A Cool Breeze on the Underground

by Don Winslow

  “Yes, sir. I shall just put it up here until someone claims it.” Neal sat back down. Colin and company were happily devouring their steaks, conversation having given way to gluttony. They ate like pigs, though, so as not to let the side down.

  Neal enjoyed his lamb. Dessert, coffee, and we’ll see how this shakes out, he thought.

  The headwaiter had obviously shared the happy news with the rest of the staff, who wasted no time in leading Colin down the primrose path of destruction. A good waiter can hurry or stretch a dinner with a few chosen words and inflections, and these guys were artists. They had now begun to treat Colin like the Duke of Topping-on-Snot, suggesting expensive extras in a tone that suggested that only lowlifes would refuse. Colin, swayed in equal parts by gin, beer, wine, cocaine, heady sex, and sheer hubris, put up a feeble resistance.

  “Pudding, sir?”

  “Perhaps some brandy, sir?”

  “A liqueur for the coffee, sir?”

  (A bill that equals the gross national product of Paraguay, sir?)

  And finally: “Your check, sir.”

  “Thanks, guy.”

  The table was littered with the detritus of a glorious bacchanal that would have done Squire Weston and his ten hungry friends proud. Crisp punctuated the trencherman’s orgy with a satisfied belch of Richterian tenor.

  Colin wiped the last trace of his third chocolate mousse off his lips and reached in his jacket for his wallet. He reached again, then the other pocket; then his trouser pockets, side and rear. He stood up.

  The waiter arched an amused eyebrow. That did it.

  “Some fucking bastard stole my fucking purse!”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  The headwaiter came over and hovered ostentatiously, making dead sure that everybody in the place was watching. Everybody was.

  “A problem, sir?” he asked.

  “Some groveling whelp of a poxy tart stole my money!”

  The headwaiter was nearly delirious with joy. “We will happily accept your personal check.”

  “I don’t have any bloody personal check!”

  “Oh dear.”

  Allie chuckled. A glance from Colin stopped her.

  “Credit card, sir?”

  “Right, he lifted me purse and handed me back me credit cards,” Colin shouted.

  Crisp got up from the table. “Let’s just walk out. Come to a decent place and it’s full of thieves.”

  The headwaiter was unperturbed. “How do you intend to settle your bill, sir?”

  “I’ll come back with the money.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t do, sir.”

  “I’m quite capable of paying for it!”

  “With what, is the issue.”

  “With the money in me fucking wallet!”

  Now the headwaiter held center stage. With generations of music hall behind him, he gave a perfect delivery. “Oh, yes”—one, two, three—“your wallet.” He rolled his eyes for the benefit of his audience.

  Neal heard his cue. Enter, stage left. “Excuse me, maybe he’s talking about the wallet I turned in.”

  The headwaiter turned scarlet and stared at Neal, his eyes accusing him of base treachery. He was trying to decide whether to bluff it out or not. There was a lot of money in the wallet. Neal turned up the heat.

  “Yeah, the wallet I found in the men’s room. I turned it in to you.” He put a little extra New York street into his voice for Colin’s benefit.

  “What?” Colin stormed.

  The headwaiter didn’t take his eyes off Neal as he hissed, “Harry, did we have a purse turned in?”

  “I’ll go look.”

  “Thank you, Harry.”

  “I should mash your ugly face in, mate,” Crisp said to the headwaiter.

  “Shut up,” said Colin. He studied the headwaiter’s face, memorizing details. The purple and orange crew cut was looking around the restaurant, making sure that everyone saw their vindication. Allie smiled behind a napkin.

  The waiter came back. “Is this it?” he asked. He wasn’t as good an actor as his boss.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” said Colin, snatching it from him.

  The headwaiter played it out. “Do you have some identification, sir?”

  Colin flipped the wallet open to a picture of himself. “Happy?”

  “Overjoyed.”

  Colin flipped some bills on the table. “Keep the change. I owe you one, guv.” Then he addressed the crowd. “And to all you happy couples out there, I hope you get fucked as good tonight as you got in this place! C’mon, you lot.” He led his band out of the restaurant.

