by Mark Timlin
‘He got fixed up quick,’ said Dawn, when I pointed him out, as we stood by the open door.
‘Probably got a doctor with the show,’ I said. ‘Or one on twenty-four-hour call. If he’d gone to hospital, he’d still be in casualty. And giving a description of the crazed individual who put a knife into him to some big, hairy copper. How does this go? Blonde, about thirty, slim, and sexy as hell.’
Dawn smiled. ‘Goes pretty well,’ she said.
‘Hard one to swallow though,’ I remarked. ‘But not impossible. Some chicks are out of control these days. I blame women’s lib.’
She punched me on the arm again, but not so hard this time. ‘Doesn’t look too well, does he?’ she said.
‘Nor would you if you’d been stabbed less than two hours ago. But he’s no party pooper, I’ll say that for him.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Ask him where the rest of the guys are hanging out.’
‘Go on then.’
The security guy didn’t seem to care that I didn’t have a pass and let the pair of us into the room without a second glance. I snagged two glasses of wine from a passing waiter, gave one to Dawn and we circulated. We headed in the direction of the guy with the bad arm, but surreptitiously, listening to a lot of music biz bullshit being talked as we went. He didn’t notice us. But then, he wasn’t looking.
When we sauntered up to him, he was staring in the other direction, and I said, ‘Sam?’
He turned and said, ‘Yeah,’ before he realised who we were.
‘Hi, Sam,’ I said. ‘Remember us?’
He stiffened, and a wave of pain passed over his face.
‘Where’s the rest of the pumphouse gang, then? Left you all dressed up and nowhere to go?’
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he said. ‘They said you were out of it.’
‘We lied,’ I said. ‘I know we deserve a severe talking to, because of it, but there you go. So come on, Sam, tell me true, where are they?’
‘Fuck off.’
I touched him on his right shoulder and he winced. ‘Painkillers starting to wear off, are they?’ I asked.
‘I’ll get the security guy,’ said Sam. ‘Get you tossed out on your ass.’
‘And I bet I’ll start to gibber in panic,’ I said. I opened my jacket and let him see the checkered walnut butt of the Colt. ‘And then I’ll shoot him. And then I’ll shoot you. And it seems a shame to spoil the party so early on in the proceedings.’
Sam breathed out. His face was white and greasy. He should have been in bed, not at a bun fight. ‘They’re downstairs,’ he said. ‘In the tuning-up room. At least that’s where they were. They’ll be up here later.’
‘Cheers, pal,’ I said, and punched him playfully on the right shoulder. Just like we were two old buddies sharing a rock and roll anecdote. His face went from white to a dirty grey, and he passed out and hit the floor with a thud. I knelt beside him, lifted up his head by his hair and slammed it down hard. The crowd parted into a circle around us and the security guy pushed through.
‘He fainted,’ I said. ‘Too much strong liquor on an empty stomach I expect.’
The security guy got out his walkie-talkie, and Dawn and I pushed through the crowd back to the corridor.
32
We went back down the metal stairs to the stage level. Old Mary and the boys were still beating it out twelve to the bar. It didn’t sound any better than before. I hadn’t got a clue what my daughter and her friends saw in them. But that’s what makes horse races, so they tell me.
A member of the road crew came off stage carrying a cherry-red Fender guitar with a couple of broken strings that cork-screwed back over the solid body of the instrument. Another clue. Follow the Fender and maybe find the tune-up room. Probably find a load of trouble too, but that’s what we were here for.
I motioned with my head in the direction of the roadie to Dawn. She got it straight away. There’s no flies on her. We followed the geezer as he went through a door and down another corridor that echoed with music. At the end was yet another door through which he passed. I stuck my head in after him. There were maybe ten geezers inside, including Lamar Quinn, Eddie and Tarantula. Babaloo was in there too, one foot in a cowboy boot, one in a soft slipper, plus the two roadies that Angela had threatened with her buck knife.
