by Mark Timlin
I was cut loose and led out to the street.
Outside it was like the TV again with two ambulances and various police cars and vans wasting their batteries strobing their light bars. Bobby D was leaning against his Beemer with a supercilious look on his face. ‘Was it you?’ I asked.
‘You bet.’
‘How?’
‘I was doing a bit of paperwork in the car after you dispensed with my services rather rudely.’
‘Not me. Charlie.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, I saw you come out and was about to suggest a drink and a bit of supper when this other bloke walks up and smacks you in the head.’
‘I’m getting slack in my old age.’
‘Anyway,’ he went on. ‘He bundles you into yours, picks up your keys and heads out. He was fast, and I couldn’t get out of my car quickly enough, and I didn’t want to lose him and stand there with my dick in my hand.’
‘A wonderful thought,’ I said.
‘So I follow and when he gets here I call the law. Then I call your friend Riley. Like you said, better one of the untouchables is around to keep you safe.’
‘Cheers.’
‘She’s over there.’ He pointed in the direction of the flashing blues. ‘Go and have a word. I think she likes you.’
I nodded. ‘Well thanks again, Bobby, I won’t forget this.’
‘I won’t let you, and I’m still billing you for my time. So au revoir and don’t do anything I wouldn’t. Lunch next week?’
I nodded, and he got into his car and drove off leaving me to nurse my sore head and hold a tissue to the cut in my neck.
Riley was standing by one of the ambulances. ‘I don’t need it,’ I said.
‘McIntyre does.’
‘Lucky he doesn’t need a hearse.’
‘Always good to end things without bloodshed.’
‘Tell that to Charlie and Krystal. And me.’ I showed her the tissue and she tutted, but not in a sympathetic way.
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s your favourite musical?’ I asked.
She looked bemused. ‘Les Mis,’ she said. ‘Yours?’
‘The Music Man.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Old school.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Maybe we could get together some evening. Have a drink. Compare musical scores. What do you say?’
‘Could do. Give me a call.’
I did and we did. But that’s another story. And the dough? Well, I went to the pub in Battersea, met Nigel, slipped him a hundred quid and was given a large G&T on the house, and the envelope with my name on it. Inside was the left luggage ticket, which I exchanged for two hefty bags at Waterloo station, gave them to Colin, and never took a penny. I prized my skin too much. I explained Charlie had spent some of the cash, and after all the trouble I had been to, I expected no comebacks for either of us. Colin nodded, then reached into one of the bags and hauled out a handful of cash. ‘For your favourite charity,’ he said. Later, I took the money into Li’s and put it in the donkey jar. A promise is a promise.
Charlie spent a month in hospital and now and then I’d turn up with some grapes and a few magazines. And even now we occasionally get together for a Ruby and a chat about old times.
Oh, and I still love ‘Bags’ Groove’, and listen to it all the time.
UPTOWN TOP RANKIN’
It all started, as it often did, with me sitting in my office smoking a cigarette, listening to Otis and reading a paperback novel. This time it was a Lee Child I’d read before. So it was no hardship when I saw a silhouette behind the glass door, followed by a hard knock, before the door burst open and trouble walked in, although I didn’t know that at the time. My cigarette continued burning, Otis kept on singing about the pain in his heart. I sympathised, and Jack Reacher could wait. Anyway, like I said I’d read it before, but it was still worth a second go. But I always wondered how a bloke who only changed his clothes about once a week got so much sex. And it was always marvellous. Not like real life at all.
Trouble stood in the doorway with the sun behind her, then walked properly into view. She was tall, dark haired, red lipsticked and all neat in black from head to toe as far as I could see, and I liked the view.
‘Are you Nick Sharman?’ she asked.
‘That’s what would be written on the door if I could’ve afforded ninety quid for a sign writer,’ I replied.
‘Funny. I heard you were funny.’
‘No charge for jokes,’ I said. ‘Anything else is two hundred and fifty quid a day plus reasonable expenses.’
‘Then you could have a sign written.’
‘Good point. Come in, sit down, take the weight off. I assume you want dragons slayed.’
‘You’re astute,’ she said. ‘I’m Trubbel.’
‘Say again.’
‘Lisa Trubbel. Lisa with an S, Trubbel with double Bs, one L.’
I stood. It was the least I could do. ‘Lisa,’ I said, pointing to one of my clients’ chairs. ‘Coffee?’
‘Does it come free with the two hundred and fifty?’
‘No charge. How do you take it?’
‘Black and strong,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, like the man I want you to find.’
‘Tell me all,’ I said as I poured her a cup from my complicated caffeine machine. ‘Don’t leave out a thing.’
‘Are you flirting with me?’
‘As if.’
‘Anyway, race isn’t the issue. A thief is what he is, and I need you to find the little bastard.’
I wondered if she kissed with that dirty mouth. I imagined she must. Made that old heart of mine almost skip a beat. ‘And what did he do to deserve that expletive?’
‘He took something that belongs to me.’
‘There was copper across the road by the pub a minute ago,’ I said, delivering her cup. ‘I could give him a shout. Get this all over in a second.’
