by Dan Kavanagh
‘I might have heard of it happening before. And so this particular fellow called for Duffy?’
‘All right.’
‘Why you?’
‘I’d been recommended.’
That was another thing which Duffy was puzzling over: who’d recommended him to McKechnie. What had he said? ‘I asked around’? Where had he asked, Duffy wondered. Certainly nowhere near his last two jobs – advising on a burglar-alarm system for a factory in Hounslow, and telling a slice of posh trash where to hide her jewels. (She’d been too mean to insure them or buy a safe and too lazy to put them in the bank and take them out when she needed them: she just wanted Duffy to go round the house with her and tell her the last place a thief would think of looking. She’d been reading some story, she said, where something had been cleverly hidden in the most obvious place and no one had ever found it: wasn’t that such a good idea? Duffy told her that the most obvious place for her jewels was in her jewel box, and what chance did she think there was of burglars looking there? She’d looked a bit put down, and Duffy went on to rubbish the whole theory of keeping things in obvious places: lots of burglars are so thick they only look in obvious places. So what about somewhere that isn’t terribly obvious and isn’t terribly difficult, she asked? Then the medium-grade burglars find your jewels, Duffy said. So they settled for the hardest place after all. Then it turned out that what she’d actually been thinking about was the elephant’s-foot waste-paper basket that grandpa had brought back from India and which had a false bottom. Duffy said that this was ideal, wrote out a bill for fifty pounds, tore it up, wrote out a new one for fifty guineas, sent it off and swore to himself that if the posh trash didn’t pay he’d make sure a little leak went in the right direction. To someone, for instance, who collected waste-paper baskets.)
‘But the Mile’s changed a bit, I expect, since I was here. I thought you might be able to fill me in. You know, who runs what, who’s new, what sort of presh is on, that sort of thing.’
‘Funny you should ask me that, Duffy, I was only talking to Ronnie about it the other day. I’m not a moaner, you know that, and it’s not just an old tart talking who’s getting elbowed off the street by young scrubbers…’
‘You’re looking younger than ever,’ Duffy responded automatically.
‘Don’t shit me, Duffy, I know I’m getting to a difficult age for a tart. You get past a certain age and you’ve got a choice: either you’re content with your regulars – and I am on the whole, I’ve got a nice bunch, quite clean most of ’em – though you gradually see them dropping off a bit; you know, trying someone a bit younger or a black tart, or someone who does something different. Or you do…oh, what’s the word for it, Duffy, you do that thing what big companies are always doing…’
‘Diversify?’
‘That’s right. You have to diversify. And that, believe you me, is a U-fer-mism. Diversify means you have to take anyone who comes up those stairs, diversify means taking mean shits who want to hurt you. It means you have to let punters fuck you up the bum, and I’m never going to do that. It means you have to let them give you a bashing with whips and stuff. Some of them…well, I’m not easily shocked, you know that, Duffy, some of them, soon as they see I’m not fifteen, they want to do things I won’t even tell Suzie next door, corrupt her poor mind. Personally, I blame all this pornography the Labour Government let in, that’s what I blame.’
Duffy smiled, though he wasn’t sure if he was meant to; Renée often laughed when she was serious. But one thing was clear: she wouldn’t be diversifying.
‘When I started in this gaff it was a nice trade, being on the streets. Sure, there were a few nasties now and then, but it was a nice, friendly trade. You set yourself up, you built up your custom, you got known for what you did best, and you turned an honest penny. You saw some things which you probably shouldn’t have seen, but you kept your trap shut. I remember when I used to have a cabinet minister from Harold Macmillan’s Government in here regular as clockwork; every Friday after adjournment, before he caught the train back to his constituency. Well, he was only a junior minister actually, but I wouldn’t tell anyone his name. That’s what the business was all about. And I wouldn’t tell you his name, neither.’ Renée looked at him belligerently.
‘I’m not asking.’
