by Darren Dash
“I know, I know,” she soothed me, “but I wanted to be sure. I figured I’d run it by you, see how it played. I’m glad you’re not one of those creeps who gets off on animal cruelty. I’ve no time for those bastards. I was with a guy a while back – must be why I thought of that particular ruse – who was into it. I’d been paid to get close to him. There was a deal going down and…”
She waved a hand dismissively.
“That doesn’t matter,” she continued. “But when it came time to kiss his cheek and say goodbye, I drugged him and tied him up. Left him in an abandoned barn, naked from the waist down, with a couple of fighting dogs. I fed them before I jumped ship, so they were nice and placid when I waved adieu, but they get hungry real quickly, so when it came time for their next meal…”
She chuckled viciously. I had no idea if it was a true story or if she was trying to test me again, so I kept a stony face and said nothing. But I was glad she wasn’t into the animal stuff. I’d have had a hard time justifying this job to myself if she had been.
“I do actually love boxing,” she said after a pause. “Two guys in a ring, who’ve chosen to be there, beating each other to a pulp…” She lay back and let the glass rest on her thighs. Rolled it meaningfully between her hands. “It gets me hot. The blood, the battle, the fevered look in their eyes, everyone in the crowd excited, betting, yelling. I sometimes want to do it right there and then, strip off and start fucking in the seats while the guys are hammering it out on the canvas. I reckon no one would notice. They’d be too busy watching the fight.”
“I wouldn’t put that theory to the test if I was you,” I sniffed.
“Prude,” she laughed.
“Does Brue take you to the fights?” I asked.
“No, he…” She stopped. “He told me not to talk about him. Told me the less you knew, the better. Said you wouldn’t ask too many questions anyway, and to be suspicious if you did.”
“Fair enough.”
“Should I be suspicious, Eyrie Brown?” she asked mockingly.
I didn’t reply. It was nearly two in the morning. My eyes were starting to droop. I should have nabbed a couple more hours sleep earlier.
She rose from the couch and walked round the room, checking it out again, glass in hand. She moved fluidly, even though she’d had too much to drink. Examined my posters. One of the cast of Casablanca, one of Rita Hayworth, a couple of Ali, the Greatest, my hero when I was a child.
She found my DVD collection and bent to examine the discs, not expecting much by the look on her face. After a few seconds she squealed and plucked out my copy of Some Like It Hot, one of the first films I’d replaced when my previous collection had gone walkabout.
“I don’t believe it! And Sweet Smell of Success. And The Defiant Ones. You’re a Tony Curtis fan?”
“Not really,” I said. “Just three great films he happened to be in. He was a good actor but he turned up in crap most of the time.”
“Bite your tongue!” she shouted. “Every one of his films is a classic. God, he was handsome. Why can’t they build them like him any more? I was born decades too late.”
It looked like my earlier question, about whether Toni Curtis was her real name or if she’d chosen it because she liked the actor, had been answered.
Toni took the disc to the DVD player, switched on the TV – “How old is this gargantuan piece of shit? Did they lower it in place with a crane, then build the flat around it? Has no one told you we’re living in the twenty-first century?” – and fast-forwarded to the first appearance of Curtis and Jack Lemmon. Sat on the floor, gazing at her idol, beaming happily while I stared at her, surprised that she’d casually drop a word like gargantuan into the conversation, telling myself to be careful not to jump to any conclusions about this loud and bloodthirsty but far from stupid young woman with an apparent good taste in movies.
“Look at him,” she crowed. “He was so young then, so beautiful. Hell, even in a dress he looked amazing. If a woman turned up looking like that, I’d go lesbian for her, the hell with men.”
I moved over so that I could see the screen. I’d always thought Lemmon was the better of the pair. Certainly made a lot more quality movies than Curtis. But there are times to voice an opinion and there are times to keep it to yourself.
