Gilded Edge, The

by Miller, Danny

  Vince could feel heat coming off Michael X as he briefly turned back into Mikey de Freitas. His heavy brow furrowed, his jaw jutted and he hunched over and grabbed the table edges with both hands as if to rip it up from the floor. Then he uttered, in a lethally hushed tone, ‘Kill ya fwar dat . . .’

  Vince’s goading smirk widened into a victorious smile. ‘That’s more like it, Mikey. Now you’re talking.’

  Mikey said nothing as he took on board some much needed calming breaths and slowly composed himself. And after the composition was complete, he was back to being Michael X. He opened the desk drawer and slipped his hand inside.

  On seeing this, Vince shifted in his seat and surreptitiously did likewise and slipped his hand into his coat pocket, where his fingers curled around the hilt and his thumb rubbed the button of the switchblade he was carrying. Not exactly standard government issue, but only a fool would come looking for Mikey de Freitas and Tyrell Lightly without a tool of some kind.

  Michael X pulled out from the drawer a pair of black leather gloves and slipped them over his hands, then stood up slowly. Vince stood up with him, slowly. Michael X raised his clenched fist in the air. Vince heard a dull thud and a muttered curse, and he looked round at the men behind him. They were all standing in the same position, with fists raised in salute. The dull thud and the muttered curse had come from Tiny, who had almost put his fist through the ceiling.

  CHAPTER 10

  With news of the revolution still ringing in his ears, Vince left Michael X and his Brothers and made the rounds of the pubs and clubs in the area, hoping the confrontational cop-cutter Tyrell Lighter would have heard that Vince was after him, and wouldn’t be able to resist showing his face. But that produced nothing, not a whisper. It was around ten p.m. when Vince decided to call it a night and walked back to his car, thinking about, of all things, the alto sax. Did he have the time to learn how to play the thing? Did he have the patience to learn how to play the thing? Or was it just going to sit in a corner of the room looking like a glitzy ornament, a conversation piece?

  Then he caught a break. Standing on the corner of the Portobello Road, outside the Finches pub, was Vivian Chalcott. Vince and Vivian had followed each other’s careers closely, in as much as Vince had had the pleasure of nicking Vivian at every turn in his career. The last time was while pimping in Soho for a Maltese firm, running a couple of black brasses out of two rooms in Berwick Street. And here he was now, standing on the street corner and up to no good. This wasn’t just Vince being judgemental; this was him witnessing Vivian standing on the street corner and leaning into a Ford Zephyr and handing over a wrap of cannabis and getting paid for it. Vince knew he was on to a winner with this one. He waited for the transaction to pass, then collared him. Literally. By lifting the pint-sized drug dealer off the pavement and putting him against the wall, suspended by the felt of his collar.

  ‘Well well well, Mr Treadwell . . .’

  ‘Hello hello hello, Vivian,’ said the laughing policemen as he rifled the dealer’s pockets and pulled out a bag of ten golden cubes of finest Moroccan. ‘What you doing with hash, Vivian? I thought you only smoked the weed in the Islands.’

  ‘I’m from St Lucia – we smoke anything.’

  Vince made a play of weighing the bag of hashish in his hand as if it was a dumbbell. ‘We got about what? . . . about two to three years for this, I’d say.’

  There was some sucking of teeth and some shaking of his head before Vivian said, ‘Ah, shit, you reckon me gonna be doing some time now, uh, Mr Treadwell?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Vivian, not necessarily.’

  Vivian looked up at the smiling detective. He knew what came next.

  Vince had collected the Mk II and was parked in Powis Square. His eyes were fixed on the top-floor flat of a four-storey terraced house, where a light was on. It was a red light. Vivian Chalcott had done the necessary for getting off what could have been, considering his form, a lumpy little stretch, and given Vince the lowdown on the whereabouts of Tyrell Lightly.

  Michael de Freitas had opened a new drinking club in Powis Square that also ran brasses in the upstairs rooms. And that’s where Tyrell Lightly was holed up, smack bang in the middle of Notting Hill. Vince had suspected the like, but he still had to admire the chutzpah of the man. So sure was he that his operation wouldn’t get raided that de Freitas had decided it was the safest place to hide Tyrell Lightly. Not even somewhere north of the Harrow Road, in the dens of Willesden, Harlesden or Neasden, but right here in his own back yard.

