Zip Gun Boogie

by Mark Timlin

  ‘No need. I’ve taken care of everything. There’s a good men’s store in the foyer here. They’ll fix you up with anything you need. I’ve taken the liberty of opening an account in your name.’

  That was the sort of liberty I could handle.

  ‘The band’ll take care of the bill,’ he went on.

  Better and better, I thought.

  ‘There’s shaving gear and all that sort of stuff in your suite. Anything else you need, just call reception.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You’ve sold me.’ Although it wasn’t really him who’d done it.

  ‘So that just leaves the question of your fee? McBain wasn’t very precise.’

  ‘I don’t think McBain ever paid me,’ I said dryly.

  ‘We pay. What do you charge?’

  ‘Two hundred a day.’ From the look on his face it was what he was used to paying for manicures.

  He took a company-sized chequebook and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. He wrote out a cheque and signed it with a flourish. He pushed it over and I looked at it. It was for fourteen hundred pounds.

  ‘A week in advance,’ he said. Even I could just about work that out. ‘I don’t know how long this sort of thing usually takes.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘When you need more, let me know.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, and folded the cheque and put it in my shirt pocket. ‘Well, now I’m weighed in you’d better tell me something about the band.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like who they are.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ He sounded amazed.

  ‘Not really. I mean, I know about them, and the album, and I’ve heard loads of their songs on the radio. But they’re not really my style. A bit too MOR, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he said.

  ‘And apart from Ninotchka, I wouldn’t recognise one of them on the street.’

  He shook his head in wonderment. ‘Just as well I put the latest set of biogs in here then,’ he said, and tapped the folder.

  ‘You tell me about them,’ I said. ‘I can buy a magazine if I want to read what the PR people want me to read.’

  ‘Right. I’ll give you the basics now. More when you need it, OK?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Ninotchka you’ve met. She’s on lead vocals. Writes a lot of songs. A lot of hits. Plays guitar. Not very well.’

  Bitchy, I thought.

  ‘We were an item. You’re bound to find out. She was also an item with Pandora for a while, and a couple of guys that have since left. And several soundmen, roadies, lighting technicians, and even a couple of T-shirt salesmen.’ You could tell he liked telling me that. ‘Then there’s Pandora himself. He’s English. Formed the band with Tony Box in sixty-eight. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. He’s on keyboards and vocals. He’s been married, oh, four times at least. You tend to lose count. At the moment he’s between marriages. Next Tony Box, the only other original member. He’s English too. Plays lead. He’s been married twice. His second wife’s here now. Her name’s Barby – you’d never guess. Trash is second lead guitar. He’s a writer and singer. Brilliant. Don’t know what they’d do without him. Baby Boy Valin – he’s a drummer, what more can I say? Fucking nutter. Comes from LA. Been in a thousand bands. Shorty Long is on base. Nice guy. Scratch is on vocals, and she fiddles around with percussion. She’s English too, but joined about seventy-one or -two. Used to be married to Keith.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘It can be. Sometimes we have to put barbed wire across the stage to keep these fuckers from killing each other.’

  He stopped when he realised what he’d said.

  ‘Freudian slip,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply. ‘And finally there’s two back-up singers. There should be another one really to make up the full three stooges, but they do pretty well. Officially they’re called The Twilights. Unofficially, the band bikes. So that’s it, really. You’ll meet them all as we go along. In fact, here’s one now.’

  I looked up as the door of the bar opened and a tall, thin man with long, curly hair came in accompanied by two young girls – very young. They were both real skinny with tiny breasts and similar heart-shaped faces. Although one was blonde and the other had black hair they were obviously sisters. They wore matching black mini-dresses, dark tights and high-heeled black shoes. They were both heavily made-up, but that seemed to accentuate rather than hide the immaturity in their faces.

  ‘Which one’s he?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise him? That’s Keith Pandora. The Main Man. The Tsar.’

  ‘Why do you call him that?’

  ‘Because he runs the band like it was Imperial Russia.’

