Zip Gun Boogie (4 page)

When he stood I saw that he was over six foot tall. He made a Machiavellian figure as he went across the room checking on each table as he went.

Roger the Dodger. I was beginning to see where he'd got his nick-name.

I'd have to watch him.

3

I
sat and half listened to the other three in the booth chatting away, and watched Lomax go over to Keith Pandora's table and sit down. I guessed they were discussing me from the looks turned in my direction by the two men. The girls were deep in conversation with each other and ignoring the world.

The door to the bar kept opening and more people came in. There were all sorts of young, and young–middle-aged men and women coming into the bar. One particular crew caught my eye. There were three of them, all in their mid- to late-twenties. Two were huge, one much slimmer and smaller. They all wore identical silk jackets over clean denims teamed with fancy cowboy boots with underslung heels and long pointy toes. The jackets were bright purple with white sleeves. On the back of each was embroidered
Pandora's Box
in black script outlined in white. They had to be part of the road crew. The two big guys reminded me of someone I had once known.

All three were conversing loudly in American accents as they came in. They stopped and said hello to Lomax and Pandora and ignored the girls. They all squinted my way and the two big guys went to the bar whilst the smaller one made for the booth where I was. ‘Hi, Tony,' said the roadie to Box. ‘Hi, Princess,' to Box's wife. ‘Pat,' to the driver.

‘Hello, me old mate,' said Tony Box, looking a little bewildered as if he'd never seen him before. I was getting severely concerned for the guy's brain-cell count. He poured another half a tumbler of JD and took a long swallow as if he didn't have a care in the world. The other two just nodded. Nobody introduced me. ‘You the cop?' the roadie said to me.

I nodded.

‘Come and have a drink.'

Just then Lomax appeared at his shoulder. ‘Later, Chippy,' he said. ‘I'm getting him fixed up with a room.'

‘Raincheck,' said the guy named Chippy to me.

‘Sure,' I said. ‘I'll look forward to it.'

Lomax took a key on a ring out of his pocket. ‘Here's your key. I'll show you the way.'

I excused myself to Tony Box and said goodbye to his wife and Pat, and followed Lomax out of the bar. I gave Pandora and his girlfriends a long look as I went past. Only the blonde responded. She stuck out her tongue.

We stopped outside. ‘Don't pay any attention to Tony,' said Lomax. ‘He doesn't mean any harm. He's always stoned, that's all.'

‘What on?' I asked.

‘Not smack if that's what you're thinking. Dope. He smokes joints like cigarettes. It's done his brain in. He's cool. Quite funny, really, when he gets going.'

‘I believe you.'

‘Come on. It's only one floor. Let's walk,' said Lomax.

We went up a wide staircase lined with oil paintings, along a corridor, around a couple of corners, and Lomax stopped outside a door. A small brass plaque on the door read ‘Sussex Suite'. ‘It's not bad,' he said. ‘Small but comfortable.' He gave me the key. ‘Help yourself. I'll talk to you later.'

‘Fine,' I said. ‘See you soon.'

He left me on the threshold of the room and walked back down the corridor and out of sight around the corner. I let myself in. Comfortable it was, but small? You could easily have fitted my flat inside twice over.

The sitting room was comfortably furnished with a grey three-piece suite and a dining table with four upright chairs. On the table was a huge basket of fresh fruit. There was a big-screen TV with full satellite, video and two blue-film channels. In one corner was a bar complete with tiny sink, fridge and ice-making machine. The machine was full of fresh ice. Whisky, vodka, white rum, gin and brandy on optic, a freezer full of beer, a shelf full of more esoteric spirits and enough mixers to make a cocktail waiter green with envy. There was even a Jones' book of cocktail recipes. To the side of the bar was a small kitchen with sink, microwave, fridge and hob in case some rock star or other decided to make a bedtime cup of cocoa after a hard day at the recording studio. The fridge contained a dozen bottles of premium champagne.

