Anyway, Tuxedo is in this office which is short of space what with the desk and the metal filing cabinets. The light is on because Tuxedo doesn’t much like the dark ever since the school caretaker accidentally locked him in the boiler room where he was hiding because he couldn’t remember the lyrics of the seven-times table. Since then, Tuxedo gets jittery in the dark. So he is tackling his first safe, solo, with the light on in the back of Edwards Electronic and TV Rental shop. As it happens, he has only discovered the safe by chance, stubbing his toe against it while he is in the back of the shop looking for some Vaseline.
The reason Tuxedo is looking for Vaseline is this. He has broken into the shop to get a video recorder for Dolores Burton, his current mainsqueeze. Now all the episodes of Hill Street Blues would lead you to believe that during the commission of these minor felonies, people break out in a nervous sweat. Just when the music gets tense and trembly and the camera goes into close-up, you can see sweat streaming down their faces. Not so Tuxedo. His face goes all dry and cracky, especially the lips, which prompts him to put down the video recorder and look in the back of the shop on the offchance of finding some Vaseline or even a little Johnson’s baby oil to rub in his face. And this is precisely what he is doing when the safe attracts the attention of his big toe.
Outside, the August night is warm. The street is still strewn with litter from the market and the sweet glutinous smell of rotting vegetables hangs in the air. The street lamps cast a bilious glow over the row of shops. Parked outside the video shop is Tuxedo’s getaway car, a powder-blue Vauxhall Chevette, the same one he got yesterday. The choice of this particular model, he considers to be a stroke of genius. Any passing beast would think it belonged to an estate agent or a lady doctor. Not that many lady doctors park their cars outside a video shop at three in the morning with the driver’s door open and the sound cassette pumping out into the night air:
‘Trouble you de trouble mi – no I
I woudda jus’ flash me ting.’
The car chants away rhythmically to itself. A few doors down, the burglar alarm in the chemist’s shop shrills montonous and unattended. Tuxedo twists the knobs on the safe impatiently. Nobody is about.
Nobody is about that is except Frankie Formosa, known to his girlfriends as ‘Mr Too Handsome to Work’ who happens to stroll around the corner on his way back from picking up a ten pound draw from Mr Mighty’s Ace Shebeen. He is draining the last drop from a can of vanilla nutriment so he doesn’t at first spot the car. But just as he throws the empty can into the gutter, he sights up the means of transport that would save him a fifteen-minute walk back to Ladbroke Grove. Besides, there is no one around to admire him walking through the streets in his new Tachini tracksuit and trainers to match. Don’t think that Frankie is in any way unfit enough for such a walk. Frankie is always super-plus fit when he comes out of jail because he spends all his time there in the gym. Although this time he could not get all the exercise he wanted on account of a little squirt called Mouth-Mouth. Mouth-Mouth is Frankie’s sister’s boyfriend and it is sheer bad luck that he turns up in jail at the same time as Frankie because Frankie did not really want it known that he was inside for such a minor offence as driving round the streets without a licence and had put it about that he was in jail for the more prestigious and universally popular offence of assaulting a policeman. Then Mouth-Mouth comes in and spills the beans which meant that it was Mouth-Mouth who got assaulted and Frankie had to continue getting what excercise he could in the restricting confines of the punishment block.
So Frankie pulls to a halt on the opposite side of the road to the Chevette.
‘Yuh free to look but don’ you dare stare,’ chants the car happily. But Frankie is not staring. He is giving quick looks up and down the street checking out whether Fate has actually come up trumps and offered him a deserted street and an unlocked car at one and the same time. He crosses back towards the car. On the pavement are large fragments of glass from the plate glass door. The door itself swings carelessly on its hinges and although there is a light on in the back, nobody seems to be there. This is because Tuxedo is bent double on the floor having about as much luck with the combination on the safe as he did with his seven times table. Frankie waits for a moment or two in the doorway of the Ace Liquor Mart.
‘When something good – we say it Bad.
Bubble you de bubble mi – yes I
I woudda jus’ dip an’ run een.’
