Romeo's Tune (1990) (7 page)

7

A
nd then Jo came along. Sounds simple doesn’t it? But it was as important an event as ever happened to me. Jo. Josephine Cass, or Little Jo as Algy christened her later, walked out of a dream and into my arms as the old song says. Or at least off the eleven-ten from Victoria and into my E-Type.

I’d been hanging out at home for a few days, doing nothing except watching television and keeping warm, but eventually I surfaced and went down to check my mail at the office. Big fat zero.

The owner of the hairdressers up the road was feeding Cat. I’d given her a bell and asked the favour. She knew about animals and called me back to confirm that Cat was indeed in the family way.

That morning the big moggie was playing possum. I guessed that she, as I’d have to learn to call her, knew I wanted to subject her to the indignity of a visit to the vet’s for a check-up.

I was standing outside the office door watching the world go by, keeping one eye open for Cat, eating a burger and trying to avoid dropping grease onto my trousers. Although the day was slightly warmer I was dressed for the cold in a big leather pilot’s jacket over a flannel shirt and faded-out blue jeans.

A train pulled into the station from the direction of town and a flock of pigeons rose from the platform at the sound of slamming doors. I chewed on my breakfast and watched the passengers. Suddenly I saw her. She exited from the tunnel leading to the stairs with a suitcase in each hand. She stopped and looked around.

There were two choices for her. She could turn left and cut down the narrow alley to the main road and out of my life forever, or walk past my office door.

I knew she’d walk past me. I knew we’d meet. Don’t ask me how, but I knew that I was looking at the girl I was going to marry, and I really didn’t know what the hell to do about it. I hate chatting up women. I prefer to insinuate myself into their lives and that was going to be difficult on the corner of a busy junction at eleven-fifty on a weekday morning. I stood and stared as she shifted her grip on the suitcases and walked towards me. I knew she was going to be beautiful, maybe by the way she moved. She had the air of someone with complete control. I felt like a goon. As she got closer her features became clear. I had been right. She was beautiful, breathtakingly so. I held my breath.

She was black-haired, with fine white skin and eyes that were a shade of turquoise that eyes had no right to be. She looked a lot like Natalie Wood used to look in her old movies. But the killer, the absolute killer, were the few, faint acne scars on the skin stretched across her high cheek-bones. The scars didn’t mar her beauty; far from it, they made it more real, as if by their very nature the slight imperfections were perfection itself. I fell in love that second, when I saw those scars and I swear I’ve loved her more every day since.

She passed me by without a second glance. To be perfectly honest she passed me by without a first glance.

‘Can I help?’ I stuttered. Yeah, I swear I stuttered like a big kid.

She stopped and turned, still holding the cases in her hands.

‘Pardon me?’ she said. Her voice had a soft American accent.

‘Can I help?’ I repeated.

‘No, thank you,’ she replied quite curtly. She turned away and walked on.

I walked after her, overtook and stopped in front of her, half blocking her path. ‘They look heavy,’ I said. Really impressive. I know, but what do you say?

“They are,’ she replied, ‘and they’re getting heavier by the second.’

‘I’ll carry one for you,’ I offered.

‘No, thank you,’ she said, and moved past me. I stood there for a moment and then pursued her again.

‘Do you need a lift?’ I asked. I was getting desperate.

‘A what?’ She cocked her head to one side.

‘A lift, a ride.’

‘Oh, you’re a cabbie?’

We’d moved on down the street by this time, leapfrogging each other until we’d ended up outside the minicab office that had recently opened two doors down from my office.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Do I look like one?’

‘Sure you do.’

‘No,’ I repeated stupidly, ‘but I’ve got a car and you look like you could use a hand so I’ll give you a ride to where you’re going.’

‘I don’t accept lifts from strange men.’

That seemed fair. I didn’t blame her.

‘My name’s Nick,’ I said, ‘Nick Sharman.’ And I stuck out my hand. Quite what I expected her to do with it I didn’t know. She kept hold of her suitcases, and I saw her looking at my outstretched fingers still glistening with hamburger fat.