“This is my favourite film of all time,” she told me. “I saw it when I was twelve. That’s when I changed my name. I fell in love with him and thought if I took his name, maybe I’d end up looking that good too. I wised up when I got older but I never fell out of love or swapped my name back. Changed it legally when I was old enough, only I use an i instead of a y. More feminine, you know?”
“The end’s my favourite bit,” I told her. “When they’re speeding away in the boat and the old guy says –”
“Nobody’s perfect!” She laughed. “That’s a top line, but it would have been better coming from Tony, if he’d shouted it over his shoulder. The old guy was a nobody. Why should he get a zinger of a line like that?”
“Tony was too busy with Marilyn Monroe to be saying anything.”
“Marilyn,” she snorted. “I never saw the big deal. You know what gets my goat? When you see posters and adverts for Some Like It Hot and she’s centre stage, top billing, Tony and Lemmon in the background, like a couple of extras. She was the spare in that movie. They were the stars. Tony made it, not Marilyn.”
“Lots of people wouldn’t agree with you,” I said, watching as the camera followed Marilyn’s hemline at a viewer-friendly angle. “I’d be one of them,” I admitted, drooling ever so slightly.
Toni caught my expression and grinned. A sexy, serious grin. “You know,” she said, her voice rising innocently, “I think I’m better looking than Marilyn. Not so much the hips or legs, but I’ve better tits, don’t you reckon?” She jutted her chest out and smiled as though she didn’t know what she was doing.
I said nothing.
“Of course, you can’t really see with this bra,” she mused. “It makes them look smaller than they are. Hold on a sec and I’ll take it off.” Her hands snaked up around her back.
“Wait,” I said softly.
I slid in front of her, blocking the screen. She let her head fall back and gazed up. I smiled. Leant over.
And slapped her face.
It was a gentle slap. The way you’d casually slap a child’s bum in the old days, when it wasn’t a crime. I wouldn’t normally hit a woman, even a light slap like that, but I had to let her know there were boundaries. She was playing with me, but games of that kind have a nasty habit of spiralling out of control, and I wasn’t going to put myself in a position where I’d end up screwing a girl who was involved with the likes of Lewis Brue. I wasn’t suicidal.
Toni changed instantly. Pushed me away. Shot to her feet, smile vanishing. Her right hand shot into a pocket that I hadn’t taken any notice of, came out with a blade. She lashed at me. Would have drawn blood if I hadn’t been quick enough stepping back.
“You bastard!” she shouted. “Nobody hits –”
I pulled the Hi-Power. I’d removed it from the bag earlier, loaded it and kept it on me since, figuring I should have it on my person as long as I was standing guard over her, just to be safe.
She stopped talking when she saw the gun. Stopped advancing. Stared.
“I’ll be careful if I have to shoot,” I told her. “I won’t hit the bone, just a flesh wound, but it will be enough to halt you in your tracks. Then I’ll tie you up, ring Brue to see what he wants done with you – if he wants me to keep you like that, or send someone to fetch you and take charge of you for the rest of the weekend – and that will be that. Your choice. Drop the knife. I don’t give second warnings. I’ll take hesitation as a sign of non-compliance.”
She dropped it and slumped to the floor, eyes only for me now, Tony and the rest of the Some Like It Hot gang temporarily forgotten.
“You’re dead,” she said softly.
“No,” I told her. “If I’d
let you take that bra off, if I’d gone along with your game, if I’d let my prick lead my brain, then I’d be dead. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure rule number one in a situation like this is, ‘Don’t screw the employer’s woman.’ I’ve been paid to protect you and that’s all I’m going to do.”
“I’ll tell Lewis you beat me and raped me.”
I shrugged. “Maybe he’ll believe you. And maybe the last thing I’ll see before I die will be my own manhood dangling before my eyes. But I don’t think so. I don’t know much about Lewis Brue, but I doubt he would have picked me if he thought there was any chance I’d jump your bones. You can tell him your story if you like. Then I’ll tell him mine and take my chances.”
She hung her head. For a moment I thought she was going to cry.
Instead she laughed.
