Zip Gun Boogie (11 page)

‘Why are you so horrible?' she said, and burst into tears.

Ah, tears. Don't you just love
'
em?

I ignored her sobs and went to the bar. I made her a drink and took it over to her. ‘Sorry, I haven't got a hankie,' I said.

‘Get lost.'

‘Just now you wanted me here. Now you want me to get lost. I wish you'd make up your mind.'

She looked up at me. Her eyes were dry and her make-up wasn't even smudged. ‘I'm sorry, Nick,' she said. ‘You're right. You've got a job to do. I'm just so uptight with all this waiting around.'

‘Shapiro is coming out of hospital tomorrow. He'll be back at work soon.'

‘Thank God for that. I'll go crazy if I have to stay here much longer with nothing to do.'

‘Do you want me to order you some food?'

She shook her head.

‘What then?'

‘Stay with me. Keep me company.'

‘Sure.'

So I stayed. But she was jittery and irritable. Not at all the same woman she'd been that afternoon, or the previous evening. Something was up, and I didn't know what. I still had a hangover from the joints and coke and booze I'd had earlier. She got up and started pacing the room. She switched on the stereo and sorted through the little silver discs looking for something. ‘Fuck!' she said. ‘Where is that fucking thing?'

‘What?'

‘That fucking
rem
album. I had it. I had it! I'm sure I had it.'

‘Relax,' I said. ‘It'll be there.'

‘Some help you are,' she said. ‘Find it for me.'

I went over. ‘
Document
?' I said.

‘That's the one.'

‘It's right here.'

‘Put it on then.'

There was a knock at the door and Don stuck his head round.

‘Can I see you?' he said.

She went to the door and stood blocking my view of what went on. When she turned round she looked happier. ‘Put it on, Nick,' she said. ‘I've got to go to the bathroom.'

‘OK,' I said, and slipped the disc into the machine and pressed the play button. Michael Stipe started singing
Finest Worksong
, and I went and got a drink and lit another cigarette. The album played on and she didn't come back.

After about twenty minutes I went looking for her. I knocked on the bedroom door. No answer. It was locked. ‘Ninotchka,' I called. Nothing. I rattled the door knob loudly. Nothing again. Shit, I thought.

I stepped back and hit the door with my shoulder. It was thick and heavy and bounced me back, and I knew that in the morning I was going to have a sore shoulder. I hit it again, harder, and heard something crack. Once more and the lock gave and the door crashed back against the wall.

I went into the room. There was one bedside lamp lit. The bed was made. Ninotchka was lying on it. Her skirt had been pulled up to her waist showing she was wearing lacy black bikini panties underneath. She was holding a loaded syringe in her right hand. The point of the needle caught the light from the lamp. ‘You needn't have broken down the door,' she said. ‘I was just going to come and let you in.'

‘So that's why you were so fucked off?' I said. ‘Waiting for the man.'

‘And he came through,' she said lazily. ‘Which is more than you have. D'you want a hit? Get you relaxed. In the mood.'

‘No thanks,' I said. ‘It's not my style.'

12

I
watched as Ninotchka pumped up a vein in her thigh, and slid the needle on to the blue line under the skin, and I remembered the first time I ever saw anyone mainline. I only have to see a needle to remember. I was sixteen and still at school. It was the fag end of the sixties, and the hippies were getting dog-eared and ratty around the edges. I was hanging out with a weird bunch of ex-mods and soon-to-be glam rockers, with the odd skinhead and bike boy thrown in for flavour. They were mostly older than me, and I found them as glamorous then as I found them dull and stupid a couple of years later.

There was a girl. No, a woman, twenty-two or -three, who we used to run into down Streatham High Road. We'd meet her at the bowling alley or The Golden Egg. She wasn't with us, but we all knew her. I thought she was real sexy. She came from somewhere in the country and still had traces of the accent. But I never took the piss. To me then, not taking the piss was love. Still is, as it goes.

She was tall and built solid. Big shoulders, big hard breasts, and wide hips. But her legs were long and shapely. Not solid at all. She was blonde, but I guessed it was from the bottle and dreamed about finding out the one sure way. Her hair was chopped all ragged, like she did it herself, and she wore pink lipstick and thick, dark make-up to cover the acne scars on her face.

She worked in a garage in Brixton, on the pumps, and rode a motor bike.

She doesn't sound like much, but when I was sixteen she had the power to drive me crazy, and her deep, dirty laugh got me hard in a second.

One day that summer I was standing all alone in Norwood Road when she pulled up on her bike and asked me if I had any cash. I had, a couple quid change from posting some parcels for my father. I lent it to her. I would have cut my throat if she'd asked me to.

She told me to come down to the garage on Friday at four when she got paid, and she'd give me the money back.

I told my dad I'd spent the money, and got a bollocking, and promised to pay him back out of the wages from my Saturday job. I hopped the wag from school that Friday afternoon and went home and changed into some killer flared jeans and a tank top. Suave or what? I hooked a pair of John Lennon sunglasses over my ears and headed for the garage.