The car has now given up all pretensions of good breeding and is singing in a gruff, suggestive voice to the accompanying sounds of a deep thumping bass and whistling bullets. Frankie peeps out warily from the doorway. Nobody in sight. He slips round the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, shutting the door gently behind him. Ten seconds later, Frankie Formosa is heading smoothly towards the block of flats in Notting Hill Gate which the council uses to house, temporarily, people they don’t like.
Tuxedo has cramp. He shifts and stands up. He abandons the attempt to open the safe in the shop and decides to take it home with him along with the video cassette recorder. That will impress Dolores. On the desk is a grubby cream telephone and Tuxedo is sorely tempted to give Dolores a bell just to show how cool his nerve is under pressure. Sensing, however, that time like most things is not on his side, he resists the impulse. Which is just as well because Dolores has long time since taken her tail off to Ozo’s Club where she is sandwiched between two gentlemen both with wet-look hairstyles smothered in Dax pomade and each competing with the other as to who can buy her one of the over-priced drinks at the bar.
Life never deals out a hand of entirely bum cards. Mr George Evans, proprietor and manager of Edwards Electronics is a man for whom the notion of good salesmanship is twinned with the notion of well-greased hair. In the third drawer of the desk, Tuxedo comes across Mr Evans’ king-size jar of Vaseline pure petroleum jelly. And it is while he is rubbing it on his face that he becomes aware of a change of sounds from outside. The raunchy upful beat from his car has been replaced by the disjointed, mechanical, crackling voices that spurt so unexpectedly from the radios policemen wear on their chests. Tuxedo steps cautiously from the lighted office holding up the jar of Vaseline like a candle. In the darkened exterior of the shop he makes out three silhouettes, one of them pushing away broken glass with its foot.
Wappen Bappen – Tuxedo is under arrest.
It takes him five seconds to decide against pleading racial harassment and on his face as he walks sheepishly to the door is the same expression of disgust, disbelief and exasperation as when he misses an easy shot in the snooker hall. This expression changes when he reaches the street. His delicate pale blue ladies’ saloon car has metamorphosed into a big, business-like Rover with jazzy red and blue markings and a revolving blue light on top, for all the world like it is the Metropolitan Police mobile disco.
‘Just a minute. Just a minute,’ says Tuxedo in pure bewilderment before accepting the invitation from two of the police to step in the back of the car. The third one remains behind reasoning seriously with his radio.
The night sky has that purplish haze and Tuxedo catches sight of it between the faded, peeling, white house fronts. He is gazing up in that direction because he is conducting one of his silent conversations with the Almighty as the car cruises along:
‘You bastard. Yes guy, it’s you I’m talkin’ to. Nuff trouble you give me. Spiteful I call it. Fucking spite.’ Tuxedo talks to God in the same way he talks to the police, in his London accent, saving the Jamaican for his mates. Then suddenly he remembers the small packet of herb in his underpants. Casually, he slips his hand into the elasticated waistband of his boxer shorts. The move goes unnoticed. He slips his hand further down and starts fishing imperceptibly for the tiny packet of ganga secreted in his yellow underpants. All the while, he stares morosely out of the car window. One discrete cough and Tuxedo has in his mouth about two square inches of ‘The Voice’ newspaper, umpteen seeds and bits of stick as well as seve
ral heads and leaves of ganga.
‘Lock the fucker in the cell if he won’t talk.’ Detective Sergeant Blake sounds weary. Tuxedo’s mother has taught him never to speak with his mouth full. ‘Check with the owner what’s missing from the shop.’ Tuxedo is taken downstairs and put in the fourth cell along the row.
One hour later, Mr Evans of Edwards Electronics has checked and double-checked and confirmed to the remaining policeman that the only item missing from the premises is the pot of Vaseline. Tuxedo is sprawling on a hard bed with the grey blanket wrapped round him and one big smile on his face. He has discovered that he can talk to God Jamaica-style like one black man to another. It makes God feel more like one of the boys:
‘Is wha’ mi a go do? Oonoo help mi nuh? Is jus’ one lickle degi-degi ting me a tek, one lickle pot of cream fi oil mi face. Mi a hear seh yuh work in mysterious ways. Show mi nuh. Don’ gwaan bad about it. Remember Tuxedo don’ business wid voilence.’
