It gets worse. He’s got shooters all over the gaff as well, just in case a team of bogeymen rush the gaff, try and skank him for whatever loot and chemicals he’s got stashed around the place. They’re real state of the art as well, laser sights, six hundred rounds a minute delivery, same bit of kit as the Yard’s Diplomatic Protection Unit have got. At first he’s got them stashed away very snug but soon he’s getting them out to show his cronies and not putting them back in the hiding places he’s had specially built by his cousin who’s a dry-wall liner. Soon there’s Glock and whats-his-name down the back of the leather sofa, under the pillows, a Uzi 9mm pistol knocking about under the kitchen sink. The paranoia level is climbing steadily up into the danger zone. The old bill round there are, compared to the Met, a bit of a joke, carrot crunchers, and they ain’t been near these two. Their firm is feared by all the local hounds so the threat has been largely conjured up in their imaginations and fed by their deluded fantasies and enflamed egos, but to these two crackling cokeheads it’s all very real.
One morning a geezer’s turned up from the local council while Duke is out and about. The guy’s there cos they’ve had this fuckin great fence erected so people, like the cozzers, can’t be looking into the plot, but, one, it’s about two feet into the common land that backs into the rear of the property, and two, in his ‘I don’t give a fuck, I’m Al Capone, I rule the planet, OK’ delusion, Duke’s not bothered to apply for a drop of the old planning permission. Maybe he thought that nobody would notice this hundred-yard-long, twelve-foot-high fence with discreetly placed razor wire along the top going around three sides of the plot.
The council bloke is dressed from head to toe in plastic and polyester, carrying a plastic briefcase stamped with a crown. He looks exactly like a bloke from the town hall turning up to explain about the problems with the fence but to her, who’s totally wired, been primed with the Duke’s paranoid bollocks, he looks like a master of disguise, too fuckin geeky to be true, a bit too much like a council joe, so she ain’t taking any chances. Between the time he’s rang the intercom on the outside gate and she’s buzzed him in thinking it’s all very feasible about the fence, and him arriving on the doorstep, she’s lost it, panicked big time. As soon as she’s opened the door she’s let him have it full blast, bosh, a double dose of the mace right in the poor doughnut’s eyes. He’s started screaming the place down, let go a personal alarm gadget that those council guys get issued with these days cos there’s a few nutters about. It’s like a mini-siren, high-pitched and ear-splitting, so she’s got more panicked and given him another helping. Bosh. The dogs have come running out to see what all the noise is about. They start barking at the pair of them cos she’s saying ‘sit’ meaning ‘kill’ and he’s shouting ‘sit’ meaning ‘sit’ so the two child-substitutes are just plain baffled, plain old confused.
Slasher’s thinking that the rest of the team of robbers mustn’t be far behind so she runs off to find one of the bits of hardware that’s cluttering up the place. She comes back with a fully loaded Uzi. Mister council man is up now, trying to escape, but he can’t see fuck all. He’s falling over, colliding with posts and motors that are parked in the driveway. She, purely by accident, lets go a three-second burst on the machine pistol and it completely saws one of the dogs in two and takes out the windows on a Mitsubishi jeep. She drops the shooter, it’s hot metal, and starts screaming hysterically at the top of her voice. The guy’s weeping, pleading, ‘Please don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot,’ getting up and falling down, stumbling around the front of the house. She’s jumped into the Merc sports and is driving away down the drive to just get the fuck away from this nightmare. Slasher don’t care where she’s going cos she’s gone into a dose of shock. She clips the geezer on the shoulder just as he’s getting up, blinded, and now he thinks that she’s trying to run him over, the poor bastard, to finish him off, but she smashes through the gates and takes off. One dog’s sniffing around the other’s dead body, yelping, the frontdoor’s wide open, there’s an Israeli army sub-machine gun lying on the deck with a shot-up jeep with it’s anti-joyrider alarm going full blast, a half-blind council official stumbling backwards and forwards, hooting, screaming after a double dose of mega-powerful German-police-issue CS gas and the lady of the house is driving about ninety miles an hour down curvy country lanes trying to get some bugle up her hooter, like that’s really gonna help.