‘Sorry,’ I said and wiped my hands on my jeans. As soon as I did it I knew how it must have looked. I stared at my hand and at the grease mark on my trousers.

‘Attractive,’ she said.

‘Shit,’ I said.

‘Nice language in front of a lady.’

‘Sorry,’ I said again.

Then she laughed and I did too, but mine was kind of forced.

‘Don’t be,’ she said.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

We were getting nowhere fast and I said so.

‘This is getting us nowhere fast.’

‘Correct.’

‘So why not just let me help? You’re a stranger around here by the looks of it and I’ve got nothing better to do. Let’s just call it British hospitality. Hands across the sea and all that stuff.’

‘I wonder how hospitable you’d be if I was sixty years old with a walking frame.’

‘Fortunately we’ll never know,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, if you get a cab round here, with your accent, they’ll charge you for the scenic route, like via Hendon.’

‘Where?’

‘Never mind. So where are you going?’

‘I’ve rented an apartment somewhere round here. I’ve come over to England to study.’ She caught my look. ‘Postgrad,’ she explained. ‘English history at London University.’

‘Brains, too,’ I said.

Her lavender eyes flashed. ‘Don’t give me that old crap, I don’t need that,’ she snapped.

‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t thinking.’

‘Me too,’ she said wearily. ‘Sorry, I mean. I’m dead tired, I seem to have been travelling forever.’

‘Where did you come from?’

‘Today? I mean yesterday, Jesus I don’t even know what day it is. I flew in from LA, but I come from New Jersey. I was visiting some friends to say au revoir.’

‘So where’s the apartment?’ I asked.

She capitulated. She opened her handbag which was hanging by a strap from her shoulder and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Here,’ she said, passing it to me. I unfolded the sheet and took a squint.

‘Lancaster Avenue,’ I read out loud. ‘No problem, it’s just down the road.’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘Just too far,’ I countered, picking up one of her bags. She didn’t object and followed me over to the E-type. I opened the hatchback and tossed the bag in. It was pretty heavy, but she’d carried it and I wanted to impress her with my manly strength. I took the other bag from her and stored it with its twin.

‘Hop in,’ I invited. We both headed for the driver’s door.

‘Wrong side,’ I explained. ‘You’re in old England now.’

‘Oh yeah, I forgot you guys are still in the dark ages.’

‘English history,’ I said.

She flashed her pearly whites in a brilliant smile that lit up her face under the tiredness and said, ‘Just kidding.’ We climbed aboard and I started the engine with a roar from the twin exhausts. I snicked the gear stick into reverse and pulled out of my parking space with a squeal of rubber. Into drive and away. I turned left at the main road under the nose of a one-man bus, adding significantly to the driver’s stress level and shot away. I was showing off but I didn’t care. She seemed impervious as I gunned through the amber at the first set of traffic lights and burnt off a hopeful XR3i. We wheeled up to the next set of lights which were red, and when they changed turned left into Lancaster Avenue. I pointed to a purpose-built, red-brick block of flats hiding behind a high hedge about fifty yards down on our right.

‘There you go,’ I said. I pulled into the drive and slid the car to a halt on the gravel surface.

‘Next time I’ll bring a crash helmet,’ she remarked drily.

‘So there’s going to be a next time?’ I asked.

‘I doubt it.’ She opened the door and stepped out. I joined her on the path and extracted her cases from the back of the car. The bags were just as heavy as before.

‘What’s in here?’ I asked. ‘The family silver?’

She shot me a sour look.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No offence meant.’

‘None taken.’

‘Got a key?’ I enquired.

‘It’s with the concierge.’

Nice word, I thought, for a poxy caretaker.

‘Let’s find him then,’ I said.

‘I’ll be OK.’

‘No you won’t. These bags weigh a ton.’

‘I got them here from LA.’

‘Stop arguing,’ I said. She stopped, just like that. I was amazed. We walked together to the main entrance of the block. It had a certain faded charm. A brass plate informed us that the manager resided in Flat One.

We pushed through the double glass doors. Flat One was immediately to our left. She rang the doorbell and we waited. After a minute the door opened and a tall, thin man in dark blue overalls peered through the crack.

