by Neil Rowland
‘Maybe you want to shag me as well? First you pull Anna-kissed behind Herb’s back. You know what I’m talking about. Now you chatted up Gina and brought her back here...to hear Cat Stevens, wink fucking wink. That’s good going, Paulie, isn’t it?’
‘Really dodgy Stan, cos it wasn’t anything like that,’ he insisted.
‘Away, Paulie man, why don’t you have more fucking sense, marra?’
‘Nobody picked me up!’ Gina yelled.
‘Ain’t it Just Like a Woman,’ Stan sneered.
Paulie stared in open mouthed horror at his slanderers; as if the terrible truth about our characters was occurring to him. Why was he sharing a flat with these dodgy anti-feminists?
‘Away Paulie, why don’t you stick to one girlfriend mind... for a time?’
There was a stunned hurt look. ‘What you trying to suggest, Roy mate?’
‘Why are you having a go at him for? Paulie’s a lovely bloke. He lifted himself out of poverty to be a newspaper reporter. Can’t you admire a story like that?’ Gina challenged us.
‘Cheers, Gemma. I really appreciate it,’ Wellington said. ‘If she doesn’t have a problem with this, then why do you lads?’
Snot was the only one not fazed. It proved that he didn’t have his own thing about Gina! ‘So your parents let you out, did they?’
Gina was standing very awkwardly before us. ‘I let myself out,’ she said. ‘It’s Gina! Or Sour Cat now.’
‘Sour Cat Stevens?’
‘I knew that. That’s what I said, isn’t it?’
‘A rebellious teenager. I reckon that’s the way it was,’ Stan needled.
Bewildered, lips apart, Paulie tried to understand the dispute unfolding. This hadn’t been part of his plan for the early hours.
‘So I got strict parents. They don’t like me mixing with you, do they? Who can blame them? So I have to get out of the house... After dark... after they’ve gone to bed.’
‘They don’t mind you sleeping over with this wanker?’ Stan pressed.
‘Fuck off, I’ll deal with that,’ she snapped back at him.
The Smith was pacing the creaky boards. ‘Away Paulie, didn’t you think whether Stan and the lads would be here, comrade? Ai, don’t you see how embarrassin’ it is like?’ Roy fumed - his glasses steamed up. He was a risk of imploding with helpless fury.
Gina objected. Her elbows and high heels stuck out at angles. ‘Hold on, Lenin. What’s Paulie done wrong? Don’t you allow females into this cheap hotel of yours?’
The Trotskyite tried to calm himself. ‘Away, Gina man, I know Paulie can’t always help it, like. Maybe he sleeps with a different girl every night, but I noo he supports the party. Paulie tries to be a good socialist mind, even if he’s a complete buffoon.’
‘How’s your head now, Gina?’ I asked. ‘Clearer?’
‘What?’ Cat struggled to adjust to my comment. ‘Oh, you know, I get dizzy spells sometimes.’
‘Still looking at the world through a bottle,’ said Snot. ‘The bottom of a fucking vodka bottle.’
‘Fuck off, will you Snot. You can’t talk, with all that smoking.’
The lead-guitarist crossed his arms and concentrated back on the western movie, as if nothing had occurred.
The Smith still hadn’t spoken his full piece, trying to redeem his comrade. ‘Paulie man, why didn’t you think aboot how our Gina’s in the grooop? This isn’t comradely behaviour, man.’
‘All right, Roy mate, calm down, will you?’ he said, observing his friend’s frantic progress around the room (as if measuring how many capitalists it might fit).
‘Away Paulie, I don’t want to calm down!’
‘You’re upset.’
‘I knoo I’m fookin upset!’
‘She only came back to look through my bloody record collection. What’s your big problem with that, Roy mate?’
‘I wouldn’t sleep on this sofa, Gina. Not unless you want a fucking spring up your arse,’ Stan warned.
‘Heard of a taxi service?’ Gina shot back at him.
‘Fast work, even for Paulie,’ the guitarist remarked - as Victor Mature took a slug and grovelled in the dust.
Paulie affected a shocked expression. ‘That’s a really dodgy sexist comment,’ he pointed out.
‘He just asked me back...for a bit... to read the lyrics to Just Like a Woman,’ she insisted.