  ‘Are those his kids?’

  ‘Don’t let him hear you say that, for Christ’s sake! He’s screwing them.’

  ‘But they’re only babies.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Their bodies may be young, but in their heads they’re a thousand years old.’

  ‘How old exactly?’

  ‘The blonde’s fourteen, the brunette, thirteen.’

  ‘And he’s fucking them?’

  ‘Does it offend you?’

  ‘I’ve got a daughter myself, not much younger than those two. If he touched her, I’d break his skinny neck.’

  ‘OK, Nick, I read you. But can you cool it around Keith?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Their mother’s here with them if it makes you feel any better.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘They’ve got a suite close to yours.’

  ‘What kind of mother is she, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘An old groupie. She reckons one of the kids is Keith Moon’s, the other’s Iggy Pop’s.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  Keith Pandora sat the two girls down at a table and came over to our booth. ‘Hi, Keith,’ said Roger Lomax.

  ‘Hi,’ said Pandora, looking at me.

  ‘This is Nick Sharman.’

  ‘I’ve heard about you,’ said Pandora. ‘Welcome aboard.’ I nodded.

  Up close he looked his age. His hair was still thick but his face was deeply lined and tired-looking under its tan. He was handsome in a self-indulgent way, with full, pouty lips and a large, hooked nose. He was dressed in what I imagined was rock-star chic: a black leather biker’s jacket, a size too small, over a satin cowboy shirt with white piping and silver arrowheads on the points of the collars. Tight, faded jeans and black boots. ‘Is Dodge looking after you?’ he asked.

  ‘Dodge?’

  ‘Roger the Dodger,’ said Pandora, and smiled showing yellow teeth. ‘The best in the biz. Ain’t that right, Dodge?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘I’ll tell you how he got the name one day, Nick,’ said Pandora. ‘Right now I’m busy.’ He grinned, and I thought how satisfying it would be to punch him in the mouth and mash his fat lips on to his big teeth.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I said, and didn’t know if I meant the story or the punch.

  ‘See you later then.’ And Pandora turned on a cowboy-booted heel and left.

  ‘You shouldn’t show your enthusiasm so much,’ said Lomax. ‘You almost bowled him over.’

  ‘I’m working for the band, I don’t have to like them,’ I said. ‘Get that straight now.’

  He raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK, I gotcha.’ Just then the door burst open and the short guy in denim I’d met in the garage entered with his little gang. They made for the booth where Lomax and I were sitting. The guy in denim half fell across the table and said to Roger, ‘Hello, Dodge, going into town tonight?’

  ‘No,’ said Lomax. ‘I’m staying here.’

  The guy in denim slid into the booth next to me. �
�Hello,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Who are you? Do you work here?’

  I looked at Lomax. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is Nick Sharman. He’s a detective, private. He’s looking into our trouble.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the guy in denim.

  ‘Nick, this is Tony Box, his wife, Barby.’ The woman in the red spangled dress smiled a greeting. ‘And Pat, who drives them round, and generally takes care of business.’ The big geezer nodded to me.

  ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘No,’ said Box.

  ‘In the garage. You tried to buy my car.’

  Tony Box looked askance. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘Did I? Did you sell it to me?’

  ‘No.’ It was my turn.

  ‘Good. I’ve got enough cars as it is, and I’ve got no dough. Get us a drink, Dodge.’

  Lomax did another of his invisible signals and beamed the barman in. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Jack Daniel’s,’ said Tony Box. ‘A bottle for me, large brandy for the wife, Perrier for the driver, and whatever you two are having.’ He sat next to me and breathed whisky into my face. If I’d had a match handy I could have set fire to his breath.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your car.’

  ‘Seventy-two E-Type, V-twelve hard top.’

  ‘Nice car. Maybe I’ll buy it after all.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  I looked over at Roger Lomax. He spoke to me as if Tony Box wasn’t in the same room. I was beginning to wonder if he was from the same galaxy. ‘He forgets everything,’ he said softly. ‘Except his lead lines and the number of his bank account.’

