Layer Cake

by J. J. Connolly

  ‘Fucking hell. You don’t half go on, do you. Just answer the question approximately. How much, to the person who pops it in their mouth, does it cost?’

  ‘About a ching, a fiver.’

  ‘Right, about five pounds. In Tokyo they cost about forty pounds each.’

  ‘Very nice, chicken and rice. So you’re gonna give them away instead of charging forty pound a pop. And I thought you was a businessman, Mister Ryder.’

  ‘It’s none of your business what I do with them after they become my property. But, between ourselves, I intend to make a gift of them to some businessmen I wish to do business with.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Yakuza. Japanese Mafia.’

  ‘Have I spoken to you before about your manners? I have, haven’t I? Do you think everyone I do business with is some variety of international gangster?’

  Yes. ‘No, of course not. No way. I’m sorry. I was just being reckless, don’t know where it comes from, I’m sorry.’

  Just because they’ve got BANDIT tattooed across their forehead and half their fingers missing don’t make them Yakuza.

  ‘You’re forgiven. So when can I have them?’ he says.

  ‘As soon as we can make the arrangements, Mister Ryder. Everyone’s gone off-duty, it’s the weekend.’

  I need a couple of days to work out how we’re gonna do it our end.

  ‘You don’t work the weekend?’ asks moody toff Eddy, pulling a face like I was a plumber.

  ‘Well, neither do you. I’m surprised to find you in town at all,’ I say.

  ‘True. No wonder the country’s going to the dogs.’

  ‘I still can’t see why you don’t sell them to the Japanese gents,’ I ask, intrigued.

  ‘Kudos. It’s a good-will gesture.’

  ‘Seems they’re getting all the good will.’

  ‘See what I mean about you having an English attitude.’

  ‘This lot stand to make about eighty million pounds or a fuckin lot of yen outta your fuckin good-will present.’

  ‘Well, so be it. Transpires these ecstasy are the new aphrodisiac, the new white-rhino horn in smart Japanese society.’

  ‘Well, they had to find an alternative, what with wiping out all the white rhinos.’

  ‘Manners. I can get them landed and away at Tokyo airport, no problem.’

  Well, lucky you.

  ‘I’ll get it sorted,’ I say, ‘but as you can understand with the Jimmy situation things are a bit up in the air.’

  I’m looking for his reaction.

  ‘Yes, poor James. The police are talking about a highly professional contract killer. It solves your little problem quite nicely, though, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it does. If you think, Jimmy might have died and I would never have known he was out to nobble me up and steal my assets. Without your help he might have died a hero in my eyes.’

  ‘It’s part of growing up, son. Poor Jimmy.’

  ‘You know, in spite of that business with your daughter, he thought the sun shone outta your arse.’

  ‘He was a good man, James Price. “Misunderstood”, I think’s the word best describes James,’ he says like the vicar at a wrong’un’s funeral.

  ‘He just lost the plot a bit towards the end,’ I say.

  ‘True, son. That’s what true desperation can do to a man.’

  ‘He started to have fantasies about people. You, for instance, he was very jealous of you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Oh yes. My dad used to say envy’s worse than cancer, can eat ya alive. Maybe I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He ain’t even in his grave yet and I’m slandering him. You’re right, Mister R, I gotta learn to watch my manners.’

  ‘I thought you said you never had much to do with him?’

  ‘I’m talking about last Saturday. Fuckin ‘ell. This exact time last week. I just felt like someone walked over me grave.’

  ‘And the fuckin slag was sayin what?’ he says, the elocution lessons flying out the window.

  ‘No, I can’t repeat it.’

  Eddy grabs my wrist and squeezes it. The barman catches it, looks alarmed but turns away quick.

  ‘Listen, stop fuckin ‘bout and fess up, okay?’ he spits.

  ‘Fess-up? I don’t understand?’

  ‘Tell me, you fuckin cunt,’ he says with a clipped’t’, like a market trader.

  ‘Okay,’ I say in a hushed whisper. He leans closer. ‘He said, God rest his soul, that he was going to kill your first wife, Charlie’s mum, as a favour, but you was scared that he’d blunder about, fuck it up, you’d both get nicked for putting the plot together, it’s conspiracy.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yeah. This time last week. He said that you had the murder done instead, to stop him fuckin it up. Now ain’t that a fuckin sick thing to say ‘bout anybody, even in his deranged state.’