Sid’s telling me this tale of gross insanity like it’s the best yet, a real hoot, what a scream, birds, ay? what are they like? I’m thinking that it only goes to show why I don’t like working with these outfits. They’ve got totally different priorities. They’re loons.
‘So what happened then, Sid?’
‘Well, she got her old man on the mobile. He was well pissed off at first cos it meant walkin away from everythin that he’d worked for and he was pissed off that she’d shot Mike Tyson.’
‘The boxer?’
‘No. The dog–’
Of course.
‘He gave her a few slaps but he forgave her. Maybe if he’d been home that day it wouldn’t have happened.’
It could’ve been worse. Hostages, sieges, shoot-outs, body counts and a very large chunk at the beginning of The Nine O’clock News come to mind.
‘And what happened to the house?’
‘Well, over that part of the world you can see straight across the fields with binoculars so Duke sent a couple of boys up to see what was goin on, and the filth were around the drum pullin it apart. They were like flies round dogshit.’
‘Did anyone get a pull?’
‘Oh, fuck yeah! It was on the news up our way. They didn’t say exactly what happened. But they showed the house, all that tape, the old bill with guns goin in and out, team-handed they was.’
‘Right, but did anyone get a pull?’
‘Oh yeah, all the chaps got a visit cos Duke had our phone numbers in his book or on bits of paper round the gaff.’
‘It was more likely they come from his phone bill. They go and get the records straight away, see who he’s been talkin to. What did you tell ’em, the law?’
‘Oh. I said I’d gone to school with him, known him years. Every now and then I bumped into him in a boozer, had a drink with him. What would you have told them?’
‘The same. It’s not good to over-elaborate, keep it simple. The old bill were happy with that?’
‘They seemed so.’
‘Did what’s-his-name, Duke, have the numbers of anyone up our way in his book? Think. It could be important.’
‘He could have done.’
‘But you don’t know.’
‘No I don’t. Fuckin hell, I wish I’d never told you now.’
You fuckin useless cunt, you clueless wanker, it’s all a fuckin funny story to you, ain’t it, it’s all a game to you and the dumb collection of cunts you move with.
‘Oh, don’t be like that, mate. I’m only askin,’ I says, patting him on the shoulder.
Right on cue Tammy comes back. She’s been queuing to get a cubicle. Me and Sid are sitting side by side with our backs to the bar. She leans into his face and gives him a kiss on the lips, she rubs their noses together like they’re a couple of Eskimos and hands him back the wrap.
‘Thanks, Siddy baby,’ she says.
At the very same time she pushes something into my hand. I know by instinct that it’s not for Siddy baby to see. I can feel it’s a bit of torn glossy paper. I close my fist around it. My heart starts beating a bit faster and my dick wakes up again. The kiss was a decoy.
‘Ain’t she a darling,’ says Sid.
‘Ain’t she, mate,’ I say.
She’s draped all over him, nibbling his ear. What she’s doing with a plank like Sidney fuck only knows. Is this for my benefit I wonder. He’s grinning like a idiot. The card’s burning into the palm of my hand. I’m dying to look. Whatever it is I can’t make any move on Tammy tonight. I’ve just gotta learn a bit of patience. I gotta sit tight for ab
out another five minutes till I can cut out with grace.
I’m thinking that maybe Sid’ll go for a nose-up but he sticks the wrap in his back pocket. Tammy’s dancing with her arms around Sid’s neck but she’s looking straight at me. She knows what I’m thinking and she’s getting off on it. There’s danger of it getting a little bit weird like it can on coke. If I get another hard-on I could be stuck here for another ten or twenty minutes or all night trying to get rid of it. One, two, three and I’m up, and in one movement I’ve got the bitta card into my pocket ready for the off, the handshakes and goodbyes.
‘People, I’m gonna cut out.’
‘So soon, mate?’
‘I only come out for a breath of fresh air. I’ll catch you later, Sid. Very nice to meet you, Tammy.’
‘See you again soon,’ says Tammy, nicely loaded.
‘Yeah, see you later, mate, you take care,’ says Sid.