I pulled my head out quick before anyone noticed. ‘Shit,’ I said to Dawn. ‘I think we might have bitten off more than we can chew here.’
‘Why?’
‘Remember, I told you about Babaloo? The night I was Angela’s escort.’
‘I remember,’ she said, and her eyes went all slitty again. The love of a good woman was all very well, but sometimes it could get a trifle wearing.
‘He’s in there with Lamar and Eddie and the geezer with the tattoo who gave you a slap. And several other crew members who remember me with something less than affection.’
‘We take them out then,’ said Dawn. I could see she was beginning to enjoy herself.
‘Odds of better than five to one,’ I said.
‘Tough on them.’
Maybe the love of a good woman was worth it after all. I squeezed her arm. ‘Got your shiv?’ I asked.
‘Always. Never know when I might run into a private detective needs a good sorting.’
I nodded, smiled, kissed her quick before she could get the knife out, then drew the Colt, unlocked the safety, kicked the door to the tune-up room open and walked in.
33
There was another guy, one I’d never seen before, with long red hair tied back in a pony tail, playing one of those National guitars with the chrome finish and an electric pick-up through a little Pig Nose amplifier. The music was just about loud enough to drown out the sound of the band onstage, and the guy seemed to be enjoying himself. I pissed on his parade by shooting the shit out of the amp. It exploded in a hail of wood, metal and plastic, and a shower of sparks.
Bad manners it might have been, but it certainly got everyone’s attention.
‘I’m from the society of Hammersmith music lovers,’ I said as the echo of the shot echoed round the walls, and the room filled with gunsmoke and the smell of used cordite. ‘Have gun, will travel.’
Dawn came in behind and stood with her back to the wall, the letter opener in her hand. ‘Meet my trusty assistant, Robin.’
The room was silent, except for the boom of the bass from onstage. ‘Isn’t anyone going to say “Hi”?’ I asked.
Tarantula was standing right in front of me, and I broke his nose with the barrel of the Colt. I couldn’t resist it, although I would have been better just keeping everyone in the room where they were until the police arrived. But he’d slapped Dawn, and I wasn’t going to forget that in a hurry. So I whacked him in the face, and watched the blood and snot spurt out of his nostrils, like water from a pair of twin faucets. Good deal, I thought as he sank to his knees, clutching at his face. Served him right.
Then things started to happen fast. Babaloo was sitting by the light switches, and he reached up and knocked them off. The room was windowless, and darkness fell like a guillotine blade. I jumped to one side, felt the softness of Dawn’s body and pulled her away from the door. Someone else drew a gun and fired. For a split second I wondered if it was my Glock he was using. The bullet smashed into the wall close to my head. So close that I felt the draught. Too fucking close. In the muzzle flash I saw bodies moving every which way. I fired once in the direction that the shot had come from, heard a high-pitched scream, and pushed Dawn out through the door into the corridor.
We ran back in the direction of the stage. I was running backwards, keeping an eye on the door to the tune-up room. It opened slowly and I blasted off two shots that splintered the wood of the door, which closed again quickly. We smashed through the first door that the roadie carrying the Fender had
used, and the sound of the band crashed round our ears.
There was a crowd of people of both sexes standing by the side of the stage watching the show reach its climax. One woman turned at our entrance, saw the gun in my hand, turned back, did a double take, and nudged the bloke standing next to her.
He turned too, and I showed him the gun properly and yelled, ‘It’s not your business. Scram. Get this lot out of here.’
‘What, man?’ said the geezer. I almost had to read his lips.
‘Fuck off,’ I screamed. Was this bloke stupid, or what?
‘But, man, I’m with the band,’ he shouted.
A more ridiculous reason for getting into the crossfire from semi-automatic weapons I had yet to hear, so I stuck the gun into his face and repeated my instruction, ‘Fuck off. Or I’ll shoot,’ I added for emphasis. By this time everyone was in on the act, and the little crowd broke and vanished towards the front of house. Probably looking for Norman the security man. Good luck.
