by Mark Timlin
‘Temporarily. Most of the crew are here. Boss’s orders. They’re around somewhere. But right now I’m on the prowl.’
‘Anyone take your fancy?’
‘Only the booze. I’m not really in the mood for women after what happened last night.’ He kicked at the carpet with the pointed toe of his boot. ‘I’m going to get a bottle and get as drunk as a skunk. And howl.’
‘Do skunks howl?’ I asked.
‘Shit, I don’t know. I come from Los Angeles.’ He pronounced it with a hard ‘g’. Angle-lees.
Ninotchka came out of the cloakroom. ‘You’d better get front and centre, Nick. Your commanding officer has arrived,’ said Seltza.
‘Knock it off, Seltz. She’s all right, believe me.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. See you.’ And he slid along the wall away from me.
Ninotchka came over and grabbed my arm. ‘Are you OK, Nick?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Was that Seltza?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He doesn’t like me. Every man who wants to fuck me and can’t doesn’t like me. And most who have, too. Do you like me, Nick?
‘Sure.’
‘You won’t. You’ll change.’ She shrugged. ‘Everyone else has.’
‘But you don’t change?’ I asked.
She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes. ‘Only my underwear,’ she said. And winked lasciviously.
‘Maybe you just need a friend,’ I said.
‘A man friend? That would be a first. But maybe I do. And maybe you’re the man. Whaddya say?’
‘I say, let’s get stupid. The booze is free, the night is young, you’re beautiful, and we have a lot of sorrows to drown.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Ninotchka, and we headed towards the bar.
Now, I’ve been to some receptions in my time for various things, but this was one of the biggest bunfights I’d ever seen. The ballroom had been decked out like some acid-head’s idea of a dance hall in the deep south of America. The wooden floor was covered in sawdust. The lights were low. There were loads of neon bar signs on the walls, and Stars and Stripes and Confederate flags all over the shop. The bar served only jugs of margaritas, champagne, Schlitz, Rolling Rock, Bud, Southern Comfort and Jack Daniel’s, which suited me down to the ground. The food was southern too: fried chicken, ribs, crayfish, gumbo, poor boy sandwiches with oysters and piquant sauce, and great tubs of coleslaw and salad. All served by gents in long white aprons and tall white hats, assisted by waitresses in gingham dresses, stetsons and cowboy boots.
Ninotchka’s outfit fitted in perfectly. In one corner of the room was a stage draped with more flags, and a cajun band were giving it plenty of zydeco and western swing tunes. By this time the party was beginning to roar, and the first casualties were already appearing.
Pandora had acquired a water pistol from somewhere which he kept loading with neat JD from the bar. Then he went round spraying it in people’s drinks and even their open mouths if they were game. And lots were. One or two people were going to go through the pain barrier before the night was through.
‘So what’s this band The Miracle all about?’ I asked Ninotchka, once we were comfortably the right side of a couple of glasses.
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Sorry,’ I apologised.
‘Shit kickers, son,’ she explained. ‘Good old southern boys. That’s what this is all in aid of.’ She gestured round the room. ‘Lots of hair and not much talent. They want to be Guns ‘n’ Roses or The Stones. No way. File under “Fell at the First Fence”. They’re over there. Check them out.’ She pointed at four geezers in faded, torn, tight denim and an assortment of Oxfam rejects, standing close to the stage. One was wearing a red sequined tail coat. Another, a tiny little brat, was in a Confederate officer’s jacket and had a shiny black top hat perched rakishly on top of his feather cut. They all had long locks. One in particular’s tawny mane reached almost to his waist. Each had a blonde babe on his arm. ‘They don’t like us much,’ said Ninotchka. ‘We stole too much of their thunder when we came in.’
‘Looks like they’ve got some dough to afford all this, though.’
‘Flash. The record company panicking. You heard what Keith said. He may be a bastard, but he’s a shrewd one. He knows the value and sales to the nearest ten cents of the top fifty bands in the world.’
‘Where do The Box stand in that?’
She shrugged and looked at the ceiling. ‘Top ten.’
‘Not bad.’
‘It keeps me in French perfume.’
‘I thought I was doing that.’
‘You’re sweet. Can you smell it?’
‘I’m drunk with the fragrance.’
‘I thought it was the wine you had with dinner.’
As we stood there chewing the fat, people kept coming up to Ninotchka and trying to engage her in conversation. She blanked most of them out. I thought that to be that rude and get away with it was the benchmark of a true star. Eventually someone did get her attention, a brittle blonde from On Line Publicity. Her name was Dorothy and she looked like she’d been hung out to dry in the sun, so emaciated and wrinkled was she. ‘Darling,’ she said to Ninotchka, giving me an arch look, ‘we must talk photo opportunities.’ I swear she said that, and without a trace of a horse’s laugh.
Ninotchka looked at me. ‘Sorry, Nick,’ she said. ‘Duty calls.’
‘When you gotta go, you gotta go,’ I said. ‘I’ll catch you on the merry-go-round.’ She kissed me on the cheek, and Dorothy led her away to a quiet corner.