I went back into the sitting room and through the connecting door to the bedroom. The bed was huge, with built-in bedside shelves and a control panel on both sides. The mattress was covered in a silk throw. The only other furniture was a large dressing table and stool. One wall was made of doors. I tried them. One was the door to the bathroom. Inside the others was a built-in wardrobe with shelves and drawers and full-length mirrors in the doors. I closed the doors and sat on the bed. I looked at the control panel. I pressed one button and the radio came on, another and a TV set rose out of the floor at the foot of the bed. Another and the ceiling above the bed rolled away to reveal a huge mirror. I got the ceiling back and didn't try any of the other buttons.

I went into the bathroom. Lomax had been right about the shaving kit. The bathroom was fully stocked in all departments. There was a nine-foot diameter circular, sunken bath with Jacuzzi. A shower stall big enough to fit a five-a-side football team, with a shower head the size of a cauliflower. The toilet had a mahogany seat with a small “Jones” discreetly carved at the back and picked out in gold leaf. On the wall over the hand basin was a mirrored cabinet. Inside was a gold-plated safety razor and a packet each of Wilkinson and Gillette double-edged blades, shaving foam for every skin type, a block of solid shaving soap in a glass jar, and a badger-hair shaving brush monogrammed with the name of a Jermyn Street barber. There were four different kinds of toilet soap, a boxed set of hair-brush and comb, a packet of condoms and a box of sanitary towels. Something for everyone.

On a hook behind the door hung two XL, thick white towelling robes with “Jones” picked out in red stitching on the breast. I went through the bedroom and opened one of the wardrobe doors with a mirror and took a squint at myself. I felt that I could get away with the dark suit I'd been wearing all day on my dinner date, but I fancied a clean shirt. I went into the sitting room.

There was a hotel directory next to the phone. I flicked through it and found the number for the Men's Shoppe. Shoppe, how quaint, I thought, and hoped that the clobber was better than the name. I dialled though. ‘Men's shop,' said a voice. At least he hadn't pronouced it ‘Shoppy'.

‘Hello,' I said. ‘This is Nick Sharman in the Sussex Suite.'

‘How can I help you, Mr Sharman?'

‘Roger Lomax told me I could get a shirt from you.'

‘Of course.'

I told him I wanted a white shirt, and my size.

‘Anything else, sir?'

‘Perhaps some socks, black.' I told him my shoe size.

‘No problem,' said the voice. ‘I'll get them up to you directly.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Our pleasure. Goodbye, Mr Sharman.'

I went over to the bar and made a weak vodka and tonic. Five minutes later there was a tap on the outside door. ‘Come in,' I said.

The door opened and a very spruce young man in a navy blue suit entered. Behind him were two more young guys carrying a pile of clothes each. ‘Mr Sharman,' said the one in the blue suit, ‘I'm Jeremy. I run the shop downstairs.' The two other guys started laying clothes over the sofa and the armchairs. ‘You ordered a shirt.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Just a shirt and some socks.'

‘I thought I'd bring you up some samples of our other merchandise. Firstly, of course, there are some shirts. I brought a couple of white ones and some alternative shades, maybe not
quite
so severe. There are half a dozen pairs of socks too. But I thought you might like to try on a jacket or two. Then there are some trousers, a few ties and a suit. Plus, of course, some shoes. Mr Lomax told me you have nothing with you. I also brought some underwear. I guessed your sizes from what you told me on the phone.' He looked me over. ‘I think I was about right, but I can do alterations within the hour so there's no problem. I'll leave them with you. Please try them on at your own convenience. Naturally anything you don't want I'll take back.' He stood, arms folded, with one finger under his chin. ‘But I don't think I was wrong.'

I was quite taken aback. ‘Do you want me to sign anything?'

‘Oh no, Mr Sharman. Don't sign until you're satisfied you want the clothes. If you could stop by sometime and let me know what you want to keep, I'll arrange for the rest to be collected.'

‘That's very good of you,' I said. ‘I appreciate it.'

‘Nothing's too good for our guests.'

The three excused themselves and left. I took a closer look at the booty strewn across the room.

