But she said, “Yes, I will."
He wasn't sure if he'd heard right. “What—stop me?"
"I'm not ready yet."
"So why did you mention it?"
"I wanted to make sure you fancy me. Relax. It's not a total no-no."
"Why invite me back and open a bottle if you're not in the mood?"
"I said relax.” She reached for a remote and switched on Billie Holiday. “I don't even know your name yet."
He told her.
She said, “I'm Chloe. What's your taste in music?"
They talked jazz for a while, but Herbie's mind was about ten percent involved. He was trying to understand why she'd invited him back and gone cold on him.
Then he had his answer. The door behind him opened and a man in a dark suit strolled in, as calm as the manager in a shoe shop except that he looked like a state executioner. Chloe wasn't fazed. She said, “What do you think?” And it was obvious she was speaking to the man, not Herbie.
The man took a long look at Herbie and said, “Turn your head."
This was so unexpected that Herbie did as he was told.
The man said, “He'll do."
Chloe said, “I knew you'd agree.” Turning back to Herbie, she said, “I told him you were amazing."
Herbie had been called many things in his time. Amazing wasn't one of them. “What's going on?” he asked, not liking this at all.
The man said to Chloe, “You tell him. I'm off.” He crossed the room to the main door and let himself out.
"Did I dream that?” Herbie asked.
"Brady's all right. He was giving me a second opinion."
"What for?"
"Don't worry. You passed. Want to make five grand and get an Armani suit for nothing?"
"I don't get you."
"You might ... if you play your cards right.” She widened her eyes a fraction.
"I don't follow any of this."
"That's the beauty, Herbie. You don't need to. If you're bright—and I know you are—you take what's on offer and ask no questions."
"Is it legal?"
"There you go—another question."
"I need to know what I'm getting into."
"No one's asking you to hold up a bank."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Nothing, except be yourself."
"For five grand?"
"And a designer suit. And a date with me."
"Tonight, you mean?"
"You don't give up, do you? Tomorrow, you go for a fitting at the Armani shop in Knightsbridge. It's important you look right. Did I say you also get a shirt and tie and shoes? A dark shirt and a white tie."
"Who's paying for all this?"
"Not you. I'll meet you in Sloane Street. You get the first payment of a thousand pounds just for turning up. Would two-thirty do?"
"I suppose."
"Do you want me to call a taxi?"
"Now?"
She nodded. He'd already concluded he wouldn't get lucky tonight. No bad thing. He'd lost most of his confidence when the man called Brady appeared from nowhere.
"I'll walk."
* * * *
On the way home, he went over everything in his mind. Five grand and all the clothes. There had to be a catch. She'd said he wouldn't be asked to rob a bank, but what other scam could she be planning? In the club he'd got the impression she fancied him. What had happened later suggested another scenario. It seemed as if he'd been earmarked for a job. Chloe had brought him to the house to be vetted by Brady. Maybe she, or others, had been watching him before he ever set foot in the club.
She hadn't asked him to do anything illegal. What could he lose by going along to Knightsbridge tomorrow?
* * * *
She stepped out of a silver Porsche the minute he arrived in Sloane Street. He couldn't see who was driving before it moved off.
"Let's get you suited,” she said, taking his arm. She was in a white leather coat and red shoes with amazing high heels.
He wasn't used to shopping in Knightsbridge. The assistant showed them to a sofa and brought coffee and biscuits before any business was done. Then they were handed a book of designs. Herbie was measured and they looked at cloths.
Chloe made all the choices. She had a clear idea of what would look best. She also picked the shirt, the tie, the shoes, and the socks. The suit would be ready on Friday.
"That will do,” she said to the salesman, “and this is my treat, so I'll settle for everything now.” While the bill was being prepared she took a wad of fifty-pound notes from her bag and handed it to Herbie. “The first thou, as promised. You don't need to count it. Put it in your pocket and don't get mugged on the way home."
"What happens next?” he asked.
