by Mark Timlin
‘He’s got the dope, hasn’t he?’ I replied. ‘What does he want? The world?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harold.
‘But where would he put it?’ I asked.
This was all getting a little too existential for Harold, who just scowled and shook his head. ‘Don’t get too clever, mon,’ he said. ‘Just ’cos we’ve had a result. Your troubles are just starting.’
Which about summed up all he knew about my troubles. ‘And what about Parker?’ I said, changing the subject. He hadn’t been tied and was now sitting in the recliner puffing uneasily on another cigarette.
‘Yeah. What about him?’ mused Harold.
‘Yes. What about me?’ asked Parker.
‘Parker comes with us,’ said Harold. ‘Mr B wants to see him. He got plans for the man.’
‘And we just leave Tootsie here?’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ said Harold. ‘Truss up the fat turkey,’ he ordered Goldie and Marcus. ‘And be quick. I wanna get out of this dump pronto.’
I looked long and hard at the big black man. ‘I’ll be back, son,’ I promised. ‘Soon. Tick-tock, motherfucker. Count the minutes, and keep looking over your shoulder, because pretty soon I’ll be there.’
‘Shut up, Sharman,’ said Harold. ‘Come on, you guys, get him tied up, this place gives me the creeps.’
Goldie and Marcus did as they were told, and within five minutes we were all back in our cars, complete with the cocaine and Parker. And not a shot had been fired.
But of course, I should’ve known that wouldn’t last.
47
We were back at the house in Brixton in time for elevenses, which Martha served to the boys in the kitchen whilst Harold and I took Parker and the drugs in to see Mr B. I wasn’t offered any tea and biscuits, which was just as well, as I had a feeling that I might throw up if I was. I was in deep trouble about the lies I’d told, and I wondered how Mr B was going to react.
Harold hoisted the case on to the desk and opened it with a flourish. ‘Weight, an’ heavy,’ he said proudly, as if he’d picked the leaves, processed the paste and dried it to powder personally.
‘Cut us a line,’ said Mr B. ‘I always like to test the merchandise before giving a verdict.’
That was a tradition I most heartily endorsed.
Harold did the business with a Swiss Army knife that had more blades than a guards’ officers’ reunion, split a baggie, laid out more than a fair portion and chopped it into a dozen lines. Mr B took out a brand-new fifty, rolled it up tight and had first dibs. He sat back in his chair with a grunt of satisfaction and gave the note to Harold who hoovered up a line, coughed and laughed. I got third hit and felt all the better for it. ‘Parker?’ I said to Mr B when I was satisfied.
‘Might as well,’ said the big man, and I passed the fifty to our transatlantic visitor.
‘Here goes nothing,’ he said, and scarfed up his fair share.
We all sat back around Mr B’s desk and looked at each other through the gloom. ‘Good stuff,’ said the boss to Parker. ‘Why didn’t you bring it to me first?’
‘I had the cops up to my ass,’ said the American. ‘Then Tootsie killed them, and hijacked me and the stuff. He had a gang of cut-throats toting heavy-duty ordnance running round the place. What the hell was I supposed to do?’
‘OK, Jefferson,’ said Mr B. ‘At least you’re here now. But what was all this money I kept hearing about from Sharman?’ And he fixed me with a gaze which I could see even through his Ray-Bans.
‘I think Mr Sharman was running scared and concocted a story to keep him up with the action,’ said Parker.
Very well put, I thought. I couldn’t’ve précised the story better myself.
‘Running scared, huh,’ said Mr B. ‘Is that about it?’
I nodded, then said, ‘That’s about it,’ in case he hadn’t seen my head move.
‘You’ve got some nerve, Sharman, I’ll give you that,’ said Mr B. ‘But I guess all’s well that ends well.’
‘But it hasn’t ended yet,’ I said, and even I didn’t know how prophetic I was being.
48
‘Meaning?’ said Mr B.
