Romeo's Tune (1990)

by Timlin, Mark

  ‘Yes, Boss,’ said Algy dryly. He stepped out of the way and I entered the house. It was cold in the hall.

  ‘Come through,’ invited McBain. I followed the sound of his voice through another door and into a big, dark, warm room with an open fire burning in a huge fireplace. Thick drapes were drawn over the windows and the only illumination came from the fire itself and two candles dripping wax, one at each end of the marble mantelpiece. Facing each other in front of the fire were two massive sofas covered in dark velvet that probably matched the curtains, only it was too dark to see properly. McBain was sprawled on one of the sofas. He was smoking a regular cigarette and holding a half-empty bottle of tequila in his right hand.

  ‘I see the sun’s over the yard-arm,’ I remarked.

  He looked at the bottle in the flickering light.

  ‘Always,’ he replied.

  Algy came quietly through the door behind me carrying a glass the size of a small bucket. He handed it to me. I tasted the drink. It was full of ice and lemon and gin. There was some tonic in there too, but not enough to drown a fly.

  ‘Barman of the year,’ I said. Algy grinned and picked up his Red Stripe.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  ‘Sit down,’ McBain said to me. I sat on the sofa opposite him. ‘Get lost Algy.’ Algy shrugged and went out, closing the door behind him.

  ‘He takes a lot of shit from you,’ I said to McBain.

  ‘I pay him well to take shit. Better than well.’

  ‘Well enough to afford that car outside.’

  ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  ‘A green Bentley Continental.’

  ‘Another one of mine.’

  ‘It’s got his name on it.’

  ‘I know – can you imagine, a fucking personalised number plate. He’s so tacky.’

  ‘How many Bentleys have you got altogether?’

  ‘Four, I think, or maybe five. Algy sneaks a new one in every so often.’

  ‘It must be a drag.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not knowing how many Bentleys you’ve got.’

  McBain laughed wolfishly, and stretched. When he moved he creaked and I realised he was wearing a leather suit. He saw me looking.

  ‘Like it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s fine; a little tight for my taste maybe.’

  ‘Same bloke made it for me as made Jim Morrison’s leathers. Do you like The Doors?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Fine band,’ he mused. ‘Still a big influence.’ He paused.

  ‘You wanted to talk business,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Not many people get in here you know.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Your mother let me in. I conned her really. I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, you got in. And you got cash out of me. Not many people do that either. Not any more.’ He said the last two words with some bitterness.

  ‘You owed it,’ I said.

  ‘I know. I’m not complaining,’ he replied. Then he said, ‘Algy and I put you on the computer.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘We’ve got this IBM mainframe fitted in the attic. We hack a bit when things get boring.’

  That must be most of the time, I thought.

  ‘Algy’s good, very good,’ he went on, ‘with all sorts of electronics. He’s got a delicate touch. Not that you’d think so to look at him. So we checked you out. You’ve been into some heavy shit in your time.’

  ‘I’m very upset with you,’ I said. ‘It’s none of your business what I’ve done.’ I moved towards McBain who looked alarmed.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I have to know who I’m doing business with. I’ve been ripped off too many times.’

  ‘I don’t rip people off,’ I said, ‘unless they rip me off first.’

  ‘I know. That’s why you’re here now.’ He paused, then asked, ‘why didn’t you take that money the other day?’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The twelve hundred odd – you won it fair and square.’

  ‘You were trying to con me,’ I said.

  ‘Who, me?’

  ‘Come on McBain, you know you were,’ I said. ‘And if I’d’ve lost. I wouldn’t have paid my end.’

  ‘But I’d’ve only taken the fifty pence from you,’ he said, and I believed him too. I think he was just miserable and lonely and wanted a bit of company apart from Algy.

  ‘So why am I here?’ I asked.

  ‘I think you can do something for me.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Get me some money that’s owed.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know. Lots.’ He grinned. ‘Lots and lots.’

  ‘Who owes it to you?’

  ‘My old management and record company.’

  ‘And you don’t know how much?’

  ‘I don’t, but I’ll put someone on to you who does. My investment counsellor. He’s my accountant too. High powered bastard, bit of a silly cunt really, but he’s made me a lot of dough.’

  ‘But he can’t get your money back?’

  ‘He won’t even try.’

  ‘Why not? ‘ I was intrigued.

  ‘They’ve got a reputation, the old firm. A reputation for violence.’

  ‘But you think I can do something.’

  ‘You might.’ McBain’s face was cunning in the firelight.

  ‘I charge.’

  ‘Course you do. How much?’

  ‘I charged Ted Dallas twenty per cent to get his money back.’

  ‘That was just a few hundred. We’re talking about a lot more. I’ll give you ten per cent.’

  ‘How much more?’ I asked.

  ‘Ask my accountant.’

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But I’ll need some expenses up front.’