‘My name is Josephine Cass,’ she said. ‘I believe you have a key for me.’

Josephine, I thought, what a lovely name. I’d have probably thought the same if she’d introduced herself as Adolf. Ain’t love grand?

The caretaker swallowed what he was chewing and nodded. ‘You’ll be the American lady,’ he said cheerfully. She nodded in reply. ‘Right here, Miss.’ He produced a ring containing two keys from his voluminous back pocket. ‘Do you want me to show you? I’m just eating my lunch, see.’

‘No problem,’ I interjected, and reached over and took the keys from between his fingers. ‘What number?’

‘Twelve, third floor.’

‘I’ll handle it,’ I said.

‘Can you sign for the keys?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ replied Josephine.

He hesitated, torn between lunch and business. ‘I tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll finish here and bring up the paperwork. You’ll be in for a bit?’

‘Not long,’ I cut in. ‘We’re going out for something to eat ourselves soon.’

Josephine looked amazed.

‘I’ll be right up,’ said the caretaker, ‘just to make sure everything is working all right.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and we left him to his food.

After he’d closed his door, Josephine said, ‘Thanks for taking over my life. Next time I need a father-figure I’ll be sure to give you a call.’

‘Any time,’ I said. ‘Josephine.’

‘You’re unbelievable. “We’re going out for something to eat ourselves soon,”’ she mimicked me.

‘I consider myself reprimanded,’ I said.

She smiled, ‘I don’t mind really,’ she said. ‘It’s a relief not to have to worry.’

I smiled to myself.

‘But don’t get any big ideas.’

‘I promise,’ I lied. ‘Come on, let’s look at your new digs.’

I hauled the cases over to the tiny lift. I swear they were getting heavier. The four of us squeezed into the tiny box. I slid the metal doors closed, pressed 3 and we chugged upwards. It felt good being confined with her in the lift. I breathed in her perfume and fought off the temptation to grin stupidly.

The lift staggered to a halt on the third floor and I shoved the doors open and manhandled her cases over to the door of flat Twelve. She experimented with the keys and we let ourselves in. The air was cold and still and smelt of old mothballs.

‘We need heat,’ she said.

‘I’ll fix it.’

I found a door in the wall and pulled it open. Inside were the gas and electricity meters, the water stopcock and the central heating controls. I tried to look efficient and pushed a few likely-looking buttons. I heard a muted clang and gurgle of water. I switched the timer to ‘24 Hours’ and hoped for the best.

‘No problem,’ I said optimistically.

We left the cases in the hall and walked through the flat, turning on the lights as we went. It wasn’t a bad place. Two bedrooms, living-and dining-room, kitchen, bathroom, separate WC, gas central heating and less than forty minutes to the West End.

In the kitchen the fridge was turned off and the door stood open.

‘No snacks here,’ I said. ‘Let’s lunch.’

‘I’m tired out,’ Josephine replied.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘You’re going to need some shopping. I’ll show you where there’s a supermarket, and there’s a boozer less than five minutes away that does a great lunch.’

‘I’m not kidding. I’m really tired,’ she protested.

‘I’ll drop you straight back and you can sleep the clock round.’

‘Don’t you ever take no for an answer?’

‘All the time, but not today. You’ll feel better for some food. Otherwise you’ll wake up in the middle of the night without a bite in the place, and you’ll be tempted to go out, and you’ll get lost and it’ll be my fault and I’ll have to carry the load of guilt for the rest –’

‘OK, OK, I surrender. But just basic shopping and eat and rim.’

‘Good,’ I said.

We switched on the fridge and left the flat. I stuck a note on the door for the caretaker. We went round to the Co-op and bought the bare necessities for survival. I handled the finances as Josephine looked bewildered at the prices. Then we shot down to The Greyhound in Dulwich. I could tell she was beginning to flag. She was game though and got through a small soup and French bread and a large gin. I ate the soup too, and it wasn’t bad, and drank a pint of lager.

Finally she turned to me and said, ‘I’m really out of it, Nick.’

It was the first time she’d used my name and I liked it a lot.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you home.’

