by Mark Timlin
Before we all presented ourselves at the ordained hour in Mr B’s sanctum, I went up to my room and broke out the remains of my cocaine. I had a feeling I’d be in need of a livener before the day was out. I looked at myself in the mirror of the dressing table before I went back down, and shook my head at the reflection I saw. Shit, I thought. What the fuck am I turning into? And when will this all end?
When the four of us trooped in to see Mr B, the curtains in his room were still drawn, and the only light apart from the aquarium, where fishy eyes regarded us coldly, was a tiny lamp on one table. Mr B was wearing a suit, white shirt and tie, and he’d put on his shades again against the glare.
‘I trust you slept well, Mr Sharman?’ he said.
‘Like a log. I always sleep better when the cops are on my tail.’
‘Don’t worry about them. We have other fish to fry.’ And I knew he wasn’t referring to his finny friends behind the wall of glass. ‘Do you know Tootsie Rollins?’
‘Sounds like a kind of sweetie.’
‘Anything but. Do you know him?’
I shrugged. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Probably just as well. But you will. He is a gangster. A vicious man. It was his crew that killed the policemen at the hotel and it is he who has Parker.’
‘Did Parker go of his own accord? Did he fall or was he pushed?’ I asked.
‘It hardly matters. Parker had something that Rollins wanted. Something we all want. Something that belongs to me. And the money too, according to you. It is all most inconvenient that it was waylaid before I could get it. Most inconvenient.’
‘What did Rollins want?’ I asked, before we could get on to the contentious subject of the non-existent money again.
‘Drugs. Weight of cocaine that Parker had brought into this country.’
I suddenly got the plot. I’d invented a load of money, but in fact Parker had had something. A load of dope. What a dickhead I’d been. I should’ve guessed.
‘But Parker was working with the police?’ I said.
‘Precisely. What better way of smuggling a load of merchandise into the country? Arriving with New York’s finest, rushed through immigration and customs with no worries.’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘That’s diabolical. If you set it to music you’d have a hit.’
36
‘So where are we going?’ I asked Mr B, pre-empting the others.
‘You’re going to see Tootsie Rollins,’ he replied.
‘So where does this geezer Rollins hang out?’ I asked.
‘He has a variety of addresses,’ replied Mr B. ‘A recording studio in Peckham, a house in Putney, another in Kennington, a flat in Brixton, and some other places dotted around. He likes to keep his options open. But they’re all in south London. That’s his area and he rarely ventures out of it.’
‘I am surprised I’ve never heard of him, then. So where is he now? And where’s Parker?’
‘My informants tell me that Parker is staying at the house in Kennington under close guard.’
‘For his protection or to keep him prisoner?’
‘As I said before, that hardly matters. But to be honest, I don’t know.’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Harold. ‘Pay him a visit.’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘How many guards?’
‘Half a dozen,’ said Mr B.
‘And there’s just four of us,’ I said. ‘Bad odds.’
‘These are not my only troops,’ said Mr B. ‘I can call up an army within minutes.’
‘Better get them then,’ I said. ‘Unless you want a bloodbath on your hands.’
‘They’re on their way,’ and as if to confirm his statement, Martha knocked on the door, opened it and said. ‘Some of the boys to see you, Mr B.’
‘Harold,’ said Mr B. ‘You take charge. Call me on your mobile when you’ve seen Tootsie. I’ll be waiting for your call.’
‘No problem, Boss,’ said Harold. ‘Come on you lot, let’s go.’
The four of us filed out into the hall and went to the foyer, leaving Mr B to feed the fishes or do the Guardian crossword, or whatever he did to pass his time waiting for news from the front. Waiting for us were four more black geezers, all looking like extras from a bad episode of The Bill, all dreadlocks and silly hats. Mind you, as these dudes were for real, I suppose The Bill got it right.
They were all fiddling with a variety of weapons. Revolvers, semi-automatic Browning Hi-Powers, the weapon of choice in south London, or else sawn-off shotguns loaded for bear.
‘I don’t have a gun, Harold,’ I said. ‘And that’s making me feel underdressed for the party.’