They all laughed at that. It was too hilarious.
‘His theme song!’ Snot argued. ‘I warned you, didn’t I?’
‘What are you talking about? Dylan’s not hip any longer?’
‘He gives you Dylan after his life story. After he tells how he was raised a n’orphan from Stepney,’ he sneered. ‘Then after that he whips off your knickers, old sparrow.’
‘Phew, dodgy! What’s your point here, Stan?’
‘Away Paulie, I doon’t believe my eyes, man!’ Roy groped for his inhaler finally. Throwing back his head, and trying to apply vital doses of calming chemicals, he was boggling in amazement.
‘He’s better looking than you lot,’ Gina said.
There were noises of male disgruntlement.
‘Come and join us,’ Snot suggested - setting off a mushroom cloud of dust.
‘Don’t take any notice of that dodgy bloke,’ Paulie advised.
‘Make yourself cosy,’ Stan invited.
Gina wavered. ‘What the fuck does this have to do with you?’
‘Go and screw James Taylor if you want to.’
There was still a lot of shooting happening on television.
Paulie kept aloof like a slandered angel. He was convinced of superior sexual politics.
‘You’ve got a problem about rival musicians?’ Gina implied.
‘Away Gina, Paulie can only play bongos, comrade,’ Roy informed her.
‘Don’t try to be funny. Paulie’s a singer and he knows a lot of instruments.’
Roy halted and shook his lank locks. ‘Nooh, he only sings and plays bongos like.’
‘Why should I believe that?’
‘You want him to bring them out and try them for you?’ Snot suggested. He snuggled down further into the sofa, as the final reel approached.
‘That’s rubbish. I don’t believe you.’
‘No, honestly, it’s just the bongos,’ I confirmed.
‘Fuck knows, he keeps us all awake with slapping ‘em and everything.’
‘What’s your problem? I’m lead singer and percussionist in my own band.’
She stared into his innocent eyes. ‘Bongos? Really?’
‘Phew, didn’t I tell you about my bongos? I’ve got my own band together now. Viscous Kittens,’ he reminded her. ‘I’m the lead singer. I play all percussion. I’m adding my female backing singers.’
‘Come on, Paulie, don’t be a buffoon!’
‘Paulie’s groupies,’ Snot said, helpfully. He kept his interest on the shoot-out.
‘Come to the next Kittens’ gig. It’s going to be fantastic,’ said the bongo player.
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Gina allowed herself to flop into the sofa between Snot and me.
‘Been up to much recently, Gina?’ I enquired politely.
‘This and that,’ she said, without looking at us.
‘Away, Gina man, do you fancy a brew?’ Roy offered. ‘To settle your nerves, mind?’
‘Put a couple of sugars in it.’
‘Hey, Bottle, you owe me a fiver,’ Snot told me.
‘What? How do you mean, a fiver?’
‘Blonde! She’s blonde,’ he pointed out.
Sour Cat turned to give him a look.
‘Ah, leave off her Stan, marra. I’ll just go to the kitchen, mind. Ai, I reckon we could all use a brew no
w, comrade.’
‘Phoo, I’m going to bed,’ Paulie told us.
***
Paulie did Mortal a big favour by getting them together socially. The situation left a bad taste in the mouth - even for punk.
‘I went to the RCM,’ she told us. ‘No, I didn’t get in. Bastards turned me down. Smug arseholes. Never mind. It was a tight squeeze. Fell down at the audition.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ I replied.
‘So what’s your plan, marra?’ Roy asked, encouragingly.
‘I applied to Leeds School of Music now. They invited me to go up and meet them. It looks a really top place,’ she enthused. ‘I’ve got some new pieces to learn for the audition. I was thinking of some Chopin, and a bit of Ellington. Single Petal of a Rose, maybe,’ she thought. ‘Oh god, I really love that piece.’
All of us lads looked at each other in bafflement.
She was upset to hear about the delicate health of Mortal. I could tell she was burning with passion for the band. She was longing for the thrill of making obnoxious noise. Whatever obstacles she faced, Gina still had the punk spirit.
