by Joe Thomas
Challenor has walked past the 2i's coffee bar a large number of times and its popularity never ceases to amaze. Yank music live in the basement is what does it, he thinks. Young men posing with their greased hair and their style boots and their style jackets, combing this greased hair of theirs, smoking their fags while combing this greased-back hair that they have. And girls, screaming. Wetting their knickers, if old Wilf Gardiner knows what he's about, these girls are, wetting them, they are, soaking them, so Wilf Gardiner says. Challenor's contempt for Wilf Gardiner is increasing by the day.
Challenor's not sure about this scene. He's a Motown man, likes the darkie soul music, does Challenor. And why not? He wants to feel less — not more — hysterical. And the Motown singers -especially the women Motown singers - they do that to him, with their rhythm and their groove, and their voices and their style.
But Challenor's not going to any of these establishments. Challenor does not mess about.
What are you going to do about it?
Challenor's headed to the Coffee Pot on Brewer Street because that's where he's going to find five men he believes are at the heart of this protection racket that is threatening old Wilf Gardiner almost daily, and Uncle Harry has it in mind to have a word, and scope these ne’er do wells first hand.
*
You’re Number Six.
And the green-light flash, and then you’re gasping in the icy slipstream, and your stomach drops as you free fall for seconds that feel like long, long hours, and then you’re jerked up and up by your shoulders and you check your rigging lines are clear, not tangled, and you see the plane disappear to your right, and you look ahead and there is the rest of the stick, swaying gently in a straight, perfect formation, and you think of skiing in Scotland and jumping in Egypt where you trained, and the deep blue-black night is still, and you reckon you could have a nice chat in this deep blue-black, still, cool, cool night —
Seven thousand feet up in the air and sound doesn’t half travel.
So you keep your traps shut.
Seven thousand feet up in the air and it isn’t half cold.
But it is cloudless and moonlit and the Apennines look like England's green and pleasant, they do, to you, from up there, from seven thousand feet up in the air.
Where everything floats, floats for a while, evaporates, cools —
For a little while, you don’t worry too much about what the fuck is going to find you down there. In Italy —
Italy.
*
‘Lads.’
Heads turn.
‘Fuck do you want?’ says Pedrini to Challenor.
Challenor pulls up a chair. ‘That's no way to talk to your Uncle Harry, young man.’ Challenor helps himself to a mug of tea from the pot on the table. ‘Your old mum didn’t teach you any manners?’
Challenor slurps his tea. He examines the interior of the Coffee Pot on Brewer Street and thinks he understands why Police Constable David Harris isn’t so wild about this place, lacking, as it does, much style, much glamour.
‘Biscuit, Uncle Harry?’ says Ford. ‘You know, to go with your tea?’
There are guffaws. Challenor grins. ‘I couldn’t trouble you for a chocolate bourbon, I suppose?’ His grin widens, his eyes narrow. ‘We didn’t get many of them in the war, you know, behind the lines, in, you know, France, Italy.’
Silence.
‘You been there then, Harry?’ says Pedrini.
Challenor gives him the fisheye. There's Pedrini, Ford, Cheese-man and Oliva - these Challenor was expecting. There's another lad, too, that Challenor recognises: Fraser. Goes by the alias Fraser the Razor, he's heard, Challenor has. That's five. There's one missing, Challenor thinks, if Harris has been doing his job right. He wonders who it might be.
‘I spent some time there, yes, young man,’ Challenor says, still grinning. ‘You know what we did? During the war?’
Challenor stands. He continues, ‘They dropped me behind the lines with nothing but a pistol and a knife and a bag of dynamite and told me to blow up your Italian trains.’
He places his palms on the table, leans over the lads. He says, ‘We did it, too. That bit was easy. Made friends with some of the locals. Got quite close to one of them, if you know what I mean.’
Challenor sits back down. The five lads are all smoking and examining each other, and examining the walls, examining anything, in fact, that keeps them out of Challenor's eye line.
Silence.
