Zip Gun Boogie

by Mark Timlin

  I could guess.

  ‘You saved his life,’ I said.

  ‘A regular little Candy Striper,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘You still did it,’ I said. ‘He owes you one.’

  ‘He’ll pay,’ she said. And on that note I left it.

  ‘Thanks, Lindy,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a big help. I might need to talk to you again. Is that all right?’

  She nodded. ‘I visited him yesterday,’ she said.

  ‘Sure. Roger, let’s go.’ And I put my glass on the table with the rest of the empties.

  We left the suite and went back to the lobby. Ninotchka was at the desk with Don in close attendance. He looked at me like I’d just called his mother a rude name. Ninotchka looked on top form in a short strappy dress and a beaten-up denim jacket. ‘Nick,’ she said, ‘I thought we were going shopping.’

  Lomax gave me an old-fashioned look. It pissed me off. ‘What’s stopping us?’ I said, and offered her my arm. ‘See you later, Roger.’ And Ninotchka and I left.

  9

  Don followed us. Obviously I wasn’t going to be trusted as Ninotchka’s sole bodyguard again. Considering I still couldn’t remember getting back to the hotel the previous night, or morning, or whatever, I wasn’t that surprised.

  At the kerb outside, Chas was leaning on the wing of his limousine. I was beginning to get used to travelling in style, door to door, and fleetingly wondered how I would feel if I was ever forced to queue for a bus again.

  Chas sprang to attention when he saw us and opened the back door of the car. He smiled as he greeted us. ‘Good afternoon, miss. Sir.’ Then to me: ‘Fully recovered, I hope, sir?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Don’t tease him, Chas,’ said Ninotchka. ‘He wasn’t himself last night.’

  I wondered who I was then, but said nothing and followed her into the long passenger compartment of the car.

  Don got into the front passenger seat and Chas got behind the wheel. He lowered the glass partition that separated us. ‘Where to, miss?’ he asked.

  ‘Knightsbridge, opposite Harrods. That little shop we saw the other day, remember?’

  ‘Of course, miss,’ he said, and the partition rolled up again and we set off.

  It only took a few minutes to get to Knightsbridge and it’s surprising how good London looks on an early summer’s afternoon through the smoked glass of a Cadillac sitting next to a beautiful, famous woman with her arm linked through yours. I can highly recommend it.

  The car drew up opposite Harrods and Don nearly broke a leg getting the back door open for us. I let Ninotchka get out first and the sight of the curve of her bottom as she bent forward didn’t hurt either. I joined her on the pavement. We were outside the chrome and marble front of a shop with a sign above the door that read fronzoli. Inside the window was a single navy blue blazer elegantly draped over some white-painted scaffolding poles. Nothing else. No price tag. Nothing. ‘Nice,’ I said.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Ninotchka. ‘Let’s see what else they’ve got.’

  All three of us went into the shop. Ninotchka and I in the lead, Don two paces behind scouring the landscape for someone to beat up.

  The atmosphere inside was hushed and reverent, with just the breath of a string quartet whispering through hidden speakers to interrupt the calm. The decor was minimal with black walls and more scaffolding supporting two suits. That was it. Just two. One white and one black. And nothing as vulgar as a counter or a till. It was a bit like walking into a monochrome photograph. There was a soft black leather sofa against the far wall. Perched on one arm was a slim, olive-skinned girl in a black dress. Standing next to her was a beautiful boy, with beautiful hair, beautifully styled. He was dressed in a twin of the black suit on the scaffolding teamed with a white shirt. Next to him was a shorter, older, fatter man almost bald on top with a long ponytail hanging down his back. He was wearing a white suit identical to the one on display with a black shirt underneath. I had to own up – the clothes the two geezers were wearing looked good, and I knew we were talking grands at least. All three looked at us as we entered.