‘No worries,’ he replied, producing my Detonics from under his jacket and tossing it to me. ‘Just make sure you point it in the right direction.’
I dropped the mag out of the butt, checked that it was fully loaded, slapped the clip back home and put one shell into the breech. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
Harold laconically introduced me to the rest of the wild bunch, but didn’t bother with their names. They gave me a whole load of dirty looks, and we went outside to where Marcus’s BMW and a fairly new Audi saloon were parked at the kerb.
I got in the back of the Beemer with Goldie, Marcus took the wheel and Harold rode shotgun. The other four guys got into the Audi, and it followed us as we pulled away.
It was only a short run to Kennington and the milkman was still rattling bottles on to doorsteps as we arrived at a fairly affluent-looking estate of new, yellow-brick houses close to the river.
‘All out,’ said Harold and we exited the car, then he gestured for the rest to leave the Audi and the eight of us stood in the chill, grey morning air and stamped our feet in the dirty snow that still carpeted the street.
‘Let’s take it easy now, boys,’ said Harold. ‘No point in blasting our way in when we can go in cool. It’s Christmas in a few days and I’m sure we all want to be around to enjoy the festivities. So go in nice. But remember, if any fucker inside gets feisty, kill ’im.’
37
The posse started rattling on in patois, probably thinking I wouldn’t understand. But black geezers have been doing that to me since I was fifteen, and once you pick up the rhythm, it’s as easy as easy to understand. I won’t try and mimic it, just translate for the uninitiated.
‘Round the back, you two,’ Harold said to a couple of the biggest geezers. ‘And don’t let anyone get out.’ Harold was changing his style from the laid-back, stoned-out dude I’d met the previous night, and I was beginning to realize why Mr B trusted him with the job of leading us.
‘No problem,’ replied one of them, an evil-looking fucker with a cast in his left eye and two big gold rings in his right ear. He loped off with his mate and they vanished into a walkway.
‘Majesty,’ Harold said to another of the blokes who’d turned up at the house. ‘You watch the front and the cars. No one gets out that way either.’
Majesty, who was as tall and regal as his name, spat into the gutter, tapped the sawn-off that was concealed under his long, dark-green overcoat and said, ‘Yo.’ Obviously a man of few words, our Majesty. Good name though.
‘The rest of you come with me,’ said Harold. ‘And remember, no shooting unless it’s absolutely necessary. We don’t know who the hell we’re going to find in there.’
At his words, Goldie, Marcus, the other unnamed soldier and I followed Harold up the garden path.
Harold gave the door a serious rat-a-tat-tat with his fist and waited. There was no answer, so he did it again. All was silent inside. ‘Chick,’ he said to the other geezer who hadn’t been introduced. ‘Do the business.’
From under his leather coat, Chick pulled out a short sledgehammer and, when we were all standing out of the way, swung it hard at the woo
dwork of the door. Once, twice, three times he whacked it, until with a screech of breaking wood it collapsed inwards. There was ‘WELCOME’ written on the doormat inside.
We took it at its word and pushed through into what appeared to be an average suburban dwelling, and for a moment I thought we were in the wrong house, until a squat black geezer, naked to the waist and wearing just a pair of denims, appeared at the other end of the corridor, an Ingram Mach 10 machine pistol clenched in his hands.
‘Whoa,’ said Harold. ‘Put the gun down, Ramon, you’re outnumbered.’
Outnumbered he might’ve been, but the gun he was holding was loaded with a thirty-shot magazine and shooting down the narrow hallway he would’ve been hard-pressed to miss.
Shit, I thought. It’s over before it’s begun.
38
I tensed myself for the hail of bullets from the gun, when the bloke with the bad eye appeared behind the squat geezer, stuck his Browning into his ear and said, ‘Pull the trigger and you’re one dead motherfucker.’
The squat geezer, Ramon, relaxed his hold on the Ingram and Bad Eye relieved him of the weapon, much to my, and probably everyone else’s, relief.