Challenor settles himself back into his chair. He's throne-ing this hard-backed, wooden chair, in this faintly grotty, very basic caff, which seems to have been picked by this gang of five solely for its lack of attraction for many others. There were three other customers when Challenor walked in. Now there are none. The proprietor is drying something with a tea towel, though Challenor has noticed that he's been drying something with a tea towel for quite some time. Challenor's not sure if the proprietor's somewhat hostile look refers to him, or to the five lads with whom he is attempting to converse, with whom he is attempting to have a word.
The lights are on low for your basic caff, Challenor thinks, and there are assorted framed pictures and photographs and posters on the walls, but Challenor identifies no obvious theme to this collection.
The lads are dressed in a uniform of sorts — black suits, white shirts, black ties, carefully sculpted hair, crafted hair, really, close cropped, but not too close, just long enough to allow a little sculpting, a little crafting.
‘What did you do in the war then, lads?’ Challenor asks.
The lads smoke. The lads shuffle in their seats. They shuffle in their seats, Challenor thinks, less than comfortably.
Ford says, ‘The war? We were busy being born, Uncle Harry.’
There is laughter. There is nervous laughter.
‘Oh,’ says Challenor, ‘so it was your good mothers who were busy in the war then, busy, doing things, service, if you like, back then, in the war.’ He pauses and grins, wider still. ‘Good for them. Good for your old mums.’
Silence.
Five lads seethe -
Challenor eyes Oliva.
*
The first thing that finds you down there, in Italy, down there on the ground in Italy, is a fucking tree.
But, you know what, thank fuck for this Italian tree. It doesn’t half break your fall. Fortunately, it's your canopy-type, umbrella sort of a tree, with its soft enough branches and its abundant leaves and, you know what, you slip quite nicely through it, you do, and land like a cat that's pirouetted off a kitchen counter down to his little bowl of milk, all happy and smooth like.
Seven thousand feet, and you end up falling about a half dozen, really only that, it feels, to land, softly, in Italy, down there, on the ground in Italy.
First thing, you think: parachute. Before anything else: parachute. And while your Italian tree was a definite ally in aiding the smoothness and comfort of your landing, it's a fucking pain in the, you know, it is now, right now, it's a fucking right pain in the backside.
Riggings caught across about ten feet of branches, so first thing, first thing, is you shin up the tree, shin up the way you’ve just come down, and cut the rigging out of the tree with your army-issue knife. And your army-issue knife might be quite the thing to stick into the gut of a German sentry, but its serrated edge is not, you’re realising, quite the sharpest tool in the box. Quite a fucking effort, it is, shinning up to where you’ve just come down from, cutting out the bloody rigging, with a bloody blunt army-issue blade. You’re basically having to saw through the rigging with this blunt blade, and you’re cursing its thickness, until you remember the bloody rigging kept you up in the air not long ago and you were pretty bloody thankful for the thickness of the bloody rigging, not that long ago. And this tickles you, this really tickles you, the relief, you suppose, the relief of it all, and you laugh, quite loud, and quite long, until you remember where you are, and why, and quite how still the cool, cool night is, down here, in Ital
y, and you shut your fucking trap, sharpish.
*
But Oliva ain’t biting.
No, signori, Oliva ain’t biting. He's sat, looking bored, staring at the collection of photographs and posters and pictures on the walls, studying them, he is, but not with any conviction, any gusto, any bottle.
What are you going to do about it?
‘What say you, young Joseph?’ Challenor asks. ‘You’re awfully quiet, young man, I must say, for, you know, the leader.’ Challenor grins. ‘That noble, no, scusa ragazzo, that... regal bearing you have doesn’t quite match up with this shy and retiring, this wallflower act.’
Oliva turns, slowly.
Challenor notes this slow turn and sees in it a measure of confidence. Challenor notes this confidence. He's not sure what to do with it, this confidence, just yet.
Oliva says, ‘You’ve got some face, Uncle Harry, coming in here. Some serious face, you’ve got. I’ll give you that, your face.’
Oliva shoots a look -
Oliva stands, pushes his wooden chair back, gives the empty room a final once over, looks across the room with its collection of posters and pictures and photographs, nods at the proprietor, subtle, but a definite inclination of the bonce, and leaves.