The more Tuxedo chats in this confidential manner, the more he realises that things are not nearly as bad as they might be. He could have been caught with the stolen Chevette, the video machine, the office safe and a bunch of weed. As it is, there is only the Vaseline to be reckoned with. A little fine probably. Dolores will no doubt kick up because her favourite tape has gone with the car. Tuxedo thinks of Dolores for a minute, tucked up under the candlewick bedspread, her right hand under her jaw, which is how she sleeps, and wonders if there is any sweet potato pie left in the fridge. Tuxedo wants to get back to Dolores and hug her up for a while. He gets this rush of warmth towards her which spills over and includes God. On the whole, events have not turned out too badly:
‘Yes mi baas,’ says Tuxedo to God. ‘Now me see how it is yuh work dis ting out fi me in the best possible way.’
In the charge room, Detective Sergeant Blake is getting confused as he tries to take down Tuxedo’s statement:
‘So you broke into the TV shop …’
‘To get some Vaseline,’ adds Tuxedo, helpfully.
‘Why didn’t you go into the chemist’s?’
‘The chemist’s was shut,’ says Tuxedo.
Detective Sergeant Blake decides to charge Tuxedo quickly and go home. Tuxedo has much the same idea. Once charged, he asks if it is OK for him to go now and get ready to appear in court in the morning in case the magistrates do not fully appreciate the vision of him appearing before them in his boxer shorts.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ says Blake tetchily. ‘We haven’t been able to establish that the address you gave is the correct one. So you will stay here and we will take you to court in the morning.’
‘Phone my girlfriend. She’s at home,’ protests Tuxedo.
‘We’ve already tried phoning twice and a constable has called round there. There’s nobody there.’
Mystified, Tuxedo allows himself to be led back to cell number four.
‘What’s the time?’ he asks anxiously, as the policeman is about to bang the door to.
‘Half past four.’
Where is Dolores? Why isn’t she asleep in bed the one night he needs her to be in? Where the hell is Dolores?
Tuxedo is mightily vex. He walks up and down the cell for a bit then looks at the window which is set high up in the wall. The top is curved, the bars are painted cream, the panes are of unbreakable, dingy plastic. Behind them the sun is beginning to rise. He crosses the room and stands on tip-toe to look out.
‘White bastard!’ he yells at the pale, dawn sky.
A Quarrelsome Man
ON THAT PARTICULAR TUESDAY AFTERNOON IN July, it rained. Then it stopped. Then it rained again, making the streets wet, steamy and hot. The herbalist shop in one of the shabbier districts of south London was packed with customers. One stout, black, elderly woman in spectacles and a blue felt hat was leaning across the counter whispering in the assistant’s ear:
‘I want sometin’ for me husband. ‘E caan stop goin’. ‘E runnin’ to the toilet all the while.’ The pale assistant with the pale-rimmed glasses looked as though vegetable juice ran in her veins. She answered benignly:
‘We have Cranesbill for urinary incontinence.’
‘What?’ The old woman screwed up her face.
‘Cranesbill for urinary incontinence,’ the assistant said a little louder.
‘What’s that? I don’ hear so good.’
‘Cranesbill for a weak bladder,’ shouted the assistant, causing a titter in the crowd.
‘Yes. Gimme some o’ dat. An’ some tincture of cloves for me tooth.’
The assistant made up the order briskly and neatly. Behind her on the wall hung one of the original, old-fashioned advertisements for ‘Balsam of Lungwort containing Horehound and Aniseed – A Boon to the Afflicted’. The shop had been there since the beginning of the century. In the fifties it nearly closed through lack of trade. Then the black people started to arrive. Business picked up. As word spread, African and Caribbean people from all over London came seeking poke root for sore throats; senna pods for their bowels; fever grass for their colds; green camphor ointment; slippery elm; Irish moss; Jamaican sorrel; eucalyptus leaves; until Mr Goodwin, the latest in a long line of Goodwins, far from shutting up shop, was obliged to take on two more assistants and one extra person to serve at the Sarsparilla counter.