  The bald man recognised Ninotchka and ran the length of the shop towards us. ‘My dear lady,’ he cried. ‘So soon. It’s good to have you here again.’ He had a heavy Italian accent. Whether it was real or fake I couldn’t tell. He clasped Ninotchka’s right hand in both his fat, dimpled paws and held it for at least half a minute, gazing up into her eyes as if speechless from her presence. All I could think was that she should count her rings when he let go. ‘Divine,’ he said. ‘Divine. Today you look eighteen.’ He slapped one hand to his forehead. ‘What am I saying? Sixteen.’

  Ninotchka lapped it up. She smiled shyly and I swear she even fluttered her eyelashes. Have you ever tried to do that? After all the bullshit was over, the greaseball copped a look at me out of the corner of his eye. I know that kind of look. The last time I caught one was from a geezer selling past their sell by date hamburgers off a van at Catford Dogs. He knew I knew it too. I think he might have winked. I’ve always thought it must be crap to be rich and have people con you lousy.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure this bello afternoon, signorina?’ he asked. “This bello afternoon.” Was this guy real or what?

  ‘Something for Mr Sharman,’ said Ninotchka. ‘Nick, this is Carlo.’

  ‘Carlo Carruscore,’ he said, and gripped my hand and shook it hard.

  ‘Delighted,’ I said.

  ‘What exactly do you require?’ He didn’t ask me. He had the financial pecking order worked out to a T.

  ‘Every style. Every colour,’ said Ninotchka.

  I looked at her. ‘Hold on,’ I said.

  ‘Think Columbia,’ she said back.

  Carlo didn’t miss a beat, just ushered me further into the shop and snapped his fingers at the beautiful boy. ‘Geraldo!’ he shouted. ‘Measure.’

  The beautiful boy produced a tape measure as if by magic and Carlo snatched it from him and snapped it around me, shouting measurements and comments in Italian as he went. Geraldo took notes on a pad he had produced from another pocket. When Carlo had finished he flung the tape around Geraldo’s shoulder, and the two men, followed by the olive-skinned girl, vanished through an almost invisible door in the wall. I turned to Ninotchka.

  ‘Listen, this is going to cost a fortune. Everything went up twenty-five per cent the minute you walked through the door.’

  ‘I’m used to that, Nick,’ she said. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘But, Ninotchka, I can’t take a load of stuff off you. Maybe a nice tie.’

  ‘Who gives a shit?’ she said.

  ‘I do. I’m not used to getting presents from women.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s going to cost a packet.’

  ‘Peanuts, Nick. Trust me, I’m enjoying myself.’

  I frowned and consoled myself that the clothes probably wouldn’t fit. Carlo and Geraldo and the girl came back loaded down with gear. Although there were only three items on show, it seemed that the stock room was bulging. Carlo waved me through another almost invisible door into a mirror-lined changing room about the size of my hotel suite. There was no chance of barking your elbow at Carlo’s place. The trio followed me carrying suits, jackets, shirts, leathers. Everything a boy could want. Ninotchka came too and I half expected Don to join us and give me some style pointers. The four of them stood and looked at me and I looked right back.

  ‘Nick,’ said Ninotchka.

  ‘Ninotchka,’ I said.

  ‘Try something on.’

  ‘With all you lot here?’

  Carlo clapped his hands and saved the day. ‘Outside, everyone. Give the signor some privacy.’ They all left and I shut the door and picked up a shirt. The label read 100% silk. I slipped out of my clothes and put it on. It was beautiful. Then I tried on a
wine-red single-breasted silk suit with a high-buttoning jacket. Every stitch was a work of art. I’ve never ever felt so good. It fitted like it had been made for me. I went outside to where the whole gang was waiting with bated breath. Carlo just about had an orgasm. ‘Bella, bella, bella,’ he cried as he raced around the shop almost beside himself with glee. ‘Perfetto. Style, colour, cut. Perfetto.’

  ‘You look good, Nick,’ said Ninotchka.

  ‘Like the president of Columbia Records?’

  ‘Better. He’s fat and bald with bad breath. Carlo, we’ll take the lot.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ I said.

  ‘Nick!’

  ‘No. I can’t take all this off you.’ I touched the pop art tie I had on. ‘I wouldn’t say no to this though.’

