by Timlin, Mark
‘This gentleman is just leaving, Terry,’ she said to the brick wall. ‘It appears he doesn’t understand the protocol of our establishment. Can you find out who let him up here and administer a slap on the wrist.’
I felt sorry for the slappee. He’d probably end up with a nasty sprain.
‘She’s nice,’ I remarked to the big man as he approached me across the carpet. ‘Solid ice on the outside, but inside, a real pussy-cat.’
She sent me a look like a slap in the face.
I walked over to meet Terry. He raised his arm to stop me.
‘Out,’ he said firmly, majestically even. ‘I just want to see Mister Diva for a few minutes,’ I said.
‘Out,’ Terry repeated.
He gripped me by the shoulder. He was so tall he didn’t even have to reach up to do so.
‘Mind the gaberdine,’ I said. ‘Your hands look a little sweaty.’
Terry scowled. ‘Out,’ he said for the third time.
I stepped back and raised my arms from my body as if in surrender. He was big but not very good. His meaty hand pushed me back another short step and his eyes moved to the blonde as if for approval.
I kicked him hard between the legs. It was unforgivable of me, but instinctive. He hadn’t really treated me badly at all. I just didn’t like being pushed around. The shoes I was wearing were heavy with thick welts around the soles. I felt a jolt run up my leg as my foot connected with his groin. He doubled up in agony, clutching at his balls. He went down on one knee with a thud that shook the room, then rolled to the floor. What I did next was equally unforgivable and probably unnecessary, except that I suspected that the odds were heavily weighed against me in the building. I kicked Terry again, this time full in the face. My shoe connected with his cheekbone and a flap of skin two or three inches long peeled back. Blood filled the wound and began to run down his face and collect around his shirt collar.
‘I hope he’s not your boy-friend,’ I said pleasantly to the blonde. ‘He won’t be much use in that department for a day or so.’
She sat stunned behind her desk. I picked up the telephone and threw it hard against the lift doors. It exploded into useless shards of plastic and microchips that scattered across the floor. I nodded and smiled at her then walked over to the doors by which Terry had entered. They led into a large windowless lobby. The only furniture was a deep leather armchair which Terry must have sat in all day to guard his bosses.
Two doors led off the lobby. They were both anonymously black in colour. I chose the right-hand door to enter, just for the hell of it. I threw it open and it banged against the inner wall. The door led into a tycoon’s office. The room was large, light and long with a huge picture window at the end which had a magnificent view of the West End. In front of the window was placed the inevitable desk. This one was the size of a snooker table. Behind it was a plush swivel armchair in which sat a man who resembled a frog. Grey-haired, distinguished, manicured, barbered, Savile Row suited. But a frog never the less. All round the walls were gold discs mounted on wooden plaques or framed behind glass, about thirty in all. There were doors in both side walls. One I guessed was a connecting door to the next office, the other I didn’t have a clue about.
The frog-man jumped, startled as the door hit the wall.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he exclaimed in surprise with a voice hard and cockney.
‘Mister Diva Senior, I presume,’ I said as I walked across the carpet towards him.
‘Yes – no.’ He seemed confused. ‘What are you doing here? Who let you in? Who the fuck are you? Where’s Terry? What’s that stupid bitch Ingrid playing at?’
‘So many questions, so little time,’ I replied nonchalantly. He ignored me and punched a button mounted on his desk-top. The whole team were obsessed with buttons it seemed to me.
‘Are you Mister Diva?’ I asked.
‘Yes I am, and you’re on private property.’
‘Mark McBain sent me,’ I said. ‘My name’s Sharman.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Mark McBain,’ I repeated.
‘Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘I might have known it.’