Harold walked up to Ramon, popped him a good one in his eye and said, ‘Where’s Tootsie at?’
‘Tootsie’s up here,’ said a voice from the dark at the top of the stairs. ‘And Tootsie’s not happy. You fucked my door, man. That door cost me plenty.’
Harold walked back to the foot of the flight and said, ‘Mr B’ll pay. Just put in an invoice. Now come down here, Tootsie, and join us. We gotta talk.’
I was beginning to wonder why none of the neighbours had called the Bill. Maybe Tootsie had unexpected visitors every Saturday morning. Or maybe they knew to keep a low profile and let the brothers work out their own problems.
Probably the latter.
Definitely the latter, I decided when I saw Tootsie lumber into view, using the banister for balance. The geezer must’ve weighed twenty-five stone if he weighed an ounce and most of it seemed to be round his belly and backside. And he was as ugly as a bucket of frogs.
He eased himself down the stairs and the hall suddenly seemed like it was packed to the gunwales. Tootsie said tetchily, ‘Get in the living room. We can’t talk out here.’
Pretty civilized behaviour really, under the circumstances. That is, if you discounted the Ingram.
We did as Tootsie said, dragging Ramon, who was going to have a hell of a shiner later, with us, and keeping our weapons handy. Who knew what might be waiting in the living room? An anti-tank gun, possibly.
But there was nothing like that. Just a three-piece suite in tan leather; a pink carpet; several paintings, that veered dangerously close to kitsch; a TV, video and stereo system with satellite attachments that hadn’t left much change out of five grand, and a long dining table with half a dozen chairs. The magnolia silk curtains were drawn tight and Tootsie left them like that, putting on a standard lamp with a pale-blue tasselled shade as he passed. I wondered if Tootsie had trouble with his colour definition.
He lowered himself on to the sofa and regarded us through piggy eyes almost lost in the flesh of his face. ‘So what the fuck’s the meaning of this intrusion?’ he demanded. ‘Harold. You’d better have a good reason bursting in here and bringing grey meat with you, or I’ll personally see your nappy head on a pole.’
Grey meat? Did he mean me?
39
‘We hear you’ve got a visitor, Tootsie,’ said Harold.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘We hear he’s carrying gear big time. And our pale friend here tells us he’s gotta loada dough too.’
Tootsie gave me the evil eye. ‘Your pale friend is lying.’
‘Did you kill those cops at the Intercontinental?’ I interjected.
‘No, man, you did,’ said Tootsie. ‘It’s been on TV so’s it must be right.’
I felt like shoving my Detonics up his snout and popping off a cap, but I just nodded my head and said. ‘Nice.’
Tootsie grinned.
‘Is he here?’ asked Harold.
‘Who?’ asked Tootsie innocently.
‘Don’t fuck with me, fatso,’ said Harold. ‘You’re holding no cards.’
‘I’m holding Parker,’ said Tootsie. ‘And he ain’t here. Search the place if you like.’
Harold turned to Goldie and Bad Eye. ‘You two, give the drum a spin.’
Off they went.
‘So where is he?’ asked Harold.
‘Find out,’ replied Tootsie. ‘I ain’t gonna give you no help.’
‘Let’s just shoot the bastard,’ I said. ‘This is all beginning to piss me off.’
Tootsie gave me the evil eye again. ‘And start a war,’ he said. ‘Mr B wouldn’t like that.’
Fuck Mr B, and you too, I thought, but said nothing.
‘So was Parker carrying weight?’ asked Harold. ‘And dough?’
‘Weight maybe, but cash no,’ replied Tootsie. ‘I told you, your pale friend’s fucking with your mind. You start listening to these bastards, you’ll turn white yourself.’
‘What do you say?’ Harold said to me.
‘You don’t believe this fat fuck, do you?’ I said. ‘He’s the one who’s lying.’
Stalemate.
Goldie and Bad Eye came back then and Goldie shook his head. ‘No one in the place,’ he said.
‘Told you,’ said Tootsie.