  ‘Nick, please.’

  ‘No, Ninotchka.’

  ‘But I thought…’

  I pulled her away from the spectators. ‘I only came with you to piss Lomax off. I can’t take all this off you. It’s too much, and that’s final.’

  ‘Peanuts,’ she said again.

  I shrugged.

  She turned to Carlo. ‘Wrap up the tie,’ she said.

  He did as he was told, but kept looking daggers at me from underneath his eyebrows.

  I went back and got changed into my own clothes. When I returned to the shop no one was speaking. What could I do? Ninotchka tried to blank me as we left. ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘I love the tie. I mean it. And you do have good taste in men’s clothes. But maybe just a little rich for my blood.’

  She smiled. She was a sucker for compliments.

  ‘And now,’ I said, ‘I’m going to buy you a present.’

  She stopped dead. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘No one buys me presents,’ she said wistfully, like a little girl who’d missed her birthday.

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘Come on.’ And I pulled her through a gap in the traffic and across to Harrods. Don nearly had a spasm as he was prevented from following by a cab turning left into Knightsbridge. Ninotchka and I dived through the front doors and I stopped her just inside. ‘We’d better wait for him,’ I said. ‘He’ll get the hump otherwise.’

  ‘I love “Hump”,’ she said.

  A moment later Don came charging through the doors, then skidded to a halt when he saw us waiting. ‘Come on, Don,’ said Ninotchka. ‘You’re getting slow.’

  That comment didn’t improve his temper or our relationship. But what the hell? You can’t get on with everyone.

  ‘So what’s it going to be?’ I asked. ‘The place is yours.’

  ‘Perfume,’ she said. ‘I just adore perfume.’

  So we went to the perfume department. Ninotchka ran around from counter to counter like a kid. I watched her like a father. Don watched me life a wolf eyeing up a tasty morsel.

  Of course they didn’t have what she wanted. They wouldn’t, would they? So we all had to troop round to the Chanel shop in Sloane Street, where they had exactly what she wanted. A bottle of Chanel Number 22. Quite a big bottle. I paid by credit card and tried to ignore the three figure total. Most expensive tie I’ve ever had.

  When she had her parcel we went back to the car. Once we got inside she told me that we had to make a detour to the studio where the band had been recording, to pick up a tape of the final mixes and running order for one side of the album. On the way, she snuggled up close to say thanks for the present, and kissed me on the cheek. The kiss burnt my skin.

  The studio was in Gunter Grove, an imposing three-storey Georgian detached house behind high walls, with broken glass set in concrete on the top of them.

  Chas parked the Caddy on a side street, and Ninotchka and I, with Don a few steps behind us, went through the iron gates, up three stone steps and were buzzed into reception.

  The receptionist greeted us like long-lost family, and called through to the studio on one of those phones designed to prevent anyone in the same room hearing what the caller is saying. Half a minute later a kid with a pudding-basin haircut, baggy trousers and a hooded top came through a set of heavy double doors, gave Ninotchka a look of pure hero worship and led us through to the inner sanctum.

  We went down a long corridor and into a control room crammed with so much state-of-the-art equipment that I half expected to meet Kirk and Spock fresh from being beamed up from an alien planet.

  Sitting in a comfortable-looking swivel chair in front of a control desk was a young blond guy in designer denims and cowboy boots. He was listening to a playback through speakers the size of cabin trunks at a volume that could have brought down the walls of Jericho, pushing faders and twiddling knobs like his life depended on it. As soon as he saw us, he hit a button and the sound died suddenly. ‘Ninotchka,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too, Tony,’ she said. ‘Nick, this is Tony Tune. He’s the producer of our new album. Tony, this is Nick Sharman, a friend of mine. And you remember Don, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure I do. Hi, Don.’ Tony Tune stood up and stuck out his hand towards me. ‘Nick. Nice to meet you. Any friend of Ninotchka’s…’

  ‘Howd’y’do?’ I said, and shook the proffered mitten.