The door on my left opened and three men burst in. One was a younger version of the frog-figure I was talking to. He was wearing a three-piece creation in silver silk with a matching grey shirt and tie. No one around there seemed to own a pair of Levis, and I always thought that rock and roll was a casual business. The other two were carbon copies of the two brick walls I’d already had dealings with. These two were dressed by the Kray twins school of gent’s natty suiting. Navy blue whistles, single-breasted, two-button with long slim lapels. White on white shirts with stiff collars and silk ties knotted tightly. They were the sort of outfits where your tailor fitted a razor pocket as an optional extra. It seemed to me that Mogul Inc. had thugs wall to wall.
I addressed myself to the taller of the heavies. ‘Did your mum have quads?’ I asked. I don’t think he got the point.
‘McBain sent this clown,’ Diva Sr bellowed. ‘Where’s Terry, what’s going on? No one, I repeat no one, is supposed to get in here without my say-so.’
I interrupted politely. ‘Terry is checking the family jewels, I think you’ll find. Out in your reception.’
The three who had entered Diva Sr’s office after me arranged themselves in a loose semi-circle around me, but not too close. Especially Diva Jr, who hung well back. I looked at each of them. Diva Sr was regaining his dignity. He sat back in his chair, safe now that reinforcements had arrived.
‘McBain,’ said the younger frog in my direction.
‘You must be the son,’ I remarked.
‘McBain,’ he repeated.
‘Doesn’t he have an off-switch?’ I enquired. I felt good holding centre-stage in the little drama. I felt better with the heft of the Magnum under my arm.
‘Mister Diva,’ I said to Diva Sr, ‘I’m working for Mark McBain, a former client of yours. He has told me that certain monies owing to him and other members of his group, “The Boys”, accrued whilst they were under contract to you, have not been paid. His solicitor and accountant are under the same impression. I merely wanted a short meeting with you. I have tried on various occasions to arrange such a meeting. Twenty-five to be precise. To no avail. I thought I’d present myself in person. When I was trying to explain this to your minder he decided to eject me. I objected. There was a slight disagreement. He’ll be back at work in a while.’
Diva Sr looked furious. ‘I don’t owe those bastards any money. They earned with me, and how did they repay me?’ He looked round the room. ‘They left me and started blackening my good name and reputation.’
‘It didn’t do them any good,’ I interrupted.
The telephone on Diva Sr’s desk rang. He picked up the receiver and listened for a moment.
‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t call the police. Leave this to me.’ He replaced the receiver on its cradle and looked back at me. ‘Do you know what they did?’ he asked. ‘They took my wife’s dog. She loved that dog, and while one of those toe-rags held it down, the others pissed all over it. That’s disgusting.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s got nothing to do with me,’ I said.
‘And once,’ he continued as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘after my family had given them the hospitality of our house, we found turds in the swimming pool.’
I almost smiled.
‘And besides,’ he went on, ‘where do you think this money is?’
‘In property, I expect,’ I replied, ‘like this building, and the solid blue chip shares in the States, and I heard you own a farm half the size of Berkshire.’
Diva Sr shrugged. He looked at the two heavies. ‘Hang him out of the window,’ he said.
‘No thanks,’ I said.
I’d already pegged Diva Jr as the rotten apple in the barrel and calmly walked round the back of the old man’s chair towards his son. As I went I pulled the Magnum from its shoulder-holster. I stuck the gun right in Junior
’s face.
‘Open your mouth,’ I ordered. As I spoke I saw one of the hoods reach under his jacket.
‘Tell him, Old Man,’ I said. Diva Sr, who was staring at the nickel-plated gun in my hand gestured with one downward sweep of his palm and the minder pulled his arm back.
‘Open your mouth,’ I said to Diva Jr. He shook his head and kept his lips tightly closed. I cocked the pistol. The click from the mechanism rang loudly in the silent office. ‘I hope this spring holds,’ I said conversationally. ‘Now open your mouth.’ Reluctantly Diva Jr did so. I pushed the barrel of the .44 between his teeth. ‘Now kneel down,’ I said. Diva Jr did as he was ordered, slowly, keeping his head up. As he knelt I noticed a dark stain spreading across the silver material of his trousers. ‘Rubber pants are good for incontinence,’ I mentioned to the old man.