‘Yeah, you look after yourself, Sid.’
You look after Tammy for me I’m thinking as I’m giving his hand a good shake, and then I’m away. A few quick goodbyes to people hanging out, then down the stairs, into the street and the cool spring night air. I get the bittov card outta my pocket. It’s a corner of the flyer for a club. In girlie handwriting, she’s half written, half scratched, ‘You are one sexy motherfucker. Ring me soon.’ An outta-town number and a PS: ‘Don’t tell Sid.’ First prize for stating the obvious, Tammy. She’s kissed it so it’s got a big pair of lipstick lips on it. This is a touch, it was well worth going out tonight after all. I must keep this bitta card safe. It’s worth its weight in gold. You, Tammy, are one sexy motherfucker yourself and we two sexy motherfuckers must get together real soon. Whatever scene she’s got going on with Siddy baby she’s taken a big risk giving me this under his nose, maybe that’s the thrill. I’ll have to get her down here for a session real soon. For the time being I better just switch off the blue movie in my nut or I’ll end up driving myself mad or the motor into a lamppost. It ain’t easy. I drive home trying to shift an image of Tammy, sexy little Tammy, dancing round my bed, naked, except for a pair of pointy-toed, hi-heel black-leather ankle boots.
Sunday In the Rose Garden
Eight in the morning, the phone’s gone, it’s Gene.
‘Do you know the rose garden in Regent’s Park?’
‘No, but I can find it.’
‘Okay, I’ll see you there about eleven. Sit and read the paper, I’ll find you.’
The rose garden’s in the middle of the park. I’ve plotted up on a bench where I can see the comings and goings and waited with the papers. There’s hundreds of different types of roses, each with different names, but they all look pretty much the same to me, not being a flower lover. I walked through the China garden and they’ve got herons standing on one leg, little bridges and lakes, very quaint, amazing really.
I’m reading the colour supplements, thinking this is all very civilised, very tranquil, maybe I should do this more often on a spring morning, when outta the corner of my eye I see this figure in a tracksuit and woollen cap. At first it’s just the silhouette coming up the slight slope but as it gets nearer I can make out that whoever it is has got a rucksack on his back and is wearing hobnailed boots. The steel in the bottom of the boots is making a rhythmic crunching sound on the gravel path. He’s still a way off but I’m thinking that it’s gotta be one of the loony-tune soldiers from one of the barracks around that part of town, practising for one of their cross-country gallops. The pack is tightly strapped onto the guy and it’s obviously very heavy from the way it’s behaving. Just as I’m thinking that the geezer’s got to be a total headcase to make so much work for himself the runner gets close enough for me to make out that it’s our Geno. The crunch becomes louder and he approaches with a big grin, which is unusual for him cos he’s notoriously poker-faced. Sweat’s dripping out from under his hat, down his face and off his chin in big drops. The grey old-school tracksuit is drenched like he’s run through a pond to get here, there’s steam coming offa him. The rucksack is from the same era, an old rambler’s affair with buckles and leather laces. He pulls up huffing and puffing, bringing up huge lumps of recycled snot, spitting them over into the roses where they connect with a splat. In one movement he’s got the rucksack off and places it on the floor in front of my bench. It’s heavy even for Gene. It lands with a brittle chink.
‘Good morning, Young Sir,’ he says.
‘Good morning, Mister McGuire. What’s in the bag?’
‘Oh, bits and pieces, odds and sods for you.’
He goes in the bag and brings out a plastic bottle of water and has a long swig, gurgles and spits, pours a little over his head and neck and offers me the bottle. I shake my head. It’s got bits of spit and phlegm floating about in it.
‘Haven’t you found the lady yet? You won’t find her lazin around in the park on a Sunday morning either, reading the fekkin paper.’
‘For fuck sake, Gene, I was only fuckin–’
‘I’m jokin, honest, it was only a little joke.’
‘I know. Anyway, that bottle didn’t make it that heavy.’
‘Oh, there’s a few old house-bricks in there as well, just to make it a contest.’
I peek into the bag and there’s eight house-bricks in the bag, bits chipped off the sides, splinters and red brick dust in the bottom of the bag. He goes into one of the pockets and brings out the Rothman’s and the Dunhill, lights up.