After Oliva leaves, Ford, Pedrini, Cheeseman, Fraser and King leave.
Challenor grins -
We’re on, son, he thinks. We’re only fucking on.
*
The rigging gives in the end, after a half hour or so of fannying about with your less than effective army-issue knife, sawing at the ropes, first one way then t’other —
And down it comes, in a tangled heap on the ground —
Which, at this point, isn’t a great deal better than stuck up a tree.
You bend your back and dig a nice little grave for your trusty chute, your thick, sturdy chute, and it turns out that your army-issue knife is rather better equipped for this, and you’ve buried your chute, and given it a little lay-to-rest, R.I.P salute, and you’re on your way in about a quarter hour.
You use your watch and the stars —
You’re looking for Wedderburn, who is looking for Foster, who is looking for Shortall, who is looking for Pinckney, who is looking for Greville-Bell, who is looking for Dudgeon.
Low whistling is the pre-arranged signal. You know the line along which the five in front of you in the stick should have landed. But you ended up arse-clamped in a tree, so what do you know?
What are you going to do about it?
You whistle and you move, you move and you whistle —
You whistle and you move along the axis where your compadres should, you know, more or less, be.
Italy Italy —
Cheers, Algiers; Algiers, cheers.
*
Challenor's at Wilf Gardiner's other place, the Phoenix. Fortunately, Wilf Gardiner's at the Geisha, so Challenor doesn’t have to listen to his bunny, his pony, and can simply get on with his job -
What are you going to do about it, eh?
‘So,’ Challenor says, to Elizabeth Ewing Evans, Wilf Gardiner's, for want of a better one, mistress, ‘give me your humble in terms of this sorry little saga.’
Elizabeth Ewing Evans is smoking. She takes a long drag on a long fag, one of those thin ones, black with gold tips, a foreign name, Sobranie, he thinks, a very ladylike cigarette, this one, all told. She says, ‘I wouldn’t call it a saga, detective.’ She smiles. The gold tip of her very ladylike cigarette is bruised purple-red from her lipstick. ‘Saga suggests something epic, which suggests heroism, which suggests valour, which, in turn, suggests value, which, of course, suggests this sorry little saga has been worthwhile.’
‘I think - ’
‘I’m aware, detective, of the irony in your question. “Sorry little saga”, yes, got it.’ Evans smiles again.
Challenor nods. ‘Irony or otherwise, I’m still interested in your thoughts.’ He pauses. ‘Beyond, I mean, your overall sense of the thing. That much I can gather, of course, from your irony.’
Elizabeth Ewing Evans folds her thin, black, gold-tipped, foreign cigarette into the ashtray in front of her.
It's fairly quiet, the Phoenix, for this time, on a Thursday. A half-dozen suited types, tourists, Challenor thinks, to look at them, down from places like Rochdale, and Stockport, and Huddersfield, Challenor reckons, by their brogues, by their radiating Northernness. Down for a conference or other, Challenor suspects, and living it up in old Soho, with a few jars and a few dances, what with the missus tucked away with the kids up there in Rochdale, and Stockport, and Huddersfield.
The dancers, Challenor sees, are doing very well for themselves, on autopilot they are -
Candy-from-a-baby situation.
Not your calibre of bird, of dancer, Challenor listens in to the Northerners’ discussion, not the same quality, back home, they say. Bright lights and whatnot. Carpe Diem and Bob's your fooking uncle, and more money finds its way into the pockets, the straps really, of this better calibre of bird, of dancer, that you’ve got down here, down here in glamorous Soho.
‘It's all a bit handbags in the playground, I’d say, Detective Challenor.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘That's certainly how it started, at least.’
‘And how did it start?’
Elizabeth Ewing Evans plucks and slides another thin, black, foreign cigarette from the shiny, silver cigarette case that's on the table. With a flick of her wrist she both lights the cigarette and summons a waitress. Well, a waitress appears, though, to be fair, Challenor's not sure the two things - the flick of the wrist; the appearance of the waitress - are necessarily part of a causal relationship.
‘Another?’ the waitress asks Challenor.