  Mister Ryder’s gone very pale, very sudden. He coughs and signals to the barman for two more.

  ‘He told you this? On your own?’

  ‘He fuckin said it to me, Gene and Mister Mortimer. Gene wouldn’t have it, said “No fuckin way, Jim.” Jimmy got the hump cos it was one of the few times Gene ever stood up to him.’

  ‘Gene didn’t believe it?’

  ‘No way,’ I say.

  ‘And this Mister . . .’

  ‘Mortimer. Couldn’t give a fuck.’

  ‘And Mister Mortimer’s the large black fellow, bit of a tearaway?’

  ‘Funny you should say that, but Morty’s the quiet one in the family. His brother’s are fuckin ravin lunatics, real head-the-balls. He’s quite reserved by comparison. It’s funny that, ain’t it? Everything is relative, don’t you think, Eddy?’

  ‘How many brothers does your friend have?’

  ‘Four. Oh fuck, by the way, I forgot to mention, I saw your horse won.’

  ‘Yes it did,’ he says with a quizzical face on, thinking is it worth the blood-bath to get rid of me, Mort and Gene, probably not. ‘After a steward’s inquiry, said it was a suspected betting coup, and to a degree it was.’

  ‘Really? Well, well. Let me ask you something, Mister Ryder. I hope you don’t think I’m being about myself but why does a geezer, with all your shillings, have to get involved in betting coups?’

  ‘Sport.’

  ‘But I thought that hobbling horse races would be the opposite of sport.’

  ‘The sport is in beating the system. I have to make my own entertainment.’

  ‘Oh, I know that one all right, making my own entertainment. That’s interesting what you say about sport, though, beating the system, havin ’em over.’

  But he’s a bit preoccupied, is Eddy, thinking about London, early seventies, disappearing acts, things he’s always thought he’d got clean away with. He’s nibbling his bottom lip.

  ‘Fuckin ‘ell, Eddy, you can see the whole fuckin river from here.’

  Teach him to fuckin kidnap me.

  Afters

  Walking back along the Strand, two large vodka and tonics later, I’m experiencing the calm after the storm, thinking that for a minute I can allow myself to think I could be trotting towards Easy Street. The pills could be on the way to Tokyo and yours truly could be travelling in the opposite direction. I could use a sauna and a Thai massage, some little Thai bird walking about on my back, nothing saucy, just a sweat and a rub down, get all these fuckin toxins out. Him back there didn’t seen to think it was anything more than a coincidence that he dropped the tape on me Thursday afternoon and last night Jimmy got the top of his canister blown off. Eddy just wanted to get his bitta business done, couldn’t give a monkey’s about Jimbo. I’ll talk to Morty and Gene about it in the morning.

  It’s Saturday night, I’ve had a bittova week, I feel like going back home to bed. I wonder if Tammy will be up for that? I could make it up to her for letting her down the other day. I push her number on my mobile. It rings three times then someon
e answers it. ‘Hello? It’s okay, I’ve got it, Tarn,’ they shout. It’s gormless Sidney. She must be in the bath or something. Now there’s a thought. I stay silent. ‘Hello? Who’s that? Talk, will yer,’ he says aggressively. ‘Who the fuck’s that? Talk, you cunt.’

  He must be able to hear the traffic noise my end.

  ‘Listen, you cunt, don’t fuckin ring this number again, you hear?’

  He’s gone. Luckily I’ve got this phone rigged so it withholds my number. Sid’s obviously on some jealous-suitor tip but Tammy said they only hang out, he ain’t the boyfriend. Maybe he thinks different.

  The phone rings. I check the incoming number. It’s Morty’s mobile. He rarely carries it. I answer.

  ‘Where the fuck you been?’ he says, all up-tight.

  ‘Hello, Mister Mortimer,’ I say.

  ‘Where you now?’

  ‘On the Strand. Why?’

  ‘Gene wants to see you. Have you done anything to upset him?’

  ‘No,’ I answer. Nothing that he knows about.

  ‘Well, he wants to see you, now.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I’m curious.

  ‘See you in Loveland,’ he says.

  ‘Is that a Barry White number, Mort?’

  ‘You always gotta be the funny cunt, ain’t ya. Twenty minutes, okay?’

