by Jeff Dowson
Grover looked at Zoe, who shrugged in return.
To their right, were the bar doors, which swung open. Another Hostess, carrying a tray of cocktails, weaved her way through the tables towards the alcove.
“Compliments of the management,” she said, as she set the tray down.
A somewhat suspicious Grover did not know what to say. Zoe did the honours.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the Hostess said. She set the drinks at the table, straightened up and generated another version of the house power smile.
“Enjoy,” she said and slipped away.
Grover stared at the four cocktail glasses. Three were filled with liquids of different colours. Red, green and blue. The liquid in the fourth glass was clear. Grover figured it was either gin or vodka based and he could handle both of those. He picked up the glass, sniffed at the edge and smelled vodka. Reassured, he held on to the glass and looked at Zoe. She picked up the glass with the green liquid in it. Grover asked her what it was.
“No idea.” She copied Grover’s sniff, wrinkled her nose and put the glass down again.
“Well?”
“It’s green stuff, that’s all I know,” she said.
“So what’s green?”
“Chartreuse,” Zoe suggested. “Crème de Menthe...”
“Gimlets are green,” Grover said. “Made with lime juice aren’t they?”
“What the hell,” Zoe said. “It’s a free, green drink.” She raised the glass to her lips again and sipped lightly. “And it’s good.”
“Whose tab is this on?” Grover asked. “And why do we qualify for free cocktails?”
The door marked ‘private’ opened and the owner-operator stepped out of the office. Burly, dark haired, and wearing a pencil moustache straight out of Casablanca, he was dressed in a white tuxedo, red bow tie and cummerbund, and black trousers with razor edge creases. He weaved his way through the gaps between the tables around the dance floor, towards the alcove. Grover nudged Zoe.
“Zampa. Yes I see him,” she said.
She downed the rest of the green liquid.
Their host arrived and smiled at them.
“Good to see you, Zoe,” he said.
“And you.”
“And this is?”
“My friend, Ed Grover.”
“Pleased to meet you Ed.”
Zampa’s voice was light, but his attention was fierce. His eyes seemed to glow in their sockets. He extended his right hand. Grover took it. Zampa’s grip was strong. He released Grover’s hand, opened his arms wide and nodded at the space on the banquette next to him.
“May I sit down?”
He switched his attention from Grover to Zoe.
“Of course,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“And thank you for the drinks,” Zoe said. “Please take one.”
“Not while I’m working,” Zampa said.
He sat down. Grover asked what was in his glass, besides vodka.
“That is a Can Can Martini. Vodka, elderflower liqueur and white wine.”
Zoe held up her empty glass.
“This was green,” she said.
Zampa smiled again, leaned forward a little and looked past Grover. His deodorant smelled expensive.
“That was an Aqua Thunder. Melon liqueur, blue curacao, lemon juice and a dash of soda. Actually, it’s supposed to be served in a highball glass. I’ll ensure the barman doesn’t make that mistake again.”
He sat back and, in slow motion, swung to face Grover.
“Try the red one,” he said. “It’s our American speciality. A 49 Chevy. Southern Comfort, orange juice and grenadine.”
Grover reached for the glass. Zampa’s eyes followed his fingers as he picked it up and then moved on to his face as he raised the glass to his lips. Aware of the attention, Grover took his time. Zoe caught the vibe. She had seen Zampa in action a number of times. She picked up the remaining glass.
“That’s the house cocktail,” Zampa said. “A Bristol Swing. Blue curacao, white vermouth and pineapple juice.”
He touched Grover lightly on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Anything else you want, let me know.”
He stood up, moved away, and disappeared into the bar. Presumably to give the barman a bollocking for his mistake with the highball glass. Grover turned back to Zoe.
“Does he ever drop that Sidney Greenstreet act?”
“I’ve never seen him in any other mode. Don’t underestimate him, Ed.”
I Yi Yi Yi ended, to applause from the floor. Half a dozen couples moved back to their tables and group of guests headed for the bar. Xavier segued into another Carmen Miranda number, Chico Chico. Grover finished his Can Can Martini, examined the 49 Chevy, decided to leave it until he needed a boost, and looked around.
There were maybe fifty or sixty revellers in the lounge. And there were at least eight in the bar that he knew of. But then, 9 o’clock was early for a place like this. Zoe saw his eyes raking the room. She helped him out.
“There are a couple of Rotary Club members I know, a barrister I’ve come up against on a number of occasions, a sprinkling of local celebrities and a brothel owner. And see the first table front right of the stage?...”
“Yes.”
“A travelling salesman and a car dealer called Martin something or other. I defended him once. A charge of attempted rape. I knew he was guilty. Everyone in chambers did. But I needn’t have been in court. There was an inevitability about the verdict. The slimy bastard slid off the hook. There were nine men and three women on the jury. The final vote was, guess what?”
“Nine to three.”
“Actually ten to two. In the end, one of the women agreed. The Judge was forced to declare a miss-trial. Marty walked and the prosecution team never got him back into court. He sent me a bowl of fruit, a bottle of Bollinger and eighteen yellow roses. Obnoxious shit.”