She made a noise like a tire deflating. ‘No police,’ she said, then stuck her hand into her bag and pulled out a box full of Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes with gold tips, and a shiny black and gold Dunhill lighter. She offered me the pack, but I declined. Too strong for my blood. I preferred my Silk Cut. She sneered in my face, lit up, and the smoke lay thick and dark in the air.
‘So, this item,’ I said sinking back in my chair with a coffee of my own, this one with a dash of milk. I’m a wimp when it comes to coffee, just like cigarettes. ‘A family heirloom, a billet doux from a famous person, an irreplaceable piece of art?’
‘Shut up. What it is doesn’t matter. Who it is, is all that does. Find him, and you’ll find it, and I’ll take care of the rest.’
‘So, you’re hiring me to find something, but won’t tell me what.’
She nodded.
‘Which may lead to a kidnap, which, when I last looked was against the law. Sounds like trouble with one B,’ I said.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Depends.’
‘Of course it does. You’ve broken the law before, I understand, and I’m the client and I pay the bills. You’re a crook, Mr Sharman, and you’re a sucker for guns, money and love. Guns are down to you. Money I have plenty. Love…’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe we can talk about that later over dinner. On me. How about it?’
‘I’m also a sucker for Mr Chow,’ I said. ‘How about that?’
‘That can be arranged. I’ll pick you up at your home at seven.’
‘You know where I live?’ ‘
‘And your phone number, and a lot of other things too tiresome to mention. I always research my staff.’
That was bit rude. That was also a bit worrying. But I let it go. What the hell. Like she’d said, she was a client, and clients paid the bills. Plus I hadn’t been able to afford Mr C
how’s prices for quite a while.
She got up then, and I did too, and saw her out of the office. Just down the street was an eighties stretched black Cadillac limousine polished to perfection with its chrome gleaming in the sun. As she walked towards it, the driver’s door opened and a liveried chauffeur as big as a horse got out and opened the back door. She climbed in the back, he climbed in behind the wheel, the car started, then drifted off towards the corner. Not a word was said, not a move was wasted. Perfect synchronisation. I wondered then what I was letting myself in for, and what it was she’d lost. Then I mentally shrugged and looked forward to a free go at Mr Chows.
I went home then, and thought about my new client. Trubbel by name, trouble by nature I guessed. As I thought I played a reggae compilation. Perfect for a warm summer’s afternoon. When ‘Uptown Top Rankin’’ came on I played it on repeat a couple of times. Althea and Donna. I loved those ladies. ‘Nah pop, nah style.’ I don’t think so.
For my dinner date I chose an Italian navy mohair suit, black slip ons, a pale blue cotton tab collar shirt, and a plain navy blue knitted silk tie. Sharp, or what?
At precisely seven pm, the Caddy drew up outside my flat. I was already in the front garden waiting. Somehow I knew she would be dead on time, and I was right.
Harry the horse got out of his door and opened the back door on the pavement side. I thanked him and ducked in. Lisa was sitting by the opposite door. She had changed into a black evening gown. Short, over black stockings. ‘Good evening Mr Sharman,’ she said.
‘You’re punctual. I thought you would be.’
‘The politeness of princes, or in my case princesses.’
I just smiled, as Harry took his place back behind the wheel and we took off gently just like a good chauffeur should.
‘A drink,’ she said, and pulled open a drawer in the centre of the seats and produced a silver cocktail shaker and two glasses. ‘Black Russian suit you?’
‘To a tee.’ Same colour cigarettes and booze. I could live with that.
She expertly poured the drink over ice without spilling a drop and passed one to me. We clinked glasses and drank. Perfect. Cold as Christmas and strong as Harry the horse. Then she reached into her handbag and pulled out a blunt and her Dunhill. She touched a button by her head and the glass partition between us and the driver’s cab slowly closed, she fired up the joint and passed it to me. Heavy duty. ‘Sensi,’ she said, and pressed another button and the cabin was filled with music as sweet as the grass. ‘Chet Baker,’ I said, when the vocal began.
‘I heard you were a jazz buff. Chet Baker singing. Beautiful. And what a beautiful boy. People said he couldn’t sing. What arseholes. He had the most gorgeous voice. Shame he was a stupid junkie who got his teeth kicked in so he lost his lip and couldn’t play properly anymore. Still, let’s grab the moment and pretend none of that shit happened to him.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said, and I did.
The Cadillac cruised through south London heading for Knightsbridge. The engine purred like a tiger cub and it seemed to float exactly like the big old boat it was. Of course the sensi helped. As did the Black Russians.
Outside Chows, the driver stopped, holding up traffic as he opened the left hand rear door. I exited by myself, then he helped Lisa onto the pavement. We created quite a stir, like a pair of rock stars. One pap even took a couple of shots, and she played up to the camera. Then she took my arm as the maître’d’ opened the restaurant door and greeted her with extravagant air kisses, led us upstairs and parked us at a window table. Obviously I wasn’t the only one who liked Chows.
