by Mark Timlin
I was quite taken aback. ‘Do you want me to sign anything?’
‘Oh no, Mr Sharman. Don’t sign until you’re satisfied you want the clothes. If you could stop by sometime and let me know what you want to keep, I’ll arrange for the rest to be collected.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Nothing’s too good for our guests.’
The three excused themselves and left. I took a closer look at the booty strewn across the room.
There were three jackets. The names on the labels inside were so close to the cutting edge of male high fashion as almost to be a danger to themselves. Nothing was priced. I took them into the bedroom and tried them on in front of a mirror. They fitted perfectly. I figured, what the hell? and tried on the trousers and the suit and a couple of shirts. I was like a kid let loose in a toyshop. I thought a pair of off-white cuffed strides teamed with a dark blue, double-breasted jacket with a paisley lining over a pale blue button-down shirt and patterned tie looked pretty good. I finished the outfit off with a pair of navy blue, thick-soled, American loafers I found in a box. I hung the rest of the clothes in the wardrobe, draped the jacket over the sofa, made another vodka tonic and turned on the TV. I sat in one of the armchairs and lit a cigarette and looked through the list of hotel guests Lomax had supplied. Frankly it got me nowhere, and I started watching a Robert Mitchum film. He was playing a private eye in Chicago in the fifties. It was deeply noir and I was getting well into it when the telephone rang.
I cut the sound on the TV with the remote and picked up the receiver. It was Lomax. ‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. Just checking that you were settled in OK.’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘Nice place. Don’t bother with the decorators, I like it as it is.’
‘Good.’
‘I got some new clothes.’
‘I told Jeremy to look after you.’
‘He did.’
‘Good, what’s next?’
‘Dinner with Ninotchka.’
‘I meant about Trash.’
‘I’ll need to talk to him.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Fine, I’ll fix it.’
‘I’d like to speak to anyone who was with him that evening, and the rest of the band too.’
‘I’ll speak to Trash’s wife. She’ll know who was around that night. The rest of the band are free at the moment.’
‘I’ll start with Ninotchka tonight and slot some more in tomorrow.’
‘I warn you, Nin and Trash don’t get on, so don’t pay too much attention to what she says. As for the rest of the band, just let me know when you want to see them. You have carte blanche around here.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Don’t be, just get the truth.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said.
‘Enjoy your evening.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘I’m sure you will. Just one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘Someone else wants to see you.’
‘Who?’
‘Guy called Pascall. Corporate lawyer. One of the guys I told you about who came in from LA. Big deal, or at least he thinks so. He’s in the Surrey Suite. Can you go up and see him?’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
I looked at my watch. 5.45. ‘Sure.’
‘And be nice. What he thinks matters, unfortunately.’
‘I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise.’
‘I wouldn’t expect anything less. See you.’ And he hung up.
4
I put down the phone, put on my jacket and went calling on the big-deal lawyer. I knocked on the door of the Surrey Suite at 5.55 precisely.
‘Come,’ said a voice. It was the second best offer I’d had all day, so I did.
I opened the door and went in. The room was dark, except for one spot lamp in the far corner behind a high-backed chair, lit and angled to throw it into silhouette. In the chair, almost invisible, sat someone.
So this is the bloody lawyer, I thought. If he was into ego trips, no wonder the real stars were such painful fuckers. I walked across the room towards him, hoping that he hadn’t placed anything in the way as a booby trap.
‘Mr Sharman, welcome,’ said a disembodied American voice as I got closer. That was reassuring. At least I knew I was in the right place. ‘Do sit down.’ There was a low chair on my side of him. It was perfectly placed so that whoever sat there had to look up at the speaker, and sit with the spot right in their eyes. This guy had obviously done some research into behavioural psychology.
I moved the chair slightly and sat down. So had I. If he’d been that good he’d’ve had the chair nailed to the floor. He made no comment, just said, ‘You may smoke if you wish.’
I took out a cigarette. There was an ashtray on the arm of the chair.
‘My name is Pascall,’ he said. ‘Louis Pascall. I am a partner in the company that handles the legal affairs of Pandora’s Box. When I heard what had happened to Danny, naturally I came straight here. I told Roger I wanted no police involvement. I also told him to use his best endeavours to protect the band. He hired extra men from Premiere, and you.’ He didn’t exactly sound thrilled skinny about that. ‘Naturally, I asked him why.’
‘Naturally,’ I said.
‘He mentioned that you had done a job for Mark McBain.’
I nodded.
‘I made further enquiries and the name Salvatore Cassini was mentioned.’
Salvatore Cassini, Jo’s father. The name swept over me like a black wave. Josephine Cassini. Little Jo. The woman I’d loved and lost in a car-bomb explosion meant for me. It all happened because I was looking into the financial affairs of Mark McBain, rock star. A victim of the sixties. Ripped off by his management company and living the life of a virtual recluse in a huge house in Surrey.