There were three jackets. The names on the labels inside were so close to the cutting edge of male high fashion as almost to be a danger to themselves. Nothing was priced. I took them into the bedroom and tried them on in front of a mirror. They fitted perfectly. I figured, what the hell? and tried on the trousers and the suit and a couple of shirts. I was like a kid let loose in a toyshop. I thought a pair of off-white cuffed strides teamed with a dark blue, double-breasted jacket with a paisley lining over a pale blue button-down shirt and patterned tie looked pretty good. I finished the outfit off with a pair of navy blue, thick-soled, American loafers I found in a box. I hung the rest of the clothes in the wardrobe, draped the jacket over the sofa, made another vodka tonic and turned on the TV. I sat in one of the armchairs and lit a cigarette and looked through the list of hotel guests Lomax had supplied. Frankly it got me nowhere, and I started watching a Robert Mitchum film. He was playing a private eye in Chicago in the fifties. It was deeply noir and I was getting well into it when the telephone rang.

I cut the sound on the TV with the remote and picked up the receiver. It was Lomax. ‘What's up?' I asked.

‘Nothing. Just checking that you were settled in OK.'

‘I am,' I said. ‘Nice place. Don't bother with the decorators, I like it as it is.'

‘Good.'

‘I got some new clothes.'

‘I told Jeremy to look after you.'

‘He did.'

‘Good, what's next?'

‘Dinner with Ninotchka.'

‘I meant about Trash.'

‘I'll need to talk to him.'

‘When?'

‘Tomorrow?'

‘Fine, I'll fix it.'

‘I'd like to speak to anyone who was with him that evening, and the rest of the band too.'

‘I'll speak to Trash's wife. She'll know who was around that night. The rest of the band are free at the moment.'

‘I'll start with Ninotchka tonight and slot some more in tomorrow.'

‘I warn you, Nin and Trash don't get on, so don't pay too much attention to what she says. As for the rest of the band, just let me know when you want to see them. You have carte blanche around here.'

‘I'm flattered.'

‘Don't be, just get the truth.'

‘I'll try,' I said.

‘Enjoy your evening.'

‘I'm sure I will.'

‘
I'm
sure you will. Just one other thing.'

‘What?'

‘Someone else wants to see you.'

‘Who?'

‘Guy called Pascall. Corporate lawyer. One of the guys I told you about who came in from LA. Big deal, or at least he thinks so. He's in the Surrey Suite. Can you go up and see him?'

‘When?'

‘Now.'

I looked at my watch. 5.45. ‘Sure.'

‘And be nice. What he thinks matters, unfortunately.'

‘I'll be on my best behaviour, I promise.'

‘I wouldn't expect anything less. See you.' And he hung up.

4

I
put down the phone, put on my jacket and went calling on the big-deal lawyer. I knocked on the door of the Surrey Suite at 5.55 precisely.

‘Come,' said a voice. It was the second best offer I'd had all day, so I did.

I opened the door and went in. The room was dark, except for one spot lamp in the far corner behind a high-backed chair, lit and angled to throw it into silhouette. In the chair, almost invisible, sat someone.

So this is the bloody lawyer, I thought. If he was into ego trips, no wonder the real stars were such painful fuckers. I walked across the room towards him, hoping that he hadn't placed anything in the way as a booby trap.

‘Mr Sharman, welcome,' said a disembodied American voice as I got closer. That was reassuring. At least I knew I was in the right place. ‘Do sit down.' There was a low chair on my side of him. It was perfectly placed so that whoever sat there had to look up at the speaker, and sit with the spot right in their eyes. This guy had obviously done some research into behavioural psychology.

I moved the chair slightly and sat down. So had I. If he'd been that good he'd've had the chair nailed to the floor. He made no comment, just said, ‘You may smoke if you wish.'

I took out a cigarette. There was an ashtray on the arm of the chair.