  Yeah, okay, now what? Neal thought. You’ve made contact so you have to follow up on it. Otherwise, if you try just to follow them, and get spotted, you’re screwed. You’ve walked through the door, so it’s time to smile and say hello.

  He left a ten-quid note on the table and headed for the door. The headwaiter stopped him.

  “Thank you, sir, for returning the gentleman’s purse,” he said with a smile as cold as his chilled salad forks. “I do hope we can do something equally helpful for you someday.”

  “Like force-feed me pâté with a coal scoop?”

  “Something along that line, sir, yes.”

  “Sounds like fun. Now get out of my way.”

  “Running off to join our new little friends, are we, sir?”

  The waiter wasn’t moving and Colin and friends were. Neal also saw that the other much-abused waiter was standing directly behind him. Attacked by a gang of vicious waiters, for Christ’s sake?

  Neal smiled pleasantly. “You know, usually, supercilious little fucks like you keep people like me out of the restaurant, not trapped in it.”

  “We just wanted to express our gratitude, sir.”

  Tick, tick, tick. Every second he stood there dealing with these assholes, Allie was getting farther away. Neal wondered whether the police were already on the way. Oh, well, what the fuck, he thought. He crossed his hands in front of his chest and grabbed the waiter’s lapels. Then he straightened his hands with a snap, popping the waiter’s stiff collar into his carotid artery. The world got all nice and woozy for the waiter, who pitched forward into Neal. Neal spun him and handed him to his startled assistant, and ran out the door.

  Step one, he told himself, is to get lost in the crowd. You don’t want the waiter doing any funny “He went that-away!” numbers for the local constabulary. Step two is to spot Colin and the Little Lost Kids before they fade back into a city of thirteen million other sweaty individuals. So pick it, kid, right or left out this door, and hope like hell you make the lucky choice. Neal would rather have licked every toilet bowl in greater Cleveland than explain to Graham and Levine how he could possibly have lost Allie Chase when she had been sitting right beside him in a restaurant. He made the choice to turn left outside the restaurant and plunged into the crowd of tourists who now thronged the street.

  Now most people don’t know how to get through a crowd, but most people didn’t spend their entire adolescence chasing Joe Graham through Chinatown on market days and down Fifth Avenue at Christmastime. Neal silently blessed the malevolent leprechaun as he eased his way quickly through the traffic toward Leicester Square, his best guess and hope as to Colin’s destination. He knew that angry people walk fast, and that they also tend to go to familiar places to cool off. Colin was sure as hell angry.

  Neal thought he’d grabbed a glimpse of Crisp’s head bobbing in the crowd about a half block ahead, but then he lost it. If Colin beat him to the square without Neal getting a look at where he was headed, it could be all over. Colin could head anywhere from the south side of the square, leaving Neal only a guess and a desperate search through the local pubs. He quickened his pace, finding every hole in the crowd and moving through it. He worked his way to the edge of the crowd, figuring he could race ahead and maybe even beat Colin to the square. That’s when the cop grabbed him.

  Neal stared up at the huge bobby, who had thrown an arm across
his chest.

  “Steady, lad,” the cop intoned. “Do you want to get run over?”

  Neal saw the edge of the sidewalk under his feet and realized that he had been about to step into the street, where even now taxis were rushing past. His heart slowed to a mere race as he forced a smile and said, “No, sir. Thank you.”

  He thought that he’d rather get creamed by the fucking cab than lose Colin and Allie, which was exactly what he was doing. They had to be in the square by now, and unless they were going there to hang out, he might have blown his last chance.

  The signal changed and Neal ran across the street onto the broad sidewalk that made up the northwest corner of the square. No Colin, no Allie, no crew cut, no Crisp. Go fish. In fact, he couldn’t see a goddamn thing with all the people out there. The unpleasant buzz of panic filled his ears for a second. Then he had a “just might work” idea. He crossed the north sidewalk, walking away from the square, and ran up a flight of stairs on the outside of the corner building. This was a second-floor restaurant, where a few tables looked out onto the square. He walked in. The place was packed and there was a line. Neal sidled his way up to the headwaiter. (He never suspected that his life would be so much in the hands of London’s headwaiters.)

