by Mark Timlin
We got to the outskirts of Bickley about nine and drove through the town as directed. The entrance to the Royal Hotel loomed up on our right just as the voice on the telephone had promised. The front of the building was lit up to match the Christmas tree set on the lawn in front of the main door to the hotel. The place had all the signs. A tasty little crib for villains to cut the mustard. Straights also served as camouflage, of course. Teddy followed the signs to the car park. I’d gone right off them after my last little excursion and told him so. He told me to relax and drove to the farthest corner, away from the lights and at least thirty feet from the nearest motor. Right then I wished I hadn’t thrown the Browning in the river.
14
We got out of the car and walked across the blacktop and around the front to the revolving doors of the hotel.
Inside it was party time for the local swingers. All the crims in South London who had made good and migrated down the Old Kent Road until they hit enough green to call the country and had settled down and taken root. The place was chocka with the nouveaux riches. I had spotted Rollers and Porsches and Bentleys and big BMWs and the odd Cadillac and Stingray in the car park.
There were a lot of young tarts about hanging on to older men with hair clawed over their bare scalps and a tendency to paunchiness. And old tarts too with their toy boys. The place was full of hungry-eyed females. I know I’m no Richard Gere but I could feel their eyes crawling over me at forty feet. I tell you what, if you couldn’t pull in the Royal Hotel, Bickley, you might as well collect your P45 and apply for your pension. Of course, if you did pull you could just offend some face and might well end up under the foundations of the M2 extension as between the sheets with a mystery for a night of passion. Fiona noticed the looks too and flashed me one of her own. I was pleased that Teddy got more than me.
We crossed the overheated foyer to the check-in desk and I beckoned the receptionist over. He was a fat old queen in a tight grey suit. ‘Vegas Bar?’ I queried.
‘Through the doors there.’ He pointed. ‘Into the Lloyd-Webber wing.’ I was beginning to get the taste of the place by then.
‘But there’s a private party on tonight,’ he added.
‘I’m expected,’ I said. ‘Is there another bar?’
‘Of course, sir, several. The Cocktail Bar, the Lounge Bar and the Jolly Cockney Bar.’
We were spoilt for choice. ‘Not the Jolly Cockney Bar,’ said Fiona.
‘Where’s the Lounge Bar?’ I asked.
‘Just across the foyer, sir, and down one flight of stairs.’ He pointed again.
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘You want to wait for me in there?’ I said to Teddy and Fiona.
‘Looks like we don’t have much choice,’ she said back.
I didn’t argue, just made kissy face at her, waved and went in the direction the receptionist had indicated, through double doors and along a thickly carpeted corridor decorated with pictures of Old Bickley, and then to another set made of polished wood and sparkling crystal, etched with motifs of flowers and grapes. A board had been set up in front of the doors. In white plastic lettering on a black background it read:
VEGAS BAR CLOSED PRIVATE PARTY
‘Mister Lupino,’ I said to the maître d’ who was guarding the door against all comers as if his life depended on it, which it probably did. ‘He’s expecting me. My name is Sharman.’
The maître d’ beckoned over a white-jacketed waiter, whispered in his ear and sent him scuttling over to a gangster in a powder blue tux with matching frills on his dress shirt. He, in his turn, threaded his way through the crowd up a couple of wide stairs to a quieter part of the bar and spoke to half a ton of swarthy trouble shoe-horned into a Moss Bros reject that fitted as tightly as a condom. The huge guy looked over at me and then turned and vanished into the gloom. I was left standing.
Then the story reversed itself. The big bloke came back and spoke to the powder blue tux who hurried down the stairs and spoke to the waiter who was still waiting. Which was his job, after all. The waiter came back to the maître d’ and whispered for half a minute to him. The maître d’ squinted down his nose at me, which was difficult as I was at least three inches taller than he was, and said in a cod French accent, ‘Monsieur Lupino will see you now.’