As the final credits rolled for Gary Cooper, she was starting to enjoy our company again. Paulie had slunk back into his room, and the patter of bongos started up for a while. Then again, despite his success with the opposite sex, I never once heard him boasting about it. You could never accuse him of doing that. The evening was a total embarrassment for everybody, but not for him. Next morning, as he whistled over his cornflakes, the entire fiasco (and Gina) was a distant memory.
Gina eventually got a taxi back home. She had a hidden stepladder, tucked away in the back garden behind her dad’s shed, to get back indoors by, without waking up either parent.
28. ‘Hercules’ Poirot Confronts Junior Crock
At this point we should return to the theft at Star Materials.
Deadlines approaching, Gorran was desperate. As we know, the rock guru had debts and promises to keep. Turbo had blown their PA while playing second support to Hawkwind at Aylesbury Friars’: a roadie had his hair singed off and tried to sue the group for compensation.
Gorran Kept up the day job and earnt fees as an in-demand DJ, but he still had to cover living expenses. He was a music impresario, not a charity. Marty didn’t want to mix up Star Materials finances with his own. Roy advised him strongly against that dangerous idea. It was a tricky case and Marty had to solve it. He couldn’t let Star Materials go bankrupt before getting his first number one. And Turbo wanted a new Bedford tour van.
One of Troy Crock’s duties, as CEO of Crock Security Group, had been to expertly install our strong box. Troy definitely had strength to tease open a mid-price security device. In the past Troy had been a local celebrity himself, as a multiple ‘Iron Man’ champion. He’d dragged a fire engine down Nulton high street, live on regional TV, by a wire between his teeth. He was an ex-boxer and power lifter, even if his dad was gutted that he never made the squad at Nulton Athletic. Despite taking out five ambitious strikers in a youth trial, it still hadn’t impressed the scout. Troy Boy had been too slow to drop his team mates. As a teenager he’d been a Judo brown belt; kick-boxed, cage fought, bare-knuckled, armed robbed, everything. For half a season he was captain of Nulton Falcons American Football Team, until he took a life-time ban.
After giving up an active role in sports Troy took on a few of his dad’s pubs. He was offered a managerial position shortly after Graham Gross got woken up by a shotgun, albeit briefly. Troy developed a portfolio that included entertainment, sports and gambling enterprises; a sports centre, a sports shop and some porn shops.
‘No bullshit, you don’t have to be Hercules Poirot to work out who’s behind this blinkin crime,’ Gorran argued.
There was some circumstantial evidence. Steve Fenton had noticed Crock hanging about in the corridor outside the office. The Screamers’ drummer, Brad Donut, had seen Troy with his hand on the door knob.
‘So this guy must have been round six feet tall. Chubby, right? Shaved scalp? Pouty little mouth? Flat head? Cross eyes?’ Brad recounted.
‘Sounds just like him,’ I said.
‘Fair play, what would Troy Boy want with our measly bloomin five hundred quid? Straight up, he puts more’n that on his dad’s fucking nag. He was blinkin bragging how he put a grand each-way on that Flying Boot at Towcester last week. The horse came in third out of a field of bloomin four and he didn’t even bother to cash the fucking ticket.’
‘Was it our money he was betting?’
‘Gord elp us,’ Gorran said, reacting with a wince.
We didn’t have any other suspects in our ID parade. So what were we going to do about it? We went to have a few private words with Troy at his studios: Steve, Marty and me went along that day.
Squeezed into a new red tracksuit Crock Junior was wedged behind an enormous office desk - probably half a tree from the Amazon. He had a problem with his nose tubes that complicated his breathing, like a bull that had got its dick stuck in a gate.
‘Really fuckin sorry to ear abart yer feft,’ he told us, already bored.
Troy made a big show of doing his accounts books. Proud of his writing prowess, he ran down his daily bookings with a gold fountain pen, inscribed with his name on the cap. He’d an annoying habit of licking a finger and thumb before turning pages in a big ledger, checking the month’s bookings at Crock Sound Studios.
‘Right, definitely Troy mate, we appreciate you’re bloomin busy at the moment, but we need some of your blinkin ‘elp. Fair play, help us get to the bottom of all this bloomin funny stuff down in the basement,’ Marty urged, with a squint and wince.
