What was I supposed to say? I found your brother. If I was earlier he might be alive. He was tortured. He had a rubber gimp suit on and a banana shoved up his arse. What the hell was I supposed to say?
Sorry? What good was sorry? I didn't know what to do. I was struggling with his death myself. I couldn't cope. Now I was supposed to go comfort his sister.
There, there. It's all okay. It's all going to be alright.
Bollocks! It wasn't okay and it wasn't alright. Longy was dead, and everything was fucked up.
The shop was in Acton, down behind the park. The family had lived in the south and worked in the west. Marisol had taken over the shop as an adult and moved above it.
I pulled into the Churchfield Road, crossed the railway crossing and parked in one of the back streets. I locked up Betsy, and trudged slowly towards the shop.
The big metal shutters were pulled down over the front. A paper sign in scrawled handwriting was stuck to the metal. Closed until further notice.
There was a door to the side that led up to Marisol's flat with a chrome intercom next to it. Just the one button. She had two entire floors to herself. I pressed the buzzer. It whined miserably.
No answer. I pressed again.
Still no answer.
I pressed it again.
‘We’re closed. Go away!’ a tearful voice responded.
‘Marisol, it’s me … Wolfy.’
The door lock buzzed and clicked. I pushed the door and walked in. Marisol wrapped her arms around me the second she was close enough.
Her auburn hair was messed up and she was wearing a t-shirt and leggings. She looked bad, like she hadn’t slept since she’d heard. A single moment had torn her world apart. She felt like a rag doll in my arms. I carried her back up the stairs and through into the living room and placed her on the sofa. I'd known Marisol as long as I'd known Longy. We were friends, good friends.
I made her a cup of coffee and sat there on the sofa next to her. It took a while before either of us spoke. Words seemed pointless. How could you explain the unexplainable? How do you come to terms with what shouldn't have happened?
I pulled Marisol closer to me, held her in my arms. She held me back, wrapped her arms tightly around me, both of us clinging desperately to each other for stability, trying to steady each other in a world that seemed to be in chaos around us. I looked into her face and knew it reflected the pain and torment of my own. We sat there a good while in silence, not really knowing what to say. She was trembling. I gave her the crocheted blanket that was on the side.
‘What did the cops ask you about, Longy?’ I said as she pulled the blanket around herself. It was the first real words spoken between us. The first moment of reality to invade and I started it.
‘They wanted to know whether he was kinky or not. Can you imagine?’ A smile rose on her face. She wanted to laugh. ‘He wasn’t that brave.’
‘Brave enough to go travelling,’ I replied. The travelling Longy had caught everyone off guard. It was so out of character. Longy was a homebody, loved being at home. He was one of those Londoners that never strayed too far from his roots, kept close to his village. He’d only had the flat in Shepherds Bush because it was a bargain and Marisol was up the road. Otherwise he wouldn't have moved.
When he’d said he was going travelling, I almost broke a rib laughing. Then when I knew he was serious, I was awestruck. A man I'd known all my life had changed in what seemed like a day. One minute he was Longy, the next, he was travelling; gone and unheard of for six months until he reappeared at The Hanging Man, dishevelled and broken.
‘Oh that wasn’t bravery.’ Her face took on a ghostly gaze.
‘What was it then?’
‘I don’t know. All I do know is that something forced him to leave. I don’t know what. I just know it did. I tried to ask him about it but he wouldn’t tell me. He just lied, saying he wanted to see the world, thought he could lie to me with those flickering eyes of his.’
I’d forgotten about that. Whenever he tried to lie, Longy’s eyes would start blinking rapidly. He had what poker players call a tell. It made me smile to think about it.
‘He didn't say anything? Not even a hint?’
‘I think it was something to do with Michael, but I'm not sure.’ She gritted her teeth as she uttered the name of her second brother.
‘You haven't heard from him?’
‘Not a word. His baby brother’s dead and that shitbag is too selfish to even speak to me. Always the fucking same, the fucking ...’