“OK,” she said, picking up the remote, which was the size of a small Bible. “We know where we stand. You’re in charge and you’ve laid the ground rules. Fine. I’ll stick by them. No more flirting. I’ll do what you say and you won’t hit me again.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Because if you do…” she warned. “If you ever strike me, or trip me, or look at me the wrong way…” She pulled a tiny gun, faster than I was expecting, from another pocket, and levelled it at my face. Kept it on me for what felt like a long time before lowering it and returning it to its resting place.
“…I’ll kill you,” she said simply.
And I had no doubt that she meant it.
And I was suddenly very glad I hadn’t slapped her any harder.
Toni was quieter the rest of the night. She was still pissed at me for slapping her, but I think she felt bad for having played the seductive vixen. She knew what Lewis Brue would do to me if I made a move on her. She felt guilty for having toyed with me and tempting me, knowing what the end result would have been if I’d given in to temptation.
At least that’s what I liked to think.
The other possibility was that she was simply bored.
She sat watching Some Like It Hot and drinking. Replayed the film from its start when it finished. Pulled her knife and started picking her nails with it, telling me all the things she’d do to Marilyn if she could travel back in time and get her hands on her. She really had it in for the actress. Outraged when Marilyn kissed Tony Curtis. She threw the knife at the screen. It bounced off harmlessly because by that stage she was too drunk to put any strength into the throw.
I said as little as possible, waiting for her to pass out, which she did shortly after four in the morning. When I heard the soft snores, I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. Laid her on the bed and pulled the duvet over her. I was tempted to undress her, to give her a shock when she woke, but figured she might not take the joke well and, if she woke before me, maybe she’d decide to pay me back by slitting my throat — from what I’d seen, I wouldn’t have put that past her.
I rolled the suitcase into the bedroom and left it there. Poured a large glass of water for her, then another, and left them on the bedside table. Then I took the couch in the living room and settled back for the night. The couch didn’t pull out into a bed, and it was an uncomfortable piece of crap – nobody ever stayed over, so I’d never really needed to upgrade – but, for twenty-five thousand pounds, I’d have happily slept on the toilet.
FIVE — RINGSIDE
I woke around midday, showered, shaved, cleared away the empties from the night before, then relaxed and tried to read some old magazines which I keep in stock for quiet moments like these, but I couldn’t concentrate.
Thoughts turned to Zahra, and I found myself comparing her with Toni. Two very different women. Zahra was far more conservative and modest than the young lady sleeping in my bed. Nowhere near as visually striking as Toni, though she’d been beautiful to me.
I tried to imagine Zahra sharing this flat with me, but I could never picture her living here. If we’d had our whole lives to share, I’d have settled in the desert. I wouldn’t have brought her to London. This city would have changed her, and I didn’t want her to change. To me, she’d been perfect as she was.
It was after two when Toni showed her face. She looked a state when she staggered in from the bedroom. Her face was a mess and she’d kicked off the dress sometime in the night, replacing it with a baggy top. The top covered her knickers but only just. She moved slowly, scowling grumpily, hungover.
“What time is it?” she croaked.
“Time you were getting dressed,” I said.
She glanced at her bare legs and managed a wan grin. “Don’t hit me, boss,” she giggled. Then she fell into a chair and groaned. “I feel like shit.”
“I wonder why?”
“Shut up. It’s not the drink. It’s a bug or something.”
“Right. The rum and beer bug. A lot of that about. Eat some bread and drink lots of water. You’ll be fine in a couple of hours.”
“I don’t want to even think about moving.” She opened her eyes and smiled sweetly at me. “Would you be a dear?”
“No,” I smiled back just as sweetly. “I’m a bodyguard, not a servant. You want something, get it yourself.”
“You’re a real gentleman, Eyrie Brown,” she sneered. “Full of the milk of human kindness. I bet you do lots of charity work in your spare time.”
“I sure do. And every penny raised goes to the FEBB benefit fund.”
“The what?”
“FEBB,” I repeated.