‘My name is Pascall,' he said. ‘Louis Pascall. I am a partner in the company that handles the legal affairs of
Pandora's Box.
When I heard what had happened to Danny, naturally I came straight here. I told Roger I wanted no police involvement. I also told him to use his best endeavours to protect the band. He hired extra men from Premiere, and you.' He didn't exactly sound thrilled skinny about that. ‘Naturally, I asked him why.'

‘Naturally,' I said.

‘He mentioned that you had done a job for Mark McBain.'

I nodded.

‘I made further enquiries and the name Salvatore Cassini was mentioned.'

Salvatore Cassini, Jo's father. The name swept over me like a black wave. Josephine Cassini. Little Jo. The woman I'd loved and lost in a car-bomb explosion meant for me. It all happened because I was looking into the financial affairs of Mark McBain, rock star. A victim of the sixties. Ripped off by his management company and living the life of a virtual recluse in a huge house in Surrey.

But the people who'd planted the bomb had picked on the wrong woman to kill. Her father was a very heavy-duty Family man, with a capital ‘F'. And in more ways than one, if you catch my drift. Cassini had sent his only son and a couple of soldiers to sort out the bombers. But things had gone badly wrong for all of us, and everyone involved had died except for McBain and me.

‘I'm familiar with the name,' I said.

‘Do you know him personally?' Pascall asked.

‘No,' I said. ‘You?'

‘We've never met, but the family still has outstanding connections. An acquaintance of mine filled me in on the whole story. Apparently a lot of good men died that day.'

‘And a lot of bad ones.'

‘Salvatore Cassini has never left the house since his son and daughter died.'

‘He's retired?' I asked.

‘Not exactly. His tentacles still reach far. They have a million tiny suckers.'

Suckers is right, I thought.

‘Are you part of the Mob?' I asked.

‘Mr Sharman, really. No one calls them that these days.'

‘Slap my wrist,' I said. ‘Are you?'

‘No. But…'

‘But the record business is full of them. Right?'

‘Right.'

‘Is that what all this is about?'

‘No.'

‘You know them, but they're not involved?'

‘Take my word for it. I've made other enquiries. Whatever this is, it's not that.'

‘Well, I'll have to find out exactly what it is then.'

‘That is why we're paying you.'

‘Your man Shapiro insists he doesn't know where the drugs came from,' I said.

‘Do you believe him?'

‘I haven't spoken to him yet. I'll tell you when I do.'

‘And when will that be?'

‘Tomorrow morning.'

‘Fine.' I felt I was being dismissed. Then he said, ‘Mr Sharman, before you go – I judge by results. That's all. Give me results and you'll have my backing one hundred per cent. And my gratitude. That comes in many forms. Otherwise…' He didn't finish.

I couldn't believe it. The guy was actually sitting there in the middle of this stage-managed bullshit and threatening me, as if I was the one putting the bite on him. What a piece of sleaze, I thought. ‘Listen, Mr Pascall,' I said, ‘I took this job for one reason and one reason only: because I was asked out to dinner by a woman who most men would crawl across broken glass to hear piss in a tin cup – over the phone. I didn't do it for the money or your gratitude. As far as I'm concerned, with your gratitude and a quid I can get a cup of coffee. Don't even think of threatening me. I've had it done by experts. If I don't like what I see, colour me out of here. Do I make myself clear?'

He didn't answer. All he said was, ‘Ninotchka.'

‘The one and only,' I said.

‘And you're the latest?'

‘We're going out to dinner, that's all.'

‘That's what they all say, Mr Sharman. She's never been sparing with her favours. The woman must have an iron lining in her cunt. A gynaecological miracle.'

I didn't even bother to answer. Just left his words hanging in the air. I think he got the point, or maybe he was too insensitive. Like I said, a piece of sleaze.

‘So, Mr Sharman, I'll leave you to your investigation,' he said. ‘You will make regular reports?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then you can go.'

‘I wouldn't have dared, without your permission,' I said, and left.

When I got outside, it occurred to me that I could have handled it better.

I went back to my suite and made a fresh drink. By the time I'd finished it, it was time to call on Ninotchka in the Mayfair Suite.