London Boulevard (5 page)

“Nice day for it.”

He was wired to the moon, his foot tapping, fingers drumming on the wheel. As we pulled away, I caught a glimpse of the blond guy in the dead suit, shouted,

“Billy, hold on a mo.”

He stopped, and I jumped out. The man was gone. I got back in, and Norton asked,

“What?”

I shook my head, said,

“It’s crazy, but I think I’m being stalked.”

“You? Jeez, must be a real nutter to stalk you. Here, have a brewski.”

There were stacks of cans of Red Bull. I said,

“Naw, I want to do this cold.”

He popped a can, drank deep, went,

“Ah . . . r . . . gh.”

I asked,

“Did you drop some speed too?”

“Just a half tab, nothing major.”

We were roaring down the Clapham Road. I said, “You’re sailing close to the wind.”

“What?”

“So a policeman told me.”

He stared at me. I said,

“Watch the friggin’ road.”

He shouted, “You spoke to a copper . . . about me?”

“Yeah, the same fuck who got my address from you.”

“Oh.”

That shut him down for a bit, then,

“Kenny’s a jerk-off, you don’t need to worry about him.”

“He’s a jerk-off who knows where I live. That’s always worrying.”

As we turned into Ashmole Estate, Norton said,

“You’ve got to lighten up, Mitch; you take things too seriously.”

“Right.”

I
HATE FUCKIN
’ nuns.”

Norton spat this as a nun scuttled along the footpath.

There’s a convent in Ashmole Estate. An Estate is what the Americans would call “the projects.”

I said, “I thought you Irish had religion.”

He grunted, answered,

“What we’ve got is long memories.”

“If you don’t have religion, you better have a saving grace.”

He gave me the look, said,

“Jeez, Mitch, that’s bloody deep.”

“But not original. The poet Donald Rawley wrote it.”

As we pulled up outside a high-rise, he said,

“I hate fuckin’ poets.”

We got out, and Norton slung a sports bag over his shoulder, asked,

“You want somefin’?”

“Naw, like I said, I’ll go clean.”

“I meant protection . . . like a baseball bat. Poems won’t cut it where we’re going.”

“No . . . what’s in the sports bag?”

He gave an evil smile, answered,

“Incentives.”

THE BUILDING
had eighteen stories. An intercom system on the front door, but that had been busted to hell. We pushed through and went to the elevator.

Norton said, “Keep your fingers crossed.”

“What?”

“The elevator . . . that it works.”

It did.

Covered in graffiti, it smelt of urine and despair. A smell I was familiar with. You don’t ever become accustomed.

On the eighteenth, we got out, and Norton said,

“Think of it as golf.”

“Golf?”

“Yeah, eighteen holes.”

We approached an apartment, and Norton banged on the door. He took out a small red book. The door opened, and a child peered out. Norton said,

“Get your mother.”

The mother was Indian and nervous. Norton said, “Dues time.”

She went back inside and found a bundle of notes, handed them over. Norton checked his book, counted the notes, said,

“You’re a little short.”

“It’s been a terrible week.”

He shushed her, said,

“Hey, I could give a rat’s ass, but tell you what, you can double up next week.”

She agreed far too readily. The three of us knew she’d never have it.

We went down to the seventeenth, and I asked,

“So how’s it work? I mean, it seems to me they just get deeper in the hole.”

Norton gave a big smile: all speed and no humor, said,

“See, you’re a natural—already you’ve got the gist. Time comes, they hand over the lease.”

“And then?”

“Well, don’t you worry none. We have removal specialists.”

“So lemme guess. You re-rent.”

“Bingo. To yuppies who want a view of the cricket ground. We have six units here already.”

The next three floors, it was the same sad story. Pathetic women of all nationalities, promising their lives away. On the twelfth, Norton said,

“I’ve had nothing but grief from these Spanish twits.”

When the door opened, he barged inside. A woman was screaming,

“Nada, nada, nada!”

Norton looked round, asked,

“Where is he, where’s your husband?”

The bedroom door burst open, and a man in nothing but bright blue boxer shorts came running out. Brushed by me into the corridor.

Norton was after him like a greyhound, manic smile all over his face.

He was getting off.

He caught the guy at the stairs and jerked the boxer shorts off. With his open hand, he slapped him half a dozen times on the ass.

Then ran him back into the flat. The man was crying, said,

“Take the television.”

Norton rooted in his sports bag, took out a claw hammer.

Walked over to the TV and smashed the screen to smithereens.

He said,

“Get me the rent agreement.”

They did.

Next floor, he said,

“Time out for a break.”

Sweat was pouring off him. He was hyped to heaven, said,

“Don’t wait to be asked, Mitch; you can jump in at any stage, help me out.”

He popped a can of Bull and a tab of speed, asked,

“Do you wanna get laid?”

“Now?”

“Sure, some of them, they’ll do you in lieu of the payment.”

“I don’t think so. Doesn’t anyone call the cops?”

“Get real, you think the cops would come to here?”

I rolled a ciggy, lit up, asked,

“The kids . . . doesn’t it bother you?”

“So they get to learn early. Toughen ’em up.”

He looked with disdain at my roll-up, said,

“You don’t have to smoke that shit. You’re in a different league now.”

I shrugged, said,

“I like ’em.”

He took out a pack of Dunhills, luxury blend, got one going, said,

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

He looked round, as if we’d be overheard. The noise in the building was ferocious.

Doors banging

people shouting

kids wailing and

rap music underwrit.

“Prison, what was it like?”

I could have said, “Just like this.”