‘Cheers,’ I said bravely back with no accent at all, and slid around him into the bar like Daniel into the lion’s den. It was packed inside and the air-conditioning was taking a hiding. The bar was awash with Christmas. Any more tinsel and the rafters would have collapsed. The room was full of bimbos getting near the end of their shelf life and clutching on to their sexuality with sharp red nails and the help of sun beds and designer dresses in suede and Lurex.
There was a four-piece combo on a dais in the corner farthest from the bar, playing a turgid version of You’ve Got A Friend. The wives, with their silver tints and panda white eyes and third finger left hand crusted with diamonds, were envying their own daughters’ youthfulness and mouthing the words of the song to their uninterested husbands, as if it would bring some excitement back into their marriages.
Fat chance.
I made my way through the crowd and the band segued into Billie Jean and I was up the broad steps into the sanctum.
The festivities hadn’t percolated across to this corner of the bar. Even the decorations looked sad. There were four men standing where maybe a dozen would fit comfortably. But no one was interested in intruding on their personal space. The bar top was littered with empty glasses rimed with scum. The minder was waiting for me with two regulation well-hard razor boys whose tailors allowed an extra inch or so in their jackets on the opposite side to their gun hand to allow room for a shoulder holster. The fourth man was different. I could tell that even though he was standing back out of the dim light that filtered through from where the main action was.
I stood for a minute.
The huge man came over to me. ‘Sharman?’ he asked.
I nodded. He sounded like whoever I’d spoken to when I’d telephoned Nine Elms earlier.
The heavy shook his head. More in sorrow than in anger, I think. ‘You fucking mug,’ he said, and went over to the fourth man. He stood with his back towards the bar, facing out across the dance floor with a perfect view of all the room. A sniper’s view.
The heavy went and whispered in his ear. The whole crew must have had videos of The Godfather at home.
I saw a glint from Bimpson Lupino’s eyes and he motioned for me to step forward into his presence.
‘Mister Lupino,’ I said.
He was taller than I had expected, better looking, better dressed. I’d expected Edward G. Robinson and I got Anthony Quinn playing Aristotle Onassis in a crappy mini series. He stuck out his hand and I shook it. I only counted my fingers once when I got it back.
‘Mister Sharman, so glad you could come,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Unfortunately his voice let him down. It was thick and ugly. Half Cockney and half Greek, but no jokes about kebabs. He had nice teeth though and he knew it. He left them uncovered too long after every smile.
He pointed to the heavy. ‘Max,’ he said. Max nodded as if it hurt. I nodded back. The razor boys were Rick and Lonzo. More nods, more pain. ‘You want a booze?’ Bim asked.
‘Lovely,’ I said calmly, but I was shitting myself. I felt like a fillet steak in a pool full of piranha fish.
Lonzo rapped on top of the bar and a rabbity girl in a white blouse and black skirt popped up like a jack in the box. Although the rest of the bar was packed and people were cutting each other’s throats for a drink, it seemed that Mister Lupino was not to be kept waiting.
‘Same again,’ said Lonzo. ‘And?’ He looked at me.
‘Vodka and tonic,’ I said. ‘Large one.’
Lonzo squinted at me, but ordered the drink nevertheless. I was glad to see the barmaid free pour from a Blue Label bottle.
I picked my drink off the
bar. I was shaking but it was controllable. I liked that. It made me feel better. Rick bumped me and nearly made me spill my drink. ‘You got heat?’ he asked.
‘What, like a Calor gas stove?’
‘You think you’re funny, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I said back. ‘Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night just laughing all over my face.’
‘You see how funny it is when I put that stick up your arse.’
‘You can try, if that’s what turns you on, sweets,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t recommend it.’
I hoped I sounded tougher than I felt.
‘Knock it off, the pair of you,’ said Lupino.
I was willing but Rick wasn’t. ‘You stub your toe in the shower?’ he asked spitefully.
I was getting tired of him and so was his boss. ‘Rick, I said knock it off, I won’t tell you again,’ he said.