"You come back for a fitting in about a week and then you collect the suit when they tell you."
"Will you be here?"
She laughed. “You're a big boy. You can manage without me."
"So what happens after?"
"You have a mobile?"
He told her the number and she stored it in her phone.
"I'll be in touch,” she said. “Don't lose any sleep. When it comes, it'll be your benefit night.” She was texting as she spoke. “To my driver,” she explained.
As they left the shop, the Porsche pulled up outside. She kissed Herbie lightly on the lips before getting in. “See you soon, Herbie."
He hailed a taxi. He wasn't returning in the tube. He was in a bigger league now with his boxes of new clothes and a grand in his pocket.
* * * *
In under two weeks the suit was ready. Superb. No one would have known he had a paunch. He was tempted to wear it to the pub, just to get a reaction from Paddy and the others, but he decided against it. They'd demand an explanation and he didn't want to tell them the truth of it. Those yobs wouldn't understand why he hadn't spent the night with Chloe. He'd be a laughing-stock. And if he told them about the money, they'd insist on drinks all round for the rest of the evening. Anyway, this adventure wasn't over yet. Chloe had promised him a benefit night.
* * * *
He heard nothing else for ten days. The suit waited in his wardrobe in its zipped cover. He'd unpacked the shirt and it was on a hanger next to the suit. He was beginning to arrive at an understanding of that strange evening at the night club—how a classy lady like Chloe must have been attracted by his chunky physique and rhythmic movement in the strobe lighting and then a touch disappointed by his Chelsea FC shirt and blue jeans when she got him home. Clearly she liked formality in her men.
He'd pushed to the back of his mind the sinister Brady, who'd looked him over and said he would do. In Herbie's eyes the night-club episode had been all about Chloe and her taste in men.
* * * *
The call came early on a Thursday morning when Herbie was walking back from collecting his paper and milk at the corner shop. Chloe's sexy voice was unmistakable. “Hi, Herbie. Are you up for it today?"
"Try me."
"Do you know the Black Bess in Hounslow?"
"I've heard of it.” But not in a good connection, a little voice said inside his head.
"Be there at nine-thirty sharp tonight."
"In the gear?"
"Of course. Take a taxi. I'll be inside with some friends. Walk in and kiss me on the lips and take a seat beside me. Someone will bring you a Diet Coke. That's what you drink, right?"
"Actually, I drink bitter."
"Tonight you're on Diet Coke. Everyone will treat you with respect, but you have to conduct yourself with dignity. At the end of the evening you get your reward."
"I'm not much good in company."
"Stay quiet then. Let the others do the talking."
* * * *
The suit made him feel like a movie star. He looked in the mirror and winked. Benefit night. He dabbed on some of his favourite aftershave.
He took the taxi as instructed. The Black Bess was a large pub in Hounslow High Street with an ornate Vic
torian exterior and a sign with a masked Dick Turpin galloping his famous horse. Maybe the idea of highway robbery had been the reason Herbie had been troubled when the pub was mentioned. He paid the driver, checked his watch, took a deep breath, and went in. There was loud music and the yeasty smell of beer. He looked for Chloe and spotted her with some people at a table to his right. She had her back to him. He strolled over, rested a hand on her shoulder, leaned down, and kissed her on the lips.
She said just for his ears, “What are you wearing?"
He said, “The things we bought."
"The aftershave. It's cheap. Wash it off at the first opportunity."
The group had suspended whatever had been under discussion. They eyed Herbie with what seemed to be respect, even awe. One of them, he was disturbed to see, was Brady. Those cold eyes locked briefly with Herbie's. Chloe said, “We left a chair for you."
Herbie noticed it was a better chair than anyone else's. He sat and drummed his fingers on the arms. One of the men (there were four altogether, all in good suits, and two women in black spaghetti-strap dresses) said, “What's your poison?"
Herbie twitched. His nerves were getting to him.
"What are you drinking?"
"A pint of—” Herbie had to correct himself. “No, a Diet Coke."