I drove her back to the block of flats and left her standing in the drive with her Co-op bag in her hand. She waved to me as I turned the corner and as I was alone I let a big grin spread right across my face.

8

T
he next morning I was sitting in my usual seat looking out over the rainy streets again. The snow had moved away across the Atlantic and left a legacy of fine grey drizzle. I was thinking about the American girl I had met and not much else.

Around eleven the phone rang. Cat had returned for food and I’d trapped her in the office in preparation for a trip to the vet’s. She stiffened at the sound and I picked up the receiver.

‘How’re you going?’ enquired a deep voice.

‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Algy. Remember me?’

‘Sure. How are you going?’ For some reason I liked the guy and was glad to hear from him.

‘Just dandy. What are you doing?’

‘Sitting, thinking.’

‘Sounds good but dull. Do you fancy coming over? McBain would like to see you.’

‘Why?’

‘Business.’

‘What kind of business?’ I asked.

‘Come over and find out. I don’t know what he’s up to.’ I just bet he didn’t.

‘When?’

‘Whenever. We’re not going anywhere.’

‘Today?’

‘That’s favourite.’

‘About an hour then.’

‘Fine, blow your car horn like this’ – he gave me a Bo Diddley beat down the phone – ‘and I’ll open the gate.’

‘Security?’

‘Bollocks to security. It’s too cold and wet to hang around in the garden.’

‘You should get an entryphone.’

‘Pigs might fly.’

‘Where are you calling from anyway?’ I asked. ‘I thought there were no telephones at your place.’

“The back seat of a Bentley.’

‘I might have guessed. I’ll see you soon.’

We put down our telephones in unison. I told Cat she’d got a reprieve from the vet’s. She sneered at me. Pregnancy had only marginally improved her disposition. I fed her, left the fire turned down low and split. I took the Jaguar.

The South Circular was crowded with drivers who suddenly couldn’t drive anymore because of a centimetre of rain; But I cut and hacked the big car through the traffic and was in Richmond in less than an hour.

I drew up outside the gates of McBain’s place and hit the horn just like Algy had told me. The gates swung open immediately. I crunched the car down the overgrown drive and parked it in front of the house behind an old Bentley Park Ward Continental with a dented rear wing. The number-plate read ALG IE. The big man himself was standing in the doorway of the house. I climbed out of my car and walked through the cold rain, up the stone steps towards him.

‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked as a greeting.

He was well on the way, I could tell. I am a detective after all. In one of his giant hands was a can of Red Stripe Crucial, in the other was the remains of what looked like a five-skinner.

‘Not one of those,’ I replied. ‘Too heavy for this time of day.’

‘What then?’

‘Gin and tonic’

‘Are you a poof?’ he asked. I was rather taken aback, but from Algy I guessed one accepted that kind of question.

‘No,’ I answered, polite as a schoolboy.

‘Poof’s drink.’

‘Make sure you put in a slice of lemon for Mister Sharman, you bloody philistine,’ said a voice from inside the house, ‘and for Christ’s sake bring him in. It’s fucking freezing with that door open.’ It was McBain.

‘Yes, Boss,’ said Algy dryly. He stepped out of the way and I entered the house. It was cold in the hall.

‘Come through,’ invited McBain. I followed the sound of his voice through another door and into a big, dark, warm room with an open fire burning in a huge fireplace. Thick drapes were drawn over the windows and the only illumination came from the fire itself and two candles dripping wax, one at each end of the marble mantelpiece. Facing each other in front of the fire were two massive sofas covered in dark velvet that probably matched the curtains, only it was too dark to see properly. McBain was sprawled on one of the sofas. He was smoking a regular cigarette and holding a half-empty bottle of tequila in his right hand.

‘I see the sun’s over the yard-arm,’ I remarked.

He looked at the bottle in the flickering light.

‘Always,’ he replied.

Algy came quietly through the door behind me carrying a glass the size of a small bucket. He handed it to me. I tasted the drink. It was full of ice and lemon and gin. There was some tonic in there too, but not enough to drown a fly.