‘Maybe he doesn't know?’ I cut across, trying to be reasonable, not for Michael's sake. As far as I was concerned he was, as Marisol said, a shitbag; one of the people at the top of my list of people I wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire. It was more for Marisol. Talking about Michael always set her off, made the veins start to bulge in her neck and twist her all up.
‘I've been trying to ring him, the bastard. But he won’t pick up. His own brother is lying on some cold slab in a mortuary all by himself, and he’s off gallivanting.’ The tears returned to her bloodshot eyes. I held her closer.
‘They ask you anything else?’ I was trying to change the subject.
‘Who?’
‘The police.’
‘Just some general bullshit. Did he have any enemies, people who may have wanted to hurt him?’ She was smiling as she said it. ‘Can you imagine that? Enemies. Like he was some kinda gangster. What gangster? He was a doughnut, little Baba. My silly little Baba. Why is he dead, Wolfy?’ her voice pleaded for an answer. ‘What happened to my little Baba?’
‘I don't know why he's dead, Maris. I don't know why anyone would want to kill Longy.’
‘What? What do you mean kill?’ she exclaimed.
‘Didn't they tell you he was murdered?’ I hadn’t intended to tell her. I didn’t want to inform her of anything, but somehow it had slipped out.
‘What? They only told me it was suspicious.’
‘Suspicious was right. There was a guy with a machine gun.’ It was all coming out now.
‘How d’ya know this?’
‘Didn’t they tell you I found him?’
‘No!’ There was a lost look to her, utter bewilderment. The only relative she actually cared about was gone, and the facts had been kept from her. Bosley was being circumspect. I understood why. In his world only the provable was uttered. But at the same time, a little compassion wouldn't have harmed.
‘I thought you knew I found him. I thought you knew I was there.’ The sadness was washing back in like a returning tide, drowning the idlers on the beach.
‘They never said nothing. All they made me do was identify him. Make sure it was him.’ The anger was competing with the grief inside her. I could see the battle in her face.
‘Nothing else,’ I returned. ‘That's the police for ya. They never say anything unless they know it for sure.’ I didn't want to mention that Bosley thought I was involved or, at the very least, wanted me to be, which might have explained some of his reticence in being informative.
‘I want to know what happened, Wolfy. And no bullshit ... everything!’ The anger had won, the tears were gone, dried by the fire in her eyes.
I was up to my neck in it now and had to give Marisol the full story, well as much as I knew.
‘You sure?’ I was trying to protect her from some of the more gruesome bits of Longy's demise.
‘Just tell me. Tell me everything.’ Her voice was stern and commanding. Steel pumped through her veins.
I started from the beginning: told her how I'd bumped into Longy at The Hanging Man; how he'd told me to meet him at his for three; how I'd got there early, broken down the door; told her about the guy in the cowboy hat with the machine gun. I even told her about the pepperoni. And because the look in her eyes frightened me so much, I even told her about Bosley, explaining how he wanted to send me down, and hoped I was involved. She knew it was bullshit, knew I loved Longy.
Bosley's name rang
a bell though. He’d been less than courteous. Policeman’s scepticism. Look to the family first. When I’d finished she asked me.
‘Do you have any idea who that guy was?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘You’re going to find out.’ It was less a question and more a statement; a command. ‘And when you do, you’re going to tell me.’ There was no emotion in her voice. No sign in her tone of what she was thinking. But it was blazoned across her eyes. She was a Mediterranean woman, and there was fire in her heart and vengeance in her soul. Someone had taken her dearest kin, and she’d level the kingdoms of Heaven and Hell to get revenge.
And she'd decided then and there that I was going to help her. The fact I'd already decided to dig around was neither here nor there. If I hadn't been before, Marisol had decided that I was now.
I understood her need for vengeance. Understood the way revenge can give you strength, give you drive.
Looking at Marisol I knew what she had planned; not the details, but certainly the outcome, the result she wanted … which was why I had no intention of telling her if I ever found out who he was, although I nodded to say I would. I’d lost one friend to that guy and I had no intention of losing another. I wasn’t willing to see Marisol go to jail for that piece of shit, especially if I could find another way to get him.
