Zip Gun Boogie (17 page)

‘God knows,' said Ninotchka. ‘Another of Keith's little surprises, I expect.'

‘Has this geezer got a degree in bad taste?' I asked.

The pair came up to the table and handed out a parcel to each of us. There was much tearing of paper and oohing and aahing going on. Even I got one. It was small but heavy. When I opened it I found a velvet box. Inside was a gold Rolex with a black face and diamonds for numerals. It felt like the real thing. Ninotchka had the ladies' version, as they so coyly put it. All around the table it was the same. The men had the larger model, the women the smaller. ‘Christ!' I said. ‘Are they real?'

‘Keith wouldn't mess with fakes,' said Ninotchka. ‘It would dent his ego.'

‘These are about ten grand apiece,' I said. ‘That's over two hundred thousand pounds.'

Ninotchka shrugged. ‘He likes making extravagant gestures.'

‘Shit, I should say he does.' I put on the watch. I must say it looked the business.

Pandora stood up again. ‘A small token of my appreciation for your hard work and loyalty.' This time he got the applause he wanted. Funny what a load of gold jewellery will do. Everyone clapped except Tony Box. He hadn't bothered to open his gift, just tossed it on the table in the wreckage of his meal and half the wine cellar. Suddenly he came to his feet and stood weaving there, one hand on the table to support himself. The applause died out.

‘Bollocks!' he shouted. ‘Fucking bollocks, Keith.'

Barby put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. ‘Fucking loyalty,' he went on. ‘You bastards don't know the meaning of the word. None of you.' And he leaned over and picked up the ice sculpture which was slowly melting away on the table, and holding it aloft moved away from the table and heaved it through the closed window of the annexe where it burst into a million tiny splinters on the hard top outside, amongst the shards of glass and wood from the window frame. Everyone was silent. Box turned and stood swaying slightly like a tree in a strong breeze. Then Pandora grinned and started clapping his hands. One by one the rest of the people at the table joined in except Ninotchka and me. I really rated her for that. The rest were just licking arse. I looked over at her and shook my head. She shook her head back. As the applause died down, the hotel manager came into the room. He didn't even bother looking at the damage, but I would have bet he was mentally assessing it and adding it to the bill. Instead he went up to Pandora and whispered in his ear.

‘The cars are here. Let's go,' he said. ‘And make one hell of an entrance.'

Seeing the guy that night I realised why they called him The Tsar, and how
Pandora's Box
had lasted as long as they had. Everyone stood up and started milling around. I took Ninotchka's arm and tucked it under mine. ‘That Box
is
crazy,' I said. ‘What was all that about?'

‘Rock and roll, Nick. Just rock and roll,' she said. ‘Now, come on, it's party time. And you're my beau.'

21

W
e went outside, and parked at the kerb were eight black Mercedes 600 limousines converted to right-hand drive. Each was almost twenty foot long, and altogether they stretched the length of the street like a river of shiny cellulose. By the back door of each car was a Premiere man in full evening dress. It was quite a sight. Ninotchka and I were in the third car, with Chas driving and my old friend Don riding shotgun. He even demeaned himself so far as to be almost civil to me as I got in the car after Ninotchka. As we settled down in the back, I said, ‘This is like
Alice in Wonderland.
'

‘Lie back and enjoy it, Nick,' she said. ‘You could be eating hamburger next week.' Never a truer word had been spoken. I've learned it's foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if it's got gold teeth. So I did as I was told and enjoyed the short ride to The Inn On The Park.

Even at that late hour there were enough people about for us to cause a stir. Eight long black German cars with darkened windows, headlights and spotlights on full beam, riding in convoy, is not something you see in London every night of the week. We rumbled up to the hotel and the doormen didn't know what had hit them. The
paparazzi
were out in force and Pandora and his merry bunch of men and women posed for all they were worth.

We rendezvoused in the hotel foyer. It was still busy and we got our fair share of attention. The reception was being held in the main ballroom and we teamed up in pairs with outriders of security men and cut a swathe through the guests, onlookers, groupies and disappointed twenty-four-hour-party people who couldn't get to the free booze. As we went in through the huge doors, Pandora and the blonde teenybopper to the fore, the hotel security just stepped back and let us pass. It was excellent timing. Everyone inside just stopped and gaped.

Once inside we all stood in the doorway and bathed in the glory, reflected or otherwise.

After a few minutes, when the novelty was over, Ninotchka bumped me with her hip. ‘I'm off to fix my make-up,' she said. It was perfect, but I said nothing. Instead I wandered around to see what was happening. The first face I recognised belonged to Seltza. He was standing to one side of the door, leaning against the wall looking cool. I walked over and joined him.