‘Meaning I’m still in the shit with the cops,’ I replied.
‘They aren’t all you’re in the shit with,’ said Mr B. ‘You’re in the shit with me too, lying about the money and all.’
‘It was all I could think of to stir things up. And it all worked out well enough in the end.’
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But I don’t like being lied to.’
‘Who does?’ I said. ‘But it happens to me all the time.’
‘Tough,’ said Mr B.
‘So what do we do now?’ I asked.
‘We carry on with our lives,’ said Mr B. ‘You, on the other hand, are in a difficult position.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Harold,’ he said. ‘Go round up the boys.’
The firing squad.
Harold stood up and left the room, and as the door clicked to behind him, I realized I was still armed.
Big mistake all round.
Parker wasn’t armed. Mr B might be. But more likely he had a weapon in the drawer of his desk. Why bother to pack heavy metal when he was surrounded by armed men? He was the boss, after all. There were some perks. And handguns tend to spoil the line of your suit.
I smiled to myself and hauled the Detonics from the waistband at the back of my trousers. There was still a bullet in the breech. I cocked the weapon. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But I think it’s time for me to go.’
‘Shit,’ said Mr B, just loud enough for me to hear.
I stood, slammed the lid of the case closed and slipped the locks with my free hand. ‘Just in case I need a bargaining tool later,’ I said as I went, and drew the curtains back behind him. I’d been right. French windows let in the grey day from outside. I saw Mr B wince and the scars on his face were livid in the thin light. I snapped the locks on the French windows and opened them. I looked back at the illuminated aquaria. ‘If this was a film I’d blow that lot to hell and gone,’ I said. ‘But they’ve done nothing to me. See you later.’ And I stepped outside on to the flagged patio, across a flower bed, on to the lawn and headed for the fence at the back that stood crookedly between two skeletal trees.
I heard no sign of pursuit from behind me.
I threw the bag over the fence and pulled myself up and over, after it. At the back was a narrow, overgrown path between the gardens. I picked up the case, turned left and ran along it. There was a T-junction at the end. I took another left and came to a solid-looking wooden door. I turned the handle and it opened. I let it slam behind me. There was no handle on the outside and I was in a parallel street to where the house was. On the corner I saw a red bus cross the junction and I headed that way and on to the main road. There was another bus just stopping opposite, heading towards the West End. I ran across the street, found some coins and joined the queue.
49
Saturday afternoon
When the bus got to Piccadilly Circus I jumped off at the lights and got lost in the crowds of last-minute Christmas shoppers.
I walked up Shaftesbury Avenue, turned into Soho and found a pub that wasn’t too crowded, bought a pint and went to a table facing the door. I stayed there for an hour or more, thinking that everyone who clocked me was going to ring three nines, until I got just too paranoid and left. I spent the rest of the short winter’s day in the Empire Leicester Square, watching the new Keanu Reeves movie about drug-dealers getting their comeuppance. It wasn’t that good, but it was bright and noisy and passed the time well enough. Halfway through it, I took the case to the gents’, sat on the closed toilet-seat lid in one of the stalls and had a good sample of the merchandise. When I went back to my seat the film looked better.
Around six, I
went into the bustling London Saturday night and walked through to Holborn. It was cold and I was strung out. In Lincoln’s Inn Fields I found a phone box that worked and called ex-DI Jack Robber at his sister’s place in Worthing. I remembered the number but not the code, and had to ring directory enquiries. As I punched in the numbers I hoped that he would answer, and not his dragon of a sister. She had never liked me much, but after a little bit of business we’d got involved in left him in hospital with three bullet holes in sensitive parts of his anatomy, she had liked me even less. I’d tried to compensate for the injuries with over thirty thousand quid that I’d managed to salvage from the wreckage, and I hoped that he’d forgiven me. He was my last hope, and if he hadn’t I was well and truly fucked.