But the people who’d planted the bomb had picked on the wrong woman to kill. Her father was a very heavy-duty Family man, with a capital ‘F’. And in more ways than one, if you catch my drift. Cassini had sent his only son and a couple of soldiers to sort out the bombers. But things had gone badly wrong for all of us, and everyone involved had died except for McBain and me.
‘I’m familiar with the name,’ I said.
‘Do you know him personally?’ Pascall asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘We’ve never met, but the family still has outstanding connections. An acquaintance of mine filled me in on the whole story. Apparently a lot of good men died that day.’
‘And a lot of bad ones.’
‘Salvatore Cassini has never left the house since his son and daughter died.’
‘He’s retired?’ I asked.
‘Not exactly. His tentacles still reach far. They have a million tiny suckers.’
Suckers is right, I thought.
‘Are you part of the Mob?’ I asked.
‘Mr Sharman, really. No one calls them that these days.’
‘Slap my wrist,’ I said. ‘Are you?’
‘No. But…’
‘But the record business is full of them. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Is that what all this is about?’
‘No.’
‘You know them, but they’re not involved?’
‘Take my word for it. I’ve made other enquiries. Whatever this is, it’s not that.’
‘Well, I’ll have to find out exactly what it is then.’
‘That is why we’re paying you.’
‘Your man Shapiro insists he doesn’t know where the drugs came from,’ I said.
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him yet. I’ll tell you when I do.’
/>
‘And when will that be?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Fine.’ I felt I was being dismissed. Then he said, ‘Mr Sharman, before you go – I judge by results. That’s all. Give me results and you’ll have my backing one hundred per cent. And my gratitude. That comes in many forms. Otherwise…’ He didn’t finish.
I couldn’t believe it. The guy was actually sitting there in the middle of this stage-managed bullshit and threatening me, as if I was the one putting the bite on him. What a piece of sleaze, I thought. ‘Listen, Mr Pascall,’ I said, ‘I took this job for one reason and one reason only: because I was asked out to dinner by a woman who most men would crawl across broken glass to hear piss in a tin cup – over the phone. I didn’t do it for the money or your gratitude. As far as I’m concerned, with your gratitude and a quid I can get a cup of coffee. Don’t even think of threatening me. I’ve had it done by experts. If I don’t like what I see, colour me out of here. Do I make myself clear?’
He didn’t answer. All he said was, ‘Ninotchka.’
‘The one and only,’ I said.
‘And you’re the latest?’
‘We’re going out to dinner, that’s all.’
‘That’s what they all say, Mr Sharman. She’s never been sparing with her favours. The woman must have an iron lining in her cunt. A gynaecological miracle.’
I didn’t even bother to answer. Just left his words hanging in the air. I think he got the point, or maybe he was too insensitive. Like I said, a piece of sleaze.
‘So, Mr Sharman, I’ll leave you to your investigation,’ he said. ‘You will make regular reports?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you can go.’
‘I wouldn’t have dared, without your permission,’ I said, and left.
When I got outside, it occurred to me that I could have handled it better.
I went back to my suite and made a fresh drink. By the time I’d finished it, it was time to call on Ninotchka in the Mayfair Suite.
5
It was on the top floor on the farthest corner from mine. I tapped politely on the door at five to seven. A heavyweight from the security firm opened the door. His name tag read ‘Don’.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘I’m here to see Ninotchka.’
‘And you are?’
‘Nick Sharman.’
‘Come in.’
I stepped through the door and into a hippy dream. The sitting room was twice as big as mine. The curtains were drawn and the lights dim. Where possible they’d been draped in gypsy scarves to diffuse them even further. The carpet had been covered with overlapping oriental rugs and brightly coloured cushions had been scattered over two big sofas and three armchairs. Joss sticks were burning in holders and the room was rich with the smell. The room had been personalised further with a big CD player, amp and speakers. It was playing muted rock. I recognised a track from Exile on Main Street. The room had three other doors. Don went over and tapped on one. I heard a woman’s voice reply, and he opened the door, entered and closed it behind him. A moment later he re-appeared. ‘Come through, Mr Sharman,’ he said, and the tone of his voice was a little warmer, but not much.
I walked across the rugs and through the door. Inside was part office, part dressing room, with clothes on rails and hanging from anywhere that would hold them. There was a desk in the centre of the room holding a bunch of papers, two telephones and a fax machine. Two office chairs were drawn up to the desk. Ninotchka was sitting on one speaking on the phone. ‘My date’s here, must go, Mom. Call you tomorrow. Love you – ’bye,’ she said and hung up. She spun round on the chair and looked at me. ‘Hi, Nick. How are you?’
‘Just fine.’
She looked me over. ‘Did you get that jacket downstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Roger’s got one exactly the same. The trouble with shopping in hotels is that sooner or later everyone gets to dress exactly the same.’
‘I thought it looked pretty good.’