‘Barman of the year,’ I said. Algy grinned and picked up his Red Stripe.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘Sit down,’ McBain said to me. I sat on the sofa opposite him. ‘Get lost Algy.’ Algy shrugged and went out, closing the door behind him.

‘He takes a lot of shit from you,’ I said to McBain.

‘I pay him well to take shit. Better than well.’

‘Well enough to afford that car outside.’

‘Which one?’ he asked.

‘A green Bentley Continental.’

‘Another one of mine.’

‘It’s got his name on it.’

‘I know – can you imagine, a fucking personalised number plate. He’s so tacky.’

‘How many Bentleys have you got altogether?’

‘Four, I think, or maybe five. Algy sneaks a new one in every so often.’

‘It must be a drag.’

‘What?’

‘Not knowing how many Bentleys you’ve got.’

McBain laughed wolfishly, and stretched. When he moved he creaked and I realised he was wearing a leather suit. He saw me looking.

‘Like it?’ he asked.

‘It’s fine; a little tight for my taste maybe.’

‘Same bloke made it for me as made Jim Morrison’s leathers. Do you like The Doors?’

‘Sure.’

‘Fine band,’ he mused. ‘Still a big influence.’ He paused.

‘You wanted to talk business,’ I said.

‘Yeah, sure. Not many people get in here you know.’

‘So I understand.’

‘You did.’

‘Your mother let me in. I conned her really. I’m sorry about that.’

‘Doesn’t matter, you got in. And you got cash out of me. Not many people do that either. Not any more.’ He said the last two words with some bitterness.

‘You owed it,’ I said.

‘I know. I’m not complaining,’ he replied. Then he said, ‘Algy and I put you on the computer.’

‘Come again?’

‘We’ve got this IBM mainframe fitted in the attic. We hack a bit when things get boring.’

That must be most of the time, I thought.

‘Algy’s good, very good,’ he went on, ‘with all sorts of electronics. He’s got a delicate touch. Not that you’d think so to look at him. So we checked you out. You’ve been into some heavy shit in your time.’

‘I’m very upset with you,’ I said. ‘It’s none of your business what I’ve done.’ I moved towards McBain who looked alarmed.

‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I have to know who I’m doing business with. I’ve been ripped off too many times.’

‘I don’t rip people off,’ I said, ‘unless they rip me off first.’

‘I know. That’s why you’re here now.’ He paused, then asked, ‘why didn’t you take that money the other day?’

‘What money?’

‘The twelve hundred odd – you won it fair and square.’

‘You were trying to con me,’ I said.

‘Who, me?’

‘Come on McBain, you know you were,’ I said. ‘And if I’d’ve lost. I wouldn’t have paid my end.’

‘But I’d’ve only taken the fifty pence from you,’ he said, and I believed him too. I think he was just miserable and lonely and wanted a bit of company apart from Algy.

‘So why am I here?’ I asked.

‘I think you can do something for me.’

‘Like what?’

‘Get me some money that’s owed.’

‘How much?’

‘Christ, I don’t know. Lots.’ He grinned. ‘Lots and lots.’

‘Who owes it to you?’

‘My old management and record company.’

‘And you don’t know how much?’

‘I don’t, but I’ll put someone on to you who does. My investment counsellor. He’s my accountant too. High powered bastard, bit of a silly cunt really, but he’s made me a lot of dough.’

‘But he can’t get your money back?’

‘He won’t even try.’

‘Why not? ‘ I was intrigued.

‘They’ve got a reputation, the old firm. A reputation for violence.’

‘But you think I can do something.’

‘You might.’ McBain’s face was cunning in the firelight.

‘I charge.’

‘Course you do. How much?’

‘I charged Ted Dallas twenty per cent to get his money back.’

‘That was just a few hundred. We’re talking about a lot more. I’ll give you ten per cent.’

‘How much more?’ I asked.

‘Ask my accountant.’

I thought about it for a moment. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But I’ll need some expenses up front.’

‘You sound like a tour manager,’ said McBain. ‘How much?’

‘You tell me,’ I said.

‘A couple of grand,’ said McBain. I must have looked surprised. ‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s less than our coke bill for a month.’

