by Mark Timlin
‘Yeah?’ she said with a question mark.
‘Do something for me.’
Her face fell. ‘It’s too early for a blow job. I haven’t completed my toilette or had my petit dejeuner.’ All in a mock French accent. ‘But maybe later, monsieur.’
I thought it must be tough to keep a sense of humour living in a horrible part of the city in a dump like that shithouse over the road.
‘Quelle horreur,’ I replied, and she laughed. ‘You should eat breakfast – most important meal of the day,’ I added. ‘Just want to know if you know this bloke.’
I pulled out Tyler’s photo. She knew him. You didn’t have to be a detective to spot that change of expression. No laughing now. ‘No,’ she said.
‘I think you do. A fiver says so.’
‘A tenner would say more.’
This girl hadn’t been born yesterday. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘A tenner it is.’
‘Show.’
Before I’d left home I’d popped single five pound notes into every pocket. Just for this sort of situation. Plus another ton in tenners in my wallet. I just didn’t want to show anyone I was bribing the whole package. I reached into both front pockets of my jeans and pulled out two notes. ‘Now you,’ I said.
‘His name is Tyler,’ she said. ‘Or so he says. He stays in the top rooms. It’s like a separate flat. He’s tough. But he’s in Bristol at the moment. Or that’s what he said. He told everyone he’d be back and not to go in his place.’
‘And you wouldn’t.’
‘None of us would. He’s got a gun.’
‘Do what?’
‘I’m not kidding. He says he was in the army.’
Christ, I thought That puts a different complexion on the job. ‘Did he say when he’d be back?’
‘That’s the tenners worth.’
‘Fair enough.’ And I passed over the dough. ‘When?’
She reached out her hand again. Another pocket, another Lady Godiver. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘When he’s done his business, whatever it is.’
I hoped she wasn’t having me on as I parted with the third note. ‘Thanks,’ she said again, ‘and how about that blow job?’
‘Thanks yourself, but I’ll take a rain check on that.’
‘OK, but you don’t know what you’re missing,’ and like a magician she reached into her mouth and pulled out a full set of dentures. ‘See. Soft as,’ she said exposing a set of pink gums
‘Thanks again, but no.’
‘If you change your mind, just ask for Gummo. I’m in second floor front,’ she said.
‘Tell you what,’ I said, and pulled out one of my cards with my name and mobile phone number. I wrapped it in another two fivers. ‘If he shows up, give me a call. On the QT. Not a word to him.’
‘As if.’
She pocketed the lot and went back to the hotel. Maybe she’d call, maybe not, but it was worth a punt.
I headed home then by tube and bus, reversing my previous journey. I was back by two and ordered a super supreme pizza from Pizza Express and played some Miles Davis on vinyl. Afterwards I busted open a cold beer and worked out my options. If Gummo wasn’t lying, Tyler was somewhere in Bristol on business. From what I knew of Bristol Saint Paul’s I imagined he was selling something or other. Maybe what Lisa was missing. Maybe drugs, maybe something else. I was either too late or not. I wasn’t about to head out to the Wild West to find out. It would be late before I could get there, and there definitely were monsters lurking, and not about to welcome a white man asking questions. And Gummo had said he was armed. Maybe he was, maybe he said it to keep his neighbours out of his digs.
Two choices. Go back before he was due, or wait until tomorrow, and maybe a call from Gummo. No choice really. The night time was the right time, and tonight was alright by me.
This time I took the car. A nice dull Ford saloon, dirty blue, but with enough poke to make a quick escape. And it was all perfectly street legal. The only thing that wasn’t, was the automatic I was carrying, fully loaded for bear.
It wasn’t such a comfortable journey up to town as it had been in the Caddy, but I got to King’s Cross in one piece. By night the area was even worse, junkies, drunks and whores roamed the pavements looking for cash or kind. I parked the car on an empty meter a quarter mile or so from the squat, donned tight leather gloves and checked my trusty Colt 1911, fully loaded and heavy as the lead it carried.
