Zip Gun Boogie

by Mark Timlin

  ‘What?’ I said, forgetting about Don.

  ‘Come with me,’ gasped Lomax. Really gasped, like his mouth was dry and his teeth chattering.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Downstairs. Come on, for God’s sake!’

  I followed him. We used the stairs, going down two floors to where the roadies had their rooms. Halfway down the hallway a door was open. Outside it, two women were standing together, supporting each other. One of the women had a blonde crop, and was dressed in a short orange dress made of satin and net that looked like a thirties ball gown chopped off mid-thigh. She was leaning against another blonde, but with longer hair, wearing a black mini dress and black tights. Chick and Seltza were with them. They were both looking a little green too. Someone had been sick all over the carpet. It smelled sharp and unpleasant in the heated air.

  ‘Inside,’ said Lomax, and nodded at the door. I pushed it all the way open and went inside the room. It was the twin of Seltza’s. It contained a dressing table, chest of drawers, table, four upright chairs, two armchairs and a double bed. The window was open and the curtains billowed slightly in the faint breeze from outside.

  Turdo lay on the bed. He was flat on his back. His head was twisted to one side. The skin of his face was black. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets, and his tongue jutted out from between lips the colour of liver. Round his neck, drawn tight, was a long length of silver wire. But that wasn’t all. There was blood all over his shirt, and underneath him it had soaked into the bedclothes. Protruding from his chest was a stake of varnished light wood with white printing running up its length. It stuck out about four inches from the entry wound and the top had been battered with a hammer or mallet or something similar. The room stank of blood and shit, which combined with the smell of vomit made me want to throw up too. Nevertheless, I went over to Turdo and felt for a pulse, even though I knew I was wasting my time. There was nothing, and his skin was cool. I looked around, Lomax was standing in the doorway. His complexion hadn’t improved.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ I said, pointing at Turdo’s chest.

  ‘A drumstick,’ replied Lomax. ‘One of the biggest ones made. A 2B.’

  ‘I don’t believe this shit,’ I said. ‘A fucking drumstick! Are you serious?’

  I went to the window. Turdo’s room was at the back of the hotel and opened on to a metal fire escape that went down to a paved yard enclosed by iron railings. There was no one in sight. Some security, I thought.

  I pushed Lomax out of the door. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Turdo called up his girlfriend Jane,’ he said. I guessed she was the one in orange. It didn’t really matter. Not then. She had started to sob, and there was an edge of hysteria to the sound. ‘She was out. He left a message on her machine to come over when she got home. She was at a club with Maddy. They got back late. She got the message. They got a cab over. They met Chick and Seltza at the front door. They came up together. The door was unlocked. They found him like that. Seltza came and got me.’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  Lomax looked at me.

  ‘And don’t say no police,’ I said. ‘This time, police. And get them out of the hall, for Christ’s sake. Seltza, take them to your room. Get them a drink or something.’

  He nodded, and whispered something to the woman in the black dress who led her friend away in the direction of his room. Lomax made as if to follow them.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Before you call, get the rest of your guys knocking on doors. Get everything but prescription drugs off the premises. The coppers will toss this place from top to bottom. Get them to flush the stuff, not the wraps, down the toilet. The Old Bill will have someone check the drains, just to see what they can find.’

  ‘And the wraps?’

  ‘If they’re plastic, cut them into strips and then flush them. If they’re paper, burn them and flush the ashes. And no fucking around. You don’t want anything found on the premises. That goes for everyone, right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘That includes the band and any dealers who happen to be hanging around tonight. And no messing around. This place must be clean. No stashing. The dogs’ll be in by dawn if the police think there’s anything tasty hidden here. They probably will anyway. And another thing – make sure Pandora’s playmates are in their own room. And try and put a stop to any other deviant behaviour.’ I slapped my forehead. ‘Oh, Christ!’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I pulled him back out of earshot of the others. ‘Ninotchka,’ I said. ‘She’s upstairs sleeping off a couple of syringes full of smack. Now why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What?’ I mimicked. ‘Shapiro’s spiked with smack. Ninotchka hates Shapiro. Ninotchka mainlines smack. A simple equation. One plus one plus one equals three.’

  ‘Now listen…’

  ‘Now listen, nothing!’ I interrupted. ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ said Lomax. ‘We were together for two years when I first started with the band. She built me up, and built me up. Just like she’s been doing to you and a hundred others over the past ten years. Then she dropped me. Bang!’ He seemed to be recovering from his earlier panic. ‘But I still rate her, OK? And I wasn’t about to tell you anything about her. I warned you once, then I decided to let you find out for yourself.’

  ‘Cheers. Who supplies her?’

  ‘Guy called Elmo.’

  ‘Not Sandy?’

  ‘No. Sandy’s blow and uppers. Elmo’s smack and downers.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s like a department store around here,’ I said.

  He shrugged.

  ‘OK, get started. And get the police quickly. We don’t want any suspicious gaps in the story.’

  ‘I’m gone,’ he said, and walked off down the corridor after the two roadies and the women.