‘Hi,' I said.

He turned and grinned. ‘Hi, man. I saw you come in with the high rollers.'

‘That's me,' I said.

‘It was quite an entrance. And that's quite a dress that our lovely blonde singer is wearing.'

‘Sure is. Are you on your own?'

‘Temporarily. Most of the crew are here. Boss's orders. They're around somewhere. But right now I'm on the prowl.'

‘Anyone take your fancy?'

‘Only the booze. I'm not really in the mood for women after what happened last night.' He kicked at the carpet with the pointed toe of his boot. ‘I'm going to get a bottle and get as drunk as a skunk. And howl.'

‘Do skunks howl?' I asked.

‘Shit, I don't know. I come from Los Angeles.' He pronounced it with a hard ‘g'. Angle-lees.

Ninotchka came out of the cloakroom. ‘You'd better get front and centre, Nick. Your commanding officer has arrived,' said Seltza.

‘Knock it off, Seltz. She's all right, believe me.'

‘I'll take your word for it. See you.' And he slid along the wall away from me.

Ninotchka came over and grabbed my arm. ‘Are you OK, Nick?'

‘Yeah, sure.'

‘Was that Seltza?'

‘Yeah.'

‘He doesn't like me. Every man who wants to fuck me and can't doesn't like me. And most who have, too. Do you like me, Nick?

‘Sure.'

‘You won't. You'll change.' She shrugged. ‘Everyone else has.'

‘But you don't change?' I asked.

She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes. ‘Only my underwear,' she said. And winked lasciviously.

‘Maybe you just need a friend,' I said.

‘A man
friend
? That would be a first. But maybe I do. And maybe you're the man. Whaddya say?'

‘I say, let's get stupid. The booze is free, the night is young, you're beautiful, and we have a lot of sorrows to drown.'

‘Amen to that,' said Ninotchka, and we headed towards the bar.

Now, I've been to some receptions in my time for various things, but this was one of the biggest bunfights I'd ever seen. The ballroom had been decked out like some acid-head's idea of a dance hall in the deep south of America. The wooden floor was covered in sawdust. The lights were low. There were loads of neon bar signs on the walls, and Stars and Stripes and Confederate flags all over the shop. The bar served only jugs of margaritas, champagne, Schlitz, Rolling Rock, Bud, Southern Comfort and Jack Daniel's, which suited me down to the ground. The food was southern too: fried chicken, ribs, crayfish, gumbo, poor boy sandwiches with oysters and piquant sauce, and great tubs of coleslaw and salad. All served by gents in long white aprons and tall white hats, assisted by waitresses in gingham dresses, stetsons and cowboy boots.

Ninotchka's outfit fitted in perfectly. In one corner of the room was a stage draped with more flags, and a cajun band were giving it plenty of zydeco and western swing tunes. By this time the party was beginning to roar, and the first casualties were already appearing.

Pandora had acquired a water pistol from somewhere which he kept loading with neat JD from the bar. Then he went round spraying it in people's drinks and even their open mouths if they were game. And lots were. One or two people were going to go through the pain barrier before the night was through.

‘So what's this band
The Miracle
all about?' I asked Ninotchka, once we were comfortably the right side of a couple of glasses.

‘Don't you know?'

‘Sorry,' I apologised.

‘Shit kickers, son,' she explained. ‘Good old southern boys. That's what this is all in aid of.' She gestured round the room. ‘Lots of hair and not much talent. They want to be
Guns ‘n' Roses
or
The Stones.
No way. File under “Fell at the First Fence”. They're over there. Check them out.' She pointed at four geezers in faded, torn, tight denim and an assortment of Oxfam rejects, standing close to the stage. One was wearing a red sequined tail coat. Another, a tiny little brat, was in a Confederate officer's jacket and had a shiny black top hat perched rakishly on top of his feather cut. They all had long locks. One in particular's tawny mane reached almost to his waist. Each had a blonde babe on his arm. ‘They don't like us much,' said Ninotchka. ‘We stole too much of their thunder when we came in.'

‘Looks like they've got some dough to afford all this, though.'

‘Flash. The record company panicking. You heard what Keith said. He may be a bastard, but he's a shrewd one. He knows the value and sales to the nearest ten cents of the top fifty bands in the world.'

‘Where do
The Box
stand in that?'

She shrugged and looked at the ceiling. ‘Top ten.'

‘Not bad.'

‘It keeps me in French perfume.'

‘I thought I was doing that.'

‘You're sweet. Can you smell it?'

‘I'm drunk with the fragrance.'

‘I thought it was the wine you had with dinner.'