‘I’ll have you killed for this,’ said Diva Sr.
‘No,’ I said. ‘What you’ll do is open your books for McBain’s accountants. They’ll take it from there.’
‘Or else?’ asked the old man.
‘I’ll pay your son another visit, privately.’ I grinned as disarming a grin as I could muster.
‘Be sure I don’t pay you a private visit first,’ he said.
‘Like you did to Jack Kitchen?’ I asked and felt the temperature in the room plummet.
The old man half rose from his chair. ‘Who?’ He spat.
‘You heard,’ I said. ‘I don’t frighten that easy. Now,’ I said to the heavies, ‘face the wall and assume a position. You know the drill.’
They looked pleadingly at their boss, who moved his forefinger in a circular motion. They turned in tandem and placed their hands against the wall, spreading their legs. I carefully removed the end of the Magnum’s barrel from Junior’s mouth, then crouched down and pulled his jacket open. I looked under both arms and ran my hand around his back. He was clean. I straightened up.
‘You, Old Man,’ I said. ‘Hands flat on the desk and keep them there.’
I walked silently over the thick carpet and after kicking their feet further apart to keep them off balance, frisked the two men. They were both armed with automatic pistols. I returned the Magnum to its holster and ejected the shells from the automatics one by one.
‘This will never do,’ I remarked.
I dumped the two guns in the waste-paper bin and left the room. ‘You’ll be hearing from my principal,’ I said to the room generally as I closed the door behind me. ‘Don’t follow me.’ I walked through the lobby and back into reception, drawing the Magnum as I did so. Terry was sitting in the receptionist’s chair behind the desk, holding a pad of gauze against his injured cheek. Ingrid was having hysterics on the couch. The uniformed man from the ground floor was hopping from foot to foot. Terry made as if to rise when I entered the room. I showed him the Magnum. He showed me a set of dingy teeth in a snarl.
‘I’ll see you again,’ he said.
‘Any time Terry,’ I replied. ‘And next time bring a friend. Get me the lift,’ I ordered. The uniform pressed the button and the lift doors opened straight away.
‘Bye now,’ I said and stepped into the car, pressed the button marked ‘G’, and plummetted down. The massive foyer was empty. The staff had obeyed their master’s voice and not called the Old Bill. I walked quickly out of the building and back on to the Euston Road. I vaulted the safety rail and dived across Hampstead Road and lost myself in the metropolis. After checking that I wasn’t being followed I darted into the first decent-looking pub I saw and sat, shaking, over a large brandy for the next ten minutes.
21
I advised McBain by post to send in the money men again. It was impossible to telephone and I couldn’t be bothered to go through all the hassle of making a personal visit and take the chance of his mother using me for target practice. I sent the letter recorded delivery and promptly forgot about the whole deal. Like I said I wasn’t broke and I had other fish to fry, if you could call a beautiful American woman a fried fish.
A week or so went by before I thought about Mogul or McBain or anything to do with the music business again. Saturday night had rolled around and Jo and I were sitting in the saloon bar of the Tulse Hill Tavern having a light refreshment before deciding how to spend the evening when I saw a huge shadow fill the doorway. I clocked engineer’s boots, tight denims and a beat-up leather pilot’s jacket and I knew without looking any further that it was Algy.
‘Grizzly Adam’s in,’ said Jo.
‘You’d better believe it,’ I replied.
Algy made eye contact and headed in our direction. All eyes in the bar followed his huge form as he sashayed across the floor.
‘He’s coming this way,’ whispered Jo in my ear.
‘I hope you’ve got a TV licence,’ I said, ‘otherwise things could get ugly.’
‘You mean uglier than him?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Beauty’s only skin deep,’ I reminded her as he arrived at the table where we were sitting. We both looked up as Algy loomed over us. Now I knew how it felt to come face to face with Bigfoot. He looked down from his massive height and his bearded face split into a crooked-toothed smile.