There were lights on all over the squat. Some were bright, some were dim. Some candles, some electric, probably illegally hooked up to the electric company. Too bad. They could afford it if my electric bill was anything to go by. Nothing on the top floor. Obviously when Tyler talked, people listened.
I tried the front door of the old hotel and it swung open easily. There were several bulbs in the foyer, some worked, some busted, but just enough light to see the dead, open lift and a wide flight of uncarpeted stairs. Littered about was the usual detritus of urban communal living. Bikes padlocked to anything nailed down, flyers from more take-outs than seemed possible. All cuisines, all prices. Loads of other flyers of every description, and letters in dozens of names. Bills mostly, but sadly declined.
I took the stairs, there were lots of them. Many floors. Some lit, some dark. There was music everywhere. All sorts, but mostly heavy on the bass. That suited me. Noise, when I wanted to be quiet. There was no music on the top floor and no lights. I used the small Maglite I’d brought with me. The one door had a hasp and a padlock. Tyler did want to be alone. Did I tell you I pick locks? Well I do, and I practise a lot. I can do it in the dark and I did. The padlock looked strong, but was a piece of shit. I had it open in a few seconds. I carry my picks in the barrel of what looks like an innocent ballpoint pen. Like hide in plain sight, and no questions asked. No drop, no foul. Of course the pistol was harder to explain.
Inside was neat. Army, Gummo had said. There were three rooms. One was a sort of kitchen, one was a bedroom, one was a living room. And there was a bathroom with an old fashioned tub in the middle and a toilet that was clean but with no water. This had to be servants’ quarters from when the hotel was live.
There was power up here and I used it, I didn’t think anyone apart from me was going to visit Tyler’s den that night. And if they did I was armed and extremely dangerous. My only worry might be that he came home early.
I found nothing. No swag. No gun. There was a massive boom box with a stack of CDs. A mobile clothes horse hung with smart clothes. Too smart for this gaff. I imagined Lisa had paid the bills before he skipped, taking threads and whatever else. There was a set of bookcases made with planks and bricks. Lots of books, all well read. A couple of Reachers as a matter of fact. We obviously had similar tastes in literature and women. I flicked through a couple of the books and out fell a piece of lined paper. On it was scribbled RINGO and a phone number. A clue. My word, that was a stroke of luck. I diligently copied down the name and number in my own note book. Couldn’t hurt.
I left after half an hour. Lights off, padlock on, and away. And I never saw another soul the whole time.
When I got home the second thing I did was phone my old friend Detective Inspector Jack Robber, my go to geezer for things lawful, or maybe not exactly. The first thing I did was to pour myself a hefty glass of red wine. Housebreaking was thirsty work.
He answered quickly. ‘What time do you call this?’ He demanded.
‘Nice to talk to you too Jack. Time to earn your corn. What does the name Ringo mean to you?’
‘The Beatles. Always preferred the Stones myself.’
‘Funny. I mean in our line of business.’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Can you ask around?’
‘How hard?’
‘Well don’t kick any doors in.’
‘I mean dosh-wise.’
‘The usual.’
&n
bsp; ‘Sounds important.’
‘It is. Alright, a monkey. I’m on expenses.’
‘Doors beware, and the kebabs are on you.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ And he hung up with not as much as a fuck you very much. Well, that was an interesting improvement.
Next I called Lisa.
‘Well?’
I cut straight to the chase. ‘What does the name Ringo mean to you?’
‘The Beatles. I always preferred the Stones.’
‘Everyone says that.’
‘Did you find him? Tyler?’ She demanded.
‘I found his gaff. Just like you said. He wasn’t home, but he’ll be back. All his stuff was there.’
‘So keep trying.’
‘I will.’
‘And let me know when you’ve earned your money.’ And she hung up without a fuck you very much as well.
I finished the wine, got undressed and went to bed wondering why I bothered.