Challenor turns his bottle of brown ale. The Phoenix is, like the Geisha, after all, famous for its brown ale -
Challenor considers this and nods. ‘Go on then,’ he says, and, looking at Elizabeth Ewing Evans, he adds, ‘in for a penny, eh?’
‘It's Wilf's old friend Fat Juan that's provoked all this.’ Ms Evans exhales for a long time. Your foreign, sophisticated fag will do that, Challenor thinks. ‘You can trace the origin of all this to a night a few months ago,’ she adds.
‘Not long after Fat Juan got out then.’
‘Not long at all. And it's pertinent, I’d say. You know what they say about Juan, of course...’
Challenor nods.
‘...well he was in here, not long after he got out, bear that in mind, and what it means, like I say, pertinent, you know what I mean.’
‘I do know what you mean.’
‘And, well, let's just say that this is unsurprising, when he was in here, he took something of a shine to one of our dancers.’
Challenor's head bobs. He says, ‘Knowing Fat Juan, by reputation at least, this does not come as a considerable surprise, no.’
Elizabeth Ewing Evans nods. ‘Thing is, the dancer, one of our younger ladies, something else I suspect you won’t find a considerable surprise, is called Maria. Maria. So, you know.’
‘Aha,’ Challenor says. ‘I believe I do know.’
‘Quite.’
‘Cousin or something? Sister? Or lover situation?’ Challenor says. ‘They tend not to be the most accommodating in either scenario, I’ve always found, your Italian family.’
Elizabeth Ewing Evans nods again. ‘Our young Maria,’ she says, ‘is a cousin of Riccardo Pedrini, and has been seen, from time to time, about town on the arm of a certain Joseph Oliva.’
‘Well, I never,’ Challenor says.
‘Your turn to be ironic, I suppose.’
Challenor grins.
Elizabeth Ewing Evans continues. And an interesting little aside to this, is that the clan Pedrini had no idea that their butter-wouldn’t-melt youngest cousin was plying a trade at Wilf Gardiner's Phoenix cabaret and revue bar.’
‘To give it its full name.’
‘To give it its full name, yes, tax purposes and so on.’
Challenor's head bobs again. ‘So what, Fat Juan gets fruity, and young Maria doesn’t like it, says see you più tardi, amico...’
Ms Elizabeth Ewing Evans raises her eyebrows to a fairly astonishing height at this spot of tongue, Challenor notes.
‘...but old Fat Juan doesn’t like this,’ Challenor goes on, ‘turns on his charm, gets tossed by your gorillas, cursing the little puta, and young Maria thinks maybe it's time her boyfriend and cousin get involved.’
‘You’re spot on, detective. He was just oil on the fire, Juanito, in the end. The clan Pedrini are after my Wilf, and so you’re up to speed.’
‘Bigger fish.’
‘Bigger fish, that's right. Last time I saw the young Italians, they shouted after me, “We’re going to stripe that bastard fella of yours.’” She draws long on her foreign fag, her long, thin, foreign fag. ‘I’d always thought Italians were cut from a more sophisticated linen.’
‘So it's personal under the guise of a protection scam then?’
‘Or the other way round, yes.’
Challenor nods -
His head bobs.
‘I don’t know why a nice young lady like you is having anything to do with these two-bob punters,’ he says.
‘One of them born every minute.’
Either way, he thinks.
‘So long, sweetheart,’ Challenor says. ‘Be lucky.’
*
You whistle and you move, you move and you whistle. You’ve landed on a hillside, you’ve landed on a hillside in a copse, in a copse surrounded by shrub, by bush, by the deep blue-black, cool, cool night —
Silence.
And then you hear it, like an owl, an almost hoot, a not-quite owlish hoot, this low whistle that you hear. And you keep on the bearing to where you believe Wedderburn should be, and this low whistle seems to be on the line that you’re walking, at least you suspect it is —
Silence —
Then again.
You form the sound with words in your head:
Whit Whooooo
This tickles you. You laugh to yourself. And it's infectious, this laughter. And you laugh harder. Here you are, in Italy, alone, behind enemy lines, deep behind enemy lines, sure to be executed on the spot, on sight, if stumbled upon by the wrong fella, and you’re giggling-
