by Mike Ripley
‘Yeah, but for how long? I was supposed to sell the bloody thing some time this year. Who is it you’re teaching anyway?’
‘Fenella.’
He covered his eyes with his right hand. ‘I’m getting one of me headaches.’
‘I think I might have one by tonight,’ I said, the full horror of what I’d agreed to finally sinking in. ‘When can I pick it up?’
‘Say six o’clock.’
‘Sounds good. One other thing – is Maxi around?’
That brought a sparkle to his eyes. He knew me better than to have to give his hands-off speech about Maxi, who was rapidly gaining pride of place in his and Doreen’s household, maybe even ahead of his favourite monkey wrench or his pewter tankard down the local pub. I was well aware of how much she meant to them, just like I was aware of how easily Duncan’s horseshoe hands would fit around my windpipe.
‘I want to ask her advice on something,’ I said casually. ‘That’s all.’
‘She’s in the pit,’ said Duncan, jerking a thumb into the workshop.
I narrowed my eyes to get used to the gloom. The only electric light was a bulb in a wire cage on a length of cable that was clipped to the axle of the car parked over the inspection pit.
‘She loves working on the Cosworth. Would do it for no pay, she said. Great car,’ Duncan mused. ‘Ever fancied one?’
‘Not really,’ I said truthfully. I admired the Ford Cosworth but so did every joyrider in town, and they were such a target now the insurance premiums were stratospheric.
‘If I ever drove one,’ I conceded, ‘it would be the SE Cosworth.’
Duncan looked puzzled. ‘Someone Else’s,’ I explained.
He grinned. ‘I’ll remember that one when I sell the bugger.’
‘Make sure you fit an alarm.’
‘And an engine disabler. Maxi’s on to it. Oi! Maxi! Visitor.’
There was a scraping of boots down in the brick-lined pit and Maxi used the front bumper of the car to heave herself out until she sat on the edge. Then she took a rag from her oil-stained overalls and wiped her fingerprints from the bumper. With me, that would have been a precaution. For her, it was a mark of respect for the car.
She nodded her close-cropped head in my direction just the once. That was her shorthand for saying hello, she was fine, she hoped I was and could she get back to work now? Her hands fell silent in her lap.
Duncan had stumbled across her, literally, in a jeweller’s doorway one night in the City. Quite what Duncan was planning to do in the shop doorway was never resolved. What Maxi was doing was a fair crack at suicide by solvent abuse and hypothermia.
Duncan took her home and Doreen put her in a bath to soak off a filthy red T-shirt that had stuck to her chest there was so much glue down the front of it. Then she had fed her up and talked non-stop at her for a month, not getting a word in reply.
One day Maxi followed Duncan to his garage and just hung out there, watching him work. The way he tells it, he was reaching from under the hood of a car for a socket spanner and the correct-sized socket was handed to him. He invited her to help him finish the tune-up or whatever and that afternoon she had her own pair of overalls and the name Maxi – because that was the car she’d been working on. If she ever told him her real name, or anything else about herself, Duncan had never let on.
I crouched down, almost sitting on my heels, so I would be nearer eye level and less threatening.
‘Hiya, Maxi. Listen, no pressure, okay? I need some advice.’
There was no response but she was still sitting there and that I took as a plus.
‘I’m trying to find someone – a young guy – lives on the street …’
An eye flicked. She had expected me to say ‘like you did’.
‘He moves around a lot. Lincoln’s Inn, the Strand. Knows a lot of people. Calls himself Tigger.’
‘Gay scene?’ she said quietly.
‘Could be. Don’t know if he’s a regular.’
‘Rent boy?’ She said this staring straight ahead at the Cosworth.
‘Could be. You heard the name?’
‘No.’ Was that too quick? I couldn’t tell. She’d said more to me so far than she ever had before.
‘Why did you say rent boy then?’ I asked gently.