  Vince watched as the curtains were drawn shut in the red-lit window, and took that as his cue to go in. He got out the car and gave a roll of his shoulders. He had thought about calling this in, getting some back-up, some sirens and some flashing lights and some truncheon-wielding uniforms. But something had kicked in: the overwhelming feeling that he wanted to take Tyrell Lightly in on his own. The feeling that he had to do it for little Ruby Jones and her mother, that certainly played its part. The little girl he had held in his arms had left her mark. He thought about Mac and what he would do in these circumstances, with his calm head and measured objectivity. But it had taken Mac thirty years to reach that particular state of grace, and Vince figured he still had time on his side. He was forever being told that police work was, above all else, team work, and he wholeheartedly agreed. And tomorrow Mac and Kenny Block and Philly Jacket and Chief Superintendent Markham could do as they wished with Tyrell Lightly. But tonight, thought Vince, tonight Tyrell Lightly was his. His blood was up, and as he felt the adrenalin pump through him he was reminded of Doc Clayton’s theory that a sufficient rush of it could give you extra strength, open up a whole new physical world of untapped resources. As he breathed in the spiced city air, Vince felt invincible. He had felt this hubristic buzz before, and knew it was not only dangerous but dangerously addictive. But it was a vice he allowed himself, for all work and no play . . .

  The closer he got to the house, the louder the music got: Blue Beat and Ska with the bass and treble turned thunderously up. He took off his tie, unbuttoned his collar, dishevelled his hair, and affected the movements of a man who’d drunk a bellyful of booze, smoked a lungful of weed and ingested a fistful of pills. He caught another break as two dolly birds – one a bleach blonde, the other a copperish redhead and both largish ladies with seam-busting beams – came clicking towards the house on lethal stilettos and swollen ankles.

  Vince smiled. They checked him up and down, and went out of their way not to smile back, as he was far too white for them. But Vince bustled into the party behind them without too much trouble; all eyes were on the girls, who had as much going on up front as they did behind.

  Vince, with the ladies leading the way, sank into the smoke-filled fug of the drinker. For the purpose of a prop, he bought a bottle of beer for an extortionate nine bob. He then made his way around the room. As shebeens went, this was a cut above most, for it had an air of semi-permanency about it, and bordered on looking like a legitimate drinking club. Red flock wallpaper crept up the walls. A proper-looking bar ran down one side of the room. A couple of one-armed bandits, a pinball machine and a pool table occupied another room. The music was paint-blistering loud, which Vince liked.

  He played drunk and stoned, but played it carefully, not wanting to draw attention to himself or tread on anyone toes. Just wanting to look legless and harmless. It was the usual doped-up, speed-freaking, mixed cast of fancy-dress characters: gangsters and molls, tarts and vicars, rude boys and rude girls, mop-top mods and miniskirted bobbed brunettes in kinky boots, artists and actors and writers and all their representation, drag acts and property fat cats, politicians and prostitutes, and a doe-eyed skinny girl from Bromley who’d just made the front cover of Vogue.

  As he scoped the room, it became clear that Tyrell Lightly wasn’t in it. But Vince did spot four of the Brothers X with their black leather coats, black berets and, even now, in this most sunless of nightspots, their wraparound shades. They
sat on two facing sofas and looked relaxed and off duty, with no military posturing. Three of them were nursing rums, smoking joints and laughing. Each of them had a stoned girl on his lap, looking like ventriloquists’ dummies. The fourth Brother X provided the reason for the other three’s mirth: his girl was on her knees before him with her head bobbing up and down in his lap, administering a blow job.

  Vince made his way into the hallway and climbed the stairs. He spotted the two girls he’d come in with on the first landing – or their ample backsides anyway – as they disappeared into a room with two more of the Brothers X. Vince concluded that the revolution was taking a night off and getting itself well and truly laid.

