‘Ought to be locked up,’ the woman said, scarcely glancing up, ‘letting their animals do their business anywhere. Fall arse over tit and get your hand in this, God knows what kind of disease you could pick up.’ And then, flicking the contents of the fork out towards the street, ‘Twenty-five, short time.’
‘No,’ Resnick said, ‘I don’t . . .’
She shook her head and swore as the fork snapped in two. ‘Fifteen, then, standing up.’
‘I’m looking for someone,’ Resnick said.
‘Oh, are you? Right, well,’ she stood straight and barely came level with his elbows, ‘as long as it’s not Jesus.’
He assured her it was not.
‘You’d be amazed, the number we get round here, looking to find Jesus. Mind you, they’re not above copping a good feel while they’re about it. Took me, one of them, dog collar an’ all, round that bit of waste ground there. Mary, he says, get down on your knees and pray. Father, I says, I doubt you’ll find the Lord up there, one hand on his rosary beads, the other way up my skirt. Mind you, it’s my mother I blame, causing me to be christened Mary. On account of that Mary Magdalene, you know, in the Bible. Right horny twat, and no mistake.’ Resnick had the impression that even if he walked away she would carry on talking just the same. ‘This person you’re looking for,’ she said, ‘does she have a name or what?’
* * * *
The hotel was in a row of similar hotels, cream paint flaking from its walls and a sign that advertised all modern conveniences in every room. And then a few, Resnick thought. The manager was in Cyprus and the youth behind the desk was an archaeology student from King’s, working his way, none too laboriously, through college. ‘Brenda?’ he said, slipping an unwrapped condom into the pages of his book to keep his place. ‘Is that the one from Glasgow or the one from Kirkby-in-Ashfield?’
‘Where?’
‘Kirkby. It’s near . . .’
‘I know where it’s near.’
‘Yes? Don’t sound as though you’re from round there.’
‘Neither do you.’
‘Langwith,’ the student said. ‘It’s the posh side of Mansfield.’
Resnick had heard it called some things in his time, but never that. ‘That Brenda,’ he said. ‘Is she here?’
‘Look, you’re not her father, are you?’
Resnick shook his head.
‘Just old enough to be.’ When Resnick failed to crack a smile, he apologized. ‘She’s busy.’ He took a quick look at his watch. ‘Not for so very much longer.’
Resnick sighed and stepped away. The lobby was airless and smelt of... he didn’t like to think what it smelt of. Whoever had blu-tacked the print of Van Gogh’s sunflowers to the wall had managed to get it upside down. Perhaps it was the student, Resnick thought, perhaps it was a statement. A - what was it called? - a metaphor.
If Brenda was as young as she looked and from Kirkby, chances were she’d done a runner from home. As soon as this was over, he’d place a call, have her checked out. He was still thinking that when he heard the door slam and then the scream.
* * * *
Resnick’s shoulder spun the door wide, shredding wood from around its hinges. At first the man’s back was all he could see, arm raised high and set to come thrashing down, a woman’s heeled shoe reversed in his hand. Hidden behind him, Brenda shrieked in anticipation. Resnick seized the man’s arm as he turned and stepped inside his swing. The shoe flew high and landed on top of the plywood wardrobe in the corner of the room. Resnick released his grip and the man hit the door jamb with a smack and fell to his knees. His round face flushed around startled eyes and a swathe of hair hung sideways from his head. His pale blue shirt was hanging out over dark striped trousers and at one side his braces were undone. Resnick didn’t need to see the briefcase in the corner to know it was there.
From just beyond the doorway the student stood thinking, there, I was right, he is her father.
‘She was asking . . .’ the man began.
‘Shut it!’ said Resnick. ‘I don’t want to hear.’
Brenda was crying, short sobs that shook her body. Blood was meandering from a cut below one eye. ‘Bastard wanted to do it without a rubber. Bastard! I wouldn’t let him. Not unless he give me another twenty pound.’
Resnick leaned over and lifted her carefully to her feet, held her there. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘you’ve got anything like first-aid.’
The man snatched up his briefcase and ran, careening between the banister and the wall. ‘I think there’s plasters or something,’ the student said.
* * * *
Resnick had gone to the hospital with her and waited while they put seven stitches in her cheek. His wallet had been in her bag, warrant card, return ticket and, astonishingly, the credit card he almost never used were still there; the cash, of course, was gone. He used the card to withdraw money from the change kiosk in the station. Now they were sitting in the Burger King opposite St Pancras and Resnick was tucking into a double cheese-burger with bacon, while Brenda picked at chicken pieces and chain-smoked Rothmans King Size.
Without her make-up, she looked absurdly young.
‘I’m eighteen,’ she’d said, when Resnick had informed her he was contacting her family. ‘I can go wherever I like.’
She was eleven weeks past her fifteenth birthday; she hadn’t been to school since September, had been in London a little over a month. She had palled up with Lorraine the second or third night she was down. Half of her takings went to Lorraine’s pimp boyfriend, who spent it on crack; almost half the rest went on renting out the room.