The next morning I breakfasted on two poached eggs on two slices of toasted Warburtons Danish sliced white with butter and Marmite. The breakfast of champions!
I was thinking about heading back to King’s Cross when my mobile rang. I’d not had it long and not many people had the number. It was a big, ugly thing, but everyone said they were here to stay. I answered and a female voice, a little quavery asked, ‘Is that Nick?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Gummo. You remember?’
‘Of course. What’s up?’
‘Everything. The boy you were asking about. I think he’s dead.’
‘Do what?’
‘He must’ve come back late last night. Anyway, first thing this morning there was a lot of shouting upstairs, and a big bang, then some people ran away. We went upstairs and he was lying there covered in blood. Someone called an ambulance and the police. They took him away and the cops slung everybody out. Locked the place up.’
‘So, where are you?’
‘Waterloo. I’m going home.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Guildford. And before you say it, I know the only decent thing about Guildford is the A3 to London.’
‘Got your fare?’
‘Yeah. That money you gave me.’
‘So why did you phone?’
‘Because I liked you. You gave me cash and didn’t want anything back. Some blokes would just take the blow job and fuck me off. You were decent.’
‘Thanks for that. And what’s your proper name? I hate what you called yourself.’
‘Nancy.’
‘OK Nancy. Have a safe journey, and keep the card. If you’re ever in trouble bell me, yeah?’
‘Yeah. And Nick…’
‘Yeah.’
‘Take care yourself. There’s some bad people out there.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ I said, and we both hung up.
I called Lisa next. ‘You find him?’ She demanded.
‘Yes.’
‘Well!’
‘Not good news.’
‘Why? How is he?’ A strange thing to say I thought, about the bastard as she called him who’d just ripped her off.
‘If you want to know you should try the local hospitals or the mortuary.’
Silence.
‘Lisa?’
‘What did you do.’
‘To him. Nothing. Someone got there first with a gun.’
‘Christ. I’ll be in touch, stay where you are,’ and she hung up.
She was back in twenty minutes. ‘He’s alive,’ she said. ‘At the London Hospital. In ICU under police guard. Are you home?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. You’d better be armed. We’ll go see him.’
‘They won’t just let anyone in.’
‘They’ll let me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m his bloody mother, and I’ve got the papers to prove it.’
There wasn’t much to say to that, so I said nothing. After a moment the phone went dead, and I collected my Colt, tucked it into a pancake holster in the back of my jeans and went downstairs and waited for the Cadillac.
It purred up a few minutes later and pulled up to the kerb. I dived into the back where Lisa was sitting looking ten years older. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I demanded.
‘You didn’t need to know.’
There was no answer to that, and no Black Russians or spliffs this time round.
The drive to the London took about thirty minutes and we were in the ICU five minutes later. Tyler Trubbel as I now knew him was in a single bed ward with a cop on a chair outside. We lassoed a nurse, Lisa showed some papers, the nurse whispered to the cop and we went inside.
Tyler was linked up to tubes and monitors, but he was breathing and all seemed OK. Minutes later an Asian doctor came and pulled Lisa outside. I watched through the window, and she smiled and grabbed the geezer and gave him a big, fat kiss. Looked like all was copacetic.
Then she came back to me. ‘He’s going to live,’ she said. ‘They got him just in time.’
‘So, what now?’
‘Now we go and celebrate.’
‘What about his dad?
‘Sod his dad. He’s in Argentina raising beef with someone younger and blonder.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Let’s celebrate then.’
So we did.
Arnold drove us west into Soho, where he pulled up in Poland Street and helped Lisa out of the car, but left me to my own devices. He’d parked outside a plain green wooden door with a camera pointing down, and a single bell in the centre of the wood. Lisa walked towards it, and the door opened before she rang. She never ceased to amaze me. She led me down a narrow corridor that opened into a dimly lit bar, behind which stood a grey haired party with a big smile on his face. ‘Hello stranger,’ he said, the smile widening. ‘Long time.’