  ‘You’re here for your tape,’ he said to Ninotchka.

  ‘That’s right.’

  He moved over to a shelf full of cassettes, ran his finger along and flipped one out. ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘All done and dealt with. Side two of the new album, in all its glory.’

  ‘Thanks, Tony. You’re a sweetheart.’

  ‘For you, anything.’

  ‘What was that you were listening to?’ asked Ninotchka, gesturing at the huge speakers.

  ‘An album I’m doing for Epic. Some band they’ve dug up. Not in your league. You’ve got no worries there.’

  ‘Well, we’ll leave you to it,’ said Ninotchka. ‘Thanks for this.’ She held up the tape. ‘And I hope we’ll be back to work soon.’

  ‘How is Trash?’ asked Tony.

  ‘Much better, I believe.’

  ‘Great. You know I’m yours at a moment’s notice,’ he said, and went back to his chair.

  ‘Bye now,’ said Ninotchka.

  Tony winked, and before we were out of the door had put the music back on and was lost in the intricacies of the mixing desk again.

  The three of us went back to the car and Chas drove us to the hotel. When we arrived I asked Ninotchka to join me for a drink. She said she didn’t want to go to the bar so we went to my room. She told Don to wait in her suite. He started to argue, but thought better of it and left.

  ‘At last,’ said Ninotchka. ‘I thought we were never going to get a chance to be alone.’

  I can’t tell you how flattering hearing something like that from a woman like that can be. I knew I was doing exactly what Lomax said I would do, and I didn’t give a damn. At least I’d refused the clothes.

  Ninotchka took off her jacket and threw it across a chair, and sat on the sofa showing plenty of leg as she did. I asked her what she wanted to drink. ‘Can you do a Bloody Mary?’ she said.

  ‘The best in London.’ I went to the bar, took a large jug and poured in two measures of sherry, eight of vodka, added a handful of silver-skin onions, lemon juice, splashed in some Tabasco, lots of Worcestershire sauce, a shake of celery salt, a sprinkle of pepper, loads of ice, and topped it up nearly to the brim with Clamato juice from the fridge. I stirred the whole lot thoroughly and poured two tumblers full through a big strainer. I tasted mine. Perfect. I added some more ice cubes to each glass and took them over to where she was sitting. ‘Try that, and weep,’ I said.

  She took a sip and pulled a sour face. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Not too much spice?’

  She shook her head. ‘If it don’t bite, it ain’t right.’

  ‘Couldn’t have put
it better myself.’

  ‘You have hidden talents.’

  ‘Only when it comes to mixing drinks.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true. And that’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ she said, and patted the cushion on the sofa next to her. ‘Sit down.’

  I did as I was told.

  ‘Got any cigarettes?’

  I produced a packet of Silk Cut.

  ‘I said cigarettes,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you got any American?’

  ‘No. Do you want me to phone down?’ I was getting used to this room service lark too.

  ‘No, don’t bother. I’ll have one of those. But I don’t know how you guys can taste them.’

  I felt like apologising for Messrs Benson & Hedges but lit her a cigarette instead. She pulled a face as she inhaled but smoked it anyway. I lit one for myself and pulled an ashtray close to the edge of the coffee table. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’ I asked.

  ‘You,’ said Ninotchka, and fixed me with an appealing look that I was beginning to recognise. ‘Do you enjoy what you do?’

  I looked at her. I didn’t, as a matter of fact, but I wasn’t going to tell her. ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘Would you be interested in doing it specifically for me?’

  ‘That’s what I seem to be doing right now.’

  ‘No, I mean exclusively. Come and work for me, Nick.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Whatever I want.’ She sat back and sipped her drink.

  ‘You’re the second person to ask me that in a year,’ I said.

  ‘Who was the other?’

  ‘A girl I used to know. She was a model. She wanted to be a singer. Funny that.’

  ‘She must have seen the same things in you as I do.’

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She thought what I do is too dangerous.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘It has its moments.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ I said. ‘I told her no. That’s why she’s someone I used to know.’