  This guy was reaching levels of cynicism that even I would have had trouble scaling. Tony Box and his party hadn’t heard a word of it.

  Lomax shrugged and grinned, and his teeth reflected the light. He excused himself to Tony Box’s wife like a perfect gentleman. ‘I’ll see you later, Nick, I know you won’t be lonely,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my rounds to do.’ And he walked across the carpet as if the strongest drink he’d had all day was semi-skimmed chocolate milk.

  When he stood I saw that he was over six foot tall. He made a Machiavellian figure as he went across the room checking on each table as he went.

  Roger the Dodger. I was beginning to see where he’d got his nick-name.

  I’d have to watch him.

  3

  I sat and half listened to the other three in the booth chatting away, and watched Lomax go over to Keith Pandora’s table and sit down. I guessed they were discussing me from the looks turned in my direction by the two men. The girls were deep in conversation with each other and ignoring the world.

  The door to the bar kept opening and more people came in. There were all sorts of young, and young–middle-aged men and women coming into the bar. One particular crew caught my eye. There were three of them, all in their mid- to late-twenties. Two were huge, one much slimmer and smaller. They all wore identical silk jackets over clean denims teamed with fancy cowboy boots with underslung heels and long pointy toes. The jackets were bright purple with white sleeves. On the back of each was embroidered Pandora’s Box in black script outlined in white. They had to be part of the road crew. The two big guys reminded me of someone I had once known.

  All three were conversing loudly in American accents as they came in. They stopped and said hello to Lomax and Pandora and ignored the girls. They all squinted my way and the two big guys went to the bar whilst the smaller one made for the booth where I was. ‘Hi, Tony,’ said the roadie to Box. ‘Hi, Princess,’ to Box’s wife. ‘Pat,’ to the driver.

  ‘Hello, me old mate,’ said Tony Box, looking a little bewildered as if he’d never seen him before. I was getting severely concerned for the guy’s brain-cell count. He poured another half a tumbler of JD and took a long swallow as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The other two just nodded. Nobody introduced me. ‘You the cop?’ the roadie said to me.

  I nodded.

  ‘Come and have a drink.’

  Just then Lomax appeared at his shoulder. ‘Later, Chippy,’ he said. ‘I’m getting him fixed up with a room.’

  ‘Raincheck,’ said the guy named Chippy to me.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Lomax took a key on a ring out of his pocket. ‘Here’s your key. I’ll show you the way.’

  I excused myself to Tony Box and said goodbye to his wife and Pat, and followed Lomax out of the bar. I gave Pandora and his girlfriends a long look as I went past. Only the blonde responded. She stuck out her tongue.

  We stopped outside. ‘Don’t pay any attention to Tony,’ said Lomax. ‘He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s always stoned, that’s all.’

  ‘What on?’ I asked.

  ‘Not smack if that’s what you’re thinking. Dope. He smokes joints like cigarettes. It’s done his brain in. He’s cool. Quite funny, really, when he gets going.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘Come on. It’s only one floor. Let’s walk,’ said Lomax.

  We went up a wide staircase lined with oil paintings, along a corridor, around a couple of corners, and Lomax stopped outside a door. A small brass plaque on the door read ‘Sussex Suite’. ‘It’s not bad,’ he said. ‘Small but comfortable.’ He gave me the key. ‘Help yourself. I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘See you soon.’

  He left me on the threshold of the room and walked back down the corridor and out of sight around the corner. I let myself in. Comfortable it was, but small? You could easily have fitted my flat inside twice over.

  The sitting room was comfortably furnished with a grey three-piece suite and a dining table with four upright chairs. On the table was a huge basket of fresh fruit. There was a big-screen TV with full satellite, video and two blue-film channels. In one corner was a bar complete with tiny sink, fridge and ice-making machine. The machine was full of fresh ice. Whisky, vodka, white rum, gin and brandy on optic, a freezer full of beer, a shelf full of more esoteric spirits and enough mixers to make a cocktail waiter green with envy. There was even a Jones’ book of cocktail recipes. To the side of the bar was a small kitchen with sink, microwave, fridge and hob in case some rock star or other decided to make a bedtime cup of cocoa after a hard day at the recording studio. The fridge contained a dozen bottles of premium champagne.