  14

  The police arrived with all the subtlety of a tower block being demolished.

  They came by the car- and van-load, uniformed and plain clothes, and cordoned off the square, the tunnel leading to the car park, the mews, all entrances to the hotel, and cleared the first floor. I was half expecting a couple of helicopters complete with Krieg lights to hover overhead and bathe the place in their million candlepower beams.

  By three a.m. the hotel was thick with Old Bill. Chick, Seltza and I, being the last to see Turdo alive, had been separated and were waiting to be questioned.

  I was put in the hotel manager’s sitting room with a uniformed constable who looked like a health freak and didn’t like me smoking. I waited for an hour and five cigarettes before I was attended to.

  Two men in suits came into the room and dismissed the constable. One was thirty-five or so in a dark grey double-breasted number and dirty shoes. His hair was greasy and black and not sure whether it was getting long or not. He had the face of someone who’d got a ticket but missed the boat. The other guy was fiftyish, wearing a single-breasted navy blue whistle with waistcoat. His shoes sparkled and his greying hair was cut short. He, on the other hand, looked like someone who always ended up in first class. Ticket or not.

  ‘Carpenter,’ he announced when the uniform had gone. ‘Chief Superintendent. This is my colleague, Detective Inspector Ripley. You’re Sharman.’

  It was most reassuring to be told. ‘What a relief,’ I said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Carpenter.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s just late, you know?’

  ‘I’m well aware of the time, Mr Sharman,’ said Carpenter. I had a feeling that this geezer knew exactly who I was.

  ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’ I asked.

  ‘Get some tea in, Mike, will you?’ said Carpenter.

  Ripley looked pained, went to the door, opened it, bellowed ‘Tea’, closed it again and rejoined his guv’nor. />
  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  Ripley pulled two straight-backed chairs close up to the sofa where I was sitting and he and Carpenter sat down in front of me. Ripley produced a notebook and a cheap pen. I sat where I was and looked up at them.

  ‘Tell me about tonight,’ said Carpenter.

  I told him. Ripley took notes. The only bits I left out were those concerning illegal substances. Halfway through the story the telephone on the table rang. Ripley answered. He covered the mouthpiece and said: ‘Indian, China or Earl Grey?’

  Carpenter looked like he’d swallowed a grapefruit whole. ‘Tell them just tea,’ he said.

  ‘Indian for me,’ I said.

  ‘Indian,’ said Ripley and put down the receiver.

  I finished the story.

  ‘So the last time you saw Duane Tucker was at approximately nine p.m.?’ said Carpenter when I’d finished.

  I assumed that Duane Tucker was Turdo. But I checked. Never assume. It can get you into serious trouble. I was right. I agreed that Carpenter’s statement was true.

  ‘And he was going to call his girlfriend, Miss Hillman?’

  ‘I don’t know her name,’ I said. ‘But he was going to call his girlfriend, that’s right.’

  ‘And you never saw him again?’

  ‘Not alive.’

  ‘And you spent the rest of the evening with Miss Landry?’

  ‘Ninotchka,’ I said.

  He nodded.

  ‘Not all evening,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get to her suite until after ten.’

  ‘And before?’

  ‘I had a drink with the roadies and then went upstairs.’

  ‘To your room?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘How long had you known Tucker?’

  ‘A few hours, that’s all.’

  ‘And the other two members of the entourage, Wallace and Feldman?’

  This name business was getting confusing. It turned out that Wallace was Chick and Feldman was Seltza. ‘The same,’ I said. ‘I met all three earlier.’

  ‘And what did they do when you went upstairs?’

  ‘They said they were going out. To see a band at The Astoria.’

  ‘Charing Cross Road,’ explained Ripley.

  Carpenter nodded.

  ‘So what exactly are you doing here, Mr Sharman?’ he asked. ‘You’re a bit out of your area aren’t you?’

  Then I knew he knew me. ‘I didn’t think I needed a passport to cross the river.’

  Carpenter gave me a dirty look and the tea arrived. It was served by one of Jones’ staff accompanied by another uniformed constable – presumably to make sure the waiter didn’t slip us a Mickey in with the plate of assorted biscuits. The tea came in bone china on a silver tray. Not like the usual brew-up in the interview room, I thought.

  ‘That’s one reason,’ I said. ‘Room service.’

  ‘Any others?’

  ‘A job,’ I said.

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘Security,’ I said. ‘I was recommended.’

  ‘By?’

  ‘An old client.’

  ‘Does the client have a name, pray?’

  ‘McBain,’ I said. ‘Mark McBain.’

  ‘Of course. Why exactly?’

  ‘They thought they needed it.’

  ‘It appears they were correct,’ said Carpenter dryly.

  ‘It was a hell of a thing,’ I said. ‘Like some sort of vampire film.’

  Carpenter looked at me. It was then that he was going to act like a human being and open up to me, or else play the hard man.

  ‘Unusual,’ he said.

  ‘To say the least. What was that round his neck?’

  ‘A guitar string. That’s what killed him. Someone used it as a garrotte. Then he was laid out on the bed and that stake thing hammered through his chest. It went right through him and pinned the body to the mattress.’