  ‘You sound like a tour manager,’ said McBain. ‘How much?’

  ‘You tell me,’ I said.

  ‘A couple of grand,’ said McBain. I must have looked surprised. ‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s less than our coke bill for a month.’

  ‘And Algy’s so fat,’ I said in amazement.

  ‘You should see his McDonald’s account,’ replied McBain with a flash of humour. ‘Come on – I’ll get you some cash.’

  We left the big room and went up to McBain’s suite. He took me through the bedroom where the same sheets were on the waterbed, and into another room where three of the four walls were crammed with records. There must have been twenty thousand albums, and the floor was carpeted with neatly stacked forty-fives. A state-of-the-art Sony stereo system plugged into Opera House speakers stood on a rack against the fourth wall.

  ‘Nice,’ was all I could say.

  ‘Been collecting since 1959,’ said McBain proudly. ‘I’ve never got rid of a thing. Listen to this.’ He picked up a remote-control stick and pressed a button. The groove started in mid-tune. It was ‘Green Onions.’ ‘My favourite record by my favourite band,’ said McBain. ‘You like Booker T?’

  ‘I like all those Stax sounds,’ I replied.

  ‘Stax and Volt man, what fucking music those guys made. How about Otis?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘A man after my own heart. Which is your favourite album?’

  ‘I thought about it for a moment. “Otis Blue”, I guess.’

  ‘Right. I prefer “Soul Ballads” myself, but then I’m older than you. Who turned you on to all that?’

  ‘I had an older brother once. He’s dead now. He was a heavy Mod.’

  ‘Yeah? Shit, so was I. Those were the days. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Streatham.’

  ‘I might have known him. What was his name?’

  ‘John, Johnny, Johnny S they used to call him.’

  ‘I don’t know, man,’ said McBain, rubbing his eyes with his hands. ‘I forget. I forget so much about that time.’ Suddenly he turned the sound off. He did look as
if he was sorry and I was grateful for that.

  ‘Money,’ he said.

  There was one solitary gold record on the fourth wall. It was hinged and behind it was a wall safe. McBain fiddled with the combination and pulled the safe door open. He pulled out some cash and tossed it to me.

  ‘I don’t trust banks after all these years,’ he said. ‘I like a fighting fund on hand in case of emergencies.’

  The money was in wrappers of a thousand pounds. Holding the two grand he’d given me spun me back some months to the last time I’d stood in front of an open safe. I pushed the memory to the back of my mind where bad memories belong.

  I put the two packets of money into my inside jacket pocket.

  ‘Receipt?’ I asked.

  ‘Send it on. No, on second thoughts give it to my accountant when you meet him. He’ll have a fit.’ The idea seemed to amuse him.

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘You want a spliff?’

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You want to go and talk to Algy? I’m kind of tired.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘My accountant will be in touch. He’ll give you all the details,’ McBain said as I left the room and closed the door behind me. As I walked through the bedroom I heard Booker T. start up again.

  I found Algy in the studio.

  ‘All right?’ he asked.

  ‘Never better.’

  ‘McBain’s sicked you on to Mogul?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The old firm.’

  ‘His old management you mean?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Best of luck.’

  ‘You don’t seem very optimistic,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not, but if it makes him happy...’ He took a fold of paper from his shirt pocket. ‘Want a line?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘What’ve you got?’ I asked.

  ‘Cold pizza.’

  ‘I’ll pass.’ Suddenly I wanted to go. For some reason I was getting depressed. ‘I think I’ll go,’ I said.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Come down one night for a drink,’ I invited him.

  ‘Right, I just might. I’ll see you out.’

  We went out to the drive where the rain had stopped. I climbed into the Jag and rolled the window down. Algy leaned up close.

  ‘Be careful of those bastards,’ he said.

  ‘Any particular bastards?’ I asked.

  ‘Mogul Incorporated. The Divas. They’re evil fuckers.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘The Divas. They run Mogul. They used to run McBain.’

  ‘I can take care of myself,’ I replied. After all, I had to say something. ‘Come down for that drink soon.’

  ‘I will.’ He stepped back as I started the car and ran it down the drive. When I got to the gates Algy opened them with his remote control.

  9

  I didn’t hear from McBain’s financial man for over a week, but I wasn’t worried. I had the two grand to keep me warm. It was quite a busy few days what with one thing and another. I finally got Cat to the vet’s. She was quite a handful. She seemed to have swollen to such a size that there was a danger she’d burst and medical attention was a priority.

  I took her down to Herne Hill in the Golf and it was just as well I used my most down-at-heel motor. After a battle to get her into the car she sat in the back sharpening her claws on the front seats, and that would have done the leather upholstery in the Jaguar no good at all.

  She wasn’t on her best behaviour when we got to the vet’s either. She sat and spat at the other animals in the waiting room and when she got into the surgery the first thing she did was to slice a chunk out of the back of the good doctor’s hand with her claws. The look on his face as he sucked at the wound told me he was not used to such treatment.