As I was looking round the room, Pascall, the American lawyer, buttonholed me. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I think you know.’
‘Not good?’
‘The worst.’
‘I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.’
‘Shit happens,’ I said.
‘So true.’
‘But at least you still have a band.’
‘If all goes well.’
‘You think it won’t?’
‘As you rightly say, “shit happens”.’
‘I’m doing my best to see that it doesn’t.’
‘I know, Mr Sharman, and as I said before you have my backing one hundred per cent.’
‘That’s good to know.’
‘If you require anything, my door is always open.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘And now I see that my wife needs me.’ I looked round. The woman in green who’d been sitting next to him at dinner was waving in our direction. ‘Enjoy yourself, Mr Sharman,’ he said.
‘I will.’
He excused himself and left.
With no sign of Ninotchka returning I decided to go and look for adventure.
What, or rather who, I found instead was Chris Kennedy-Sloane. He was an accountant and investment consultant who specialised in the music business. He was a bit of a reptile, but a likeable one. That night he was all dolled up in the latest line in crushed silk gent’s suiting and baseball boots. He looked like he didn’t know whether he was on his way to his office or the gym. ‘Chris, my old friend,’ I said, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’
‘Nick! Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘I thought that was you making a dramatic entrance with The Box, but I didn’t believe my eyes. How the devil are you?’
‘Just fine. So tell me, I thought you hated dos like this?’
‘Quite right. But I’m trawling about for some new money. Things are tough at the minute.’
‘The Miracle?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘They’re slipping fast in my opinion.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Did you? Interesting.’
‘So?’
‘Just castin
g a wide net. Business is business.’
‘Caught anything?’
‘Maybe. But it’s a bit hush-hush at the moment. I can slip it to you later if you like. Big bucks.’
‘I think I’ve had it slipped to me enough for one lifetime, Chris,’ I said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
‘Now, more to the point, what are you doing here? As if I didn’t know. That business with the roadie and the drumstick, is it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Thought so. Nasty that. Makes me go quite cold just to think about it.’
‘I saw it. How do you think I feel?’
‘And you’ve been brought in on the case.’
I nodded.
‘Fancy that. First Mark McBain, now Pandora’s Box. My dear boy, you should open an office on the West Coast. I could arrange a sub-let for you, if you like.’
‘Ha-ha,’ I said. ‘But listen, Chris, I’m glad I bumped into you. You’re just the man.’
‘My heart’s sinking already. Just the man for what?’
‘I want to know a little more about The Box.’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything. Idle gossip. Malicious rumour. Hard fact. The sort of things you deal in every day.’
‘I’m flattered. But now you mention it, apparently there’s plenty to know.’
‘Is that right? Like what?’
‘Money troubles. Internal feuding. Rumours of break-ups. Madness. Death. That sort of thing. An everyday story of pop music folk.’
‘Can you find out more?’
‘If I have to.’
‘Have to.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Who knows?’
‘Who indeed. All right, Nick, I’ll find out what I can.’
‘When?’
‘Give me time. Today’s Thursday. Well, Friday morning really. Call me Monday.’
‘Monday may be too late.’
‘You intrigue me. Tell me more.’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How about later today? This evening.’
‘It must be urgent. All right, I’ll see what I can do, as it’s for an old friend. But you don’t give me much time. Come to my office. You’ve never been there, have you?’ He reached into his breast pocket and gave me a card. I glanced at it. The address was in Docklands. I could picture it already. ‘Drop by about six. Drinks in the boardroom.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘Look, I’d better get back to Ninotchka. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on her tonight.’
‘I could keep an eye on her anytime.’
‘Very funny. Six o’clock this evening, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Very good,’ I said and went to get another drink.
The Miracle were loitering with intent around the bar. They were still fully accessorised with a bottle and a babe each. The one with most hair grabbed me by the lapel with the hand that held the bottle. I could smell the fumes from either its mouth or his. Whichever, it wasn’t pleasant. ‘You with that chick, Ninotchka?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, untangling myself from his grasp.
‘Good screw.’
I wondered if his comment was a statement or a question. I shrugged and turned to catch the barman’s eye over his shoulder.
The one with the top hat picked up the conversational banter without a fumble. ‘Fucking A,’ he said.
I knew that I didn’t have to protect Ninotchka’s reputation. It preceded her like a fanfare of trumpets. But I must confess I didn’t like these guys. I looked at the geezer with the top hat, and his beaky little face with the black thatch sticking out from under the brim of it, and I wanted to re-model his chin. ‘Do you have to be an arsehole to be in your band?’ I asked mildly.
‘No, but it sure helps,’ said the one in the red tail coat and they all dissolved into raucous laughter.
What was the point? I pushed past them and up to the bar.
‘Pussy man,’ said one of them, but I ignored it. It wasn’t worth the trouble. I ordered a beer and the bottle was covered in ice and the liquid freezing. I drank it straight from the neck. Pussy? Me?
