Zip Gun Boogie (3 page)

What do you say? I've seen your tits in
Playboy.
I've seen you all sweated up, frolicking with some butch geezer in your last video. I saw your arse in the movie when you were supposed to be screwing Jack Nicholson. I said none of those things. ‘How do you do?' was all I said.

‘You Englishmen are so polite,' she said back. ‘At first.' And gave Roger a dirty look. I sensed there was unfinished business there, and I didn't want to know about it.

Up close, and even in the half-light of the bar, Ninotchka was showing signs of wear and tear around the edges. Hard boozing wear and tear, hard living wear and tear. But on her it looked good. Besides, she looked as if she could care less.

She sat down and helped herself to one of Lomax's cigarettes. ‘What do you do, Nick?' she asked.

‘He's a private cop,' Lomax answered for me. ‘I've asked him to find out who spiked Trash.'

‘You don't look much like Dick Tracy.'

‘I'm not,' I said modestly.

‘You going to ask me some questions?'

‘Maybe. I haven't made up my mind whether to take the job or not.' But I was beginning to.

‘Wanna take me to dinner tonight?' she asked.

That sort of offer you don't get from that sort of woman twice in a lifetime. ‘Yeah, sure,' I said, almost tripping over my tongue.

‘I'm in the Mayfair Suite. Corny but true. Pick me up at seven. I get too hungry for dinner at eight.' And she started half singing, half humming
The Lady is a Tramp
as she finished her drink, stood up and left us.

I looked at Lomax and he looked back at me and I don't think he liked what he saw. ‘Seems like you've taken the job then?'

‘Seems like it.'

‘I'd be very careful there if I were you, Nick. You're just her type, I know it. I'll tell you exactly what's going to happen. She'll give you her full attention, ignore everyone else. She'll only speak through you. She'll ask your advice on everything, and take it. You'll choose her clothes and her next single. She'll buy you the complete Gaultier summer collection. You'll be walking around three feet off the ground. Then she'll cut you off at the knees, brother. She'll chop off your dick, spread it with mustard, put it in a roll and gobble it up. You'll be castrated, and you'll probably hand her the scalpel, you'll love her so much.'

‘Sounds like the voice of experience.'

‘You'd better believe it! I told you, I know what tampons she prefers. I'm giving you the good word, Nick. Just like I wish someone had done to me.'

‘I'll bear it in mind.'

‘No, you won't.'

He was wrong. I would. I was too old and ugly to fall into that kind of trap, or so I thought. ‘If I'm going to stay here I'll need to go back and get some things,' I said, ignoring his comment.

‘No need. I've taken care of everything. There's a good men's store in the foyer here. They'll fix you up with anything you need. I've taken the liberty of opening an account in your name.'

That was the sort of liberty I could handle.

‘The band'll take care of the bill,' he went on.

Better and better, I thought.

‘There's shaving gear and all that sort of stuff in your suite.
Anything
else you need, just call reception.'

‘OK,' I said. ‘You've sold me.' Although it wasn't really him who'd done it.

‘So that just leaves the question of your fee? McBain wasn't very precise.'

‘I don't think McBain ever paid me,' I said dryly.

‘We
pay. What do you charge?'

‘Two hundred a day.' From the look on his face it was what he was used to paying for manicures.

He took a company-sized chequebook and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. He wrote out a cheque and signed it with a flourish. He pushed it over and I looked at it. It was for fourteen hundred pounds.

‘A week in advance,' he said. Even I could just about work that out. ‘I don't know how long this sort of thing usually takes.'

‘Me neither.'

‘When you need more, let me know.'

‘I will,' I said, and folded the cheque and put it in my shirt pocket. ‘Well, now I'm weighed in you'd better tell me something about the band.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like who they are.'

‘Don't you know?' He sounded amazed.

‘Not really. I mean, I know about them, and the album, and I've heard loads of their songs on the radio. But they're not really my style. A bit too MOR, if you know what I mean.'

‘I know
exactly
what you mean,' he said.

‘And apart from Ninotchka, I wouldn't recognise one of them on the street.'

He shook his head in wonderment. ‘Just as well I put the latest set of biogs in here then,' he said, and tapped the folder.

‘You tell me about them,' I said. ‘I can buy a magazine if I want to read what the PR people want me to read.'

‘Right. I'll give you the basics now. More when you need it, OK?'

I nodded.

‘Ninotchka you've met. She's on lead vocals. Writes a lot of songs. A lot of hits. Plays guitar. Not very well.'

Bitchy, I thought.

‘We were an item. You're bound to find out. She was also an item with Pandora for a while, and a couple of guys that have since left. And several soundmen, roadies, lighting technicians, and even a couple of T-shirt salesmen.' You could tell he liked telling me that. ‘Then there's Pandora himself. He's English. Formed the band with Tony Box in sixty-eight. There's been a lot of water under the bridge since then. He's on keyboards and vocals. He's been married, oh, four times at least. You tend to lose count. At the moment he's between marriages. Next Tony Box, the only other original member. He's English too. Plays lead. He's been married twice. His second wife's here now. Her name's Barby – you'd never guess. Trash is second lead guitar. He's a writer and singer. Brilliant. Don't know what they'd do without him. Baby Boy Valin – he's a drummer, what more can I say? Fucking nutter. Comes from LA. Been in a thousand bands. Shorty Long is on base. Nice guy. Scratch is on vocals, and she fiddles around with percussion. She's English too, but joined about seventy-one or -two. Used to be married to Keith.'

‘Sounds interesting.'

