After
I’m sipping my way through a pint of Stella and Mazza has a Scotch in his fist. The pub we’re sitting in, the Libertine, is empty except for us, the landlord has disappeared into the back which gives us a chance to talk.
“You see Jimmy Khan again?”
I nod at Mazza’s question.
“Yeah, I picked up the rest of my money. You?”
“No. Thought it best to steer clear.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s for the best. You hear anything about that Stanton kid?” Mazza shakes his head and stares into his drink.
“I don’t think I want to know.”
I get that, I’d rather not think on what happened to him when they took him from the flat. I flex my hand and feel the half-healed skin tug, the doctors said it should heal up fine though I might lose a bit of feeling.
“You think about Jaz much?”
“Every day.”
He knocks back the last of his Scotch and looks around for the landlord. I smile, I still think about her too.
“You going back to the kebab shop?”
The landlord appears and we order another round.
“Nah. I guess I need to talk to you about that second thing I wanted.”
Mazza nods for me to continue.
“Since you lost that money you’re going to need to stick it out in the detective business.”
“Yes, I reckon I am.”
“Well, now you’ve got yourself a partner.”
He turns to me with a strange look on his face and then slowly – as realisation dawns then, more importantly, an acceptance of my ultimatum manifests itself – he raises his glass in salute.
Real Estate
They say that Eskimos have a hundred words for snow. Well, I reckon us English have at least that for the bloody rain. First you’ve got the downs; pouring, pissing it, caning it, pelting, chucking it, lashing. Then you’ve got the izzles; drizzle and mizzle. And those other terms that seem to be engrained in our memories from birth; cats and dogs, bouncing, an opening of the heavens, torrential. As I step out of my door, believe me, I’m cursing all of them as it seems that every single one of them is falling out of the sky at once.
I’m just about to make a run for cover when a beast of black and chrome pulls off the opposite kerb and rolls to a stop in front of me, splashing a puddle onto my Nikes. It’s a Range Rover sport, vehicle of choice for commodities traders, drug dealers and the wives of footballers, and despite the rain I can see it has been waxed to a high sheen. I’m about to skip around the Range when one of the electric windows slides down and I see a face I recognise – Big T, Trevor to his mum, was two years above me at St. Michael’s secondary school and for a few years after school we moved in similar circles till he made the move up and I went for a two stretch in HMP Wandsworth.
“Charlie Bars. It’s been a minute.”
I look past Big T and see Two Tone behind the wheel. I hadn’t expected to run into these two anytime soon and since they’re both here I can guess who’s sent them.
“How you been T?”
“Better every day, blood. Where you been hiding?”
“Just living the quiet life.”
Two Tone snorts at that so I give him the eye. I’m getting drenched here while these two clowns are dry and warm sitting in the Range so I’m not well disposed to either of them.
“Boss wanna see you, Charlie.”
Well I hadn’t thought they were here to take me out for a beer and from the look they’re giving me I know this isn’t up for discussion. I open the rear door and climb in.
“Dun get the seats wet!”
“I see time ain’t improved your disposition Two Tone.”
He looks around at me and seems set to climb over the seats and try and give me the beat down he feels he should’ve given me years ago when I banged his sister. Some old, buried part of me wishes he would try it.
“Always were too smart for your own good, Charlie fuckin’ Bars.”
He turns back to the road, engages the central locking, and we roll off into the depths of South London.
*
We come to a stop outside an internet cafe on the Walworth Road and Big T gestures for me to get out. He follows while Two Tone stays behind the wheel. The steel shutters are pulled halfway down over the shop front. Big T stops when he reaches them, ducks down, and calls out to whoever is inside.
“’Ey it’s T. I got Charlie Bars with me and we’re coming in.”
He gives it a couple of seconds and then goes under the shutter half crouched. I follow. Once my eyes have adjusted to the gloom inside I see why he called out before entering. Three men are sitting at a table playing cards. They had paused their game when they heard us coming. Two of them have heavy revolvers close at hand while the third is leaning a sawn down pump action shotgun back against the wall. I don’t recognise any of the trio but I know the look that they have in their eyes, it’s a look I had once a long time ago. Big T pulls a bottle of Guinness from a crate in the corner and points towards the back room.
“He’s waiting.”
You don’t just see Carlton McGregor you feel his physical presence as soon as you get near him. He’s a big man, but that isn’t what I mean, you know right away that he owns the space around him and anyone in it had better be paying rent.
He gestures for me to sit down and tosses a newspaper over the Browning Hi-Power sitting next to him, on the desk, in an effort to put me at ease. His eyes study me for a moment before his face cracks and he shows me a mouthful of pearlies.
“It’s been a while, Charlie.”
I nod.
“So how’s the life of an artist?”
“Starving. How’s the life of a crime boss?”
“Gluttonous.”
Carlton McGregor should’ve been a trader in the Square Mile or managed his own company, a legal one, but life, like it does, dealt him a shitty hand from the off. McGregor was born to a single mother in the mid-seventies in Peckham. His wayward father had been knifed to death in a pub car park and his mother popped out three siblings before Carlton was five. He learnt quickly that whatever he wanted from life he was going to have to take.
