I said,
‘What about him?’ I could tell it hurt him to speak.
‘You know him?’
A nod.
‘He scores off you?’
Another nod.
‘Seen him lately?’
A shake of the head.
‘How long ago?’
‘Last week.’
‘Where’s he stay?’
Silence.
I slapped my palm again with the bat. Harder.
‘Upstairs,’ said Derek. ‘With Wayne and Duane.’
‘Who?’
He repeated the names.
‘Where exactly?’
‘Top floor.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, put the bat carefully on the mantelpiece above the dead gas fire and left the room.
* * * *
I went further upstairs. All the way, until I came to yet another door and I wondered what I’d find behind this one. I rapped on it with my knuckles and heard movement, and it was opened by a huge young guy dressed in a white singlet and blue and white checked trousers like the ones chefs wear. Around his head covered with long dark hair was tied a white bandanna. He had a lot of upper body development, and his skin gleamed with oil.
‘Wayne?’ I said ‘Duane?’
‘Duane. And who might you be?’ His voice was surprisingly high for one of his stature.
I got the picture.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘My name’s Nick Sharman. I’m looking for Jimmy Himes.’
‘Who isn’t? Come right on in. Be my guest.’
He pulled the door right back and I went inside. There was a short hall interrupted by three doors, and he pointed me to the one at the end. Inside was another massive young bloke dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. ‘Well hello,’ he said in a deep, masculine voice. ‘Who have we here?’
‘Someone looking for Jimmy,’ trilled Duane. ‘This is Wayne by the way. Wayne, this is Nick.’
‘Welcome to our abode,’ said Wayne. ‘Be it ever so humble.’
I looked round. It was a living room cum gymnasium. One side was furnished with rugs on the floor, curtains at the window, two matching armchairs and a daybed covered with cushions to make a sofa. One wall was lined with shelves holding a TV, video, stereo, albums, cassettes and books. The other side was jammed with what looked like a full Nautilus rig and a whole lot of other weight lifting shit. Now I knew where Wayne and Duane’s muscles came from, and I pulled back my shoulders. The walls of the room that weren’t covered with shelves were adorned with posters of gay icons: James Dean in Giants Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones; Boy George in full drag; Jimmy Sommerville in nothing much. Par for the course.
‘And you’re looking for young James,’ said Wayne. ‘Or just a little romance?’
‘Nothing like that,’ I replied. ‘His mother and father have hired me to find him. I’m a private detective.’
‘A private dick,’ said Duane, with emphasis on the word ‘dick’, and flexed his biceps at me.
I smiled at him. ‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘What if he doesn’t want to be found?’
‘If I could see him and he tells me that. . .’ I shrugged and didn’t finish the sentence.
‘We’d like to see him too,’ said Wayne. ‘He owes us some rent.’
‘If you know where he is . . .’ I said.
‘Probably,’ said Duane. ‘But why should we tell you?’
‘To put his mother and father’s minds at rest that he’s all right. That’s all. I don’t intend him any harm.’
‘Sez you.’ Wayne this time. I was getting tired of the double act.
‘Anyway,’ said Duane ‘We can’t possibly talk now. We’re due at work soon.’
‘What do you do?’ I asked for something to say.
‘We work in a restaurant in Covent Garden. Duane cooks, I serve,’ said Wayne.
Jesus. The fucking salmonella sisters, I thought. Perfect.
‘So if you’d like to leave,’ he went on.
‘No.’ I said. ‘I’d like you to tell me where Jimmy Himes is.’
‘Duane,’ said Wayne, and Duane flexed his biceps at me again, and moved closer.
I was getting nothing but aggro at this house and I was getting sick of it, and what I did next was probably an over reaction, but I did it anyway.
I pulled the Colt out from my jacket pocket and stuck the two inch barrel into Duane’s face. On his forehead. Right where his third eye should be if you believe all that mystic bollocks. I cocked it with a loud click. Loud enough to scare the shit out of Duane anyway. ‘Relax Shirley,’ I said. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ Then to Wayne. ‘And as for you, Dorothy. Lie face down on the sofa there and spre
ad your arms. You must be used to that.’
If they thought I was a homophobic fascist all the better. It wouldn’t be the first time. I used to wear a blue uniform, remember.
I didn’t want to pull the trigger and splatter Duane’s brains all over Marlon Brando, but I hoped he’d think that was exactly what I did want to do, and not get physical and try to be a hero. It worked. He stood stock still whilst Wayne made a high pitched sound at the back of his throat, turned, and fell forward onto the mattress of the daybed.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now we’ve got that sorted. How about telling me where Jimmy is. Duane?’
Duane squinted along the length of the gun I was holding, and swallowed. When he spoke his voice was even higher pitched than before. ‘He works the meat rack,’ he said.
‘Do what?’
‘The Dilly,’ said Wayne, his voice muffled by the mattress he was lying on. ‘Piccadilly, Coventry Street, Leicester Square. The cafes and arcades. He’s a rent boy. Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ I said. “
‘It pays for his habit,’ Wayne went on. ‘He works there most evenings. We assumed he’d met a rich punter who took him away for a few days.’
‘So why didn’t you just tell me?’ I said disgustedly. ‘Instead of giving me the old queen act.’
‘We didn’t know who you were,’ piped Duane. ‘You won’t hurt me, will you?’
I shook my head. ‘No Duane. I won’t hurt you.’ and I put up my gun, and let the hammer down gently. ‘I’m off now,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the information. And next time don’t be so aggressive. You never know if it’s a pistol in my pocket or if I’m just glad to see you. Have a nice day, girls,’ and I backed out into the hall, through the door, down the stairs and outside, back to my car.