‘That was nearly twenty years ago, anyway. I liked the work then. You had nice holidays, the streets were friendlier, almost everyone asked for it straight, and if they didn’t they were very apologetic about it. You’d say, “Come on love, out with it, you can’t shock Renée,” and then they’d babble on about boots or whips or school uniforms or something and you’d say, “Sorry, love, I’d really like to, I just don’t have the equipment with me, but I tell you who you ought to see and that’s Annie,” and they look terribly grateful and go off and you quickly ring up Annie and tell her you’ve sent someone round and she either does the same back or sends you a few quid for the introduction.
‘We weren’t cut-throats because we knew there was enough punter to go round. But that’s changed a lot since then. You’ve no idea the way the average tart’s living’s been attacked in the last twenty years, Duffy, no idea. There was that Permissiveness for a start, when all the girls who didn’t use to suddenly started putting out. That didn’t do us any good, as you can imagine. And then there was that Women’s Liberation which amounted to exactly the same thing. Then all the films started getting dirtier and dirtier, and the books did too. You could go to the theatre and see girls waggling their twats on stage and everyone was calling it art so that they didn’t have to put a newspaper over their head when they came out. Art – fart, if you ask me.’ Renée was really getting launched. Duffy just sat back and listened.
‘So what happened to us was that a bit of good old-fashioned straight with tarts got the squeeze. Sure, there’s enough of it to keep you going still, but when fellows could get it at home or from their secretaries or from any old pub scrubber for nothing, why should they lay out good money on us? So two things happened. One was that we started noticing we were getting a bigger percentage of oddballs than before – you know, crips and hunchies and things. Not that I really mind them, they’re quite sweet really; it’s just that, you know, given the choice…
‘And the second thing was that the punters weren’t wanting so much straight as before. All of a sudden lots of punters wanted you to wank them off. I mean, you’d think that was the one thing they could do for themselves, wouldn’t you? I don’t mind doing it, as long as you’ve got something to catch the drips, but I do find it’s hard on the wrists. I mean, five or six punters in a row and none of them want to put it in, it takes it out of you. You feel you’ve been lifting boxes of apples all day. I did think of charging more for that than for straight, I don’t mind telling you.
‘And it wasn’t just wanking. Suddenly, they were all wanting mouth stuff. Well, I don’t do that, I really don’t, I think it’s disgusting really. But I always make sure the girl I share with will do it, then they can pop across the landing if they really want that. The other things, too, well, as I say, I blame all that Labour pornography. And all those film clubs and massage parlours – have you seen them, Duffy?’
Duffy nodded.
‘They’ve been a terrible blow, too. All the punters just go and sit in the dark and watch films of people fucking. What good is that to trade? And as for the parlours, you know I sometimes wonder why they haven’t run us girls out of business. I suppose the only thing that keeps people coming to us is the thought that they might go into a parlour and find out they had to have a real massage – have some great fat German woman hitting them in the back like she was beating steak, and then push them in an ice-cold plunge shower, and all for fifteen nicker or something.’
Renée laughed. She liked the idea of it. She didn’t take her business too seriously, even when she was complaining about it. Duffy laughed as well.
‘Still, I suppose that isn’t quite what you wanted to ask
me.’
‘Not quite. I was thinking a bit more about who runs what, and that sort of thing.’
‘Well, that’s changed a lot too, and if you ask me it’s not got any nicer neither. And it all happens so quickly you can’t keep up with it. Now, the old days, it was all the Maltese boys. They got a really bad press, the Malties did, but I always thought that was, you know, racial prejudice. They’d stick a knife in you soon as look at you if they thought you were shitting them, but I never had no trouble. They used to buy up houses and set them up real regular. Strip club in the basement, dirty bookshop on the ground floor, escort agency on the middle floor, tarts on the top. It was like a layer cake, that’s what it was like. And the runner would come round every Friday evening and collect a tenner from every floor. Forty quid the building. Sounds peanuts now, doesn’t it? But I suppose the rates were much cheaper then, and these Maltese boys, you know, they had a sense of what they wanted out of their investments, and if they got forty quid a house, they were happy. Mind you, you had to pay, even if business was bad, otherwise you’d be sitting at home and suddenly a paraffin heater might come flying through the window. Not nice, they weren’t, when they were riled, the Malties; but they were fair, I’ll say that.