  “Sir,” said this one in a voice that told Neal that these guys must all go to school together, “perhaps you noticed the people in queue behind you?”

  “I’m meeting friends,” Neal said, “and I’m very late.”

  “And do your friends have names, sir?”

  Tick, tick, tick. Maybe the old lapel trick …

  “Lord and Lady Hectare,” Neal said as he stood on tiptoes and waved to an old couple seated by the window. The puzzled old gentleman waved back feebly, just in time for the guard at the gate to see.

  “Bring another chair, could you?” Neal said before the waiter had a chance to check his reservation list. Neal was gambling that the waiter wouldn’t fuck around with any friend of the nobility anyway, and he headed straight for the table and stood over the couple, smiling his most ingratiating smile.

  “Hello,” Neal said as he peered out the window. “You don’t know me from a hole in the manor wall, but I just need to stand here for a moment or so and look out the window.” He scanned the square from left to right, farthest to nearest, and perhaps …

  “Now see here,” the old man was saying.

  “Exactly,” answered Neal. “I thought I saw a very rare Bumbailey’s pigeon a moment ago land in a tree in the square. I just couldn’t pass up a chance to spot it and add it to my list.”

  “A Bumbailey’s pigeon!” the woman exclaimed. “I’ve never seen one, either!” She turned to look out the window.

  “Balls,” the old man said.

  “I think it’s a female, actually. Of course, I only got a brief look at it.” There they were, headed down the west side of the square, not stopping for anything, presenting Neal with the perfect Hobson’s choice. He could stand up here and watch them walk out of range, or he could run down into the square and lose sight of them.

  “I have my opera glasses in my bag,” the woman was saying. Neal wasn’t listening. He was swallowing the bitter taste of fucking it up good. Bumbailey’s pigeon, indeed. He was about to run for the stairs and give it a futile shot when he heard the sound of drums and cymbals, and saw Colin and his trio stop dead in their tracks and try to turn around. Too late. A crowd formed in back of them, and in front of them were the Hare Krishnas, fifty of them at least, snaking their way up the west edge of the square in perfect formation. As the lead members started to circle around Colin and Allie, Neal smiled a long smile. Maybe there is a God, he thought. Hare Krishna, Hare Hare.

  “I think I see it!” the woman shouted. Other diners turned to stare at her. “A Bumbailey’s pigeon,” she explained patiently.

  “I guess I’ll be running along,” Neal said. “Thanks.” He made his way back to the foyer.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” asked the headwaiter.

  Neal looked at him with disgust. “That isn’t Lord Hectare.”

  Then he went to join the parade.

  They’re pretty impressive, these Hare Krishnas, Neal thought as he joined the edge of the crowd of spectators. I mean, you always think of them as airheads, but they know how to throw a parade. And Colin certainly looks happy, trapped in the middle of their intricately weaving patterns and all red in the face and staring at the ground, while Allie laughs and sings along.

  Neal worked his way around the chanting procession to put himself in Colin’s path. He found himself standing beside Charlie Chaplin’s statue. Never one to disregard a prop, he casually leaned against the statue and faced front, watching the Hares jingle, bang, and chant with bemused detachment. Ultimate cool. This also gave him time to catch his breath and stop sweating in streams.

  He was the first thing Colin saw as the figures finally cleared the way. Colin looked out past the last swirling Krishna to see Neal, one foot planted against the statue, grinning at him. Colin didn’t believe in coincidence. In his business, as in Neal’s, there is a word for people who do believe in coincidence: victims. He matched Neal’s grin and walked carefully toward him. Neal didn’t move, and the smile didn’t fade, and Colin didn’t like that one little effing bit. This was his turf.

  Neal watched him coming, and also watched Crisp work his way around to Neal’s left. A minor tactical error, Neal thought, as you should always play the odds that your adversary is right-handed and place yourself in position to grab that hand before it can do something nasty to your boss. Unless, of course, you’re carrying something far nastier and don’t mind using it. Neal pushed that ugly thought from his head and kept smiling as Colin came right up into his face.