  He’s gone. Obviously had a tough day with Gene running around trying to get a clue about dear departed Jimmy. One fuckin minute ago I was walking on air, thinking I might have a buyer for the Jack ‘n’ Jills and maybe I could even get Tammy back to the hideout to consummate this liaison once and for all. A minute later, crash, verbal from Sidney, crash, verbal from Morty, and my world-view’s totally spun. I stop a cab and get in.

  ‘Where to?’ says the driver.

  I tell him to go to the corner of the street that Loveland is on, but as an afterthought I ask him to go on a detour by my car, parked round the corner from my place. It makes me late but something in Morty’s voice tells me that it could be a good idea. The taxi stops. I get out, open my car door, open the glove compartment and start emptying out, onto the front seat, all the pre-recorded cassettes and mix-tapes. Near the bottom of the untidy pile is the one I want, the one DJ Eddy Ryder, top mixer, gave me on Thursday. I get back in the cab and head for Loveland.

  A pal once told me that him and his bird once went on holiday and he left eighty grand in bricks of cash lining the sides of a drawer, third one down, in an old dresser, in a hardly used upstairs boxroom. For some reason he could never explain, just as he was going out the door to get in the cab to the airport, he went back upstairs and took the lightbulb outta the socket in the boxroom. He put it in the rubbish bin in the kitchen. When he came back, from Ibiza or Thailand or wherever he’s been, the whole fuckin house had been ransacked by local teenage toe-rag burglars, and all the valuables were gone. His gaff had been systematically racked over, room by room, all except the small, seemingly neglected, boxroom that hadn’t been touched, cos it didn’t have a lightbulb. I asked the guy, Why on that occasion did you decide to remove the lightbulb, you go on holiday four times a year, why that time?

  ‘Fuck knows,’ he said.

  When I get to Loveland the whole place is in uproar. Morty’s shouting and screaming at Nobby and the two kids who work there. He’s telling the two shop workers that they’re bone fuckin idle, doing dead people outta bodies, he’s never seen people putting so much effort into being lazy, they can have a clump if they want one. You want some? They stand there terrified, scared to move from the spot, saying nothing. Nobby actually looks on the point of tears. Morty’s rucking him about the unwanted porn cluttering up the place. You should be in the ladies’ hairdressing game, putting in curlers, Nobby. Get those two useless cunts out there to start sorting out what you want and what you don’t want, get it boxed up, I don’t give a fuck if it’s Saturday night or Christmas Eve, I’m sick of you moaning like a girl every time I come in for my readies. Okay, Nobby?

  Morty walks past me out the door and gestures with his head for me to follow him. We walk up to Morty’s car in silence. He’s putting out a didgy, volatile vibe like the last time I saw him, flitting down the canal steps after the Freddie Hurst thing. We head off north, making towards the Edgware Road. He’s all huffing and puffing, swearing under his breath and shaking his head all the time. If yer try and talk to Mort when he’s like this he’ll either eat yer alive or ignore yer. Finally he speaks to me properly.

  ‘The geezer we used to get our merchandise off, through Jim, don’t wanna know us for the next few months. Says we’re too fuckin warm.’

  ‘We might have the pills sold, the lot at two and half mill.’

  He doesn’t seem impressed. He shrugs like it’s none of his business. ‘Gene’s been on the fuckin warpath all day, getting reckless, driving people mad.’

  ‘Who does he think did Jim?’ I ask.

  ‘Nobody’s got a sniff. I’ve been out with Gene since eight this mornin, all over London, no cunt knows anything, but Gene’s been lookin to get that felt.’ He grabs his collar and tugs. ‘He went off to see some geezer he could only see alone. He told me to sit tight at Loveland. Now he wants to see you. I don’t know why, before you ask. I told him you’re no good in combat but he wants to see you all the same.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You’ll see when we get there.’

  Gene’s in a sitting room above a boozer in Kilburn nursing a very large whiskey. His suit jacket’s off, he’s listening to Elvis crying in the chapel. I hope Gene hasn’t got all morbid and sentimental cos someone shot his mate. The room is furnished with affluent Irish publican taste, beige-leather sofa, religious ornaments, massive telly and along one wall a gigantic chest freezer. They must do a roaring trade in burgers downstairs.

  ‘If you want anything, lads, I’m–’ the landlord says.