The shit was that we couldn’t hear anything but the music. No voices, no footsteps, and this close to the stage even gunshots would be muted down to nothing. The Virgin Mary’s band was loud. And I mean really loud.
The door to the corridor going back to the tune-up room opened slightly, and I fired. How many bullets had I got left? Shit, I’d lost count. The door puckered where the bullet hit, and closed again. I checked the clip on the Colt. Two bullets were left, plus one in the pipe. I had the spare clip but I needed to conserve ammunition, or get hold of another gun.
I bent my head down to Dawn’s ear and screamed, ‘Upstairs is favourite.’
She must have heard because she squeezed my hand with hers, and we made for the metal steps.
Halfway to the top, the door below that I’d fired at opened and Quinn, Eddie, Babaloo and a couple of other roadies came into the backstage area. They spread out and peered around trying to see us, but didn’t look up. People don’t.
Three-quarters of the way up, the door to the landing where we were heading opened, and Big Mal from Premier Security sashayed into sight, a revolver in his hand. Sam must have come to, and told him what was happening. I should have bounced his head on the floor a few more times. I fired upwards and the bullet spun off the metal of the landing in a shower of sparks. Big Mal fired back twice, the bullets going wide, and ducked back behind the door. Below us, Quinn, Eddie and the roadies must have seen what was going on, and they started up the steps.
Dawn and I were fucked. We couldn’t go up and we couldn’t go down. I looked across at where the scaffolding which stood against the back wall of the theatre jutted out only a few feet from the metal banister of the staircase where we were standing.
‘On there,’ I yelled at Dawn. ‘Get on the scaffolding and get across to the other side of the stage.’
Dawn did as I said, and hopped over on to the thin metal piping. I followed. I didn’t hop. Heights have never been my forte. We clambered across to the centre of the scaffold. I looked down. Big mistake. Directly below me was the drum riser at the back of the stage where a sweating percussionist in a singlet and shorts was giving his twin bass drum kit a severe hammering, droplets of sweat flying off his body and catching the lights like diamonds. I looked back, and Quinn and Eddie were at the banister. They both raised their guns and fired. I pulled Dawn down, and the fusillade of bullets spanged off into the darkness at the other side of the theatre.
Eddie climbed on to the scaffolding behind us. I fired and missed. One bullet left. Beside me was one of the bags of ballast that acted as a counterweight for the flats. I grabbed it and pushed it with all my strength in his direction. He ducked, and it flew over his shoulder, but he straightened up too soon to fire again. The weight caught him on the way back on the side of his head, and he dropped his gun, which fell, unnoticed by the performers, on to the stage below.
‘Get down,’ I screamed at Dawn, as Eddie swayed perilously only a few yards away from us. She started, and I followed, firing as I went. The last .45 round in the Colt tore a groove of denim and flesh out of Eddie’s meaty thigh, and the breech of the gun blew back empty. I stuck the useless weapon in my jacket pocket and went after Dawn like a fly on a Lego tower.
Halfway down I stopped, and took the empty clip out of the Colt, replaced it with the full one, and racked a bullet into the chamber. Eddie was still above me hanging on to the scaffold for dear life. Blood was pouring from his wounded leg and dripping down on to the stage. I looked for his gun on the floor but couldn’t see it.
Dawn hit terra firma behind the far bank of speakers. I was sick of going down slow, so I stuck my gun into my pants, reached out and grabbed a rope that hung down in front of me, tested it for strength, and, once satisfied, slid down it and landed at the back of the drum riser. There was a roadie there, poised like a runner in the shadows, ready to cater to the drummer’s every whim. He looked at me in amazement as I dropped down beside him, and opened his mouth to shout something. On the assumption that everyone not with us was against us, I retrieved the gun from my pants and clubbed him on the side of the head, and went looking for Eddie’s automatic. It was lying in the middle of a loop of cable. It was a Browning Hi-Power 9mm. I checked the clip. Nine bullets nestled there. Plus one in the chamber. Sweet, I thought.