‘You musta been gutted, Marty. I woo’n’t criticise, if you went art and wasted those feevin fuckers,’ he argued. The eyes darted up to us for a moment, before returning to the figures. ‘Nah, nah, that’s a lotta juice to you lads.’
‘That’s why we want it back,’ Fenton informed him. As ever he operated straight as a telegraph pole. ‘All of it.’
Troy turned up the piggy eyes with a glint of menace. ‘You lads wunt me to get art my own fuckin wallet and give you a fuckin loan? Or what’s this abart?’
‘Right, definitely Troy mate, we appreciate your blinkin brain power, because our Steve spotted you lurking about outside our fucking office on the very day of the bloomin break-in.’ The punk guru grinned helpfully.
‘So how’re you going to explain that?’ Fenton challenged, taking a step closer.
‘It was about the same time as the robbery,’ I clarified.
In a surprising movement, Troy began stabbing the nib of his pen through the air towards us. ‘Nah, nah, you lads! You wanna be fuckin careful... chuckin arand fuckin accoosations,’ he warned. Colouring, enraged, he brushed the surface of his buzz cut. ‘You wanna show some respec’ boys. No justice without fuckin proofs.’
Marty continued to grin reassuringly if painfully. ‘No bullshit, we just want to know if you saw anything blinkin suspicious outside our Star Materials office, while you were down there at the time, Troy mate, lurking about and checking the bloomin door.’
Jolting a crick out of his neck vertebrae, shifting his bulk in the soft spring chair, Troy’s brain blanked. ‘Nah, not a fuckin mouse, Marty. Can’t be of any assis’ance to yer. Now if you don’t fuckin mind,’ he suggested, shaking his wrist to move along his bracelet.
‘No bullshit Troy, how can you be so fucking sure about that?’ Marty burst out. Money could make him emotional sometimes.
‘I could take fuckin offence at yer attitood.’
‘What do you know?’ Steve demanded. ‘Give us the info.’ The versatile bass player came straight out with this, as if ordering a plain omelette from our favourite cafe.
‘Inside, artside, wotever... it ain’t my fuckin problem, dick ed. Fink! What’d I wunt with five hundred pox
y notes yours?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘That’s never bin my game lads.’
Tossing down the expensive pen, Troy leant back heavily on his cushiony leather seat. A couple of deep creases formed at the centre of his minimal forehead.
‘You look arter your business, Marty, an I’ll look arter me own.’
‘Right, definitely Troy, we hear what you’re blinkin saying, but we can’t afford to lose our dosh to just anyone who walks by and has a blinkin look,’ Gorran said, agonising, as if picking the words from between his teeth.
The thug smoothed the front of his shiny red jacket. ‘What ya tryin to say, Marty boy?’
Marty’s tortured grimace set off premature wrinkles. ‘Straight up Troy, if we don’t recover our money my company’ll be finished quicker than James Hunt splashing through a dirty puddle. So fair play, Troy mate, we’re going to need a bit of your blinkin help, to get to the bloomin bottom of this.’
‘Why leave yer money darn there? You stupid or wot?’
‘That’s your advice?’ Fenton challenged. ‘That’s your expert opinion?’
Troy was instantly pumped with aggression. ‘That’s right, dick ed, listen up and wash yer fuckin mouth art.’ He could have shoved another bus down the road at this point. ‘My advice, take it or fuckin leave it, dick ed.’
‘Fair play, Troy mate, but you’re supposed to be chief blinkin security officer.’
‘I dunt poke abart in fings which ain’t my fuckin bus’ness. What would I want with five poxy undred? What I wunt with a lotta artist’s pens? That’s why.’
‘Right, definitely Troy, so you know those bloomin artist’s pens went missing?’
‘But it dunt belong to me!’
‘No bullshit, Troy mate, but I already blinkin know they don’t fucking belong to you,’ Marty told him, laughing dryly.
‘Ain’t nuffin to do wi me, Marty boy, none of it. Now, if you lads dunt mind,’ he suggested. He shook out his arms, tried to get the fountain pen comfortable in his grip and dabbed the nib on his short fat furry tongue. I noticed that he already had a blue blot on the tip.
‘You’ve some questions to answer,’ Fenton argued.