‘How often do you do this running business, Gene?’
‘Two or three times a week, just to stay nimble. Three or four miles, that’s not far really, I know blokes who run whole marathons with full kitbags on their backs.’
‘You must know some very funny people.’
‘Don’t we all, son.’
Gene goes into the bag again and comes out with some papers.
‘Family, friends and all that shit, mostly young Kinky but some more on the princess.’
‘I’ll look but I ain’t sure what I’m meant to be looking for. This is all fuckin damp, Gene.’
‘You can dry it out later.’
‘Love is blind, ay Gene.’
‘Too true, but do you really believe she’s as pure as Jimmy’s makin her out to be? Well, do you, son?’ Gene laughs gently.
‘No way. She’s a right box of tricks is Princess Charlotte. She’s probably got the poor cunt jumpin through hoops as we speak, dumb bastard.’
‘Won’t know what’s hit him,’ Gene says, pulling on his snout.
‘I’ve got an idea who I’m gonna try and get to help me out,’ I say.
‘Who?’
‘A guy called Billy Bogus. You know him?’
‘It rings a bell.’
‘I wanna get this sorted as soon as possible.’
‘Give it time, son. We cast our bread upon the water.’
‘Very biblical, Gene.’
‘Old Testament.’
‘I suppose it is Sunday after all.’
‘Read that about Kinky,’ says Gene pointing at the papers. ‘It makes for grim reading, he’s a depressing no-hoper, could end up feelin sorry for him.’
‘Well, he’s got his break now ain’t he. He’s lucky in love with the princess, could marry into the good life, nicely set up.’
‘Then he really would disappear,’ says Gene with a slightly raised eyebrow.
‘I fucked up saying that about Kinky disappearing, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, you did. But he likes you and he was in a particularly good mood yesterday. He probably had the ride before he came out so he let it go. You had me worried though, son.’
‘I don’t know where it come from.’
‘You put him right on the spot. If he didn’t like you he woulda made you suffer, gone right into one, you know, made you sweat. It’s all about–’ Gene’s searching for the correct word ‘– protocol, etiquette, if you like.’
‘I understand. I don’t know who was talkin.’
‘When you get round guy
s like Jimmy, don’t get me wrong, I really do like the old bollocks for all his faults, you learn to say as little as you can get away with.’
‘I realise that now.’
‘He thinks you’ve got balls and brains. See, if you’d crawled up his rectum and went to sleep he’d think you was a wanker and he’d treat you like one. He’d have you washin his car and mowin the lawn, just for the laugh, for a giggle. I’ve seen it before with guys who reckon they’re tasty. He’s just took the piss cos guys set themselves up but he’s given you a job to do, placed his trust in you, cos you confirmed what me and Morty have been tellin him, you’re a talent.’
‘Thanks.’
He flicks his fag-butt with his finger and thumb away into the roses. We both sit in silence. We nod to the good folks out walking their dogs. Looking through a gap in the privet hedges, we’re watching a guy throwing a big lump of wood and have his Labrador catch it on the first or second bounce. Gene lights another snout and pulls hard.
‘They’re clever dogs, Labradors,’ I say.
‘They can’t do crosswords,’ says Gene.
A small grin appears on his face. ‘Your best mates have been in touch.’
‘I’m not with ya.’
‘The, what do you lot call ’em, the Yahoos?’
‘Oh fuck,’ I say. Gene laughs.
‘I knew you’d be pleased.’
‘They’re a pain in the arse.’
‘They make money.’
‘They make trouble.’
‘They’re okay.’
‘They’re dangerous.’
‘I’ve had more dangerous kebabs.’
‘They’re messy.’
‘So be very careful,’ he says with a pointy finger.
‘Funnily enough I ran into one of their team in a club last night. He was tellin me about some right nutty escapades.’
‘How wonderful for you,’ says Gene, dry as fuck.
‘Sidney. And he was with this bird, fuck me, Geno, she was fit.’
Gene looks totally disinterested. Maybe I’ll tell Mort instead. He’ll appreciate it.
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