‘It’s always the renters they come looking for. Frightened they’re gonna tell on somebody, or demand money from them. Sometimes they want to find them again because they like them, or want to give them a present or something. But usually it’s to keep them quiet.’
‘It’s nothing like that – look, I’m a mate of Tigger’s and I just need to find him. It’s about a van, that’s all. No sweat. We did some jobs together. I just don’t know how to find him.’
She looked at me and began to edge her buttocks back into the pit. I was losing her in more ways than one. ‘Does he have money, this Tigger?’
‘Some.’
‘And he’s on the street from choice?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Then he doesn’t want to be found.’
She was gone.
There was enough of the afternoon left to get back to the West End and do a couple of parcel jobs for Dispatch just to keep in with the firm. None of them would put me in profit as far as they were concerned but times were hard and there were a lot of owner-drivers queuing up for vacancies.
My mind wasn’t on the job, though to be fair it never had been. What exercised me was partly what Maxi had said, but mostly where the hell I could take Fenella for her first (uninsured) driving lesson. That was a tricky one – I mean, there are so few nuclear testing grounds devoid of anything other than single-cell life forms in London these days.
I was cruising Marylebone Road when I had my first bit of luck of the day. A rider on a flash BMW cut me up and gave me a swivel of his backside as he settled in front of Armstrong. The rider was invisible in leathers and helmet but I recognised the bike and wondered for the millionth time how Crimson could afford a machine like that. I flashed Armstrong’s headlights (no horn: that means war in taxi land) and he flipped an indicator before turning right into Baker Street.
I followed him until he pulled into Porter Street, and I was parked and out of Armstrong by the time he’d got his helmet off.
‘Yo, Angel-man, how they hanging?’ he greeted me.
‘A lot more comfortably if you can tell me where to find Tigger.’
Crimson’s eyes shot up to heaven. ‘O-oh. What’s he done now?’
‘Nothing serious, just run out on a job and I gotta find him.’
‘That guy is the wind, man,’ said Crimson, peeling off his gauntlets.
‘I thought you knew him.’
‘He’s been around. You know. Here, there. Don’t mess with him myself, ‘cos I’ve got my reputation to think of. Ain’t seen him for weeks.’
I flapped my arms and reconsidered the benefits of smoking heavily.
‘When you don’t want him around, you can’t get rid of him, but when you try to find him, nobody’s got a clue.’
‘Sounds like Tigger,’ Crimson nodded sagely. ‘You tried any of his regular hang-outs?’
‘No, I seem to have mislaid my copy of the Good Cardboard Box Guide.’
‘Aw shit, you’ll never find him on the street. I meant the places he hangs out, not where he lays his head.’
‘Such as?’
‘There’s the pub up East on Rimmer Road.’
‘The Grapes?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. He’s been there more than once.’
So had I, and now the sign above the bar came back to me: GAY NIGHT LASER KARAOKE.
‘I know the place. I’ve even been there with him.’
‘Ask around, man, but expect some strange and wicked answers.’
‘I thought you were
going to give me one.’
‘What?’
‘A strange answer. When you said regular hang-outs I thought you were gonna recommend the gents on Platform Five round the corner.’
‘You’ve been talking to the Beast, ain’t you?’
I nodded.
‘He’s got a thing about that place. I think he musta had a close encounter there himself. You got time for a tea or summfing?’
He pointed to the McDonald’s sign.
‘Naw, I’ve got a driving lesson to give.’
‘Suit yourself, man. Good luck finding Tigger. Live long and prosper and all that shit. Oh – and don’t believe one word the Beast tells you.’
‘I won’t,’ I said, taking out Armstrong’s keys. ‘Not even the bit about the Steel Rule guy who trawls the toilets.’
Crimson grinned.
‘Yeah, I heard him tell that one before, but it’s all shit. They ain’t got steel rules in their pockets. Man, they’re just genuinely pleased to see you.’