  ‘She’s due any time,’ he said rather coldly after making his examination. ‘Just give her a basket and some torn-up newspaper in a warm place and she’ll do the rest herself.’

  That was his diagnosis. Then he presented me with a large bill. I paid it right there and then in cash. I didn’t want Cat bringing a family into the world with a big debt hanging around their necks.

  I did just as he said. I bought a wicker job at the pet shop and made it up with old copies of the Telegraph just as the doc had told me. I laid down some food and introduced Cat to her new boudoir. She sniffed at it for a while and finally deigned to use it. I felt as if I’d won a small victory.

  The very same day I called Josephine Cass on the telephone.

  Whilst I’d been helping her to move into her flat I’d made a note of the number on the telephone which hung on the kitchen wall. So when Cat was catching the zeds I gave it a ring.

  The phone rang for maybe seventeen rings before it was answered. I recognised her accent straight away as she said ‘Hello’ with a sort of query in her voice as if she wasn’t expecting a call.

  ‘Josephine?’ I said.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hi, this is Nick.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nick Sharman, remember? I met you the other day.’

  ‘Oh hello,’ she said. Her enthusiasm didn’t exactly bowl me over.

  ‘Hello,’ I said back. There was a silence.

  ‘How are you settling in?’ I asked.

  ‘Just fine.’

  ‘I wondered if you fancied a drink or dinner or something?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Would you like to see a film?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Too busy?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘English history wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Don’t you take time off?’ I enquired.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Study.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you take time off?’ I thought she was being deliberately obtuse.

  ‘All sorts of things,’ she replied.

  ‘Tell me one.’

  ‘I go for long walks.’

  This was better. ‘I like walking too,’ I said. ‘But I can’t go too far these days before my foot starts acting up.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ she asked.

  ‘I got shot a while back.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shot, shot with a gun?’ she pressed.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In quiet old England?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Protecting the public’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I used to be a policeman.’

  ‘No kidding?’ She laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I enquired.

  ‘I thought you drove a cab.’

  ‘It’s an easy mistake to make.’

  ‘And you got shot?’

  I almost wished I hadn’t told her. ‘Sure did.’

  ‘On a bust?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are you still a cop?’

  ‘Private.’

  ‘Are you shitting me?’

  ‘No, I’m serious. What’s wrong with being private?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘It’s just unreal.’

  ‘How about that drink then?’ I asked again.

  She thought about it. ‘Maybe I will take an hour out,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘Tonight?’ I pressed my advantage home.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  And that was that.

  10

  I called round to collect Josephine at her flat at seven precisely. She greeted me at the door looking like ten million dolla
rs. Her hair was piled up, revealing the delicate lines of her neck and just a few wisps escaped to caress her shoulders. She was wearing very tight and faded blue jeans, lace-up black boots with spike heels and a loose black angora sweater with a scoop neck that revealed a tantalizing, shadowed hint of her breasts.

  She was carrying a bottle of good white Bordeaux.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Come on in and have a drink.’

  I grinned like a kid and followed her through to the living-room.

  The flat was warm and she’d already begun to put her personal stamp on the place. There were a couple of new lamps discreetly placed, a TV and video rig and a giant ghetto blaster with detachable speakers and maybe fifty cassettes scattered about. I didn’t remember the framed Gauguin print from my previous visit either.

  ‘I see you’ve been out shopping,’ I remarked.

  ‘Oh sure, I spent a fortune in the record store yesterday.’

  ‘And the off-licence.’

  ‘The what?’

  I pointed at the bottle she was holding. ‘Where you get that?’

  ‘Oh, the liquor store. Off-licence, is that what you call it? I’ll have to remember that. Is this OK by the way?’ She held up the bottle so that I could see the label.

  ‘Terrific,’ I said.

  Suddenly I got cold feet and hoped she wasn’t a cop groupie. I’ve met lots in my time and dislike them as a species. Most can only come with a truncheon between their legs. If Josephine was one I was going to be bitterly disappointed.

  ‘You’re not a cop groupie are you?’ I asked.

  She laughed out loud. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Then why the sudden change of attitude?’

  ‘Why not? I can change my mind can’t I? I liked your voice on the phone, whatever.’ She caught my look. ‘No, really. You were kind to me the other day and I was ungrateful. Then you called up and half-way through I realised that I was acting like a princess, and I decided that I’d like to talk to someone. And that someone was you. Is that fair?’

  ‘Fair,’ I said.

  ‘So let’s have a drink.’

  She went off to get some glasses and I checked out the tapes. There were all sorts. Wagner, Vivaldi, Bach, Foreigner, Madonna, Ray Charles, the MJQ, REM and The Cramps. When she came back I asked, ‘Do you really like The Cramps?’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied.