Guns Of Brixton (42 page)

    Mark
directed Tubbs to Brixton Hill, then down a couple of back streets past the pub
where Beretta and his mates did their business during the day. 'They're
supposed to be there from lunchtime onwards,' he said. 'You can drop me off and
then pay the place a visit. Just suss it out. They'll come on to you as soon as
they see this motor and what you're wearing, I reckon. They'll want to know the
full SP. Just play it cool. There's plenty of time. But you're going to have to
fly solo, Tubbs. They're bound to know me, and I want you to get matey before
they meet Eddie. So be careful.'

    'Man,
I'll be as cool as ice.'

    'That's
good. Now drop me off here and I'll walk the rest of the way home.'

    'No
problem,' said Tubbs, bringing the car to as tyre-smoking halt.

    'And
listen: drive carefully. This car with you inside it dressed like that might as
well have a big arrow over it saying, "Mr Plod, please give me a
pull". So try and leave a little tread on the Dunlops, will you?'

    'I'll
even stop at zebra crossings,' said Tubbs with a big grin.

    'Yeah,
sure. Good luck and call me soon.'

    'Roger
and out.'

    'Whatever.'

    'Man,
I'll be safe as houses.'

    Mark got
out and slammed the door behind him, then watched as Tubbs spun the car on its
axles and headed back to Brixton. 'Sure,' he said to its retreating back. 'But
there's such things as earthquakes.'

    Tubbs
sped away from Mark, accelerating fast through the gears, the fat tyres of the
BMW gripping the damp road like a dog with a juicy bone. It felt good to drive
a motor like the Beemer after the rust bucket he owned and he wanted to get a
feel for the car. Sure, Mark was right. It was an open invitation for a pull
from the filth, but right then Tubbs felt on top of the world.

    Funnily
enough, he'd always had a secret desire to be a copper, ever since he was a
kid. But there hadn't been many black police when he'd been of the right age
and he'd heard about the way they were treated by both the public and by their
own colleagues. Not well. Not well at all. But maybe if he'd joined up he'd've
made commissioner, he thought. Or maybe sodding not.

    Undercover
would've suited him, just like his namesake in
Miami Vice.
And now he
was undercover, and if everything went OK, he'd have enough money to get out of
this bitch of a cold city that had never treated him any more than rough, and
get to the islands and make something of himself.

    Sweet
dreams, he thought as he pulled up outside the boozer Mark had pointed out to
him. But first he had to convince these fools that he was who he was pretending
to be.

    He
got out of the car, operated the central locking and alarm and worked his shoulders
before pushing through the pub door.

    His
first impression was that the stink of weed seemed to permeate every surface.
Smoke hung low over the few drinkers inside, even at that early hour. The
jukebox was on and Dandy Livingstone was warning Suzanne to beware of the
Devil. Very apt, thought Tubbs.

    All
heads turned as he entered. 'Mornin',' he greeted the clientele. Without
getting an answer, he headed to the bar, which seemed to be under the control
of a small black individual in an Hawaiian shirt and jeans, perched on a high,
chrome stool. 'Gimme a beer, man,' said Tubbs. 'It's been a long, aggravatin'
drive.'

    The
black man pulled a Red Stripe from the cooler, uncapped it and stood it on the
bar. 'Glass?' he asked. He didn't usually offer, but Tubbs was a big man and he
didn't want to antagonise him.

    'No,'
said Tubbs and sank three quarters of the liquid with one swallow.

    'Two
sixty -five,' said the barman and Tubbs pulled a wad of Mark's cash from his
coat pocket and dropped a twenty on the bar. 'Another, my man, if you please,'
he said, as he finished the first bottle and belched loudly.

    The
little man did as he was bidden and delivered a second bottle which Tubbs
sucked on briefly before hauling out a packet of cigarettes. 'Got a light, my
friend?' he said to the nearest punter who produced a box of matches which he
handed Tubbs. 'Cheers,' said the big man as he got the cigarette lit to his
satisfaction and handed the box back. 'I heard that this place was a friendly
environment.'

    'Who
you hear that from?' asked the man.

    'Just
friends, business acquaintances. You know.'

    The
man sucked on his cheek. 'Like?'

    Mark
had known that this would happen and had supplied Tubbs with the name of a drug
dealer presently doing time up north on category A. Another one of John
Jenner's old enemies. There seemed to be a lot of them about. 'This is fucking
risky, Tubbs,' he'd said. 'But it's all we've got. I hate to send you in cold
like this, but if you want to earn…'

    'So
who am I?' asked Tubbs.

    'That's
the problem. You are who you are. I can't give you a false identity and an
alias. You'll just have to wing it.'

    'And
if they check?'

    'Listen,
man,' said Mark. 'These are bad fuckers. They're not going to be able to get a
look at the police national computer. They're fucking animals. Even the bentest
copper in the Met would think twice before webbing up with them. They won't
have a fucking clue, man. Losers, each of them. The only way they get ahead is
with ultra violence. Fuck 'em. You can do it.'

    Tubbs
said to the black guy at the bar: 'I shared a cell with a geezer called Blakey,
up in Brum. He told me to look for a face named Beretta. I'm just out and I
need supplies.'

    'They
fed you well inside,' said the black man, looking Tubbs up and down.

    'Prison
gym,' he replied. 'And it's amazing what extras you can get in the shovel these
days with mates on the out.'

    'So
why don't your mates help you now?' asked the black man.

    'You
know I took all the questions I could stomach from the pigs,' said Tubbs. 'I
didn't expect the same when I came in here for a quiet drink.'