‘Good. As soon as you find out, you tell me, hey Wolfy.’ She uttered in a matter of fact way rising up from the sofa. I nodded in compliance.
‘Time to get up and open the shop. The bills need paying and I have things to do.’ The knowledge that there was someone to get revenge upon had reinvigorated Marisol.
‘There's always bills to pay,’ I replied. ‘They can wait till tomorrow. Take the day off.’
‘There's no rest in this town. No time to grieve. Just have to keep going, keep fighting.’
‘True.’ I sighed. Rising up, preparing to return to the world, into the merciless city that was both friend and foe to those that resided in her.
‘You make sure you tell me. Okay, Wolfy?’
‘No worries,’ I lied.
I left the revitalised Marisol to open the shop and headed towards Betsy, I wanted to visit my lock-up. I’d planned to go there from the start, before I'd even seen Marisol. It was one of those two-birds-with-one-stone situations.
Before Longy had left on his supposed travels, he'd left me a big old trunk with his prized possessions to hold for him. At the time, it hadn’t seemed important and I'd just dumped it in the lock-up. But now I was curious to find out what was in it. See if it had any connection to what happened, his reaction when I mentioned it made me suspicious.
I heaved open the heavy metal door that guarded my lock-up. It was full to the brim of all manner of stuff, which made finding Longy’s trunk something of an arduous task. It had been a while since I'd had a good clear-out, plus things had been extremely slow. So what should have been shifted was now piling up. I was turning into a bit of a hoarder.
I finally found the trunk buried under fifteen crowbars, a large elephant foot umbrella stand, and a collection of Morris Minor car manuals (don't ask).
The trunk was a little bit smaller than a suitcase. It was made out of cheap wood, and had a large padlock on the front. I picked up one of the crowbars and forced the lock. The lock stayed solid but the trunk broke instead. Either way it was open. I lifted the lid. For such a large trunk there wasn’t a lot in it: a small velvet bag with some jewellery; a couple of boxes of Havana cigars; a shoebox with some paperwork; and a photo album. I flicked through the photos. It was Longy’s life: I was in a few as was Tabatha; there were loads of his family … his entire history. I placed the album back in the trunk and continued to rummage. I’d seen it initially when I’d lifted the lid; instinctively it had caught my eye. It was a small intricately carved wooden box with a varnished finish. The pattern was mostly swirls and raised asymmetric patterns; no real discernable shapes just grooves on the wood. It looked like quality workmanship, handmade at the very least. It had a few stains and an odd scratch, but other than that was in perfect condition. There was a small brass hook that kept the lid closed. I flicked the catch and opened the lid.
Staring out from inside the box, which was lined with padded red silk, was a scaled model of Tom Jones, the Welsh pop singer. It was dressed in a white PVC jumpsuit, had a small gold medallion around its neck and a hairy chest. It was an action figure; a Tom Jones action figure. To say I was surprised is probably an understatement.
‘What the hell were you up to, Longy?’ I proclaimed, as I pulled the little Tom Jones out of the box.
The thing started singing. The minute the figure came out of the box the music blared out of it, it was singing ‘Kiss’ by Tom Jones
I twirled it in my hands as the music continued to play. I checked through the box. Empty. Nothing.
‘Okay, this is odd,’ I said to myself.
I put little Tom back in his box and the music stopped, which was a relief. Don't get me wrong I don't mind a bit of Tom Jones, but there's a time and a place, and that wasn't it. I closed the lock-up and jumped into Betsy, flinging the box in the back.
I started Betsy, put her into gear, and then just sat there. I didn't know what to do. Truthfully, I had been expecting something more helpful in the box. I revved Betsy and pumped the pedal a bit. The revs helped me think. I pulled out the phone and told Tommy-Two-Tooth I was coming to see him and then headed off to The Hanging Man. I had no idea what I was doing and this seemed as good an idea as any. Maybe he knew what the box and Tom Jones were about. I drove back through the city. The traffic had started to pick up and the going was slow.