‘Then there was a big clean-up and lots of the Malties got put in pris or kicked out; some of them just ran away and got given a stretch in their absence. And I suppose everyone thought, Oh well, that’s cleaned out the Malties, now we’ll be able to take the children walking up and down Old Compton Street with ice cream cones in their mitts. Silly buggers. What they should have known was that the Malties were the best we’ve ever had. Just because they put the Malties in pris, it doesn’t mean the tarts are going to go away, does it? Stands to reason. It just means someone new’s going to come in and take their slice.
‘Well, that’s what happened of course. You know that as well as I do, Duffy. Ever since, there’s been absolutely no stability. No stability at all. A few local pimps got bigger, some fellows from up north muscled in; we’ve had a few Paddies, only they didn’t last long; there’s the blacks there now, and even some of the Chinkies have tried expanding a bit. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? And then, after the Malties went, all your wonderful boys in blue started getting bent as hairpins. With the Malties, it was just a little bit here, a little bit there, either side step over the mark and they go down for a bit. But when the Malties went, didn’t the blues get grabby? The tarts were paying the pimps, the pimps were paying the blues, the tarts were paying the blues. It was a real free-for-all, I can tell you, and the coppers were getting way over the top.
‘Then the coppers got sorted out, or rather they didn’t really get sorted out, just packed off for an early retirement and all their winnings stacked safely away in their wives’ names. It’s disgusting, it really is. Coppers’ cows sitting on all that money.’
‘Who took over from Salvatore?’ Duffy thought it was time to be specific.
Renée looked quite nostalgic.
‘Dear old Emilio. I had him, you know. Only once or twice, but I had him. He had a funny habit. After he’d finished, he’d get dressed, wouldn’t say a word, put on his hat, went to the door, raised his hat, and went off. Not a word, and no money. I mean, the first time it happened I told him the price before, and when he didn’t put it straight in the dish I assumed he’d give it me later. But he didn’t. Just walked off. Then a couple of days later your money arrives in the post. Always happened that way. I suppose he liked to think he was the big boss getting everything for free at the time. But he never didn’t pay.’
‘And when he died?’
‘I think he had a nephew or something, but he wasn’t up to much and got chased out. The Chinkies took a bit, took the smokes and whatnot. The restaurants and things went to Big Eddy, I’m fairly sure of that. The whores went to a black guy, name of O’Reilly.’
‘Who runs smokes and the rest?’
‘Chinkies. Old Max a bit, but not very seriously. Mad Keith. Finlay.’
‘Whores?’
‘Big Eddy. O’Reilly. Mad Keith. There’s a batch of bents – pardon – run by Fat Eric. Remember him?’
‘The one who used to boast about how hairy he was – “From the tip of my nose to the tip of my dick” – that Eric?’
‘Yes. And Henderson. He’s quite big in tarts at the moment.’
‘What about the bookshops and the clubs?’
‘Same as the whores, mainly. Mad Keith owns the Peep Shows. And I think there’s a new bloke called Johnny Grease who’s got a few.’
‘Protection?’
‘Well, bit of everyone, as you know. Depends who’s biggest in any particular area, doesn’t it?’
‘Who’s big round Rupert Street?’
‘Which end? South or north of the Avenue? It makes a difference.’
‘South.’
‘Ah, pity. North, I’d definitely have said Big Eddy. But south, well, it’s a fairly quiet patch, usually. Maybe O’Reilly. He’s the black guy.’
‘Hmm. What about the coppers?’
Renée looked at him sharply.
‘You sure you’re not with them?’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘You’re not one of them clean-up coppers are you? A copper for coppers?’
‘I wish I was.’
‘Say me no.’
‘No.’
‘Good. Now tell me how much you’re paying me for what I’m telling you.’
‘Twenty-five…?’
Renée laughed.