Now, Mr Goodwin stood patiently dispensing the order of two French hippies, the only white customers, who were taking an inordinately long time browsing through the list of potions and powders and gums and roots and barks, sniffing at herbs and examining tinctures of asafoetida and red capsicum with little crooning noises of surprise and delight. They were unaware of the jostling throng of some twenty people behind them. Wedged amongst these was a small, black boy of about ten, gazing about him in astonishment. He had thickly protruding lips and his head was closely shaven. In each ear sat a grey, plastic hearing-aid the shape of Africa. The man at his side was restless and edgy. Jittery. His forehead kept wrinkling into a frown. His frizzy hair had something unkempt about it. His teeth were small and jagged. He wore a sweater, grey with a green diamond pattern on it, frayed at the neck and his trousers were old, brown and shapeless. Round his neck hung two silver chains, one carrying a small, gold box and the other a miniature pistol, which is why he was known as Pistol-Man. He looked vexed and was making small noises of dissatisfaction. When a young black woman pushed in front of him he could contain himself no longer:
‘Hey! You pushin’ in front of me. I don’ come all the way from north London to wait at the back of the line. She pushin’ in front of me,’ he complained. Then he rounded indignantly on two other people he had seen edging their way towards the front. ‘An’ I see you pushin’ in front of them.’ He started to wave his arms like the conductor of a large orchestra. ‘An’ them people,’ he indicated a mother and child at the back, ‘was here before you,’ he tapped on the shoulder of a pompous-looking Trinidadian with a moustache. The man shrugged him off:
‘Cool it, nuh. Cool it nuh, man. Everythin’ cool till yuh open yuh big mouth. There ain’ no lines.’
The man with the pistol round his neck looked fit to explode:
‘That’s what I say. There ain’ no lines.’ He threw up his hands in distress as if the disorder in the shop was somehow representative of all the disorder in the world; the chaos in Beirut; the turmoil in Sri-Lanka; the upheavals in the Philippines and to some extent the confusion in himself, and if only he could organise it properly, that and everything else in the world would be set to rights. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a gap in the crowd ahead of him and stepped quickly into it.
‘Now you pushin’ in front of me.’ The tall, light-skinned woman with the red head-wrap smiled as she accused Pistol-Man. He looked abashed, mortified:
‘I know,’ he said, looking round the room defensively, ‘but I was goin’ to let you go before me. I’m fair.’ He spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. On the other side of the shop he saw someone he recognised:
‘Hello! Hello Mrs Ebanks. You still livin’ in Stoke Newington? Long time I don’ see you.’
‘Yes, we still there.’ The middle-aged woman stood stolidly beside her husband as if they were waiting for the millennium. Dismay crossed Pistol-Man’s face as he watched someone push in front of them:
‘You shouldn’t let people push in front of you. You been waitin’ long?’
‘We fine, tank you.’ They stood stock still, both with their hands folded in front of them as though they were about to burst into hymns. Pistol-Man couldn’t stop himself talking:
‘Look,’ he said to nobody in particular, ‘I’m nearly there. Why it takin’ so long? Some people have to get back to work. People got things to do,’ he said, righteously, although he himself fell into neither category. The main reason it was taking so long was because the French couple, oblivious to all that was going on behind them, were taking their time, fingering bottles with squeaks of pleasure and ordering remedy after remedy. Pistol-Man continued his beef:
‘I got to get two buses to reach home and it nearly rush hour.’
‘You mekin’ fuss,’ boomed the surly Trinidadian with the moustache. Pistol-Man continued to grumble:
‘Everybody look at you as if you mad but if I din’ make fuss I never reach where I am now.’ He looked round for approval and smiled with relief when a wave of laughter swept through the assembled customers. An African girl turned round to him and said in her clipped accent:
‘What you are saying is true. I know it is true because look how I push in front of you.’ She had a big smile and gold ear-rings.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but you laughin’ so that’s all right.’ Secretly, Pistol-Man was a bit wary of Africans. He believed that while the West Indians, like himself, came to the shop in search of cures, the Africans probably came to buy herbs that would make people ill.
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