She completed her scan of the room.
“The thick set bloke with the comb-over, two tables right of the entrance door. Do you see him?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the leader of the City Council, Sam Nicholson. He heads up the Regenerate Bristol Committee. Which hands out the contracts on offer to private companies.”
“Like Roly Bevan’s?”
“That’s right. Sam is old fashioned, council estate Bristol. But he’s come up in the world.”
“Which is why he can afford this kind of venue?”
“Perhaps. The over-weight brunette trying to look like Lana Turner is his wife. Next to her, with the ginger hair, is Rodney Pride. He runs a taxi firm, Pride Rides. Most of the cabs south east of the river in fact. He has a contract with the city council to ferry committee worthies like Sam, out and about. Wheels within wheels, you might say. The woman with him will be a paid escort.”
“Know anyone else in the room?”
“Two tables to the right. A dark haired man with two women. He’s the editor of the Evening Post. Bill Harris.”
Another man, considerably younger, arrived at the table, after negotiating his way from the entrance door, presumably returning from the Caballeros.
“And who’s he?” Grover asked.
“I’ve no idea. He doesn’t look old enough to be allowed out on his own, never mind in here.”
Grover watched him sit down. The woman nearest to him, reached out under the table and squeezed his thigh.
“How old do you reckon he is?” Zoe asked
“Nineteen, twenty,” Grover suggested.
“At the most. So, what is he doing in the company of two women of a certain age and a man old enough to be his father?”
“Getting some maybe. You can’t blame him.”
Zoe shook her head.
“Maybe, maybe not. There could be something much less savoury going on there.”
“Well, this place isn’t the Savoy Ballroom. It’s more like Rick’s.”
Zoe was staring acro
ss the lounge again.
“Right,” she said. “Of all the gin joints – ”
Grover grinned. “Yep, that’s it.”
“No, look. Over by the entrance.”
Grover looked. A man who had just come into the lounge was sharing a joke with the wide shouldered bouncer, who had opened the door for him. He was a couple of inches short of six feet, Grover guessed, wearing a neatly tailored light brown suit, a cream waistcoat and a chocolate coloured bow tie. “That is your man,” Zoe said. “Roly Bevan.”
Grover watched him thread his way through the tables, greeting just about everybody on the way. It was like watching a Swami pass among his disciples. Eventually he made it into the bar. Grover got to his feet. Zoe asked him what he was doing.
“I think it’s time we got properly acquainted.”
“Are you going to do something foolish?”
“Not deliberately. But whatever happens, it’s best if you’re not involved. You have a court case to win. Stay here. Try the 49 Chevy.”
Zoe looked at her watch. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”
Grover made his way to the bar. Zampa passed him, on his way out. He nodded briefly.
Thankfully the Spanish influence had not made it over the threshold. The room was an old fashioned brown oak and green tiles and dark flocked wallpaper sort of place. The bar ran the length of the shortest wall. Fifteen or sixteen feet. Roly Bevan had settled in the corner farthest from the door, from where he could see the whole room without turning his head. Like Bat Masterson in the Long Branch Saloon.
Grover counted twenty-five clients. Most of them at tables.
All human life was here and maybe some of it not so human. Grover hitched himself onto a stool where the bar curved back into the corner of the room, diagonally opposite Roly Bevan. A barman moved towards him. He ordered a Jack Daniels.
The barman came back with the bourbon, put a coaster under the glass and left a till receipt beside it. Grover decided not to look at it.
A thin, balding, be-spectacled man, dressed in what looked like a 1945 de-mob suit, tapped on the bar a few yards away. Beyond him, his companion, taller and measurably more attractive than he was, hitched herself onto the next stool. The man was clearly doing his utmost to impress her. She just looked bored. An evening of real sparkle lay ahead.
Grover turned his attention back to Roly Bevan. In his corner, he became aware of Grover’s eyes locked on him. Grover raised his bourbon in salutation – there was no point in appearing disinterested. Bevan acknowledged the gesture and raised his glass in response. Grover called the barman to him.
“What is Mr Bevan drinking?”
“Gin and tonic, sir.”
“Get him another will you.”
The barman dispensed the drink and another till receipt. Grover made his way to Bevan’s table. Bevan followed Grover’s progress every step of the way. He smiled up at him from his corner seat.
“Good evening.”
Grover put the gin and tonic in front of Bevan.
“Thank you. A lovely surprise. Sit down, please.”
Grover sat down. Placed his own drink in front of him.
“And you are?”
“Ed Grover.”
There was no discernible physical reaction from Bevan, apart from the fading smile. And a long silence. Grover waited. Bevan looked down at the gin and tonic.
“You are the person who found Nick’s body.”
“I am.”
Bevan looked up from the drink and straight into Grover’s eyes.
“Why did you go to the flat?
“I wanted to talk to Nick.”
“About what?”
“Something personal.”
“And that was?...”
“Nothing to do with you.”
Bevan shook his head, as if to demonstrate that was not the answer he required. Grover continued.
“At least that’s what I thought at the time.”
“And now?”