‘Nick,’ he said in a voice just a tone below a muted roar, ‘I asked around and someone said you might be in here.’
‘I’m getting too predictable,’ I said. ‘How are you, you little devil?’
‘In fine shape. I thought I’d take you up on that invite for a drink.’
‘You look well,’ I said. ‘It’s good to see you, life’s been a little dull for a while.’ Jo dug me in the ribs, and I smiled an apology.
‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Algy. ‘Someone told me that you’d been stirring some shit in Euston, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ The latter to Jo who was looking amazed.
‘You seem to have a lively network of “Someone’s”,’ I observed. ‘And this is Josephine, a good friend of mine.’
Algy took one of her hands in his giant fist and gently shook it. ‘Very nice to meet you, Josephine,’ he said politely.
‘Likewise,’ said Jo.
‘American?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Had some great times in America,’ said Algy, his eyes misting over with the memory. ‘Let me buy you both a drink.’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ I said.
Algy grinned again, asked us both what we’d have and sloped off to the bar. I opted for a Jack Daniels and Jo stuck to vodka and ginger ale.
‘Who the hell is that?’ asked Jo. ‘And I thought you were drinking gin and tonic’
‘Business,’ I replied, ‘and gin and tonic brings the beast in him out. I thought I’d have something macho.’
‘You guys,’ she said.
I hadn’t told her about my little contretemps with the Divas as I didn’t want her to get uptight at the thought of me running around armed and dangerous.
‘You mean a guy that size came to you for help?’ she asked.
‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some time.’
‘I can’t wait,’ she said.
Algy returned carrying three glasses and sat down. He stuck his paw into his jacket and pulled out a fat envelope.
‘I think congratulations are in order,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Did I win on “Spot the Ball”?’
‘The Divas rolled over and let the accountants in.’
‘Are you serious?’ I asked.
‘Never more so.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Well, it’s true, McBain’s accountants got in touch and Old Man Diva agreed to supply full accounts for the period in question for their perusal.’
‘It’s too easy,’ I said.
Jo was jumping up and down with curiosity and I promised to fill her in when we had the time, which quietened her down.
‘It’s down to you, Nick, the whole thing and McBain sent you this.’ He slid the envelope across the table. I didn’t touch it.
<
br /> ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Open it,’ said Algy. ‘I don’t know what’s in it.’
I unsealed the envelope and pulled out a stack of fivers an inch thick wrapped in a sheet of notepaper. I unfolded the paper and on it, handwritten, was the following:
Dear Nick,
Well done. The deal stands and this is nothing to do with it, but a gentleman always honours his gambling debts.
Best wishes,
McBain
I didn’t bother to count the cash. I knew that it would be twelve hundred and sixty five quid. There was a fifty pence piece in the bottom of the envelope and I pocketed the lot with a smile.
Jo’s eyes were the size of hubcaps. ‘Is this strictly legal?’ she asked.
‘And above board,’ I said. ‘I guess the Milky Bars are on me tonight.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said Algy. ‘I haven’t had a good night out for months.’
I looked at Jo and she shrugged. I clapped Algy on a shoulder that felt like concrete and welcomed him aboard.
We had a few more drinks in the pub and I suggested an Indian might go down well.
‘Love it,’ said Algy.
‘Sounds good to me,’ seconded Jo and we trooped over to our local Tandoori to get a table.
Jo and I ordered a reasonably-sized meal each but Algy went through the card until the table was loaded like a truck and I thought the waiter might have to use a fork lift to get the food up from the kitchen. Algy stripped off his jacket to display a Grateful Dead T-shirt and got stuck in.
‘Healthy little appetite you got there, boy,’ said Jo.
‘Don’t call him boy,’ I said and we cracked up.
We kept the waiters busy with orders for lager and poppadoms and chutney and I’m sure they were making a book on whether or not we’d finish the platters of food that kept appearing. By the time Algy creaked his chair back against the wall every dish had been emptied and wiped clean with nan bread.