‘Do what the man says or Santa won’t pop down your chimney next week,’ I said.
‘And you,’ said Lupino.
Rick and I both glared at each other and retired from the fray unhurt.
The drugs and booze were beginning to screw up my peripheral vision. I kept seeing hallucinations out of the corners of my eyes. They say when you stop taking it, it gets worse. My advice, don’t stop.
One of the hallucinations was sitting on a bar stool at the bottom of the short flight of steps. I hadn’t noticed her on my way in. I’d been too busy trying to walk forwards and watch my back at the same time. She was short, that was obvious. Her feet dangled at least nine inches off the deep red carpet and twined around the metal pole that supported the seat. She was white-skinned and bottle blonde, and the bottle was fighting a losing battle with the darkness of her body hair. So dark in fact that I could see a faint suggestion of a moustache on her top lip. Her hair was a yellow fuzz, dry and static-filled. She was big, broad-shouldered but soft. Her hundred and forty pounds was stuffed into a raspberry pink satin frock, so tight that the material was threatening to call time out at several pressure points along the side seams. The colour and cut of her dress flattered neither complexion nor figure. She was sipping at a cocktail whose colour exactly matched the shade of her frock. Her dumpy legs were encased in black fish net and the flesh bulged through the mesh like warm lard. I imagined the cellulite marching up the backs of her legs like footsteps in the snow.
Bim saw me looking. ‘My youngest daughter, Antonia,’ he said.
I stopped thinking bad thoughts in case mind reading was one of his many talents and tried to look admiring.
‘A picture, Mister Lupino.’
He looked at me closely to see if I was taking the piss. ‘A good girl,’ he said. ‘But she needs a husband.’
The good girl’s face was like urban blight made flesh. I don’t know why she hadn’t taken advantage of Daddy’s cash and visited a discreet private clinic for some cosmetic surgery. Perhaps the old man thought she was cute. Perhaps a surgeon wouldn’t know where to start.
She drained her glass and cracked the counter with the stem. A barman came at the double carrying a jug full of the same pink mess and topped up her glass. She sneered at him and he blanched and backed away. She looked like she was a right chip off the old block. She pulled a cigarette from the packet on the bar in front of her and waved it about, and two handsome boys appeared, one on each side of her, and fought over who would fire it up. The look she gave them nearly took their ears off.
‘She seems to have plenty of admirers here,’ I remarked.
‘I pay them fuckers to be attentive,’ said Bim.
‘Is your good lady wife here tonight?’ I asked in a friendly manner. Bim pointed with his eyes and I looked over the heads of the revellers to where a pudden in glacé blue was dancing with an adolescent boy a clear two feet taller than she was. He was bending over her like a flamingo catching shrimp and looking about as pink around the earholes.
‘My old woman and my nephew Ben.’
‘They make a handsome couple.’
Now he knew I was taking the rise and his eyes narrowed. I decided to leave family matters well alone. I sipped at my glass and Bim said, ‘Glad as I am to meet you at last, it could have been under better circumstances.’
‘You can say that again!’
‘I believe you’ve even mentioned my name to the police?’
‘They’ve heard it before,’ I said.
He gave me a look that could have frozen blood. ‘Why did you think it necessary to jog their memories?’
‘I think you know.’
He shook his head.
‘I think you do,’ I said.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Last night, Covent Garden, three men in a green Daimler. Armed men. One was about to shoot me and probably the girl I was with. If it hadn’t been for her, we’d both be dead now.’
‘I still don’t know how that involves me.’
‘She ran one down, I shot another, and we frightened the driver off. Does that jog your memory?’
‘You’re crazy, boy, if you think I had anything to do with that.’
‘But you do know about it?’
He did the continental walk and hummed and hawed with his hands. He knew all right. ‘I know lots of things,’ he said.
‘Everybody tells me that,’ I said.
I finished my drink and tapped for another one without waiting to be asked.
‘So?’ he said when the barmaid had topped up my glass.