When I got there she was just finishing work and smelled of petrol and sweat and patchouli oil. She was wearing a pink Angora sweater, skintight jeans and bike boots. I hooked my thumbs over the waistband of my jeans and let my hands cover my erection.

‘Hello, Nick,' she said. ‘Come for your money?'

‘Please,' I said.

She opened her pay packet and took out two pound notes and handed them over. ‘Thanks,' I said.

‘Thank
you.
You saved my life the other day.' She didn't elaborate, and it never would have occurred to me in those days to think how cheap her life must have been.

‘Anytime,' I said, and blushed.

‘What are you doing now?' she asked.

‘Nothing.'

‘Come back to my place for a cuppa?'

That was bliss. That was
it
. I had to sit down or I'd bust my jeans. ‘Sure.'

‘Maybe we'll get some beer later.'

She could bathe in beer if she wanted. Well, at least as much as two quid could buy.

She got her bike and I rode pillion. Rode pillion with my arms around her waist, and my hands maybe two inches from her tits. I prayed she wouldn't move back and touch me between my legs as I knew I'd come into my Skants.

We drove from Brixton to Clapham. She lived in a room in a house in a back street. In those days, whole streets of houses were bedsits. They had been converted from single tenancy to multi in the forties and fifties, and that's how they still were in the late sixties. In those days no one in their right mind wanted to live in Clapham. Now of course lots of people do and they've been converted back again. Everything changes. Nothing stays the same.
That
is the only rule.

Her room was in a three-storey mid-terrace. As we turned the corner into her street I saw two big travel-stained touring bikes, chopped into hogs, parked up, and my erection subsided. There were two dirty road gypsies sitting on her front wall waiting for her. They were back from grape picking in France and needed a doss for the night. We went upstairs and they brought out the wine and dope, and I had tea and felt about twelve years old, and a load of other people from the house joined us.

The two bikers sat next to each other on the floor leaning back against the wall. They had long black dirty hair, loads of stubble and earrings. One wore a black vest and stiff black leather trousers and boots, and the other wore a greasy blue denim shirt and jeans with a leather waistcoat. It was a warm evening and as the sun went down it struck through the window, and the room heated up, and the smoke from the joints that hung in the air made me dizzy. It was obvious that now the bikers had turned up, I wasn't wanted, but I hung around anyway.

About eight o'clock, the biker with the waistcoat went into his rucksack and pulled out a small box. The pair of them laughed about getting it through customs. The one in the vest took out a bent spoon, burnt black on the bottom, and put some water and pale powder into it. He stirred it and lit his lighter and heated the bottom of the spoon. The liquid bubbled and he added more water. The other biker took out a syringe and sucked up the liquid. Meanwhile the first guy took off his belt and wrapped it around his upper arm. His biceps bulged and the veins were dotted with needle marks. His buddy did the business for him. He tapped the needle to get rid of any bubbles, then inserted it into a vein and pushed down the plunger, then quickly pulled a mixture of blood and smack into the glass barrel of the syringe and zapped it back into the vein. The first guy's eyes bulged and almost immediately his nose started to run. He left the needle in his arm and the syringe hung down like an obscene exclamation mark.

I left before I threw up. I got lost in the back streets of Clapham, but I didn't care. Eventually I found my way to the common and sat and watched the sun disappear behind the trees, and shivered as the evening turned to night and the common turned from green to black. I hated her that night. I felt she'd taken the piss. I don't think I ever saw her again, or if I did I ignored her. That's the way I was then. Stupid. She wouldn't even have noticed, I know that now.

Funny thing is, for the life of me I can't remember her name. But I've hated needles ever since that day.

By this time Ninotchka was floating herself. I sat on the edge of the bed and she held my hand. She rambled on about Christ knows what as time passed.

I smoked cigarette after cigarette and our skin stuck together with sweat.

There were one or two people I wanted to see, and one or two questions I wanted answering, but I wasn't going to leave her. So I just sat and smoked, and watched the smoke from my cigarettes vanish like dreams into the shadows at the corner of the room.

13

N
inotchka finally fell asleep about two in the morning. I rolled back her eyelids. The pupils of her eyes looked OK and she was breathing steadily. Her colour was good and she had a strong, regular pulse. I covered her with the eiderdown and went looking for Don. He was still in the hallway outside, sitting on a straight-backed chair looking bored. He stood up when I came out of the suite. ‘I want a word with you,' I said.

‘Do what?'

‘You heard. A serious word.'

‘What about?'

‘You know.'

‘No,' he said.

I walked towards him, and he flexed his muscles. I was so angry I could easily have ended up getting seriously hurt. Then we both heard running footsteps coming from the front of the hotel, muffled by the thick carpet on the floor, and turned and looked in that direction. Roger Lomax came round the corner, skidded slightly, righted himself, then saw us. ‘Christ, Sharman!' he said. ‘Thank God I've found you.' He was breathing heavily, and his skin was greenish-white with an unhealthy sheen to it.

‘What?' I said, forgetting about Don.