  Gene’s up in a bound. ‘No, that’s grand, we’re okay now. I’ll see you in a bit.’ Gene’s shooing him out his own door. He shuts it very neatly, then turns, grabs me by the throat. He hurls me across the room against the wall. I put my arm up to try and stop myself but I bend my wrist back sickeningly. I hear a nasty crack and immediately it’s agony. Gene swiftly follows me over and kicks me hard in the stomach, knocking all the wind outta me. I feel like throwing up.

  ‘Fuckin ’ell,’ says Mort, shocked. ‘Fuckin leave it out, Gene.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Morty,’ says Gene with a cold anger. ‘I’ll explain in a minute.’

  Gene picks me up by the back of my collar, bangs my head against the wall and drags me effortlessly over the chest freezer. The landlord’s had a cheap padlock screwed on it to stop pilferage. Gene grabs the lock, wrenches it hard and it comes off with a snap. He pulls the door open and slams my face inside. I feel the bitter, freezing cold straight away. I’m inches away from frosty trade boxes of eight-ounce hamburgers and crinkle-cut chips. Gene pushes me in further. The heavy frost on the box burns my face. A sinister smoky mist rolls slowly up and out over the side of the freezer. Gene pulls my head up, grabs my jaw with one massive hand and bangs my head against the wall so I’m on tiptoes. He pushes the barrel of a gun hard into my forehead, it’s cutting, like it’s gonna draw blood.

  ‘Now, you’re gonna tell me what I want to know or I’m gonna put you in there, understand?’

  There’s plenty of room. I can smell the snout and whiskey on his breath.

  ‘I don’t fuckin understand, Gene. Why?’

  ‘Alive or dead, you can go in there, you understand?’ says Gene, who’s gone the colour of chilli sauce, breathing hard through his nostrils.

  ‘What do you wanna know, Gene?’

  ‘I might put you in there anyway, you murdering cunt.’

  ‘I ain’t never killed anyone, Gene, I fuckin swear. On my mother’s fuckin life,’ I lie.

  ‘Yer fuckin liar,’ screams Gene, banging my head against the wall then hitting my nose with the gun butt.

  ‘Gene,’ says Morty. Gene’s head
spins. ‘He ain’t a killer. I’ll swear to that. He ain’t got the bottle. Relax, Gene.’

  ‘He killed Jimmy,’ says Gene, putting my face back down into the freezing cold, jamming it against a box of chicken Kievs, scraping the frost off with my cheek, wedged so I can’t talk but I can see blood from my nose, claret on the frost.

  ‘No way, Gene, no fuckin way,’ says Morty. ‘Let him up, you’re gonna break his fuckin neck.’

  ‘Maybe I will as well, break his fuckin neck. Take your fuckin hands off me, Mortimer,’ shouts Gene.

  Is this some mad fuckin paranoid deluded hunch from Gene or does he know something? The biting cold is burning into the side of my face. It makes me forget about my wrist.

  ‘Gene,’ says Morty, pleading for my life, ‘let him out. Talk to him properly.’

  In one movement, Gene drags me outta the freezer, throwing my head back. He hurtles me across the room, over a coffee table, and I land on one of the sofas. Gene marches towards me. He’s gonna pull me apart. I’m gonna die, but Morty, God bless him, jumps in between Gene and me.

  ‘Calm down, Gene. Please,’ he says. I’ve never heard Morty use the word before.

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down. That little toe-rag killed Jimmy.’

  ‘What makes you say that, Gene?’ says Morty, desperately trying to pacify him.

  ‘Okay, you pair of cunts, you stay there, I’ll fuckin tell ya, don’t fuckin move.’

  You ain’t gonna stand for that, are ya, Mort, I’m thinking. He called you a cunt. If they get into a bitta ruff and tumble, I could slip past them, out the door or maybe get out the window and jump.

  Gene snatches up the dining chair that his jacket’s hung over. He goes to the inside pocket and comes out with a bitta fax paper, unfolds it and hands it to Morty. ‘Here, read that. Better still, Mister Mortimer, fuckin read it aloud.’

  Morty scans it. ‘Fuckin ‘ell. Where’d you get this, Gene?’

  ‘Never fuckin mind. Just read the fuckin thing.’ He’s breathing heavy, glaring at me.