  I went back into the sitting room and through the connecting door to the bedroom. The bed was huge, with built-in bedside shelves and a control panel on both sides. The mattress was covered in a silk throw. The only other furniture was a large dressing table and stool. One wall was made of doors. I tried them. One was the door to the bathroom. Inside the others was a built-in wardrobe with shelves and drawers and full-length mirrors in the doors. I closed the doors and sat on the bed. I looked at the control panel. I pressed one button and the radio came on, another and a TV set rose out of the floor at the foot of the bed. Another and the ceiling above the bed rolled away to reveal a huge mirror. I got the ceiling back and didn’t try any of the other buttons.

  I went into the bathroom. Lomax had been right about the shaving kit. The bathroom was fully stocked in all departments. There was a nine-foot diameter circular, sunken bath with Jacuzzi. A shower stall big enough to fit a five-a-side football team, with a shower head the size of a cauliflower. The toilet had a mahogany seat with a small “Jones” discreetly carved at the back and picked out in gold leaf. On the wall over the hand basin was a mirrored cabinet. Inside was a gold-plated safety razor and a packet each of Wilkinson and Gillette double-edged blades, shaving foam for every skin type, a block of solid shaving soap in a glass jar, and a badger-hair shaving brush monogrammed with the name of a Jermyn Street barber. There were four different kinds of toilet soap, a boxed set of hair-brush and comb, a packet of condoms and a box of sanitary towels. Something fo
r everyone.

  On a hook behind the door hung two XL, thick white towelling robes with “Jones” picked out in red stitching on the breast. I went through the bedroom and opened one of the wardrobe doors with a mirror and took a squint at myself. I felt that I could get away with the dark suit I’d been wearing all day on my dinner date, but I fancied a clean shirt. I went into the sitting room.

  There was a hotel directory next to the phone. I flicked through it and found the number for the Men’s Shoppe. Shoppe, how quaint, I thought, and hoped that the clobber was better than the name. I dialled though. ‘Men’s shop,’ said a voice. At least he hadn’t pronouced it ‘Shoppy’.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘This is Nick Sharman in the Sussex Suite.’

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Sharman?’

  ‘Roger Lomax told me I could get a shirt from you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I told him I wanted a white shirt, and my size.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘Perhaps some socks, black.’ I told him my shoe size.

  ‘No problem,’ said the voice. ‘I’ll get them up to you directly.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Our pleasure. Goodbye, Mr Sharman.’

  I went over to the bar and made a weak vodka and tonic. Five minutes later there was a tap on the outside door. ‘Come in,’ I said.

  The door opened and a very spruce young man in a navy blue suit entered. Behind him were two more young guys carrying a pile of clothes each. ‘Mr Sharman,’ said the one in the blue suit, ‘I’m Jeremy. I run the shop downstairs.’ The two other guys started laying clothes over the sofa and the armchairs. ‘You ordered a shirt.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just a shirt and some socks.’

  ‘I thought I’d bring you up some samples of our other merchandise. Firstly, of course, there are some shirts. I brought a couple of white ones and some alternative shades, maybe not quite so severe. There are half a dozen pairs of socks too. But I thought you might like to try on a jacket or two. Then there are some trousers, a few ties and a suit. Plus, of course, some shoes. Mr Lomax told me you have nothing with you. I also brought some underwear. I guessed your sizes from what you told me on the phone.’ He looked me over. ‘I think I was about right, but I can do alterations within the hour so there’s no problem. I’ll leave them with you. Please try them on at your own convenience. Naturally anything you don’t want I’ll take back.’ He stood, arms folded, with one finger under his chin. ‘But I don’t think I was wrong.’