‘So it’s going to make Old Bill a bit suspicious. I go in telling them that someone has stitched up Emerald, I mention your name, and the same day someone tries to kill me. It might make them look a little deeper into the job that was done on Emerald.’
‘They can look twice at anything they like as far as I’m concerned. I repeat, I had nothing to do with Watkins’s trouble. If he wishes to deal drugs that is his affair. If he gets caught it’s his own fault. You are looking for a scapegoat and you chose me. I do not appreciate my name being bandied about police stations. I think I may have to teach you a lesson.’
I saw the razor boys tensing for action. Lupino really was behind the times.
‘Leave me alone,’ I said. ‘There’s people here who are expecting me to join them for a drink later, in one piece. They know where I am and who I’m with and if I turn up half dead in some back alley or just disappear they’ll scream “Police” so loud not even you will be able to shut them up. And another thing, if you do decide to teach me a lesson, make it a permanent one, because if I’m alive I’ll grass you up and enjoy every minute of it. If I mentioned your name, so what? If you’re innocent you’ve got nothing to worry about. Someone tried to mark my card last night, in permanent ink. I want it stopped.’
Bimpson’s fists were opening and closing in anger.
‘You brought someone?’ he said calmly, as if he could hardly believe it himself.
‘Someone brought me.’
‘You were told to come alone.’
I tapped my leg with my cane. ‘I’m not driving.’
‘You should have taken a cab.’
‘And be stuck in Bickley without a ride back to town? No chance.’
‘You could have let it wait,’ he said.
‘It always makes me nervous with a cab outside,’ I said. ‘The meter ticking away and all. The expense. I don’t like it. And if you really thought I was going to walk in here all on my lonesome, you must want your head looking at.’
He ignored the insult. ‘So who did drive you?’
‘A friend, and my girlfriend came too, just for the ride.’
‘You brought a skirt with you,’ interrupted Rick.
‘Why? You frightened?’
‘Of a tart? You’re joking.’
‘Your mates learnt the hard way.’
‘No mates of mine, Sunshine. Don’t you fucking listen? Mister Lupino told you.’
‘I don’t always believe what I hear.’
‘You calling my guv’nor a
fucking liar?’
Now that was a tough one. I didn’t say yes, I didn’t say no.
Bim interrupted. ‘Where are they?’
‘The Lounge Bar,’ I said.
‘Go and get them,’ said Lupino to Rick and Lonzo.
‘Watch out, they bite,’ I said. ‘Especially the black one.’
‘You brought a fucking spook with you?’ spat Bim.
‘Like I said, he brought me.’
‘One of Watkins’s little firm?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bring them in,’ said Lupino. ‘Go on.’ Rick and Lonzo split, picking up two other gangsters as they went like lint on a dark jacket. The band played The Twist, which segued into Let’s Twist Again, followed by The Peppermint Twist, and finally Twistin’ The Night Away. The girls and boys were letting it all hang out. It occurred to me that Chubby Checker had a lot to answer for. Then they moved on to The Lambada.
The band worked through its repertoire and I worked through the Smirnoff bottle, never touching the sides once.
After about fifteen minutes Teddy and Fiona were wheeled in by four Greeks. Teddy looked immaculate in his dark suit and Fiona had discarded her coat and was wearing a sexy little black dress that did nothing much to hide her spectacular figure. Everyone in the room clocked the six of them as they entered. Antonia gave Fiona that especially poisonous look that seemed to run in her family. They all came over to our corner of the bar.
‘We got the coon and the scrubber,’ said Rick proudly.
I made a move towards him but Lupino caught my arm. ‘Rick, apologise,’ he said. ‘You’ve insulted Mr Sharman’s friends.’
Rick looked stunned. ‘Do what?’
‘You heard,’ I said.
‘Come, Rick,’ said Lupino, suddenly sweet as honey.
‘Sorry, Boss,’ said Rick. ‘I don’t know what come over me.’