  He continued up the stairs to the next floor. Bathroom. Toilet. Two bedrooms; one was empty. The other was emitting a punter who was zipping up his fly with a less than satisfied look on his face. Vince carried on up the next flight. The stairs came to an abrupt end, presenting a half landing with a single door at the end of it, with a sliver of red light coming from under it. Vince put his ear to the door but couldn’t hear a thing, as the swampy bass from downstairs was drowning everything else out. He gave a mental clearing of his throat, and attempted the patois of a Jamaican rude boy, which to his ear wasn’t chilled and laid-back enough, but fast and impatient: ‘Brother Lightly, I got a large rum for you!’

  Immediately, an equally fast and impatient voice shot back: ‘What you disturbing me now for, fool? You knowz I’m busy!’

  Vince didn’t care that the accent was lousy, just as long as the door opened. He went again: ‘Open up, got something real special, brother!’

  Vince heard hushed voices in conference inside, and he readied himself. His plan was simple: hit whoever answered the door as hard as he could, then take it from there. It seemed like a good plan, a simple plan, and was in place when the door opened. Vince pulled back his fist as far as he could and – bang! – struck a blow to the black face in front of him. Not that a lot of the face was available to him – a strip of about five inches – because the door had just cracked open a bit and then stopped. But it was enough for Vince to get his fist through without clattering against the sides of the door and the door frame and taking the power out of the punch. It was a clean blow that made a solid connect on the recipient’s jaw. The stunned owner of the jaw reeled backwards, taking the door with . . . her!

  She was a big girl, about six foot in most directions. Her enormous girth was cut in half, squeezed in the middle by a red corset that must have been of the old-fashioned whalebone variety, and surely culled from Moby Dick because the spillage from either side of this giant egg-timer was immense. When that garment was unlaced, all hell would be unleashed. Vince grimaced, mouthing ‘sorry’ to the wobbling figure in front of him. She then dropped to the floor, taking a dressing table and small wardrobe with her, and hit the ground like a felled giant redwood. The floorboards buckled, the walls groaned, the joists screamed, and ten years of dust exploded upwards in a mushroom cloud of energy from the crunchy old carpet.

  The room beyond was big, and Tyrell Lightly was standing beside the brass bed. He’d managed to scramble into his strides and put his shoes on, a pair of shiny winkle-pickers that looked as if they needed avoiding. He was about five foot nine and all sharp edges, vicious crevices and knotted muscle. A long blade, about six inches, was already gripped in his bony-knuckled hand like a lethal sting. As soon as the big girl went down, taking all the furniture on one side of the room with her, both men had reached for their blades. But Lightly, a known knife merchant, was the quickest on the draw.

  ‘The fuck are you, bad boy?’

  ‘Detective Vince Treadwell.’

  Anger flashed across Lightly’s face, but on seeing the blade in Vince’s hand, he smiled his handsome and expensive smile – expensive because every other tooth in his mouth was gold. He then spat venomously on the floor to mark his territory. ‘Let’s dance, eh, bad boy?’

  Despite the invitation, Lightly didn’t wait for a reply and lunged straight at Vince with his blade. Vince dodged to the right and raised his left knee into Lightly’s gut, then grabbed his face with his left hand and slammed him straight into the wall. Lightly took the impact with a low growl, then twisted round in a flash, and lunged forward again, slicing at Vince’s arm. Vince saw the torn arm of his jacket and felt the burning of cut flesh. He flexed his arm and realized the cut wasn’t deep, no tendons or muscle, just a tailor’s bill. Vince moved backwards, not part of his plan, but Lightly was fast and Vince felt a flurry of slashing movements whip past his face. A spiteful grin blazed on Lightly’s mouth. He was fast, very fast, and he was now toying with Vince. And Vince was beginning to question his judgement in coming after him on his own, or at least coming after him without something a bit heavier than Lightly’s weapon of choice. They danced, with Lightly leading, manoeuvring Vince around the room and away from the door with slashing motions and gut-wrenching lunges. Vince gave as good as he got, or tried to, and there were parries and ripostes. But time wasn’t on Vince’s side, and he knew he had to get the blade out of Lightly’s hand as fast as possible.

  Tyrell Lightly’s slashing got closer: the knife cut through Vince’s shoulder, across his breast pocket, then another slice down his lapel. Vince glanced down at the damage: material cut to pieces, its guts hanging out, the silk lining showing through. No amount of tailor’s stitches would save the suit; it was dead. And Vince knew he had to act quickly before he himself followed suit; or before the suit was completely cut off him and Lightly started splicing and dicing and flaying and filleting him instead!