‘Angel, we’re home. Angel, say something. Did I do all right? Angel, say something. Anything. Please …’
Chapter Eight
There was a sign in one of the windows of the Grapes saying: BAR STAFF WANTED. It was handwritten on a piece of cardboard torn from a box, but at least the spelling was fair. I hadn’t noticed it on my previous visit. Maybe it hadn’t been there before, or maybe the Grapes was the sort of pub where it was better not to notice things.
I had arrived earlier than intended, around 7.00 pm. I had been determined not to hang around the house in Stuart Street in case Fenella spotted me and demanded another lesson, so I had nipped in, fed Springsteen, told him to take messages, and sneaked out again. Now I was sitting in Armstrong in the car park waiting for some inspiration.
The only train of thought I had was that Tigger had asked for a meet here at 8.00 pm that first night I met Bassotti. I knew he slept up West, or at least that’s where he’d always asked me to drop him, so perhaps if he used the pub he used it early. Until I saw the sign asking for staff, that had been my one and only cunning plan, ploy and tactic.
The blag of going in to ask about a job at least gave me the option of hanging around inside and chatting up the manager. That solved one problem, as gay night audiences don’t welcome outsiders as a rule, especially not snooping ones asking questions. And who can blame them? They were there to party, not provide a free floor show or missing person service.
One bar had been reserved for the festivities by placing in front of the door a life-size cut-out of Humphrey Bogart as he appeared in Casablanca. Across his white dinner jacket, in what appeared to be lipstick (Sunset Gash was the shade, I think) was written ‘Gay Nite Tonite’. Then, lower down: ‘This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.’ Was nothing sacred?
Beyond Bogie I could see a guy in a tank top assembling the disco gear, complete with autocue for the karaoke. Beyond him, with her back to me, was a tall blonde emptying plastic bags of coins into the cash register as a float. I decided to take my chances with her.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to the back of her Basic Instinct haircut. She looked up into the mirror behind the bar.
‘I think you want the other bar,’ she said in an Australian accent.
‘Actually, I’m looking for the manager.’
‘Really?’ She went on emptying coins into the register. ‘Well, actually, sport, you’ve found her. ‘Bout the job is it?’
‘Yeah. What’s the form? I could use a few nights, no weekends and cash in hand.’
‘Sounds good to me. Let me know if you find anyone hiring.’
There was an ugly buzz as the cash register told everyone that its drawer had been open too long and there was probably some fiddle going on. She closed it with her right hip as she turned.
‘Look, everything here’s on the up, okay? We’re looking for full-timers and we’ll go to £140 a week after tax, plus your grub, plus accommodation, we are that desperate. Average length of stay is three months. You do split shifts four days, one night Friday thru Sunday, two days off per fortnight on a rota basis. Interested?’
‘I was looking for part-time,’ I said weakly, wondering how to string the conversation out to maybe half a minute.
‘Sorry, nothing doing. Did the Jobcentre send you?’
Jobcentre? I almost asked what she was talking about.
‘No, I just saw the sign.’
She gave me a good once-over with eyes that could have microwaved pizza.
‘Done bar work before?’
‘Sure. And cellar work. Don’t expect any Tom Cruise fancy cocktails but I can manage a lager top and a Malibu with ice without losing track of what day it is.’
‘Got references?’
‘Can get ‘em, or give you some numbers to bell. A couple of pubs down Southwark and the odd wine bar in the City.’ Very odd, now I remembered.
‘Got any ID?’
Now that threw me, and I gave her a lights-on-but-nobody-home look, then remembered I had a driving licence in my wallet and handed it over. As she read the name on it, I twigged. She thought I was from the Jobcentre or Social Security or somewhere, checking up.
‘Roy MacLean,’ she said.
Yes, those were some of my names.
‘Are you gay?’
I flashed back with a lightning, witty response: ‘No, of course not.’
‘Okay, tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take you on as a relief because I’m short-handed tonight. If that goes all right, then we’ll see, but if anybody asks, you’re a relief barperson from the agency.’