He answered on the fourth ring. ‘Robber,’ I said when I recognized his voice. ‘It’s Nick Sharman.’
‘I wondered when you’d call,’ he said back. ‘You’ve been on telly more than Barrymore these last few days.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been set up.’
‘No.’ His voice was loaded with sarcasm.
‘Don’t fuck about, Jack,’ I said. ‘It’s the truth.’
‘I wonder how many times I heard that particular statement during my long and illustrious career.’
‘It’s true.’
‘’Course it is.’
‘And I need your help. There’s no one else.’
‘Remember what happened last time?’
‘Jack. Last time you came to me. Remember? Because of money.’
‘I remember.’
‘And I weighed you in.’
‘I remember that too.’
‘Good. Now I need your help. Do you give it or not?’
‘What’s in it for me?’
Typical. ‘I’ve got some gear,’ I said. ‘A lot. Liberated from the bad guys. But I thought you might help for old time’s sake. Know what I mean?’
‘All right. All right. Let me think. Where are you?’
‘London. In town. Holborn.’
‘Are you mobile?’
‘No.’
‘Can you get down to Norwood?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Remember my little widow woman? The one with the boarding house in Knights Hill?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Get down there. I’ll warn her you’re on your way.’
‘Will she be all right?’
‘’Course. She knows how to keep her mouth shut. And it’s Christmas. With a bit of luck the place should be empty. Get down there now. I’ll ring you later.’
‘You’re not setting me up are you, Jack?’
‘’Course not.’
‘I hope not, Jack.’
‘Trust me. Get down there. I’ll be along later. And I’ll bring some wheels.’ And he hung up in my ear.
50
Saturday evening
Maybe I was being overcautious and over-paranoid, but I decided to take a circuitous route to Norwood. And, as it turned out, it was a big mistake, like a lot of my ideas were. I should’ve just got a cab all the way, but I don’t trust cabbies. They talk too much, and they always seem to watch Crimestoppers, Crime Monthly and Crimewatch and want to get in on the act. So I got the taxi I’d hailed in Holborn to drop me on the Albert Embankment, just before Vauxhall Cross. There’s a tunnel under the railway arches there, close to the station, and on the other side a bus stop where I could get a bus that would drop me at Norwood Garage, which was just a cough and a spit from where Robber’s widow had her boarding house.
I paid the cab and watched as it got lost in the traffic before I went into the tunnel that stank of old piss and was littered with the detritus of city life. The place was lit with fluorescent tubes, but some had died and never been replaced. I walked along the deserted tunnel, ducking in and out of the shadows, trying to keep as low a profile as possible, when a voice came from one of the deep niches that interrupted the brickwork every few yards and often housed homeless people wrapped in raggedy blankets. ‘Got a spare ciggy, mate?’
I nearly jumped out of my skin as a figure emerged from the darkness. It belonged to a young geezer with long blond hair, wearing a nylon bomber jacket over blue jeans. ‘Don’t do that,’ I said.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he said, with a sarcastic grin.
‘You didn’t,’ I replied. ‘I was miles away.’
‘Got a ciggy, then?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t smoke.’
Fuck his luck. Let him buy his own cigarettes. I buy mine.
‘Got any change then?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘You ain’t sorry, man,’ and he was joined by a black guy in a leather coat and baggy pants.
‘Look,’ I said, holding up my free hand in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’ve got no cigarettes or change.’
‘What’s in the case?’ said the blond.
‘Just clothes,’ I lied. ‘I’m going away for Christmas.’ Maybe it wasn’t such a lie. If Old Bill caught up with me, I’d be going away for a lot of Christmases.
‘Show,’ said the blond.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Now I’ve got a train to catch and I’m in a hurry.’
‘Everyone’s in a hurry,’ said a third voice, and someone came from behind me to block my escape. Another white guy. Short dark hair this time, a thick sweater and dirty white trousers. ‘No one has any time for anyone.’