Grover picked up his Jack Daniels. Swirled the bourbon around in the glass.
“And now, I’m beginning to believe otherwise.”
He lifted the glass and drained it. Put it down and waited for Bevan to respond. Bevan sighed, looked beyond Grover, surveyed the room and came back to him.
“I see. Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
Bevan smiled.
“We’re not going to get anywhere if you continue to be so enigmatic,” he said.
“It’s a failing I know,” Grover said. “But over the years it’s been useful.”
Bevan leaned forward across the table.
“Look Ed... May I call you Ed?” Grover nodded. Bevan went on. “This is neither the time nor the place. Besides, the police believe they have Nick’s killer.”
“Only in the sense that Harry Morrison is in custody.”
“Harry?”
Bevan sat upright in his chair. Grover monitored the body language and the look on Bevan’s face. If his surprise was a sign of genuine concern, it was touching. If he was improvising, he was very good at it.
“You didn’t know Harry was the prime suspect?”
“This evening’s Post said that a person the police could not name had been arrested.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Harry, no. I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean?
“What is there about Harry that makes you –?”
Bevan raised his arms .
“Enough. A young man, who was both my tenant and my employee, has been murdered. I suggest we show the required respect and concern. And talk again, somewhere convenient, when we really have something to talk about.”
Grover stood up.
“I look forward to it Roly.”
“Then I will simply thank you for the drink and bid you goodnight.”
Grover went back to the bar and paid the exorbitant price Zampa was extorting from his clients for two fingers of Jack Daniels and thimbleful of gin.
Chapter Sixteen
The night was over for Robbie McAllister.
He had won round one. But Jake Baron had knocked him down in the first minute of round two. He took a mandatory count in the second minute of round three. Now, thirty-five seconds into the fourth, he was down again. This time on his face, with blood from his nose leaking on to the canvas. The referee was counting. McAllister got on to all fours by 6. On to his knees by 8. He swayed sideways, shook his head and sprayed blood in an arc across the ring. The referee counted him out. Contest over.
Mac sank back on to his heels and lifted his glazed eyes to his corner in mute apology.
Jake Baron raised his arms and took a tour around the ring, yelling out at the punters and acknowledging the applause.
Mac’s corner boss, Ernie Strong, climbed into the ring and moved to his man. He tried to staunch the blood from Mac’s nose. Mac buried his face into Strong’s chest and cried, in pain and humiliation.
*
Outside El Paradis, Leroy Winston wished Zoe and Grover a safe journey home. They retraced their steps along the cobbles to the parked Riley.
“So...?” Zoe asked
“Now Roly knows we’re on his case.”
“And what do we expect him to do?”
“Deal us some sort of hand we can play.”
“And supposing he declines to do so?”
“It will be because I didn’t provoke him enough. In which case, I’ll keep at him until I do.”
“Have you considered he may have nothing to do with this?
“Yes. But only briefly.”
They reached the Riley. Zoe unlocked the driver’s door, then looked across the roof at Grover.
“You missed the vocalist.”
“Should I be disappointed?”
“While you were in the bar she gave us a rendition of Melancholy Baby. Apparently Xavier drops the Latin thing when she sings.”
Zoe opened the car door and slid beh
ind the front wheel. She leaned to her left and unlocked the front passenger door. Grover got into the seat next to her. She turned the ignition on and pressed the starter button. The engine fired. She engaged first gear, let in the clutch, released the hand brake and swung out into the road.
“I think you would have liked her,” Zoe said. “She’s good.”
She pulled the Riley up outside the shop five minutes before 10 o’clock.
“That wasn’t much of a night out,” Arthur suggested, as he let them into the shop.
“On the contrary,” Zoe said. “The club owner supplied cocktails on the house and Paul Drake here had an encounter with Roly Bevan.”
“Was it interesting?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Grover said. “You and the ladies need to talk. Have we any beer in the house?”
“No,” Arthur said. “But there’s an off licence, five minutes away, on the other side of Victoria Park. Open until half ten.”
In the kitchen, Grover canvassed the room. Ellie and Zoe opted for coffee. Arthur said he could do justice to a light ale.
“I’ll go and get them,” Grover said.
“You’ll get lost again.”
“Not on a walk across the park.”
The fine weather had held for the last couple of few days. The temperature had finally come to terms with the calendar and warmed up ten degrees. The evening sky was clear and star bright. The moon was full. Spring may have been AWOL for a week or two, but she was on the way back again and lurking somewhere around the corner.
Beer was not on ration. Had never been, even during the war. Hop growers, brewers and draymen were designated reserve occupations. The government realised from day one that beer was seriously important to well over half the population of the British Isles. If push came to shove, people would do without petrol and bananas and ice cream, but to close the pubs would be a grave mistake.
Grover had never been in an off license at any time during his ten years in and around Europe. This place was basically a newsagents. But because it had a sign above the door which said Walter Longworth was licensed to sell beers wines and spiritous liquors, the shop stayed open until 10.30, Monday to Saturday. A bit like a packed down home drug store, Grover thought. He asked for a couple of bottles of light ale.
“You’re an American,” Mr Longworth said.