“Which stands for?”
“Fuck Everybody But Brown.”
She laughed. “That’s pretty good.”
“It should be,” I told her. “I stole it from W.C. Fields.”
“Who?”
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. The youth of today! Then again, I wouldn’t have known about Fields either if it wasn’t for Dixie, who’d introduced me to some of his silent shorts, before I went on to relish him in his talkies heyday. His voice alone was enough to make me smile.
“Go on,” I said. “Fill your stomach. I’d advise a couple of raw eggs if you feel up to it.”
“Advise all you want,” she said, getting up and scratching one of her lean, pale thighs. “I don’t eat boiled eggs, never mind raw. Jesus. Eating something that’s come out of a chicken’s…” She blanched and wandered off to the kitchen. I switched on the TV, trying to distract myself, so that I wouldn’t dwell on the image of that short top riding up those long legs.
Women. They should come with warning labels.
The afternoon was dragging. Toni had come through the worst of her hangover but was bored. I suggested we watch a film but she’d had enough of “that old tank of a TV set,” saying she needed something hi-def, that all those fat, flickering pixels had messed with her eyes, and that was why her head hurt so bad.
I bypassed the opportunity to have another dig at her refusal to accept that she had only her excessive alcohol consumption to blame for her sorry condition.
Instead I started thinking of what I could do with her. I didn’t want to take her out on the town yet — it was too early for pubs and clubs. The gym was an option, but I could predict the distraction she’d create, and Fervent wouldn’t thank me for that. Shopping? I had no idea what stores would be deemed appropriate, and didn’t fancy jostling for elbow room with the Friday crowds.
Then, inspired by my earlier mention of W.C. Fields, I had a thought.
“Put some trousers on,” I told Toni. “We’re going downstairs.”
“Why?” she frowned.
“To mug a little old lady,” I deadpanned.
Toni grumbled but found some baggy trousers to match the top. She pulled on a pair of trainers – no socks – and followed me down the stairs, looking several years younger than she had last night, like a surly teenager who was being forced to go on a museum trip.
Dixie was surprised to see me when she opened the door. “I thought you were otherwise engaged this weekend,” she said.
“I wa
nted to introduce you to my cousin,” I said, stepping aside to reveal a confused Toni hovering close behind me.
Dixie studied the blinking girl and sniffed. “Still sticking with the cousin line?”
“Like glue,” I smiled.
“Then come on in, cousin,” she said to Toni, and ushered us inside.
I’m not sure how I expected the visit to go. I think I took Toni down there to punish her, figuring she’d have to sit quietly and suffer the visit in agonised silence, smiling fakely while her head thumped inside. But to my surprise she took to Dixie swiftly and genuinely.
It started with a poster for Metropolis, one of the better-known silent films that Dixie had scored. She’d played with it several times, not only in London but at film festivals abroad. The poster featured the iconic image of a female robot set against towering skyscrapers. I’d hazard a guess that, along with Chaplin’s Little Tramp, Metropolis is probably the most widely recognised remnant of silent cinema, not least because of the boost it got back in the 1980s when Queen used clips from it in their Radio Ga Ga video.
Of course the 1980s were a far-flung historical era for Toni, and I doubted she was even familiar with Queen the band, never mind their video catalogue. So when she spotted the framed poster and said, “That’s pretty cool,” I got ready to explain. Luckily Toni moved on to her next sentence before I could speak up and spared me the embarrassment of looking like a condescending idiot.
“I’m guessing it’s not an original 4 sheet,” she said.
Dixie sighed. “If only. But no, it’s just a modern reproduction.”
“Have you seen the movie,” Toni asked, “or do you just like the poster?”
“Seen it many times, and scored it,” Dixie replied.
“Scored it?”
“I score old silent movies and play along with them at screenings.”
“No way!” Toni exclaimed. “That must be the coolest job in the world.”
“Unfortunately it’s not a job as such,” Dixie chuckled, “but yes, I can’t think of anything cooler.”
And they were off.