Brady snapped his fingers. The barmaid was watching, poised for the summons, and came over to the group. A fresh round of drinks was ordered. The others were drinking beer and vodka martinis. Herbie was envious but said nothing.
Chloe said to the others, “Well—what do you think of my discovery?"
Herbie came under full scrutiny again.
One of the men said, “You could have fooled me."
The second woman said, “It's uncanny."
The man nearest to him said, “He's good. He's very good. But something isn't right."
Thinking of the aftershave, Herbie said, “Which way is the gents?"
The woman said, “Even the voice is spot on."
Brady said, “I'll show you."
Two of them accompanied him. He felt as if he had minders, especially when neither of them used the facilities. He rinsed his face and used the dryer. On the way back to the table, Brady said, “Relax. We know who you are."
But relaxing was difficult. The next two hours went slowly. The others talked among themselves about football and television, told a few jokes, ordered more drinks, and did a lot of laughing. Brady took a few pictures with a digital camera. Herbie followed instructions and stayed quiet and sipped his Diet Coke, but it was a strain. He knew some better jokes than they did. He glanced a few times at Chloe to see if she'd forgiven him for the aftershave. He couldn't be certain.
Finally Chloe said, “It's eleven-thirty, everyone."
They got up to leave.
Then a camera flashed. Someone who had been drinking at the bar had moved in and sneaked a picture. Immediately Brady grabbed the man and pinned him to the wall. Chloe said to Herbie, “Keep walking. He'll deal with it."
The group reassembled outside the pub. Herbie wondered if he was going home with Chloe, but that didn't seem to be in the plan. She said, “I've arranged for you to be driven home in the Porsche. You'll find your pay on the backseat. If we need you again I'll be in touch."
"Is that it?"
"For tonight, yes. You did a good job."
"I'd like to see you again."
She said in a low voice, “Don't push it, Herbie."
The Porsche drew up and Herbie got in. As promised, an envelope stuffed with fifty-pound notes was on the backseat. He tried to be philosophical and let the money cushion his frustration.
* * * *
Back in his comfortable jeans and Chelsea shirt next day, he could hardly believe his strange experience. But the four grand in his top drawer was real and so was the suit hanging in his wardrobe. He decided to treat himself to an early beer at his local. The barman held the fifty-pound note to the light to look for the watermark, just as Herbie had done when he took it from the packet. It was kosher.
The pub was quiet. Just a couple of pensioners playing crib and one of the regulars picking horses from a paper. He'd discarded the inside pages, so Herbie picked them up to see what was happening in the world.
Not much. Another drug scandal involving a pop star. A feature on violence in the classroom.
Then he turned a page and saw a large picture of himself wearing his Armani suit. The caption, in large letters, was OUT. With heart pounding, he read the story underneath.
Spotted last night in his favourite haunt, the Black Bess in Hounslow, Jimmy “The Suit” Calhoun. The feared king of West London's underworld was released this week after a three-year stretch in Pentonville for the injuries inflicted on “Weasel” Mercer, leader of a rival gang in Chelsea. One of Mercer's ears was slashed off with a cut-throat razor said to have been wielded by Calhoun himself in the fracas behind Stamford Bridge in 2005. Our crime correspondent, Phil Kingston, writes that Calhoun's reappearance will be viewed in some quarters as a declaration of intent, considering that Mercer has taken over much of his territory in the three years since. Nicknamed The Suit for his taste in expensive clothes, Calhoun was alleged to be making millions in protection, “putting the arm” on pubs, betting shops, and restaurants south of the river, but his funds were never traced. A police source said Scotland Yard will deal vigorously with any revival of the out and out gang warfare of the recent past.
Herbie dropped the paper. No question: The picture was of him. It hadn't been Jimmy Calhoun in the Black Bess last night. It had been Herbie Collins. How could they get it so wrong?