So when crack exploded onto the drug scene in the late eighties Carlton was already well schooled in the ways of ‘road’. His ascent from runner to dealer to heading up his own squad was nothing short of astronomical. And he never looked back. He now ran dozens of dealers and had several legitimate front businesses like the one in which we were now sitting.
“I’ve got a job I want to offer you Charlie.”
“I don’t really do portraits.”
Please don’t ask me. I don’t want to have to say no to Carlton McGregor but there is no way I’m going back inside – not for anyone.
“You remember when that coke went missing from Yella’s stash?”
I remember.
“You found who’d taken it in like two days. Yella got it back and then someone got a leg broke. You were always good at finding things and finding things out.”
“Maybe I should’ve been a fed.”
“Nah you’re too smart for that Charlie and the pay’s better on our side.”
He hasn’t asked me to shift any weight for him yet so I take the plunge.
“What d’you need doing?”
A smile settles of his face; the fish has taken the bait.
“Two of my dealers got clipped in the space of a week. One’s in intensive care at St. Thomas’ and the other’s getting cold on a slab. One shot and one stabbed and as far as I know no one out there wants to move against me. I don’t know whether it’s just the life that got them or something more serious and I need to know Charlie.”
“Is this why you’re in here?”
He nods.
“It seemed prudent. It doesn’t pay to take chances when you’re in my position. But I can’t stay off the street for long or people might well start trying to make a move on me.”
�
��I haven’t been connected for a long time.”
Which is true. Not since I got out the last time and realised, that I couldn’t go back to prison again.
“I know. But I remember how you used to make moves back in the day – I even thought I might have to drop you at some point.”
I look in his eyes and know that he means it, two in the back of the head and a shallow grave in Epping Forest; no way for a life to end.
“So you in?”
He throws a bundle of notes onto the desk. All score notes, a good grand’s worth.
“The same again and when it’s done I might even buy one of those paintings off you.”
All I can think of is the money. Starving artist was pushing it a bit but I’m definitely a hungry one. Carlton doesn’t even have to wait for an answer. He’s been watching me and he hasn’t survived this long in the game without being able to read people. He knew the answer I’d give before I knew it myself. In fact, he probably knew what my answer would be before he sent for me. He tosses a manila folder atop the bank notes.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Copies of everything babylon have.”
He writes a phone number on a post-it note and sticks it to the folder.
“Call that number when you have something. It won’t be me but they’ll get a message to me.”
As I get up to leave his voice is back to its cold edged business tone to let me know that while he might have enjoyed this chat we’re not, and never will be, equals.
“And white boy make sure you find something quick.”
*
I throw my jacket onto the sofa in the corner of my studio and sit down at my table to go through the file. I’m trying to make a start but my eyes keep going to the unfinished canvas across the room. The work for McGregor can wait awhile. I leave the files and head over to my paints.
The picture is really starting to come together. It took me awhile to find a style I was happy with. I started off drawing fruit when I did my two years in Wandsworth and while it was obvious that they were good it didn’t mean much to me beyond a way to kill two years. When I got out I stuck with it sketching trees and trying to do watercolours of country scenes that I clipped from magazines. It wasn’t until I discovered oils that I became truly happy with the results, that was during the year I did in Brixton. This picture is looking like a monochrome Vettriano of a pregnant girl outside a twenty four hour off licence on Jamaica Road; I’m calling it ‘Concrete Mother’. I work on the various shades of white, black and grey that make up the painting for what seems like half an hour but when I check my phone I see that three hours have passed. I manage to put the brush down and make myself a coffee. I flick through the file and try to acquaint myself with the details as quickly as possible. The coppers don’t have much. But then I always was good at reading between the lines; they don’t have much and they don’t really give a shit. Neither of the dealers were kids so they were less likely, than say a fifteen year old getting stabbed at a youth club, to make the front page of the papers or even a short segment on the news. Both their arrest sheets are in the file and they make pretty standard reading; arrests for possession, carrying a bladed article, common assault, intent to supply. I take a look at their pictures and I don’t recognise them; Kane Roberts, light skinned with a tightly shaped skin fade, and Darren White aka Demon, a shade darker than mahogany with fuzzy cane rows that need to be redone. Only I do recognise them. I’ve known legions of them; poor kids aspiring in the wrong direction and sociopaths who’ve found their niche. They’ve all got stories but I don’t need to know those life-tales to find out who clipped them.
Kane Roberts was shot twice, once in the leg and once in the shoulder, in a drive-by, dark coloured hatchback possibly a VW. Darren White was stabbed eight times in the neck and head on the stairwell of a block of flats. I look twice at the address and realise that it’s only a few streets over from my studio. The rain has finally stopped. I roll a cigarette and look at my jacket. I should head over there and check out the murder scene. Just a little more painting first and then I’ll head out.
It’s the next morning by the time I finally get to Ley House.