I didn’t see a soul as I went.
* * * *
I took the photo of Jimmy and drove up to Piccadilly to try and find him.
I parked the Jaguar in the NCP at the back of Leicester Square and started my search. By two that afternoon I’d shown the photo round most of the cafes and arcades in the area, and I think I’d been told to fuck off in fifteen different languages. I went into Gerrard Street and found a pub full of Chinese and bought a pint of lager. At least in that boozer there were no happy Christmas revellers. I was sitting at a table, smoking my second cigarette when a kid sidled up to me. He was young and looked like he was auditioning for a place in The Jam. He was wearing a skinny two-piece suit of silver tonik mohair, black and white shoes, a pale blue button down shirt and a narrow black leather tie. He had blond hair cut into a pudding basin, and down his left cheek, from his eye to his chin he had a nasty looking thin scar.
‘I hear you’re looking for someone?’ he said.
I nodded. Any port in a storm.
‘Jimmy Himes?’
I nodded again.
‘I know where he is.’
‘Where?’
He grinned. ‘Buy us a drink first.’
I was probably being conned, but what the hell. ‘What do you want?’ I asked him.
‘Scotch and coke.’
I went up to the bar and bought what he asked for and another pint for myself. When I got back and he had downed half the drink, I said, ‘You know Jimmy?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,’ he retorted.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Rick. Slick Rick they call me.’
Sure they do, I thought. ‘And you know where Jimmy is?’
‘I know where he was.’
‘Where?’
‘It’ll cost ya?’
I wasn’t exactly amazed at that. ‘How much?’
‘A ton.’
‘How do I know you’re telling me the truth?’
‘I wouldn’t lie mister.’
‘You would say that.’
He looked injured at the thought. ‘He’s my mate,’ he said. ‘We work the Dilly together.’
‘You’re on the rent?’
He nodded and felt the scar.
‘A dangerous game,’ I said.
‘What, this? Not half as dangerous as HIV. You can’t get plastic surgery for that.’
I couldn’t argue with him on that score.
‘So where is he?’ I asked.
He held out his hand.
‘No son,’ I said. ‘You got a drink for your sauce. A hundred nicker and I want some proof.’
‘I can’t prove it. But it’s the truth.’
‘Tell me.’
So he did. According to him, Jimmy was with the same old queen who’d given Rick the stripe down his face. Rick would do a lot for money, but not everything, if the everything included grievous bodily harm, which was what the old queen wanted to inflict upon him.
‘Has the old queen got a name?’ I asked.
‘Daddy,’ said Rick. ‘When I wouldn’t do what he wanted, he did this.’ He felt the scar again. ‘The old cunt.’
‘Did you go to the police?’
Rick laughed fit to burst. ‘Are you fuckin’ joking?’ He said. ‘They’d bang me up if I did.’
He was probably right.
‘So where does Daddy hang out?’ I asked.
‘Shepherd’s Market. He’s got a place down there.’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Not now. It’s too early. He sleeps in. Tonight’s favourite.’
‘What time?’
‘Eight. Meet me outside the Shepherd’s pub. Know it?’
I nodded. ‘I’ll be in my car,’ I said. ‘A red Jaguar E-Type.’
‘It’s all right for some. I’ll show you his place, then split. OK?’
‘OK,’ I agreed.
‘And bring the dosh.’ And with that, Rick swallowed his drink and left.
* * * *
I was parked where he said just before eight. The rain had started again and was slanting through the light of the street lamps, raising a mist of steam from the long bonnet of the car and obscuring my view through the windscreen like tears. The radio was playing Phil Spector’s Christmas album, and a couple of whores were eyeing up the car from the other side of the road.
I was still wearing my leather jacket and jeans, and I could feel the reassuring weight of the Colt in my right pocket. Rick ducked round the corner in front of me as the clock in the car said 8:05. He wasn’t wearing a coat and had the thin lapels of his jacket turned up against the weather. I leaned over, slipped the lock on the passenger door, he climbed in, and the whores walked off in disgust.
‘Excellent motor,’ he said, and he was just a boy again. Not a rent boy.
‘It’ll do.’
‘Take me for a drive one day?’
‘One day,’ I replied. ‘Now where does this bloke Daddy live?’
‘Just round the corner. Number seven. Over the pottery shop. There’s an entryphone by the door at the side. Got my dough?’
‘And he’s just going to let me in?’
I saw his face stiffen in the light from the dashboard. ‘You promised.’
‘Not exactly. You get me in and I find that Jimmy’s been there and you get your hundred.’
‘Fuck that.’
Take it or leave it. You could still be lying. Like I said. If I find Jimmy’s been there you get your money.’
‘He’ll kill me.’
‘I’ll make sure you’re all right.’
‘You don’t know him.’
‘I don’t even know that he exists.’
‘How do I know you’ll pay me?’
I took fifty nicker in tens, rolled up tightly out of my shirt pocket. ‘Half now. Half later. How about that?’
‘He was there,’ said Rick. ‘I promise you Jimmy went there.’
‘So you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘All right. But watch the fat bastard. You don’t know him.’ And he touched the scar on his face again.
We got out of the car and walked round the corner. Just as Rick had described it, there was a door next to the pottery s
hop, with an entryphone attached to the frame. I looked up. Dim light escaped from the edges of the curtains at the two windows above us.
London Noir - [Anthology] Page 5