  ‘It was a drumstick.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Roger Lomax recognised it and told me.’

  ‘It must be nice to be musical,’ said Carpenter.

  I ignored the joke.

  ‘It was sharpened to a point,’ he went on.

  ‘Pretty strange,’ I said.

  ‘These are strange days. And strange people.’

  ‘But even so. What time did it happen?’

  ‘Should I be telling you?’

  ‘Probably not, but someone will sooner or later, or I’ll read it in the papers. I’m sure they’re more than interested.’

  ‘Vermin!’ said Carpenter. ‘They’re out there now, baying like hounds.’ He was beginning to mix his metaphors, but it was late and who was I to complain. ‘It happened about eleven-thirty.’

  ‘I thought so. There were early signs of rigor in the body when I touched it.’

  ‘So you’ve got an alibi.’

  ‘Do I need one? I’d just had dinner and a few drinks with the man. Christ, we’d just met. I don’t usually strangle people and hammer a stake through them until I’ve known them at least a month.’

  Before Carpenter could reply, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. He looked annoyed. Ripley got up and answered it. I saw a uniform outside. Ripley and the owner of the uniform whispered for a minute or so, and Ripley took something from the uniform, then closed the door and came back and handed what he’d taken to Carpenter. He looked at it, smiled sourly and handed it back to Ripley. ‘Your solicitor’s here,’ he said to me.

  ‘My solicitor doesn’t know where I am.’

  Ripley handed what he’d been given to me. It was a large, thick, cream-coloured business card. Not the sort you get from mini-cab firms and tear up to make roaches. It had to be large to accommodate the dozen or so names of the partners engraved on it in black copperplate. Even I recognised the name of the firm. It was so old that Lincoln’s Inn probably had still been fields when they first hung their sign out, and so establishment that if the Prime Minister ever got a pull, they’d be the first number he called. I looked at the card, and when I looked up, Carpenter and Ripley were looking at me.

  ‘Big guns,’ said Carpenter.

  ‘As big as you can get before going nuclear,’ I replied.

  ‘Not your usual firm, I dare say?’ he said. He gave me the impression that he thought my usual firm was some shady sort of brief close to disbarment who carried his office around in his hat. He wasn’t far wrong.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, I think we’ll wrap this up for now,’ said Carpenter to Ripley. ‘And let Mr Sharman consult his brief, and then get some sleep. I’m sure we don’t want to be accused of harassment, especially by a representative of such an eminent firm.’ Then to me: ‘Will you make yourself available in the morning?’

  ‘Don’t leave town?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t leave the building,’ said Carpenter. And he and Ripley got up and left the room.

  15

  I sat on the sofa for a minute or two more, then got up and left the room myself. It was bloody late or bloody early, depending on which way you liked to look at it, but the young man standing in the hallway was as immaculate as if he’d had a good night’s sleep, a shave, shower, and plenty of time to co-ordinate the outfit he was wearing.

  He was dressed in a black suit, cut tight, with a flowered waistcoat, a dark green shirt with a stiff white collar, a flowered tie that matched the waistcoat, and highly polished, pointy-toed black shoes. A white silk handkerchief flopped out of his breast pocket. His hair was short, perfectly cut, with a knife-edged parting on the right-hand side. In his left hand he was holding a black leather briefcase with gold fittings. He was so neat I was tempted to look for the polythene bag he came in.


  ‘Mr Sharman?’ he said, and stuck out his right hand. ‘James Prendegast at your service.’

  I looked at the card I was still holding. James Prendegast was listed as one of the partners. ‘My new brief?’ I said.

  ‘In one.’

  I shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm and reassuring.

  ‘Courtesy of the band, I assume?’

  ‘Right again. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ I said. ‘You must be pretty scary. You certainly got those coppers off my back in double quick time.’

  ‘Sometimes the mere mention of the old firm has that effect.’ He laughed. ‘But I’m afraid I’m rather sailing under false colours. The James Prendegast on the card is my father. I’m just a junior in more ways than one, and I’m not alone here tonight. One or two of the partners are dotted around the place. I’m afraid you rather got the booby prize.’

  ‘Better than no prize at all,’ I said. ‘And you seemed to have the required effect.’

  ‘That’s an admirable attitude, I must say. Can we go to your suite? I’d like a little chat.’

  ‘It’s very late,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t keep you long, I promise. Just a few words and I’ll pop along.’

  ‘Come on then,’ I said, and we went towards the lifts together. We met Wilfred in the hallway outside my door. He was full of questions about what had happened and stories about being accosted by journalists on his way to work and then getting through the police lines to get into the hotel. ‘I’ve got my breakfasts to cook, I told them,’ he said. ‘I’ve never missed getting the breakfasts in eleven years and I’m not about to start now.’ He had some late editions of the tabloids with the story of Turdo’s murder splashed all over the front page. I relieved him of a couple of them and he promised fresh coffee in less than five minutes.

  ‘Brilliant, Wilfred,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’