‘And Algy’s so fat,’ I said in amazement.

‘You should see his McDonald’s account,’ replied McBain with a flash of humour. ‘Come on – I’ll get you some cash.’

We left the big room and went up to McBain’s suite. He took me through the bedroom where the same sheets were on the waterbed, and into another room where three of the four walls were crammed with records. There must have been twenty thousand albums, and the floor was carpeted with neatly stacked forty-fives. A state-of-the-art Sony stereo system plugged into Opera House speakers stood on a rack against the fourth wall.

‘Nice,’ was all I could say.

‘Been collecting since 1959,’ said McBain proudly. ‘I’ve never got rid of a thing. Listen to this.’ He picked up a remote-control stick and pressed a button. The groove started in mid-tune. It was ‘Green Onions.’ ‘My favourite record by my favourite band,’ said McBain. ‘You like Booker T?’

‘I like all those Stax sounds,’ I replied.

‘Stax and Volt man, what fucking music those guys made. How about Otis?’

‘The best.’

‘A man after my own heart. Which is your favourite album?’

‘I thought about it for a moment. “Otis Blue”, I guess.’

‘Right. I prefer “Soul Ballads” myself, but then I’m older than you. Who turned you on to all that?’

‘I had an older brother once. He’s dead now. He was a heavy Mod.’

‘Yeah? Shit, so was I. Those were the days. Whereabouts?’

‘Streatham.’

‘I might have known him. What was his name?’

‘John, Johnny, Johnny S they used to call him.’

‘I don’t know, man,’ said McBain, rubbing his eyes with his hands. ‘I forget. I forget so much about that time.’ Suddenly he turned the sound off. He did look as if he was sorry and I was grateful for that.

‘Money,’ he said.

There was one solitary gold record on the fourth wall. It was hinged and behind it was a wall safe. McBain fiddled with the combination and pulled the safe door open. He pulled out some cash and tossed it to me.

‘I don’t trust banks after all these years,’ he said. ‘I like a fighting fund on hand in case of emergencies.’

The money was in wrappers of a thousand pounds. Holding the two grand he’d given me spun me back some months to the last time I’d stood in front of an open safe. I pushed the memory to the back of my mind where bad memories belong.

I put the two packets of money into my inside jacket pocket.

‘Receipt?’ I asked.

‘Send it on. No, on second thoughts give it to my accountant when you meet him. He’ll have a fit.’ The idea seemed to amuse him.

‘Right,’ I said.

‘You want a spliff?’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘I do.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You want to go and talk to Algy? I’m kind of tired.’

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’ll see you soon.’

‘My accountant will be in touch. He’ll give you all the details,’ McBain said as I left the room and closed the door behind me. As I walked through the bedroom I heard Booker T. start up again.

I found Algy in the studio.

‘All right?’ he asked.

‘Never better.’

‘McBain’s sicked you on to Mogul?’

‘Who?’

‘The old firm.’

‘His old management you mean?’

‘Right.’

‘Yes.’

‘Best of luck.’

‘You don’t seem very optimistic,’ I said.

‘I’m not, but if it makes him happy...’ He took a fold of paper from his shirt pocket. ‘Want a line?’

‘No.’

‘Something to eat?’

‘What’ve you got?’ I asked.

‘Cold pizza.’

‘I’ll pass.’ Suddenly I wanted to go. For some reason I was getting depressed. ‘I think I’ll go,’ I said.

‘Suit yourself.’

‘Come down one night for a drink,’ I invited him.

‘Right, I just might. I’ll see you out.’

We went out to the drive where the rain had stopped. I climbed into the Jag and rolled the window down. Algy leaned up close.

‘Be careful of those bastards,’ he said.

‘Any particular bastards?’ I asked.

‘Mogul Incorporated. The Divas. They’re evil fuckers.’

‘The who?’

‘The Divas. They run Mogul. They used to run McBain.’

‘I can take care of myself,’ I replied. After all, I had to say something. ‘Come down for that drink soon.’

‘I will.’ He stepped back as I started the car and ran it down the drive. When I got to the gates Algy opened them with his remote control.