I parked up round the corner from The Hanging Man. I needed to take some pictures of the box and Tom Jones to show Tommy-Two-Tooth.
Usually, whenever the occasion’s occurred that I’ve come into possession of something that I didn’t know how to sell, I’d take photos of it and then show them to Tommy-Two-Tooth. Tommy always requested photos. He never asked to see the actual merchandise; never wanted to get his fingers near enough to become imprinted.
I took out my phone and started snapping away, shooting the box inside and out, as well as various angles of the Tom Jones action figure, which started singing the second it was released from its confines. God knows what anybody passing would have thought. Once I'd finished making sure to get all the sides and angles, as Tommy is a fussy bugger, I went to The Hanging Man.
Thursday 4:00 p.m. (The Hanging Man)
Geronimo was behind the bar, and the few early entrants were well on the road to oblivion. I nodded to Geronimo and went over to Tommy’s booth. Tommy was alone reading the paper and nursing a cognac.
‘Good evening, Wolfy,’ he said not even raising his eyes.
‘Tommy,’ I sighed, slumping into the chair opposite.
Tommy’s definitely the other side of sixty, maybe even on the pension. He had a natural elegance; a debonair and slightly haughty air about him, like a Victorian colonel. He even had the moustache; an upturned handlebar.
He was dressed as always in one of those Victorian style suits he always wore. The only part of Tommy that was out of place with his Victorian gent persona were the two gold-tipped alligator teeth that he wore round his neck on a thin gold chain … which was how he got his name, not as may have been presumed, due to a lack of dental requirements.
‘So what can I do for you this evening?’ he enquired.
‘I need some info on this stuff.’ I flipped out the phone and showed him the pictures.
‘It would appear to be a hand-carved wooden box and a replica of the Welsh singer Tom Jones.’
‘Yes, Tommy, I know that. I'm trying to find out something else.’
‘Such as?’
‘Longy told me to look after these things before he left. I think it might be connected to his death. Well, I'm hoping it is.’
‘Ah. Can't help you there, old bean, although Patrice Laussant will buy the box.’
�
��I don’t want to sell it I just want to know what these things are, and whether Longy was killed because of them.’
‘Like I said, I can’t help you there, but go see him, you may find it interesting.’
‘Yeah?’ I replied in exasperation.
‘Yes.’
‘Fine, I’ll go. Gimme the address.’
Tommy gave me the address and told me that Patrice Laussant wouldn’t be there until Saturday. The box and Tom Jones were a key and this Patrice Laussant connection would tell me what they meant. Tommy was still bound by confidentiality to Longy, but that’s why I had to see this guy. It was my only lead.
Leaving Tommy in his booth I went back to the bar.
‘How's tricks?’ I said addressing Geronimo.
‘Not bad. How was Marisol?’
‘What? How did you …?’
‘Charlotte.’ He said, cutting me off.
‘Oh yeah.’ Charlotte, Geronimo's girlfriend and Marisol's best friend; the gossip grapevine was in full force.
‘I don't know what you said to Marisol, but Charlotte was very impressed. She said Marisol is up and about and running the shop.’
‘What can I say? Wolfy magic. Any chance of a Leffe?’ I was clucking for a beer.
‘Here ... on the house.’ Geronimo said placing a cold one on the bar.
‘Wow .... To what do I owe the privilege?’
‘Thank Charlotte.’
‘I always said she was a good woman. Have one for yourself if you’re paying. ‘
‘Most generous.’
He put a second one on the table.
‘This one's from me. You look like you need it.’
‘Cheers, Mo. Most required.’
I stayed drinking in The Hanging Man till far later than I intended. The idle small talk and large number of beers were a welcome respite from the present which I was reluctant to rejoin. I had found an answer. Now I had to know the question.
Friday 1:00 p.m.
I had one more day before Patrice Laussant would reappear and, hopefully, explain the lunacy that Longy had left me in a box. My evening was already planned. Leon was hosting one of his infamous fancy-dress dos. I think being a drag queen he enjoyed seeing the rest of us dress up.
The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series) Page 5