‘I took the liberty of ordering in advance,’ she said when we were seated. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Fine by me,’ I said as a bottle of white wine was delivered, and a glass of something pale amber was put in front of her. It could have been cold tea but I doubted it. Wine was poured for me and dishes of steaming Chinese cuisine covered the table. I devoured plenty. She never touched a bite. I didn’t care. I was starving. Of course the sensi helped. I finished the bottle of wine and she inhaled glass after glass of the amber liquid without any discernible results. Perhaps it was cold tea after all.
When the dishes were rescued by the staff she put her handbag on the table and pulled out a photo. It was a handsome young black guy maybe twenty five, maybe younger. A bit young for her, that was for sure.
‘That’s him?’ I asked.
‘I can see why you’re a detective.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘His name is Tyler.’
‘And he’s where?’
Out came a page from a notebook. It smelled of her perfume. ‘He was last seen at a squat in King’s Cross. That’s the address.’
I picked up the paper and just avoided running it under my nose.
And finally, as if an encore, came a fat brown envelope. ‘There’s a grand in there, she said. ‘Four days’ pay. Any expenses I’ll pay, but don’t take the piss.’
‘As if,’ I said.
She gave me a dirty look.
‘Why haven’t you got your driver to do all this? He’s big enough,’ I asked.
‘What, Alfred? He’s afraid of spiders. Are you afraid of spiders, Mr Sharman?’
‘No. But I don’t like them much. My old mum tried to save one in the bath, tripped and broke her hip. It was the beginning of her decline.’
‘Sad,’ she said, but obviously didn’t give a toss. Why should she?
‘Actually I thought you were the type of woman who could take care of things for herself,’ I said.
‘I am. I have a twenty two pistol in one garter and a flick knife from Sorrento in the other. Italians make very good knives.’
I didn’t know if she was joking, but I doubted if she was, and I wondered if I’d ever find out for myself. Though I doubt if I would. I was staff after all.
‘I live alone in the penthouse of a block of flats Lambeth council sold me cheap because of the many and various ethnic sitting tenants who were in situ. Believe me, they didn’t last long, and when I got rid of the scum I knocked through six flats on the top floor into a tasty apartment, and made myself very comfortable.’
Charming, I thought. But once again she was paying the bills.
After she finished speaking, she pulled out her phone and pressed a button. ‘Now I have places to be, people to see. The boss here will call you a cab. I’ll be in touch.’ With that she got up and left without another word, leaving me unable to politely stand and wish her a good night. No kiss on the cheek, not even a handshake. Instead I sat like a flounder until she was gone. A few minutes later the maître d’ told me that my taxi was at the door. No mention was made of payment. Obviously she’d taken care of that as neatly as she’d taken care of me.
So, fat and stupid after the feast, still a little bit stoned, and half in love, I got carried back to my lonely pad and an empty bed in a black London lobster. Not even a little spider to share my existence.
The next morning I woke up fresh as a new born lamb ready for the slaughter, surprisingly unhungover and ready to earn the thousand quid still sitting uncounted on my bedside table. I knew there would be exactly the amount she’d said. Lisa Trubbel was most precise. I went to the bathroom, abluted and emerged shaved and still pink from the shower and dressed in ancient jeans with torn knees, an ancient Blue Note t-shirt, an equally ancient leather jacket distressed to within an inch of its life, and similarly ancient monkey boots, the leather as soft as a virgin’s kiss. My pants and socks were brand new. I had my standards, and eat your heart out Reacher.
I took the address and photo Lisa had given me and headed to King’s Cross by bus and tube. I didn’t need the aggro of a motor that early in my search, and it was a fine summer’s day.
King’s Cross was a shithouse those days. There was the st
ation with beggars and thieves on every other corner, and on the other corners, ladies of the night were doing business although it was only eleven in the morning. Even in my scruffs I still had to fight off some of each.
I’d checked the street of the address in my A-Z before leaving home and headed towards it. It was in the boonies of the worst side of the area. Huge, empty buildings lined the roads, waiting for demolition or the gentrifying that almost certainly had to come to even this, the bad side of town, but not that day. The buildings seemed to loom together like lost souls. And even on this, the warmest of days, the walk was dismal and made me shiver slightly under my leather.
The address she’d given me was an old hotel, now not taking paying customers but graffitied up like a bad Andy Warhol. I’d bought a can of beer and a Ginsters pasty at a corner shop en route, and I sat on a low walk opposite the squat, peeled the pasty, opened the can and watched the front door. Didn’t even try and see if it was open. Let the mountain come to me.
And, a few minutes later, after the pasty was gone, it did. Not exactly a mountain, but pretty large. A young woman. Girl really, with badly dyed red hair in a grown out Mohican, a leather jacket in worse shape than mine over a Sex Pistols t-shirt and leggings stretched to capacity tucked into a pair of Doc Martens. She saw me and headed over. ‘Can I have a swig?’ She asked.
I passed her the half full can. ‘Finish it,’ I said.
‘Got any spare change?’
I nodded.