‘Hey, it looks fine, it’s just…’
‘What?’
‘You look like a second-string record producer or the manager of a Mid-West heavy metal band that’s just broken the top forty.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Not at all, but you could look like the president of Columbia Records if you tried.’
‘Is that good?’
She ignored the question and jumped up. ‘What do you think of this?’ she demanded, and did a twirl in front of me. She was wearing a simple cotton jersey dress, hooped in blue and white, with a short skirt. It clung so close that I guessed she was wearing very little else. She looked great.
‘Great,’ I said.
‘That’s what I want to say when I see you. “Great”, nothing else.’
‘Do you want me to go and change?’ I asked, perhaps a little tetchily.
She came over, reached up and kissed me full on the lips. ‘Don’t get mad,’ she said. ‘You look good. I can just see more potential, you know what I mean? I didn’t say it to hurt you. Do you forgive me?’
What could I say? Her perfume was light and spacey and I liked it a lot. ‘Sure.’
‘I tell you what, I found a great shop the other day opposite Harrods. I’ve been dying to find a man to try it out. We’ll go shopping tomorrow afternoon. How does that suit you?’
‘I don’t think…’
‘Don’t argue. I love buying presents. You’ll upset me if you don’t let me get you something.’
‘I’m supposed to be working.’
‘You will be working, looking after me.’
‘Well…’ I said.
‘Say you will.’
What the hell? ‘OK.’
‘Great. Where shall we eat tonight?’
I shrugged.
‘What’s your favourite food?’
‘Thai, Chinese, Indonesian.’
‘Do you like Korean?’
‘I don’t know, I never tried it.’
‘You’ll love it. I’ll get my jacket.’ She went out of the room and I followed. She crossed to one of the other inside doors and went through. I waited in the sitting room with Don. He didn’t speak. Nor did I.
She was back within a few seconds carrying a white jacket and a blue handbag that matched her dress. ‘Night off, Don,’ she said.
He looked from her to me. ‘No, miss, I’m supposed to stay with you.’
‘I have someone. He’ll see me home, won’t you, Nick?’
‘Of course.’
‘I dunno, miss.’
‘Mr Sharman is very fierce. He’ll keep the wolves at bay.’
Don looked at me and pulled a face. It wasn’t my night for compliments for sure. ‘I think I can manage,’ I said.
‘Chas will be driving,’ said Ninotchka.
‘I shouldn’t,’ said Don.
Ninotchka switched on the charm, full blast. ‘I’ll be all right, I promise.’
‘I don’t know what Mr Lomax will say.’
‘You leave Mr Lomax to me.’
‘OK, miss, but…’
‘No buts, you go on home.’
‘I’m on ’til one. I’ll wait until then.’
‘If you want, but I doubt that we’ll be back.’ I could see I was in for a long night.
‘I’ll wait, miss.’
‘All right, Don. Help yourself to what you want. Have dinner.’
‘Thanks, miss.’
‘It’s nothing. Coming, Nick?’
I nodded. I felt like the dog.
We went down to the foyer by lift. It was a much grander affair than the one from the car park, with a uniformed attendant, one of those old-fashioned wheels to operate it, and enough gilt inside the car to sink a ship.
As we e
ntered the foyer a middle-aged man in a grey suit and holding a grey peaked cap jumped up from where he was sitting and made a bee-line for us. ‘The car’s outside, Miss Ninotchka. Where are we off to tonight?’
‘All over,’ she replied. ‘I feel in a party mood. Meet Nick, he’s looking after me tonight.’
‘No Don?’ asked Chas.
‘No. I’ve given him a holiday.’
Then it was Chas’s turn to give me a good screw. This little firm certainly took their responsibilities seriously. He seemed to find me a little more reassuring than Don had. ‘All right, Miss Ninotchka, just as you like.’
I trailed after them outside to the black stretch limo that sat at the kerb. Chas smartly opened the rear door, and I followed Ninotchka into the back of the car. Chas got behind the wheel and Ninotchka touched a button that rolled down the glass divider between the driver’s cab and the passenger compartment.
‘Remember that restaurant we went to the other night?’
‘Which one?’
‘The Korean.’
‘Sure.’
‘Let’s go.’
Chas started the car, put it into gear and pulled slowly away. Ninotchka let the divider roll up again. She smiled at me and dipped her hand into her bag and came out with a DAT cassette. ‘I’ve just got the final mix of one of my songs on the album. Wanna hear it?’
‘Sure.’
She slid the tape into the player mounted in the bulk-head of the car. ‘It’s an old Marc Bolan song,’ she said. ‘See if you recognise it.’
The speakers clicked and the song started. I recognised it. It wasn’t one of his best, but it was good. Ninotchka’s voice was well up in the mix, there was a manic guitar break, and a steady, catchy, high-pitched riff from a Farfisa organ drove the song along. She laughed when the track finished. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
‘Great,’ I agreed.