He was shaking. He turned the paper over so that no one else would see the picture, thinking as he did so that he couldn't stop a million other readers from seeing it. He picked up his glass and had to grip it with both hands. People were going to think he was an underworld king, a vicious hoodlum who'd slashed off another man's ear and been locked away for three years. He could ask the paper to print a correction, he supposed, but really the damage to his reputation was done.
With a sense of doom he pieced together the clues that made sense of this. The people in the Black Bess had looked at him in his suit and made comments like “uncanny” and “you could have fooled me.” They'd stared at him in a way he'd never experienced before, and the explanation could only be that he resembled the real Jimmy Calhoun. Everyone is supposed to have a double somewhere in the world. His, unfortunately, happened to be the most vicious man in London.
His thoughts moved on to Chloe. It was hard to credit that such a stunningly attractive woman should have got into bad company—the worst, in fact. Clearly she felt some loyalty to Calhoun or she wouldn't be working for him. Herbie could only suppose money had been the turn-on. Money and power are said to be irresistible to women. She'd gone to all the trouble of seeking out a double, someone to take the risk of sitting in that pub with the rest of Calhoun's henchmen, symbolically reclaiming his manor, an act of provocation that could have resulted in death.
Herbie shuddered. Good thing he hadn't been aware how dangerous it was.
Still, he'd carried it off, and carried off five grand and the Armani suit. Pity he hadn't carried off Chloe as well, but that would have been pushing it, as she had pointed out.
* * * *
Three weeks passed and he heard no more from Chloe. He supposed he'd served his purpose and been taken off the payroll. The trouble was that he couldn't get Chloe out of his mind. She was a lovely, misguided woman seduced by money and power, he'd convinced himself. How could she respect Calhoun after he'd behaved in such a cowardly fashion, letting someone else double for him and risk being killed?
He'd thrown away the aftershave she'd called cheap. What a fool he'd been to use it. He ought to have expected such a classy woman to know it was third-rate.
Thinking about her constantly, he went to Harrods and purchased an aftershave that cost sixty pounds. It was called Je t'adore. He also bought a new tie, pure sil
k, by Galliano.
* * * *
That evening, in what he now thought of as his slob clothes, the jeans and the Chelsea shirt, he was in his local with Paddy and the others watching football on the big-screen TV and trying to forget Chloe. At half-time there was a short news bulletin. None of them paid much attention. Herbie only caught the item when it was almost through:
"...are treating it as a gangland killing. Mercer, known as The Weasel, had become increasingly powerful in recent years and taken over much of the so-called empire formerly run by Jimmy ‘The Suit’ Calhoun, who was released from prison last month after serving three years for grievous bodily harm. Calhoun's present whereabouts are unknown."
Herbie didn't stay for the second half. He told the others he was meeting a friend.
At home he turned on the ten-thirty news and got the full story. Someone had pumped two bullets into Mercer's head in a barber's shop in Fulham. The killer had made his escape in a silver Porsche.
Herbie's first reaction was immense relief. He'd not felt safe since his picture had been in the paper. It had been no fun walking the streets of West London wondering if one of The Weasel's mob would mistake him for Calhoun. The killing of The Weasel had to be good news.
But it wasn't.
The more Herbie pondered the changed situation, the more alarming it became. The Weasel was dead, but his people weren't going to disband. Gang warfare had broken out. Anyone with a resemblance to Calhoun was in mortal danger.
Moreover, as the TV news had strongly hinted, Calhoun was the obvious suspect for the murder of The Weasel. Every copper in London would be on the lookout.
His situation was perilous.
He decided he needed protection. He was entitled to it. After all, he hadn't asked to become involved with Calhoun's mob. They'd press-ganged him. To put it better, he'd been snared in a honey trap.
Okay, they'd paid him good money, but they hadn't told him his life was on the line. They had to understand the consequences of their actions. He didn't have much confidence in approaching them, but he reckoned if he could appeal to Chloe's conscience she might have some influence. After all, she'd hinted at more than just monetary rewards. He still believed she fancied him.
* * * *
EQMM, June 2008 Page 4