    All
of a sudden the door burst open and three more black men entered and the barman
scuttled to get drink on the counter before they reached the jump. They were
trouble, Tubbs didn't have to be a genius to spot that. And it looked like
they'd been too long on the toot. Their skin was the grey of elephant hide and
all three seemed to have heavy colds. 'Whose wheel's in our space?' the biggest
of the black men demanded. 'We had to walk.'

    'What
car, man?' asked the man Tubbs had been talking to.

    'Flash
Beemer. Red,' the other replied.

    'That's
me, man,' said Tubbs. 'I didn't see no double yellows.'

    'Red
route, boy,' said the first man. 'Our red route. Now get it moved.'

    'You
a traffic warden, boy?' said Tubbs. 'You left your pretty uniform at home?'

    The
three men looked at each other and then Tubbs. 'Who the fuck are you?' said
one, a handsome man with a shaven head. 'This is our pub.'

    'Just
popped in for a drink,' said Tubbs. 'I heard good things about the place. But I
reckon they was wrong.'

    'Who
the fuck is this cunt?' said the third black man to no one in particular, a
cadaverous type with huge hands and feet. 'Let's kill the fucker.' And with
that, he pulled a handgun from the pocket of his overcoat.

    'Hey,
man,' said Tubbs, stepping back sharpish. 'Chill. I'll move the fucking car. I
was just looking for someone called Beretta.'

    'Looks
like you found it,! said the man with the gun. 'This is a fucking Beretta, you
cunt.' And he pointed it at Tubbs's head.

    Everyone
in the pub had moved out of the line of fire and Tubbs suddenly decided that
maybe undercover wasn't such a good place to be after all.

    'Why
you looking for me?' asked the first man pushing his companion's gun down. 'I'm
Beretta, man. Who the fuck are you?'

    'My
name's Tubbs,' said Tubbs. 'I've been away. I heard that you could help me.'

    'With
what?' said the first man, his brow wrinkled in thought.

    Tubbs
looked round. 'In private, man,' he said.

    'We're
all friends here,' said Beretta. 'At least I hope we are.' His tone was
menacing, and Tubbs tried hard not to swallow and give his nervousness away.
'Now who gave you this information?'

    'A
geezer called Blakey.' Tubbs repeated his story. 'We shared a cell for a few
months in the Green.'

    Beretta's
forehead wrinkled even further. 'How long you been out?'

    'A
month or so,' said Tubbs. 'I took a holiday after.'

    Beretta
nodded. 'Moses. Chop one out,' he said, and Tubbs almost heaved a sigh of
relief.

    The
man with the gun put it away, went to the bar, wiped it down with a pristine
white handkerchief he'd taken from his pocket, produced a fat baggie of white
powder, poured a hefty pile on to the bar, then chopped it into lines with a
one-sided gold razorblade. 'We the kings here,' said Beretta. 'No go zone for
coppers. Are you a copper, my friend?' he said to Tubbs.

    The
pub went very quiet, the jukebox died and everyone seemed to hold their breath,
including Moses who was making pretty patterns on the bar with the cocaine.

    'What
the fuck…?' said Tubbs, his voice rising. 'Fuck you, man. You call me out as
five-oh in front of these people. I got a reputation to think of. I'm leaving.'

    'Cool
it, big man,' said Beretta. 'Stay and have a snort. It's cool. Moses '

    Moses
went back to his task and once the lines were out, the three took turns, using a
gold tube that Moses supplied. Then it was Tubbs's turn and he took a monstrous
hit, which just about turned his brain to jelly.

    'Christ,'
he said, 'That's fucking good.'

    'Only
the best for us and our friends,' said Beretta.

    'You got
any of this for sale?' asked Tubbs, after he'd lit a cigarette and taken a hit
on his beer to cut the metallic taste of the drug. 'It's just the sort of
quality I could use.'

    'Maybe,'
said Beretta. 'And Blakey's dead.'

    Christ,
thought Tubbs, Mark never told me that, the bastard. 'What?' he said. 'How?
When?'

    'Got
shanked in the shower a few weeks back,' Beretta went on. 'Thought you might've
heard.'

    'He
was fine when he used to spot for me in the gym,' said Tubbs. 'We looked out
for each other.'

    'Sure
you did. Shame you got out then. You could've watched his back.'

    'Man,
that's too bad,' said Tubbs.

    'He
never should've dropped the soap,' said Moses, and all three laughed, like it
was the best joke they'd heard in years.

    'Funny
you never heard,' said Beretta. 'You being best mates and all. I wonder about
you. Moses, you take this fucker to the shitter and check him out.' He turned
to Tubbs, squinted at him and said: 'You wired?'

    'No
man,' said Tubbs. This geezer is as changeable as the weather, he thought. One
minute all friends, the next as paranoid as fuck. Too much sugar on his
cornflakes probably.

    'And?'
said Moses.

    'If
he is, flush him.'

    Moses,
and the third man - Karl, Tubbs surmised - hustled Tubbs to the gents, which
stank equally of piss and chemicals.

    'Strip,
boy,' said Moses. 'Right down.'

    Tubbs
removed his new clothes, slowly draping them over the door to the sitdown.

    'You
respect your threads.' said Moses. 'I like that in a man.'

    'You
like peeping too,' said Tubbs when he was naked. 'You've been inside, I can
tell. Whose bitch were you?'

    Moses
hit him hard with the barrel of his gun and Tubbs had to hold on to the wall to
prevent himself falling. Meanwhile the third man was going through his pockets.
'No ID,' he said. 'Man of mystery, huh?'