As we stood there chewing the fat, people kept coming up to Ninotchka and trying to engage her in conversation. She blanked most of them out. I thought that to be that rude and get away with it was the benchmark of a true star. Eventually someone did get her attention, a brittle blonde from On Line Publicity. Her name was Dorothy and she looked like she'd been hung out to dry in the sun, so emaciated and wrinkled was she. ‘Darling,' she said to Ninotchka, giving me an arch look, ‘we must talk photo opportunities.' I swear she said that, and without a trace of a horse's laugh.

Ninotchka looked at me. ‘Sorry, Nick,' she said. ‘Duty calls.'

‘When you gotta go, you gotta go,' I said. ‘I'll catch you on the merry-go-round.' She kissed me on the cheek, and Dorothy led her away to a quiet corner.

As I was looking round the room, Pascall, the American lawyer, buttonholed me. ‘Good evening,' he said. ‘How's it going?'

‘I think you know.'

‘Not good?'

‘The worst.'

‘I hoped it wouldn't come to this.'

‘Shit happens,' I said.

‘So true.'

‘But at least you still have a band.'

‘If all goes well.'

‘You think it won't?'

‘As you rightly say, “shit happens”.'

‘I'm doing my best to see that it doesn't.'

‘I know, Mr Sharman, and as I said before you have my backing one hundred per cent.'

‘That's good to know.'

‘If you require anything, my door is always open.'

‘I'll remember that.'

‘And now I see that my wife needs me.' I looked round. The woman in green who'd been sitting next to him at dinner was waving in our direction. ‘Enjoy yourself, Mr Sharman,' he said.

‘I will.'

He excused himself and left.

With no sign of Ninotchka returning I decided to go and look for adventure.

What, or rather who, I found instead was Chris Kennedy-Sloane. He was an accountant and investment consultant who specialised in the music business. He was a bit of a reptile, but a likeable one. That night he was all dolled up in the latest line in crushed silk gent's suiting and baseball boots. He looked like he didn't know whether he was on his way to his office or the gym. ‘Chris, my old friend,' I said, ‘what the hell are you doing here?'

‘Nick! Well, I'll be damned,' he said. ‘I thought that was you making a dramatic entrance with
The Box,
but I didn't believe my eyes. How the devil are you?'

‘Just fine. So tell me, I thought you hated dos like this?'

‘Quite right. But I'm trawling about for some new money. Things are tough at the minute.'

‘
The Miracle
?' I asked.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘They're slipping fast in my opinion.'

‘So I heard.'

‘Did you? Interesting.'

‘So?'

‘Just casting a wide net. Business is business.'

‘Caught anything?'

‘Maybe. But it's a bit hush-hush at the moment. I can slip it to you later if you like. Big bucks.'

‘I think I've had it slipped to me enough for one lifetime, Chris,' I said. ‘But thanks for the offer.'

‘Now, more to the point, what are
you
doing here? As if I didn't know. That business with the roadie and the drumstick, is it?'

‘That's it.'

‘Thought so. Nasty that. Makes me go quite cold just to think about it.'

‘I saw it. How do you think I feel?'

‘And you've been brought in on the case.'

I nodded.

‘Fancy that. First Mark McBain, now
Pandora's Box.
My dear boy, you should open an office on the West Coast. I could arrange a sub-let for you, if you like.'

‘Ha-ha,' I said. ‘But listen, Chris, I'm glad I bumped into you. You're just the man.'

‘My heart's sinking already. Just the man for what?'

‘I want to know a little more about
The Box
.'

‘Like what?'

‘Anything. Idle gossip. Malicious rumour. Hard fact. The sort of things you deal in every day.'

‘I'm flattered. But now you mention it, apparently there's plenty to know.'

‘Is that right? Like what?'

‘Money troubles. Internal feuding. Rumours of break-ups. Madness. Death. That sort of thing. An everyday story of pop music folk.'

‘Can you find out more?'

‘If I have to.'

‘
Have
to.'

‘What's in it for me?'

‘Who knows?'

‘Who indeed. All right, Nick, I'll find out what I can.'

‘When?'

‘Give me time. Today's Thursday. Well, Friday morning really. Call me Monday.'

‘Monday may be too late.'

‘You intrigue me. Tell me more.'

‘I'll tell you when I see you. How about later today? This evening.'

‘It must be urgent. All right, I'll see what I can do, as it's for an old friend. But you don't give me much time. Come to my office. You've never been there, have you?' He reached into his breast pocket and gave me a card. I glanced at it. The address was in Docklands. I could picture it already. ‘Drop by about six. Drinks in the boardroom.'