  He grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a side lamp covered in a red shade. A questionable move, as they were now thrown into darkness, and his target had vanished. Vince muttered ‘Shit’ and threw the redundant lamp across the room at what he thought to be the darting figure of Tyrell Lightly. The lamp smashed against the wall, but not against its target. Vince waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they didn’t. He still couldn’t see a thing. He was groping in pitch blackness, and Lightly had somehow melted into it. A thick curtain hung over the window blocking out the nominal light from the street. Vince couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, or the knife gripped in it. And, more worryingly, he couldn’t see Lightly’s knife either. Suddenly Vince was spooked, very spooked, and started slashing out around him, his blade cutting through the air, hoping it would connect with Lightly or at least ward him off. Was Lightly stalking him like he was stalking Lightly? Two hunters. Two victims. And one very big girl on the floor. But considering Lightly’s skill with a knife, at least they were now more evenly matched: they were both fumbling around in the dark, so it would come down to who had eaten their carrots.

  Vince reckoned that if Lightly went for the door, he’d see him, and his back would then be towards him. So he leaned against the wall and remained stock-still. Nothing but silence. Was Lightly doing the same against the opposite wall? The music downstairs was still playing, appropriately, Derrick Morgan’s ‘See the Blind’. Time was running out, since the two Brothers X would soon be through with their X-rated action with the two party girls. They didn’t look like the kind of girls who would hang around – and nor would you want them to. Vince thought about cracking a joke, in the hope of making Lightly laugh so he could catch a glint of his gold teeth. He didn’t know any jokes that funny, but the likelihood of it happening made him smile. Then he felt and heard the whoosh and whistle of a missile glance past the right side of his face, making a reverberative twang like a giant tuning fork as it stuck in the wall. It was Lightly’s thrown knife. He must have taken aim when he saw Vince’s white teeth as he smiled!

  Then he heard a plangent groan rising up from the floor, which sounded like the big girl regaining consciousness. Then Vince heard a yelp; it was caused by someone standing on the big girl. The floor felt solid underfoot, so it wasn’t him. Dark as it was, slowly Vince’s eyes began to pick out a few details in the room. Shapes became apparent an
d he spotted a figure standing by the wall, right beside a heap on the floor. The spindly figure then darted for the door. Vince, with the big advantage of having his blade still gripped in his hand, pelted after him and pounced. There was a bony crunch as Lightly fell heavily to the floor. Vince grabbed his arms and pinned them down. Lying on top of Lightly as he was, it became obvious from the smell that Vince had caught him and the big girl post-coital, not pre-. The acridly bitter smell of stale sweat and other bodily saps made Vince want to retch. Vince saw the bulging white of the man’s eyes, and Lightly saw the bulging white of Vince’s. Tyrell Lightly’s head shot up to deliver a butt to Vince’s nose, but Vince pulled back in time. He smiled, because he had the advantage: he was on top. And he used that advantage, and the gravity that came with it, to propel his forehead down on to the angled bridge of Lightly’s nose.

  There was the crunch of bone. There was blood. There was a bark of pain. Then there was Lightly crying out: ‘I’ll kill you!’

  ‘Not from where I’m looking, you won’t! And it was your idea, Tyrell, after all.’

  ‘You pig!’ Lightly spat in his face, and he wasn’t done yet. The wiry gangster began to wriggle, with great effect, in an attempt to get out from under. So Vince went for him again. Tyrell Lightly vigorously moved his head from side to side to avoid what was surely coming his way. Vince moved with him, this way then that, until Lightly’s head slowed with exhaustion. And then Vince dummied him, took aim, cocked his head back like the hammer of a gun, and fired off another head shot. Say cheese! Again his forehead hit the target; again it was Lightly’s rather finely sculpted nose that took the brunt – but harder this time, much harder. But there was no noise this time, either from the shattered bone in his nose or from the tongue in his mouth. The damage had been done, and Tyrell Lightly’s face was mostly blood. Vince finally hauled himself off the supine gangster.