‘You’re carrying a bit of weight yourself, Toots,’ I said. ‘Look at those love handles. Why don’t I get a knife out of the kitchen and slice some of that meat off. Maybe you’d tell us where he is then.’
‘You ain’t got the bottle,’ said Tootsie. But I could tell he wasn’t sure.
‘Try me,’ and I looked him dead in the eye. ‘Just try me, you fat cunt. It’d be my pleasure.’
40
‘That’s something I’d like to see,’ said Harold.
Tootsie just grinned. He thought he’d got all the aces. That grin was beginning to get me well pissed off, and I thought it was time to get the fat man to spill some beans, so I cocked the hammer of the Detonics and did exactly what I’d thought of doing a few minutes earlier. I walked over to Tootsie and put the barrel against one of the nostrils of his flat nose. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with here, son,’ I said, looking down at him. ‘I think I’d better tell you all about myself.’
‘You ain’t gonna pull that trigger,’ he said, rather nasally.
‘Ain’t I?’ I asked. ‘Listen, son. I used to be a copper. I used to stitch up black boys like you every day. It’s a wonder we never met, or believe me you’d’ve done some time. But I never had a gun then. Now I have. And now I don’t have to stick to judges’ rules or PACE, or whatever they’re calling it this week. You think I won’t pull the trigger? Try me, son. And I’ll teach you the real meaning of Christmas.’
‘Hey, man. I never done nothin’ to you.’
‘Haven’t you? Then who blew up that plane at O’Hare Airport last week?’
He looked bewildered. ‘What?’
It was an off-the-wall question as far as he was concerned, and the rest didn’t know what the hell I was going on about.
‘You heard,’ I replied. ‘And I heard it was some of your mates.’
‘What about it?’ he seemed genuinely puzzled, as if he blew up plane-loads of people every day. But I knew he knew what I was talking about.
‘Was it?’ I said.
‘It might’ve been.’
‘Why’d they do it?’
‘What’s the problem? It was a warning to Parker. Just to let him know what’s what.’
‘And what is what?’
I could hear my voice rising, and my grip on the pistol was sweaty and it was bumping Tootsie’s nose. Hard.
&
nbsp; ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Tell me what is what, Tootsie,’ I repeated.
‘Careful,’ said Harold from behind me.
‘Shut up, you,’ I said. ‘This is between me and him. So what is what motherfucker?’ I demanded.
‘We knew he was on the passenger list,’ said Tootsie, for the first time really beginning to grasp the magnitude of the situation, if not why I was asking. ‘But not on the plane. We wanted to make sure he knew we could get to him if we wanted.’
‘So he’d bring the drugs over here?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why didn’t he just deliver the stuff in the States?’
‘Because there was a big contract out on him and he was shit-scared the guys would rip him off and kill him anyway. He got in touch with Mr B, and promised him the dope in exchange for a safe haven here. It seemed like the best plan to him.’
‘But he was going into witness protection over there.’
‘Big deal. Do you know how many people in the programme get their new identities blown every year? Loads. Those coppers’ll sell their own mothers for fifty dollars, let alone some bad guy who’s rolled over on his own. And he knew my people would get to him sooner or later. He decided he’d rather take his chances over here. Europe’s a big place and you can get lost easy and live cheap too. He stole that dope, man, and my people wanted it back.’
‘For fuck’s sake. This is insane! And you were prepared to kill four hundred innocent people to make your point?’
Tootsie shrugged and I nearly hit him. ‘Not me, man,’ he said. ‘I never placed no bomb.’
‘But you know who did. And that makes you culpable.’
He looked lost at that. Obviously culpable wasn’t in his vocabulary.
‘Do you know who was on that plane?’ I asked after a moment.
Another shrug.
‘My ex-wife,’ I said. ‘And her new husband and their son. He was just a toddler.’
‘What do you care if she was your ex-wife?’ said Tootsie and I lost it. I pulled the gun back from his nose, smacked the end of the barrel against his forehead and my finger tightened on the trigger. And suddenly I heard more metallic clicks as Harold, Goldie, Chick and Bad Eye all levelled their guns at me and prepared to shoot.