It’s a block like many others that you see dotted around South East London, old Dockers flats dating back to the 1930’s with weathered brick walls and big windows. The stairway’s shadowy and cold; not a good place to die. But it looks a lot better maintained than those I spent my teens in. There’s no smell of stale piss and that has to be a good start. The stairwell is out of sight of the road and the block doesn’t have a security door which makes it a good place for someone to shot a few rocks away from being eyeballed on the street outside. I’m leaning against the handrail, about to light a cigarette, when the suit appears. We look each other over as I spark my smoke and for a second I think I see a touch of rage in the suits eyes and then it vanishes, locked down tight. He runs his fingers through his dirty blonde hair and looks away from me. A well dressed young couple, Abercrombie and Fitch jumper for him and a matching scarf and hat from the Gap Shop for her, appear behind the suit. I walk past the trio and watch them as they ascend the stairs. Do they have any idea that someone died on these stairs? Would they give a shit if they did? I watch them walk into a flat on the first floor and note the ‘for sale’ sign outside. I take down the number on the ‘for sale’ sign into my Nokia and step back outside.
Since I’ve got the phone in my hand I make a call. Leon answers on the fourth ring.
“Easy, bro.”
“What’s happening, Leon?”
“Not much man, just with my girl and that.”
“I need to ask you something. Do you know some kid from up your way called Kane who got bucked the other day?”
“What Casanova Kane? Yeah he was a little prick, always sniffing around next man’s girl thinking he was a super player of suttin’. He was bound to get popped in the end.”
“You sure it was just that?”
“I ain’t in the game like I was but people talk, you feel me.”
“Seen, listen man d’you reckon you could find out what happened to him?”
“Why?”
“I’m doing a job for Carlton McGregor.”
“I thought you were out of all that?”
“I’m just finding out what happened to this kid for him. There’s a oner in it for you if you can find out.”
“Alright man I’ll phone ‘round a few peeps and see what I can say. When you coming up to see Charmaine and the baby? Char loved that picture you done of the little ‘un.”
“Soon bro, I’ll speak to you after.”
“Speak to you after.”
I disconnect the call and head back to the studio hoping I can get a few more hours painting in before I need to do anything else about sorting this shit out.
*
When I get back to the studio I find a message from Anthea, who has a small gallery near Union Street, telling me she might be able to show some of my paintings if I can be ready in a couple of weeks. I really need to get on with my paintings but, more so, I need to get my business with McGregor out of the way so I can throw myself into my real work. I make another phone call and then pull on some old clothes and try to get ‘Concrete Mother’ finished.
It’s late the next afternoon when I find myself once again outside Ley House. I’ve dressed up for the occasion; freshly pressed Levis, black Armani V-neck and a black overcoat. I’ve even cleaned the paint out from under my finger nails. The suit turns up and for a moment stares at me, trying to place where he has seen me before. I try and get in before he remembers.
“Hello, I called yesterday.”
“Mr. Smith?”
Original I know.
“Yes.”
He smiles and it’s like looking into the mouth of a hungry Doberman. That old danger sense hasn’t left me yet and I’m tingling. I force a smile and he gestures towards the stairs. That old sense of unease continues to run through me, this isn’t a guy I want
to show my back to. It reminds me of when Sean Spicer nearly managed to shank me in the laundry room at Wandsworth. I half turn as I walk up the stairs and I start talking so I can at least keep one eye on him.
“So the whole flat has been refitted?”
“New kitchen, new bathroom, boiler replaced, wood floor laid throughout. All the walls were stripped back and replastered and the electrics have been redone.”
I try to look impressed.
“A lot of work.”
“Yes I did most of it myself.”
I look at him again as we stop on the first floor landing. He’s got big hands, workers hands. He opens the door and lets me in.
“Have a look around for yourself. I’ll wait here for you. I think the flat speaks for itself. You go and have a good shoofty around and I’ll answer any questions you might have.”
I didn’t realise I looked the kind of guy who had a shoofty at anything. The place is great, I’ll give him that, it’s not my sort of thing but as good as the new upmarket apartments you see around here these days. But I’m not really looking at the flat. I’m thinking. This guy just isn’t right but is that just my gut feeling or is it something more tangible? I walk back towards him.
“I can see you like it.”
That Doberman smile is back.
“Let’s not beat around the bush. I’m asking two fifty and I’ve already got quite a bit of interest.”
Two fifty? Didn’t anyone tell this mug about the credit crunch?
“Yes it’s very nice and obviously the money isn’t a problem.”
I spread my hands expansively and he keeps smiling.
“But for that price... I’ve heard that crime’s a big problem around here.”
“Oh no it’s very quiet for this part of south east London.”
“So no one selling crack on the stairs or anything?”
I say it with a smile but that Doberman grin of his twists and curls until he can force it back into place. When I walked in here I wasn’t sure, it was just a gut feeling, but when I look into the grey eyes below his dirty blonde hair I know. For a second I think that he knows that I know. I take a step towards the door behind him and he doesn’t move. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Before my worries have time to take root he steps aside and lets me pass.
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