‘You can’t make me go back,’ she said.
Resnick asked if she wanted tea or coffee and she opted for a milk shake instead. The female police officer waiting patiently outside would escort her home on the last train.
‘You know you’re wasting your fucking time, don’t you?’ she called at Resnick across the pavement. ‘I’ll only run off again. I’ll be back down here inside a fucking week!’
The officer raised an eyebrow towards Resnick, who nodded, and the last he saw was the two of them crossing against the traffic, Brenda keeping one clear step ahead.
* * * *
The maitre’d. at Ronnie Scott’s had trouble seating Resnick because he was stubbornly on his own; finally he slipped him in to one of the raised tables at the side, next to a woman who was drinking copious amounts of mineral water and doing her knitting. Spike Robinson was on the stand, stooped and somewhat fragile-looking, Ed Silver’s contemporary, more or less. A little bit of Stan Getz, a lot of Lester Young, Robinson had been one of Resnick’s favourite tenor players for quite a while. There was an album of Gershwin tunes that found its way onto his record player an awful lot.
Now Resnick ate spaghetti and measured out his beer and listened as Robinson took the tune of ‘I Should Care’ between his teeth and worried at it like a terrier with a favourite ball. At the end of the number, he stepped back to the microphone. ‘I’d like to dedicate this final tune of the set to the memory of Ed Silver, a very fine jazz musician who this week passed away. Charlie Parker’s “Now’s the Time”.’
And when it was over and the musicians had departed backstage and Ronnie Scott himself was standing there encouraging the applause - ‘Spike Robinson, ladies and gentlemen, Spike Robinson.’ - Resnick blew his nose and raised his glass and continued to sit there with the tears drying on his face. Seven minutes past eleven, near as made no difference.
<
* * * *
MICHAEL Z. LEWIN
CORMORANTS
A
t the top of the dark stairs leading up from Balham High Road Charlie paused with only one foot on the landing. He bent and rubbed his elevated knee. The bandage beneath the jeans felt sticky and the leg ached. The deep cut beneath the bandage must have begun to bleed yet again.
The cut had scabbed tight while Charlie slept through the morning and into the afternoon. But he was so tir
ed he had slept without moving, so when he got up the knee felt like it had a plaster cap. Charlie managed to keep the leg straight by limping as he walked, but it had probably opened when he ran to catch the waiting train. You don’t miss a waiting train on the Northern Line if you can help it. You run by instinct, without thinking about knees cut in the night on broken glass.
As Charlie massaged his knee the door on the landing opened. Immediately he straightened. The man who came out was a stranger, a large frowning man. Maybe he was only tall because Charlie was looking up, but he was wide too, and jowly, and his waistcoated belly pushed out between the wings of a dark suit jacket and the flaps of a heavy overcoat. The man wore a tie pulled tight to the neck. He wore a fedora. And while his eyes took Charlie in, his mouth was speaking back into the room. ‘I need a body, Lennie.’
‘I said I fix it, didn’t I?’ Leonard Slaughter answered from within the room.
‘It’s essential. It’s not optional.’
‘All right!” Slaughter said.
Then the fat man said, ‘There’s a dosser out here. You want me to do something about him?’
Slaughter appeared in the doorway. He said, ‘Na. That’s just Charlie.’
The fat man looked down again. ‘You’re expecting him?’
‘Yeah, why not.’
‘The people you do business with!’ the fat man said. He strode down the stairs, pushing Charlie flat against the wall as he passed.
When the street door closed behind the fat man Slaughter said, ‘Fuckin’ arse-wipe.’
Charlie looked down the stairwell at the closed door.
‘You coming in or what?’ Slaughter said. He withdrew into the room. Limping, Charlie followed.
Inside, the first thing Charlie saw was Lorna sitting in an easy chair with her legs crossed. Charlie didn’t know where to look, didn’t know whether what she was wearing was a dressing gown or a puzzling dress. Lorna’s thigh showed all the way up to a button.
Slaughter said, ‘Did you get that, Lorn? He wants a body. Did you get the message? Did you take in that it’s important? Did that come through clear enough?’
‘Arse-wipe,’ Lorna said.
From where he had stopped just inside the door Charlie said, ‘Hello, Miss Lorna.’
‘Put your tongue back in your mouth,’ Slaughter said. ‘You look disgusting. And close the bloody door. You want the whole world to know our business?’
Charlie closed the door and then, without being bidden further, he walked to the coffee table Slaughter was now seated behind.
Slaughter said, ‘I hope you got something decent today. You been bringing me nothing but crap for weeks.’
Charlie emptied the pockets of his anorak. On the table he spread out five credit cards, two gold bracelets, several silver earrings, a cheque-book and seventy pounds in notes.
Slaughter said, ‘That it?’
Charlie nodded.
‘What, just the one place?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Two.’
Slaughter picked up the bracelets and examined them. He wrinkled his nose. ‘These ain’t going to do much for Beverley, are they?’
‘Ain’t they gold?’
‘Nine carat, tops.’
‘Oh.’
Slaughter picked out two tenners from the pile of money and held them out to Charlie. But before Charlie could take them Slaughter pulled them back. ‘You wouldn’t hold out on me, would you, Charlie?’
‘No sir,’ Charlie said. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I must be getting soft,’ Slaughter said. ‘Cos I bloody believe you.’ He turned to Lorna. ‘I bloody believe him. What do you reckon? Has my brain leaked out or what?’
‘He knows what would happen,’ Lorna said.
‘I suppose he does,’ Slaughter said. He faced Charlie again. ‘You know what would happen, don’t you, Charlie?’
‘Yes sir.’
Slaughter laughed. ‘I wouldn’t harm a hair on your scruffy little head, would I? Even I catch you holding a grand in fifties I wouldn’t touch you, would I, Charlie boy?’
‘No sir. I don’t never hold out on you, Mr Slaughter.’
‘I don’t suppose you do.’ Slaughter picked up the jewellery again. ‘But you better go out again tonight. Cos we’re only just managing to hang onto Beverley as it is. And you keep turning up stuff like this and it’s all over for her. Won’t be nothing I can do.’
‘I’ll go again tonight,’ Charlie said.
Slaughter held the twenty pounds out again and Charlie took them but he didn’t fold the notes and pack them away. He looked at the two tenners in his hand.
Slaughter said, ‘Oh don’t you start going septic on me, because I ain’t in the mood for it. You get twenty because that’s what I can afford and because the jewellery ain’t no good.’
Charlie said nothing.
Angrily Slaughter said, ‘You know that fat geezer? The one made wallpaper out of you on the stairs, do you know who he is?’
‘No sir.’
‘You want to guess? You want to guess who he is, what he does?’
Slaughter was insisting. Charlie said, ‘Does he buy the jewellery?’
Slaughter laughed without humour. Lorna smiled. Slaughter said, ‘He’s only bloody CID.’
Charlie turned to look at the closed door. He turned back to Slaughter. He said, ‘A copper? Him?’
‘Him,’ Slaughter said. ‘And he’s not the only one. Course, you never see it, because I protect you from all that, don’t I? You get it? I got expenses, Charlie. I got problems. I gotta look after everything. You think your bit is the hard part, but what you do is pissing down a steep hill, Charlie. Big piddle or little, it all goes the right way. Everything’s simple for you, as long as you’re careful. You pick your house. You’re in and out. As long you don’t get greedy, you’re bloody laughing compared to me. I not only fence your stuff, I protect you. I do! And that’s not easy this day and age. And on top of all that I take care of your goddamn Beverley. I take care of her. You couldn’t do that for yourself, could you? No, you couldn’t. So I look after her and I look after you, Charlie. I look after mine. I’m known for it. Ain’t I, Lorn? And you want to go elsewhere, you go. You do it. You want go, go. I don’t know what would happen to poor little Beverley, who’s being cured in a style of luxury you and I would only dream of, but that’s up to you. And it would be only one of the problems you’d have to take on if you don’t like things the way they bloody fucking are. If you’re not happy.’
‘I’m happy,’ Charlie said. He folded the money and put it in his shirt pocket.
‘I should bloody well hope so,’ Slaughter said. ‘Now get the fuck out of here. You’re stinking the place up.’
Charlie turned toward the door.
‘Tomorrow then,’ Slaughter said. ‘Usual time.’
‘Yes sir,’ Charlie said, and he limped out.
* * * *
Because he was working that night, Charlie did not return to his room. Instead he made his way by tube to High Street Ken and from there he turned south because last time he’d gone north. He walked the streets and eventually he found two places that looked like they would be all right. One was a lush basement with a path round the side and the other had scaffolding. Neither had too-small windows. The only problem was the knee.
Charlie found a pub, had a meal and a drink. Then he made a decision and a phone call, and began the wait for the early hours.
* * * *
The next afternoon Charlie made his way to Balham High Road. To protect the knee he left early so he had a few minutes to spare. He was about to pass the time in the betting shop across the street from Slaughter’s door when he noticed the man himself leave and walk down the street.
Charlie didn’t know what to do. He was too far away to call out, and Slaughter was walking too fast to be caught. But it was unlike Slaughter not to keep an appointment. It had never happened before.
Charlie stood thinking until it was the time he
was due. All he could think of was go to the top of the stairs and wait.
But when he got to the top of the stairs, Slaughter’s door opened before him. Standing in the doorway was Lorna. Her skirt was short, way up over her knees. She said, ‘I heard you on the stairs, Charlie. You ain’t half clumpy. Come on in.’
Charlie hesitated.
‘I don’t bite,’ Lorna said. ‘Honest.’ She turned her back and walked into the room.
Charlie could do nothing but follow but he stood and waited by the door as he watched Lorna take Slaughter’s seat behind the coffee table.
London Noir - [Anthology] Page 21