A voice from beside my shoulder said, ‘You handled that well.’ I looked round. A woman in a slinky cocktail dress stood beside me. She had short, shiny black hair cut in a bob. ‘Dignity and strength,’ she said.
‘Hardly. More like indignity and weakness.’
‘You’d only have been thrown out. They’ve got minders everywhere. They like to start fights and let other people finish them.’
‘They’re not the only ones,’ I said.
‘They’ll pick on someone else in a minute, you’ll see.’
I looked at her more closely. I didn’t object to the view one bit.
‘Have I got a smudge on my nose?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s a very attractive nose as noses go, and totally smudge free.’
‘I thought I had by the way you were looking.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. But I wasn’t. ‘My name’s Nick. Nick Sharman.’
‘I’m Carol Daley. But everyone calls me Sweetheart.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s a pleasure.’ Then the penny dropped. ‘Do you work for On Line?’
‘That’s right. How do you know?’
‘I was talking about you the other day. I’m working for The Box.’
‘Are you? So am I.’
‘I know. You were in Danny Shapiro’s suite on Monday night.’
She pulled a face. ‘I was. I heard what happened. And that poor roadie.’
‘It’s getting the band’s name in the papers.’
‘Sure. But I’m not going back to that hotel ’til they catch who’s doing it.’
‘That’s what I’m meant to be doing.’
‘Are you a policeman?’
‘Private.’
‘How thrilling.’ Thinking about thrilling her perked me up no end. ‘Did you see anything strange that night?’ I asked.
‘No stranger than usual. We all sat around and got stoned and listened to music. I always get stoned when The Box are in town. I don’t mean to, but you know how it is.’
I agreed that I did.
‘I got a cab home about eleven,’ she went on. ‘I had an early call the next morning. The next thing was I heard from Lindy that Trash nearly died.’
‘No one was acting strangely?’
‘Everyone was acting strangely. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’
Once again I had to agree. And that was more or less that.
Another dead end.
‘Are you going to be around for long?’ she asked.
‘What, tonight?’
‘No, generally.’
‘Christ knows. I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long.’
Ninotchka appeared at my elbow. ‘Nick, I see you’re talking to the best-looking woman in the room.’
‘I always do,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m with you.’
‘Flatterer.’
‘Not at all.’
‘What do you say, Sweetheart?’ she asked.
‘I think Nick’s right.’
‘I’d like to believe you, dear, but you’re paid to say nice things like that.’
Meanwhile a little spat was flaring up about ten yards away from where we were standing. The guys from The Miracle were giving Tony Box a lot of stick at the other end of the bar. He had decided not to be as dignified or as strong as me. He might have been wasted, but he wasn’t scared of them. Or maybe that was why he wasn’t scared of them. And he had been looking for a fight all evening.
I saw the one with the most hair grinning, and the rest of the band laughed, and Box gave him a wh
ack on the side of the jaw that sent him flying in one direction, his Bourbon bottle in another, and the blonde on his arm in yet another. He ended up in an undignified heap at the edge of the dance floor.
Aye, aye, I thought, and moved in the direction of the fracas. I wasn’t the only one. From all corners of the room came other interested parties.
It was The Boxes, plus their security men and road crew, versus The Miracle, plus their security men and road crew. It could easily have turned into a pitched battle, like one of those saloon-bar brawls in the movies that would have suited the ambience of the place perfectly.
As we all squared off Ninotchka saved the day. She flounced through the crowd and stood between Box and the fallen member of The Miracle with her hands on her hips. ‘Ah declare,’ she said, and her voice took on a slight southern lilt, ‘you two boys should be ashamed. Fussin’ and feudin’ when we should all be havin’ a good time.’ She held her hand out to the geezer on the floor. He looked at it for a second, then took it and she pulled him up. ‘Now shake hands and be friends,’ she said. ‘Tony…’ For the first time she wasn’t quite so confident. ‘Tony,’ she said again. He mumbled something and stuck out his hand. The guy from The Miracle shook it. ‘Good,’ said Ninotchka. ‘Now have a drink and let’s hear no more of this nonsense.’ And she flounced back to me again and the place relaxed and everyone moved away.
‘Excellent,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘I’ve still got it,’ she said. And she had.
After that, people started to leave in ones and twos. But Ninotchka was determined to party the night away. By the time she’d had enough, it was well past three and everyone else I knew was long gone, apart from Don, who was sitting on the edge of the stage looking like he wished he’d taken up a decent profession when he left school. Finally even Ninotchka had to give in. ‘Nick,’ she said, ‘I’m bushed. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
‘Your word is my command.’
It was still dark, but only just, when we left the hotel with Don. There was only one Mercedes left in the street outside, and Chas was standing leaning against it. When he saw us he stood up straight and opened the back door. ‘Sorry, Chas,’ said Ninotchka. ‘We lost track of time. Are we the last?’
He nodded. ‘No problem, miss. I wouldn’t do this job if I didn’t like staying up late.’