‘Things happen,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed the place.’
‘Still here. Still standing.’
‘This is Nick,’ she said. ‘A helping hand. Nick, Django with a D.’
‘Nick,’ he said to me. ‘Pleased to meetcha. Any friend of Lisa’s is always welcome.’ Then back to her. ‘Something wrong love? You don’t seem yourself.’
‘Life gets worse with age. People get hurt.’
‘Never a truer word. So what’s it to be?’
‘Champagne. Your best brandy and a lump of sugar, twice.’
Django turned and shouted back through a serving hatch in the wall. ‘Janice. Two champagne cocktails. Large size.’
And that’s when the evening started to get fuzzy.
I woke up to bright sunshine coming through massive, uncurtained windows in a massive room on a massive leather sofa opposite a massive TV screen under a blanket, fully dressed but for my shoes, Lisa was standing over me with a mug in her hand. ‘Coffee?’ she asked.
I grunted something from a mouth that felt like the inside of a budgie’s cage. Thank God she took it as a yes, and she plopped the mug into my hand. ‘Ouch,’ I said, and copped for the handle. ‘Hot.’ I took a luxurious sip and sighed. ‘Beautiful. Where am I?’
‘In my lair.’
I looked round and remembered she’d knocked six flats into one. It was quite something. ‘Nice digs,’ I said, sitting up, and only regretting it for a moment until my equilibrium settled. ‘How did I get here?’
‘Alfred carried you.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘It must’ve been something I ate’
Another dirty look.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said.
‘We did mix our drinks.’
‘Like?’
‘Champag
ne cocktails, Brandy Alexanders, espresso martinis, blahdy, blahdy, blah.’
‘What was that place called by the way? That bar?’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me.’
‘Well thanks for getting me home safe.’
‘You were good company until you nodded off.’
‘Christ.’
‘No problem. But you still have my money to earn. I’ll get Alfred to take you home for a shower.’
Which is exactly what he did.
Her building was just off the Brixton Road. Five stories high if it was an inch. There was a huge underground car park, empty but for the Cadillac, a concrete ramp, and an over and under metal door that worked on a remote from the motor’s dashboard. Very high tech.
When I got dropped off at home I stood under alternate hot and cold water until my head felt a bit better, scrubbed my teeth hard and shaved as close a nun’s habit. At least all that made me feel a bit more human. A large Bloody Mary made me feel even more so. I sat and looked out of my window as I drank it and I played more Miles at very low volume. It was a pretty day outside, and eventually I spoiled it by answering the phone. It was Jack Robber. ‘Got a bite,’ he said. ‘On your Ringo.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Let’s meet.’
‘Where?’
‘Yours.’
Thank God, not the Dog pub. ‘You’ve not been banned out of your favourite boozer have you?
‘Maurice gets the hump.’ Maurice was the landord. A very strange individual.
‘You two should get married. Or at least live in sin.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘That’s just denial.’
‘And that just cost you an extra oner.’
‘Like I said I’m on expenses.’
‘Fish and chips?’
‘Not ’alf.’
‘Got beers in?’
‘A fridge full.
‘Half an hour.’
And he was true to his word. The chips came from the good shop in Herne Hill. Pure white cod, batter crisp, but not tough. Lovely soft chips and mushy peas. A pickle and a small gherkin each. I supplied the ketchup and vinegar, and of course the lager. We ate straight out of the paper off the tiny table in my tiny kitchen. The food was perfect for the way I felt. Not much had been eaten the night before as I remembered. A green olive or two. Maybe a cocktail sausage on a stick or even some cheese and pineapple. Real old school, the club with no name. When every scrap was gone I shoved the greaseproof into my bin and we took more beers to my living room. We’d said nothing about his visit over dinner, or was it a late lunch? But before he’d arrived I’d counted out six hundred smackers from the cash Lisa has given me and when we were comfy I handed it over.