‘Come with me,' gasped Lomax. Really gasped, like his mouth was dry and his teeth chattering.

‘Where?'

‘Downstairs. Come on, for God's sake!'

I followed him. We used the stairs, going down two floors to where the roadies had their rooms. Halfway down the hallway a door was open. Outside it, two women were standing together, supporting each other. One of the women had a blonde crop, and was dressed in a short orange dress made of satin and net that looked like a thirties ball gown chopped off mid-thigh. She was leaning against another blonde, but with longer hair, wearing a black mini dress and black tights. Chick and Seltza were with them. They were both looking a little green too. Someone had been sick all over the carpet. It smelled sharp and unpleasant in the heated air.

‘Inside,' said Lomax, and nodded at the door. I pushed it all the way open and went inside the room. It was the twin of Seltza's. It contained a dressing table, chest of drawers, table, four upright chairs, two armchairs and a double bed. The window was open and the curtains billowed slightly in the faint breeze from outside.

Turdo lay on the bed. He was flat on his back. His head was twisted to one side. The skin of his face was black. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets, and his tongue jutted out from between lips the colour of liver. Round his neck, drawn tight, was a long length of silver wire. But that wasn't all. There was blood all over his shirt, and underneath him it had soaked into the bedclothes. Protruding from his chest was a stake of varnished light wood with white printing running up its length. It stuck out about four inches from the entry wound and the top had been battered with a hammer or mallet or something similar. The room stank of blood and shit, which combined with the smell of vomit made me want to throw up too. Nevertheless, I went over to Turdo and felt for a pulse, even though I knew I was wasting my time. There was nothing, and his skin was cool. I looked around, Lomax was standing in the doorway. His complexion hadn't improved.

‘What the fuck is that?' I said, pointing at Turdo's chest.

‘A drumstick,' replied Lomax. ‘One of the biggest ones made. A 2B.'

‘I don't believe this shit,' I said. ‘A fucking drumstick! Are you serious?'

I went to the window. Turdo's room was at the back of the hotel and opened on to a metal fire escape that went down to a paved yard enclosed by iron railings. There was no one in sight. Some security, I thought.

I pushed Lomax out of the door. ‘Tell me about it.'

‘Turdo called up his girlfriend Jane,' he said. I guessed she was the one in orange. It didn't really matter. Not then. She had started to sob, and there was an edge of hysteria to the sound. ‘She was out. He left a message on her machine to come over when she got home. She was at a club with Maddy. They got back late. She got the message. They got a cab over. They met Chick and Seltza at the front door. They came up together. The door was unlocked. They found him like that. Seltza came and got me.'

‘Have you called the police?'

Lomax looked at me.

‘And don't say no police,' I said. ‘This time, police. And get them out of the hall, for Christ's sake. Seltza, take them to your room. Get them a drink or something.'

He nodded, and whispered something to the woman in the black dress who led her friend away in the direction of his room. Lomax made as if to follow them.

‘Wait a minute,' I said. ‘Before you call, get the rest of your guys knocking on doors. Get everything but prescription drugs off the premises. The coppers will toss this place from top to bottom. Get them to flush the stuff, not the wraps, down the toilet. The Old Bill will have someone check the drains, just to see what they can find.'

‘And the wraps?'

‘If they're plastic, cut them into strips and then flush them. If they're paper, burn them and flush the ashes. And no fucking around. You don't want anything found on the premises. That goes for everyone, right?'

‘Sure.'

‘That includes the band and any dealers who happen to be hanging around tonight. And no messing around. This place must be clean. No stashing. The dogs'll be in by dawn if the police think there's anything tasty hidden here. They probably will anyway. And another thing – make sure Pandora's playmates are in their own room. And try and put a stop to any other deviant behaviour.' I slapped my forehead. ‘Oh, Christ!' I said.

‘What?'

I pulled him back out of earshot of the others. ‘Ninotchka,' I said. ‘She's upstairs sleeping off a couple of syringes full of smack. Now why the fuck didn't you tell me?'

‘What?'

‘What?' I mimicked. ‘Shapiro's spiked with smack. Ninotchka hates Shapiro. Ninotchka mainlines smack. A simple equation. One plus one plus one equals three.'

‘Now listen…'

‘Now listen, nothing!' I interrupted. ‘You should have told me.'

‘I couldn't,' said Lomax. ‘We were together for two years when I first started with the band. She built me up, and built me up. Just like she's been doing to you and a hundred others over the past ten years. Then she dropped me. Bang!' He seemed to be recovering from his earlier panic. ‘But I still rate her, OK? And I wasn't about to tell you anything about her. I warned you once, then I decided to let you find out for yourself.'

‘Cheers. Who supplies her?'

‘Guy called Elmo.'

‘Not Sandy?'

‘No. Sandy's blow and uppers. Elmo's smack and downers.'

‘Jesus, it's like a department store around here,' I said.

He shrugged.

‘OK, get started. And get the police quickly. We don't want any suspicious gaps in the story.'

‘I'm gone,' he said, and walked off down the corridor after the two roadies and the women.