‘Which agency? Just in case …’
‘If anyone asks that, come see me quick. I’m April, but I’ll be in the other bar most of the evening. You’ll work this one with Sam and Dave. I’ll take you upstairs and get you a white shirt and bow tie – sorry, house rule. Sam’ll tell you the others. I’ll pay you three pounds an hour, starting at eight o’clock. Nobody leaves till the glasses are dry and cash register balances. Keep your mouth shut unless absolutely necessary and do what Sam and Dave tell you. You can have two five-minute cigarette breaks away from the bar, preferably outside. If anyone offers you a drink, say you’ll have half a lager and take the right money. Don’t try and screw tips and don’t let me catch you drinking it.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Don’t let me find you’ve got any bad attitudes. I don’t employ gays on gay nights. It keeps life simpler. But no interaction with the customers, okay? No lip, no toilet jokes, no references to AIDS. You know anything about AIDS?’
‘You can’t catch it from beer glasses. The washing-up water is hot enough to kill the virus.’
She was impressed, I could tell.
‘That’s good. Anything you need to know?’
‘I think you’ve covered everything.’
Sam and Dave turned out to be sisters.
Samantha and Davina, wouldn’t you know it, and they were only filling in as barpersons because their real vocation was as a singing duo, sometimes a cappella, sometimes with their cousin Henry and his synthesizer, sometimes fronting third-rate pub jazz bands as a budget version of the Andrews Sisters. Most times unemployed and back to bar work. Professionally, they called themselves Sam and Dave, but they’d met several agents and recording managers who said they couldn’t use that name. It was something to do with someone else who had got in first way back in history. I agreed it was before my time too, whatever they were talking about. I knew that, genetically, they at least had to have a brain cell between them.
In the staff room above the bar, Dave showed me the clean laundry bag, which had a selection of freshly-washed but rarely-ironed white shirts. I asked for a 15-inch collar and she gave me a 16 ½ -inch one, explaining that it got hot and sweaty later on. I said I hoped so as I let her help me button it up and she smil
ed encouragingly.
Sam chose a clip-on bow tie for me and offered to fit it as there wasn’t a mirror. She told me it was safer than the real tie-on ones or even the ones on elastic (the pub had a comprehensive choice) in case anyone grabbed it.
‘So things can get a bit lively, can they?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes,’ said Sam.
‘Most times,’ said Dave.
I watched as they adjusted each other’s bow ties.
‘But I can rely on you two to protect me, can’t I?’ I gave them the full teeth smile. No cheap dental work there.
Dave shook her short blonde hair at me.
‘We were hoping you’d watch our backs, actually.’
I thought about this.
‘Do the customers get a bit aggressive?’
‘Some of them you’d think had never seen red meat,’ said Sam.
Then they both giggled.
I must have looked as bemused as I felt. Dave patted me on the cheek.
‘Don’t worry, we have confidence in you, Roy. It is Roy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but what do you mean confidence? Why should ...?’
A look of genuine surprise crossed her face.
‘April didn’t tell you, did she? Tuesday is female gay night.’
‘No, she must have forgotten to mention that.’
The bar began to fill to the raucous tones of L7, the all-female Californian band, in heavy mood. At least nobody was going to get up and karaoke along with them. There was no sign of the disc jockey who had been setting up. He’d set up, put on a tape and done a runner.
‘You’ll have to do the rounds for dirty glasses and ashtrays,’ Sam advised me.
‘You’ll be safe,’ Dave chipped in. ‘You’ve got something in your trousers.’
‘Watch it, Sis,’ warned Sam. Then to me: ‘April doesn’t allow us to cheek off the customers, so no lip – however much they wind you up.’
I did a quick scan of the spirits on the back bar, their prices marked on small white stickers the size of postage stamps. Beneath them were four glass-door fridges stuffed with imported lagers and bottles of white wine with the corks drawn.