But things weren’t going so sweetly for Dawn. She’d been spotted by some beefy onstage security bloke, who must’ve thought she was a fan invading the stage to get closer to her idol. He’d grabbed her, and got her right arm up in a hammer lock. She was beating at him with the other, and he clouted her round the side of the head with his fist, and she went down at the side of the drum riser, hitting her head as she went. I shot him with the Browning. Every son of a bitch in the world was treating my wife like a punchbag. It had to stop.
The bullet tore a slice from his shoulder, and he went down like a felled tree. I started to make my way towards Dawn to see how she was, when the evening finally started to get really out of hand. Even with all the noise that the Rhythm Review were making, you couldn’t have a full-scale gun battle backstage at a major London music venue without someone noticing what was going on.
Someone, somewhere suddenly pulled the onstage power and put up the house lights. Possibly not the best plan in front of three thousand fans hungry for The Virgin’s music, but we all make mistakes. The band ground to an unamplified halt, even the sound of the drums falling to a manageable level, before the drummer dropped his sticks and stood up. In the body of the auditorium the fans ceased their clapping and yelling, looking at one another in puzzlement. The Virgin Mary herself, a diminutive, black leather-clad figure, with a mass of red, curly hair that fell almost to her waist, looked around in disbelief, then threw her dead microphone to the stage. ‘What the fuck… ?’ she said.
I stopped where I was as the audience began to bay in protest at their entertainment being cut short, and Lamar Quinn, now halfway down the scaffolding, with one of Babaloo’s buddies close behind, fired at me. The bullet rang off a crash cymbal and ricocheted up towards the ceiling, and I strafed the scaffold with a spray of bullets from the Browning in retaliation. The Virgin screamed as the slugs whined round the back of the theatre, and dived beneath the bank of keyboards next to her. Someone in the audience screamed too, and as other voices took up the scream, in panic, three thousand people turned as one and headed for the exits.
34
One of my bullets must have hit the roadie who was slightly above Quinn on the scaffolding because with a cry he lost his footing and crashed down through the smoke-filled air in a thunder of broken wood and plastic and a domino effect of falling cymbals on to the drum kit, sending the drummer diving for cover. Quinn fired again and I jumped back and bumped into the lead guitarist. ‘Better go, son,’ I said. ‘It’s getting kinda dangerous round here.’
He didn’t need to be told twice. He just unhooked his instrument from round his neck, dropped it on to t
he floor and ran. On the far side of the stage, the bass guitarist did the same and joined the keyboard player in a mad dash for safety. I looked round. Members of the audience were scrambling for the doors, and I heard shouts and screams as some were trampled underfoot in the panic. A bunch of uniformed police, probably from the vans I’d seen outside, was fighting to gain control of the mob and calm them down.
When I looked up into the scaffolding again, Quinn had vanished.
I spun round on my heels, a pistol in each hand, desperately trying to find out where he’d gone, but I couldn’t see him. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I repeated, and Babaloo came limping through from stage left, a gun in his fist, firing as he came.
One of his bullets tugged at the leather of my jacket, and I shot him in his good leg, and he tumbled to the ground.
I walked over to where he was lying, moaning gently, kicked him in the head for the second time in our short acquaintanceship, picked up his gun and stuck it in my pocket, then remembering Dawn, went back to look for her.
Before I could reach her, a voice beside me said, ‘Put the guns down,’ and Quinn appeared by the bank of keyboards. He picked up the cowering Virgin by her long, thick, Titian curls, and dragged her in front of him to act as a shield. He hooked his left arm around her neck and put the huge, fully cocked automatic pistol he held in his right at her temple. ‘Do it,’ he ordered. ‘Or I’ll blow her head off.’
And he knocked me for sounding like Hawaii Five-O. I wondered what film he’d got that immortal line from.
But I did as I was told and gently laid the Colt and the Browning on the stage in front of me.
‘And the other one,’ he said.