‘It can be. Sometimes we have to put barbed wire across the stage to keep these fuckers from killing each other.'

He stopped when he realised what he'd said.

‘Freudian slip,' I said.

He didn't reply. ‘And finally there's two back-up singers. There should be another one really to make up the full three stooges, but they do pretty well. Officially they're called
The Twilights.
Unofficially, the band bikes. So that's it, really. You'll meet them all as we go along. In fact, here's one now.'

I looked up as the door of the bar opened and a tall, thin man with long, curly hair came in accompanied by two young girls – very young. They were both real skinny with tiny breasts and similar heart-shaped faces. Although one was blonde and the other had black hair they were obviously sisters. They wore matching black mini-dresses, dark tights and high-heeled black shoes. They were both heavily made-up, but that seemed to accentuate rather than hide the immaturity in their faces.

‘Which one's he?'

‘Don't you recognise him? That's Keith Pandora. The Main Man. The Tsar.'

‘Why do you call him that?'

‘Because he runs the band like it was Imperial Russia.'

‘Are those his kids?'

‘Don't let him hear you say that, for Christ's sake! He's screwing them.'

‘But they're only babies.'

‘Don't you believe it. Their bodies may be young, but in their heads they're a thousand years old.'

‘How old exactly?'

‘The blonde's fourteen, the brunette, thirteen.'

‘And he's fucking them?'

‘Does it offend you?'

‘I've got a daughter myself, not much younger than those two. If he touched her, I'd break his skinny neck.'

‘OK, Nick, I read you. But can you cool it around Keith?'

I said nothing.

‘Their mother's here with them if it makes you feel any better.'

‘Not much.'

‘They've got a suite close to yours.'

‘What kind of mother is she, for fuck's sake?'

‘An old groupie. She reckons one of the kids is Keith Moon's, the other's Iggy Pop's.'

‘Terrific.'

Keith Pandora sat the two girls down at a table and came over to our booth. ‘Hi, Keith,' said Roger Lomax.

‘Hi,' said Pandora, looking at me.

‘This is Nick Sharman.'

‘I've heard about you,' said Pandora. ‘Welcome aboard.' I nodded.

Up close he looked his age. His hair was still thick but his face was deeply lined and tired-looking under its tan. He was handsome in a self-indulgent way, with full, pouty lips and a large, hooked nose. He was dressed in what I imagined was rock-star chic: a black leather biker's jacket, a size too small, over a satin cowboy shirt with white piping and silver arrowheads on the points of the collars. Tight, faded jeans and black boots. ‘Is Dodge looking after you?' he asked.

‘Dodge?'

‘Roger the Dodger,' said Pandora, and smiled showing yellow teeth. ‘The best in the biz. Ain't that right, Dodge?'

‘So they say.'

‘I'll tell you how he got the name one day, Nick,' said Pandora. ‘Right now I'm busy.' He grinned, and I thought how satisfying it would be to punch him in the mouth and mash his fat lips on to his big teeth.

‘I'll look forward to it,' I said, and didn't know if I meant the story or the punch.

‘See you later then.' And Pandora turned on a cowboy-booted heel and left.

‘You shouldn't show your enthusiasm so much,' said Lomax. ‘You almost bowled him over.'

‘I'm working for the band, I don't have to like them,' I said. ‘Get that straight now.'

He raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK, I gotcha.' Just then the door burst open and the short guy in denim I'd met in the garage entered with his little gang. They made for the booth where Lomax and I were sitting. The guy in denim half fell across the table and said to Roger, ‘Hello, Dodge, going into town tonight?'

‘No,' said Lomax. ‘I'm staying here.'

The guy in denim slid into the booth next to me. ‘Hello,' he said pleasantly. ‘Who are you? Do you work here?'

I looked at Lomax. ‘No,' he said. ‘This is Nick Sharman. He's a detective, private. He's looking into our trouble.'

‘Is that so?' said the guy in denim.

‘Nick, this is Tony Box, his wife, Barby.' The woman in the red spangled dress smiled a greeting. ‘And Pat, who drives them round, and generally takes care of business.' The big geezer nodded to me.

‘We've met.'

‘No,' said Box.

‘In the garage. You tried to buy my car.'

Tony Box looked askance. ‘No,' he said again. ‘Did I? Did you sell it to me?'

‘No.' It was my turn.

‘Good. I've got enough cars as it is, and I've got no dough. Get us a drink, Dodge.'

Lomax did another of his invisible signals and beamed the barman in. ‘What?' he asked.

‘Jack Daniel's,' said Tony Box. ‘A bottle for me, large brandy for the wife, Perrier for the driver, and whatever you two are having.' He sat next to me and breathed whisky into my face. If I'd had a match handy I could have set fire to his breath.

‘What is it?' he asked me.

‘What?'

‘Your car.'

‘Seventy-two E-Type, V-twelve hard top.'

‘Nice car. Maybe I'll buy it after all.'

‘Fine,' I said.

I looked over at Roger Lomax. He spoke to me as if Tony Box wasn't in the same room. I was beginning to wonder if he was from the same galaxy. ‘He forgets everything,' he said softly. ‘Except his lead lines and the number of his bank account.'

This guy was reaching levels of cynicism that even I would have had trouble scaling. Tony Box and his party hadn't heard a word of it.

Lomax shrugged and grinned, and his teeth reflected the light. He excused himself to Tony Box's wife like a perfect gentleman. ‘I'll see you later, Nick, I know you won't be lonely,' he said. ‘I've got my rounds to do.' And he walked across the carpet as if the strongest drink he'd had all day was semi-skimmed chocolate milk.