‘Ha, Duffy, it’s all coming back to me now. You never were any good at that sort of haggling, were you? Now, let me remember. You’re offering twenty-five. That means you’ve got fifty to spend, so I’ll ask for seventy-five and then in a few minutes we’ll fix on sixty and you’ll be wondering if you’ll have to find the extra ten out of your own pocket.’
Duffy grinned.
‘Sixty it is, and probably ten from me. What about the coppers?’
‘Problems with the coppers. They’re in a very jumpy mood at the moment. Ronnie and me were talking about it the other day. They’re being very unpredictable. Some of the time they let everything go, you’d almost think they weren’t there. And then again they might jump on you with everything because one of your seams isn’t straight. It’s almost as if they don’t know who’s running them themselves.’
‘Anyone particularly bent at the moment?’
‘Hard to say. One or two of the younger ones go visiting a tart or two, but that’s standard. From what I know, it’s no worse than usual. It’s just that, well, the coppers are giving off a very nasty smell at the moment.’
‘Anyone in particular? Stanton? Wetherby? Sullivan? Shaw?’
‘Stanton’s left. Didn’t you know?’
‘No. The others?’
‘Nothing I can lay my finger on. Maybe they’re just a bit jumpy about things. Something’s going on somewhere, I’m sure.’
‘Do you know who’s moving, Renée? Who’s on the grab? Who’s upsetting all your stability?’
‘You know what happens to tarts that talk?’
Duffy nodded. He’d had to identify a couple of them in his time – on the slab.
‘I’m not gabby, you see. I’m just a tart that speaks her mind, everyone knows that. But I’m not a tart that squeals to coppers. Never have been.’ It wasn’t true, but she had her own picture of herself to protect.
‘I understand, Renée, and I’m not a copper. I’m not in the force. I’ve never been near West Central for four years. I’m just an old friend come to call.’
Renée looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and continued.
‘Well, it’s got to be Big Eddy. And it’s not because he tried to put the squeeze on Ronnie the other day. Rang up about how the books in one of Ronnie’s shops might go up if someone threw a firelighter through the door. But he’s on the move, no doubt about that. It’s bad news when someone gets as hungry as Big Eddy.’
‘B
ig Eddy who?’
‘Martoff. Big Eddy Martoff. His dad was one of the Malties that got rounded up. Married a nice tart, the dad did. Sad thing was, he died in pris. Eddy was a teenager at the time. Very cut up, from what I hear.’
‘What happened to the old man’s patch?’
‘It got split up. His widow moved away, and we all thought that was the last of the big Malties. Then, about five years ago, Eddy turned up. He’d bought himself a slice of the north end. He was quiet at first, and, you know, just seemed to concentrate on buying out some of the old men. A bit of presh, but not much. Some of it was completely legit, I expect. It was funny having a Malty back – though I suppose he’s only half Malty. His mum was pure East End, as far as I remember.’
‘Ever seen him?’
‘No. You hear much more than you see around here.’
‘And what do you hear?’
‘Well, first we heard he was a quiet kid. Big and strong but quiet. Then we heard that he was a bit of a joker. Keen on taking pictures. I heard once, a few years ago, he had a false mirror put in one of his tart’s flats – she didn’t know anything about it. Eddy would let himself in, and while she was earning, he’d take a reel of Polaroids of the punter on the job. Then he’d slip out into the street and when the punter came down the steps he’d stop him and offer him some snaps. The punter usually bought them, as you can imagine. Only trouble was, it didn’t do the tart’s trade any good.’
‘What else do they say?’
‘Well, they say he’s very grabby. They also say he plans a long way ahead.’
‘Has he done any time?’
‘Wouldn’t know.’
‘Got any particular coppers house-trained?’
‘Wouldn’t know.’
‘And what makes you think he’s on the move?’
‘It’s just what you hear. Sometimes you hear wrong. But I don’t think so this time.’
‘Maybe that’s why the coppers are jumpy – they think something’s going to break.’
‘Maybe. That usually makes coppers excited, though, doesn’t it? Nothing coppers like better than villains carving each other up, is there? But the coppers don’t seem that sort of excited at the moment. They’re just smelling bad.’