But I was thinking of Tom Kakonis, an American crime writer who understood jail perfectly. He wrote:

Call it jungleland, house of mirrors, kingdom of the sociopaths, country of rage, where betrayal is the norm, payback the canon, and mercy never understood or long forgotten. Or, call it a pipe laid across the small of your back, a broom handle up your ass, a shank in your ribs. It means you were utterly alone . . . No one to protect you.

I didn’t tell Norton this; instead I said,

“Mostly, it was boring.”

“Yeah?”

“No big deal.”

He squashed the can when he’d finished drinking, slung it down the stairs. It hit each step. I could hear it rattling down like a scream on B Wing that lasts until the dawn.

On the ninth floor, we hit turbulence. Norton was doing his number on a black woman when her man came striding out. He swung his fist and caught Norton on the side of the head.

Then he came for me. He was big, strong, but that’s all he had.

He wasn’t dirty.

I was.

I sidestepped his swing and drop-kicked him in the balls. As he went down, I elbowed him to the back of the head.

Got Norton to his feet, and he wanted to kick the black man till he bled. I pulled him away, said,

“Maybe we’ll call it a day.”

He agreed, said,

“Nearly through anyway—from eight down it’s a bust.” Took the elevator the rest of the way. Norton was massaging his head, said,

“I was wrong, what I said about poems.”

“Eh?”

“That they’re useless. The way you took down that guy, it was fucking poetry.”

I headed for the van, and Norton said,

“Come on, there’s a pub round the corner, I’ll buy you a drink.”

At the bar, Norton said,

“We’re working guys, let’s have a couple of boilermakers.”

“Whatever.”

The barmaid had to be told it was pints with Scotch chasers.

It was lunchtime, and the special was bangers and mash. It smelled good, almost like comfort.

We grabbed a table at the rear and Norton said,

“
Sláinte
.”

“That too.”

On the other side of the Scotch we mellowed out. Norton was counting the cash, writing tallies in his red book. He mouthed the figures as he wrote. Next he put a roll together and snapped a rubber band on it. Pushed it across the table, said,

“Your end.”

“Jeez, Billy, I didn’t do all that much.”

“You will, Mitch, trust me.”

WE WERE
coming round by the Oval when I spotted the blond-haired man. He was going into the Cricketers. I asked Norton to pull up. He said,

“What’s happening?”

“I’m going to stalk a stalker.”

“That’s supposed to make sense?”

“ ’Course not.”

I got out and crossed the road. Then into the pub. The man was at the counter, his back to me. I walked up, gave him a hearty slap on the back, said,

“Guess who.”

He nearly passed out. I noticed he’d a small lager. I gave him a moment to regroup. He said,

“I knew it was a mistake to return.”

I took a sip of his drink, said,

“Pure piss.”

He looked at the door, and I smiled. He said,

“I’m Anthony Trent.”

“You say that like it’s supposed to mean something. It don’t mean shit to me.”

“Oh sorry, of course . . . I lived in the apartment before it became your apartment.”

“And now you want . . . what?”

“If I might just collect some things.”

I drank some more of his lager, asked,

“Why’d you leave in such a hurry?”

“I got in over my head to Mr. Norton.”

“How much is over your head?”

“Ten large.”

“So you skipped?”

“Mr. Norton has some heavy friends.”

He was staring intently at me, and I said,

“What?”

“I believe you’re wearing one of my sweatshirts. Don’t tumble dry it.”

“Well, Anthony, that’s a sad story, but it will get sadder if you follow me again.”

“Yes . . . of course, I understand. So might I grab some items from the apartment?”

I took a moment, then said,

“No chance.”

THE HOOKER
hadn’t helped. I couldn’t get Lillian Palmer outta my head. I mean . . . what? I fancied an old bird? Get real.

But deny it as I tried, that knowing smile kept returning. She knew I’d been aroused. Each time I blew it off, the wanting to ravish her came pounding back.

I rang Briony, asked if she’d like to come over for dinner. She asked,

“You’re cooking?”

“Sure. How does stir-fry sound?”

“Oh Mitch, I’m vegetarian.”

Naturally. “How does vegetarian stir-fry sound?”

“Wonderful, Mitch. Shall I bring wine?”

I thought she said “whine.” I gave her the address, and she said,

“Poor Mitch, is it a grungy rooming house?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ll bring flowers, brighten it up.”

A thought hit me, and I asked,

“You won’t be stealing this stuff . . . will you?”

Silence.

“Bri?”

“I’ll be good, Mitch.”

“OK.”

“Frank likes me to be good.”

“Yeah . . . right . . . see you at eight.”

BY THE
time eight rolled round, the apartment seemed downright cozy. Pots on the stove, kitchen smells permeating, the table set. I opened a bottle of wine, poured a glass. It tasted bitter, which was fine. With booze, I had to keep a tight rein. My jail time was a direct result of booze.

When I drink whiskey, I get blackouts. I remember the day clearly. Norton and I had pulled off a caper that netted us three large ones.

Each.

I was drinking lights out. Even Norton had said,

“Jeez, Mitch, take it easy.”

I didn’t.

Come that evening, I remember nothing. The story goes that I got into a dustup with some guy. We took it outside.

Norton followed.

He managed to stop me from killing the guy, but only just.

I got three years.

I’m not arguing the toss. Thing is, my hands were clean.

Not even a grazed knuckle. I mentioned it to my lawyer, who said,

“You used your feet.”

Oh.

MEN FIND
all sorts of ways to get through the nights in jail. Be it

hooch

a bitch

glue.

Me, I worked out all day till my body was exhausted. Some men prayed, if quietly. I took a mantra from Bruce Chatwin’s
The Songlines
.

Like this,

“I will see the Buddhist temples of Java. I will sit with sadhus on the ghats of Benares. I will smoke hashish in Kabul and work on a kibbutz.”