  Neal got off first. “I liked your Alex and his Droogs act in the restaurant.”

  “It’s no act, rugger.”

  “No offense. Everybody has an act.”

  “What’s yours?” He was still smiling, but Neal saw the edge behind it. He wanted to start crying and say it was all a mistake.

  Instead he said, “I steal wallets.”

  Colin’s eyes turned killer cold. The smile vanished into a frown. He shook his head slowly back and forth while Crisp waited for the order to bash Neal’s head in. Neal could see Allie over Colin’s shoulder, observing the scene with a petulant sneer. Neal knew he could duck Crisp’s first shot. It was the second and third that had him worried, never mind what Colin might decide to contribute. Bright idea, he thought, trapping yourself against a statue. Very clever.

  Colin finally spoke. “Now why did you have to tell me, sports fan? You had a nice thing going, the bit about returning my purse and all, and then you have to ball it up and fookin’ tell me about it!”

  Neal wasn’t sure, but he thought the speech had the whiny tone produced by the last straw on a bad day. He sensed that Colin was more embarrassed than angry, and he almost started breathing again. On the other hand, he’d seen embarrassed people do some pretty wicked things.

  “What am I supposed to do now, eh?” Colin continued. “You’ve put my balls to the mark and I should break your thieving fingers, eh? But I’m grateful for bailing me out back in the restaurant! Why do you want to put me in a position like this?”

  “Just bored, I guess.”

  Colin looked him square in the eye. Either this bloke was crazy or he was the coolest character he’d seen since looking in the mirror that morning.

  “Well, rugger,” he started to say, then burst out laughing, “if it’s excitement you’re looking for …”

  Beware the hospitality of the sociopath. So thought Neal Carey as he leaned against the brick wall and threw up, which started his nose bleeding again.

  It had started mildly enough with a few pints thrown back in a congenial Garrick Street pub. Colin played host and introduced Neal around, starting with his own retinue.

  “Meet Crisp,” he said. “We call ’im ‘at because ’e’s always eatin’ the ruddy things. Kn
own ’im ‘arf me life, an’ I don’t think I know ’is real name.”

  “I play the guitar,” Crisp said.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  Colin introduced the girl with purple hair. “This is ’is bird, Vanessa.”

  “I’m always eating Crisp,” she said in a surprisingly middle-class accent.

  “And this,” Colin said proudly, clearly saving the best for last, “is Alice, your fellow Yank.”

  Alice? Neal thought. Alice? The finest schools America has to offer and that’s the best you can come up with? He reached out to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you. Where are you from?”

  She didn’t take the hand and she didn’t smile.

  “Kansas,” she said. Her blue eyes challenged him to call her a liar.

  “Well, Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  “‘Er name is Alice. She’s from California.”

  Clever Alice, thought Neal. What better to hype the fantasy of a city-bound Brit than a golden California sunshine girl? “I’ve been out there. Where in California?”

  She didn’t pause a beat. “Stockton. A real shithole.”

  Neal smiled at her. You’re not bad, Allie, not bad at all. “I haven’t been to Stockton.”

  She still didn’t smile back. Just looked at him flatly and said, “You ain’t missed anything.”

  You ain’t missed anything? Don’t push it, kid. “My shout,” Neal said. The barkeep drew four Guinnesses from the tap.

  “What brings you to London Town, then, Neal?” Colin asked. “What wind blows you to our green and pleasant land?”

  A pusher who quotes Blake? This is getting weirder and weirder. “Work.”

  “An’ what would ‘at be?”

  “I’m a cop.”

  Maybe Colin didn’t exactly choke on his beer, but it sure didn’t go down the smooth way Lord Ivey intended when he brewed the stuff.

  It was so much fun to watch, Neal said, “A private detective.” No reaction at all from Allie, not a flinch.

  “Get stuffed!” Colin shouted.

  “Scout’s honor. I’m over here guarding some executive stiff who’s buying antiques, or something.”

  “An’ you thought you might as well snatch a little nicker on the side.”