‘That man’s got good time,’ said the black guy. ‘Check his watch.’
Instinctively I looked at my Rolex. A nice one. A present long ago. A day-date chronometer with a blue face in a solid 18-carat case with a gold bracelet. Too good to wear really. But what should I do? Put it in the bank?
‘I’d like a watch like that,’ said the black guy. ‘Look good on me.’ Black guys always like Rolexes. They’re like BMWs they can wear on their wrists. But he wasn’t having mine. No way.
I decided that discretion was the better part of valour. ‘No, guys,’ I said in a placatory tone. ‘It’s snide. Twenty-five quid from a bloke outside Selfridges. It makes my wrist go green. It’s rubbish.’
‘So give it up,’ said Dark Hair, and produced a knife from his back pocket. ‘And the case.’
‘Yeah, give it up,’ said Blondie and produced a blade of his own.
‘Yeah, give it up, man,’ said the black guy, and let a two-foot-long machete drop down neatly from his sleeve into his fist. I bet he practised in front of his bedroom mirror. ‘Or I’ll cut off your hand.’
And I could tell he was fucking serious. They all were. They were prepared to kill me for my watch.
‘But if you did that,’ I said, ‘I’d go into shock and maybe die. If I didn’t die from loss of blood first.’
The black geezer nodded. Bastard. I was beginning to get angry.
‘All right,’ I said calmly, put the case on the ground, reached over with my right hand, flicked the catch on the Rolex’s bracelet, let the watch slide off my left wrist and into my hand where I held it up on my index finger. ‘Let’s get this straight. You’d be prepared to murder me for this?’
I just wanted to hear it.
‘Sure, man,’ said the black guy. ‘That watch worth dough.’
‘I told you it’s snide.’
‘We don’t believe you,’ said Dark Hair.
‘But you’d kill me anyway?’
Three nods.
‘But the big question is: would you be prepared to die for it?’
They all looked at each other.
‘You see,’ I explained, playing for time and hoping someone else would walk into the tunnel and interrupt, ‘if you’re prepared to kill for it, it stands to reason you have to be prepared to die for it too.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Blondie.
‘Because I’m carr
ying.’ I went on as if he hadn’t spoken.
‘Sure,’ said Blondie. ‘Sure you are.’
I put my hand inside my coat and felt the butt of the Detonics. ‘The next question is: are you prepared to stake your lives on it?’
‘We’re wasting time,’ said the black guy. ‘That’s the oldest trick in the book,’ and he raised the machete.
‘There’s always got to be one, hasn’t there?’ I said. ‘One stupid bastard who won’t take no for an answer. One stupid bastard who has to try and spoil it for everyone. And, son, today, you’re that one stupid bastard.’
‘Fuck you,’ he said.
So I pulled out the Detonics and shot him straight between the eyes. The sound of the shot was loud in the silence of the tunnel and echoed for what seemed like for ever, and a thousand pigeons that were roosting in the roof took off with a beating of wings and a shower of dirt from their nests.
The black geezer dropped the machete with a clatter and went down hard. Then I gut-shot Dark Hair. He dropped his knife too, and sat down with a look of amazement in his eyes.
Blondie turned to run. ‘Wait,’ I said through the ringing in my ears.
‘Don’t shoot me, mister,’ he begged as he turned back slowly. ‘It was them.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Honest! They made me do it.’
‘But you’ve seen me,’ I said. ‘And that’s very bad news for both of us. Come here.’
‘Don’t hurt –’
‘Save it,’ I said. ‘Close your eyes and open your mouth.’
He didn’t do either, so I forced the muzzle of the gun into his mouth, breaking teeth as it went. He went down on his knees and reached up to me. I pulled the trigger and blew the back of his head off. Then I finished off Dark Hair with a shot to the back of his neck, left them and their weapons where they lay, put my watch back on, picked up the case and went for a drink.
It’s thirsty work protecting your assets.
51
